[
    {
        "title": "The Call of the Wild",
        "author": "Jack London",
        "category": "Adventure",
        "EN": "Chapter I. Into the Primitive\n\n\n Old longings nomadic leap,\nChafing at custom s chain;\nAgain from its brumal sleep\nWakens the ferine strain. \n\n\nBuck did not read the newspapers, or he would have known that trouble\nwas brewing, not alone for himself, but for every tide-water dog,\nstrong of muscle and with warm, long hair, from Puget Sound to San\nDiego. Because men, groping in the Arctic darkness, had found a yellow\nmetal, and because steamship and transportation companies were booming\nthe find, thousands of men were rushing into the Northland. These men\nwanted dogs, and the dogs they wanted were heavy dogs, with strong\nmuscles by which to toil, and furry coats to protect them from the\nfrost.\n\nBuck lived at a big house in the sun-kissed Santa Clara Valley. Judge\nMiller s place, it was called. It stood back from the road, half hidden\namong the trees, through which glimpses could be caught of the wide\ncool veranda that ran around its four sides. The house was approached\nby gravelled driveways which wound about through wide-spreading lawns\nand under the interlacing boughs of tall poplars. At the rear things\nwere on even a more spacious scale than at the front. There were great\nstables, where a dozen grooms and boys held forth, rows of vine-clad\nservants  cottages, an endless and orderly array of outhouses, long\ngrape arbors, green pastures, orchards, and berry patches. Then there\nwas the pumping plant for the artesian well, and the big cement tank\nwhere Judge Miller s boys took their morning plunge and kept cool in\nthe hot afternoon.\n\nAnd over this great demesne Buck ruled. Here he was born, and here he\nhad lived the four years of his life. It was true, there were other\ndogs. There could not but be other dogs on so vast a place, but they\ndid not count. They came and went, resided in the populous kennels, or\nlived obscurely in the recesses of the house after the fashion of\nToots, the Japanese pug, or Ysabel, the Mexican hairless, strange\ncreatures that rarely put nose out of doors or set foot to ground. On\nthe other hand, there were the fox terriers, a score of them at least,\nwho yelped fearful promises at Toots and Ysabel looking out of the\nwindows at them and protected by a legion of housemaids armed with\nbrooms and mops.\n\nBut Buck was neither house-dog nor kennel-dog. The whole realm was his.\nHe plunged into the swimming tank or went hunting with the Judge s\nsons; he escorted Mollie and Alice, the Judge s daughters, on long\ntwilight or early morning rambles; on wintry nights he lay at the\nJudge s feet before the roaring library fire; he carried the Judge s\ngrandsons on his back, or rolled them in the grass, and guarded their\nfootsteps through wild adventures down to the fountain in the stable\nyard, and even beyond, where the paddocks were, and the berry patches.\nAmong the terriers he stalked imperiously, and Toots and Ysabel he\nutterly ignored, for he was king, king over all creeping, crawling,\nflying things of Judge Miller s place, humans included.\n\nHis father, Elmo, a huge St. Bernard, had been the Judge s inseparable\ncompanion, and Buck bid fair to follow in the way of his father. He was\nnot so large, he weighed only one hundred and forty pounds, for his\nmother, Shep, had been a Scotch shepherd dog. Nevertheless, one hundred\nand forty pounds, to which was added the dignity that comes of good\nliving and universal respect, enabled him to carry himself in right\nroyal fashion. During the four years since his puppyhood he had lived\nthe life of a sated aristocrat; he had a fine pride in himself, was\neven a trifle egotistical, as country gentlemen sometimes become\nbecause of their insular situation. But he had saved himself by not\nbecoming a mere pampered house-dog. Hunting and kindred outdoor\ndelights had kept down the fat and hardened his muscles; and to him, as\nto the cold-tubbing races, the love of water had been a tonic and a\nhealth preserver.\n\nAnd this was the manner of dog Buck was in the fall of 1897, when the\nKlondike strike dragged men from all the world into the frozen North.\nBut Buck did not read the newspapers, and he did not know that Manuel,\none of the gardener s helpers, was an undesirable acquaintance. Manuel\nhad one besetting sin. He loved to play Chinese lottery. Also, in his\ngambling, he had one besetting weakness faith in a system; and this\nmade his damnation certain. For to play a system requires money, while\nthe wages of a gardener s helper do not lap over the needs of a wife\nand numerous progeny.\n\nThe Judge was at a meeting of the Raisin Growers  Association, and the\nboys were busy organizing an athletic club, on the memorable night of\nManuel s treachery. No one saw him and Buck go off through the orchard\non what Buck imagined was merely a stroll. And with the exception of a\nsolitary man, no one saw them arrive at the little flag station known\nas College Park. This man talked with Manuel, and money chinked between\nthem.\n\n You might wrap up the goods before you deliver  m,  the stranger said\ngruffly, and Manuel doubled a piece of stout rope around Buck s neck\nunder the collar.\n\n Twist it, an  you ll choke  m plentee,  said Manuel, and the stranger\ngrunted a ready affirmative.\n\nBuck had accepted the rope with quiet dignity. To be sure, it was an\nunwonted performance: but he had learned to trust in men he knew, and\nto give them credit for a wisdom that outreached his own. But when the\nends of the rope were placed in the stranger s hands, he growled\nmenacingly. He had merely intimated his displeasure, in his pride\nbelieving that to intimate was to command. But to his surprise the rope\ntightened around his neck, shutting off his breath. In quick rage he\nsprang at the man, who met him halfway, grappled him close by the\nthroat, and with a deft twist threw him over on his back. Then the rope\ntightened mercilessly, while Buck struggled in a fury, his tongue\nlolling out of his mouth and his great chest panting futilely. Never in\nall his life had he been so vilely treated, and never in all his life\nhad he been so angry. But his strength ebbed, his eyes glazed, and he\nknew nothing when the train was flagged and the two men threw him into\nthe baggage car.\n\nThe next he knew, he was dimly aware that his tongue was hurting and\nthat he was being jolted along in some kind of a conveyance. The hoarse\nshriek of a locomotive whistling a crossing told him where he was. He\nhad travelled too often with the Judge not to know the sensation of\nriding in a baggage car. He opened his eyes, and into them came the\nunbridled anger of a kidnapped king. The man sprang for his throat, but\nBuck was too quick for him. His jaws closed on the hand, nor did they\nrelax till his senses were choked out of him once more.\n\n Yep, has fits,  the man said, hiding his mangled hand from the\nbaggageman, who had been attracted by the sounds of struggle.  I m\ntakin   m up for the boss to  Frisco. A crack dog-doctor there thinks\nthat he can cure  m. \n\nConcerning that night s ride, the man spoke most eloquently for\nhimself, in a little shed back of a saloon on the San Francisco water\nfront.\n\n All I get is fifty for it,  he grumbled;  an  I wouldn t do it over\nfor a thousand, cold cash. \n\nHis hand was wrapped in a bloody handkerchief, and the right trouser\nleg was ripped from knee to ankle.\n\n How much did the other mug get?  the saloon-keeper demanded.\n\n A hundred,  was the reply.  Wouldn t take a sou less, so help me. \n\n That makes a hundred and fifty,  the saloon-keeper calculated;  and\nhe s worth it, or I m a squarehead. \n\nThe kidnapper undid the bloody wrappings and looked at his lacerated\nhand.  If I don t get the hydrophoby \n\n It ll be because you was born to hang,  laughed the saloon-keeper.\n Here, lend me a hand before you pull your freight,  he added.\n\nDazed, suffering intolerable pain from throat and tongue, with the life\nhalf throttled out of him, Buck attempted to face his tormentors. But\nhe was thrown down and choked repeatedly, till they succeeded in filing\nthe heavy brass collar from off his neck. Then the rope was removed,\nand he was flung into a cagelike crate.\n\nThere he lay for the remainder of the weary night, nursing his wrath\nand wounded pride. He could not understand what it all meant. What did\nthey want with him, these strange men? Why were they keeping him pent\nup in this narrow crate? He did not know why, but he felt oppressed by\nthe vague sense of impending calamity. Several times during the night\nhe sprang to his feet when the shed door rattled open, expecting to see\nthe Judge, or the boys at least. But each time it was the bulging face\nof the saloon-keeper that peered in at him by the sickly light of a\ntallow candle. And each time the joyful bark that trembled in Buck s\nthroat was twisted into a savage growl.\n\nBut the saloon-keeper let him alone, and in the morning four men\nentered and picked up the crate. More tormentors, Buck decided, for\nthey were evil-looking creatures, ragged and unkempt; and he stormed\nand raged at them through the bars. They only laughed and poked sticks\nat him, which he promptly assailed with his teeth till he realized that\nthat was what they wanted. Whereupon he lay down sullenly and allowed\nthe crate to be lifted into a wagon. Then he, and the crate in which he\nwas imprisoned, began a passage through many hands. Clerks in the\nexpress office took charge of him; he was carted about in another\nwagon; a truck carried him, with an assortment of boxes and parcels,\nupon a ferry steamer; he was trucked off the steamer into a great\nrailway depot, and finally he was deposited in an express car.\n\nFor two days and nights this express car was dragged along at the tail\nof shrieking locomotives; and for two days and nights Buck neither ate\nnor drank. In his anger he had met the first advances of the express\nmessengers with growls, and they had retaliated by teasing him. When he\nflung himself against the bars, quivering and frothing, they laughed at\nhim and taunted him. They growled and barked like detestable dogs,\nmewed, and flapped their arms and crowed. It was all very silly, he\nknew; but therefore the more outrage to his dignity, and his anger\nwaxed and waxed. He did not mind the hunger so much, but the lack of\nwater caused him severe suffering and fanned his wrath to fever-pitch.\nFor that matter, high-strung and finely sensitive, the ill treatment\nhad flung him into a fever, which was fed by the inflammation of his\nparched and swollen throat and tongue.\n\nHe was glad for one thing: the rope was off his neck. That had given\nthem an unfair advantage; but now that it was off, he would show them.\nThey would never get another rope around his neck. Upon that he was\nresolved. For two days and nights he neither ate nor drank, and during\nthose two days and nights of torment, he accumulated a fund of wrath\nthat boded ill for whoever first fell foul of him. His eyes turned\nblood-shot, and he was metamorphosed into a raging fiend. So changed\nwas he that the Judge himself would not have recognized him; and the\nexpress messengers breathed with relief when they bundled him off the\ntrain at Seattle.\n\nFour men gingerly carried the crate from the wagon into a small,\nhigh-walled back yard. A stout man, with a red sweater that sagged\ngenerously at the neck, came out and signed the book for the driver.\nThat was the man, Buck divined, the next tormentor, and he hurled\nhimself savagely against the bars. The man smiled grimly, and brought a\nhatchet and a club.\n\n You ain t going to take him out now?  the driver asked.\n\n Sure,  the man replied, driving the hatchet into the crate for a pry.\n\nThere was an instantaneous scattering of the four men who had carried\nit in, and from safe perches on top the wall they prepared to watch the\nperformance.\n\nBuck rushed at the splintering wood, sinking his teeth into it, surging\nand wrestling with it. Wherever the hatchet fell on the outside, he was\nthere on the inside, snarling and growling, as furiously anxious to get\nout as the man in the red sweater was calmly intent on getting him out.\n\n Now, you red-eyed devil,  he said, when he had made an opening\nsufficient for the passage of Buck s body. At the same time he dropped\nthe hatchet and shifted the club to his right hand.\n\nAnd Buck was truly a red-eyed devil, as he drew himself together for\nthe spring, hair bristling, mouth foaming, a mad glitter in his\nblood-shot eyes. Straight at the man he launched his one hundred and\nforty pounds of fury, surcharged with the pent passion of two days and\nnights. In mid air, just as his jaws were about to close on the man, he\nreceived a shock that checked his body and brought his teeth together\nwith an agonizing clip. He whirled over, fetching the ground on his\nback and side. He had never been struck by a club in his life, and did\nnot understand. With a snarl that was part bark and more scream he was\nagain on his feet and launched into the air. And again the shock came\nand he was brought crushingly to the ground. This time he was aware\nthat it was the club, but his madness knew no caution. A dozen times he\ncharged, and as often the club broke the charge and smashed him down.\n\nAfter a particularly fierce blow, he crawled to his feet, too dazed to\nrush. He staggered limply about, the blood flowing from nose and mouth\nand ears, his beautiful coat sprayed and flecked with bloody slaver.\nThen the man advanced and deliberately dealt him a frightful blow on\nthe nose. All the pain he had endured was as nothing compared with the\nexquisite agony of this. With a roar that was almost lionlike in its\nferocity, he again hurled himself at the man. But the man, shifting the\nclub from right to left, coolly caught him by the under jaw, at the\nsame time wrenching downward and backward. Buck described a complete\ncircle in the air, and half of another, then crashed to the ground on\nhis head and chest.\n\nFor the last time he rushed. The man struck the shrewd blow he had\npurposely withheld for so long, and Buck crumpled up and went down,\nknocked utterly senseless.\n\n He s no slouch at dog-breakin , that s wot I say,  one of the men on\nthe wall cried enthusiastically.\n\n Druther break cayuses any day, and twice on Sundays,  was the reply of\nthe driver, as he climbed on the wagon and started the horses.\n\nBuck s senses came back to him, but not his strength. He lay where he\nhad fallen, and from there he watched the man in the red sweater.\n\n Answers to the name of Buck,  the man soliloquized, quoting from the\nsaloon-keeper s letter which had announced the consignment of the crate\nand contents.  Well, Buck, my boy,  he went on in a genial voice,\n we ve had our little ruction, and the best thing we can do is to let\nit go at that. You ve learned your place, and I know mine. Be a good\ndog and all  ll go well and the goose hang high. Be a bad dog, and I ll\nwhale the stuffin  outa you. Understand? \n\nAs he spoke he fearlessly patted the head he had so mercilessly\npounded, and though Buck s hair involuntarily bristled at touch of the\nhand, he endured it without protest. When the man brought him water he\ndrank eagerly, and later bolted a generous meal of raw meat, chunk by\nchunk, from the man s hand.\n\nHe was beaten (he knew that); but he was not broken. He saw, once for\nall, that he stood no chance against a man with a club. He had learned\nthe lesson, and in all his after life he never forgot it. That club was\na revelation. It was his introduction to the reign of primitive law,\nand he met the introduction halfway. The facts of life took on a\nfiercer aspect; and while he faced that aspect uncowed, he faced it\nwith all the latent cunning of his nature aroused. As the days went by,\nother dogs came, in crates and at the ends of ropes, some docilely, and\nsome raging and roaring as he had come; and, one and all, he watched\nthem pass under the dominion of the man in the red sweater. Again and\nagain, as he looked at each brutal performance, the lesson was driven\nhome to Buck: a man with a club was a lawgiver, a master to be obeyed,\nthough not necessarily conciliated. Of this last Buck was never guilty,\nthough he did see beaten dogs that fawned upon the man, and wagged\ntheir tails, and licked his hand. Also he saw one dog, that would\nneither conciliate nor obey, finally killed in the struggle for\nmastery.\n\nNow and again men came, strangers, who talked excitedly, wheedlingly,\nand in all kinds of fashions to the man in the red sweater. And at such\ntimes that money passed between them the strangers took one or more of\nthe dogs away with them. Buck wondered where they went, for they never\ncame back; but the fear of the future was strong upon him, and he was\nglad each time when he was not selected.\n\nYet his time came, in the end, in the form of a little weazened man who\nspat broken English and many strange and uncouth exclamations which\nBuck could not understand.\n\n Sacredam!  he cried, when his eyes lit upon Buck.  Dat one dam bully\ndog! Eh? How moch? \n\n Three hundred, and a present at that,  was the prompt reply of the man\nin the red sweater.  And seem  it s government money, you ain t got no\nkick coming, eh, Perrault? \n\nPerrault grinned. Considering that the price of dogs had been boomed\nskyward by the unwonted demand, it was not an unfair sum for so fine an\nanimal. The Canadian Government would be no loser, nor would its\ndespatches travel the slower. Perrault knew dogs, and when he looked at\nBuck he knew that he was one in a thousand One in ten t ousand,  he\ncommented mentally.\n\nBuck saw money pass between them, and was not surprised when Curly, a\ngood-natured Newfoundland, and he were led away by the little weazened\nman. That was the last he saw of the man in the red sweater, and as\nCurly and he looked at receding Seattle from the deck of the _Narwhal_,\nit was the last he saw of the warm Southland. Curly and he were taken\nbelow by Perrault and turned over to a black-faced giant called\nFran ois. Perrault was a French-Canadian, and swarthy; but Fran ois was\na French-Canadian half-breed, and twice as swarthy. They were a new\nkind of men to Buck (of which he was destined to see many more), and\nwhile he developed no affection for them, he none the less grew\nhonestly to respect them. He speedily learned that Perrault and\nFran ois were fair men, calm and impartial in administering justice,\nand too wise in the way of dogs to be fooled by dogs.\n\nIn the  tween-decks of the _Narwhal_, Buck and Curly joined two other\ndogs. One of them was a big, snow-white fellow from Spitzbergen who had\nbeen brought away by a whaling captain, and who had later accompanied a\nGeological Survey into the Barrens. He was friendly, in a treacherous\nsort of way, smiling into one s face the while he meditated some\nunderhand trick, as, for instance, when he stole from Buck s food at\nthe first meal. As Buck sprang to punish him, the lash of Fran ois s\nwhip sang through the air, reaching the culprit first; and nothing\nremained to Buck but to recover the bone. That was fair of Fran ois, he\ndecided, and the half-breed began his rise in Buck s estimation.\n\nThe other dog made no advances, nor received any; also, he did not\nattempt to steal from the newcomers. He was a gloomy, morose fellow,\nand he showed Curly plainly that all he desired was to be left alone,\nand further, that there would be trouble if he were not left alone.\n Dave  he was called, and he ate and slept, or yawned between times,\nand took interest in nothing, not even when the _Narwhal_ crossed Queen\nCharlotte Sound and rolled and pitched and bucked like a thing\npossessed. When Buck and Curly grew excited, half wild with fear, he\nraised his head as though annoyed, favored them with an incurious\nglance, yawned, and went to sleep again.\n\nDay and night the ship throbbed to the tireless pulse of the propeller,\nand though one day was very like another, it was apparent to Buck that\nthe weather was steadily growing colder. At last, one morning, the\npropeller was quiet, and the _Narwhal_ was pervaded with an atmosphere\nof excitement. He felt it, as did the other dogs, and knew that a\nchange was at hand. Fran ois leashed them and brought them on deck. At\nthe first step upon the cold surface, Buck s feet sank into a white\nmushy something very like mud. He sprang back with a snort. More of\nthis white stuff was falling through the air. He shook himself, but\nmore of it fell upon him. He sniffed it curiously, then licked some up\non his tongue. It bit like fire, and the next instant was gone. This\npuzzled him. He tried it again, with the same result. The onlookers\nlaughed uproariously, and he felt ashamed, he knew not why, for it was\nhis first snow.\n\n\n\n\nChapter II. The Law of Club and Fang\n\n\nBuck s first day on the Dyea beach was like a nightmare. Every hour was\nfilled with shock and surprise. He had been suddenly jerked from the\nheart of civilization and flung into the heart of things primordial. No\nlazy, sun-kissed life was this, with nothing to do but loaf and be\nbored. Here was neither peace, nor rest, nor a moment s safety. All was\nconfusion and action, and every moment life and limb were in peril.\nThere was imperative need to be constantly alert; for these dogs and\nmen were not town dogs and men. They were savages, all of them, who\nknew no law but the law of club and fang.\n\nHe had never seen dogs fight as these wolfish creatures fought, and his\nfirst experience taught him an unforgetable lesson. It is true, it was\na vicarious experience, else he would not have lived to profit by it.\nCurly was the victim. They were camped near the log store, where she,\nin her friendly way, made advances to a husky dog the size of a\nfull-grown wolf, though not half so large as she. There was no warning,\nonly a leap in like a flash, a metallic clip of teeth, a leap out\nequally swift, and Curly s face was ripped open from eye to jaw.\n\nIt was the wolf manner of fighting, to strike and leap away; but there\nwas more to it than this. Thirty or forty huskies ran to the spot and\nsurrounded the combatants in an intent and silent circle. Buck did not\ncomprehend that silent intentness, nor the eager way with which they\nwere licking their chops. Curly rushed her antagonist, who struck again\nand leaped aside. He met her next rush with his chest, in a peculiar\nfashion that tumbled her off her feet. She never regained them. This\nwas what the onlooking huskies had waited for. They closed in upon her,\nsnarling and yelping, and she was buried, screaming with agony, beneath\nthe bristling mass of bodies.\n\nSo sudden was it, and so unexpected, that Buck was taken aback. He saw\nSpitz run out his scarlet tongue in a way he had of laughing; and he\nsaw Fran ois, swinging an axe, spring into the mess of dogs. Three men\nwith clubs were helping him to scatter them. It did not take long. Two\nminutes from the time Curly went down, the last of her assailants were\nclubbed off. But she lay there limp and lifeless in the bloody,\ntrampled snow, almost literally torn to pieces, the swart half-breed\nstanding over her and cursing horribly. The scene often came back to\nBuck to trouble him in his sleep. So that was the way. No fair play.\nOnce down, that was the end of you. Well, he would see to it that he\nnever went down. Spitz ran out his tongue and laughed again, and from\nthat moment Buck hated him with a bitter and deathless hatred.\n\nBefore he had recovered from the shock caused by the tragic passing of\nCurly, he received another shock. Fran ois fastened upon him an\narrangement of straps and buckles. It was a harness, such as he had\nseen the grooms put on the horses at home. And as he had seen horses\nwork, so he was set to work, hauling Fran ois on a sled to the forest\nthat fringed the valley, and returning with a load of firewood. Though\nhis dignity was sorely hurt by thus being made a draught animal, he was\ntoo wise to rebel. He buckled down with a will and did his best, though\nit was all new and strange. Fran ois was stern, demanding instant\nobedience, and by virtue of his whip receiving instant obedience; while\nDave, who was an experienced wheeler, nipped Buck s hind quarters\nwhenever he was in error. Spitz was the leader, likewise experienced,\nand while he could not always get at Buck, he growled sharp reproof now\nand again, or cunningly threw his weight in the traces to jerk Buck\ninto the way he should go. Buck learned easily, and under the combined\ntuition of his two mates and Fran ois made remarkable progress. Ere\nthey returned to camp he knew enough to stop at  ho,  to go ahead at\n mush,  to swing wide on the bends, and to keep clear of the wheeler\nwhen the loaded sled shot downhill at their heels.\n\n T ree vair  good dogs,  Fran ois told Perrault.  Dat Buck, heem pool\nlak hell. I tich heem queek as anyt ing. \n\nBy afternoon, Perrault, who was in a hurry to be on the trail with his\ndespatches, returned with two more dogs.  Billee  and  Joe  he called\nthem, two brothers, and true huskies both. Sons of the one mother\nthough they were, they were as different as day and night. Billee s one\nfault was his excessive good nature, while Joe was the very opposite,\nsour and introspective, with a perpetual snarl and a malignant eye.\nBuck received them in comradely fashion, Dave ignored them, while Spitz\nproceeded to thrash first one and then the other. Billee wagged his\ntail appeasingly, turned to run when he saw that appeasement was of no\navail, and cried (still appeasingly) when Spitz s sharp teeth scored\nhis flank. But no matter how Spitz circled, Joe whirled around on his\nheels to face him, mane bristling, ears laid back, lips writhing and\nsnarling, jaws clipping together as fast as he could snap, and eyes\ndiabolically gleaming the incarnation of belligerent fear. So terrible\nwas his appearance that Spitz was forced to forego disciplining him;\nbut to cover his own discomfiture he turned upon the inoffensive and\nwailing Billee and drove him to the confines of the camp.\n\nBy evening Perrault secured another dog, an old husky, long and lean\nand gaunt, with a battle-scarred face and a single eye which flashed a\nwarning of prowess that commanded respect. He was called Sol-leks,\nwhich means the Angry One. Like Dave, he asked nothing, gave nothing,\nexpected nothing; and when he marched slowly and deliberately into\ntheir midst, even Spitz left him alone. He had one peculiarity which\nBuck was unlucky enough to discover. He did not like to be approached\non his blind side. Of this offence Buck was unwittingly guilty, and the\nfirst knowledge he had of his indiscretion was when Sol-leks whirled\nupon him and slashed his shoulder to the bone for three inches up and\ndown. Forever after Buck avoided his blind side, and to the last of\ntheir comradeship had no more trouble. His only apparent ambition, like\nDave s, was to be left alone; though, as Buck was afterward to learn,\neach of them possessed one other and even more vital ambition.\n\nThat night Buck faced the great problem of sleeping. The tent,\nillumined by a candle, glowed warmly in the midst of the white plain;\nand when he, as a matter of course, entered it, both Perrault and\nFran ois bombarded him with curses and cooking utensils, till he\nrecovered from his consternation and fled ignominiously into the outer\ncold. A chill wind was blowing that nipped him sharply and bit with\nespecial venom into his wounded shoulder. He lay down on the snow and\nattempted to sleep, but the frost soon drove him shivering to his feet.\nMiserable and disconsolate, he wandered about among the many tents,\nonly to find that one place was as cold as another. Here and there\nsavage dogs rushed upon him, but he bristled his neck-hair and snarled\n(for he was learning fast), and they let him go his way unmolested.\n\nFinally an idea came to him. He would return and see how his own\nteam-mates were making out. To his astonishment, they had disappeared.\nAgain he wandered about through the great camp, looking for them, and\nagain he returned. Were they in the tent? No, that could not be, else\nhe would not have been driven out. Then where could they possibly be?\nWith drooping tail and shivering body, very forlorn indeed, he\naimlessly circled the tent. Suddenly the snow gave way beneath his fore\nlegs and he sank down. Something wriggled under his feet. He sprang\nback, bristling and snarling, fearful of the unseen and unknown. But a\nfriendly little yelp reassured him, and he went back to investigate. A\nwhiff of warm air ascended to his nostrils, and there, curled up under\nthe snow in a snug ball, lay Billee. He whined placatingly, squirmed\nand wriggled to show his good will and intentions, and even ventured,\nas a bribe for peace, to lick Buck s face with his warm wet tongue.\n\nAnother lesson. So that was the way they did it, eh? Buck confidently\nselected a spot, and with much fuss and waste effort proceeded to dig a\nhole for himself. In a trice the heat from his body filled the confined\nspace and he was asleep. The day had been long and arduous, and he\nslept soundly and comfortably, though he growled and barked and\nwrestled with bad dreams.\n\nNor did he open his eyes till roused by the noises of the waking camp.\nAt first he did not know where he was. It had snowed during the night\nand he was completely buried. The snow walls pressed him on every side,\nand a great surge of fear swept through him the fear of the wild thing\nfor the trap. It was a token that he was harking back through his own\nlife to the lives of his forebears; for he was a civilized dog, an\nunduly civilized dog, and of his own experience knew no trap and so\ncould not of himself fear it. The muscles of his whole body contracted\nspasmodically and instinctively, the hair on his neck and shoulders\nstood on end, and with a ferocious snarl he bounded straight up into\nthe blinding day, the snow flying about him in a flashing cloud. Ere he\nlanded on his feet, he saw the white camp spread out before him and\nknew where he was and remembered all that had passed from the time he\nwent for a stroll with Manuel to the hole he had dug for himself the\nnight before.\n\nA shout from Fran ois hailed his appearance.  Wot I say?  the\ndog-driver cried to Perrault.  Dat Buck for sure learn queek as\nanyt ing. \n\nPerrault nodded gravely. As courier for the Canadian Government,\nbearing important despatches, he was anxious to secure the best dogs,\nand he was particularly gladdened by the possession of Buck.\n\nThree more huskies were added to the team inside an hour, making a\ntotal of nine, and before another quarter of an hour had passed they\nwere in harness and swinging up the trail toward the Dyea Ca on. Buck\nwas glad to be gone, and though the work was hard he found he did not\nparticularly despise it. He was surprised at the eagerness which\nanimated the whole team and which was communicated to him; but still\nmore surprising was the change wrought in Dave and Sol-leks. They were\nnew dogs, utterly transformed by the harness. All passiveness and\nunconcern had dropped from them. They were alert and active, anxious\nthat the work should go well, and fiercely irritable with whatever, by\ndelay or confusion, retarded that work. The toil of the traces seemed\nthe supreme expression of their being, and all that they lived for and\nthe only thing in which they took delight.\n\nDave was wheeler or sled dog, pulling in front of him was Buck, then\ncame Sol-leks; the rest of the team was strung out ahead, single file,\nto the leader, which position was filled by Spitz.\n\nBuck had been purposely placed between Dave and Sol-leks so that he\nmight receive instruction. Apt scholar that he was, they were equally\napt teachers, never allowing him to linger long in error, and enforcing\ntheir teaching with their sharp teeth. Dave was fair and very wise. He\nnever nipped Buck without cause, and he never failed to nip him when he\nstood in need of it. As Fran ois s whip backed him up, Buck found it to\nbe cheaper to mend his ways than to retaliate. Once, during a brief\nhalt, when he got tangled in the traces and delayed the start, both\nDave and Sol-leks flew at him and administered a sound trouncing. The\nresulting tangle was even worse, but Buck took good care to keep the\ntraces clear thereafter; and ere the day was done, so well had he\nmastered his work, his mates about ceased nagging him. Fran ois s whip\nsnapped less frequently, and Perrault even honored Buck by lifting up\nhis feet and carefully examining them.\n\nIt was a hard day s run, up the Ca on, through Sheep Camp, past the\nScales and the timber line, across glaciers and snowdrifts hundreds of\nfeet deep, and over the great Chilcoot Divide, which stands between the\nsalt water and the fresh and guards forbiddingly the sad and lonely\nNorth. They made good time down the chain of lakes which fills the\ncraters of extinct volcanoes, and late that night pulled into the huge\ncamp at the head of Lake Bennett, where thousands of goldseekers were\nbuilding boats against the break-up of the ice in the spring. Buck made\nhis hole in the snow and slept the sleep of the exhausted just, but all\ntoo early was routed out in the cold darkness and harnessed with his\nmates to the sled.\n\nThat day they made forty miles, the trail being packed; but the next\nday, and for many days to follow, they broke their own trail, worked\nharder, and made poorer time. As a rule, Perrault travelled ahead of\nthe team, packing the snow with webbed shoes to make it easier for\nthem. Fran ois, guiding the sled at the gee-pole, sometimes exchanged\nplaces with him, but not often. Perrault was in a hurry, and he prided\nhimself on his knowledge of ice, which knowledge was indispensable, for\nthe fall ice was very thin, and where there was swift water, there was\nno ice at all.\n\nDay after day, for days unending, Buck toiled in the traces. Always,\nthey broke camp in the dark, and the first gray of dawn found them\nhitting the trail with fresh miles reeled off behind them. And always\nthey pitched camp after dark, eating their bit of fish, and crawling to\nsleep into the snow. Buck was ravenous. The pound and a half of\nsun-dried salmon, which was his ration for each day, seemed to go\nnowhere. He never had enough, and suffered from perpetual hunger pangs.\nYet the other dogs, because they weighed less and were born to the\nlife, received a pound only of the fish and managed to keep in good\ncondition.\n\nHe swiftly lost the fastidiousness which had characterized his old\nlife. A dainty eater, he found that his mates, finishing first, robbed\nhim of his unfinished ration. There was no defending it. While he was\nfighting off two or three, it was disappearing down the throats of the\nothers. To remedy this, he ate as fast as they; and, so greatly did\nhunger compel him, he was not above taking what did not belong to him.\nHe watched and learned. When he saw Pike, one of the new dogs, a clever\nmalingerer and thief, slyly steal a slice of bacon when Perrault s back\nwas turned, he duplicated the performance the following day, getting\naway with the whole chunk. A great uproar was raised, but he was\nunsuspected; while Dub, an awkward blunderer who was always getting\ncaught, was punished for Buck s misdeed.\n\nThis first theft marked Buck as fit to survive in the hostile Northland\nenvironment. It marked his adaptability, his capacity to adjust himself\nto changing conditions, the lack of which would have meant swift and\nterrible death. It marked, further, the decay or going to pieces of his\nmoral nature, a vain thing and a handicap in the ruthless struggle for\nexistence. It was all well enough in the Southland, under the law of\nlove and fellowship, to respect private property and personal feelings;\nbut in the Northland, under the law of club and fang, whoso took such\nthings into account was a fool, and in so far as he observed them he\nwould fail to prosper.\n\nNot that Buck reasoned it out. He was fit, that was all, and\nunconsciously he accommodated himself to the new mode of life. All his\ndays, no matter what the odds, he had never run from a fight. But the\nclub of the man in the red sweater had beaten into him a more\nfundamental and primitive code. Civilized, he could have died for a\nmoral consideration, say the defence of Judge Miller s riding-whip; but\nthe completeness of his decivilization was now evidenced by his ability\nto flee from the defence of a moral consideration and so save his hide.\nHe did not steal for joy of it, but because of the clamor of his\nstomach. He did not rob openly, but stole secretly and cunningly, out\nof respect for club and fang. In short, the things he did were done\nbecause it was easier to do them than not to do them.\n\nHis development (or retrogression) was rapid. His muscles became hard\nas iron, and he grew callous to all ordinary pain. He achieved an\ninternal as well as external economy. He could eat anything, no matter\nhow loathsome or indigestible; and, once eaten, the juices of his\nstomach extracted the last least particle of nutriment; and his blood\ncarried it to the farthest reaches of his body, building it into the\ntoughest and stoutest of tissues. Sight and scent became remarkably\nkeen, while his hearing developed such acuteness that in his sleep he\nheard the faintest sound and knew whether it heralded peace or peril.\nHe learned to bite the ice out with his teeth when it collected between\nhis toes; and when he was thirsty and there was a thick scum of ice\nover the water hole, he would break it by rearing and striking it with\nstiff fore legs. His most conspicuous trait was an ability to scent the\nwind and forecast it a night in advance. No matter how breathless the\nair when he dug his nest by tree or bank, the wind that later blew\ninevitably found him to leeward, sheltered and snug.\n\nAnd not only did he learn by experience, but instincts long dead became\nalive again. The domesticated generations fell from him. In vague ways\nhe remembered back to the youth of the breed, to the time the wild dogs\nranged in packs through the primeval forest and killed their meat as\nthey ran it down. It was no task for him to learn to fight with cut and\nslash and the quick wolf snap. In this manner had fought forgotten\nancestors. They quickened the old life within him, and the old tricks\nwhich they had stamped into the heredity of the breed were his tricks.\nThey came to him without effort or discovery, as though they had been\nhis always. And when, on the still cold nights, he pointed his nose at\na star and howled long and wolflike, it was his ancestors, dead and\ndust, pointing nose at star and howling down through the centuries and\nthrough him. And his cadences were their cadences, the cadences which\nvoiced their woe and what to them was the meaning of the stiffness, and\nthe cold, and dark.\n\nThus, as token of what a puppet thing life is, the ancient song surged\nthrough him and he came into his own again; and he came because men had\nfound a yellow metal in the North, and because Manuel was a gardener s\nhelper whose wages did not lap over the needs of his wife and divers\nsmall copies of himself.\n\n\n\n\nChapter III. The Dominant Primordial Beast\n\n\nThe dominant primordial beast was strong in Buck, and under the fierce\nconditions of trail life it grew and grew. Yet it was a secret growth.\nHis newborn cunning gave him poise and control. He was too busy\nadjusting himself to the new life to feel at ease, and not only did he\nnot pick fights, but he avoided them whenever possible. A certain\ndeliberateness characterized his attitude. He was not prone to rashness\nand precipitate action; and in the bitter hatred between him and Spitz\nhe betrayed no impatience, shunned all offensive acts.\n\nOn the other hand, possibly because he divined in Buck a dangerous\nrival, Spitz never lost an opportunity of showing his teeth. He even\nwent out of his way to bully Buck, striving constantly to start the\nfight which could end only in the death of one or the other. Early in\nthe trip this might have taken place had it not been for an unwonted\naccident. At the end of this day they made a bleak and miserable camp\non the shore of Lake Le Barge. Driving snow, a wind that cut like a\nwhite-hot knife, and darkness had forced them to grope for a camping\nplace. They could hardly have fared worse. At their backs rose a\nperpendicular wall of rock, and Perrault and Fran ois were compelled to\nmake their fire and spread their sleeping robes on the ice of the lake\nitself. The tent they had discarded at Dyea in order to travel light. A\nfew sticks of driftwood furnished them with a fire that thawed down\nthrough the ice and left them to eat supper in the dark.\n\nClose in under the sheltering rock Buck made his nest. So snug and warm\nwas it, that he was loath to leave it when Fran ois distributed the\nfish which he had first thawed over the fire. But when Buck finished\nhis ration and returned, he found his nest occupied. A warning snarl\ntold him that the trespasser was Spitz. Till now Buck had avoided\ntrouble with his enemy, but this was too much. The beast in him roared.\nHe sprang upon Spitz with a fury which surprised them both, and Spitz\nparticularly, for his whole experience with Buck had gone to teach him\nthat his rival was an unusually timid dog, who managed to hold his own\nonly because of his great weight and size.\n\nFran ois was surprised, too, when they shot out in a tangle from the\ndisrupted nest and he divined the cause of the trouble.  A-a-ah!  he\ncried to Buck.  Gif it to heem, by Gar! Gif it to heem, the dirty\nt eef! \n\nSpitz was equally willing. He was crying with sheer rage and eagerness\nas he circled back and forth for a chance to spring in. Buck was no\nless eager, and no less cautious, as he likewise circled back and forth\nfor the advantage. But it was then that the unexpected happened, the\nthing which projected their struggle for supremacy far into the future,\npast many a weary mile of trail and toil.\n\nAn oath from Perrault, the resounding impact of a club upon a bony\nframe, and a shrill yelp of pain, heralded the breaking forth of\npandemonium. The camp was suddenly discovered to be alive with skulking\nfurry forms, starving huskies, four or five score of them, who had\nscented the camp from some Indian village. They had crept in while Buck\nand Spitz were fighting, and when the two men sprang among them with\nstout clubs they showed their teeth and fought back. They were crazed\nby the smell of the food. Perrault found one with head buried in the\ngrub-box. His club landed heavily on the gaunt ribs, and the grub-box\nwas capsized on the ground. On the instant a score of the famished\nbrutes were scrambling for the bread and bacon. The clubs fell upon\nthem unheeded. They yelped and howled under the rain of blows, but\nstruggled none the less madly till the last crumb had been devoured.\n\nIn the meantime the astonished team-dogs had burst out of their nests\nonly to be set upon by the fierce invaders. Never had Buck seen such\ndogs. It seemed as though their bones would burst through their skins.\nThey were mere skeletons, draped loosely in draggled hides, with\nblazing eyes and slavered fangs. But the hunger-madness made them\nterrifying, irresistible. There was no opposing them. The team-dogs\nwere swept back against the cliff at the first onset. Buck was beset by\nthree huskies, and in a trice his head and shoulders were ripped and\nslashed. The din was frightful. Billee was crying as usual. Dave and\nSol-leks, dripping blood from a score of wounds, were fighting bravely\nside by side. Joe was snapping like a demon. Once, his teeth closed on\nthe fore leg of a husky, and he crunched down through the bone. Pike,\nthe malingerer, leaped upon the crippled animal, breaking its neck with\na quick flash of teeth and a jerk, Buck got a frothing adversary by the\nthroat, and was sprayed with blood when his teeth sank through the\njugular. The warm taste of it in his mouth goaded him to greater\nfierceness. He flung himself upon another, and at the same time felt\nteeth sink into his own throat. It was Spitz, treacherously attacking\nfrom the side.\n\nPerrault and Fran ois, having cleaned out their part of the camp,\nhurried to save their sled-dogs. The wild wave of famished beasts\nrolled back before them, and Buck shook himself free. But it was only\nfor a moment. The two men were compelled to run back to save the grub,\nupon which the huskies returned to the attack on the team. Billee,\nterrified into bravery, sprang through the savage circle and fled away\nover the ice. Pike and Dub followed on his heels, with the rest of the\nteam behind. As Buck drew himself together to spring after them, out of\nthe tail of his eye he saw Spitz rush upon him with the evident\nintention of overthrowing him. Once off his feet and under that mass of\nhuskies, there was no hope for him. But he braced himself to the shock\nof Spitz s charge, then joined the flight out on the lake.\n\nLater, the nine team-dogs gathered together and sought shelter in the\nforest. Though unpursued, they were in a sorry plight. There was not\none who was not wounded in four or five places, while some were wounded\ngrievously. Dub was badly injured in a hind leg; Dolly, the last husky\nadded to the team at Dyea, had a badly torn throat; Joe had lost an\neye; while Billee, the good-natured, with an ear chewed and rent to\nribbons, cried and whimpered throughout the night. At daybreak they\nlimped warily back to camp, to find the marauders gone and the two men\nin bad tempers. Fully half their grub supply was gone. The huskies had\nchewed through the sled lashings and canvas coverings. In fact,\nnothing, no matter how remotely eatable, had escaped them. They had\neaten a pair of Perrault s moose-hide moccasins, chunks out of the\nleather traces, and even two feet of lash from the end of Fran ois s\nwhip. He broke from a mournful contemplation of it to look over his\nwounded dogs.\n\n Ah, my frien s,  he said softly,  mebbe it mek you mad dog, dose many\nbites. Mebbe all mad dog, sacredam! Wot you t ink, eh, Perrault? \n\nThe courier shook his head dubiously. With four hundred miles of trail\nstill between him and Dawson, he could ill afford to have madness break\nout among his dogs. Two hours of cursing and exertion got the harnesses\ninto shape, and the wound-stiffened team was under way, struggling\npainfully over the hardest part of the trail they had yet encountered,\nand for that matter, the hardest between them and Dawson.\n\nThe Thirty Mile River was wide open. Its wild water defied the frost,\nand it was in the eddies only and in the quiet places that the ice held\nat all. Six days of exhausting toil were required to cover those thirty\nterrible miles. And terrible they were, for every foot of them was\naccomplished at the risk of life to dog and man. A dozen times,\nPerrault, nosing the way broke through the ice bridges, being saved by\nthe long pole he carried, which he so held that it fell each time\nacross the hole made by his body. But a cold snap was on, the\nthermometer registering fifty below zero, and each time he broke\nthrough he was compelled for very life to build a fire and dry his\ngarments.\n\nNothing daunted him. It was because nothing daunted him that he had\nbeen chosen for government courier. He took all manner of risks,\nresolutely thrusting his little weazened face into the frost and\nstruggling on from dim dawn to dark. He skirted the frowning shores on\nrim ice that bent and crackled under foot and upon which they dared not\nhalt. Once, the sled broke through, with Dave and Buck, and they were\nhalf-frozen and all but drowned by the time they were dragged out. The\nusual fire was necessary to save them. They were coated solidly with\nice, and the two men kept them on the run around the fire, sweating and\nthawing, so close that they were singed by the flames.\n\nAt another time Spitz went through, dragging the whole team after him\nup to Buck, who strained backward with all his strength, his fore paws\non the slippery edge and the ice quivering and snapping all around. But\nbehind him was Dave, likewise straining backward, and behind the sled\nwas Fran ois, pulling till his tendons cracked.\n\nAgain, the rim ice broke away before and behind, and there was no\nescape except up the cliff. Perrault scaled it by a miracle, while\nFran ois prayed for just that miracle; and with every thong and sled\nlashing and the last bit of harness rove into a long rope, the dogs\nwere hoisted, one by one, to the cliff crest. Fran ois came up last,\nafter the sled and load. Then came the search for a place to descend,\nwhich descent was ultimately made by the aid of the rope, and night\nfound them back on the river with a quarter of a mile to the day s\ncredit.\n\nBy the time they made the Hootalinqua and good ice, Buck was played\nout. The rest of the dogs were in like condition; but Perrault, to make\nup lost time, pushed them late and early. The first day they covered\nthirty-five miles to the Big Salmon; the next day thirty-five more to\nthe Little Salmon; the third day forty miles, which brought them well\nup toward the Five Fingers.\n\nBuck s feet were not so compact and hard as the feet of the huskies.\nHis had softened during the many generations since the day his last\nwild ancestor was tamed by a cave-dweller or river man. All day long he\nlimped in agony, and camp once made, lay down like a dead dog. Hungry\nas he was, he would not move to receive his ration of fish, which\nFran ois had to bring to him. Also, the dog-driver rubbed Buck s feet\nfor half an hour each night after supper, and sacrificed the tops of\nhis own moccasins to make four moccasins for Buck. This was a great\nrelief, and Buck caused even the weazened face of Perrault to twist\nitself into a grin one morning, when Fran ois forgot the moccasins and\nBuck lay on his back, his four feet waving appealingly in the air, and\nrefused to budge without them. Later his feet grew hard to the trail,\nand the worn-out foot-gear was thrown away.\n\nAt the Pelly one morning, as they were harnessing up, Dolly, who had\nnever been conspicuous for anything, went suddenly mad. She announced\nher condition by a long, heartbreaking wolf howl that sent every dog\nbristling with fear, then sprang straight for Buck. He had never seen a\ndog go mad, nor did he have any reason to fear madness; yet he knew\nthat here was horror, and fled away from it in a panic. Straight away\nhe raced, with Dolly, panting and frothing, one leap behind; nor could\nshe gain on him, so great was his terror, nor could he leave her, so\ngreat was her madness. He plunged through the wooded breast of the\nisland, flew down to the lower end, crossed a back channel filled with\nrough ice to another island, gained a third island, curved back to the\nmain river, and in desperation started to cross it. And all the time,\nthough he did not look, he could hear her snarling just one leap\nbehind. Fran ois called to him a quarter of a mile away and he doubled\nback, still one leap ahead, gasping painfully for air and putting all\nhis faith in that Fran ois would save him. The dog-driver held the axe\npoised in his hand, and as Buck shot past him the axe crashed down upon\nmad Dolly s head.\n\nBuck staggered over against the sled, exhausted, sobbing for breath,\nhelpless. This was Spitz s opportunity. He sprang upon Buck, and twice\nhis teeth sank into his unresisting foe and ripped and tore the flesh\nto the bone. Then Fran ois s lash descended, and Buck had the\nsatisfaction of watching Spitz receive the worst whipping as yet\nadministered to any of the teams.\n\n One devil, dat Spitz,  remarked Perrault.  Some dam day heem keel dat\nBuck. \n\n Dat Buck two devils,  was Fran ois s rejoinder.  All de tam I watch\ndat Buck I know for sure. Lissen: some dam fine day heem get mad lak\nhell an  den heem chew dat Spitz all up an  spit heem out on de snow.\nSure. I know. \n\nFrom then on it was war between them. Spitz, as lead-dog and\nacknowledged master of the team, felt his supremacy threatened by this\nstrange Southland dog. And strange Buck was to him, for of the many\nSouthland dogs he had known, not one had shown up worthily in camp and\non trail. They were all too soft, dying under the toil, the frost, and\nstarvation. Buck was the exception. He alone endured and prospered,\nmatching the husky in strength, savagery, and cunning. Then he was a\nmasterful dog, and what made him dangerous was the fact that the club\nof the man in the red sweater had knocked all blind pluck and rashness\nout of his desire for mastery. He was preeminently cunning, and could\nbide his time with a patience that was nothing less than primitive.\n\nIt was inevitable that the clash for leadership should come. Buck\nwanted it. He wanted it because it was his nature, because he had been\ngripped tight by that nameless, incomprehensible pride of the trail and\ntrace that pride which holds dogs in the toil to the last gasp, which\nlures them to die joyfully in the harness, and breaks their hearts if\nthey are cut out of the harness. This was the pride of Dave as\nwheel-dog, of Sol-leks as he pulled with all his strength; the pride\nthat laid hold of them at break of camp, transforming them from sour\nand sullen brutes into straining, eager, ambitious creatures; the pride\nthat spurred them on all day and dropped them at pitch of camp at\nnight, letting them fall back into gloomy unrest and uncontent. This\nwas the pride that bore up Spitz and made him thrash the sled-dogs who\nblundered and shirked in the traces or hid away at harness-up time in\nthe morning. Likewise it was this pride that made him fear Buck as a\npossible lead-dog. And this was Buck s pride, too.\n\nHe openly threatened the other s leadership. He came between him and\nthe shirks he should have punished. And he did it deliberately. One\nnight there was a heavy snowfall, and in the morning Pike, the\nmalingerer, did not appear. He was securely hidden in his nest under a\nfoot of snow. Fran ois called him and sought him in vain. Spitz was\nwild with wrath. He raged through the camp, smelling and digging in\nevery likely place, snarling so frightfully that Pike heard and\nshivered in his hiding-place.\n\nBut when he was at last unearthed, and Spitz flew at him to punish him,\nBuck flew, with equal rage, in between. So unexpected was it, and so\nshrewdly managed, that Spitz was hurled backward and off his feet.\nPike, who had been trembling abjectly, took heart at this open mutiny,\nand sprang upon his overthrown leader. Buck, to whom fair play was a\nforgotten code, likewise sprang upon Spitz. But Fran ois, chuckling at\nthe incident while unswerving in the administration of justice, brought\nhis lash down upon Buck with all his might. This failed to drive Buck\nfrom his prostrate rival, and the butt of the whip was brought into\nplay. Half-stunned by the blow, Buck was knocked backward and the lash\nlaid upon him again and again, while Spitz soundly punished the many\ntimes offending Pike.\n\nIn the days that followed, as Dawson grew closer and closer, Buck still\ncontinued to interfere between Spitz and the culprits; but he did it\ncraftily, when Fran ois was not around, With the covert mutiny of Buck,\na general insubordination sprang up and increased. Dave and Sol-leks\nwere unaffected, but the rest of the team went from bad to worse.\nThings no longer went right. There was continual bickering and\njangling. Trouble was always afoot, and at the bottom of it was Buck.\nHe kept Fran ois busy, for the dog-driver was in constant apprehension\nof the life-and-death struggle between the two which he knew must take\nplace sooner or later; and on more than one night the sounds of\nquarrelling and strife among the other dogs turned him out of his\nsleeping robe, fearful that Buck and Spitz were at it.\n\nBut the opportunity did not present itself, and they pulled into Dawson\none dreary afternoon with the great fight still to come. Here were many\nmen, and countless dogs, and Buck found them all at work. It seemed the\nordained order of things that dogs should work. All day they swung up\nand down the main street in long teams, and in the night their jingling\nbells still went by. They hauled cabin logs and firewood, freighted up\nto the mines, and did all manner of work that horses did in the Santa\nClara Valley. Here and there Buck met Southland dogs, but in the main\nthey were the wild wolf husky breed. Every night, regularly, at nine,\nat twelve, at three, they lifted a nocturnal song, a weird and eerie\nchant, in which it was Buck s delight to join.\n\nWith the aurora borealis flaming coldly overhead, or the stars leaping\nin the frost dance, and the land numb and frozen under its pall of\nsnow, this song of the huskies might have been the defiance of life,\nonly it was pitched in minor key, with long-drawn wailings and\nhalf-sobs, and was more the pleading of life, the articulate travail of\nexistence. It was an old song, old as the breed itself one of the first\nsongs of the younger world in a day when songs were sad. It was\ninvested with the woe of unnumbered generations, this plaint by which\nBuck was so strangely stirred. When he moaned and sobbed, it was with\nthe pain of living that was of old the pain of his wild fathers, and\nthe fear and mystery of the cold and dark that was to them fear and\nmystery. And that he should be stirred by it marked the completeness\nwith which he harked back through the ages of fire and roof to the raw\nbeginnings of life in the howling ages.\n\nSeven days from the time they pulled into Dawson, they dropped down the\nsteep bank by the Barracks to the Yukon Trail, and pulled for Dyea and\nSalt Water. Perrault was carrying despatches if anything more urgent\nthan those he had brought in; also, the travel pride had gripped him,\nand he purposed to make the record trip of the year. Several things\nfavored him in this. The week s rest had recuperated the dogs and put\nthem in thorough trim. The trail they had broken into the country was\npacked hard by later journeyers. And further, the police had arranged\nin two or three places deposits of grub for dog and man, and he was\ntravelling light.\n\nThey made Sixty Mile, which is a fifty-mile run, on the first day; and\nthe second day saw them booming up the Yukon well on their way to\nPelly. But such splendid running was achieved not without great trouble\nand vexation on the part of Fran ois. The insidious revolt led by Buck\nhad destroyed the solidarity of the team. It no longer was as one dog\nleaping in the traces. The encouragement Buck gave the rebels led them\ninto all kinds of petty misdemeanors. No more was Spitz a leader\ngreatly to be feared. The old awe departed, and they grew equal to\nchallenging his authority. Pike robbed him of half a fish one night,\nand gulped it down under the protection of Buck. Another night Dub and\nJoe fought Spitz and made him forego the punishment they deserved. And\neven Billee, the good-natured, was less good-natured, and whined not\nhalf so placatingly as in former days. Buck never came near Spitz\nwithout snarling and bristling menacingly. In fact, his conduct\napproached that of a bully, and he was given to swaggering up and down\nbefore Spitz s very nose.\n\nThe breaking down of discipline likewise affected the dogs in their\nrelations with one another. They quarrelled and bickered more than ever\namong themselves, till at times the camp was a howling bedlam. Dave and\nSol-leks alone were unaltered, though they were made irritable by the\nunending squabbling. Fran ois swore strange barbarous oaths, and\nstamped the snow in futile rage, and tore his hair. His lash was always\nsinging among the dogs, but it was of small avail. Directly his back\nwas turned they were at it again. He backed up Spitz with his whip,\nwhile Buck backed up the remainder of the team. Fran ois knew he was\nbehind all the trouble, and Buck knew he knew; but Buck was too clever\never again to be caught red-handed. He worked faithfully in the\nharness, for the toil had become a delight to him; yet it was a greater\ndelight slyly to precipitate a fight amongst his mates and tangle the\ntraces.\n\nAt the mouth of the Tahkeena, one night after supper, Dub turned up a\nsnowshoe rabbit, blundered it, and missed. In a second the whole team\nwas in full cry. A hundred yards away was a camp of the Northwest\nPolice, with fifty dogs, huskies all, who joined the chase. The rabbit\nsped down the river, turned off into a small creek, up the frozen bed\nof which it held steadily. It ran lightly on the surface of the snow,\nwhile the dogs ploughed through by main strength. Buck led the pack,\nsixty strong, around bend after bend, but he could not gain. He lay\ndown low to the race, whining eagerly, his splendid body flashing\nforward, leap by leap, in the wan white moonlight. And leap by leap,\nlike some pale frost wraith, the snowshoe rabbit flashed on ahead.\n\nAll that stirring of old instincts which at stated periods drives men\nout from the sounding cities to forest and plain to kill things by\nchemically propelled leaden pellets, the blood lust, the joy to\nkill all this was Buck s, only it was infinitely more intimate. He was\nranging at the head of the pack, running the wild thing down, the\nliving meat, to kill with his own teeth and wash his muzzle to the eyes\nin warm blood.\n\nThere is an ecstasy that marks the summit of life, and beyond which\nlife cannot rise. And such is the paradox of living, this ecstasy comes\nwhen one is most alive, and it comes as a complete forgetfulness that\none is alive. This ecstasy, this forgetfulness of living, comes to the\nartist, caught up and out of himself in a sheet of flame; it comes to\nthe soldier, war-mad on a stricken field and refusing quarter; and it\ncame to Buck, leading the pack, sounding the old wolf-cry, straining\nafter the food that was alive and that fled swiftly before him through\nthe moonlight. He was sounding the deeps of his nature, and of the\nparts of his nature that were deeper than he, going back into the womb\nof Time. He was mastered by the sheer surging of life, the tidal wave\nof being, the perfect joy of each separate muscle, joint, and sinew in\nthat it was everything that was not death, that it was aglow and\nrampant, expressing itself in movement, flying exultantly under the\nstars and over the face of dead matter that did not move.\n\nBut Spitz, cold and calculating even in his supreme moods, left the\npack and cut across a narrow neck of land where the creek made a long\nbend around. Buck did not know of this, and as he rounded the bend, the\nfrost wraith of a rabbit still flitting before him, he saw another and\nlarger frost wraith leap from the overhanging bank into the immediate\npath of the rabbit. It was Spitz. The rabbit could not turn, and as the\nwhite teeth broke its back in mid air it shrieked as loudly as a\nstricken man may shriek. At sound of this, the cry of Life plunging\ndown from Life s apex in the grip of Death, the full pack at Buck s\nheels raised a hell s chorus of delight.\n\nBuck did not cry out. He did not check himself, but drove in upon\nSpitz, shoulder to shoulder, so hard that he missed the throat. They\nrolled over and over in the powdery snow. Spitz gained his feet almost\nas though he had not been overthrown, slashing Buck down the shoulder\nand leaping clear. Twice his teeth clipped together, like the steel\njaws of a trap, as he backed away for better footing, with lean and\nlifting lips that writhed and snarled.\n\nIn a flash Buck knew it. The time had come. It was to the death. As\nthey circled about, snarling, ears laid back, keenly watchful for the\nadvantage, the scene came to Buck with a sense of familiarity. He\nseemed to remember it all, the white woods, and earth, and moonlight,\nand the thrill of battle. Over the whiteness and silence brooded a\nghostly calm. There was not the faintest whisper of air nothing moved,\nnot a leaf quivered, the visible breaths of the dogs rising slowly and\nlingering in the frosty air. They had made short work of the snowshoe\nrabbit, these dogs that were ill-tamed wolves; and they were now drawn\nup in an expectant circle. They, too, were silent, their eyes only\ngleaming and their breaths drifting slowly upward. To Buck it was\nnothing new or strange, this scene of old time. It was as though it had\nalways been, the wonted way of things.\n\nSpitz was a practised fighter. From Spitzbergen through the Arctic, and\nacross Canada and the Barrens, he had held his own with all manner of\ndogs and achieved to mastery over them. Bitter rage was his, but never\nblind rage. In passion to rend and destroy, he never forgot that his\nenemy was in like passion to rend and destroy. He never rushed till he\nwas prepared to receive a rush; never attacked till he had first\ndefended that attack.\n\nIn vain Buck strove to sink his teeth in the neck of the big white dog.\nWherever his fangs struck for the softer flesh, they were countered by\nthe fangs of Spitz. Fang clashed fang, and lips were cut and bleeding,\nbut Buck could not penetrate his enemy s guard. Then he warmed up and\nenveloped Spitz in a whirlwind of rushes. Time and time again he tried\nfor the snow-white throat, where life bubbled near to the surface, and\neach time and every time Spitz slashed him and got away. Then Buck took\nto rushing, as though for the throat, when, suddenly drawing back his\nhead and curving in from the side, he would drive his shoulder at the\nshoulder of Spitz, as a ram by which to overthrow him. But instead,\nBuck s shoulder was slashed down each time as Spitz leaped lightly\naway.\n\nSpitz was untouched, while Buck was streaming with blood and panting\nhard. The fight was growing desperate. And all the while the silent and\nwolfish circle waited to finish off whichever dog went down. As Buck\ngrew winded, Spitz took to rushing, and he kept him staggering for\nfooting. Once Buck went over, and the whole circle of sixty dogs\nstarted up; but he recovered himself, almost in mid air, and the circle\nsank down again and waited.\n\nBut Buck possessed a quality that made for greatness imagination. He\nfought by instinct, but he could fight by head as well. He rushed, as\nthough attempting the old shoulder trick, but at the last instant swept\nlow to the snow and in. His teeth closed on Spitz s left fore leg.\nThere was a crunch of breaking bone, and the white dog faced him on\nthree legs. Thrice he tried to knock him over, then repeated the trick\nand broke the right fore leg. Despite the pain and helplessness, Spitz\nstruggled madly to keep up. He saw the silent circle, with gleaming\neyes, lolling tongues, and silvery breaths drifting upward, closing in\nupon him as he had seen similar circles close in upon beaten\nantagonists in the past. Only this time he was the one who was beaten.\n\nThere was no hope for him. Buck was inexorable. Mercy was a thing\nreserved for gentler climes. He man uvred for the final rush. The\ncircle had tightened till he could feel the breaths of the huskies on\nhis flanks. He could see them, beyond Spitz and to either side, half\ncrouching for the spring, their eyes fixed upon him. A pause seemed to\nfall. Every animal was motionless as though turned to stone. Only Spitz\nquivered and bristled as he staggered back and forth, snarling with\nhorrible menace, as though to frighten off impending death. Then Buck\nsprang in and out; but while he was in, shoulder had at last squarely\nmet shoulder. The dark circle became a dot on the moon-flooded snow as\nSpitz disappeared from view. Buck stood and looked on, the successful\nchampion, the dominant primordial beast who had made his kill and found\nit good.\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV. Who Has Won to Mastership\n\n\n Eh? Wot I say? I spik true w en I say dat Buck two devils.  This was\nFran ois s speech next morning when he discovered Spitz missing and\nBuck covered with wounds. He drew him to the fire and by its light\npointed them out.\n\n Dat Spitz fight lak hell,  said Perrault, as he surveyed the gaping\nrips and cuts.\n\n An  dat Buck fight lak two hells,  was Fran ois s answer.  An  now we\nmake good time. No more Spitz, no more trouble, sure. \n\nWhile Perrault packed the camp outfit and loaded the sled, the\ndog-driver proceeded to harness the dogs. Buck trotted up to the place\nSpitz would have occupied as leader; but Fran ois, not noticing him,\nbrought Sol-leks to the coveted position. In his judgment, Sol-leks was\nthe best lead-dog left. Buck sprang upon Sol-leks in a fury, driving\nhim back and standing in his place.\n\n Eh? eh?  Fran ois cried, slapping his thighs gleefully.  Look at dat\nBuck. Heem keel dat Spitz, heem t ink to take de job. \n\n Go  way, Chook!  he cried, but Buck refused to budge.\n\nHe took Buck by the scruff of the neck, and though the dog growled\nthreateningly, dragged him to one side and replaced Sol-leks. The old\ndog did not like it, and showed plainly that he was afraid of Buck.\nFran ois was obdurate, but when he turned his back Buck again displaced\nSol-leks, who was not at all unwilling to go.\n\nFran ois was angry.  Now, by Gar, I feex you!  he cried, coming back\nwith a heavy club in his hand.\n\nBuck remembered the man in the red sweater, and retreated slowly; nor\ndid he attempt to charge in when Sol-leks was once more brought\nforward. But he circled just beyond the range of the club, snarling\nwith bitterness and rage; and while he circled he watched the club so\nas to dodge it if thrown by Fran ois, for he was become wise in the way\nof clubs. The driver went about his work, and he called to Buck when he\nwas ready to put him in his old place in front of Dave. Buck retreated\ntwo or three steps. Fran ois followed him up, whereupon he again\nretreated. After some time of this, Fran ois threw down the club,\nthinking that Buck feared a thrashing. But Buck was in open revolt. He\nwanted, not to escape a clubbing, but to have the leadership. It was\nhis by right. He had earned it, and he would not be content with less.\n\nPerrault took a hand. Between them they ran him about for the better\npart of an hour. They threw clubs at him. He dodged. They cursed him,\nand his fathers and mothers before him, and all his seed to come after\nhim down to the remotest generation, and every hair on his body and\ndrop of blood in his veins; and he answered curse with snarl and kept\nout of their reach. He did not try to run away, but retreated around\nand around the camp, advertising plainly that when his desire was met,\nhe would come in and be good.\n\nFran ois sat down and scratched his head. Perrault looked at his watch\nand swore. Time was flying, and they should have been on the trail an\nhour gone. Fran ois scratched his head again. He shook it and grinned\nsheepishly at the courier, who shrugged his shoulders in sign that they\nwere beaten. Then Fran ois went up to where Sol-leks stood and called\nto Buck. Buck laughed, as dogs laugh, yet kept his distance. Fran ois\nunfastened Sol-leks s traces and put him back in his old place. The\nteam stood harnessed to the sled in an unbroken line, ready for the\ntrail. There was no place for Buck save at the front. Once more\nFran ois called, and once more Buck laughed and kept away.\n\n T row down de club,  Perrault commanded.\n\nFran ois complied, whereupon Buck trotted in, laughing triumphantly,\nand swung around into position at the head of the team. His traces were\nfastened, the sled broken out, and with both men running they dashed\nout on to the river trail.\n\nHighly as the dog-driver had forevalued Buck, with his two devils, he\nfound, while the day was yet young, that he had undervalued. At a bound\nBuck took up the duties of leadership; and where judgment was required,\nand quick thinking and quick acting, he showed himself the superior\neven of Spitz, of whom Fran ois had never seen an equal.\n\nBut it was in giving the law and making his mates live up to it, that\nBuck excelled. Dave and Sol-leks did not mind the change in leadership.\nIt was none of their business. Their business was to toil, and toil\nmightily, in the traces. So long as that were not interfered with, they\ndid not care what happened. Billee, the good-natured, could lead for\nall they cared, so long as he kept order. The rest of the team,\nhowever, had grown unruly during the last days of Spitz, and their\nsurprise was great now that Buck proceeded to lick them into shape.\n\nPike, who pulled at Buck s heels, and who never put an ounce more of\nhis weight against the breast-band than he was compelled to do, was\nswiftly and repeatedly shaken for loafing; and ere the first day was\ndone he was pulling more than ever before in his life. The first night\nin camp, Joe, the sour one, was punished roundly a thing that Spitz had\nnever succeeded in doing. Buck simply smothered him by virtue of\nsuperior weight, and cut him up till he ceased snapping and began to\nwhine for mercy.\n\nThe general tone of the team picked up immediately. It recovered its\nold-time solidarity, and once more the dogs leaped as one dog in the\ntraces. At the Rink Rapids two native huskies, Teek and Koona, were\nadded; and the celerity with which Buck broke them in took away\nFran ois s breath.\n\n Nevaire such a dog as dat Buck!  he cried.  No, nevaire! Heem worth\none t ousan  dollair, by Gar! Eh? Wot you say, Perrault? \n\nAnd Perrault nodded. He was ahead of the record then, and gaining day\nby day. The trail was in excellent condition, well packed and hard, and\nthere was no new-fallen snow with which to contend. It was not too\ncold. The temperature dropped to fifty below zero and remained there\nthe whole trip. The men rode and ran by turn, and the dogs were kept on\nthe jump, with but infrequent stoppages.\n\nThe Thirty Mile River was comparatively coated with ice, and they\ncovered in one day going out what had taken them ten days coming in. In\none run they made a sixty-mile dash from the foot of Lake Le Barge to\nthe White Horse Rapids. Across Marsh, Tagish, and Bennett (seventy\nmiles of lakes), they flew so fast that the man whose turn it was to\nrun towed behind the sled at the end of a rope. And on the last night\nof the second week they topped White Pass and dropped down the sea\nslope with the lights of Skaguay and of the shipping at their feet.\n\nIt was a record run. Each day for fourteen days they had averaged forty\nmiles. For three days Perrault and Fran ois threw chests up and down\nthe main street of Skaguay and were deluged with invitations to drink,\nwhile the team was the constant centre of a worshipful crowd of\ndog-busters and mushers. Then three or four western bad men aspired to\nclean out the town, were riddled like pepper-boxes for their pains, and\npublic interest turned to other idols. Next came official orders.\nFran ois called Buck to him, threw his arms around him, wept over him.\nAnd that was the last of Fran ois and Perrault. Like other men, they\npassed out of Buck s life for good.\n\nA Scotch half-breed took charge of him and his mates, and in company\nwith a dozen other dog-teams he started back over the weary trail to\nDawson. It was no light running now, nor record time, but heavy toil\neach day, with a heavy load behind; for this was the mail train,\ncarrying word from the world to the men who sought gold under the\nshadow of the Pole.\n\nBuck did not like it, but he bore up well to the work, taking pride in\nit after the manner of Dave and Sol-leks, and seeing that his mates,\nwhether they prided in it or not, did their fair share. It was a\nmonotonous life, operating with machine-like regularity. One day was\nvery like another. At a certain time each morning the cooks turned out,\nfires were built, and breakfast was eaten. Then, while some broke camp,\nothers harnessed the dogs, and they were under way an hour or so before\nthe darkness fell which gave warning of dawn. At night, camp was made.\nSome pitched the flies, others cut firewood and pine boughs for the\nbeds, and still others carried water or ice for the cooks. Also, the\ndogs were fed. To them, this was the one feature of the day, though it\nwas good to loaf around, after the fish was eaten, for an hour or so\nwith the other dogs, of which there were fivescore and odd. There were\nfierce fighters among them, but three battles with the fiercest brought\nBuck to mastery, so that when he bristled and showed his teeth they got\nout of his way.\n\nBest of all, perhaps, he loved to lie near the fire, hind legs crouched\nunder him, fore legs stretched out in front, head raised, and eyes\nblinking dreamily at the flames. Sometimes he thought of Judge Miller s\nbig house in the sun-kissed Santa Clara Valley, and of the cement\nswimming-tank, and Ysabel, the Mexican hairless, and Toots, the\nJapanese pug; but oftener he remembered the man in the red sweater, the\ndeath of Curly, the great fight with Spitz, and the good things he had\neaten or would like to eat. He was not homesick. The Sunland was very\ndim and distant, and such memories had no power over him. Far more\npotent were the memories of his heredity that gave things he had never\nseen before a seeming familiarity; the instincts (which were but the\nmemories of his ancestors become habits) which had lapsed in later\ndays, and still later, in him, quickened and become alive again.\n\nSometimes as he crouched there, blinking dreamily at the flames, it\nseemed that the flames were of another fire, and that as he crouched by\nthis other fire he saw another and different man from the half-breed\ncook before him. This other man was shorter of leg and longer of arm,\nwith muscles that were stringy and knotty rather than rounded and\nswelling. The hair of this man was long and matted, and his head\nslanted back under it from the eyes. He uttered strange sounds, and\nseemed very much afraid of the darkness, into which he peered\ncontinually, clutching in his hand, which hung midway between knee and\nfoot, a stick with a heavy stone made fast to the end. He was all but\nnaked, a ragged and fire-scorched skin hanging part way down his back,\nbut on his body there was much hair. In some places, across the chest\nand shoulders and down the outside of the arms and thighs, it was\nmatted into almost a thick fur. He did not stand erect, but with trunk\ninclined forward from the hips, on legs that bent at the knees. About\nhis body there was a peculiar springiness, or resiliency, almost\ncatlike, and a quick alertness as of one who lived in perpetual fear of\nthings seen and unseen.\n\nAt other times this hairy man squatted by the fire with head between\nhis legs and slept. On such occasions his elbows were on his knees, his\nhands clasped above his head as though to shed rain by the hairy arms.\nAnd beyond that fire, in the circling darkness, Buck could see many\ngleaming coals, two by two, always two by two, which he knew to be the\neyes of great beasts of prey. And he could hear the crashing of their\nbodies through the undergrowth, and the noises they made in the night.\nAnd dreaming there by the Yukon bank, with lazy eyes blinking at the\nfire, these sounds and sights of another world would make the hair to\nrise along his back and stand on end across his shoulders and up his\nneck, till he whimpered low and suppressedly, or growled softly, and\nthe half-breed cook shouted at him,  Hey, you Buck, wake up!  Whereupon\nthe other world would vanish and the real world come into his eyes, and\nhe would get up and yawn and stretch as though he had been asleep.\n\nIt was a hard trip, with the mail behind them, and the heavy work wore\nthem down. They were short of weight and in poor condition when they\nmade Dawson, and should have had a ten days  or a week s rest at least.\nBut in two days  time they dropped down the Yukon bank from the\nBarracks, loaded with letters for the outside. The dogs were tired, the\ndrivers grumbling, and to make matters worse, it snowed every day. This\nmeant a soft trail, greater friction on the runners, and heavier\npulling for the dogs; yet the drivers were fair through it all, and did\ntheir best for the animals.\n\nEach night the dogs were attended to first. They ate before the drivers\nate, and no man sought his sleeping-robe till he had seen to the feet\nof the dogs he drove. Still, their strength went down. Since the\nbeginning of the winter they had travelled eighteen hundred miles,\ndragging sleds the whole weary distance; and eighteen hundred miles\nwill tell upon life of the toughest. Buck stood it, keeping his mates\nup to their work and maintaining discipline, though he, too, was very\ntired. Billee cried and whimpered regularly in his sleep each night.\nJoe was sourer than ever, and Sol-leks was unapproachable, blind side\nor other side.\n\nBut it was Dave who suffered most of all. Something had gone wrong with\nhim. He became more morose and irritable, and when camp was pitched at\nonce made his nest, where his driver fed him. Once out of the harness\nand down, he did not get on his feet again till harness-up time in the\nmorning. Sometimes, in the traces, when jerked by a sudden stoppage of\nthe sled, or by straining to start it, he would cry out with pain. The\ndriver examined him, but could find nothing. All the drivers became\ninterested in his case. They talked it over at meal-time, and over\ntheir last pipes before going to bed, and one night they held a\nconsultation. He was brought from his nest to the fire and was pressed\nand prodded till he cried out many times. Something was wrong inside,\nbut they could locate no broken bones, could not make it out.\n\nBy the time Cassiar Bar was reached, he was so weak that he was falling\nrepeatedly in the traces. The Scotch half-breed called a halt and took\nhim out of the team, making the next dog, Sol-leks, fast to the sled.\nHis intention was to rest Dave, letting him run free behind the sled.\nSick as he was, Dave resented being taken out, grunting and growling\nwhile the traces were unfastened, and whimpering broken-heartedly when\nhe saw Sol-leks in the position he had held and served so long. For the\npride of trace and trail was his, and, sick unto death, he could not\nbear that another dog should do his work.\n\nWhen the sled started, he floundered in the soft snow alongside the\nbeaten trail, attacking Sol-leks with his teeth, rushing against him\nand trying to thrust him off into the soft snow on the other side,\nstriving to leap inside his traces and get between him and the sled,\nand all the while whining and yelping and crying with grief and pain.\nThe half-breed tried to drive him away with the whip; but he paid no\nheed to the stinging lash, and the man had not the heart to strike\nharder. Dave refused to run quietly on the trail behind the sled, where\nthe going was easy, but continued to flounder alongside in the soft\nsnow, where the going was most difficult, till exhausted. Then he fell,\nand lay where he fell, howling lugubriously as the long train of sleds\nchurned by.\n\nWith the last remnant of his strength he managed to stagger along\nbehind till the train made another stop, when he floundered past the\nsleds to his own, where he stood alongside Sol-leks. His driver\nlingered a moment to get a light for his pipe from the man behind. Then\nhe returned and started his dogs. They swung out on the trail with\nremarkable lack of exertion, turned their heads uneasily, and stopped\nin surprise. The driver was surprised, too; the sled had not moved. He\ncalled his comrades to witness the sight. Dave had bitten through both\nof Sol-leks s traces, and was standing directly in front of the sled in\nhis proper place.\n\nHe pleaded with his eyes to remain there. The driver was perplexed. His\ncomrades talked of how a dog could break its heart through being denied\nthe work that killed it, and recalled instances they had known, where\ndogs, too old for the toil, or injured, had died because they were cut\nout of the traces. Also, they held it a mercy, since Dave was to die\nanyway, that he should die in the traces, heart-easy and content. So he\nwas harnessed in again, and proudly he pulled as of old, though more\nthan once he cried out involuntarily from the bite of his inward hurt.\nSeveral times he fell down and was dragged in the traces, and once the\nsled ran upon him so that he limped thereafter in one of his hind legs.\n\nBut he held out till camp was reached, when his driver made a place for\nhim by the fire. Morning found him too weak to travel. At harness-up\ntime he tried to crawl to his driver. By convulsive efforts he got on\nhis feet, staggered, and fell. Then he wormed his way forward slowly\ntoward where the harnesses were being put on his mates. He would\nadvance his fore legs and drag up his body with a sort of hitching\nmovement, when he would advance his fore legs and hitch ahead again for\na few more inches. His strength left him, and the last his mates saw of\nhim he lay gasping in the snow and yearning toward them. But they could\nhear him mournfully howling till they passed out of sight behind a belt\nof river timber.\n\nHere the train was halted. The Scotch half-breed slowly retraced his\nsteps to the camp they had left. The men ceased talking. A\nrevolver-shot rang out. The man came back hurriedly. The whips snapped,\nthe bells tinkled merrily, the sleds churned along the trail; but Buck\nknew, and every dog knew, what had taken place behind the belt of river\ntrees.\n\n\n\n\nChapter V. The Toil of Trace and Trail\n\n\nThirty days from the time it left Dawson, the Salt Water Mail, with\nBuck and his mates at the fore, arrived at Skaguay. They were in a\nwretched state, worn out and worn down. Buck s one hundred and forty\npounds had dwindled to one hundred and fifteen. The rest of his mates,\nthough lighter dogs, had relatively lost more weight than he. Pike, the\nmalingerer, who, in his lifetime of deceit, had often successfully\nfeigned a hurt leg, was now limping in earnest. Sol-leks was limping,\nand Dub was suffering from a wrenched shoulder-blade.\n\nThey were all terribly footsore. No spring or rebound was left in them.\nTheir feet fell heavily on the trail, jarring their bodies and doubling\nthe fatigue of a day s travel. There was nothing the matter with them\nexcept that they were dead tired. It was not the dead-tiredness that\ncomes through brief and excessive effort, from which recovery is a\nmatter of hours; but it was the dead-tiredness that comes through the\nslow and prolonged strength drainage of months of toil. There was no\npower of recuperation left, no reserve strength to call upon. It had\nbeen all used, the last least bit of it. Every muscle, every fibre,\nevery cell, was tired, dead tired. And there was reason for it. In less\nthan five months they had travelled twenty-five hundred miles, during\nthe last eighteen hundred of which they had had but five days  rest.\nWhen they arrived at Skaguay they were apparently on their last legs.\nThey could barely keep the traces taut, and on the down grades just\nmanaged to keep out of the way of the sled.\n\n Mush on, poor sore feets,  the driver encouraged them as they tottered\ndown the main street of Skaguay.  Dis is de las . Den we get one long\nres . Eh? For sure. One bully long res . \n\nThe drivers confidently expected a long stopover. Themselves, they had\ncovered twelve hundred miles with two days  rest, and in the nature of\nreason and common justice they deserved an interval of loafing. But so\nmany were the men who had rushed into the Klondike, and so many were\nthe sweethearts, wives, and kin that had not rushed in, that the\ncongested mail was taking on Alpine proportions; also, there were\nofficial orders. Fresh batches of Hudson Bay dogs were to take the\nplaces of those worthless for the trail. The worthless ones were to be\ngot rid of, and, since dogs count for little against dollars, they were\nto be sold.\n\nThree days passed, by which time Buck and his mates found how really\ntired and weak they were. Then, on the morning of the fourth day, two\nmen from the States came along and bought them, harness and all, for a\nsong. The men addressed each other as  Hal  and  Charles.  Charles was\na middle-aged, lightish-colored man, with weak and watery eyes and a\nmustache that twisted fiercely and vigorously up, giving the lie to the\nlimply drooping lip it concealed. Hal was a youngster of nineteen or\ntwenty, with a big Colt s revolver and a hunting-knife strapped about\nhim on a belt that fairly bristled with cartridges. This belt was the\nmost salient thing about him. It advertised his callowness a callowness\nsheer and unutterable. Both men were manifestly out of place, and why\nsuch as they should adventure the North is part of the mystery of\nthings that passes understanding.\n\nBuck heard the chaffering, saw the money pass between the man and the\nGovernment agent, and knew that the Scotch half-breed and the\nmail-train drivers were passing out of his life on the heels of\nPerrault and Fran ois and the others who had gone before. When driven\nwith his mates to the new owners  camp, Buck saw a slipshod and\nslovenly affair, tent half stretched, dishes unwashed, everything in\ndisorder; also, he saw a woman.  Mercedes  the men called her. She was\nCharles s wife and Hal s sister a nice family party.\n\nBuck watched them apprehensively as they proceeded to take down the\ntent and load the sled. There was a great deal of effort about their\nmanner, but no businesslike method. The tent was rolled into an awkward\nbundle three times as large as it should have been. The tin dishes were\npacked away unwashed. Mercedes continually fluttered in the way of her\nmen and kept up an unbroken chattering of remonstrance and advice. When\nthey put a clothes-sack on the front of the sled, she suggested it\nshould go on the back; and when they had put it on the back, and\ncovered it over with a couple of other bundles, she discovered\noverlooked articles which could abide nowhere else but in that very\nsack, and they unloaded again.\n\nThree men from a neighboring tent came out and looked on, grinning and\nwinking at one another.\n\n You ve got a right smart load as it is,  said one of them;  and it s\nnot me should tell you your business, but I wouldn t tote that tent\nalong if I was you. \n\n Undreamed of!  cried Mercedes, throwing up her hands in dainty dismay.\n However in the world could I manage without a tent? \n\n It s springtime, and you won t get any more cold weather,  the man\nreplied.\n\nShe shook her head decidedly, and Charles and Hal put the last odds and\nends on top the mountainous load.\n\n Think it ll ride?  one of the men asked.\n\n Why shouldn t it?  Charles demanded rather shortly.\n\n Oh, that s all right, that s all right,  the man hastened meekly to\nsay.  I was just a-wonderin , that is all. It seemed a mite top-heavy. \n\nCharles turned his back and drew the lashings down as well as he could,\nwhich was not in the least well.\n\n An  of course the dogs can hike along all day with that contraption\nbehind them,  affirmed a second of the men.\n\n Certainly,  said Hal, with freezing politeness, taking hold of the\ngee-pole with one hand and swinging his whip from the other.  Mush!  he\nshouted.  Mush on there! \n\nThe dogs sprang against the breast-bands, strained hard for a few\nmoments, then relaxed. They were unable to move the sled.\n\n The lazy brutes, I ll show them,  he cried, preparing to lash out at\nthem with the whip.\n\nBut Mercedes interfered, crying,  Oh, Hal, you mustn t,  as she caught\nhold of the whip and wrenched it from him.  The poor dears! Now you\nmust promise you won t be harsh with them for the rest of the trip, or\nI won t go a step. \n\n Precious lot you know about dogs,  her brother sneered;  and I wish\nyou d leave me alone. They re lazy, I tell you, and you ve got to whip\nthem to get anything out of them. That s their way. You ask any one.\nAsk one of those men. \n\nMercedes looked at them imploringly, untold repugnance at sight of pain\nwritten in her pretty face.\n\n They re weak as water, if you want to know,  came the reply from one\nof the men.  Plum tuckered out, that s what s the matter. They need a\nrest. \n\n Rest be blanked,  said Hal, with his beardless lips; and Mercedes\nsaid,  Oh!  in pain and sorrow at the oath.\n\nBut she was a clannish creature, and rushed at once to the defence of\nher brother.  Never mind that man,  she said pointedly.  You re driving\nour dogs, and you do what you think best with them. \n\nAgain Hal s whip fell upon the dogs. They threw themselves against the\nbreast-bands, dug their feet into the packed snow, got down low to it,\nand put forth all their strength. The sled held as though it were an\nanchor. After two efforts, they stood still, panting. The whip was\nwhistling savagely, when once more Mercedes interfered. She dropped on\nher knees before Buck, with tears in her eyes, and put her arms around\nhis neck.\n\n You poor, poor dears,  she cried sympathetically,  why don t you pull\nhard? then you wouldn t be whipped.  Buck did not like her, but he was\nfeeling too miserable to resist her, taking it as part of the day s\nmiserable work.\n\nOne of the onlookers, who had been clenching his teeth to suppress hot\nspeech, now spoke up: \n\n It s not that I care a whoop what becomes of you, but for the dogs \nsakes I just want to tell you, you can help them a mighty lot by\nbreaking out that sled. The runners are froze fast. Throw your weight\nagainst the gee-pole, right and left, and break it out. \n\nA third time the attempt was made, but this time, following the advice,\nHal broke out the runners which had been frozen to the snow. The\noverloaded and unwieldy sled forged ahead, Buck and his mates\nstruggling frantically under the rain of blows. A hundred yards ahead\nthe path turned and sloped steeply into the main street. It would have\nrequired an experienced man to keep the top-heavy sled upright, and Hal\nwas not such a man. As they swung on the turn the sled went over,\nspilling half its load through the loose lashings. The dogs never\nstopped. The lightened sled bounded on its side behind them. They were\nangry because of the ill treatment they had received and the unjust\nload. Buck was raging. He broke into a run, the team following his\nlead. Hal cried  Whoa! whoa!  but they gave no heed. He tripped and was\npulled off his feet. The capsized sled ground over him, and the dogs\ndashed on up the street, adding to the gayety of Skaguay as they\nscattered the remainder of the outfit along its chief thoroughfare.\n\nKind-hearted citizens caught the dogs and gathered up the scattered\nbelongings. Also, they gave advice. Half the load and twice the dogs,\nif they ever expected to reach Dawson, was what was said. Hal and his\nsister and brother-in-law listened unwillingly, pitched tent, and\noverhauled the outfit. Canned goods were turned out that made men\nlaugh, for canned goods on the Long Trail is a thing to dream about.\n Blankets for a hotel  quoth one of the men who laughed and helped.\n Half as many is too much; get rid of them. Throw away that tent, and\nall those dishes, who s going to wash them, anyway? Good Lord, do you\nthink you re travelling on a Pullman? \n\nAnd so it went, the inexorable elimination of the superfluous. Mercedes\ncried when her clothes-bags were dumped on the ground and article after\narticle was thrown out. She cried in general, and she cried in\nparticular over each discarded thing. She clasped hands about knees,\nrocking back and forth broken-heartedly. She averred she would not go\nan inch, not for a dozen Charleses. She appealed to everybody and to\neverything, finally wiping her eyes and proceeding to cast out even\narticles of apparel that were imperative necessaries. And in her zeal,\nwhen she had finished with her own, she attacked the belongings of her\nmen and went through them like a tornado.\n\nThis accomplished, the outfit, though cut in half, was still a\nformidable bulk. Charles and Hal went out in the evening and bought six\nOutside dogs. These, added to the six of the original team, and Teek\nand Koona, the huskies obtained at the Rink Rapids on the record trip,\nbrought the team up to fourteen. But the Outside dogs, though\npractically broken in since their landing, did not amount to much.\nThree were short-haired pointers, one was a Newfoundland, and the other\ntwo were mongrels of indeterminate breed. They did not seem to know\nanything, these newcomers. Buck and his comrades looked upon them with\ndisgust, and though he speedily taught them their places and what not\nto do, he could not teach them what to do. They did not take kindly to\ntrace and trail. With the exception of the two mongrels, they were\nbewildered and spirit-broken by the strange savage environment in which\nthey found themselves and by the ill treatment they had received. The\ntwo mongrels were without spirit at all; bones were the only things\nbreakable about them.\n\nWith the newcomers hopeless and forlorn, and the old team worn out by\ntwenty-five hundred miles of continuous trail, the outlook was anything\nbut bright. The two men, however, were quite cheerful. And they were\nproud, too. They were doing the thing in style, with fourteen dogs.\nThey had seen other sleds depart over the Pass for Dawson, or come in\nfrom Dawson, but never had they seen a sled with so many as fourteen\ndogs. In the nature of Arctic travel there was a reason why fourteen\ndogs should not drag one sled, and that was that one sled could not\ncarry the food for fourteen dogs. But Charles and Hal did not know\nthis. They had worked the trip out with a pencil, so much to a dog, so\nmany dogs, so many days, Q.E.D. Mercedes looked over their shoulders\nand nodded comprehensively, it was all so very simple.\n\nLate next morning Buck led the long team up the street. There was\nnothing lively about it, no snap or go in him and his fellows. They\nwere starting dead weary. Four times he had covered the distance\nbetween Salt Water and Dawson, and the knowledge that, jaded and tired,\nhe was facing the same trail once more, made him bitter. His heart was\nnot in the work, nor was the heart of any dog. The Outsides were timid\nand frightened, the Insides without confidence in their masters.\n\nBuck felt vaguely that there was no depending upon these two men and\nthe woman. They did not know how to do anything, and as the days went\nby it became apparent that they could not learn. They were slack in all\nthings, without order or discipline. It took them half the night to\npitch a slovenly camp, and half the morning to break that camp and get\nthe sled loaded in fashion so slovenly that for the rest of the day\nthey were occupied in stopping and rearranging the load. Some days they\ndid not make ten miles. On other days they were unable to get started\nat all. And on no day did they succeed in making more than half the\ndistance used by the men as a basis in their dog-food computation.\n\nIt was inevitable that they should go short on dog-food. But they\nhastened it by overfeeding, bringing the day nearer when underfeeding\nwould commence. The Outside dogs, whose digestions had not been trained\nby chronic famine to make the most of little, had voracious appetites.\nAnd when, in addition to this, the worn-out huskies pulled weakly, Hal\ndecided that the orthodox ration was too small. He doubled it. And to\ncap it all, when Mercedes, with tears in her pretty eyes and a quaver\nin her throat, could not cajole him into giving the dogs still more,\nshe stole from the fish-sacks and fed them slyly. But it was not food\nthat Buck and the huskies needed, but rest. And though they were making\npoor time, the heavy load they dragged sapped their strength severely.\n\nThen came the underfeeding. Hal awoke one day to the fact that his\ndog-food was half gone and the distance only quarter covered; further,\nthat for love or money no additional dog-food was to be obtained. So he\ncut down even the orthodox ration and tried to increase the day s\ntravel. His sister and brother-in-law seconded him; but they were\nfrustrated by their heavy outfit and their own incompetence. It was a\nsimple matter to give the dogs less food; but it was impossible to make\nthe dogs travel faster, while their own inability to get under way\nearlier in the morning prevented them from travelling longer hours. Not\nonly did they not know how to work dogs, but they did not know how to\nwork themselves.\n\nThe first to go was Dub. Poor blundering thief that he was, always\ngetting caught and punished, he had none the less been a faithful\nworker. His wrenched shoulder-blade, untreated and unrested, went from\nbad to worse, till finally Hal shot him with the big Colt s revolver.\nIt is a saying of the country that an Outside dog starves to death on\nthe ration of the husky, so the six Outside dogs under Buck could do no\nless than die on half the ration of the husky. The Newfoundland went\nfirst, followed by the three short-haired pointers, the two mongrels\nhanging more grittily on to life, but going in the end.\n\nBy this time all the amenities and gentlenesses of the Southland had\nfallen away from the three people. Shorn of its glamour and romance,\nArctic travel became to them a reality too harsh for their manhood and\nwomanhood. Mercedes ceased weeping over the dogs, being too occupied\nwith weeping over herself and with quarrelling with her husband and\nbrother. To quarrel was the one thing they were never too weary to do.\nTheir irritability arose out of their misery, increased with it,\ndoubled upon it, outdistanced it. The wonderful patience of the trail\nwhich comes to men who toil hard and suffer sore, and remain sweet of\nspeech and kindly, did not come to these two men and the woman. They\nhad no inkling of such a patience. They were stiff and in pain; their\nmuscles ached, their bones ached, their very hearts ached; and because\nof this they became sharp of speech, and hard words were first on their\nlips in the morning and last at night.\n\nCharles and Hal wrangled whenever Mercedes gave them a chance. It was\nthe cherished belief of each that he did more than his share of the\nwork, and neither forbore to speak this belief at every opportunity.\nSometimes Mercedes sided with her husband, sometimes with her brother.\nThe result was a beautiful and unending family quarrel. Starting from a\ndispute as to which should chop a few sticks for the fire (a dispute\nwhich concerned only Charles and Hal), presently would be lugged in the\nrest of the family, fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, people thousands\nof miles away, and some of them dead. That Hal s views on art, or the\nsort of society plays his mother s brother wrote, should have anything\nto do with the chopping of a few sticks of firewood, passes\ncomprehension; nevertheless the quarrel was as likely to tend in that\ndirection as in the direction of Charles s political prejudices. And\nthat Charles s sister s tale-bearing tongue should be relevant to the\nbuilding of a Yukon fire, was apparent only to Mercedes, who\ndisburdened herself of copious opinions upon that topic, and\nincidentally upon a few other traits unpleasantly peculiar to her\nhusband s family. In the meantime the fire remained unbuilt, the camp\nhalf pitched, and the dogs unfed.\n\nMercedes nursed a special grievance the grievance of sex. She was\npretty and soft, and had been chivalrously treated all her days. But\nthe present treatment by her husband and brother was everything save\nchivalrous. It was her custom to be helpless. They complained. Upon\nwhich impeachment of what to her was her most essential\nsex-prerogative, she made their lives unendurable. She no longer\nconsidered the dogs, and because she was sore and tired, she persisted\nin riding on the sled. She was pretty and soft, but she weighed one\nhundred and twenty pounds a lusty last straw to the load dragged by the\nweak and starving animals. She rode for days, till they fell in the\ntraces and the sled stood still. Charles and Hal begged her to get off\nand walk, pleaded with her, entreated, the while she wept and\nimportuned Heaven with a recital of their brutality.\n\nOn one occasion they took her off the sled by main strength. They never\ndid it again. She let her legs go limp like a spoiled child, and sat\ndown on the trail. They went on their way, but she did not move. After\nthey had travelled three miles they unloaded the sled, came back for\nher, and by main strength put her on the sled again.\n\nIn the excess of their own misery they were callous to the suffering of\ntheir animals. Hal s theory, which he practised on others, was that one\nmust get hardened. He had started out preaching it to his sister and\nbrother-in-law. Failing there, he hammered it into the dogs with a\nclub. At the Five Fingers the dog-food gave out, and a toothless old\nsquaw offered to trade them a few pounds of frozen horse-hide for the\nColt s revolver that kept the big hunting-knife company at Hal s hip. A\npoor substitute for food was this hide, just as it had been stripped\nfrom the starved horses of the cattlemen six months back. In its frozen\nstate it was more like strips of galvanized iron, and when a dog\nwrestled it into his stomach it thawed into thin and innutritious\nleathery strings and into a mass of short hair, irritating and\nindigestible.\n\nAnd through it all Buck staggered along at the head of the team as in a\nnightmare. He pulled when he could; when he could no longer pull, he\nfell down and remained down till blows from whip or club drove him to\nhis feet again. All the stiffness and gloss had gone out of his\nbeautiful furry coat. The hair hung down, limp and draggled, or matted\nwith dried blood where Hal s club had bruised him. His muscles had\nwasted away to knotty strings, and the flesh pads had disappeared, so\nthat each rib and every bone in his frame were outlined cleanly through\nthe loose hide that was wrinkled in folds of emptiness. It was\nheartbreaking, only Buck s heart was unbreakable. The man in the red\nsweater had proved that.\n\nAs it was with Buck, so was it with his mates. They were perambulating\nskeletons. There were seven all together, including him. In their very\ngreat misery they had become insensible to the bite of the lash or the\nbruise of the club. The pain of the beating was dull and distant, just\nas the things their eyes saw and their ears heard seemed dull and\ndistant. They were not half living, or quarter living. They were simply\nso many bags of bones in which sparks of life fluttered faintly. When a\nhalt was made, they dropped down in the traces like dead dogs, and the\nspark dimmed and paled and seemed to go out. And when the club or whip\nfell upon them, the spark fluttered feebly up, and they tottered to\ntheir feet and staggered on.\n\nThere came a day when Billee, the good-natured, fell and could not\nrise. Hal had traded off his revolver, so he took the axe and knocked\nBillee on the head as he lay in the traces, then cut the carcass out of\nthe harness and dragged it to one side. Buck saw, and his mates saw,\nand they knew that this thing was very close to them. On the next day\nKoona went, and but five of them remained: Joe, too far gone to be\nmalignant; Pike, crippled and limping, only half conscious and not\nconscious enough longer to malinger; Sol-leks, the one-eyed, still\nfaithful to the toil of trace and trail, and mournful in that he had so\nlittle strength with which to pull; Teek, who had not travelled so far\nthat winter and who was now beaten more than the others because he was\nfresher; and Buck, still at the head of the team, but no longer\nenforcing discipline or striving to enforce it, blind with weakness\nhalf the time and keeping the trail by the loom of it and by the dim\nfeel of his feet.\n\nIt was beautiful spring weather, but neither dogs nor humans were aware\nof it. Each day the sun rose earlier and set later. It was dawn by\nthree in the morning, and twilight lingered till nine at night. The\nwhole long day was a blaze of sunshine. The ghostly winter silence had\ngiven way to the great spring murmur of awakening life. This murmur\narose from all the land, fraught with the joy of living. It came from\nthe things that lived and moved again, things which had been as dead\nand which had not moved during the long months of frost. The sap was\nrising in the pines. The willows and aspens were bursting out in young\nbuds. Shrubs and vines were putting on fresh garbs of green. Crickets\nsang in the nights, and in the days all manner of creeping, crawling\nthings rustled forth into the sun. Partridges and woodpeckers were\nbooming and knocking in the forest. Squirrels were chattering, birds\nsinging, and overhead honked the wild-fowl driving up from the south in\ncunning wedges that split the air.\n\nFrom every hill slope came the trickle of running water, the music of\nunseen fountains. All things were thawing, bending, snapping. The Yukon\nwas straining to break loose the ice that bound it down. It ate away\nfrom beneath; the sun ate from above. Air-holes formed, fissures sprang\nand spread apart, while thin sections of ice fell through bodily into\nthe river. And amid all this bursting, rending, throbbing of awakening\nlife, under the blazing sun and through the soft-sighing breezes, like\nwayfarers to death, staggered the two men, the woman, and the huskies.\n\nWith the dogs falling, Mercedes weeping and riding, Hal swearing\ninnocuously, and Charles s eyes wistfully watering, they staggered into\nJohn Thornton s camp at the mouth of White River. When they halted, the\ndogs dropped down as though they had all been struck dead. Mercedes\ndried her eyes and looked at John Thornton. Charles sat down on a log\nto rest. He sat down very slowly and painstakingly what of his great\nstiffness. Hal did the talking. John Thornton was whittling the last\ntouches on an axe-handle he had made from a stick of birch. He whittled\nand listened, gave monosyllabic replies, and, when it was asked, terse\nadvice. He knew the breed, and he gave his advice in the certainty that\nit would not be followed.\n\n They told us up above that the bottom was dropping out of the trail\nand that the best thing for us to do was to lay over,  Hal said in\nresponse to Thornton s warning to take no more chances on the rotten\nice.  They told us we couldn t make White River, and here we are.  This\nlast with a sneering ring of triumph in it.\n\n And they told you true,  John Thornton answered.  The bottom s likely\nto drop out at any moment. Only fools, with the blind luck of fools,\ncould have made it. I tell you straight, I wouldn t risk my carcass on\nthat ice for all the gold in Alaska. \n\n That s because you re not a fool, I suppose,  said Hal.  All the same,\nwe ll go on to Dawson.  He uncoiled his whip.  Get up there, Buck! Hi!\nGet up there! Mush on! \n\nThornton went on whittling. It was idle, he knew, to get between a fool\nand his folly; while two or three fools more or less would not alter\nthe scheme of things.\n\nBut the team did not get up at the command. It had long since passed\ninto the stage where blows were required to rouse it. The whip flashed\nout, here and there, on its merciless errands. John Thornton compressed\nhis lips. Sol-leks was the first to crawl to his feet. Teek followed.\nJoe came next, yelping with pain. Pike made painful efforts. Twice he\nfell over, when half up, and on the third attempt managed to rise. Buck\nmade no effort. He lay quietly where he had fallen. The lash bit into\nhim again and again, but he neither whined nor struggled. Several times\nThornton started, as though to speak, but changed his mind. A moisture\ncame into his eyes, and, as the whipping continued, he arose and walked\nirresolutely up and down.\n\nThis was the first time Buck had failed, in itself a sufficient reason\nto drive Hal into a rage. He exchanged the whip for the customary club.\nBuck refused to move under the rain of heavier blows which now fell\nupon him. Like his mates, he was barely able to get up, but, unlike\nthem, he had made up his mind not to get up. He had a vague feeling of\nimpending doom. This had been strong upon him when he pulled in to the\nbank, and it had not departed from him. What of the thin and rotten ice\nhe had felt under his feet all day, it seemed that he sensed disaster\nclose at hand, out there ahead on the ice where his master was trying\nto drive him. He refused to stir. So greatly had he suffered, and so\nfar gone was he, that the blows did not hurt much. And as they\ncontinued to fall upon him, the spark of life within flickered and went\ndown. It was nearly out. He felt strangely numb. As though from a great\ndistance, he was aware that he was being beaten. The last sensations of\npain left him. He no longer felt anything, though very faintly he could\nhear the impact of the club upon his body. But it was no longer his\nbody, it seemed so far away.\n\nAnd then, suddenly, without warning, uttering a cry that was\ninarticulate and more like the cry of an animal, John Thornton sprang\nupon the man who wielded the club. Hal was hurled backward, as though\nstruck by a falling tree. Mercedes screamed. Charles looked on\nwistfully, wiped his watery eyes, but did not get up because of his\nstiffness.\n\nJohn Thornton stood over Buck, struggling to control himself, too\nconvulsed with rage to speak.\n\n If you strike that dog again, I ll kill you,  he at last managed to\nsay in a choking voice.\n\n It s my dog,  Hal replied, wiping the blood from his mouth as he came\nback.  Get out of my way, or I ll fix you. I m going to Dawson. \n\nThornton stood between him and Buck, and evinced no intention of\ngetting out of the way. Hal drew his long hunting-knife. Mercedes\nscreamed, cried, laughed, and manifested the chaotic abandonment of\nhysteria. Thornton rapped Hal s knuckles with the axe-handle, knocking\nthe knife to the ground. He rapped his knuckles again as he tried to\npick it up. Then he stooped, picked it up himself, and with two strokes\ncut Buck s traces.\n\nHal had no fight left in him. Besides, his hands were full with his\nsister, or his arms, rather; while Buck was too near dead to be of\nfurther use in hauling the sled. A few minutes later they pulled out\nfrom the bank and down the river. Buck heard them go and raised his\nhead to see, Pike was leading, Sol-leks was at the wheel, and between\nwere Joe and Teek. They were limping and staggering. Mercedes was\nriding the loaded sled. Hal guided at the gee-pole, and Charles\nstumbled along in the rear.\n\nAs Buck watched them, Thornton knelt beside him and with rough, kindly\nhands searched for broken bones. By the time his search had disclosed\nnothing more than many bruises and a state of terrible starvation, the\nsled was a quarter of a mile away. Dog and man watched it crawling\nalong over the ice. Suddenly, they saw its back end drop down, as into\na rut, and the gee-pole, with Hal clinging to it, jerk into the air.\nMercedes s scream came to their ears. They saw Charles turn and make\none step to run back, and then a whole section of ice give way and dogs\nand humans disappear. A yawning hole was all that was to be seen. The\nbottom had dropped out of the trail.\n\nJohn Thornton and Buck looked at each other.\n\n You poor devil,  said John Thornton, and Buck licked his hand.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI. For the Love of a Man\n\n\nWhen John Thornton froze his feet in the previous December his partners\nhad made him comfortable and left him to get well, going on themselves\nup the river to get out a raft of saw-logs for Dawson. He was still\nlimping slightly at the time he rescued Buck, but with the continued\nwarm weather even the slight limp left him. And here, lying by the\nriver bank through the long spring days, watching the running water,\nlistening lazily to the songs of birds and the hum of nature, Buck\nslowly won back his strength.\n\nA rest comes very good after one has travelled three thousand miles,\nand it must be confessed that Buck waxed lazy as his wounds healed, his\nmuscles swelled out, and the flesh came back to cover his bones. For\nthat matter, they were all loafing, Buck, John Thornton, and Skeet and\nNig, waiting for the raft to come that was to carry them down to\nDawson. Skeet was a little Irish setter who early made friends with\nBuck, who, in a dying condition, was unable to resent her first\nadvances. She had the doctor trait which some dogs possess; and as a\nmother cat washes her kittens, so she washed and cleansed Buck s\nwounds. Regularly, each morning after he had finished his breakfast,\nshe performed her self-appointed task, till he came to look for her\nministrations as much as he did for Thornton s. Nig, equally friendly,\nthough less demonstrative, was a huge black dog, half bloodhound and\nhalf deerhound, with eyes that laughed and a boundless good nature.\n\nTo Buck s surprise these dogs manifested no jealousy toward him. They\nseemed to share the kindliness and largeness of John Thornton. As Buck\ngrew stronger they enticed him into all sorts of ridiculous games, in\nwhich Thornton himself could not forbear to join; and in this fashion\nBuck romped through his convalescence and into a new existence. Love,\ngenuine passionate love, was his for the first time. This he had never\nexperienced at Judge Miller s down in the sun-kissed Santa Clara\nValley. With the Judge s sons, hunting and tramping, it had been a\nworking partnership; with the Judge s grandsons, a sort of pompous\nguardianship; and with the Judge himself, a stately and dignified\nfriendship. But love that was feverish and burning, that was adoration,\nthat was madness, it had taken John Thornton to arouse.\n\nThis man had saved his life, which was something; but, further, he was\nthe ideal master. Other men saw to the welfare of their dogs from a\nsense of duty and business expediency; he saw to the welfare of his as\nif they were his own children, because he could not help it. And he saw\nfurther. He never forgot a kindly greeting or a cheering word, and to\nsit down for a long talk with them ( gas  he called it) was as much his\ndelight as theirs. He had a way of taking Buck s head roughly between\nhis hands, and resting his own head upon Buck s, of shaking him back\nand forth, the while calling him ill names that to Buck were love\nnames. Buck knew no greater joy than that rough embrace and the sound\nof murmured oaths, and at each jerk back and forth it seemed that his\nheart would be shaken out of his body so great was its ecstasy. And\nwhen, released, he sprang to his feet, his mouth laughing, his eyes\neloquent, his throat vibrant with unuttered sound, and in that fashion\nremained without movement, John Thornton would reverently exclaim,\n God! you can all but speak! \n\nBuck had a trick of love expression that was akin to hurt. He would\noften seize Thornton s hand in his mouth and close so fiercely that the\nflesh bore the impress of his teeth for some time afterward. And as\nBuck understood the oaths to be love words, so the man understood this\nfeigned bite for a caress.\n\nFor the most part, however, Buck s love was expressed in adoration.\nWhile he went wild with happiness when Thornton touched him or spoke to\nhim, he did not seek these tokens. Unlike Skeet, who was wont to shove\nher nose under Thornton s hand and nudge and nudge till petted, or Nig,\nwho would stalk up and rest his great head on Thornton s knee, Buck was\ncontent to adore at a distance. He would lie by the hour, eager, alert,\nat Thornton s feet, looking up into his face, dwelling upon it,\nstudying it, following with keenest interest each fleeting expression,\nevery movement or change of feature. Or, as chance might have it, he\nwould lie farther away, to the side or rear, watching the outlines of\nthe man and the occasional movements of his body. And often, such was\nthe communion in which they lived, the strength of Buck s gaze would\ndraw John Thornton s head around, and he would return the gaze, without\nspeech, his heart shining out of his eyes as Buck s heart shone out.\n\nFor a long time after his rescue, Buck did not like Thornton to get out\nof his sight. From the moment he left the tent to when he entered it\nagain, Buck would follow at his heels. His transient masters since he\nhad come into the Northland had bred in him a fear that no master could\nbe permanent. He was afraid that Thornton would pass out of his life as\nPerrault and Fran ois and the Scotch half-breed had passed out. Even in\nthe night, in his dreams, he was haunted by this fear. At such times he\nwould shake off sleep and creep through the chill to the flap of the\ntent, where he would stand and listen to the sound of his master s\nbreathing.\n\nBut in spite of this great love he bore John Thornton, which seemed to\nbespeak the soft civilizing influence, the strain of the primitive,\nwhich the Northland had aroused in him, remained alive and active.\nFaithfulness and devotion, things born of fire and roof, were his; yet\nhe retained his wildness and wiliness. He was a thing of the wild, come\nin from the wild to sit by John Thornton s fire, rather than a dog of\nthe soft Southland stamped with the marks of generations of\ncivilization. Because of his very great love, he could not steal from\nthis man, but from any other man, in any other camp, he did not\nhesitate an instant; while the cunning with which he stole enabled him\nto escape detection.\n\nHis face and body were scored by the teeth of many dogs, and he fought\nas fiercely as ever and more shrewdly. Skeet and Nig were too\ngood-natured for quarrelling, besides, they belonged to John Thornton;\nbut the strange dog, no matter what the breed or valor, swiftly\nacknowledged Buck s supremacy or found himself struggling for life with\na terrible antagonist. And Buck was merciless. He had learned well the\nlaw of club and fang, and he never forewent an advantage or drew back\nfrom a foe he had started on the way to Death. He had lessoned from\nSpitz, and from the chief fighting dogs of the police and mail, and\nknew there was no middle course. He must master or be mastered; while\nto show mercy was a weakness. Mercy did not exist in the primordial\nlife. It was misunderstood for fear, and such misunderstandings made\nfor death. Kill or be killed, eat or be eaten, was the law; and this\nmandate, down out of the depths of Time, he obeyed.\n\nHe was older than the days he had seen and the breaths he had drawn. He\nlinked the past with the present, and the eternity behind him throbbed\nthrough him in a mighty rhythm to which he swayed as the tides and\nseasons swayed. He sat by John Thornton s fire, a broad-breasted dog,\nwhite-fanged and long-furred; but behind him were the shades of all\nmanner of dogs, half-wolves and wild wolves, urgent and prompting,\ntasting the savor of the meat he ate, thirsting for the water he drank,\nscenting the wind with him, listening with him and telling him the\nsounds made by the wild life in the forest, dictating his moods,\ndirecting his actions, lying down to sleep with him when he lay down,\nand dreaming with him and beyond him and becoming themselves the stuff\nof his dreams.\n\nSo peremptorily did these shades beckon him, that each day mankind and\nthe claims of mankind slipped farther from him. Deep in the forest a\ncall was sounding, and as often as he heard this call, mysteriously\nthrilling and luring, he felt compelled to turn his back upon the fire\nand the beaten earth around it, and to plunge into the forest, and on\nand on, he knew not where or why; nor did he wonder where or why, the\ncall sounding imperiously, deep in the forest. But as often as he\ngained the soft unbroken earth and the green shade, the love for John\nThornton drew him back to the fire again.\n\nThornton alone held him. The rest of mankind was as nothing. Chance\ntravellers might praise or pet him; but he was cold under it all, and\nfrom a too demonstrative man he would get up and walk away. When\nThornton s partners, Hans and Pete, arrived on the long-expected raft,\nBuck refused to notice them till he learned they were close to\nThornton; after that he tolerated them in a passive sort of way,\naccepting favors from them as though he favored them by accepting. They\nwere of the same large type as Thornton, living close to the earth,\nthinking simply and seeing clearly; and ere they swung the raft into\nthe big eddy by the saw-mill at Dawson, they understood Buck and his\nways, and did not insist upon an intimacy such as obtained with Skeet\nand Nig.\n\nFor Thornton, however, his love seemed to grow and grow. He, alone\namong men, could put a pack upon Buck s back in the summer travelling.\nNothing was too great for Buck to do, when Thornton commanded. One day\n(they had grub-staked themselves from the proceeds of the raft and left\nDawson for the head-waters of the Tanana) the men and dogs were sitting\non the crest of a cliff which fell away, straight down, to naked\nbed-rock three hundred feet below. John Thornton was sitting near the\nedge, Buck at his shoulder. A thoughtless whim seized Thornton, and he\ndrew the attention of Hans and Pete to the experiment he had in mind.\n Jump, Buck!  he commanded, sweeping his arm out and over the chasm.\nThe next instant he was grappling with Buck on the extreme edge, while\nHans and Pete were dragging them back into safety.\n\n It s uncanny,  Pete said, after it was over and they had caught their\nspeech.\n\nThornton shook his head.  No, it is splendid, and it is terrible, too.\nDo you know, it sometimes makes me afraid. \n\n I m not hankering to be the man that lays hands on you while he s\naround,  Pete announced conclusively, nodding his head toward Buck.\n\n Py Jingo!  was Hans s contribution.  Not mineself either. \n\nIt was at Circle City, ere the year was out, that Pete s apprehensions\nwere realized.  Black  Burton, a man evil-tempered and malicious, had\nbeen picking a quarrel with a tenderfoot at the bar, when Thornton\nstepped good-naturedly between. Buck, as was his custom, was lying in a\ncorner, head on paws, watching his master s every action. Burton struck\nout, without warning, straight from the shoulder. Thornton was sent\nspinning, and saved himself from falling only by clutching the rail of\nthe bar.\n\nThose who were looking on heard what was neither bark nor yelp, but a\nsomething which is best described as a roar, and they saw Buck s body\nrise up in the air as he left the floor for Burton s throat. The man\nsaved his life by instinctively throwing out his arm, but was hurled\nbackward to the floor with Buck on top of him. Buck loosed his teeth\nfrom the flesh of the arm and drove in again for the throat. This time\nthe man succeeded only in partly blocking, and his throat was torn\nopen. Then the crowd was upon Buck, and he was driven off; but while a\nsurgeon checked the bleeding, he prowled up and down, growling\nfuriously, attempting to rush in, and being forced back by an array of\nhostile clubs. A  miners  meeting,  called on the spot, decided that\nthe dog had sufficient provocation, and Buck was discharged. But his\nreputation was made, and from that day his name spread through every\ncamp in Alaska.\n\nLater on, in the fall of the year, he saved John Thornton s life in\nquite another fashion. The three partners were lining a long and narrow\npoling-boat down a bad stretch of rapids on the Forty-Mile Creek. Hans\nand Pete moved along the bank, snubbing with a thin Manila rope from\ntree to tree, while Thornton remained in the boat, helping its descent\nby means of a pole, and shouting directions to the shore. Buck, on the\nbank, worried and anxious, kept abreast of the boat, his eyes never off\nhis master.\n\nAt a particularly bad spot, where a ledge of barely submerged rocks\njutted out into the river, Hans cast off the rope, and, while Thornton\npoled the boat out into the stream, ran down the bank with the end in\nhis hand to snub the boat when it had cleared the ledge. This it did,\nand was flying down-stream in a current as swift as a mill-race, when\nHans checked it with the rope and checked too suddenly. The boat\nflirted over and snubbed in to the bank bottom up, while Thornton,\nflung sheer out of it, was carried down-stream toward the worst part of\nthe rapids, a stretch of wild water in which no swimmer could live.\n\nBuck had sprung in on the instant; and at the end of three hundred\nyards, amid a mad swirl of water, he overhauled Thornton. When he felt\nhim grasp his tail, Buck headed for the bank, swimming with all his\nsplendid strength. But the progress shoreward was slow; the progress\ndown-stream amazingly rapid. From below came the fatal roaring where\nthe wild current went wilder and was rent in shreds and spray by the\nrocks which thrust through like the teeth of an enormous comb. The suck\nof the water as it took the beginning of the last steep pitch was\nfrightful, and Thornton knew that the shore was impossible. He scraped\nfuriously over a rock, bruised across a second, and struck a third with\ncrushing force. He clutched its slippery top with both hands, releasing\nBuck, and above the roar of the churning water shouted:  Go, Buck! Go! \n\nBuck could not hold his own, and swept on down-stream, struggling\ndesperately, but unable to win back. When he heard Thornton s command\nrepeated, he partly reared out of the water, throwing his head high, as\nthough for a last look, then turned obediently toward the bank. He swam\npowerfully and was dragged ashore by Pete and Hans at the very point\nwhere swimming ceased to be possible and destruction began.\n\nThey knew that the time a man could cling to a slippery rock in the\nface of that driving current was a matter of minutes, and they ran as\nfast as they could up the bank to a point far above where Thornton was\nhanging on. They attached the line with which they had been snubbing\nthe boat to Buck s neck and shoulders, being careful that it should\nneither strangle him nor impede his swimming, and launched him into the\nstream. He struck out boldly, but not straight enough into the stream.\nHe discovered the mistake too late, when Thornton was abreast of him\nand a bare half-dozen strokes away while he was being carried\nhelplessly past.\n\nHans promptly snubbed with the rope, as though Buck were a boat. The\nrope thus tightening on him in the sweep of the current, he was jerked\nunder the surface, and under the surface he remained till his body\nstruck against the bank and he was hauled out. He was half drowned, and\nHans and Pete threw themselves upon him, pounding the breath into him\nand the water out of him. He staggered to his feet and fell down. The\nfaint sound of Thornton s voice came to them, and though they could not\nmake out the words of it, they knew that he was in his extremity. His\nmaster s voice acted on Buck like an electric shock. He sprang to his\nfeet and ran up the bank ahead of the men to the point of his previous\ndeparture.\n\nAgain the rope was attached and he was launched, and again he struck\nout, but this time straight into the stream. He had miscalculated once,\nbut he would not be guilty of it a second time. Hans paid out the rope,\npermitting no slack, while Pete kept it clear of coils. Buck held on\ntill he was on a line straight above Thornton; then he turned, and with\nthe speed of an express train headed down upon him. Thornton saw him\ncoming, and, as Buck struck him like a battering ram, with the whole\nforce of the current behind him, he reached up and closed with both\narms around the shaggy neck. Hans snubbed the rope around the tree, and\nBuck and Thornton were jerked under the water. Strangling, suffocating,\nsometimes one uppermost and sometimes the other, dragging over the\njagged bottom, smashing against rocks and snags, they veered in to the\nbank.\n\nThornton came to, belly downward and being violently propelled back and\nforth across a drift log by Hans and Pete. His first glance was for\nBuck, over whose limp and apparently lifeless body Nig was setting up a\nhowl, while Skeet was licking the wet face and closed eyes. Thornton\nwas himself bruised and battered, and he went carefully over Buck s\nbody, when he had been brought around, finding three broken ribs.\n\n That settles it,  he announced.  We camp right here.  And camp they\ndid, till Buck s ribs knitted and he was able to travel.\n\nThat winter, at Dawson, Buck performed another exploit, not so heroic,\nperhaps, but one that put his name many notches higher on the\ntotem-pole of Alaskan fame. This exploit was particularly gratifying to\nthe three men; for they stood in need of the outfit which it furnished,\nand were enabled to make a long-desired trip into the virgin East,\nwhere miners had not yet appeared. It was brought about by a\nconversation in the Eldorado Saloon, in which men waxed boastful of\ntheir favorite dogs. Buck, because of his record, was the target for\nthese men, and Thornton was driven stoutly to defend him. At the end of\nhalf an hour one man stated that his dog could start a sled with five\nhundred pounds and walk off with it; a second bragged six hundred for\nhis dog; and a third, seven hundred.\n\n Pooh! pooh!  said John Thornton;  Buck can start a thousand pounds. \n\n And break it out? and walk off with it for a hundred yards?  demanded\nMatthewson, a Bonanza King, he of the seven hundred vaunt.\n\n And break it out, and walk off with it for a hundred yards,  John\nThornton said coolly.\n\n Well,  Matthewson said, slowly and deliberately, so that all could\nhear,  I ve got a thousand dollars that says he can t. And there it\nis.  So saying, he slammed a sack of gold dust of the size of a bologna\nsausage down upon the bar.\n\nNobody spoke. Thornton s bluff, if bluff it was, had been called. He\ncould feel a flush of warm blood creeping up his face. His tongue had\ntricked him. He did not know whether Buck could start a thousand\npounds. Half a ton! The enormousness of it appalled him. He had great\nfaith in Buck s strength and had often thought him capable of starting\nsuch a load; but never, as now, had he faced the possibility of it, the\neyes of a dozen men fixed upon him, silent and waiting. Further, he had\nno thousand dollars; nor had Hans or Pete.\n\n I ve got a sled standing outside now, with twenty fiftypound sacks of\nflour on it,  Matthewson went on with brutal directness;  so don t let\nthat hinder you. \n\nThornton did not reply. He did not know what to say. He glanced from\nface to face in the absent way of a man who has lost the power of\nthought and is seeking somewhere to find the thing that will start it\ngoing again. The face of Jim O Brien, a Mastodon King and old-time\ncomrade, caught his eyes. It was as a cue to him, seeming to rouse him\nto do what he would never have dreamed of doing.\n\n Can you lend me a thousand?  he asked, almost in a whisper.\n\n Sure,  answered O Brien, thumping down a plethoric sack by the side of\nMatthewson s.  Though it s little faith I m having, John, that the\nbeast can do the trick. \n\nThe Eldorado emptied its occupants into the street to see the test. The\ntables were deserted, and the dealers and gamekeepers came forth to see\nthe outcome of the wager and to lay odds. Several hundred men, furred\nand mittened, banked around the sled within easy distance. Matthewson s\nsled, loaded with a thousand pounds of flour, had been standing for a\ncouple of hours, and in the intense cold (it was sixty below zero) the\nrunners had frozen fast to the hard-packed snow. Men offered odds of\ntwo to one that Buck could not budge the sled. A quibble arose\nconcerning the phrase  break out.  O Brien contended it was Thornton s\nprivilege to knock the runners loose, leaving Buck to  break it out \nfrom a dead standstill. Matthewson insisted that the phrase included\nbreaking the runners from the frozen grip of the snow. A majority of\nthe men who had witnessed the making of the bet decided in his favor,\nwhereat the odds went up to three to one against Buck.\n\nThere were no takers. Not a man believed him capable of the feat.\nThornton had been hurried into the wager, heavy with doubt; and now\nthat he looked at the sled itself, the concrete fact, with the regular\nteam of ten dogs curled up in the snow before it, the more impossible\nthe task appeared. Matthewson waxed jubilant.\n\n Three to one!  he proclaimed.  I ll lay you another thousand at that\nfigure, Thornton. What d ye say? \n\nThornton s doubt was strong in his face, but his fighting spirit was\naroused the fighting spirit that soars above odds, fails to recognize\nthe impossible, and is deaf to all save the clamor for battle. He\ncalled Hans and Pete to him. Their sacks were slim, and with his own\nthe three partners could rake together only two hundred dollars. In the\nebb of their fortunes, this sum was their total capital; yet they laid\nit unhesitatingly against Matthewson s six hundred.\n\nThe team of ten dogs was unhitched, and Buck, with his own harness, was\nput into the sled. He had caught the contagion of the excitement, and\nhe felt that in some way he must do a great thing for John Thornton.\nMurmurs of admiration at his splendid appearance went up. He was in\nperfect condition, without an ounce of superfluous flesh, and the one\nhundred and fifty pounds that he weighed were so many pounds of grit\nand virility. His furry coat shone with the sheen of silk. Down the\nneck and across the shoulders, his mane, in repose as it was, half\nbristled and seemed to lift with every movement, as though excess of\nvigor made each particular hair alive and active. The great breast and\nheavy fore legs were no more than in proportion with the rest of the\nbody, where the muscles showed in tight rolls underneath the skin. Men\nfelt these muscles and proclaimed them hard as iron, and the odds went\ndown to two to one.\n\n Gad, sir! Gad, sir!  stuttered a member of the latest dynasty, a king\nof the Skookum Benches.  I offer you eight hundred for him, sir, before\nthe test, sir; eight hundred just as he stands. \n\nThornton shook his head and stepped to Buck s side.\n\n You must stand off from him,  Matthewson protested.  Free play and\nplenty of room. \n\nThe crowd fell silent; only could be heard the voices of the gamblers\nvainly offering two to one. Everybody acknowledged Buck a magnificent\nanimal, but twenty fifty-pound sacks of flour bulked too large in their\neyes for them to loosen their pouch-strings.\n\nThornton knelt down by Buck s side. He took his head in his two hands\nand rested cheek on cheek. He did not playfully shake him, as was his\nwont, or murmur soft love curses; but he whispered in his ear.  As you\nlove me, Buck. As you love me,  was what he whispered. Buck whined with\nsuppressed eagerness.\n\nThe crowd was watching curiously. The affair was growing mysterious. It\nseemed like a conjuration. As Thornton got to his feet, Buck seized his\nmittened hand between his jaws, pressing in with his teeth and\nreleasing slowly, half-reluctantly. It was the answer, in terms, not of\nspeech, but of love. Thornton stepped well back.\n\n Now, Buck,  he said.\n\nBuck tightened the traces, then slacked them for a matter of several\ninches. It was the way he had learned.\n\n Gee!  Thornton s voice rang out, sharp in the tense silence.\n\nBuck swung to the right, ending the movement in a plunge that took up\nthe slack and with a sudden jerk arrested his one hundred and fifty\npounds. The load quivered, and from under the runners arose a crisp\ncrackling.\n\n Haw!  Thornton commanded.\n\nBuck duplicated the man uvre, this time to the left. The crackling\nturned into a snapping, the sled pivoting and the runners slipping and\ngrating several inches to the side. The sled was broken out. Men were\nholding their breaths, intensely unconscious of the fact.\n\n Now, MUSH! \n\nThornton s command cracked out like a pistol-shot. Buck threw himself\nforward, tightening the traces with a jarring lunge. His whole body was\ngathered compactly together in the tremendous effort, the muscles\nwrithing and knotting like live things under the silky fur. His great\nchest was low to the ground, his head forward and down, while his feet\nwere flying like mad, the claws scarring the hard-packed snow in\nparallel grooves. The sled swayed and trembled, half-started forward.\nOne of his feet slipped, and one man groaned aloud. Then the sled\nlurched ahead in what appeared a rapid succession of jerks, though it\nnever really came to a dead stop again...half an inch...an inch... two\ninches... The jerks perceptibly diminished; as the sled gained\nmomentum, he caught them up, till it was moving steadily along.\n\nMen gasped and began to breathe again, unaware that for a moment they\nhad ceased to breathe. Thornton was running behind, encouraging Buck\nwith short, cheery words. The distance had been measured off, and as he\nneared the pile of firewood which marked the end of the hundred yards,\na cheer began to grow and grow, which burst into a roar as he passed\nthe firewood and halted at command. Every man was tearing himself\nloose, even Matthewson. Hats and mittens were flying in the air. Men\nwere shaking hands, it did not matter with whom, and bubbling over in a\ngeneral incoherent babel.\n\nBut Thornton fell on his knees beside Buck. Head was against head, and\nhe was shaking him back and forth. Those who hurried up heard him\ncursing Buck, and he cursed him long and fervently, and softly and\nlovingly.\n\n Gad, sir! Gad, sir!  spluttered the Skookum Bench king.  I ll give you\na thousand for him, sir, a thousand, sir twelve hundred, sir. \n\nThornton rose to his feet. His eyes were wet. The tears were streaming\nfrankly down his cheeks.  Sir,  he said to the Skookum Bench king,  no,\nsir. You can go to hell, sir. It s the best I can do for you, sir. \n\nBuck seized Thornton s hand in his teeth. Thornton shook him back and\nforth. As though animated by a common impulse, the onlookers drew back\nto a respectful distance; nor were they again indiscreet enough to\ninterrupt.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII. The Sounding of the Call\n\n\nWhen Buck earned sixteen hundred dollars in five minutes for John\nThornton, he made it possible for his master to pay off certain debts\nand to journey with his partners into the East after a fabled lost\nmine, the history of which was as old as the history of the country.\nMany men had sought it; few had found it; and more than a few there\nwere who had never returned from the quest. This lost mine was steeped\nin tragedy and shrouded in mystery. No one knew of the first man. The\noldest tradition stopped before it got back to him. From the beginning\nthere had been an ancient and ramshackle cabin. Dying men had sworn to\nit, and to the mine the site of which it marked, clinching their\ntestimony with nuggets that were unlike any known grade of gold in the\nNorthland.\n\nBut no living man had looted this treasure house, and the dead were\ndead; wherefore John Thornton and Pete and Hans, with Buck and half a\ndozen other dogs, faced into the East on an unknown trail to achieve\nwhere men and dogs as good as themselves had failed. They sledded\nseventy miles up the Yukon, swung to the left into the Stewart River,\npassed the Mayo and the McQuestion, and held on until the Stewart\nitself became a streamlet, threading the upstanding peaks which marked\nthe backbone of the continent.\n\nJohn Thornton asked little of man or nature. He was unafraid of the\nwild. With a handful of salt and a rifle he could plunge into the\nwilderness and fare wherever he pleased and as long as he pleased.\nBeing in no haste, Indian fashion, he hunted his dinner in the course\nof the day s travel; and if he failed to find it, like the Indian, he\nkept on travelling, secure in the knowledge that sooner or later he\nwould come to it. So, on this great journey into the East, straight\nmeat was the bill of fare, ammunition and tools principally made up the\nload on the sled, and the time-card was drawn upon the limitless\nfuture.\n\nTo Buck it was boundless delight, this hunting, fishing, and indefinite\nwandering through strange places. For weeks at a time they would hold\non steadily, day after day; and for weeks upon end they would camp,\nhere and there, the dogs loafing and the men burning holes through\nfrozen muck and gravel and washing countless pans of dirt by the heat\nof the fire. Sometimes they went hungry, sometimes they feasted\nriotously, all according to the abundance of game and the fortune of\nhunting. Summer arrived, and dogs and men packed on their backs, rafted\nacross blue mountain lakes, and descended or ascended unknown rivers in\nslender boats whipsawed from the standing forest.\n\nThe months came and went, and back and forth they twisted through the\nuncharted vastness, where no men were and yet where men had been if the\nLost Cabin were true. They went across divides in summer blizzards,\nshivered under the midnight sun on naked mountains between the timber\nline and the eternal snows, dropped into summer valleys amid swarming\ngnats and flies, and in the shadows of glaciers picked strawberries and\nflowers as ripe and fair as any the Southland could boast. In the fall\nof the year they penetrated a weird lake country, sad and silent, where\nwildfowl had been, but where then there was no life nor sign of\nlife only the blowing of chill winds, the forming of ice in sheltered\nplaces, and the melancholy rippling of waves on lonely beaches.\n\nAnd through another winter they wandered on the obliterated trails of\nmen who had gone before. Once, they came upon a path blazed through the\nforest, an ancient path, and the Lost Cabin seemed very near. But the\npath began nowhere and ended nowhere, and it remained mystery, as the\nman who made it and the reason he made it remained mystery. Another\ntime they chanced upon the time-graven wreckage of a hunting lodge, and\namid the shreds of rotted blankets John Thornton found a long-barrelled\nflint-lock. He knew it for a Hudson Bay Company gun of the young days\nin the Northwest, when such a gun was worth its height in beaver skins\npacked flat, And that was all no hint as to the man who in an early day\nhad reared the lodge and left the gun among the blankets.\n\nSpring came on once more, and at the end of all their wandering they\nfound, not the Lost Cabin, but a shallow placer in a broad valley where\nthe gold showed like yellow butter across the bottom of the\nwashing-pan. They sought no farther. Each day they worked earned them\nthousands of dollars in clean dust and nuggets, and they worked every\nday. The gold was sacked in moose-hide bags, fifty pounds to the bag,\nand piled like so much firewood outside the spruce-bough lodge. Like\ngiants they toiled, days flashing on the heels of days like dreams as\nthey heaped the treasure up.\n\nThere was nothing for the dogs to do, save the hauling in of meat now\nand again that Thornton killed, and Buck spent long hours musing by the\nfire. The vision of the short-legged hairy man came to him more\nfrequently, now that there was little work to be done; and often,\nblinking by the fire, Buck wandered with him in that other world which\nhe remembered.\n\nThe salient thing of this other world seemed fear. When he watched the\nhairy man sleeping by the fire, head between his knees and hands\nclasped above, Buck saw that he slept restlessly, with many starts and\nawakenings, at which times he would peer fearfully into the darkness\nand fling more wood upon the fire. Did they walk by the beach of a sea,\nwhere the hairy man gathered shellfish and ate them as he gathered, it\nwas with eyes that roved everywhere for hidden danger and with legs\nprepared to run like the wind at its first appearance. Through the\nforest they crept noiselessly, Buck at the hairy man s heels; and they\nwere alert and vigilant, the pair of them, ears twitching and moving\nand nostrils quivering, for the man heard and smelled as keenly as\nBuck. The hairy man could spring up into the trees and travel ahead as\nfast as on the ground, swinging by the arms from limb to limb,\nsometimes a dozen feet apart, letting go and catching, never falling,\nnever missing his grip. In fact, he seemed as much at home among the\ntrees as on the ground; and Buck had memories of nights of vigil spent\nbeneath trees wherein the hairy man roosted, holding on tightly as he\nslept.\n\nAnd closely akin to the visions of the hairy man was the call still\nsounding in the depths of the forest. It filled him with a great unrest\nand strange desires. It caused him to feel a vague, sweet gladness, and\nhe was aware of wild yearnings and stirrings for he knew not what.\nSometimes he pursued the call into the forest, looking for it as though\nit were a tangible thing, barking softly or defiantly, as the mood\nmight dictate. He would thrust his nose into the cool wood moss, or\ninto the black soil where long grasses grew, and snort with joy at the\nfat earth smells; or he would crouch for hours, as if in concealment,\nbehind fungus-covered trunks of fallen trees, wide-eyed and wide-eared\nto all that moved and sounded about him. It might be, lying thus, that\nhe hoped to surprise this call he could not understand. But he did not\nknow why he did these various things. He was impelled to do them, and\ndid not reason about them at all.\n\nIrresistible impulses seized him. He would be lying in camp, dozing\nlazily in the heat of the day, when suddenly his head would lift and\nhis ears cock up, intent and listening, and he would spring to his feet\nand dash away, and on and on, for hours, through the forest aisles and\nacross the open spaces where the niggerheads bunched. He loved to run\ndown dry watercourses, and to creep and spy upon the bird life in the\nwoods. For a day at a time he would lie in the underbrush where he\ncould watch the partridges drumming and strutting up and down. But\nespecially he loved to run in the dim twilight of the summer midnights,\nlistening to the subdued and sleepy murmurs of the forest, reading\nsigns and sounds as man may read a book, and seeking for the mysterious\nsomething that called called, waking or sleeping, at all times, for him\nto come.\n\nOne night he sprang from sleep with a start, eager-eyed, nostrils\nquivering and scenting, his mane bristling in recurrent waves. From the\nforest came the call (or one note of it, for the call was many noted),\ndistinct and definite as never before, a long-drawn howl, like, yet\nunlike, any noise made by husky dog. And he knew it, in the old\nfamiliar way, as a sound heard before. He sprang through the sleeping\ncamp and in swift silence dashed through the woods. As he drew closer\nto the cry he went more slowly, with caution in every movement, till he\ncame to an open place among the trees, and looking out saw, erect on\nhaunches, with nose pointed to the sky, a long, lean, timber wolf.\n\nHe had made no noise, yet it ceased from its howling and tried to sense\nhis presence. Buck stalked into the open, half crouching, body gathered\ncompactly together, tail straight and stiff, feet falling with unwonted\ncare. Every movement advertised commingled threatening and overture of\nfriendliness. It was the menacing truce that marks the meeting of wild\nbeasts that prey. But the wolf fled at sight of him. He followed, with\nwild leapings, in a frenzy to overtake. He ran him into a blind\nchannel, in the bed of the creek where a timber jam barred the way. The\nwolf whirled about, pivoting on his hind legs after the fashion of Joe\nand of all cornered husky dogs, snarling and bristling, clipping his\nteeth together in a continuous and rapid succession of snaps.\n\nBuck did not attack, but circled him about and hedged him in with\nfriendly advances. The wolf was suspicious and afraid; for Buck made\nthree of him in weight, while his head barely reached Buck s shoulder.\nWatching his chance, he darted away, and the chase was resumed. Time\nand again he was cornered, and the thing repeated, though he was in\npoor condition, or Buck could not so easily have overtaken him. He\nwould run till Buck s head was even with his flank, when he would whirl\naround at bay, only to dash away again at the first opportunity.\n\nBut in the end Buck s pertinacity was rewarded; for the wolf, finding\nthat no harm was intended, finally sniffed noses with him. Then they\nbecame friendly, and played about in the nervous, half-coy way with\nwhich fierce beasts belie their fierceness. After some time of this the\nwolf started off at an easy lope in a manner that plainly showed he was\ngoing somewhere. He made it clear to Buck that he was to come, and they\nran side by side through the sombre twilight, straight up the creek\nbed, into the gorge from which it issued, and across the bleak divide\nwhere it took its rise.\n\nOn the opposite slope of the watershed they came down into a level\ncountry where were great stretches of forest and many streams, and\nthrough these great stretches they ran steadily, hour after hour, the\nsun rising higher and the day growing warmer. Buck was wildly glad. He\nknew he was at last answering the call, running by the side of his wood\nbrother toward the place from where the call surely came. Old memories\nwere coming upon him fast, and he was stirring to them as of old he\nstirred to the realities of which they were the shadows. He had done\nthis thing before, somewhere in that other and dimly remembered world,\nand he was doing it again, now, running free in the open, the unpacked\nearth underfoot, the wide sky overhead.\n\nThey stopped by a running stream to drink, and, stopping, Buck\nremembered John Thornton. He sat down. The wolf started on toward the\nplace from where the call surely came, then returned to him, sniffing\nnoses and making actions as though to encourage him. But Buck turned\nabout and started slowly on the back track. For the better part of an\nhour the wild brother ran by his side, whining softly. Then he sat\ndown, pointed his nose upward, and howled. It was a mournful howl, and\nas Buck held steadily on his way he heard it grow faint and fainter\nuntil it was lost in the distance.\n\nJohn Thornton was eating dinner when Buck dashed into camp and sprang\nupon him in a frenzy of affection, overturning him, scrambling upon\nhim, licking his face, biting his hand playing the general tom-fool, \nas John Thornton characterized it, the while he shook Buck back and\nforth and cursed him lovingly.\n\nFor two days and nights Buck never left camp, never let Thornton out of\nhis sight. He followed him about at his work, watched him while he ate,\nsaw him into his blankets at night and out of them in the morning. But\nafter two days the call in the forest began to sound more imperiously\nthan ever. Buck s restlessness came back on him, and he was haunted by\nrecollections of the wild brother, and of the smiling land beyond the\ndivide and the run side by side through the wide forest stretches. Once\nagain he took to wandering in the woods, but the wild brother came no\nmore; and though he listened through long vigils, the mournful howl was\nnever raised.\n\nHe began to sleep out at night, staying away from camp for days at a\ntime; and once he crossed the divide at the head of the creek and went\ndown into the land of timber and streams. There he wandered for a week,\nseeking vainly for fresh sign of the wild brother, killing his meat as\nhe travelled and travelling with the long, easy lope that seems never\nto tire. He fished for salmon in a broad stream that emptied somewhere\ninto the sea, and by this stream he killed a large black bear, blinded\nby the mosquitoes while likewise fishing, and raging through the forest\nhelpless and terrible. Even so, it was a hard fight, and it aroused the\nlast latent remnants of Buck s ferocity. And two days later, when he\nreturned to his kill and found a dozen wolverenes quarrelling over the\nspoil, he scattered them like chaff; and those that fled left two\nbehind who would quarrel no more.\n\nThe blood-longing became stronger than ever before. He was a killer, a\nthing that preyed, living on the things that lived, unaided, alone, by\nvirtue of his own strength and prowess, surviving triumphantly in a\nhostile environment where only the strong survived. Because of all this\nhe became possessed of a great pride in himself, which communicated\nitself like a contagion to his physical being. It advertised itself in\nall his movements, was apparent in the play of every muscle, spoke\nplainly as speech in the way he carried himself, and made his glorious\nfurry coat if anything more glorious. But for the stray brown on his\nmuzzle and above his eyes, and for the splash of white hair that ran\nmidmost down his chest, he might well have been mistaken for a gigantic\nwolf, larger than the largest of the breed. From his St. Bernard father\nhe had inherited size and weight, but it was his shepherd mother who\nhad given shape to that size and weight. His muzzle was the long wolf\nmuzzle, save that it was larger than the muzzle of any wolf; and his\nhead, somewhat broader, was the wolf head on a massive scale.\n\nHis cunning was wolf cunning, and wild cunning; his intelligence,\nshepherd intelligence and St. Bernard intelligence; and all this, plus\nan experience gained in the fiercest of schools, made him as formidable\na creature as any that roamed the wild. A carnivorous animal living on\na straight meat diet, he was in full flower, at the high tide of his\nlife, overspilling with vigor and virility. When Thornton passed a\ncaressing hand along his back, a snapping and crackling followed the\nhand, each hair discharging its pent magnetism at the contact. Every\npart, brain and body, nerve tissue and fibre, was keyed to the most\nexquisite pitch; and between all the parts there was a perfect\nequilibrium or adjustment. To sights and sounds and events which\nrequired action, he responded with lightning-like rapidity. Quickly as\na husky dog could leap to defend from attack or to attack, he could\nleap twice as quickly. He saw the movement, or heard sound, and\nresponded in less time than another dog required to compass the mere\nseeing or hearing. He perceived and determined and responded in the\nsame instant. In point of fact the three actions of perceiving,\ndetermining, and responding were sequential; but so infinitesimal were\nthe intervals of time between them that they appeared simultaneous. His\nmuscles were surcharged with vitality, and snapped into play sharply,\nlike steel springs. Life streamed through him in splendid flood, glad\nand rampant, until it seemed that it would burst him asunder in sheer\necstasy and pour forth generously over the world.\n\n Never was there such a dog,  said John Thornton one day, as the\npartners watched Buck marching out of camp.\n\n When he was made, the mould was broke,  said Pete.\n\n Py jingo! I t ink so mineself,  Hans affirmed.\n\nThey saw him marching out of camp, but they did not see the instant and\nterrible transformation which took place as soon as he was within the\nsecrecy of the forest. He no longer marched. At once he became a thing\nof the wild, stealing along softly, cat-footed, a passing shadow that\nappeared and disappeared among the shadows. He knew how to take\nadvantage of every cover, to crawl on his belly like a snake, and like\na snake to leap and strike. He could take a ptarmigan from its nest,\nkill a rabbit as it slept, and snap in mid air the little chipmunks\nfleeing a second too late for the trees. Fish, in open pools, were not\ntoo quick for him; nor were beaver, mending their dams, too wary. He\nkilled to eat, not from wantonness; but he preferred to eat what he\nkilled himself. So a lurking humor ran through his deeds, and it was\nhis delight to steal upon the squirrels, and, when he all but had them,\nto let them go, chattering in mortal fear to the treetops.\n\nAs the fall of the year came on, the moose appeared in greater\nabundance, moving slowly down to meet the winter in the lower and less\nrigorous valleys. Buck had already dragged down a stray part-grown\ncalf; but he wished strongly for larger and more formidable quarry, and\nhe came upon it one day on the divide at the head of the creek. A band\nof twenty moose had crossed over from the land of streams and timber,\nand chief among them was a great bull. He was in a savage temper, and,\nstanding over six feet from the ground, was as formidable an antagonist\nas even Buck could desire. Back and forth the bull tossed his great\npalmated antlers, branching to fourteen points and embracing seven feet\nwithin the tips. His small eyes burned with a vicious and bitter light,\nwhile he roared with fury at sight of Buck.\n\nFrom the bull s side, just forward of the flank, protruded a feathered\narrow-end, which accounted for his savageness. Guided by that instinct\nwhich came from the old hunting days of the primordial world, Buck\nproceeded to cut the bull out from the herd. It was no slight task. He\nwould bark and dance about in front of the bull, just out of reach of\nthe great antlers and of the terrible splay hoofs which could have\nstamped his life out with a single blow. Unable to turn his back on the\nfanged danger and go on, the bull would be driven into paroxysms of\nrage. At such moments he charged Buck, who retreated craftily, luring\nhim on by a simulated inability to escape. But when he was thus\nseparated from his fellows, two or three of the younger bulls would\ncharge back upon Buck and enable the wounded bull to rejoin the herd.\n\nThere is a patience of the wild dogged, tireless, persistent as life\nitself that holds motionless for endless hours the spider in its web,\nthe snake in its coils, the panther in its ambuscade; this patience\nbelongs peculiarly to life when it hunts its living food; and it\nbelonged to Buck as he clung to the flank of the herd, retarding its\nmarch, irritating the young bulls, worrying the cows with their\nhalf-grown calves, and driving the wounded bull mad with helpless rage.\nFor half a day this continued. Buck multiplied himself, attacking from\nall sides, enveloping the herd in a whirlwind of menace, cutting out\nhis victim as fast as it could rejoin its mates, wearing out the\npatience of creatures preyed upon, which is a lesser patience than that\nof creatures preying.\n\nAs the day wore along and the sun dropped to its bed in the northwest\n(the darkness had come back and the fall nights were six hours long),\nthe young bulls retraced their steps more and more reluctantly to the\naid of their beset leader. The down-coming winter was harrying them on\nto the lower levels, and it seemed they could never shake off this\ntireless creature that held them back. Besides, it was not the life of\nthe herd, or of the young bulls, that was threatened. The life of only\none member was demanded, which was a remoter interest than their lives,\nand in the end they were content to pay the toll.\n\nAs twilight fell the old bull stood with lowered head, watching his\nmates the cows he had known, the calves he had fathered, the bulls he\nhad mastered as they shambled on at a rapid pace through the fading\nlight. He could not follow, for before his nose leaped the merciless\nfanged terror that would not let him go. Three hundredweight more than\nhalf a ton he weighed; he had lived a long, strong life, full of fight\nand struggle, and at the end he faced death at the teeth of a creature\nwhose head did not reach beyond his great knuckled knees.\n\nFrom then on, night and day, Buck never left his prey, never gave it a\nmoment s rest, never permitted it to browse the leaves of trees or the\nshoots of young birch and willow. Nor did he give the wounded bull\nopportunity to slake his burning thirst in the slender trickling\nstreams they crossed. Often, in desperation, he burst into long\nstretches of flight. At such times Buck did not attempt to stay him,\nbut loped easily at his heels, satisfied with the way the game was\nplayed, lying down when the moose stood still, attacking him fiercely\nwhen he strove to eat or drink.\n\nThe great head drooped more and more under its tree of horns, and the\nshambling trot grew weak and weaker. He took to standing for long\nperiods, with nose to the ground and dejected ears dropped limply; and\nBuck found more time in which to get water for himself and in which to\nrest. At such moments, panting with red lolling tongue and with eyes\nfixed upon the big bull, it appeared to Buck that a change was coming\nover the face of things. He could feel a new stir in the land. As the\nmoose were coming into the land, other kinds of life were coming in.\nForest and stream and air seemed palpitant with their presence. The\nnews of it was borne in upon him, not by sight, or sound, or smell, but\nby some other and subtler sense. He heard nothing, saw nothing, yet\nknew that the land was somehow different; that through it strange\nthings were afoot and ranging; and he resolved to investigate after he\nhad finished the business in hand.\n\nAt last, at the end of the fourth day, he pulled the great moose down.\nFor a day and a night he remained by the kill, eating and sleeping,\nturn and turn about. Then, rested, refreshed and strong, he turned his\nface toward camp and John Thornton. He broke into the long easy lope,\nand went on, hour after hour, never at loss for the tangled way,\nheading straight home through strange country with a certitude of\ndirection that put man and his magnetic needle to shame.\n\nAs he held on he became more and more conscious of the new stir in the\nland. There was life abroad in it different from the life which had\nbeen there throughout the summer. No longer was this fact borne in upon\nhim in some subtle, mysterious way. The birds talked of it, the\nsquirrels chattered about it, the very breeze whispered of it. Several\ntimes he stopped and drew in the fresh morning air in great sniffs,\nreading a message which made him leap on with greater speed. He was\noppressed with a sense of calamity happening, if it were not calamity\nalready happened; and as he crossed the last watershed and dropped down\ninto the valley toward camp, he proceeded with greater caution.\n\nThree miles away he came upon a fresh trail that sent his neck hair\nrippling and bristling, It led straight toward camp and John Thornton.\nBuck hurried on, swiftly and stealthily, every nerve straining and\ntense, alert to the multitudinous details which told a story all but\nthe end. His nose gave him a varying description of the passage of the\nlife on the heels of which he was travelling. He remarked the pregnant\nsilence of the forest. The bird life had flitted. The squirrels were in\nhiding. One only he saw, a sleek gray fellow, flattened against a gray\ndead limb so that he seemed a part of it, a woody excrescence upon the\nwood itself.\n\nAs Buck slid along with the obscureness of a gliding shadow, his nose\nwas jerked suddenly to the side as though a positive force had gripped\nand pulled it. He followed the new scent into a thicket and found Nig.\nHe was lying on his side, dead where he had dragged himself, an arrow\nprotruding, head and feathers, from either side of his body.\n\nA hundred yards farther on, Buck came upon one of the sled-dogs\nThornton had bought in Dawson. This dog was thrashing about in a\ndeath-struggle, directly on the trail, and Buck passed around him\nwithout stopping. From the camp came the faint sound of many voices,\nrising and falling in a sing-song chant. Bellying forward to the edge\nof the clearing, he found Hans, lying on his face, feathered with\narrows like a porcupine. At the same instant Buck peered out where the\nspruce-bough lodge had been and saw what made his hair leap straight up\non his neck and shoulders. A gust of overpowering rage swept over him.\nHe did not know that he growled, but he growled aloud with a terrible\nferocity. For the last time in his life he allowed passion to usurp\ncunning and reason, and it was because of his great love for John\nThornton that he lost his head.\n\nThe Yeehats were dancing about the wreckage of the spruce-bough lodge\nwhen they heard a fearful roaring and saw rushing upon them an animal\nthe like of which they had never seen before. It was Buck, a live\nhurricane of fury, hurling himself upon them in a frenzy to destroy. He\nsprang at the foremost man (it was the chief of the Yeehats), ripping\nthe throat wide open till the rent jugular spouted a fountain of blood.\nHe did not pause to worry the victim, but ripped in passing, with the\nnext bound tearing wide the throat of a second man. There was no\nwithstanding him. He plunged about in their very midst, tearing,\nrending, destroying, in constant and terrific motion which defied the\narrows they discharged at him. In fact, so inconceivably rapid were his\nmovements, and so closely were the Indians tangled together, that they\nshot one another with the arrows; and one young hunter, hurling a spear\nat Buck in mid air, drove it through the chest of another hunter with\nsuch force that the point broke through the skin of the back and stood\nout beyond. Then a panic seized the Yeehats, and they fled in terror to\nthe woods, proclaiming as they fled the advent of the Evil Spirit.\n\nAnd truly Buck was the Fiend incarnate, raging at their heels and\ndragging them down like deer as they raced through the trees. It was a\nfateful day for the Yeehats. They scattered far and wide over the\ncountry, and it was not till a week later that the last of the\nsurvivors gathered together in a lower valley and counted their losses.\nAs for Buck, wearying of the pursuit, he returned to the desolated\ncamp. He found Pete where he had been killed in his blankets in the\nfirst moment of surprise. Thornton s desperate struggle was\nfresh-written on the earth, and Buck scented every detail of it down to\nthe edge of a deep pool. By the edge, head and fore feet in the water,\nlay Skeet, faithful to the last. The pool itself, muddy and discolored\nfrom the sluice boxes, effectually hid what it contained, and it\ncontained John Thornton; for Buck followed his trace into the water,\nfrom which no trace led away.\n\nAll day Buck brooded by the pool or roamed restlessly about the camp.\nDeath, as a cessation of movement, as a passing out and away from the\nlives of the living, he knew, and he knew John Thornton was dead. It\nleft a great void in him, somewhat akin to hunger, but a void which\nached and ached, and which food could not fill. At times, when he\npaused to contemplate the carcasses of the Yeehats, he forgot the pain\nof it; and at such times he was aware of a great pride in himself, a\npride greater than any he had yet experienced. He had killed man, the\nnoblest game of all, and he had killed in the face of the law of club\nand fang. He sniffed the bodies curiously. They had died so easily. It\nwas harder to kill a husky dog than them. They were no match at all,\nwere it not for their arrows and spears and clubs. Thenceforward he\nwould be unafraid of them except when they bore in their hands their\narrows, spears, and clubs.\n\nNight came on, and a full moon rose high over the trees into the sky,\nlighting the land till it lay bathed in ghostly day. And with the\ncoming of the night, brooding and mourning by the pool, Buck became\nalive to a stirring of the new life in the forest other than that which\nthe Yeehats had made, He stood up, listening and scenting. From far\naway drifted a faint, sharp yelp, followed by a chorus of similar sharp\nyelps. As the moments passed the yelps grew closer and louder. Again\nBuck knew them as things heard in that other world which persisted in\nhis memory. He walked to the centre of the open space and listened. It\nwas the call, the many-noted call, sounding more luringly and\ncompellingly than ever before. And as never before, he was ready to\nobey. John Thornton was dead. The last tie was broken. Man and the\nclaims of man no longer bound him.\n\nHunting their living meat, as the Yeehats were hunting it, on the\nflanks of the migrating moose, the wolf pack had at last crossed over\nfrom the land of streams and timber and invaded Buck s valley. Into the\nclearing where the moonlight streamed, they poured in a silvery flood;\nand in the centre of the clearing stood Buck, motionless as a statue,\nwaiting their coming. They were awed, so still and large he stood, and\na moment s pause fell, till the boldest one leaped straight for him.\nLike a flash Buck struck, breaking the neck. Then he stood, without\nmovement, as before, the stricken wolf rolling in agony behind him.\nThree others tried it in sharp succession; and one after the other they\ndrew back, streaming blood from slashed throats or shoulders.\n\nThis was sufficient to fling the whole pack forward, pell-mell, crowded\ntogether, blocked and confused by its eagerness to pull down the prey.\nBuck s marvellous quickness and agility stood him in good stead.\nPivoting on his hind legs, and snapping and gashing, he was everywhere\nat once, presenting a front which was apparently unbroken so swiftly\ndid he whirl and guard from side to side. But to prevent them from\ngetting behind him, he was forced back, down past the pool and into the\ncreek bed, till he brought up against a high gravel bank. He worked\nalong to a right angle in the bank which the men had made in the course\nof mining, and in this angle he came to bay, protected on three sides\nand with nothing to do but face the front.\n\nAnd so well did he face it, that at the end of half an hour the wolves\ndrew back discomfited. The tongues of all were out and lolling, the\nwhite fangs showing cruelly white in the moonlight. Some were lying\ndown with heads raised and ears pricked forward; others stood on their\nfeet, watching him; and still others were lapping water from the pool.\nOne wolf, long and lean and gray, advanced cautiously, in a friendly\nmanner, and Buck recognized the wild brother with whom he had run for a\nnight and a day. He was whining softly, and, as Buck whined, they\ntouched noses.\n\nThen an old wolf, gaunt and battle-scarred, came forward. Buck writhed\nhis lips into the preliminary of a snarl, but sniffed noses with him,\nWhereupon the old wolf sat down, pointed nose at the moon, and broke\nout the long wolf howl. The others sat down and howled. And now the\ncall came to Buck in unmistakable accents. He, too, sat down and\nhowled. This over, he came out of his angle and the pack crowded around\nhim, sniffing in half-friendly, half-savage manner. The leaders lifted\nthe yelp of the pack and sprang away into the woods. The wolves swung\nin behind, yelping in chorus. And Buck ran with them, side by side with\nthe wild brother, yelping as he ran.\n\n\nAnd here may well end the story of Buck. The years were not many when\nthe Yeehats noted a change in the breed of timber wolves; for some were\nseen with splashes of brown on head and muzzle, and with a rift of\nwhite centring down the chest. But more remarkable than this, the\nYeehats tell of a Ghost Dog that runs at the head of the pack. They are\nafraid of this Ghost Dog, for it has cunning greater than they,\nstealing from their camps in fierce winters, robbing their traps,\nslaying their dogs, and defying their bravest hunters.\n\nNay, the tale grows worse. Hunters there are who fail to return to the\ncamp, and hunters there have been whom their tribesmen found with\nthroats slashed cruelly open and with wolf prints about them in the\nsnow greater than the prints of any wolf. Each fall, when the Yeehats\nfollow the movement of the moose, there is a certain valley which they\nnever enter. And women there are who become sad when the word goes over\nthe fire of how the Evil Spirit came to select that valley for an\nabiding-place.\n\nIn the summers there is one visitor, however, to that valley, of which\nthe Yeehats do not know. It is a great, gloriously coated wolf, like,\nand yet unlike, all other wolves. He crosses alone from the smiling\ntimber land and comes down into an open space among the trees. Here a\nyellow stream flows from rotted moose-hide sacks and sinks into the\nground, with long grasses growing through it and vegetable mould\noverrunning it and hiding its yellow from the sun; and here he muses\nfor a time, howling once, long and mournfully, ere he departs.\n\nBut he is not always alone. When the long winter nights come on and the\nwolves follow their meat into the lower valleys, he may be seen running\nat the head of the pack through the pale moonlight or glimmering\nborealis, leaping gigantic above his fellows, his great throat a-bellow\nas he sings a song of the younger world, which is the song of the pack."
    },
    {
        "title": "The Life of Napoleon",
        "author": "David Grayson",
        "category": "Biographies",
        "EN": "CHAPTER I.\nTHE WELL-FLAVOURED EARTH\n\n\n Sweet as Eden is the air\n    And Eden-sweet the ray.\nNo Paradise is lost for them\nWho foot by branching root and stem,\nAnd lightly with the woodland share\n    The change of night and day. \n\nFor these many years, since I have lived here in the country, I have\nhad it in my mind to write something about the odour and taste of this\nwell-flavoured earth. The fact is, both the sense of smell and the\nsense of taste; have been shabbily treated in the amiable rivalry of\nthe senses. Sight and hearing have been the swift and nimble brothers,\nand sight especially, the tricky Jacob of the family, is keen upon the\nbusiness of seizing the entire inheritance, while smell, like hairy\nEsau, comes late to the blessing, hungry from the hills, and willing to\ntrade its inheritance for a mess of pottage.\n\nI have always had a kind of errant love for the improvident and\nadventurous Esaus of the Earth. I think they smell a wilder fragrance\nthan I do, and taste sweeter things, and I have thought, therefore, of\nbeginning a kind of fragrant autobiography, a chronicle of all the good\nodours and flavours that ever I have had in my life.\n\nAs I grow older, a curious feeling comes often to me in the spring, as\nit comes this spring more poignantly than ever before, a sense of the\ntemporariness of all things, the swiftness of life, the sadness of a\nbeauty that vanishes so soon, and I long to lay hold upon it as it\npasses by all the handles that I can. I would not only see it and hear\nit, but I would smell it and taste it and touch it, and all with a new\nkind of intensity and eagerness.\n\nHarriet says I get more pleasure out of the smell of my supper than I\nget out of the supper itself.\n\n I never need to ring for you,  says she,  but only open the kitchen\ndoor. In a few minutes I ll see you straighten up, lift your head,\nsniff a little, and come straight for the house. \n\n The odour of your suppers, Harriet,  I said,  after a day in the\nfields, would lure a man out of purgatory. \n\nMy father before me had a singularly keen nose. I remember well when I\nwas a boy and drove with him in the wild North Country, often through\nmiles of unbroken forest, how he would sometimes break a long silence,\nlift his head with sudden awareness, and say to me:\n\n David, I smell open fields. \n\nIn a few minutes we were sure to come to a settler s cabin, a log barn,\nor a clearing. Among the free odours of the forest he had caught, afar\noff, the common odours of the work of man.\n\nWhen we were tramping or surveying in that country, I have seen him\nstop suddenly, draw in a long breath, and remark:\n\n Marshes,  or,  A stream yonder. \n\nPart of this strange keenness of sense, often noted by those who knew\nthat sturdy old cavalryman, may have been based, as so many of our\ntalents are, upon a defect. My father gave all the sweet sounds of the\nworld, the voices of his sons, the songs of his daughters, to help free\nthe Southern slaves. He was deaf.\n\nIt is well known that when one sense is defective the others fly to the\nrescue, and my father s singular development of the sense of smell may\nhave been due in part to this defect, though I believe it to have been,\nto a far larger degree, a native gift. Me had a downright good nose.\nAll his life long he enjoyed with more than ordinary keenness the odour\nof flowers, and would often pick a sprig of wild rose and carry it\nalong with him in his hand, sniffing at it from time to time, and he\nloved the lilac, as I do after him. To ill odours he was not less\nsensitive, and was impatient of rats in the barn, and could smell them,\namong other odours, the moment the door was opened. He always had a\npeculiar sensitiveness to the presence of animals, as of dogs, cats,\nmuskrats, cattle, horses, and the like, and would speak of them long\nbefore he had seen them or could know that they were about.\n\nI recall once on a wild Northern lake, when we were working along the\nshore in a boat, how he stopped suddenly and exclaimed:\n\n David, do you hear anything? for I, a boy, was ears for him in those\nwilderness places.\n\n No, Father. What is it? \n\n Indians. \n\nAnd, sure enough, in a short time I heard the barking of their dogs and\nwe came soon upon their camp, where, I remember, they were drying deer\nmeat upon a frame of poplar poles over an open fire. He told me that\nthe smoky smell of the Indians, tanned buckskin, parched wild rice, and\nthe like, were odours that carried far and could not be mistaken.\n\nMy father had a big, hooked nose with long, narrow nostrils, I suppose\nthat this has really nothing to do with the matter, although I have\ncome, after these many years, to look with a curious interest upon\npeople s noses, since I know what a vehicle of delight they often are.\nMy own nose is nothing to speak of, good enough as noses go but I think\nI inherited from my father something of the power of enjoyment he had\nfrom that sense, though I can never hope to become the accomplished\nsmeller he was.\n\nI am moved to begin this chronicle because of my joy this morning\nearly a May morning! just after sunrise, when the shadows lay long and\nblue to the west and the dew was still on the grass, and I walked in\nthe pleasant spaces of my garden. It was so still...so still...that\nbirds afar off could be heard singing, and once through the crystal air\ncame the voice of a neighbour calling his cows. But the sounds and the\nsilences, the fair sights of meadow and hill I soon put aside, for the\nlilacs were in bloom and the bush-honeysuckles and the strawberries.\nThough no movement of the air was perceptible, the lilacs well knew the\nway of the wind, for if I stood to the north of them the odour was less\nrich and free than to the south, and I thought I might pose as a\nprophet of wind and weather upon the basis of this easy magic, and\npredict that the breezes of the day would be from the north as, indeed,\nthey later appeared to be.\n\nI went from clump to clump of the lilacs testing and comparing them\nwith great joy and satisfaction. They vary noticeably in odour; the\nwhite varieties being the most delicate, while those tending to deep\npurple are the richest. Some of the newer double varieties seem less\nfragrant and I have tested them now many times than the old-fashioned\nsingle varieties which are nearer the native stock. Here I fancy our\nsmooth Jacob has been at work, and in the lucrative process of\nselection for the eye alone the cunning horticulturist has cheated us\nof our rightful heritage of fragrance. I have a mind some time to\npractise the art of burbankry or other kind of wizardy upon the old\nlilac stock and select for odour alone, securing ravishing original\nvarieties indeed, whole new gamuts of fragrance.\n\nI should devise the most animating names for my creations, such as the\nDouble Delicious, the Air of Arcady, the Sweet Zephyr, and others even\nmore inviting, which I should enjoy inventing. Though I think surely I\ncould make my fortune out of this interesting idea, I present it freely\nto a scent-hungry world here it is, gratis! for I have my time so fully\noccupied during all of this and my next two or three lives that I\ncannot attend to it.\n\nI have felt the same defect in the cultivated roses. While the odours\nare rich, often of cloying sweetness, or even, as in certain white\nroses, having a languor as of death, they never for me equal the\nfragrance of the wild sweet rose that grows all about these hills, in\nold tangled fence rows, in the lee of meadow boulders, or by some\nunfrequented roadside. No other odour I know awakens quite such a\nfeeling light like a cloud, suggesting free hills, open country, sunny\nair; and none surely has, for me, such an after-call. A whiff of the\nwild rose will bring back in all the poignancy of sad happiness a train\nof ancient memories old faces, old scenes, old loves and the wild\nthoughts I had when a boy. The first week of the wild-rose blooming,\nbeginning here about the twenty-fifth of June, is always to me a\nmemorable time.\n\nI was a long time learning how to take hold of nature, and think now\nwith some sadness of all the life I lost in former years. The\nimpression the earth gave me was confused: I was as one only half\nawake. A fine morning made me dumbly glad, a cool evening, after the\nheat of the day, and the work of it, touched my spirit restfully; but I\ncould have explained neither the one nor the other. Gradually as I\nlooked about me I began to ask myself,  Why is it that the sight of\nthese common hills and fields gives me such exquisite delight? And if\nit is beauty, why is it beautiful? And if I am so richly rewarded by\nmere glimpses, can I not increase my pleasure with longer looks? \n\nI tried longer looks both at nature and at the friendly human creatures\nall about me. I stopped often in the garden where I was working, or\nloitered a moment in the fields, or sat down by the roadside, and\nthought intently what it was that so perfectly and wonderfully\nsurrounded me; and thus I came to have some knowledge of the Great\nSecret. It was, after all, a simple matter, as such matters usually are\nwhen we penetrate them, and consisted merely in shutting out all other\nimpressions, feelings, thoughts, and concentrating the full energy of\nthe attention upon what it was that I saw or heard at that instant.\n\nAt one moment I would let in all the sounds of the earth, at another\nall the sights. So we practise the hand at one time, the foot at\nanother, or learn how to sit or to walk, and so acquire new grace for\nthe whole body. Should we do less in acquiring grace for the spirit? It\nwill astonish one who has not tried it how full the world is of sounds\ncommonly unheard, and of sights commonly unseen, but in their nature,\nlike the smallest blossoms, of a curious perfection and beauty.\n\nOut of this practice grew presently, and as it seems to me\ninstinctively, for I cannot now remember the exact time of its\nbeginning, a habit of repeating under my breath, or even aloud, and in\na kind of singsong voice, fragmentary words and sentences describing\nwhat it was that I saw or felt at the moment, as, for example:\n\n The pink blossoms of the wild crab-apple trees I see from the hill....\nThe reedy song of the wood thrush among the thickets of the wild\ncherry.... The scent of peach leaves, the odour of new-turned soil in\nthe black fields.... The red of the maples in the marsh, the white of\napple trees in bloom.... I cannot find Him out nor know why I am\nhere.... \n\nSome form of expression, however crude, seemed to reenforce and\nintensify the gatherings of the senses; and these words, afterward\nremembered, or even written down in the little book I sometimes carried\nin my pocket, seemed to awaken echoes, however faint, of the exaltation\nof that moment in the woods or fields, and enabled me to live twice\nwhere formerly I had been able to live but once.\n\nIt was by this simple process of concentrating upon what I saw or heard\nthat I increased immeasurably my own joy of my garden and fields and\nthe hills and marshes all about. A little later, for I was a slow\nlearner, I began to practise the same method with the sense of smell,\nand still later with the sense of taste. I said to myself,  I will no\nlonger permit the avid and eager eye to steal away my whole attention.\nI will learn to enjoy more completely all the varied wonders of the\nearth. \n\nSo I tried deliberately shutting the doorways of both sight and\nhearing, and centring the industry of my spirit upon the flavours of\nthe earth. I tested each odour narrowly, compared it well with\nremembered odours, and often turned the impression I had into such poor\nwords as I could command.\n\nWhat a new and wonderful world opened to me then! My takings of nature\nincreased tenfold, a hundredfold, and I came to a new acquaintance with\nmy own garden, my own hills, and all the roads and fields around\nabout and even the town took on strange new meanings for me. I cannot\nexplain it rightly, but it was as though I had found a new earth here\nwithin the old one, but more spacious and beautiful than any I had\nknown before. I have thought, often and often, that this world we live\nin so dumbly, so carelessly, would be more glorious than the tinsel\nheaven of the poets if only we knew how to lay hold upon it, if only we\ncould win that complete command of our own lives which is the end of\nour being.\n\nAt first, as I said, I stopped my work, or loitered as I walked, in\norder to see, or hear, or smell and do so still, for I have entered\nonly the antechamber of the treasure-house; but as I learned better the\nmodest technic of these arts I found that the practice of them went\nwell with the common tasks of the garden or farm, especially with those\nthat were more or less monotonous, like cultivating corn, hoeing\npotatoes, and the like.\n\nThe air is just as full of good sights and good odours for the worker\nas for the idler, and it depends only upon the awareness, the\naliveness, of our own spirits whether we toil like dumb animals or\nbless our labouring hours with the beauty of life. Such enjoyment and a\ngrowing command of our surroundings are possible, after a little\npractice, without taking much of that time we call so valuable and\nwaste so sinfully.  I haven t time,  says the farmer, the banker, the\nprofessor, with a kind of disdain for the spirit of life, when, as a\nmatter of fact, he has all the time there is, all that anybody has to\nwit, _this_ moment, this great and golden moment! but knows not how to\nemploy it. He creeps when he might walk, walks when he might run, runs\nwhen he might fly and lives like a woodchuck in the dark body of\nhimself.\n\nWhy, there are men in this valley who scout the idea that farming,\ncarpentry, merchantry, are anything but drudgery, defend all the evils\nknown to humankind with the argument that  a man must live,  and laugh\nat any one who sees beauty or charm in being here, in working with the\nhands, or, indeed, in just living! While they think of themselves\ncannily as  practical  men, I think them the most impractical men I\nknow, for in a world full of boundless riches they remain obstinately\npoor. They are unwilling to invest even a few of their dollars unearned\nin the real wealth of the earth. For it is only the sense of the spirit\nof life, whether in nature or in other human beings, that lifts men\nabove the beasts and curiously leads them to God, who is the spirit\nboth of beauty and of friendliness. I say truly, having now reached the\npoint in my life where it seems to me I care only for writing that\nwhich is most deeply true for me, that I rarely walk in my garden or\nupon the hills of an evening without thinking of God. It is in my\ngarden that all things become clearer to me, even that miracle whereby\none who has offended may still see God; and this I think a wonderful\nthing. In my garden I understand dimly why evil is in the world, and in\nmy garden learn how transitory it is.\n\nJust now I have come in from work, and will note freshly one of the\nbest odours I have had to-day. As I was working in the corn, a lazy\nbreeze blew across the meadows from the west, and after loitering a\nmoment among the blackberry bushes sought me out where I was busiest.\nDo you know the scent of the blackberry? Almost all the year round it\nis a treasure-house of odours, even when the leaves first come out; but\nit reaches crescendo in blossom time when, indeed, I like it least, for\nbeing too strong. It has a curious fragrance, once well called by a\npoet  the hot scent of the brier,  and aromatically hot it is and sharp\nlike the briers themselves. At times I do not like it at all, for it\ngives me a kind of faintness, while at other times, as to-day, it fills\nme with a strange sense of pleasure as though it were the very breath\nof the spicy earth. It is also a rare friend of the sun, for the hotter\nand brighter the day, the hotter and sharper the scent of the brier.\n\nMany of the commonest and least noticed of plants, flowers, trees,\npossess a truly fragrant personality if once we begin to know them. I\nhad an adventure in my own orchard, only this spring, and made a fine\nnew acquaintance in a quarter least of all expected. I had started down\nthe lane through the garden one morning in the most ordinary way, with\nno thought of any special experience, when I suddenly caught a whiff of\npure delight that stopped me short.\n\n What now can _that_ be?  and I thought to myself that nature had\nplayed some new prank on me.\n\nI turned into the orchard, following my nose. It was not the peach\nbuds, nor the plums, nor the cherries, nor yet the beautiful new\ncoloured leaves of the grape, nor anything I could see along the grassy\nmargin of the pasture. There were other odours all about, old friends\nof mine, but this was some shy and pleasing stranger come venturing\nupon my land.\n\nA moment later I discovered a patch of low green verdure upon the\nground, and dismissed it scornfully as one of my ancient enemies. But\nit is this way with enemies, once we come to know them, they often turn\nout to have a fragrance that is kindly.\n\nWell, this particular fierce enemy was a patch of chickweed. Chickweed!\nInvader of the garden, cossack of the orchard! I discovered, however,\nthat it was in full bloom and covered with small, star-like white\nblossoms.\n\n Well, now,  said I,  are you the guilty rascal? \n\nSo I knelt there and took my delight of it and a rare, delicate good\nodour it was. For several days afterward I would not dig out the patch,\nfor I said to myself,  What a cheerful claim it makes these early days,\nwhen most of the earth is still cold and dead, for a bit of\nimmortality. \n\nThe bees knew the secret already, and the hens and the blackbirds! And\nI thought it no loss, but really a new and valuable pleasure, to divert\nmy path down the lane for several days that I might enjoy more fully\nthis new odour, and make a clear acquaintance with something fine upon\nthe earth I had not known before.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\nOF GOOD AND EVIL ODOURS\n\n\nOf all times of the day for good odours I think the early morning the\nvery best, although the evening just after sunset, if the air falls\nstill and cool, is often as good. Certain qualities or states of the\natmosphere seem to favour the distillation of good odours and I have\nknown times even at midday when the earth was very wonderful to smell.\nThere is a curious, fainting fragrance that comes only with sunshine\nand still heat. Not long ago I was cutting away a thicket of wild\nspiraea which was crowding in upon the cultivated land. It was a hot\nday and the leaves wilted quickly, giving off such a penetrating,\nfainting fragrance that I let the branches lie where they fell the\nafternoon through and came often back to smell of them, for it was a\nfine thing thus to discover an odour wholly new to me.\n\nI like also the first wild, sweet smell of new-cut meadow grass, not\nthe familiar odour of new-mown hay, which comes a little later, and is\nworthy of its good report, but the brief, despairing odour of grass\njust cut down, its juices freshly exposed to the sun. One, as it richly\nin the fields at the mowing. I like also the midday smell of peach\nleaves and peach-tree bark at the summer priming: and have never let\nany one else cut out the old canes from the blackberry rows in my\ngarden for the goodness of the scents which wait upon that work.\n\nAnother odour I have found animating is the odour of burning wastage in\nnew clearings or in old fields, especially in the evening when the\nsmoke drifts low along the land and takes to itself by some strange\nchemical process the tang of earthy things. It is a true saying that\nnothing will so bring back the emotion of a past time as a remembered\nodour. I have had from a whiff of fragrance caught in a city street\nsuch a vivid return of an old time and an old, sad scene that I have\nstopped, trembling there, with an emotion long spent and I thought\nforgotten.\n\nOnce in a foreign city, passing a latticed gateway that closed in a\nnarrow court, I caught the odour of wild sweet balsam. I do not know\nnow where it came from, or what could have caused it but it stopped me\nshort where I stood, and the solid brick walls of that city rolled\naside like painted curtains, and the iron streets dissolved before my\neyes, and with the curious dizziness of nostalgia, I was myself upon\nthe hill of my youth with the gleaming river in the valley, and a hawk\nsailing majestically in the high blue of the sky, and all about and\neverywhere the balsams and the balsams full of the sweet, wild odours\nof the north, and of dreaming boyhood.\n\nAnd there while my body, the shell of me, loitered in that strange\ncity, I was myself four thousand miles and a quarter of a century away,\nreliving, with a conscious passion that boyhood never knew, a moment\ncaught up, like a torch, out of the smouldering wreckage of the past.\n\nDo not tell me that such things die! They all remain with us-all the\nsights, and sounds, and thoughts of by-gone times awaiting only the\nwhiff from some latticed gateway, some closed-in court to spring again\ninto exuberant life. If only we are ready for the great moment!\n\nAs for the odour of the burning wastage of the fields at evening I\nscarcely know if I dare say it. I find it produces in the blood of me a\nkind of primitive emotion, as though it stirred memories older than my\npresent life. Some drowsy cells of the brain awaken to a familiar\nstimulus the odour of the lodge-fire of the savage, the wigwam of the\nIndian. Racial memories!\n\nBut it is not the time of the day, nor the turn of the season, nor yet\nthe way of the wind that matters most but the ardour and glow we\nourselves bring to the fragrant earth. It is a sad thing to reflect\nthat in a world so overflowing with goodness of smell, of fine sights\nand sweet sounds, we pass by hastily and take so little of them. Days\npass when we see no beautiful sight, hear no sweet sound, smell no\nmemorable odour: when we exchange no single word of deeper\nunderstanding with a friend. We have lived a day and added nothing to\nour lives! A blind, grubbing, senseless life that!\n\nIt is a strange thing, also, that instead of sharpening the tools by\nwhich we take hold of life we make studied efforts to dull them. We\nseem to fear life and early begin to stop our ears and close our eyes\nlest we hear and see too much: we clog our senses and cloud our minds.\nWe seek dull security and ease and cease longer to desire adventure and\nstruggle. And then the tragedy of it the poet we all have in us in\nyouth begins to die, the philosopher in us dies, the martyr in us dies,\nso that the long, long time beyond youth with so many of us becomes a\nbusy death. And this I think truer of men than of women: beyond forty\nmany women just begin to awaken to power and beauty, but most men\nbeyond that age go on dying. The task of the artist, whether poet, or\nmusician, or painter, is to keep alive the perishing spirit of free\nadventure in men: to nourish the poet, the prophet, the martyr, we all\nhave in us.\n\nOne s sense of smell, like the sense of taste, is sharpest when he is\nhungry, and I am convinced also that one sees and hears best when\nunclogged with food, undulled with drink, undrugged with smoke. For me,\nalso, weariness, though not exhaustion, seems to sharpen all the\nsenses. Keenness goes with leanness. When I have been working hard or\ntramping the country roads in the open air and come in weary and hungry\nat night and catch the fragrance of the evening along the road or upon\nthe hill, or at barn-doors smell the unmilked cows, or at the doorway,\nthe comfortable odours of cooking supper how good that all is! At such\ntimes I know Esau to the core: the forthright, nature-loving, simple\nman he was, coming in dabbled with the blood of hunted animals and\nhungry for the steaming pottage.\n\nIt follows that if we take excessive joys of one sense, as of taste,\nnature, ever seeking just balances, deprives us of the full enjoyment\nof the others,  I am stuffed, cousin,  cries Beatrice in the play,  I\ncannot smell.   I have drunk,  remarks the Clown in Arcady,  what are\nroses to me?  We forget that there are five chords in the great scale\nof life sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch and few of us ever master\nthe chords well enough to get the full symphony of life, but are\nsomething like little pig-tailed girls playing Peter Piper with one\nfinger while all the music of the universe is in the Great Instrument,\nand all to be had for the taking.\n\nOf most evil odours, it can be said that they are temporary or\nunnecessary: and any unpleasant odour, such as that of fruit sprays in\nspring, or fertilizer newly spread on the land, can be borne and even\nwelcomed if it is appropriate to the time and place. Some smells, evil\nat first, become through usage not unpleasant. I once stopped with a\nwolf-trapper in the north country, who set his bottle of bait outside\nwhen I came in. He said it was  good and strong  and sniffed it with\nappreciation. I agreed with him that it was strong. To him it was not\nunpleasant, though made of the rancid fat of the muscallonge. All\nnature seems to strive against evil odours, for when she warns us of\ndecay she is speeding decay: and a manured field produces later the\nbest of all odours. Almost all shut-in places sooner or later acquire\nan evil odour: and it seems a requisite for good smells that there be\nplenty of sunshine and air; and so it is with the hearts and souls of\nmen. If they are long shut in upon themselves they grow rancid.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\nFOLLOW YOUR NOSE!\n\n\n Listen to the Exhortation of the Dawn \nLook to this day! For it is Life,\nThe very Life of Life! \n\nOn a spring morning one has only to step out into the open country,\nlift his head to the sky and follow his nose....\n\nIt was a big and golden morning, and Sunday to boot, and I walked down\nthe lane to the lower edge of the field, where the wood and the marsh\nbegin. The sun was just coming up over the hills and all the air was\nfresh and clear and cool. High in the heavens a few fleecy clouds were\ndrifting, and the air was just enough astir to waken the hemlocks into\nfaint and sleepy exchanges of confidence.\n\nIt seemed to me that morning that the world was never before so high,\nso airy, so golden, All filled to the brim with the essence of sunshine\nand spring morning so that one s spirit dissolved in it, became a part\nof it. Such a morning! Such a morning!\n\nFrom that place and just as I was I set off across the open land.\n\nIt was the time of all times for good odours soon after sunrise before\nthe heat of the day had drawn off the rich distillations of the night.\n\nIn that keen moment I caught, drifting, a faint but wild fragrance upon\nthe air, and veered northward full into the way of the wind. I could\nnot at first tell what this particular odour was, nor separate it from\nthe general good odour of the earth; but I followed it intently across\nthe moor-like open land. Once I thought I had lost it entirely, or that\nthe faint northern airs had shifted, but I soon caught it clearly\nagain, and just as I was saying to myself,  I ve got it, I ve got\nit! for it is a great pleasure to identify a friendly odour in the\nfields I saw, near the bank of the brook, among ferns and raspberry\nbushes, a thorn-apple tree in full bloom.\n\n So there you are!  I said.\n\nI hastened toward it, now in the full current and glory of its\nfragrance. The sun, looking over the taller trees to the east, had\ncrowned the top of it with gold, so that it was beautiful to see; and\nit was full of honey bees as excited as I.\n\nA score of feet onward toward the wind, beyond the thorn-apple tree, I\npassed wholly out of the range of its fragrance into another world, and\nbegan trying for some new odour. After one or two false scents, for\nthis pursuit has all the hazards known to the hunter, I caught an odour\nlong known to me, not strong, nor yet very wonderful, but distinctive.\nIt led me still a little distance northward to a sunny slope just\nbeyond a bit of marsh, and, sure enough, I found an old friend, the\nwild sweet geranium, a world of it, in full bloom, and I sat down there\nfor some time to enjoy it fully.\n\nBeyond that, and across a field wild with tangles of huckleberry bushes\nand sheep laurel where the bluets and buttercups were blooming, and in\nshady spots the shy white violet, I searched for the odour of a certain\nclump of pine trees I discovered long ago. I knew that I must come upon\nit soon, but could not tell just when or where. I held up a moistened\nfinger to make sure of the exact direction of the wind, and bearing,\nthen, a little eastward, soon came full upon it as a hunter might\nsurprise a deer in the forest. I crossed the brook a second time and\nthrough a little marsh, making it the rule of the game never to lose\nfor an instant the scent I was following even though I stopped in a low\nspot to admire a mass of thrifty blue flags, now beginning to bloom and\ncame thus to the pines I was seeking. They are not great trees, nor\nnoble, but gnarled and angular and stunted, for the soil in that place\nis poor and thin, and the winds in winter keen; but the brown blanket\nof needles they spread and the shade they offer the traveller are not\nless hospitable; nor the fragrance they give off less enchanting. The\nodour of the pine is one I love.\n\nI sat down there in a place I chose long ago a place already as\nfamiliar with pleasing memories as a favourite room so that I wonder\nthat some of the notes I have written there do not of themselves exhale\nthe very odour of the pines.\n\nAnd all about was hung a fair tapestry of green, and the earthy floor\nwas cleanly carpeted with brown, and the roof above was in arched\nmosaic, the deep, deep blue of the sky seen through the gnarled and\nknotted branches of the pines. Through a little opening among the\ntrees, as through a window, I could see the cattle feeding in the wide\nmeadows, all headed alike, and yellow butterflies drifted across the\nopen spaces, and there were bumblebees and dragonflies. And presently I\nheard some one tapping, tapping, at the door of the wood and glancing\nup quickly I saw my early visitor. There he was, as neighbourly as you\nplease, and not in the least awed by my intrusion; there he was, far\nout on the limb of a dead tree, stepping energetically up and down,\nlike a sailor reefing a sail, and rapping and tapping as he worked a\ndowny woodpecker.\n\n Good morning, sir,  I said.\n\nHe stopped for scarcely a second, cocked one eye at me, and went back\nto his work again. Who was I that I should interrupt his breakfast?\n\nAnd I was glad I was there, and I began enumerating, as though I were\nthe accredited reporter for the _Woodland Gazette_, all the good news\nof the day.\n\n The beech trees.  said aloud,  have come at last to full leafage. The\nwild blackberries are ready to bloom, the swamp roses are budded. Brown\nplanted fields I see, and drooping elms, and the young crows cry from\ntheir nests on the knoll.... I know now that, whoever I am, whatever I\ndo, I am welcome here; the meadows are as green this spring for Tom the\ndrunkard, and for Jim the thief, as for Jonathan the parson, or for\nWalt the poet: the wild cherry blooms as richly, and the odour of the\npine is as sweet \n\nAt that moment, like a flame for clearness, I understood some of the\ndeep and simple things of life, as that we are to be like the friendly\npines, and the elm trees, and the open fields, and reject no man and\njudge no man. Once, a long time ago, I read a sober treatise by one who\ntried to prove with elaborate knowledge that, upon the whole, good was\ntriumphant in this world, and that probably there was a God, and I\nremember going out dully afterward upon the hill, for I was weighed\ndown with a strange depression, and the world seemed to me a hard,\ncold, narrow place where good must be heavily demonstrated in books.\nAnd as I sat there the evening fell, a star or two came out in the\nclear blue of the sky, and suddenly it became all simple to me, so that\nI laughed aloud at that laborious big-wig for spending so many futile\nyears in seeking doubtful proof of what he might have learned in one\nrare home upon my hill. And far more than he could prove far more.\n\nAs I came away from that place I knew I should never again be quite the\nsame person I was before.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nWell, we cannot remain steadily upon the heights. At least I cannot,\nand would not if I could. After I have been out about so long on such\nan adventure as this, something lets go inside of me, and I come down\nout of the mountain and yet know deeply that I have been where the bush\nwas burning; and have heard the Voice in the Fire.\n\nSo it was yesterday morning. I realized suddenly that I was\nhungry commonly, coarsely hungry. My whole attention, I was going to\nsay my whole soul, shifted to the thought of ham and eggs! This may\nseem a tremendous anti-climax, but it is, nevertheless, a sober report\nof what happened. At the first onset of this new mood, the ham-and-eggs\nmood, let us call it, I was a little ashamed or abashed at the\nremembrance of my wild flights, and had a laugh at the thought of\nmyself floundering around in the marshes and fields a mile from home,\nwhen Harriet, no doubt, had breakfast waiting for me! What absurd,\ncontradictory, inconsistent, cowardly creatures we are, anyway!\n\nThe house seemed an inconceivable distance away, and the only real\nthing in the world the gnawing emptiness under my belt. And I was wet\nto my knees, and the tangled huckleberry bushes and sheep laurel and\nhardback I had passed through so joyously a short time before now clung\nheavily about my legs as I struggled through them. And the sun was hot\nand high and there were innumerable small, black buzzing flies.\n\nTo cap the climax, whom should I meet as I was crossing the fence into\nthe lower land but my friend Horace, He had been out early looking for\na cow that had dropped her calf in the woods, and was now driving them\nslowly up the lane, the cow a true pattern of solicitous motherhood,\nthe calf a true pattern of youth, dashing about upon uncertain legs.\n\n Takin  the air, David? \n\nI amuse Horace. Horace is an important man in this community. He has\nbig, solid barns, and money in the bank, and a reputation for\nhardheadedness. He is also known as a  driver ; and has had sore\ntrouble with a favourite son. He believes in  goin  it slow  and\n playin  safe,  and he is convinced that  ye can t change human\nnature. \n\nHis question came to me with a kind of shock. I imagined with a\nvividness impossible to describe what Horace would think if I answered\nhim squarely and honestly, if I were to say:\n\n I ve been down in the marshes following my nose enjoying the thorn\napples and the wild geraniums, talking with a woodpecker and reporting\nthe morning news of the woods for an imaginary newspaper. \n\nI was hungry, and in a mood to smile at myself anyway (good-humouredly\nand forgivingly as we always smile at ourselves!) before I met Horace,\nand the flashing vision I had of Horace s dry, superior smile finished\nme. Was there really anything in this world but cows and calves, and\ngreat solid barns, and oatcrops, and cash in the bank?\n\n Been in the brook?  asked Horace, observing my wet legs.\n\nTalk about the courage to face cannon and Cossacks! It is nothing to\nthe courage required to speak aloud in broad daylight of the finest\nthings we have in us! I was not equal to it.\n\n Oh, I ve been down for a tramp in the marsh,  I said, trying to put\nhim off.\n\nBut Horace is a Yankee of the Yankees and loves nothing better than to\nchase his friends into corners with questions, and leave them\nultimately with the impression that they are somehow less sound,\nsensible, practical, than he is and he usually proves it, not because\nhe is right, but because he is sure, and in a world of shadowy\nhalt-beliefs and half-believers he is without doubts.\n\n What ye find down there?  asked Horace.\n\n Oh, I was just looking around to see how the spring was coming on. \n\n Hm-m,  said Horace, eloquently, and when I did not reply, he\ncontinued,  Often git out in the morning as early as this? \n\n Yes,  I said,  often. \n\n And do you find things any different now from what they would be later\nin the day? \n\nAt this the humour of the whole situation dawned on me and I began to\nrevive. When things grow hopelessly complicated, and we can t laugh, we\ndo either one of two things: we lie or we die. But if we can laugh, we\ncan fight! And be honest!\n\n Horace,  I said,  I know what you are thinking about. \n\nHorace s face remained perfectly impassive, but there was a glint of\ncuriosity in his eye.\n\n You ve been thinking I ve been wasting my time beating around down\nthere in the swamp just to look at things and smell of things which you\nwouldn t do. You think I m a kind of impractical dreamer, now, don t\nyou, Horace? I ll warrant you ve told your wife just that more than\nonce. Come, now! \n\nI think I made a rather shrewd hit, for Horace looked uncomfortable and\na little foolish.\n\n Come now, honest!  I laughed and looked him in the eye.\n\n Waal, now, ye see \n\n Of course you do, and I don t mind it in the least. \n\nA little dry gleam of humour came in his eye.\n\n Ain t ye? \n\nIt s a fine thing to have it straight out with a friend.\n\n No,  I said,  I m the practical man and you re the dreamer. I ve\nrarely known in all my life, Horace, such a confirmed dreamer as you\nare, nor a more impractical one. \n\nHorace laughed.\n\n How do ye make that out? \n\nWith this my spirit returned to me and I countered with a question as\ngood as his. It is as valuable in argument as in war to secure the\noffensive.\n\n Horace, what are you working for, anyhow? \n\nThis is always a devastating shot. Ninety-nine out of every hundred\nhuman beings are desperately at work grubbing, sweating, worrying,\nthinking, sorrowing, enjoying, without in the least knowing why.\n\n Why, to make a living same as you,  said Horace.\n\n Oh, come now, if I were to spread the report in town that a poor\nneighbour of mine, that s you, Horace, was just making his living, that\nhe himself had told me so, what would you say? Horace, what are you\nworking for? It s something more than a mere living. \n\n Waal, now, I ll tell ye, if ye want it straight, I m layin  aside a\nlittle something for a rainy day. \n\n A little something!  this in the exact inflection of irony by which\nhere in the country we express our opinion that a friend has really a\ngood deal more laid aside than anybody knows about. Horace smiled also\nin the exact manner of one so complimented.\n\n Horace, what are you going to do with that thirty thousand dollars? \n\n Thirty thousand!  Horace looks at me and smiles, and I look at Horace\nand smile.\n\n Honest now! \n\n Waal, I ll tell ye a little peace and comfort for me and Josie in our\nold age, and a little something to make the children remember us when\nwe re gone. Isn t that worth working for? \n\nHe said this with downright seriousness. I did not press him further,\nbut if I had tried I could probably have got the even deeper admission\nof that faith that lies, like bed rock, in the thought of most men that\nhonesty and decency here will not be without its reward there, however\nthey may define the  there.  Some  prophet s paradise to come! \n\n I knew it!  I said.  Horace, you re a dreamer, too. You are dreaming\nof peace and comfort in your old age, a little quiet house in town\nwhere you won t have to labour as hard as you do now, where you won t\nbe worried by crops and weather, and where Mrs. Horace will be able to\nrest after so many years of care and work and sorrow a kind of earthly\nheaven! And you are dreaming of leaving a bit to your children and\ngrandchildren, and dreaming of the gratitude they will express. All\ndreams, Horace! \n\n Oh, waal \n\n The fact is, you are working for a dream, and living on dreams isn t\nthat true? \n\n Waal, now, if you mean it that way \n\n I see I haven t got you beaten yet, Horace! \n\nHe smiled broadly,\n\n We are all amiable enough with our own dreams. You think that what you\nare working for your dream is somehow sounder and more practical than\nwhat I am working for. \n\nHorace started to reply, but had scarcely debouched from his trenches\nwhen I opened on him with one of my twenty-fours.\n\n How do you know that you are ever going to be old? \n\nIt hit.\n\n And if you do grow old, how do you know that thirty thousand\ndollars oh, we ll call it that is really enough, provided you don t\nlose it before, to buy peace and comfort for you, or that what you\nleave your children will make either you or them any happier? Peace and\ncomfort and happiness are terribly expensive, Horace and prices have\nbeen going up fast since this war began! \n\nHorace looked at me uncomfortably, as men do in the world when you\nshake the foundations of the tabernacle. I have thought since that I\nprobably pressed him too far; but these things go deep with me.\n\n No, Horace,  I said,  you are the dreamer and the impractical dreamer\nat that! \n\nFor a moment Horace answered nothing; and we both stood still there in\nthe soft morning sunshine with the peaceful fields and woods all about\nus, two human atoms struggling hotly with questions too large for us.\nThe cow and the new calf were long out of sight. Horace made a motion\nas if to follow them up the lane, but I held him with my glittering\neye as I think of it since, not without a kind of amusement at my own\nseriousness.\n\n I m the practical man, Horace, for I want my peace now, and my\nhappiness now, and my God now. I can t wait. My barns may burn or my\ncattle die, or the solid bank where I keep my deferred joy may fail, or\nI myself by to-morrow be no longer here. \n\nSo powerfully and vividly did this thought take possession of me that I\ncannot now remember to have said a decent good-bye to Horace (never\nmind, he knows me!). At least when I was halfway up the hill I found\nmyself gesticulating with one clenched fist and saying to myself with a\nkind of passion:  Why wait to be peaceful? Why not be peaceful now? Why\nnot be happy now? Why not be rich now? \n\nFor I think it truth that a life uncommanded now is uncommanded; a life\nunenjoyed now is unenjoyed; a life not lived wisely now is not lived\nwisely: for the past is gone and no one knows the future.\n\nAs for Horace is he convinced that he is an impractical dreamer. Not a\nbit of it! He was merely flurried for a moment in his mind, and\nprobably thinks me now, more than ever before, just what I think him.\nAbsurd place, isn t it, this world?\n\nSo I reached home at last. You have no idea, unless you have tried it\nyourself, how good breakfast tastes alter a three-mile tramp in the\nsharp morning air. The odour of ham and eggs, and new muffins, and\ncoffee, as you come up the hill, there is an odour for you! And it was\ngood to see Harriet.\n\n Harriet,  I said,  you are a sight for tired eyes. \n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\nTHE GREEN PEOPLE\n\n\nI have always had a fondness, when upon my travels about the world of\nthe near-by woods and fields, for nipping a bit of a twig here and\nthere and tasting the tart or bitter quality of it. I suppose the\ninstinct descends to me from the herbivorous side of my distant\nancestry. I love a spray of white cedar, especially the spicy, sweet\ninside bark, or a pine needle, or the tender, sweet, juicy end of a\nspike of timothy grass drawn slowly from its close-fitting sheath, or a\ntwig of the birch that tastes like wintergreen.\n\nI think this no strange or unusual instinct, for I have seen many other\npeople doing it, especially farmers around here, who go through the\nfields nipping the new oats, testing the red-top, or chewing a bit of\nsassafras bark. I have in mind a clump of shrubbery in the town road,\nwhere an old house once stood, of the kind called here by some the\n sweet-scented shrub,  and the brandies of it nearest the road are\nquite clipped and stunted I m being nipped at by old ladies who pass\nthat way and take to it like cat to catnip.\n\nFor a long time this was a wholly unorganized, indeed all but\nunconscious, pleasure, a true pattern of the childish way we take hold\nof the earth; but when I began to come newly alive to all things as I\nhave already related I chanced upon this curious, undeveloped instinct.\n\n What is it I have here?  I asked myself, for I thought this might be a\nnew handle for getting hold of nature.\n\nAlong one edge of my field is a natural hedge of wild cherry, young\nelms and ashes, dogwood, black raspberry bushes and the like, which has\nlong been a pleasure to the eye, especially in the early morning when\nthe shadows of it lie long and cool upon the meadow. Many times I have\nwalked that way to admire it, or to listen for the catbirds that nest\nthere, or to steal upon a certain gray squirrel who comes out from his\nhome in the chestnut tree on a fine morning to inspect his premises.\n\nIt occurred to me one day that I would make the acquaintance of this\nhedge in a new way; so I passed slowly along it where the branches of\nthe trees brushed my shoulder and picked a twig here and there and bit\nit through.  This is cherry,  I said;  this is elm, this is dogwood. \nAnd it was a fine adventure to know old friends in new ways, for I had\nnever thought before to test the trees and shrubs by their taste and\nsmell. After that, whenever I passed that way, I closed my eyes and\ntried for further identifications by taste, and was soon able to tell\nquickly half a dozen other varieties of trees, shrubs, and smaller\nplants along that bit of meadow.\n\nPresently, as one who learns to navigate still water near shore longs\nfor more thrilling voyages, I tried the grassy old roads in the woods,\nwhere young trees and other growths were to be found in great variety:\nand had a joy of it I cannot describe, for old and familiar places were\nthus made new and wonderful to me. And when I think of those places,\nnow, say in winter, I grasp them more vividly and strongly than ever I\ndid before, for I think not only how they look, but how they taste and\nsmell, and I even know many of the growing things by the touch of them.\nIt is certain that our grasp of life is in direct proportion to the\nvariety and warmth of the ways in which we lay hold of it. No thought\nno beauty and no joy.\n\nOn these excursions I have often reflected that if I were blind, I\nshould still find here unexplored joys of life, and should make it a\npoint to know all the friendly trees and shrubs around about by the\ntaste or smell or touch of them. I think seriously that this method of\nwidening the world of the blind, and increasing their narrower joys,\nmight well be developed, though it would be wise for such as do take it\nto borrow first the eyes of a friend to see that no poison ivy, which\ncertain rascally birds plant along our fences and hedges, is lurking\nabout.\n\nSave for this precaution I know of nothing that will injure the taster,\nthough he must be prepared, here and there, for shocks and thrills of\nbitterness. A lilac leaf, for example, and to a scarcely lesser degree\nthe willow and the poplar are, when bitten through, of a penetrating\nand intense bitterness; but do no harm, and will daunt no one who is\nreally adventurous. There is yet to be written a botany, or, better\nyet, a book of nature, for the blind.\n\nIt is by knowing human beings that we come to understand them, and by\nunderstanding them come to love them, and so it is with the green\npeople. When I was a boy in the wild north country trees were enemies\nto be ruthlessly fought to be cut down, sawed, split, burned anything\nto be rid of them. The ideal in making a home place was to push the\nforest as far away from it as possible. But now, when I go to the\nwoods, it is like going among old and treasured friends, and with riper\nacquaintance the trees come to take on, curiously, a kind of\npersonality, so that I am much fonder of some trees than of others, and\ninstinctively seek out the companionship of certain trees in certain\nmoods, as one will his friends.\n\nI love the unfolding beeches in spring, and the pines in winter; the\nelms I care for afar off, like great aloof men, whom I can admire; but\nfor friendly confidences give me an apple tree in an old green meadow.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nIn this more complete understanding I have been much aided by getting\nhold of my friends of the hedges and hills in the new ways I have\ndescribed. At times I even feel that I have become a fully accepted\nmember of the Fraternity of the Living Earth, for I have already\nreceived many of the benefits which go with that association; and I\nknow now for a certainty that it makes no objection to its members\nbecause they are old, or sad, or have sinned, but welcomes them all\nalike.\n\nThe essential taste of the cherry and peach and all their numerous\nrelatives is, in variation, that of the peach pit, so that the whole\ntribe may be easily recognized, though it was some time before I could\ntell with certainty the peach from the cherry. The oak shoot, when\nchewed a little, tastes exactly like the smell of new oak lumber; the\nmaple has a peculiar taste and smell of its own that I can find no\ncomparison for, and the poplar is one of the bitterest trees that ever\nI have tasted. The trees pines, spruces, hemlocks, balsams, cedars are\nto me about the pleasantest of all, both in taste and odour, and though\nthe spruces and pines taste and smell much alike at first, one soon\nlearns to distinguish them. The elm has a rather agreeable,\nnondescript, bitterish taste, but the linden is gummy and of a mediocre\nquality, like the tree itself, which I dislike. Some of the sweetest\nflowering shrubs, such as the lilac, have the bitterest of leaves and\ntwigs or, like certain kinds of clematis, have a seed that when green\nis sharper than cayenne pepper, while others, like the rose, are\npleasanter in flavour. The ash tree is not too bitter and a little\nsour.\n\nI give here only a few of the commoner examples, for I wish to make\nthis no tedious catalogue of the flavours of the green people. I am not\na scientist, nor would wish to be taken for one. Only last winter I had\nmy pretensions sadly shocked when I tasted twigs cut from various trees\nand shrubs and tried to identify them by taste or by smell, and while\nit was a pleasing experiment I found I could not certainly place above\nhalf of them; partly, no doubt, because many growing things keep their\nflavours well wrapped up in winter. No, I have not gone far upon this\npleasant road, but neither am I in any great hurry; for there yet\nremains much time in this and my future lives to conquer the secrets of\nthe earth. I plan to devote at least one entire life to science, and\nmay find I need several!\n\nOne great reason why the sense of taste and the sense of smell have not\nthe same honour as the sense of sight or of hearing is that no way has\nyet been found to make a true art of either. For sight, we have\npainting, sculpturing, photography, architecture, and the like; and for\nhearing, music; and for both, poetry and the drama. But the other\nsenses are more purely personal, and have not only been little studied\nor thought about, but are the ones least developed, and most dimmed and\nclogged by the customs of our lives.\n\nFor the sense of smell we have, indeed, the perfumer s art, but a poor\nrudimentary art it is, giving little freedom for the artist who would\ndraw his inspirations freshly from nature. I can, indeed, describe\npoorly in words the odours of this June morning the mingled lilacs,\nlate wild cherries, new-broken soil, and the fragrance of the sun on\ngreen verdure, for there are here both lyrical and symphonic odours but\nhow inadequate it is! I can tell you what I feel and smell and taste,\nand give you, perhaps, a desire another spring to spend the months of\nMay and June in the country, but I can scarcely make you live again the\nvery moment of life I have lived, which is the magic quality of the\nbest art. The art of the perfumer which, like all crude art, thrives\nupon blatancy, does not make us go to gardens, or love the rose, but\noften instils in us a kind of artificiality, so that perfumes, so far\nfrom being an inspiration to us, increasing our lives, become often the\nbadge of the abnormal, used by those unsatisfied with simple, clean,\nnatural things.\n\nAnd as a people deficient in musical art delights in ragtime tunes, so\na people deficient in the true art of tasting and smelling delights in\nragtime odours and ragtime tastes.\n\nI do not know that the three so-called lesser senses will ever be\norganized to the point where they are served by well-established arts,\nbut this I do know that there are three great ways of entering upon a\nbetter understanding of this magic earth which are now neglected.\n\nI think we have come upon hasty and heated days, and are too much\nmastered by the god of hurry and the swift and greedy eye. We accept\nflashing pictures of life for life itself; we rush here and rush there\nand, having arrived, rush away again to what sensible purpose? Be still\na little! Be still!\n\nI do not mean by stillness, stagnation not yet lazy contentment, but\nlife more deeply thought about, more intensely realized, an activity so\nconcentrated that it is quiet. Be still then!\n\nSo it is that, though I am no worshipper of the old, I think the older\ngardeners had in some ways a better practice of the art than we have,\nfor they planted not for the eye alone but for the nose and the sense\nof taste and even, in growing such plants as the lamb s tongue, to\ngratify, curiously, the sense of touch. They loved the scented herbs,\nand appropriately called them simples. Some of these old simples I am\ngreatly fond of, and like to snip a leaf as I go by to smell or taste;\nbut many of them, I here confess, have for me a rank and culinary\nodour as sage and thyme and the bold scarlet monarda, sometimes called\nbergamot.\n\nBut if their actual fragrance is not always pleasing, and their uses\nare now grown obscure, I love well the names of many of them whether\nfrom ancient association or because the words themselves fall\npleasantly upon the ear, as, for example, sweet marjoram and dill,\nanise and summer savoury, lavender and sweet basil. Coriander! Caraway!\nCumin! And  there s rosemary, that s for remembrance; pray you, love,\nremember,... there s fennel for you, and columbines: there s rue for\nyou: and here s some for me  All sweet names that one loves to roll\nunder his tongue.\n\nI have not any great number of these herbs in my own garden, but, when\nI go among those I do have, I like to call them by their familiar names\nas I would a dignified doctor or professor, if ever I knew him well\nenough.\n\nIt is in this want of balance and quietude that the age fails most. We\nare all for action, not at all for reflection; we think there are easy\nways to knowledge and shortcuts to perfection; we are for laws rather\nthan for life.\n\nAnd this reminds me inevitably of a mellow-spirited old friend who\nlives not a thousand miles from here I must not tell his name whose\ngreatest word is  proportion.  At this moment, as I write, I can hear\nthe roll of his resonant old voice on the syllable p-o-r prop-o-rtion.\nHe is the kind of man good to know and to trust.\n\nIf ever I bring him a hard problem, as, indeed, I delight to do, it is\na fine thing to see him square himself to meet it. A light comes in his\neye, he draws back his chin a little and exclaims occasionally:\n Well well! \n\nHe will have all the facts and circumstances fully mobilized, standing\nup side by side before him like an awkward squad, and there s nothing\nmore awkward than some facts that have to stand out squarely in\ndaylight! And he inquires into their ancestry, makes them run out their\ntongues, and pokes them once or twice in the ribs, to make sure that\nthey are lively and robust facts capable of making a good fight for\ntheir lives. He never likes to see any one thing too large, as a\nchurch, a party, a reform, a new book, or a new fashion, lest he see\nsomething else too small; but will have everything, as he says, in true\nproportion. If he occasionally favours a little that which is old,\nsolid, well-placed, it is scarcely to be measured to him as a fault in\nan age so overwhelmed with the shiny new.\n\nHe is a fine, up-standing, hearty old gentleman with white hair and\nrosy cheeks, and the bright eyes of one who has lived all his life with\ntemperance. One incident I cannot resist telling, though it has nothing\ndirectly to do with this story, but it will let you know what kind of a\nman my old friend is, and when all is said, it would be a fine thing to\nknow about any man. Not long ago he was afflicted with a serious loss,\na loss that would have crushed some men, but when I met him not long\nafterward, though the lines around his eyes were grown deeper, he\ngreeted me in his old serene, courtly manner, When I would have\ncomforted him with my sympathy, for I felt myself near enough to speak\nof his loss, he replied calmly:\n\n How can we know whether a thing is evil until we reach the end of it?\nIt may be good! \n\nOne of the events I esteem among the finest of the whole year is my old\nfriend s birthday party. Every winter, on the twenty-sixth of February,\na party of his friends drop in to see him. Some of us go out of habit,\ndrawn by our affection for the old gentleman; others, I think, he\ninvites, for he knows to perfection the delicate shadings of\ncompanionship which divide those who come unbidden from those, not less\nloved but shyer, who must be summoned.\n\nNow this birthday gathering has one historic ceremony which none of us\nwould miss, because it expresses so completely the essence of our\nfriend s generous and tolerant, but just, nature. He is, as I have\nsaid, a temperate man, and dislikes as much as any one I know the whole\nalcohol business; but living in a community where the struggle for\ntemperance has often been waged intemperately, and where there is a\nlurking belief that cudgelling laws can make men virtuous, he publishes\nabroad once a year his declaration of independence.\n\nAfter we have been with our friend for an hour or so, and are well\nwarmed and happy with the occasion, he rises solemnly and goes to the\ntoby-closet at the end of his generous fireplace, where the apple-log\nspecially cut for the occasion is burning merrily, and as we all fall\nsilent, knowing well what is coming, he unlocks the door and takes from\nthe shelf a bottle of old peach brandy which, having uncorked, he\ngravely smells of and possibly lets his nearest neighbour smell of too.\nThen he brings from the sideboard a server set with diminutive glasses\nthat have been polished until they shine for the great occasion, and,\nhaving filled them all with the ripe liquor, he passes them around to\neach of us. We have all risen and are becomingly solemn as he now\nproposes the toast of the year and it is always the same toast:\n\n Here s to moderation in all things! \n\nHe takes a sip or two, and continues:\n\n Here s to temperance the queen of the virtues. \n\nSo we all drink off our glasses. Our mellow old friend smacks his lips,\ncorks the tall bottle, and returns it to his toby-closet, where it\nreposes undisturbed for another year.\n\n And now, gentlemen,  he says, heartily,  let us go in to dinner. ...\n\nAs I think of it, now that it is written, this story bears no very\nclose relationship to my original subject, and yet it seemed to follow\nnaturally enough as I set it down, and to belong with the simple and\nwell-flavoured things of the garden and fields; and recalling the\nadvice of Cobbett to his nephew on the art of writing,  never to alter\na thought, for that which has come of itself into your mind is likely\nto pass into that of another more readily and with more effect than\nanything which you can by reflection invent,  I leave it here just as I\nwrote it, hoping that the kinship of my genial old friend with simple\nand natural and temperate things may plainly appear.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\nPLACES OF RETIREMENT\n\n\n Good God, how sweet are all things here!\nHow beautiful the fields appear!\n    How cleanly do we feed and lie!\nLord, what good hours do we keep!\nHow quietly we sleep! \n\n\nCHARLES COTTON (a friend of Izaak Walton)\n\n\n_April 29th_.\n\nI have been spending a Sunday of retirement in the woods. I came out\nwith a strange, deep sense of depression, and though I knew it was\nmyself and not the world that was sad, yet I could not put it away from\nme. ... As I write, the wood seems full of voices, the little rustling\nof leaves, the minute sounds of twigs chafing together, the cry of\nfrogs from the swamp so steady and monotonous that it scarcely arrests\nattention. Of odours, a-plenty! Just behind me, so that by turning my\nhead I can see into their cool green depths, are a number of hemlock\ntrees, the breath of which is incalculably sweet. All the earth the\nvery earth itself has a good rich growing odour, pleasant to smell.\n\nThese things have been here a thousand years a million years and yet\nthey are not stale, but are ever fresh, ever serene, ever here to\nloosen one s crabbed spirit and make one quietly happy. It seems to me\nI could not live if it were not possible often to come thus alone to\nthe woods.\n\n...On later walking I discover that here and there on warm southern\nslopes the dog-tooth violet is really in bloom, and worlds of hepatica,\nboth lavender and white, among the brown leaves. One of the notable\nsights of the hillsides at this time of the year is the striped maple,\nthe long wands rising straight and chaste among thickets of\nless-striking young birches and chestnuts, and having a bud of a\ndelicate pink a marvel of minute beauty. A little trailing arbutus I\nfound and renewed my joy with one of the most exquisite odours of all\nthe spring; Solomon s seal thrusting up vivid green cornucopias from\nthe lifeless earth, and often near a root or stone the red partridge\nberries among their bright leaves. The laurel on the hills is sharply\nvisible, especially when among deciduous trees, and along the old brown\nroads are patches of fresh wintergreen. In a cleft of the hills near\nthe top of Norwottuck, though the day is warm, I found a huge\nsnowbank the last held trench of old winter, the last guerilla of the\ncold, driven to the fastnesses of the hills.... I have enjoyed this day\nwithout trying. After the first hour or so of it all the worries\ndropped away, all the ambitions, all the twisted thoughts \n\nIt is strange how much thrilling joy there is in the discovery of the\nages-old miracle of returning life in the woods: each green adventurer,\neach fragrant joy, each bird-call and the feel of the soft, warm\nsunshine upon one s back after months of winter. On any terms life is\ngood. The only woe, the only Great Woe, is the woe of never having been\nborn. Sorrow, yes; failure, yes; weakness, yes the sad loss of dear\nfriends yes! But oh, the good God: I still live!\n\nBeing alone without feeling alone is one of the great experiences of\nlife, and he who practises it has acquired an infinitely valuable\npossession. People fly to crowds for happinesss not knowing that all\nthe happiness they find there they must take with them. Thus they\ndivert and distract that within them which creates power and joy, until\nby flying always away from themselves, seeking satisfaction from\nwithout rather than from within, they become infinitely boresome to\nthemselves, so that they can scarcely bear a moment of their own\nsociety.\n\nBut if once a man have a taste of true and happy retirement, though it\nbe but a short hour, or day, now and then, he has found, or is\nbeginning to find, a sure place of refuge, of blessed renewal, toward\nwhich in the busiest hours he will find his thoughts wistfully\nstealing. How stoutly will he meet the buffets of the world if he knows\nhe has such a place of retirement where all is well-ordered and full of\nbeauty, and right counsels prevail, and true things are noted.\n\nAs a man grows older, if he cultivate the art of retirement, not indeed\nas an end in itself, but as a means of developing a richer and freer\nlife, he will find his reward growing surer and greater until in time\nnone of the storms or shocks of life any longer disturbs him. He might\nin time even reach the height attained by Diogenes, of whom Epictetus\nsaid,  It was not possible for any man to approach him, nor had any man\nthe means of laying hold upon him to enslave him. He had everything\neasily loosed, everything only hanging to him. If you laid hold of his\nproperty, he would rather have let it go and be yours than he would\nhave followed you for it; if you laid hold of his leg he would have let\ngo his leg: if all of his body, all his poor body; his intimates,\nfriends, country, just the same. For he knew from whence he had them,\nand from whom and on what conditions. \n\nThe best partners of solitude are books. I like to take a book with me\nin my pocket, although I find the world so full of interesting\nthings sights, sounds, odours that often I never read a word in it. It\nis like having a valued friend with you, though you walk for miles\nwithout saying a word to him or he to you: but if you really know your\nfriend, it is a curious thing how, subconsciously, you are aware of\nwhat he is thinking and feeling about this hillside or that distant\nview. And so it is with books. It is enough to have this writer in your\npocket, for the very thought of him and what he would say to these old\nfields and pleasant trees is ever freshly delightful. And he never\ninterrupts at inconvenient moments, nor intrudes his thoughts upon\nyours unless you desire it.\n\nI do not want long books and least of all story books in the\nwoods these are for the library but rather scraps and extracts and\ncondensations from which thoughts can be plucked like flowers and\ncarried for a while in the buttonhole. So it is that I am fond of all\nkinds of anthologies. I have one entitled  Traveller s Joy,  another,\n Songs of Nature,  and I have lately found the best one I know called\n The Spirit of Man  by Robert Bridges, the English laureate. Other\nlittle books that fit well in the pocket on a tramp, because they are\ntruly companionable, are Ben Jonson s  Timber,  one of the very best,\nand William Penn s  Fruits of Solitude.  An anthology of Elizabethan\nverse, given me by a friend, is also a good companion.\n\nIt is not a discourse or a narrative we want as we walk abroad, but\nconversation. Neither do we want people or facts or stories, but a\nperson. So I open one of these little books and read therein the\nthoughtful remark of a wise companion. This I may reply to, or merely\nenjoy, as I please. I am in no hurry, as I might be with a living\ncompanion, for my book friend, being long dead, is not impatient and\ngives me time to reply, and is not resentful if I make no reply at all.\nSubmitted to such a test as this few writers, old or new, give\ncontinued profit or delight. To be considered in the presence of the\ngreat and simple things of nature, or worn long in the warm places of\nthe spirit, a writer must have supreme qualities of sense or humour, a\ngreat sensitiveness to beauty, or a genuine love of goodness but above\nall he must somehow give us the flavour of personality. He must be a\ntrue companion of the spirit.\n\nThere is an exercise given to young soldiers which consists in raising\nthe hands slowly above the head, taking in a full breath at the same\ntime, and then letting them down in such a way as to square the\nshoulders. This leaves the body erect, the head high, the eyes straight\nahead, the lungs full of good air. It is the attitude that every man at\narms should wish to take, After a day in the woods I feel some such\nerectness of spirit, a life of the head, and a clearer and calmer\nvision, for I have raised up my hands to the heavens, and drawn in the\nodours and sights and sounds of the good earth.\n\nOne of the great joys of such times of retirement perhaps the greatest\nof the joys is the return, freshened and sweetened, to the common life.\nHow good then appear the things of the garden and farm, the house and\nshop, that weariness had staled; how good the faces of friends.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\nNO TRESPASS\n\n\nI live in a country of beautiful hills, and in the last few years,\nsince I have been here with Harriet, I have made familiar and pleasant\nacquaintance with several of them....\n\nOne hill I know is precious to me for a peculiar reason. Upon the side\nof it, along the town road, are two or three old farms with lilacs like\ntrees about their doorways, and ancient apple orchards with great\ngnarly branches, and one has an old garden of hollyhocks, larkspurs,\nzinnias, mignonette, and I know not how many other old-fashioned\nflowers. Wild grapes there are along the neglected walls, and in a\ncorner of one of them, by a brook, a mass of sweet currant which in\nblossom time makes all that bit of valley a bower of fragrance, I have\ngone that way often in spring for the sheer joy of the friendly odours\nI had across the ancient stone fences.\n\nThe largest and stoniest of the farms is owned by an old man named\nHowieson. A strange, brown-clad, crooked, crabbed old man, I have seen\nhim often creeping across his fields with his horses. An ineffective\nworker all his life long, he has scarcely made a living from his stony\nacres. His farm is tipped up behind upon the hill and runs below to the\nbrook, and the buildings are old and worn, and a rocky road goes by to\nthe town. Once, in more prosperous days, before the factories took over\nthe winter work of these hill farms, the busy families finished shoes,\nand wove cloth, and plaited straw hats and one I know was famous for\nwooden bowls craftily hollowed out of maple knots and the hill people\nrelied upon their stony fields for little more than their food. But in\nthese later days, the farm industries are gone, the houses are no\nlonger overflowing with children, for there is nothing for children to\ndo, and those who remain are old or discouraged. Some homes have\nentirely disappeared, so that all that remains is a clump of lilacs or\na wild tangle of rose bushes about a grass-covered or bush-grown cellar\nwall. The last thing to disappear is not that which the old farmers\nmost set their hearts upon, their fine houses and barns or their\ncultivated fields, but the one touch of beauty they left lilac clump or\nrose-tangle.\n\nOld Howieson, with that passion for the sense of possession which\nthrives best when the realities of possession are slipping away, has\nposted all his fields with warnings against intrusion. You may not\nenter this old field, nor walk by this brook, nor climb this hill, for\nall this belongs, in fee simple, to James Howieson!\n\n[Illustration]\n\nFor a long time I did not meet James Howieson face to face, though I\nhad often seen his signs, and always with a curious sense of the\nfutility of them. I did not need to enter his fields, nor climb his\nhill, nor walk by his brook, but as the springs passed and the autumns\nwhitened into winter, I came into more and more complete possession of\nall those fields that he so jealously posted. I looked with strange joy\nupon his hill, saw April blossom in his orchard, and May colour the\nwild grape leaves along his walls. June I smelled in the sweet vernal\nof his hay fields, and from the October of his maples and beeches I\ngathered rich crops and put up no hostile signs of ownership, paid no\ntaxes, worried over no mortgage, and often marvelled that he should be\nso poor within his posted domain and I so rich without.\n\nOne who loves a hill, or a bit of valley, will experiment long until he\nfinds the best spot to take his joy of it; and this is no more than the\nfarmer himself does when he experiments year after year to find the\nbest acres for his potatoes, his corn, his oats, his hay. Intensive\ncultivation is as important in these wider fields of the spirit as in\nany other. If I consider the things that I hear and see and smell, and\nthe thoughts that go with them or grow out of them, as really valuable\npossessions, contributing to the wealth of life, I cannot see why I\nshould not willingly give to them a tenth or a hundredth part of the\nenergy and thought I give to my potatoes or my blackberries or to the\nwriting I do.\n\nI chose a place in a field just below Old Howieson s farm, where there\nis a thorn-apple tree to sit or lie under. From the thorn-apple tree,\nby turning my head in one direction, I can look up at the crown of the\nhill with its green hood of oaks and maples and chestnuts, and high\nabove it I can see the clouds floating in the deep sky, or, if I turn\nmy head the other way, for I am a kind of monarch there on the hill and\ncommand the world to delight me, I can look off across the pleasant\nvalley with its spreading fields and farmsteads set about with trees,\nand the town slumbering by the riverside. I come often with a little\nbook in one pocket to read from, and a little book in the other to\nwrite in, but I rarely use either the one or the other, for there is\nfar too much to see and think about.\n\nFrom this spot I make excursions round about, and have had many strange\nand interesting adventures: and now find thoughts of mine, like\nlichens, upon all the boulders and old walls and oak trees of that\nhillside. Sometimes I climb to the top of the hill. If I am in a\nleisurely mood I walk lawfully around Old Howieson s farm by a kind of\nwood lane that leads to the summit, but often I cross his walls, all\nregardless of his trespass signs, and go that way to the top.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nIt was on one of these lawless excursions in Old Howieson s field that\nI first saw that strange old fellow who is known hereabout as the\nHerbman. I came upon him so suddenly that I stopped short, curiously\nstartled, as one is startled at finding anything human that seems less\nthan human. He was kneeling there among the low verdure of a shallow\nvalley, and looked like an old gray rock or some prehistoric animal. I\nstopped to look at him, but he paid no heed, and seemed only to shrink\ninto himself as though, if he kept silent, he might be taken for stock\nor stone. I addressed him but he made no answer. I went nearer, with a\nsensation of uncanny wonder; but he did not so much as glance up at me,\nthough he knew I was there. His old brown basket was near him and the\ncane beside it. He was gathering pennyroyal.\n\n Another man who is taking an unexpected crop from Old Howieson s\nacres,  I thought to myself.\n\nI watched him for some moments, quite still, as one might watch a\nturtle or a woodchuck and left him there.\n\nSince then I have heard something about him, and seen him once or\ntwice. A strange old man, a wanderer upon the face of the fragrant\nearth. Spring and summer he wears always an old overcoat, and carries a\nbasket with double covers, very much worn and brown with usage. His\ncane is of hickory with a crooked root for a handle, this also shiny\nwith age. He gathers bitter-bark, tansy; ginseng, calamus, smartweed,\nand slippery elm, and from along old fences and barnyards, catnip and\nboneset, I suppose he lives somewhere, a hole in a log, or the limb of\na tree, but no one knows where it is, or how he dries or cures his\nfindings. No one knows his name: perhaps he has forgotten it himself. A\nname is no great matter anyway. He is called simply the Herbman. He\ndrifts into our valley in the spring, is seen here and there on the\nhills or in the fields, like the crows or the blackbirds, and\ndisappears in the fall with the robins and the maple leaves. Perhaps he\nis one of those favoured souls to whom life is all spring and summer.\n\nThe age has passed him by, and except for certain furtive old women,\nfew care now for his sovereign remedies.\n\nI met him once in the town road, and he stopped humbly without lifting\nhis eyes, and opening his basket let out into the air such a fragrance\nof ancient simples as I never smelled before. He said nothing at all;\nbut took out dry bundles of catnip, sassafras, slippery elm, to show\nme. He had also pennyroyal for healing teas, and calamus and\nbitter-bark for miseries. I selected a choice assortment of his wares\nto take home to Harriet, but could get him to name no price. He took\nwhat I gave without objection and without thanks, and went his way. A\ntrue man of the hills.\n\nAs I said, I came often to the field below Old Howieson s farm. I think\nthe old man saw me coming and going, for the road winds along the side\nof the hill within sight of his house, skirts a bit of wood, and with\nan unexpected turn comes out triumphantly to the top of the ridge\nbeyond.\n\nAt the turn of the road I always disappeared, for I crossed the wall\ninto the field below Old Howieson s farm, and mysteriously failed to\nappear to the watchful eye upon the ridge beyond. What could be more\nprovoking or suspicious! To go in at one end of a well-travelled road\nand not to come out in the regular and expected way at the other! Or to\nbe suspected of not being deferential toward trespass signs, or\nobservant of closed ways! How disturbing to all those who dwell\ntremulously within posted enclosures of whatever sort, or those who\nbase their sense of possession upon stumped paper, or take their God\nfrom a book. Men have been crucified for less.\n\nSooner or later those who cross boundaries clash with those who defend\nboundaries: and those who adventure offend those who seek security; but\nit was a long time before I came face to face with Old Man Howieson.\n\nThis was the way of it: Well back of Howieson s buildings and reaching\nupward upon the face of the hill stretches a long and narrow field, a\nkind of barren back pasture with boulders in it, and gnarly hawthorn\ntrees, and a stunted wild apple or so. A stone fence runs down one side\nof the cleared land and above it rises the hill. It is like a great\ntrough or ravine which upon still spring evenings gathers in all the\nvaried odours of Old Howieson s farm and orchard and brings them down\nto me as I sit in the field below. I need no book then, nor sight of\nthe distant town, nor song of birds, for I have a singular and\nincomparable album of the good odours of the hill. This is one reason\nwhy I chose this particular spot in the fields for my own, and it has\ngiven me a secret name for the place which I will not here disclose. If\never you should come this way in May, my friend, I might take you there\nof an evening, but could warrant you no joy of it that you yourself\ncould not take. But you need not come here, or go there, but stop where\nyou are at this moment, and I here assure you that if you look up, and\nlook in, you, also, will see something of the glory of the world.\n\nOne evening I had been upon the hill to seek again the pattern and\ndimensions of my tabernacle, and to receive anew the tables of the Jaw.\nI had crossed Old Howieson s field so often that I had almost forgotten\nit was not my own. It was indeed mine by the same inalienable right\nthat it belonged to the crows that flew across it, or to the partridges\nthat nested in its coverts, or the woodchucks that lived in its walls,\nor the squirrels in its chestnut trees. It was mine by the final test\nof all possession that I could use it.\n\nHe came out of a thicket of hemlocks like a wraith of the past, a gray\nand crabbed figure, and confronted me there in the wide field. I\nsuppose he thought he had caught me at last. I was not at all startled\nor even surprised, for as I look back upon it now I know that I had\nalways been expecting him. Indeed, I felt a lift of the spirit, the\nkind of jauntiness with which one meets a crucial adventure.\n\nHe stood there for a moment quite silent, a grim figure of denial, and\nI facing him.\n\n You are on my land, sir,  he said.\n\nI answered him instantly and in a way wholly unexpected to myself:\n\n You are breathing my air, sir. \n\nHe looked at me dully, but with a curious glint of fear in his eye,\nfear and anger, too.\n\n Did you see the sign down there? This land is posted. \n\n Yes,  I said,  I have seen your signs. But let me ask you: If I were\nnot here would you own this land any more than you do now? Would it\nyield you any better crops? \n\nIt is never the way of those who live in posted enclosures, of whatever\nsort, to reason. They assert.\n\n This land is posted,  said the old man doggedly.\n\n Are you sure you own it?  I asked.  Is it really yours? \n\n My father owned this farm before me,  he said,  and my grandfather\ncleared this field and built these walls. I was born in that house and\nhave lived there all my life. \n\n Well, then, I must be going and I will not come here again,  I said.\n I am sorry I walked on your land \n\nI started to go down the hill, but stopped, and said, as though it were\nan afterthought:\n\n I have made some wonderful discoveries upon your land, and that hill\nthere. You don t seem to know how valuable this field is.... Good-bye. \n\nWith that I took two or three steps down the hill but felt the old\nman s hand on my arm.\n\n Say, mister,  he asked,  are you one of the electric company men? Is\nthat high-tension line comin  across here? \n\n No,  I said,  it is something more valuable than that! \n\nI walked onward a few steps, as though I was quite determined to get\nout of his field, but he followed close behind me.\n\n It ain t the new trolley line, is it? \n\n No,  I said,  it isn t the trolley line. \n\n What is it, then? \n\nIn that question, eager and shrill, spoke the dry soul of the old man,\nthe lifelong hope that his clinging ownership of those barren acres\nwould bring him from the outside some miraculous profit.\n\nHis whole bearing had changed. He had ceased to be truculent or even\nfearful, but was now shrilly beseeching, A great wave of compassion\ncame over me, I was sorry for him, imprisoned there within the walls of\nhis own making, and expecting wealth from the outside when there was\nwealth in plenty within and everywhere about him.\n\nBut how could I help him? You can give no valuable thing to any man who\nhas not the vision to take it. If I had told him what I found upon his\nhill or in his fields he would have thought me well, crazy; or he would\nhave suspected that under cover of such a quest I hid some evil design.\nAs well talk adventure to an old party man, or growth to a set\nchurchman.\n\nSo I left him there within his walls. So often when we think we are\nbarring other people out, we are only barring ourselves in. The last I\nsaw of him as I turned into the road was a gray and crabbed figure\nstanding alone, looking after me, and not far off his own sign:\n\n[Illustration]\n\nSometime, I thought, this old farm will be owned by a man who is also\ncapable of possessing it. More than one such place I know already has\nbeen taken by those who value the beauty of the hills and the old\nwalls, and the boulder-strewn fields. One I know is really possessed by\na man who long ago had a vision of sheep feeding on fields too\ninfertile to produce profitable crops, and many others have been taken\nby men who saw forests growing where forests ought to grow. For real\npossession is not a thing of inheritance or of documents, but of the\nspirit; and passes by vision and imagination. Sometimes, indeed, the\ntrespass signs stand long so long that we grow impatient but nature is\nin no hurry. Nature waits, and presently the trespass signs rot away,\none arm falls off, and lo! where the adventurer found only denial\nbefore he is now invited to pass.  The old walls are conquered by the\nwild cherries and purple ivy and blackberry bushes, and the old\nHowiesons sleep in calm forgetfulness of their rights upon the hills\nthey thought they possessed, and all that is left is a touch of\nbeauty lilac clump and wild-rose tangle.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\nLOOK AT THE WORLD!\n\n\n Give me to struggle with weather and wind;\n    Give me to stride through the snow;\nGive me the feel of the chill on my cheeks,\n    And the glow and the glory within! \n\n\n_March 17th._\n\nThe joy of winter: the downright joy of winter! I tramped to-day\nthrough miles of open, snow-clad country. I slipped in the ruts of the\nroads or ploughed through the drifts in the fields with such a sense of\nadventure as I cannot describe.\n\nDay before yesterday we had a heavy north wind with stinging gusts of\nsnow. Yesterday fell bright and cold with snow lying fine and crumbly\nlike sugar. To the east of the house where I shovelled a path the heaps\nare nearly as high as my shoulder....\n\nThis perfect morning a faint purplish haze is upon all the hills, with\nbright sunshine and still, cold air through which the chimney smoke\nrises straight upward. Hungry crows flap across the fields, or with\nunaccustomed daring settle close in upon the manure heaps around the\nbarns. All the hillsides glisten and sparkle like cloth of gold, each\nglass knob on the telephone poles is like a resplendent jewel, and the\nlong morning shadows of the trees lie blue upon the snow. Horses  feet\ncrunch upon the road as the early farmers go by with milk for the\ncreamery the frosty breath of each driver fluttering aside like a white\nscarf. Through the still air ordinary voices cut sharply and clearly,\nand a laugh bounds out across the open country with a kind of\nsuperabundance of joy. I see two men beating their arms as they follow\ntheir wood sled. They are bantering one another noisily. I see a man\nshovelling snow from his barn doors; as each shovelful rises and\nscatters, the sun catches it for an instant and it falls, a silvery\nshower. ... I tramped to-day through miles of it: and whether in broken\nroads or spotless fields, had great joy of it. It was good to stride\nthrough opposing drifts and to catch the tingling air upon one s face.\nThe spring is beautiful indeed, and one is happy at autumn, but of all\nthe year no other mornings set the blood to racing like these; none\ngives a greater sense of youth, strength, or of the general goodness of\nthe earth.\n\nGive me the winter: give me the winter! Not all winter, but just winter\nenough, just what nature sends.\n\n...Dry air in the throat so cold at first as to make one cough; and\ndry, sharp, tingling air in the nostrils; frost on beard and eyebrows;\ncheeks red and crusty, so that to wrinkle them hurts: but all the body\nwithin aglow with warmth and health. Twice the ordinary ozone in the\nair, so that one wishes to whistle or sing, and if the fingers grow\nchill, what are shoulders for but to beat them around!\n\nIt is a strange and yet familiar experience how all things present\ntheir opposites. Do you enjoy the winter? Your neighbour loathes or\nfears it. Do you enjoy life? To your friend it is a sorrow and a\nheaviness. Even to you it is not always alike. Though the world itself\nis the same to-day as it was yesterday and will be to-morrow the same\nsnowy fields and polar hills, the same wintry stars, the same\ninfinitely alluring variety of people yet to-day you, that were a god,\nhave become a grieving child.\n\nEven at moments when we are well pleased with the earth we often have a\nwistful feeling that we should conceal it lest it hurt those borne down\nby circumstances too great or too sad for them. What is there to offer\none who cannot respond gladly to the beauty of the fields, or opens his\nheart widely to the beckoning of friends? And we ask ourselves: Have I\nbeen tried as this man has? Would I be happy then? Have I been wrung\nwith sorrow, worn down by ill-health, buffeted with injustice as this\nman has? Would I be happy then?\n\nI saw on my walk to-day an old woman with a crossed shawl upon her\nbreast creeping out painfully to feed her hens. She lives on a small,\nill-kept farm I have known for years. She is old and poor and\nasthmatic, and the cold bites through her with the sharpness of knives.\nThe path to the hen-house is a kind of via dolorosa, a terror of\nslipperiness and cold. She might avoid it: her son, worthless as he is,\nmight do it for her, but she clings to it as she clings to her life. It\nis the last reason for staying here! But the white fields and drifted\nroads are never joyfully met, never desired. She spends half the summer\ndreading the return of winter from the severities of which she cannot\nescape.\n\nNor is it all mere poverty, though she is poor, for there are those who\nwould help to send her away, but she will not go. She is wrapped about\nwith Old Terrors, Ancient Tyrannies that Terror of the Unknown which is\nmore painful even than the Terror of the Known: those Tyrannies of\nHabit and of Place which so often and so ruthlessly rule the lives of\nthe old. She clings desperately to the few people she knows ( tis hard\nto die among strangers! ) and the customs she has followed all her\nlife. Against the stark power of her tragic helplessness neither the\ngood nor the great of the earth may prevail. This reality too....\n\nI had a curious experience not long ago: One of those experiences which\nlight up as in a flash some of the fundamental things of life. I met a\nman in the town road whom I have come to know rather more than\nslightly. He is a man of education and has been  well-off  in the\ncountry sense, is still, so far as I know, but he has a sardonic\noutlook upon life. He is discouraged about human nature. Thinks that\npolitics are rotten, and that the prices of potatoes and bread are\ndisgraceful. The state of the nation, and of the world, is quite beyond\ntemperate expression. Few rays of joy seem to illuminate his pathway.\n\nAs we approached in the town road I called out to him:\n\n Good morning. \n\nHe paused and, to my surprise, responded:\n\n Are you happy? \n\nIt had not occurred to me for some time whether I was happy or not, so\nI replied:\n\n I don t know; why do you ask? \n\nHe looked at me in a questioning, and I thought rather indignant, way.\n\n Why shouldn t a man be happy?  I pressed him.\n\n Why _should_ he be? Answer me that!  he responded,  Why should he be?\nLook at the world! \n\nWith that he passed onward with a kind of crushing dignity.\n\nI have laughed since when I have recalled the tone of his voice as he\nsaid,  Look at the world!  Gloomy and black it was. It evidently made\nhim indignant to be here.\n\nBut at the moment his bitter query, the essential attitude of spirit\nwhich lay behind it, struck into me with a poignancy that stopped me\nwhere I stood. Was I, then, all wrong about the world? I actually had a\nkind of fear lest when I should look up again I should find the earth\ngrown wan and bleak and unfriendly, so that I should no longer desire\nit.\n\n Look at the world!  I said aloud.\n\nAnd with that I suddenly looked all around me and it is a strange, deep\nthing, as I have thought of it since, how the world came back upon me\nwith a kind of infinite, calm assurance, as beautiful as ever it was.\nThere were the hills and the fields and the great still trees and the\nopen sky above. And even as I looked down the road and saw my sardonic\nold friend plodding through the snow his very back frowning I had a\nsense that he belonged in the picture, too and couldn t help himself.\nThat he even had a kind of grace, and gave a human touch to that wintry\nscene! He had probably said a great deal more than he meant!\n\n_Look at the world_!\n\nWell, look at it.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\nA GOOD APPLE\n\n\n I am made immortal by apprehending my possession of incorruptible\ngoods. \n\nI have just had one of the pleasant experiences of life. From time to\ntime, these brisk winter days, I like to walk across the fields to\nHorace s farm. I take a new way each time and make nothing of the snow\nin the fields or the drifts along the fences....\n\n Why,  asks Harriet,  do you insist on struggling through the snow when\nthere s a good beaten road around? \n\n Harriet,  I said,  why should any one take a beaten road when there\nare new and adventurous ways to travel? \n\nWhen I cross the fields I never know at what moment I may come upon\nsome strange or surprising experience, what new sights I may see, what\nnew sounds I may hear, and I have the further great advantage of\nappearing unexpectedly at Horace s farm. Sometimes I enter by the cow\nlane, sometimes by way of the old road through the wood-lot, or I\nappear casually, like a gust of wind, around the corner of the barn, or\nI let Horace discover me leaning with folded arms upon his cattle\nfence. I have come to love doing this, for unexpectedness in visitors,\nas in religion and politics, is disturbing to Horace and, as sand-grits\nin oysters produce pearls, my unexpected appearances have more than\nonce astonished new thoughts in Horace, or yielded pearly bits of\nnative humour.\n\nEver since I have known him, Horace has been rather high-and-mighty\nwith me; but I know he enjoys my visits, for I give him always, I\nthink, a pleasantly renewed sense of his own superiority. When he sees\nme his eye lights up with the comfortable knowledge that he can plough\nso much better than I can, that his corn grows taller than mine, and\nhis hens lay more eggs. He is a wonderfully practical man, is Horace;\nhard-headed, they call it here. And he never feels so superior, I\nthink, as when he finds me sometimes of a Sunday or an evening walking\nacross the fields where my land joins his, or sitting on a stone fence,\nor lying on my back in the pasture under a certain friendly thorn-apple\ntree. This he finds it difficult to understand, and thinks it highly\nundisciplined, impractical, no doubt reprehensible.\n\nOne incident of the sort I shall never forget. It was on a June day\nonly a year or so after I came here, and before Horace knew me as well\nas he does now. I had climbed the hill to look off across his own\nhigh-field pasture, where the white daisies, the purple fleabane, and\nthe buttercups made a wild tangle of beauty among the tall herd s\ngrass. Light airs moved billowing across the field, bobolinks and\nmeadow larks were singing, and all about were the old fences, each with\nits wild hedgerow of choke cherry, young elms, and black raspberry\nbushes, and beyond, across miles and miles of sunny green countryside,\nthe mysterious blue of the ever-changing hills. It was a spot I loved\nthen, and have loved more deeply every year since.\n\nHorace found me sitting on the stone fence which there divides our\npossessions; I think he had been observing me with amusement for some\ntime before I saw him, for when I looked around his face wore a\ncomfortably superior, half-disdainful smile.\n\n David,  said he,  what ye doin  here? \n\n Harvesting my crops,  I said.\n\nHe looked at me sharply to see if I was joking, but I was perfectly\nsober.\n\n Harvestin  yer crops? \n\n Yes,  I said, the fancy growing suddenly upon me,  and just now I ve\nbeen taking a crop from the field you think you own. \n\nI waved my hand to indicate his high-field pasture.\n\n Don t I own it? \n\n No, Horace, I m sorry to say, not all of it. To be frank with you,\nsince I came here, I ve quietly acquired an undivided interest in that\nland. I may as well tell you first as last. I m like you, Horace, I m\nreaching out in all directions. \n\nI spoke in as serious a voice as I could command: the tone I use when I\nsell potatoes. Horace s smile wholly disappeared. A city feller like me\nwas capable of anything!\n\n How s that?  he exclaimed sharply.  What do you mean? That field came\ndown to me from my grandfather Jamieson. \n\nI continued to look at Horace with great calmness and gravity.\n\n Judging from what I now know of your title, Horace,  said I,  neither\nyour grandfather Jamieson nor your father ever owned all of that field.\nAnd I ve now acquired that part of it, in fee simple, that neither they\nnor you ever really had. \n\nAt this Horace began to look seriously worried. The idea that any one\ncould get away from him anything that he possessed, especially without\nhis knowledge, was terrible to him.\n\n What do you mean, Mr. Grayson? \n\nHe had been calling me  David,  but he now returned sharply to\n Mister.  In our country when we  Mister  a friend something serious is\nabout to happen. It s the signal for general mobilization.\n\nI continued to look Horace rather coldly and severely in the eye.\n\n Yes,  said I,  I ve acquired a share in that field which I shall not\nsoon surrender. \n\nAn unmistakable dogged look came into Horace s face, the look inherited\nfrom generations of land-owning, home-defending, fighting ancestors.\nHorace is New England of New England.\n\n Yes,  I said,  I have already had two or three crops from that field. \n\n Huh!  said Horace.  I ve cut the grass and I ve cut the rowen every\nyear since you bin here. What s more, I ve got the money fer it in the\nbank. \n\nHe tapped his fingers on the top of the wall.\n\n Nevertheless, Horace,  said I,  I ve got my crops, also, from that\nfield, and a steady income, too. \n\n What crops? \n\n Well, Eve just now been gathering in one of them. What do you think of\nthe value of the fleabane, and the daisies, and the yellow five-finger\nin that field? \n\n Huh!  said Horace.\n\n Well, I ve just been cropping them. And have you observed the wind in\nthe grass and those shadows along the southern wall? Aren t they\nvaluable? \n\n Huh!  said Horace.\n\n I ve rarely seen anything more beautiful,  I said,  than this field\nand the view across it I m taking that crop now, and later I shall\ngather in the rowen of goldenrod and aster, and the red and yellow of\nthe maple trees and store it all away in _my_ bank to live on next\nwinter. \n\nIt was some time before either of us spoke again, but I could see from\nthe corner of my eye that mighty things were going on inside of Horace;\nand suddenly he broke out into a big laugh and clapped his knee with\nhis hand in a way he has.\n\n Is that all!  said Horace.\n\nI think it only confirmed him in the light esteem in which he held me.\nThough I showed him unmeasured wealth in his own fields, ungathered\ncrops of new enjoyment, he was unwilling to take them, but was content\nwith hay. It is a strange thing to me, and a sad one, how many of our\nfarmers (and be it said in a whisper, other people, too) own their\nlands without ever really possessing them: and let the most precious\ncrops of the good earth go to waste.\n\nAfter that, for a long time, Horace loved to joke me about my crops and\nhis. A joke with Horace is a durable possession.\n\n S pose you think that s your field,  he d say.\n\n The best part of it,  I d return,  but you can have all I ve taken,\nand there ll still be enough for both of us. \n\n You re a queer one!  he d say, and then add sometimes, dryly,  but\nthere s one crop ye don t git, David,  and he d tap his pocket where he\ncarries his fat, worn, leather pocket-book.  And as fer feelin s, it\ncan t be beat. \n\nSo many people have the curious idea that the only thing the world\ndesires enough to pay its hard money for is that which can be seen or\neaten or worn. But there never was a greater mistake. While men will\nhaggle to the penny over the price of hay, or fight for a cent more to\nthe bushel of oats, they will turn out their very pockets for strange,\nintangible joys, hopes, thoughts, or for a moment of peace in a\nfeverish world the unknown great possessions.\n\nSo it was that one day, some months afterward, when we had been thus\nbantering each other with great good humour, I said to him:\n\n Horace, how much did you get for your hay this year? \n\n Off that one little piece,  he replied,  I figger fifty-two dollars. \n\n Well, Horace,  said I,  I have beaten you. I got more out of it this\nyear than you did. \n\n Oh, I know what you mean \n\n No, Horace, you don t. This time I mean just what you do: money, cash,\ndollars. \n\n How s that, now? \n\n Well, I wrote a little piece about your field, and the wind in the\ngrass, and the hedges along the fences, and the weeds among the\ntimothy, and the fragrance of it all in June and sold it last week  I\nleaned over toward Horace and whispered behind my hand in just the way\nhe tells me the price he gets for his pigs.\n\n What!  he exclaimed.\n\nHorace had long known that I was  a kind of literary feller,  but his\nface was now a study in astonishment.\n\n _What?_ \n\nHorace scratched his head, as he is accustomed to do when puzzled, with\none finger just under the rim of his hat.\n\n Well, I vum!  said he.\n\nHere I have been wandering all around Horace s barn in the snow getting\nat the story I really started to tell, which probably supports Horace s\nconviction that I am an impractical and unsubstantial person. If I had\nthe true business spirit I should have gone by the beaten road from my\nhouse to Horace s, borrowed the singletree I went for, and hurried\nstraight home. Life is so short when one is after dollars! I should not\nhave wallowed through the snow, nor stopped at the top of the hill to\nlook for a moment across the beautiful wintry earth gray sky and bare\nwild trees and frosted farmsteads with homely smoke rising from the\nchimneys I should merely have brought home a singletree and missed the\nglory of life! As I reflect upon it now, I believe it took me no longer\nto go by the fields than by the road; and I ve got the singletree as\nsecurely with me as though I had not looked upon the beauty of the\neternal hills, nor reflected, as I tramped, upon the strange ways of\nman.\n\nOh, my friend, is it the settled rule of life that we are to accept\nnothing not expensive? It is not so settled for me; that which is\nfreest, cheapest, seems somehow more valuable than anything I pay for;\nthat which is given better than that which is bought; that which passes\nbetween you and me in the glance of an eye, a touch of the hand, is\nbetter than minted money!\n\nI found Horace upon the March day I speak of just coming out of his new\nfruit cellar. Horace is a progressive and energetic man, a leader in\nthis community, and the first to have a modern fruit cellar. By this\nmeans he ministers profitably to that appetite of men which craves most\nsharply that which is hardest to obtain: he supplies the world with\napples in March.\n\nIt being a mild and sunny day, the door of the fruit cellar was open,\nand as I came around the corner I had such of whiff of fragrance as I\ncannot describe. It seemed as though the vials of the earth s most\nprecious odours had been broken there in Horace s yard! The smell of\nripe apples!\n\nIn the dusky depths of the cellar, down three steps, I could see\nHorace s ruddy face.\n\n How are ye, David,  said he.  Will ye have a Good Apple? \n\nSo he gave me a good apple. It was a yellow Bellflower without a\nblemish, and very large and smooth. The body of it was waxy yellow, but\non the side where the sun had touched it, it blushed a delicious deep\nred. Since October it had been in the dark, cool storage-room, and\nHorace, like some old monkish connoisseur of wines who knows just when\nto bring up the bottles of a certain vintage, had chosen the exact\nmoment in all the year when the vintage of the Bellflower was at its\nbest. As he passed it to me I caught, a scent as of old crushed apple\nblossoms, or fancied I did or it may have been the still finer aroma of\nfriendship which passed at the touching of our fingers.\n\nIt was a hand-filling apple and likewise good for tired eyes, an\nantidote for winter, a remedy for sick souls.\n\n A wonderful apple!  I said to Horace, holding it off at arm s length.\n\n No better grown anywhere,  said he, with scarcely restrained pride.\n\nI took my delight of it more nearly; and the odour was like new-cut\nclover in an old orchard, or strawberry leaves freshly trod upon, or\nthe smell of peach wood at the summer pruning how shall one describe\nit? at least a compound or essence of all the good odours of summer.\n\n Shall I eat it?  I asked myself, for I thought such a perfection of\nnature should be preserved for the blessing of mankind. As I hesitated,\nHorace remarked:\n\n It was grown to be eaten. \n\nSo I bit into it, a big liberal mouthful, which came away with a\nrending sound such as one hears sometimes in a winter s ice-pond. The\nflesh within, all dewy with moisture, was like new cream, except a rim\nnear the surface where the skin had been broken; here it was of a\nclear, deep yellow.\n\nNew odours came forth and I knew for the first time how perfect in\ndeliciousness such an apple could be. A mild, serene, ripe, rich\nbouquet, compounded essence of the sunshine from these old\nMassachusetts hills, of moisture drawn from our grudging soil, of all\nthe peculiar virtues of a land where the summers make up in the passion\nof growth for the long violence of winter; the compensatory aroma of a\nlife triumphant, though hedged about by severity, was in the bouquet of\nthis perfect Bellflower.\n\nLike some of the finest of wines and the warmest of friends it was of\ntwo flavours, and was not to be eaten for mere nourishment, but was to\nbe tasted and enjoyed. The first of the flavours came readily in a\nsweetness, richness, a slight acidity, that it might not cloy; but the\ndeeper, more delicate flavour came later if one were not crudely\nimpatient and was, indeed, the very soul of the fruit. One does not\nquickly arrive at souls either in apples or in friends. And I said to\nHorace with solemnity, for this was an occasion not to be lightly\ntreated:\n\n I have never in my life tasted a fine apple. \n\n There is no finer apple,  said Horace with conviction.\n\nWith that we fell to discussing the kinds and qualities of all the\napples grown this side China, and gave our more or less slighting\nopinions of Ben Davises and Greenings and Russets, and especially of\ntrivial summer apples of all sorts, and came to the conclusion at last\nthat it must have been just after God created this particular  tree\nyielding fruit  that he desisted from his day s work and remarked that\nwhat he saw was good. The record is silent upon the point, and Moses is\nnot given to adjectives, but I have often wondered what He would have\nsaid if He had not only seen the product of His creation, but _tasted_\nit.\n\nI forgot to say that when I would have slurred the excellence of the\nBaldwin in comparison with the Bellflower, Horace began at once to\ninterpose objections, and defended the excellence and perfection of\nthat variety.\n\n...He has fifty barrels of Baldwins in his cellar.\n\nWhile we talked with much enjoyment of the lore of apples and\napple-growing, I finished the Bellflower to the very core, and said to\nHorace as I reluctantly tossed aside the stem and three seeds:\n\n Surely this has been one of the rare moments of life. \n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\nI GO TO THE CITY\n\n\n Surely man is a wonderfull divers and varying subject: It is very hard\nto ground and directly constant and uniforme judgement upon him. \n\nThough I live most of the time in the country, as I love best to do,\nsometimes I go to the city and find there much that is strange and\namusing. I like to watch the inward flow of the human tide in the\nmorning, and the ebb at evening, and sometimes in the slack tide of\nnoon I drift in one of the eddies where the restless life of the city\npauses a moment to refresh itself. One of the eddies I like best of all\nis near the corner of Madison Square, where the flood of Twenty-third\nStreet swirls around the bulkhead of the Metropolitan tower to meet the\ntransverse currents of Madison Avenue. Here, of a bright morning when\nDown-at-Heels is generously warming himself on the park benches, and\nOld Defeat watches Young Hurry striding by, one has a royal choice of\nrefreshment: a  red-hot  enfolded in a bun from the dingy sausage wagon\nat the curb, or a plum for a penny from the Italian with the trundle\ncart, or news of the world in lurid gulps from the noon edition of the\npaper or else a curious idea or so flung out stridently over the heads\nof the crowd by a man on a soap box.\n\nI love this corner of the great city; I love the sense of the warm\nhuman tide flowing all about me. I love to look into the strange, dark,\neager, sensitive, blunt faces.\n\nThe other noon, drifting there in that human eddy, I stopped to listen\nto a small, shabby man who stood in transitory eminence upon his soap\nbox, half his body reaching above the knobby black soil of human heads\naround him black, knobby soil that he was seeking, there in the spring\nsunshine, to plough with strange ideas. He had ruddy cheeks and a tuft\nof curly hair set like an upholstery button on each side of his bald\nhead. The front teeth in his upper jaw were missing, and as he opened\nhis mouth one could see the ample lining of red flannel.\n\nHe raised his voice penetratingly to overcome the noise of the world,\nstraining until the dark-corded veins of his throat stood out sharply\nand perspiration gleamed on his bald forehead. As though his life\ndepended upon the delivery of his great message he was explaining to\nthat close-packed crowd that there was no God.\n\nFrom time to time he offered for sale pamphlets by R.G. Ingersoll and\nFrederic Harrison, with grimy back numbers of a journal called the\n Truth-Seeker. \n\nBy the slant and timbre of his speech he was an Englishman; he had a\ngift of vigorous statement, and met questioners like an intellectual\npugilist with skilful blows between the eyes: and his grammar was bad.\n\nI stood for some time listening to him while he proved with excellent\nlogic, basing his reasoning on many learned authorities, that there was\nno God. His audience cheered with glee his clever hits, and held up\ntheir hands for the books he had for sale.\n\n Who is this speaker?  I asked the elbowing helper who came through the\ncrowd to deliver the speaker s wares and collect the silver for them.\n Who is this speaker who says there is no God? \n\n Henry Moore,  he responded.\n\n And who,  I asked,  is Henry Moore? \n\n He is an Englishman and was brought up a Presbyterian but he seen the\nlight. \n\n And no longer thinks there is any God? \n\n Nope. \n\n And these books prove the same thing? \n\n Yep. \n\nSo I bought one of them, thinking it wonderful that proof of so\nmomentous a conclusion could be had for so small a sum.\n\nThis Henry Moore could fling arguments like thunderbolts; he could\nmarshall his authorities like an army; he could talk against the roar\nof the city and keep his restless audience about him; and if he did not\nbelieve in God he had complete faith in Haeckel and Jacques Loeb, and\ntook at face value the lightest utterances of John Stuart Mill.\n\nI enjoyed listening to Henry Moore. I enjoyed looking into the faces\nall around me mostly keen foreign or half-foreign faces, and young\nfaces, and idle faces, and curious faces, and faces that drank in, and\nfaces that disdainfully rejected.\n\nAfter a time, however, I grew unaccountably weary of the vehemence of\nHenry Moore and of the adroit helper who hawked his books. And suddenly\nI looked up into the clear noon blue of the ancient sky. A pigeon was\nflying across the wide open spaces of the square, the sunlight glinting\non its wings. I saw the quiet green tops of the trees in the park, and\nthe statue of Roscoe Conkling, turning a nonchalant shoulder toward the\nheated speaker who said there was no God. How many strange ideas,\ncontradictory arguments, curious logic, have fallen, this last quarter\ncentury, upon the stony ears of Roscoe Conkling! Far above me the\nMetropolitan tower, that wonder work of men, lifted itself grandly to\nthe heavens, and all about I suddenly heard and felt the roar and surge\nof the mighty city, the mighty, careless, busy city, thousands of\npeople stirring about me, souls full of hot hopes and mad desires,\nunsatisfied longings, unrealized ideals. And I stepped out of the group\nwho were gathered around the man who said there was no God....\n\nBut I still drifted in the eddy, thinking how wonderful and strange all\nthese things were, and came thus to another group, close gathered at\nthe curb. It was much smaller than the other, and at the centre stood a\npatriarchal man with a white beard, and with him two women. He was\nleaning against the iron railing of the park, and several of the\nfree-thinker s audience, freshly stuffed with arguments, had engaged\nhim hotly. Just as I approached he drew from his pocket a worn,\nleather-covered Bible, and said, tapping it with one finger:\n\n For forty years I have carried this book with me. It contains more\nwisdom than any other book in the world. Your friend there can talk\nuntil he is hoarse it will do no harm but the world will continue to\nfollow the wisdom of this book. \n\nA kind of exaltation gleamed in his eye, and he spoke with an\nearnestness equal to that of Henry Moore. He, too, was a street\nspeaker, waiting with his box at his side to begin. He would soon be\nstanding up there to prove, also with logic and authority, that there\nwas a God. He, also, would plough that knobby black soil of human heads\nwith the share of his vehement faith. The two women were with him to\nsing their belief, and one had a basket to take up a collection, and\nthe other, singling me out as I listened with eagerness, gave me a\nprinted tract, a kind of advertisement of God.\n\nI looked at the title of it. It was called:  God in His World. \n\n Does this prove that God is really in the world?  I asked.\n\n Yes,  she said.  Will you read it? \n\n Yes,  I said,  I am glad to get it. It is wonderful that so great a\ntruth can be established in so small a pamphlet, and all for nothing. \n\nShe looked at me curiously, I thought, and I put the tract by the side\nof the pamphlet I had bought from the freethinker, and drifted again in\nthe eddy.\n\nThe largest crowd of all was close packed about a swarthy young chap\nwhose bushy hair waved in response to the violence of his oratory. He,\ntoo, was perspiring with his ideas. He had a marvellous staccato method\nof question and answer. He would shoot a question like a rifle bullet\nat the heads of his audience, and then stiffen back like a wary boxer,\nboth clenched hands poised in a tremulous gesticulation, and before any\none could answer his bullet-like question, he was answering it himself.\nAs I edged my way nearer to him I discovered that he, also, had a\nlittle pile of books at his feet which a keen-eyed assistant was busily\nselling. How well-established the technic of this art of the city\neddies! How well-studied the psychology!\n\nI thought this example the most perfect of them all, and watched with\neagerness the play of the argument as it was mirrored in the intent\nfaces all about me. And gradually I grew interested in what the man was\nsaying, and thought of many good answers I could give to his\nquestionings if he were not so cunning with answers of his own.\nFinally, in the midst of one of his loftiest flights, he demanded,\nhotly:\n\n Are you not, every one of you, a slave of the capitalist class? \n\nIt was perfectly still for a second after he spoke, and before I knew\nwhat I was doing, I responded:\n\n Why, no, I m not. \n\nIt seemed to astonish the group around me: white faces turned my way.\n\nBut it would have been difficult to dash that swarthy young man. He was\nas full of questions as a porcupine is full of quills.\n\n Well, sir,  said he,  if I can prove to you that you are a slave, will\nyou believe it? \n\n No,  I said,  unless you make me feel like a slave, too! No man is a\nslave who does not feel slavish. \n\nBut I was no match for that astonishing young orator; and he had the\nadvantage over me of a soap box! Moreover, at that moment, the\nkeen-eyed assistant, never missing an opportunity, offered me one of\nhis little red books.\n\n If you can read this without feeling a slave,  he remarked,  you re\nJohn D. himself in disguise. \n\nI bought his little red book and put it with the pamphlet of the\nfreethinker, and the tract of the God-fearing man, and stepped out of\nthat group, feeling no more servile than when I went in. And I said to\nmyself:\n\n This, surely, is a curious place to be in. \n\nFor I was now strangely interested in these men of the eddy.\n\n There are more gods preached here,  I said,  than ever were known on\nthe Acropolis. \n\nUp the square a few paces I saw a covered wagon with a dense crowd\naround it. And in front of it upon a little platform which raised the\nspeaker high above the heads of the audience stood a woman, speaking\nwith shrill ardour. Most of the hearers were men; and she was telling\nthem with logic and authority that the progress of civilization waited\nupon the votes of women. The army of the world stood still until the\nrear rank of its women could be brought into line! Morals languished,\nreligion faded, industries were brutalized, home life destroyed! If\nonly women had their rights the world would at once become a beautiful\nand charming place! Oh, she was a powerful and earnest speaker; she\nmade me desire above everything, at the first opportunity, to use my\nshare of the power in this Government to provide each woman with a\nvote. And just as I had reached this compliant stage there came a girl\nsmiling and passing her little basket. The sheer art of it! So I\ndropped in my coin and took the little leaflet she gave me and put it\nside by side with the other literature of my accumulating library.\n\nAnd so I came away from those hot little groups with their perspiring\norators, and felt again the charm of the tall buildings and the wide\nsunny square, and the park with Down-at-Heels warming his ragged\nshanks, and the great city clanging heedlessly by. How serious they all\nwere there in their eddies! Is there no God? Will woman suffrage or\nsocialism cure all the evils of this mad world which, ill as it is, we\nwould not be without? Is a belief for forty years in the complete\nwisdom of the Book the final solution? Why do not all of the seeking\nand suffering thousands flowing by in Twenty-third Street stop here in\nthe eddies to seek the solution of their woes, the response to their\nhot desires?\n\nSo I came home to the country, thinking of what I had seen and heard,\nasking myself,  What is the truth, after all? What _is_ real? \n\nAnd I was unaccountably glad to be at home again. As I came down the\nhill through the town road the valley had a quiet welcome for me, and\nthe trees I know best, and the pleasant fields of corn and tobacco, and\nthe meadows ripe with hay. I know of nothing more comforting to the\nquestioning spirit than the sight of distant hills....\n\nI found that Bill had begun the hay cutting. I saw him in the lower\nfield as I came by in the road. There he was, stationed high on the\nload, and John, the Pole, was pitching on. When he saw me he lifted one\narm high in the air and waved his hand and I in return gave him the\nsign of the Free Fields.\n\n Harriet,  I said,  it seems to me I was never so glad before to get\nhome. \n\n It s what you always say,  she remarked placidly.\n\n This time it s true!  And I put the pamphlets I had accumulated in the\ncity eddies upon the pile of documents which I fully intend to read but\nrarely get to.\n\nThe heavenly comfort of an old shirt! The joy of an old hat!\n\nAs I walked down quickly into the field with my pitchfork on my\nshoulder to help Bill with the hay, I was startled to see, hanging upon\na peach tree at the corner of the orchard, a complete suit of black\nclothes. Near it, with the arms waving gently in the breeze, was a\nwhite shirt and a black tie, and at the foot of the tree a respectable\nblack hat. It was as though the peach tree had suddenly, on that bright\nday, gone into mourning.\n\nI laughed to myself.\n\n Bill,  I said,  what does this mean? \n\nBill is a stout jolly chap with cheeks that look, after half a day s\nhaying, like raw beef-steaks. He paused on his load, smiling broadly,\nhis straw hat set like a halo on the back of his head.\n\n Expected a funeral,  he said cheerfully.\n\nBill is the undertaker s assistant, and is always on call in cases of\nemergency.\n\n What happened, Bill? \n\n They thought they d bury  im this afternoon, but they took an  kep \n im over till to-morrow. \n\n But you came prepared. \n\n Yas, no time to go home in hayin . The pump fer me, and the black\ntogs. \n\nBill calls the first rakings of the hay  tumbles,  and the scattered\nre-rakings, which he despises, he calls  scratchings.  I took one side\nof the load and John, the Pole, the other and we put on great forkfuls\nfrom the tumbles which Bill placed skilfully at the corners and sides\nof the load, using the scratchings for the centre.\n\nJohn, the Pole, watched the load from below.  Tank he too big here,  he\nwould say, or,  Tank you put more there ; but Bill told mostly by the\nfeel of the load under his feet or by the  squareness of his eye. \nJohn, the Pole, is a big, powerful fellow, and after smoothing down the\nload with his fork he does not bother to rake up the combings, but\ngathering a bunch of loose hay with his fork, he pushes it by main\nstrength, and very quickly, around the load, and running his fork\nthrough the heap, throws it upon the mountain-high load in a\ntwinkling an admirable, deft performance.\n\nHay-making is a really beautiful process: the clicking mower cutting\nits clean, wide swath, a man stepping after, where the hay is very\nheavy, to throw the windrow back a little. Then, after lying to wilt\nand dry in the burning sun all full of good odours the horse-rake draws\nit neatly into wide billows, and after that, John, the Pole, and I roll\nthe billows into tumbles. Or, if the hay is slow in drying, as it was\nnot this year, the kicking tedder goes over it, spreading it widely.\nThen the team and rack on the smooth-cut meadow and Bill on the load,\nand John and I pitching on; and the talk and badinage that goes on, the\nexcitement over disturbed field mice, the discussion of the best\nmethods of killing woodchucks, tales of marvellous exploits of loaders\nand stackers, thrilling incidents of the wet year of  98 when two men\nand one team saved four acres of hay by working all night with\nlanterns, I jing much talk of how she goes on,  she  being the hay,\nand no end of observations upon the character, accomplishments, faults,\nand excesses of the sedate old horses waiting comfortably out in front,\nhalf hidden by the mountain of hay above them and nibbling at the\ntumbles as they go by.\n\nThen the proud moment when Bill the driver, with legs apart, almost\npushing on the reins, drives his horses up the hill.\n\n Go it, Dick. Let  er out, Daisy. Stiddy, ol  boy. Whoa, there. Ease\ndown now. Hey, there, John, block the wheel block the wheel I tell ye.\nAh-h now, jes  breathe a bit. I jing, it s hot. \n\nAnd then the barn, the cavernous dark doors, the hoofs of the horses\nthundering on the floor, the smell of cattle from below, the pigeons in\nthe loft whirring startled from their perches. Then the hot, scented,\ndusty  pitching off  and  mowing in a fine process, an _honest_\nprocess: men sweating for what they get.\n\nAs I came in from the field that night the sun was low in the hills,\nand a faint breeze had begun to blow, sweetly cool after the burning\nheat of the day. And I felt again that curious deep sense I have so\noften here in the country, of the soundness and reality of the plain\nthings of life.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\nTHE OLD STONE MASON\n\n\nOf well-flavoured men, I know none better than those who live close to\nthe soil or work in common things. Men are like roses and lilacs,\nwhich, too carefully cultivated to please the eye, lose something of\ntheir native fragrance. One of the best-flavoured men I know is my\nfriend, the old stone mason.\n\nTo-day I rode over with the old stone mason to select some wide stones\nfor steps in my new building. The old man loves stones. All his life\nlong he is now beyond seventy years old he has lived among stones,\nlifted stones, fitted stones. He knows all the various kinds, shapes,\nsizes, and where they will go best in a wall. He can tell at a glance\nwhere to strike a stone to make it fit a particular place, and out of a\ngreat pile he can select with a shrewd eye the stone for the exact\nopening he has to fill. He will run his stubby rough hand over a stone\nand remark:\n\n Fine face that. Ye don t see many such stones these days,  as though\nhe were speaking of the countenance of a friend.\n\nI veritably believe there are stones that smile at him, stones that\nfrown at him, stones that appear good or ill-humoured to him as he\nbends his stocky strong body to lift or lay them. He is a slow man, a\nslow, steady, geologic man, as befits one who works with the elemental\nstuff of nature. His arms are short and his hands powerful. He has been\na servant of stones in this neighbourhood alone for upward of fifty\nyears.\n\nHe loves stones and can no more resist a good stone than I a good book.\nWhen going about the country, if he sees comely stones in a wayside\npile, or in a fine-featured old fence he will have them, whether or no,\nand dickers for them with all the eagerness, sly pride, and\nhalf-concealed cunning with which a lover of old prints chaffers for a\nSeymour Haden in a second-hand book shop. And when he has bought them\nhe takes the first idle day he has, and with his team of old horses\ngoes into the hills, or wherever it may be, and brings them down. He\nhas them piled about his barn and even in his yard, as another man\nmight have flower beds. And he can tell you, as he told me to-day, just\nwhere a stone of such a size and such a face can be found, though it be\nat the bottom of a pile. No book lover with a feeling sense for the\nplace in his cases where each of his books may be found has a sharper\ninstinct than he. In his pocket he carries a lump of red chalk, and\nwhen we had made our selections he marked each stone with a broad red\ncross.\n\nI think it good fortune that I secured the old stone mason to do my\nwork, and take to myself some credit for skill in enticing him. He is\npast seventy years old, though of a ruddy fresh countenance and a clear\nbright eye, and takes no more contracts, and is even reluctantly\npersuaded to do the ordinary stone work of the neighbourhood. He is\n well enough off,  as the saying goes, to rest during the remainder of\nhis years, for he has lived a temperate and frugal life, owns his own\nhome with the little garden behind it, and has money in the bank. But\nhe can be prevailed upon, like an old artist who has reached the time\nof life when it seems as important to enjoy as to create, he can\nsometimes be prevailed upon to lay a wall for the joy of doing it.\n\nSo I had the stone hauled onto the ground, the best old field stone I\ncould find, and I had a clean, straight foundation dug, and when all\nwas ready I brought the old man over to look at it. I said I wanted his\nadvice. No sooner did his glance light upon the stone, no sooner did he\nsee the open and ready earth than a new light came in his eye. His step\nquickened and as he went about he began to hum an old tune under his\nbreath. I knew then that I had him! He had taken fire. I could see that\nhis eye was already selecting the stones that should  go down,  the\nfine square stones to make the corners or cap the wall, and measuring\nwith a true eye the number of little stones for the fillers. In no time\nat all he had agreed to do my work; indeed, would have felt aggrieved\nif I had not employed him.\n\nI enjoyed the building of the wall, I think, as much as he did, and\nhelped him what I could by rolling the larger stones close down to the\nedge of the wall. As the old man works he talks, if any one cares to\nlisten, or if one does not care to listen he is well content to remain\nsilent among his stones. But I enjoyed listening, for nothing in this\nworld is so fascinating to me as the story of how a man has come to be\nwhat he is. When we think of it there are no abstract adventures in\nthis world, but only your adventure and my adventure, and it is only as\nwe come to know a man that we can see how wonderful his life has been.\n\nHe told me all about the great walls and the little walls miles and\nmiles of them he has built in the course of fifty years. He told of\ncrude boyhood walls when he was a worker for wages only, he told of\nproud manhood walls when he took contracts for foundations, retaining\nwalls, and even for whole buildings, such as churches, where the work\nwas mostly of stone; he told me of thrilling gains and profits, and of\ndepressing losses; and he told me of his calm later work, again on\nwages, for which he is chosen as a master of his craft. A whole long\nlifetime of it and the last years the best of all!\n\nAs we drove up yesterday to select the steps from his piles of old\nfield stone, riding behind his great, slow, hairy-hoofed horse, in the\nbattered and ancient wagon, he pointed with his stubby whip to this or\nthat foundation, the work of his hands.\n\n Fine job, that,  said he, and I looked for the first time in my life\nat the beautiful stonework beneath the familiar home of a friend. I had\nseen the house a thousand times, and knew well the people in it, but my\nunobservant eye had never before rested consciously upon that bit of\nbasement wall. How we go through life, losing most of the beauties of\nit from sheer inability to see! But the old man, as he drives about,\nrarely sees houses at all, especially wooden houses, and for all modern\nstucco and cement work he entertains a kind of lofty contempt. Sham\nwork of a hasty and unskilled age! He never, I think, put in a\nshovelful of cement except in the place where it belongs, as a mortar\nfor good walls, and never will do so as long as he lives. So long as he\nlives the standards of high art will never be debased!\n\nHe built that foundation, and this chimney, he worked on the tower of\nthe Baptist church in the town,  and never yet has there been a crack\nin her, winter or summer ; and more than forty years ago he laid the\ncornerstone of the old schoolhouse, the foundation walls of which stand\nto-day as sound and strong as they were when they were put down.\n\nIn dry walls I think the old stone mason takes the greatest pride of\nall: for it is in the dry wall I mean by that a wall laid without\nmortar that the sheer art of the mason comes most into play. Any one\ncan throw a wall together if he has mortar to make it stick, but a dry\nwall must stand out for what it is, built solid from the bottom up,\neach stone resting securely upon those below it, and braced and nested\nin by the sheer skill of the mason. The art of the dry wall is the\nancient heritage of New England and speaks not only of the sincerity\nand the conscientiousness of the old Puritan spirit but strikes the\nhigher note of beauty. Many of the older walls I know are worth going\nfar to see, for they exhibit a rare sense of form and proportion, and\nare sometimes set in the landscape with a skill that only the\nMaster-Artist himself could exceed. Those old, hard-wrought stone\nfences of the Burnham Hills and Crewsbury, the best of them, were\nhonestly built, and built to last a thousand years. A beautiful art and\none that is passing away! It is the dry wall that stands of itself that\nthe old stone mason loves best of all.\n\nAs we drove along the road the old man pointed out to me with his\nstubby whip so many examples of his work that it seemed finally as if\nhe had borne a hand in nearly everything done in this neighbourhood in\nthe last half-century. He has literally built himself into the country\nand into the town, and at seventy years of age he can look back upon it\nall with honest pride. It stands. No jerry-work anywhere. No cracks. It\nstands.\n\nI never realized before how completely the neighbourhood rests upon the\nwork of this simple old man. He _founded_ most of the homes here, and\nupon his secure walls rest many of the stores, the churches, and the\nschools of the countryside. I see again how important each man is to\nthe complete fabric of civilization and know that we are to leave no\none out, despise no one, look down upon no one.\n\nHe told me stories of this ancient settler and of that.\n\nHe was a powerful queer man he wanted the moss left on his stones when\nI put  em in; never a hammer touched the facings of _his_ wall...\n\n That is properly a woman s wall. She was the boss, you might call it,\nand wanted stone, but _he_ wanted brick. So you see the front, where\npeople can see it, is of stone, but the sides is all brick. \n\nThus like the true artist that he is, he has not only built himself his\nown honesty, truth, skill, into the town, but he has built in the\ninexhaustible peculiarities, the radiant charm, the hates and the\nloves, of the people of this place. He has mirrored his own little age\nin stone. He knows the town, indeed, better than most of us, having a\nkind of stone-age knowledge of it the fundamental things men build in\nwhen they set about building permanently.\n\n And that is what you might call a spite-wall,  said he, showing me a\nlong wall leading between two shady homes, making one of them a prison\non the south, and the other a prison on the north. He told me the story\nof an ancient and bitter quarrel between two old friends, a story which\nsounded to-day among spring blossoms like the account of some ancient\nbaronial feud.\n\nBut if the old stone mason has built walls to keep enemies apart how\nmany more walls has he built to keep friends together? How many times\nhas he been consulted by shy lovers seeking a foundation for a new\nhome, a new family, how many times by Darby and Joan planning a resting\nplace for the sunny closing years of their lives! He could point,\nindeed, to one wall that symbolized hatred; all the others meant homes,\nroof-trees, families, or they were the foundations for the working\nplaces of men, or else, like the tower of the church, they pointed\nheavenward and were built to the glory of God.\n\nThe old stone mason has not the slightest idea that he has done\nanything unusual or wonderful. He is as simple and honest a man as ever\nI knew; and if he has pride, simple and honest also in that. He was\nanxious not to charge me too much for the stone I bought in an age like\nthis! I have never talked with him about God, or about religion: I had\nno need to.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nHe has done his duty in other ways by his time and his place. He has\nbrought up a large family of children; and has known sorrow and loss,\nas well as happiness and contentment. Two of his children were taken in\none day with pneumonia. He told me about it with a quaver in his old\nvoice.\n\n How long ago was it?  I asked.\n\n Twenty-seven years. \n\nHe has sons and daughters left, and two of the sons he has well trained\nas stone masons after him. They are good as young men go in a\ndegenerate age. They insist on working in cement! He has grandchildren\nin school, and spoils them.\n\nHe is also a man of public interests and upon town-meeting day puts on\nhis good clothes and sits modestly toward the back of the hall. Though\nhe rarely says anything he always has a strong opinion, an opinion as\nsound and hard as stones and as simple, upon most of the questions that\ncome up. And he votes as he thinks, though the only man in meeting who\nvotes that way. For when a man works in the open, laying walls true to\nlines and measurements, being honest with natural things, he comes\nclear, sane, strong, upon many things. I would sooner trust his\njudgment upon matters that are really important as between man and man,\nand man and God, than I would trust the town lawyer. And if he has\ngrown a little testy with some of the innovations of modern life, and\nthinks they did everything better forty years ago and says so he\nspeaks, at least, his honest conviction.\n\nIf I can lay my walls as true as he does, if I can build myself a third\npart as firmly into any neighbourhood as he has into this, if at\nseventy years of age if ever I live to lay walls with joy at that time\nof life if I can look back upon _my_ foundations, _my_ heaven-pointing\ntowers, and find no cracks or strains in them, I shall feel that I have\nmade a great success of my life....\n\nI went out just now: the old man was stooping to lift a heavy stone.\nHis hat was off and the full spring sunshine struck down warmly upon\nthe ruddy bald spot on the top of his head, the white hair around about\nit looking silvery in that light. As he placed the stone in the wall,\nhe straightened up and rubbed his stubby hand along it.\n\n A fine stone that!  said he.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\nAN AUCTION OF ANTIQUES\n\n\n I would not paint a face\n    Or rocks or streams or trees\nMere semblances of things \n    But something more than these. \n\n I would not play a tune\n    Upon the sheng or lute\nWhich did not also sing\n    Meanings that else were mute. \n\nJohn Templeton died on the last day of August, but it was not until\nsome weeks later that his daughter Julida, that hard-favoured woman,\nset a time for the auction. It fell happily upon a mellow autumn day,\nand as I drove out I saw the apples ripening in all the orchards along\nthe road, and the corn was beginning to look brown, and the meadows by\nthe brook were green with rowen. It was an ideal day for an auction,\nand farmers and townsmen came trooping from all parts of the country,\nfor the Templeton antiques were to be sold.\n\nJohn Templeton lived in one house for seventy-eight years; he was born\nthere, and you will find the like of that in few places in America. It\nwas a fine house for its time, for any time, and not new when John\nTempleton was born. A great, solid, square structure, such as they\nbuilt when the Puritan spirit was virile in New England, with an almost\nGreek beauty of measured lines. It has a fanlight over the front door,\nwindows exquisitely proportion, and in the center a vast brick chimney.\nEven now, though weathered and unpainted, it stands four-square upon\nthe earth with a kind of natural dignity. A majestic chestnut tree\ngrows near it, and a large old barn and generous sheds, now somewhat\ndilapidated, ramble away to the rear.\n\nEnclosing the fields around about are stone fences representing the\ninfinite labour of John Templeton s forebears. More toil has gone into\nthe stone fences of New England, free labour of a free people, than\never went into the slave-driven building of the Pyramids of Egypt.\n\nI knew John Templeton in his old age a stiff, weather-beaten old man\ndriving to town in a one-horse buggy.\n\n How are you, Mr. Templeton? \n\n Comin  on, comin  on.  This was his invariable reply.\n\nHe had the old New England pronunciation, now disappearing. He said\n rud  for road,  daown  for down, and gave an indescribable twist to\nthe word garden, best spelled  gardin.  He had also the old New England\nways. He was forehanded with his winter woodpile, immaculately neat\nwith his dooryard, determined in his Sunday observance, and if he put\nthe small apples in the middle of the barrel he refused to raise\ntobacco, lest it become a cause of stumbling to his neighbour. He paid\nhis debts, disciplined his children, and in an age which has come to\nlook chummily upon God, he dreaded His wrath.\n\nHe grew a peculiar, very fine variety of sweet apple which I have never\nseen anywhere else. He called it the Pumpkin Sweet, for it was of a\nrich yellow. I can see him yet, driving into town with a shallow wagon\nbox half full of this gold of the orchard; can see him turn stiffly to\nget one of the apples for me; can hear him say in the squeaky voice of\nage:\n\n Ye won t find no sweeter apples hereabout, I can tell ye that. \n\nHe was a dyed-in-the-wool abolition Republican and took the Boston\n_Transcript_ for forty-six years. He left two cords of them piled up in\na back storeroom. He loved to talk about Napoleon Bonaparte and the\nBattle of Waterloo, and how, if there had not been that delay of half\nan hour, the history of the world might have been different. I can see\nhim saying, with the words puffing out his loose cheeks:\n\n And then Blooker kem up \n\nTo the very last, even when his eyes were too dim to read and his voice\nwas cracked, he would start up, like some old machine set a-whirring\nwhen you touched the rusty lever, and talk about the Battle of\nWaterloo.\n\nNo one, so far as I know, ever heard him complain, or bemoan his age,\nor regret the change in the times; and when his day came, he lay down\nupon his bed and died.\n\n Positively nothing will be reserved,  were the familiar words of the\nposter, and they have a larger meaning in an old country neighbourhood\nthan the mere sale of the last pan and jug and pig and highboy. Though\nwe live with our neighbours for fifty years we still secretly wonder\nabout them. We still suspect that something remains covered, something\nkept in and hidden away, some bits of beauty unappreciated as they are,\nindeed, with ourselves. But death snatches away the last friendly\ngarment of concealment; and after the funeral the auction. We may enter\nnow. The doors stand at last flung widely open; all the attics have\nbeen ransacked; all the chests have been turned out; a thousand\nprivacies stand glaringly revealed in the sunny open spaces of the\nyard. Positively nothing will be reserved; everything will be knocked\ndown to the highest bidder. What wonder that the neighbourhood gathers,\nwhat wonder that it nods its head, leaves sentences half uttered,\nsmiles enigmatically.\n\nNearly all the contents of the house had been removed to the yard,\nunder the great chesnut tree. A crowd of people, mostly women, were\nmoving about among the old furniture, the old furniture that had been\nin John Templeton s family for no one knows how long old highboys and\nlowboys, a beautifully simple old table or so, and beds with carved\nposts, and hand-wrought brasses, and an odd tall clock that struck with\nsonorous dignity. These things, which had been temptingly advertised as\n antiques,  a word John Templeton never knew, were only the common\nserviceable things of uncounted years of family life.\n\nNothing about the place was of any great value except the antiques, and\nit was these that drew the well-dressed women in automobiles from as\nfar away as Hempfield and Nortontown; and yet there were men in plenty\nto poke the pigs, look sarcastically at the teeth of the two old\nhorses, and examine with calculating and rather jeering eyes John\nTempleton s ancient buggy, and the harness and the worn plough and\ncultivator and mowing machine. Everything seems so cheap, so poor, so\nunprotected, when the spirit has departed.\n\nUnder the chestnut tree the swarthy auctioneer with his amiable\ncountenance and ironical smile acquired through years of dispassionate\nobservation of the follies of human emotion, the mutability of human\naffairs, the brevity of human endeavour, that brought everything at\nlast under his hammer there by the chestnut tree the auctioneer had\ntaken his stand in temporary eminence upon an old chest, with an\nancient kitchen cupboard near him which served at once as a pulpit for\nexhortation, and a block for execution. Already the well-worn smile had\ncome pat to his countenance, and the well-worn witticisms were ready to\nhis tongue.\n\n Now, gentlemen, if you ll give me such attention as you can spare from\nthe ladies, we have here to-day \n\nBut I could not, somehow, listen to him: the whole scene, the whole\ndeep event, had taken hold upon me strangely. It was so full of human\nmeaning, human emotion, human pathos. I drifted away from the crowd and\nstepped in at the open door of the old house, and walked through the\nempty, resounding rooms with their curious old wallpaper and low\nceilings and dusty windows. And there were the old fireplaces where the\nheavy brick had been eaten away by the pokings and scrapings of a\ncentury; and the thresholds worn by the passage of many feet, the\nromping feet of children, the happy feet of youth the bride passed here\non her wedding night with her arm linked in the arm of the groom; the\nsturdy, determined feet of maturity; the stumbling feet of old age\ncreeping in; the slow, pushing feet of the bearers with the last\nburden, crowding out \n\nThe air of the house had a musty, shut-in odour, ironically cut\nthrough, as all old things are, by the stinging odour of the new: the\nboiling of the auction coffee in the half-dismantled kitchen, the\nepochal moment in the life of Julia Templeton. I could hear,\noccasionally, her high, strident worried voice ordering a helper about.\nSuch a hard-favoured woman!\n\nIt is the studied and profitable psychology of the auction that the\nrubbish must be sold first pots and bottles and jugs at five-cent bids,\nand hoes at ten and after that, the friction of the contest having\nwarmed in the bidders an amiable desire to purchase goods they do not\nwant and cannot use, the auctioneer gradually puts forth the treasures\nof the day.\n\nAs I came out of the old house I could see that the mystic web had been\nspun, that the great moment of the sale was arriving. The auctioneer\nwas leaning forward now upon the tall cupboard with an air of command,\nand surveying the assembled crowd with a lordly eye.\n\n Now, Jake, careful there pass it along steady.... We come now to the\ncheff dooves of the day, the creem delly creems of this sale. Gentleman\n_and_ ladies, it is a great moment in the life of an auctioneer when he\ncan offer, for sale, free and without reservation, such treasures as\nthese.... \n\nI could feel the warming interest of the crowd gathering in more\nclosely about Mr. Harpworth, the furtive silences of shrewd bargainers,\neagerness masked as indifference, and covetousness cloaking itself with\nsmiling irony. It is in the auction that trade glorifies itself finally\nas an Art.\n\n Here, gentlemen _and_ ladies, is a genuine antique, hand-wrought and\nsolid all the way through. Just enough worn to give the flavour and\ndistinction of age. Well built in the first place, plain, simple lines,\nbut, ladies, _beautiful_. \n\nIt was the tall four-post bed he was selling and he now put his hand\nupon this object a hardy service with a cunningly simulated air of\ndeference. It was to be profaned by no irreverent handling!\n\n What am I offered for this heirloom of the Templeton family? Ten? Ten!\nFifteen over there, thank you, Mr. Cody. Why, gentlemen, that bed\ncannot be duplicated in America! A real product of Colonial art! Look\nat the colour of it! Where will you find such depth of colour in any\nmodern piece? Age varnished it, gentlemen, age and use the use of a\nhundred years.... Twenty over there, twenty I hear, twenty, twenty,\nmake it thirty.... Speak up now, Ike, we know you ve come here to-day\nto make your fortune do I hear thirty? \n\nNo sooner had the great bed been sold ( it s yours, Mrs. Craigie, a\ntreasure and dirt cheap ) there came an ancient pair of hand-wrought\nandirons, and a spider-legged table, and a brass warming-pan, and a\nbanjo clock....\n\nI scarcely know how to explain it, but the sale of these inanimate\nantiques, so charged with the restrained grace, the reticent beauty,\nthe serviceable strength, of a passing age, took hold upon me with\nstrange intensity. In times of high emotion the veil between sight and\ninsight slips aside and that which lies about us suddenly achieves a\nhigher reality. We are conscious of\n\n Something beside the form\nSomething beyond the sound. \n\nIt came to me with a thrill that this was no mere sale of antique wood\nand brass and iron, but a veritable auction, here symbolized, of the\ndecaying fragments of a sternly beautiful civilization.\n\nI looked off across the stony fields, now softly green in the sunlight,\nfrom which three generations of the Templeton family had wrung an\nheroic living; I looked up at the majestic old house where they had\nlived and married and died....\n\nAs my eye came back to the busy scene beneath the chestnut tree it\nseemed to me, how vividly I cannot describe that beside or behind the\nenergetic and perspiring Mr. Harpworth there stood Another Auctioneer.\nAnd I thought he had flowing locks and a patriarchal beard, and a\nscythe for a sign of the uncertainty of life, and a glass to mark the\nswiftness of its passage. He was that Great Auctioneer who brings all\nthings at last under his inexorable hammer.\n\nAfter that, though Mr. Harpworth did his best, he claimed my attention\nonly intermittently from that Greater Sale which was going on at his\nside, from that Greater Auctioneer who was conducting it with such\nconsummate skill for _he_ knew that nothing is for sale but life. The\nmahogany highboy, so much packed and garnered life cut into inanimate\nwood; the andirons, so much life; the bookshelves upon which John\nTempleton kept his  Life of Napoleon Bonaparte,  so much life. Life for\nsale, gentlemen! What am I offered to-day for this bit of life and\nthis and this \n\nMr. Harpworth had paused, for even an auctioneer, in the high moment of\nhis art, remains human; and in the silence following the cessation of\nthe metallic click of his voice,  Thirty, thirty, thirt, thirt make it\nthirty-five thank you forty,  one could hear the hens gossiping in the\ndistant yard.\n\n There were craftsmen in those days, gentlemen,  he was resuming;  look\nat this example of their art there is quality here and durability \n\nAt this point the Great Auctioneer broke in upon my attention and\ncaught up Mr. Harpworth s words:\n\n Yes, quality and durability quality and durability. I also have here\nto-day, and will offer you, gentlemen, a surpassing antique, not built\nof wood nor fashioned in brass or iron, but a thing long attached to\nthese acres and this house. I present for your consideration the\nmarried life of John Templeton and Hannah his wife. They lived together\nforty years, and the record scarcely shows a dent. In all that time\nhardly a word of love passed between them; but never a word of hatred,\neither. They had a kind of hard and fast understanding, like the laws\nof Moses. He did the work of the fields and she did the work of the\nhouse, from sunrise to sunset. On Sunday they went to church together.\nHe got out at five o clock to milk and harness up; and it made double\nwork for her, what with getting the children cleaned, and the milk\ntaken care of, and the Sunday dinner made ready. But neither he nor she\nevery doubted or complained. It was the Lord s way. She bore him eight\nchildren. She told him before the last one came that she was not equal\nto it.... After that she was an invalid for seventeen years until she\ndied. And there was loss of children to bear between them, and\nsickness, and creeping age, but this bit of furniture held firm to the\nlast. Gentlemen, it was mad solid, no veneer, a good job all the way\nthrough. \n\nAs he spoke I thought that his roving eye (perhaps it was only my own!)\nfell upon Johnny Holcomb, whose married life has been full of\nvicissitudes.\n\n John, take this home with you; _you_ can use it. \n\n Nope, no such married life for me,  I thought I could hear him\nresponding, rather pleased than not to be the butt of the auctioneer.\n\n Do I hear any bids?  the Great Auctioneer was saying, almost in the\nwords of Mr. Harpworth.  _What!_ No one wants n married life like this?\nWell, put it aside, Jake. It isn t wanted. Too old-fashioned. \n\nIt was Julia Templeton herself who now appeared with certain of the\nintimate and precious  bedroom things a wonderful old linen bedspread,\nwrought upon with woollen figures, and exaling an ancient and exquisite\nodour of lavender, and a rag rug or so, and a little old rocking chair\nwith chintz coverings in which more than one Templeton mother had\nrocked her baby to sleep. Julia herself \n\nI saw Julia, that hard-favoured woman, for the first time at that\nmoment, really saw her. How fiercely she threw down the spread and the\nrugs! How bold and unweeping her eyes! How hard and straight the lines\nof her mouth!\n\n Here they are, Mr. Harpworth! \n\nHow shrill her voice; and how quickly she turned back to the noisy\nkitchen! I could see the angular form, the streakings of gray in her\nhair. ...\n\n What am I offered now for this precious antique? This hand-made\nspread? Everything sold without reserve! Come, now, don t let this\nopportunity slip by.  He leaned forward confidentially and\npersuasively:  Fellah citizens, styles change and fashions pass away,\nbut things made like these, good lines, strong material, honest work,\nthey never grow old.... \n\nHere the Shadowy Auctioneer broke in again and lifted me out of that\nlimited moment.\n\n A true word!  he was saying.  Styles change and fashions pass away,\nand only those things that are well made, and made for service the\nbeautiful things remain. I am offering to-day, without reservation,\nanother precious antique. What will you give for such a religious faith\nas that of John Templeton? Worn for a lifetime and sound to the end. He\nread the Bible every Sunday morning of his life, went to church, and\ndid his religious duty by his children. Do you remember young Joe\nTempleton? Wouldn t learn his chapter one Sunday, and the old gentleman\nprayed about it and then beat him with a hitching strap. Joe ran away\nfrom home and made his fortune in Minnesota. Nearly broke the mother s\nheart, and old John s, too; but he thought it right, and never repented\nit. Gentlemen, an honest man who feared God and lived righteously all\nhis days! What am I offered for this durable antique, this\ncharacteristic product of New England? Do I hear a bid? \n\nAt this I felt coming over me that strange urge of the auction, to bid\nand to buy. A rare possession indeed, not without a high, stern kind of\nbeauty! It would be wonderful to possess such a faith; but what had I\nto offer that Shadowy Auctioneer? What coin that would redeem past\ntimes and departed beliefs?\n\nIt was curious how the words of Mr. Harpworth fitted into the fabric of\nmy imaginings. When he next attracted my attention he was throwing up\nhis hands in a fine semblance of despair. We were such obtuse\npurchasers!\n\n I think,  said Mr. Harpworth,  that this crowd came here to-day only\nto eat Julia Templeton s auction luncheon. What s the matter with this\nhere generation? You don t want things that are well made and durable,\nbut only things that are cheap and flashy. Put  er aside, Jake. We ll\nsell  er yet to some historical museum devoted to the habits and\ncustoms of the early Americans. \n\nHe was plainly disgusted with us, and we felt it keenly, and were glad\nand pleased when, a moment later, he gave evidence of being willing to\ngo on with us, paltry as we were.\n\n Jake, pass up that next treasure. \n\nHis spirits were returning; his eyes gleamed approvingly upon the newly\npresented antique. He looked at us with fresh confidence; he was still\nhopeful that we would rise to his former good opinion of us.\n\n And now before I sell the hail clock by Willard, date of 1822, I am\ngoing to offer what is possibly the best single piece in this sale.... \n\nHere again the Old Auctioneer, having caught his * broke in. When he\nspoke, who could listen to Mr. Harpworth:\n\n ... the best single piece in this sale, gentlemen! I offer you now the\nTempleton family pride! A choice product of old New England. A little\nbattered, but still good and sound. The Templetons! They never did\nanything notable except to work, work early and late, summer and\nwinter, for three generations. They were proud of any one who bore the\nTempleton name; they were proud even of Jim, simple Jim, who got a job\ndriving the delivery wagon at the hill store, and drove it for\ntwenty-two years and was drowned in Mill River. I ll tell you what\nfamily pride meant to old John Templeton.... \n\nI thought he leaned forward to take us into his confidence, motioning\nat the same time toward the house.\n\n You know Julia Templeton \n\nKnow her? Of course we knew her! Knew her as only the country knows its\nown.\n\n When Julia ran away with that sewing-machine agent it was her only\nchance! old John Templeton drove his best cow into town and sold her,\nhe mortgaged his team of horses, and went after the girl and brought\nher home with him. They were firm and strong and as righteous as God\nwith her; and they paid off, without whining, the mortgages on the\nhorses, and never spoke of the loss of the cow but never forgot it.\nThey held up their heads to the end. Gentlemen, what am I offered for\nthis interesting antique, this rare work of art? \n\nThe auction was considered, upon the whole, a great success. Mr.\nHarpworth himself said so. Ike, the Jewish dealer, bought the family\nclock and the spring-tooth harrow, and even bid on the family crayon\nportraits (the frames could be sold for something or other); a Swede\nbought the pigs and the old buggy; an Irish teamster bid in John\nTempleton s horses, and a Pole, a good man, I know him well, bought the\nland, and will no doubt keep his geese in the summer kitchen, and get\nrich from the cultivation of the ancient fields. While old John\nTempleton bowed himself humbly before a wrathful God he would never go\ndown on his knees, as the Poles do, to the fertile earth. And I\nforgot an Italian from Nortontown bought for a song the apple and\nchestnut crops, and busy third generation Americans loaded in the\nantiques and drove off with them to the city.\n\nThe last I saw of Julia Templeton, that hard-favoured woman, she was\nstanding, an angular figure, in the midst of the wreck of the luncheon\ndishes, one arm wrapped in her apron, the other hand shading her eyes\nwhile she watched the company, in wagons and automobiles, trailing away\nto the westward, and the towns....\n\nThe sale was over; but the most valuable antiques of all found no\npurchasers: they were left behind with Julia Templeton: only she could\nuse them.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\nA WOMAN OF FORTY-FIVE\n\n\nWe have an Astonishing Woman in this community. She acts in a way that\nno one expects, and while we are intensely interested in everything she\ndoes, and desire to know about it to the uttermost detail, we are\ninclined to speak of her in bated breath.\n\nSome Woman to Talk About in a country neighbourhood is a kind of public\nnecessity. She fills one of the stated functions like the town\nassessor, or the president of the Dorcas Society; and if ever the\noffice falls vacant we have immediate resort to one of those silent\nelections at which we choose our town celebrities. There are usually\nseveral candidates, and the campaign is accompanied by much heated\nargument and exemplification. We have our staunch party men and our\nirresponsible independents on whom you can never put your finger; and\nif we are sometimes a little vague in our discussion of principles and\nissues we share with our national political leaders an intense interest\nin personalities. Prominent citizens  come out  for this candidate or\nthat, we  spring surprises,  and launch new booms, and often, at the\nlast moment, we are taken off our feet by the circulation of comebacks.\nI take a pardonable pride, however, in saying, to the credit of our\ndemocratic institutions that most of the candidates elected are chosen\nstrictly upon merit.\n\nI shall never forget the afternoon, now more than a year ago, that\nHarriet came up the road bearing the news which, beyond a doubt, placed\nthe present incumbent in office; and has served to keep her there,\ndespite the efforts in certain quarters, which shall be nameless, to\nuse that pernicious instrument of radicalism, the recall.\n\nI can always tell when Harriet brings important news. She has a\nslightly quicker step, carries her head a little more firmly, and when\nshe speaks impresses her message upon me with a lowered voice. When\nHarriet looks at me severely and drops down an octave I prepare for the\nworst.\n\n David,  she said,  Mary Starkweather has gone to live in the barn! \n\n In the _barn_! \n\n In the barn. \n\nI don t know quite why it is, but I dislike being surprised, and do my\nbest to cover it up, and, besides, I have always liked Mary\nStarkweather. So I remarked, as casually as I could:\n\n Why not? It s a perfectly good barn. \n\n David Grayson! \n\n Well, it is. It s a better building to-day than many of the people of\nthis town live in. Why shouldn t Mary Starkweather live in the barn if\nshe wants to? It s her barn. \n\n But, _David_ there are her children and her husband! \n\n There always are, when anybody wants to live in a barn. \n\n I shall not talk with you any more,  said Harriet,  until you can be\nserious. \n\nI had my punishment, as I richly deserved to have, in the gnawing of\nunsatisfied curiosity, which is almost as distressing as a troubled\nconscience.\n\nWithin the next few days, I remember, I heard the great news buzzing\neverywhere I went. We had conjectured that the barn was being refitted\nfor the family of a caretaker, and it was Mary Starkweather herself,\nour sole dependable representative of the Rich, who was moving in! Mary\nStarkweather, who had her house in town, and her home in the country,\nand her automobiles, and her servants, and her pictures, and her books,\nto say nothing of her husband and her children and her children s maid\ngoing to live in her barn! I leave it to you if there was not a valid\nreason for our commotion.\n\nIt must have been two weeks later that I went to town by the upper hill\nroad in order to pass the Starkweather place. It is a fine old estate,\nthe buildings, except the barn, set well back from the road with a\nspacious garden near them, and pleasant fields stretching away on every\nhand. As I skirted the shoulder of the hill I looked eagerly for the\nfirst glimpse of the barn. I confess that I had woven a thousand\nstories to explain the mystery, and had reached the point where I could\nno longer resist seeing if I could solve it.\n\nWell, the barn was transformed. Two or three new windows, a door with a\nlittle porch, a lattice or so for vines, a gable upon the roof lifting\nan inquiring eyebrow and what was once a barn had become a charming\ncottage. It seemed curiously to have come alive, to have acquired a\npersonality of its own. A corner of the great garden had been cut off\nand included in the miniature grounds of the cottage; and a simple\narbour had been built against a background of wonderful beech trees.\nYou felt at once a kind of fondness for it.\n\nI saw Mary Starkweather in her garden, in a large straw hat, with a\ntrowel in her hand.\n\n How are you, David Grayson?  she called out when I stopped.\n\n I have been planning for several days,  I said,  to happen casually by\nyour new house. \n\n Have you? \n\n You don t know how you have stirred our curiosity. We haven t had a\ngood night s rest since you moved in. \n\n I ve no doubt of it,  she laughed.  Won t you come in? I d like to\ntell you all about it. \n\n I also prepared to make excuses for not stopping,  I said,  and\nthought up various kinds of urgent business, such as buying a new snow\nshovel to use next winter, but after making these excuses I intended to\nstop if I were sufficiently urged. \n\n You are more than urged: you are commanded. \n\nAs I followed her up the walk she said earnestly:\n\n Will you do me a favour? When you come in will you tell me the first\nimpression my living-room gives you? No second thoughts. Tell me\ninstantly. \n\n I ll do it.  I said, my mind leaping eagerly to all manner of\nmysterious surprises.\n\nAt the centre of the room she turned toward me and with a sweeping\nbackward motion of the arms, made me a bow a strong figure instinct\nwith confident grace: a touch of gray in the hair, a fleeting look of\nold sadness about the eyes.\n\n Now, David Grayson,  she said,  quick! \n\nIt was not that the room itself was so remarkable as that it struck me\nas being confusingly different from the heavily comfortable rooms of\nthe old Starkweather house with their crowded furnishings, their\noverloaded mantels, their plethoric bookcases.\n\n I cannot think of you yet,  I stumbled,  as being here. \n\n Isn t it _like_ me? \n\n It is a beautiful room  I groped lamely.\n\n I was afraid you would say that. \n\n But it is. It really is. \n\n Then I ve failed, after all. \n\nShe said it lightly enough, but there was an undertone of real\ndisappointment in her voice.\n\n I m in rather the predicament,  I said,  of old Abner Coates. You\nprobably don t know Abner. He sells nursery stock, and each spring when\nhe comes around and I tell him that the peach trees or the raspberry\nbushes I bought of him the year before have not done well, he says,\nwith the greatest astonishment,  Wal, now, ye ain t said what I hoped\nye would.  I see that I haven t said what you hoped I would. \n\nIt was too serious a matter, however, for Mary Starkweather to joke\nabout.\n\n But, David Grayson,  she said,  isn t it _simple_? \n\nI glanced around me with swift new comprehension.\n\n Why, yes, it _is_ simple. \n\nI saw that my friend was undergoing some deep inner change of which\nthis room, this renovated barn, were mere symbols.\n\n Tell me,  I said,  how you came to such a right-about-face. \n\n It s just that!  she returned earnestly,  It _is_ a right-about-face.\nI think I am really in earnest for the first time in my life. \n\nI had a moment of flashing wonder if her marriage had not been in\nearnest, a flashing picture of Richard Starkweather with his rather\ntired, good-humoured face, and I wondered if her children were not\nearnest realities to her, if her busy social life had meant nothing.\nThen I reflected that we all have such moments, when the richest\nexperiences of the past seem as nothing in comparison with the fervour\nof this glowing moment.\n\n Everything in my life in the past,  she was saying,  seems to have\nhappened to me. Life has done things _for_ me; I have had so few\nchances of doing anything for myself. \n\n And now you are expressing yourself. \n\n Almost for the first time in my life! \n\nShe paused.  All my life, it seems to me, I have been smothered with\nthings. Just things! Too much of everything. All my time has been taken\nup in caring for things and none in enjoying them. \n\n I understand!  I said with a warm sense of corroboration and sympathy.\n\n I had so many pictures on my walls that I never saw, really saw, any\nof them. I saw the dust on them, I saw the cracks in the frames, that\nneeded repairing, I even saw better ways of arranging them, but I very\nrarely saw, with the inner eye, what the artists were trying to tell\nme. And how much time I have wasted on mere food and clothing it is\nappalling! I had become nothing short of a slave to my house and my\nthings. \n\n I see now,  I said,  why you have just one rose on your table. \n\n Yes she returned eagerly isn t it a beauty! I spent half an hour\nthis morning looking for the best and most perfect rose in the garden,\nand there it is! \n\nShe was now all alight with her idea, and I saw her, as we sometimes\nsee our oldest friends, as though I had not seen her before. She was\nthat phenomenon of the modern world the free woman of forty-five.\n\nWhen a woman reaches the old age of youth, the years between forty and\nforty-five, she either surrenders or revolts. In the older days in\nAmerica it was nearly always surrender. Those women of a past\ngeneration bore many children: how many graves there are in our hill\ncemeteries of women of forty to fifty who died leading families of five\nor eight or ten children! How many second and third wives there were,\noften with second and third families. Or if they did not die, how\nterribly they toiled, keeping the house, clothing the children, cooking\nthe food. Or if they bore no children, yet they were bound down by a\nthousand chains of convention and formality.\n\nBut in these days we have a woman of forty-five who has not\nsurrendered. She is a vigorous, experienced, active-minded human being,\njust beginning to look restlessly around her and take a new interest in\nthe world. Such a woman was Mary Starkweather; and this was her first\nrevolt.\n\n You cannot imagine,  she was saying,  what a joy it has been to\nunaccumulate! To get rid of things! To select. \n\n To become an artist in life! \n\n Yes! At last! What a lot of perfectly worthless trash accumulates\naround us. Not beautiful, not even useful! And it is not only the lives\nof the well-to-do that are choked and cluttered with things. I wish you\ncould see the house of our Polish farmer. He s been saving money, and\nfilling up his house with perfectly worthless ornaments ornate clocks,\ngorgeous plush furniture, impossible rugs and yet he is only doing what\nwe are all doing on a more elaborate scale. \n\nI laughed.\n\n That reminds me of a family of squirrels that lives in an oak tree on\nmy hill,  I said.  I am never tired of watching them. In the fall they\nwork desperately, stealing all the hickory nuts and chestnuts on my\nneighbour Horace s back pastures, five times as many as they need, and\nthen they forget, half the time, where they ve hidden them. We re all\nmore or less in the squirrel stage of civilization. \n\n Yes,  she responded.  There are my books! I gathered up books for\nyears, just squirrel fashion, until I forgot what I had or where I put\nthem. You cannot know what joy I m going to have in selecting just the\nessential books, the ones I want by me for daily companions. All the\nothers, I see now, are temporary rubbish. \n\n And you ve made your selections? \n\n No, but I m making them. You ll laugh when you come next time and I\nshow them to you. Oh, I am going to be stern with myself. I m not going\nto put a single book in that case for show, nor a single one to give\nthe impression that I m profoundly interested in Egypt or Maeterlinck\nor woman suffrage, when I m positively not. \n\n It s terribly risky,  I said.\n\n And I m terribly reckless,  she responded.\n\nAs I went onward toward the town I looked back from the hilltop beyond\nthe big house for a last glimpse of the reconstructed barn, and with a\ncurious warm sense of having been admitted to a new adventure. Here was\nlife changing under my eyes! Here was a human being struggling with one\nof the deep common problems that come to all of us. The revolt from\nthings! The struggle with superfluities!\n\nAnd yet as I walked along the cool aisles of the woods with the quiet\nfields opening here and there to the low hill ridges, and saw the\ncattle feeding, and heard a thrush singing in a thicket, I found myself\nletting go how can I explain it? relaxing! I had been keyed up to a\nhigh pitch there in that extraordinary room, Yes, it _was_\nbeautiful and yet as I thought of the sharp little green gate, the new\ngable, the hard, clean mantel with the cloisonne vase, it wanted\nsomething....\n\nAs I was gathering the rowen crop of after-enjoyment which rewards us\nwhen we reflect freshly upon our adventures, whom should I meet but\nRichard Starkweather himself in his battered machine. The two boys, one\nof whom was driving, and the little girl, were with him.\n\n How are you, David?  he called out.  Whoa, there! Draw up, Jamie. \n\nWe looked at each other for a moment with that quizzical, half-humorous\nlook that so often conveys, better than any spoken words, the\nsympathetic greeting of friends. I like Richard Starkweather.\n\nHe had come up from the city looking rather worn, for the weather had\nbeen trying. He has blue, honest, direct-gazing eyes with small humour\nwrinkles at the corners. I never knew a man with fewer theories, or\nwith a simpler devotion to the thing at hand, whatever it may be. At\neverything else he smiles, not cynically, for he is too modest in his\nregard for his own knowledge; he smiles at everything else because it\ndoesn t seem quite real to him.\n\n Been up to see Mary s new house?  he asked.\n\n Yes,  And for the life of me I couldn t help smiling in response.\n\n It s a wonder isn t it? \n\nHe thought his wife a very extraordinary woman. I remember his saying\nto me once,  David, she s got the soul of a poet and the brain of a\ngeneral. \n\n It _is_ a wonder,  I responded.\n\n I can t decide yet what chair to sit in, nor just what she wants the\nkids to do. \n\nI still smiled.\n\n I expect she hasn t determined yet,  he went drawling on,  in what\nchair I will look most decorative. \n\nHe ruminated.\n\n You know, she s got the idea that there s too much of everything. I\nguess there is, too and that she ought to select only those things that\nan essential. I ve been wondering, if she had more than one husband\nwhether or not she d select me \n\nThe restless young Jamie was now starting the machine, and Richard\nStarkweather leaned out and said to me in parting:\n\n isn t she a wonder! Did all the planning herself wouldn t have an\narchitect wouldn t have a decorator all I could do \n\nAs he turned around I saw him throw one arm carelessly about the\nshoulders of the sturdy younger boy who sat next him.\n\nWhen I got home I told Harriet all about what I had seen and heard. I\nthink I must feel when I am retailing such fascinating neighbourhood\nevents to Harriet how she _does_ enjoy them! I must feel very much as\nshe does when she is urging me to have just a little more of the new\ngingerbread.\n\nIn the next few months I watched with indescribable interest the\nunfolding of the drama of Mary Starkweather. I saw her from time to\ntime that summer and she seemed, and I think she was, happier than ever\nshe had been before in her whole life. Making over her garden,\nselecting the  essential books,  choosing the best pictures for her\nrooms, even reforming the clothing of the boys, all with an emphasis\nupon perfect simplicity her mind was completely absorbed. Occasionally\nRichard appeared upon the stage, a kind of absurd Greek chorus of one,\nwho remarked what a wonderful woman this was and poked fun at himself\nand at the new house, and asserted that Mary could be as simple as ever\nshe liked, he insisted on thick soup for dinner and would not sacrifice\nhis beloved old smoking jacket upon the altar of any new idea.\n\n She s a wonder, David,  he d wind up:  but this simple life is getting\nmore complicated every day. \n\nIt was in December, about the middle of the month, as I remember, that\nI had a note one day from Mary Starkweather.\n\n The next time you go to town,  it ran,  stop in and see me. I ve made\na discovery. \n\nWith such a note as that us my hand it appeared imperative that I go to\ntown at once. I discovered, to Harriet s astonishment, that we were\nrunning out of all sorts of necessaries.\n\n Now, David,  she said,  you know perfectly well that you re just\nmaking up to call on Mary Starkweather. \n\n That,  I said,  relieves my conscience of a great burden. \n\nAs I went out of the door I heard her saying:  Why Mary Starkweather\nshould _care_ to live in her barn.... \n\nIt was a sparkling cold day, sun on the snow and the track crunching\nunder one s feet, and I walked swiftly and with a warm sense of coming\nadventure.\n\nTo my surprise there was no smoke in the cottage chimney, and when I\nreached the door I found a card pinned upon it:\n\nPLEASE CALL AT THE HOUSE\n\nMary Starkweather herself opened the door she had seen me coming and\ntook me into the big comfortable old living-room, the big, cluttered,\noverfurnished living-room, with the two worn upholstered chairs at the\nfireplace, in which a bright log fire was now burning. There was a\npleasant litter of books and magazines, and a work basket on the table,\nand in the bay window an ugly but cheerful green rubber plant in a tub.\n\n Well!  I exclaimed.\n\n Don t smile not yet. \n\nAs I looked at her I felt not at all like smiling.\n\n I know,  she was saying,  it does have a humorous side. I can see\nthat. Dick has seen it all along. Do you know, although Dick pretends\nto pooh-pooh everything intellectual, he has a really penetrating\nmind. \n\nI had a sudden vision of Dick in his old smoking jacket, standing in\nthe midst of the immaculate cottage that was once a barn, holding his\npipe with one finger crooked around the stem just in front of his nose\nin the way he had, and smiling across at me.\n\n Have you deserted the cottage entirely? \n\n Oh, we may possibly go back in the spring  She paused and looked\ninto the fire, her fine, strong face a little sad in composure, full of\nthought.\n\n I am trying to be honest with myself David. Honest above everything\nelse. That s fundamental. It seems to me I have wanted most of all to\nlearn how to live my life more freely and finely.... I thought I was\ngetting myself free of things when, as a matter of fact, I was devoting\nmore time to them than ever before-and, besides that, making life more\nor less uncomfortable for Dick and the children. So I ve taken my\ncourage squarely in my hands and come back here into this blessed old\nhome, this blessed, ugly, stuffy old home I ve learned _that_ lesson. \n\nAt this, she glanced up at me with that rare smile which sometimes\nshines out of her very nature: the smile that is herself.\n\n I found,  she said,  that when I had finished the work of becoming\nsimple there was nothing else left to do. \n\nI laughed outright, for I couldn t help it, and she joined me. How we\ndo like people who can laugh at themselves.\n\n But,  I said,  there was sound sense in a great deal that you were\ntrying to do. \n\n The fireplace smoked; and the kitchen sink froze up; and the cook left\nbecause we couldn t keep her room warm. \n\n But you were right,  I interrupted,  and I am not going to be put off\nby smoking fireplaces or chilly cooks; you were right. We do have too\nmuch, we are smothered in things, we don t enjoy what we do have \n\nI paused.\n\n And you were making a beautiful thing, a beautiful house. \n\n The trouble with making a beautiful thing,  she replied,  is that when\nyou have got it done you must straightway make another. Now I don t\nwant to keep on building houses or furnishing rooms. I am not after\nbeauty I mean primarily what I want is to _live_, live simply, live\ngreatly. \n\nShe was desperately in earnest.\n\n Perhaps,  I said, feeling as though I were treading on dangerous\nground,  you were trying to be simple for the sake of being simple. I\nwonder if true simplicity is ever any thing but a by-product. If we aim\ndirectly for it, it eludes us: but if we are on fire with some great\ninterest that absorbs on lives to the uttermost, we forget ourselves\ninto simplicity, Everything falls into simple lines around us, like a\nworn garment. \n\nI had the rather uncomfortable feeling on the way home that I had been\npreachy; and the moment you became preachy begin to build up barriers\nbetween yourself and your friends: but that s a defect of character\nI ve never been able, quite, to overcome. I keep thinking I ve got the\nbetter of it, but along will come a beautiful temptation and down I\ngo and come out as remorseful as I was that afternoon on the way home\nfrom Mary Starkweather s.\n\nA week or two later I happened to meet Richard Starkweather on the\nstreet in Hempfield. He was on his way home.\n\n Yes,  he said,  we re in the old house again until spring, anyway. I\nhaven t been so comfortable in a year. And, say,  here he looked at me\nquizzically,  Mary has joined the new cemetery association; you know\nthey re trying to improve the resting places of the forefathers, and,\nby George, if they didn t elect her chairman at the first meeting.\nShe s a wonder! \n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\nHIS MAJESTY BILL RICHARDS\n\n\nWell, I have just been having an amusing and delightful adventure and\nhave come to know a Great Common Person. His name is Bill Richards, and\nhe is one of the hereditary monarchs of America. He belongs to our\nruling dynasty.\n\nI first saw Bill about two weeks ago, and while I was strongly\ninterested in him I had no idea, at the time, that I should ever come\nto know him well. It was a fine June day, and I was riding on the new\ntrolley line that crosses the hills to Hewlett a charming trip through\na charming country and there in the open car just in front of me sat\nBill himself. One huge bare forearm rested on the back of the seat, the\nrich red blood showing through the weathered brown of the skin. His\nclean brown neck rose strongly from the loose collar of his shirt,\nwhich covered but could not hide the powerful lines of his shoulders.\nHe wore blue denim and khaki, and a small round felt hat tipped up\njauntily at the back. He had crisp, coarse light hair rather thin not\nby age, but by nature so that the ruddy scalp could be seen through it,\nand strong jaws and large firm features, and if the beard was two days\nold, his face was so brown, so full of youthful health, that it gave no\nill impression.\n\nHe could not sit still for the very life that was in him. He seemed to\nhave some grand secret with the conductor and frequently looked around\nat him, his eyes full of careless laughter, and once or twice he called\nout some jocose remark. He helped the conductor, in pantomime, to pull\nthe cord and stop or start the car, and he watched with the liveliest\ninterest each passenger getting on or getting off. A rather mincing\nyoung girl with a flaring red ribbon at her throat was to him the\nfinest comedy in the world, so that he had to wink a telegram to the\nconductor about her. An old woman with a basket of vegetables who\ndelayed the car was exquisitely funny.\n\nI set him down as being about twenty-two years old and some kind of\noutdoor workman, not a farmer.\n\nWhen he got off, which was before the car stopped, so that he had to\njump and run with it, he gave a wild flourish with both arms, grimaced\nat the conductor, and went off down the road whistling for all he was\nworth. How I enjoyed the sight of him! He was so charged with youthful\nenergy, so overflowing with the joy of life, that he could scarcely\ncontain himself. What a fine place the world was to him! And what\ncomical and interesting people it contained! I was sorry when he got\noff.\n\nTwo or three days later I was on my way up the town road north of my\nfarm when I was astonished and delighted to see Bill for the second\ntime. He was coming down the road pulling a wire over the crosspiece of\na tall telephone pole (the company is rebuilding and enlarging its\nsystem through our town). He was holding the wire close drawn over his\nright shoulder, his strong hands gripped and pressed upon his breast.\nThe veins stood out in his brown neck where the burlap shoulder pad he\nwore was drawn aside by the wire. He leaned forward, stepping first on\nhis toe, which he dug into the earth and then, heavily letting down his\nheel, he drew the other foot forward somewhat stiffly. The muscles\nstood out in his powerful shoulders and thighs. His legs were\ndouble-strapped with climbing spurs. He was a master lineman.\n\nAs I came alongside he turned a good-humoured sweaty face toward me.\n\n It s dang hot,  said he.\n\n It is,  said I.\n\nThere is something indescribably fascinating about the sight of a\nstrong workman in the full swing of his work, something yes, beautiful!\nA hard pull of a job, with a strong man doing it joyfully, what could\nbe finer to see? And he gave such a jaunty sense of youth and easy\nstrength!\n\nI watched him for some time, curiously interested, and thought I should\nlike well to know him, but could not see just how to go about it.\n\nThe man astride the cross-arm who was heaving the wire forward from the\nspool on the distant truck suddenly cried out:\n\n Ease up there, Bill, she s caught. \n\nSo Bill eased up and drew his arm across his dripping face.\n\n How many wires are you putting up?  I asked, fencing for some opening.\n\n Three,  said Bill.\n\nBefore I could get in another stroke the man on the pole shouted:\n\n Let  er go, Bill.  And Bill let  er go, and buckled down again to his\njob.\n\n Gee, but it s hot,  said he.\n\nIn the country there are not so many people passing our way that we\ncannot be interested in all of them. That evening I could not help\nthinking about Bill, the lineman, wondering where he came from, how he\nhappened to be what he was, who and what sort were the friends he made,\nand the nature of his ambitions, if he had any. Talk about going to the\nNorth Pole! It is not to be compared, for downright fascination, with\nthe exploration of an undiscovered human being.\n\nWith that I began to think how I might get at Bill, the lineman, and\nnot merely weather talk, or wages talk, or work talk, but at Bill\nhimself. He was a character quite unusual in our daily lives here in\nthe country. I wondered what his interests could be, surely not mine\nnor Horace s nor the Starkweathers . As soon as I began trying to\nvisualize what his life might be, I warmed up to a grand scheme of\ncapturing him, if by chance he was to be found the next day upon the\ntown road.\n\nAll this may seem rather absurd in the telling, but I found it a\ndownright good adventure for a quiet evening, and fully believe I felt\nfor the moment like General Joffre planning to meet the Germans on the\nMarne.\n\n I have it!  I said aloud.\n\n You have what?  asked Harriet, somewhat startled.\n\n The grandest piece of strategy ever devised in this town,  said I.\n\nWith that I went delving in a volume of universal information I keep\nnear me, one of those knowing books that tells you how tall the great\nPryamid is and why a hen cackles after laying an egg, and having found\nwhat I wanted I asked Harriet if she could find a tape measure around\nthe place. She is a wonderful person and knows where everything is.\nWhen she handed me the tape measure she asked me what in the world I\nwas so mysterious about.\n\n Harriet,  I said,  I m going on a great adventure. I ll tell you all\nabout it to-morrow. \n\n Nonsense,  said Harriet.\n\nIt is this way with the fancies of the evening they often look flat and\nflabby and gray the next morning. Quite impossible! But if I d acted on\nhalf the good and grand schemes I ve had o  nights I might now be quite\na remarkable person.\n\nI went about my work the next morning just as usual. I even avoided\nlooking at the little roll of tape on the corner of the mantel as I\nwent out. It seemed a kind of badge of my absurdity. But about the\nmiddle of the fore-noon, while I was in my garden, I heard a tremendous\nracket up the road. Rattle bang, zip, toot! As I looked up I saw the\nboss lineman and his crew careering up the road in their truck, and the\nbold driver was driving like Jehu, the son of Nimshi. And there were\nladders and poles clattering out behind, and rolls of wire on upright\nspools rattling and flashing in the sunshine, and the men of the crew\nwere sitting along the sides of the truck with hats off and hair flying\nas they came bumping and bounding up the road. It was a brave thing to\nsee going by on a spring morning!\n\nAs they passed, whom should I see but Bill himself, at the top of the\nload, with a broad smile on his face. When his eye fell on me he threw\nup one arm, and gave me the railroad salute.\n\n Hey, there!  he shouted.\n\n Hey there, yourself,  I shouted in return and could not help it.\n\nI had a curious warm feeling of being taken along with that jolly crowd\nof workmen, with Bill on the top of the load.\n\nIt was this that finished me. I hurried through an early dinner, and\ntaking the tape measure off the mantel I put it in my pocket as though\nit were a revolver or a bomb, and went off up the road feeling as\nadventurous as ever I felt in my life. I never said a word to Harriet\nbut disappeared quietly around the lilac bushes. I was going to waylay\nthat crew, and especially Bill. I hoped to catch them at their nooning.\n\nWell, I was lucky. About a quarter of a mile up the road, in a little\nvalley near the far corner of Horace s farm, I found the truck, and\nBill just getting out his dinner pail. It seems they had flipped\npennies and Bill hod been left behind with the truck and the tools\nwhile the others went down to the mill pond in the valley below.\n\n How are you?  said I.\n\n How are _you_?  said he.\n\nI could see that he was rather cross over having been left behind.\n\n Fine day,  said I.\n\n You bet,  said he.\n\nHe got out his pail, which was a big one, and seated himself on the\nroadside, a grassy, comfortable spot near the brook which runs below\ninto the pond. There were white birches and hemlocks on the hill, and\nsomewhere in the thicket I heard a wood thrush singing.\n\n Did you ever see John L. Sullivan?  I asked.\n\nHe glanced up at me quickly, but with new interest.\n\n No, did you? \n\n Or Bob Fitzsimmons? \n\n Nope but I was mighty near it once. I ve seen  em both in the movies. \n\n Well, sir,  said I,  that s interesting. I should like to see them\nmyself. Do you know what made me speak of them? \n\nHe had spread down a newspaper and was taking the luncheon out of his\n bucket,  as he called it, including a large bottle of coffee; but he\npaused and looked at me with keen interest.\n\n Well,  said I,  when I saw you dragging that wire yesterday I took you\nto be a pretty husky citizen yourself. \n\nHe grinned and took a big mouthful from one of his sandwiches. I could\nsee that my shot had gone home.\n\n So when I got back last night,  I said,  I looked up the arm\nmeasurements of Sullivan and Fitzsimmons in a book I have and got to\nwondering how they compared with mine and yours. They were considerably\nlarger than mine \n\nBill thought this a fine joke and laughed out in great good humour.\n\n But I imagine you d not be far behind either of them. \n\nHe looked at me a little suspiciously, as if doubtful what I was\ndriving at or whether or not I was joking him. But I was as serious as\nthe face of nature; and proceeded at once to get out my tape measure.\n\n I get very much interested in such things,  I said,  and I had enough\ncuriosity to want to see how big your arm really was. \n\nHe smiled broadly.\n\n You re a queer one,  said he.\n\nBut he took another bite of sandwich, and clenching his great fist drew\nup his forearm until the biceps muscles looked like a roll of Vienna\nbread except that they had the velvety gleam of life. So I measured\nfirst one arm, then the other.\n\n By George!  said I,  you re ahead of Fitzsimmons, but not quite up to\nSullivan. \n\n Fitz wasn t a heavy man,  said Bill,  but a dead game fighter. \n\nI saw then that I had him! So I sat down on the grass near by and we\nhad great talk about the comparative merits of Fitzsimmons and Sullivan\nand Corbett and Jack Johnson, a department of knowledge in which he\nout-distanced me. He even told me of an exploit or two of his own,\nwhich showed that he was able to take care of himself.\n\nWhile we talked he ate his luncheon, and a downright gargantuan\nluncheon it was, backed by an appetite which if it were offered to the\nhighest bidder on the New York Stock Exchange would, I am convinced,\nbring at least ten thousand dollars in cash. It even made me envious.\n\nThere were three huge corned-beef sandwiches, three hard-boiled eggs, a\npickle six inches long and fat to boot, four doughnuts so big that they\nresembled pitching quoits, a bottle of coffee and milk, a quarter of a\npie, and, to cap the climax, an immense raw onion. It was worth a long\njourney to see Bill eat that onion. He took out his clasp knife, and\nafter stripping off the papery outer shell, cut the onion into thick\ndewy slices. Then he opened one of the sandwiches and placed several of\nthem on the beef, afterward sprinkling them with salt from a small\npaper parcel. Having restored the top slice of bread he took a\nmoon-shaped bite out of one end of this glorified sandwich.\n\n I like onions,  said he.\n\nWhen we first sat down he had offered to share his luncheon with me but\nI told him I had just been to dinner, and I observed that he had no\ndifficulty in taking care of every crumb in his  bucket.  It was\nwonderful to see.\n\nHaving finished his luncheon he went down to the brook and got a drink,\nand then sat down comfortably with his back among the ferns of the\nroadside, crossed his legs, and lit his pipe. There was a healthy and\nwholesome flush in his face, and as he blew off the first cloud of\nsmoke he drew a sigh of complete comfort and looked around at me with a\nlordly air such as few monarchs, no matter how well fed, could have\nbettered. He had worked and sweat for what he got, and was now taking\nhis ease in his roadside inn. I wonder sometimes if anybody in the\nworld experiences keener joys than unwatched common people.\n\nHow we talked! From pugilists we proceeded to telephones, and from that\nto wages, hours, and strikes, and from that we leaped easily to Alaska\nand gold-mining, and touched in passing upon Theodore Roosevelt.\n\n I was just thinking,  I said,  that you and I can enjoy some things\nthat were beyond the reach of the greatest kings of the world. \n\n How s that?  said he.\n\n Why, Napoleon never saw a telephone nor talked through one. \n\n That s so!  he laughed.\n\n And Caesar couldn t have dreamed that such a thing as you are doing\nnow was a possibility nor George Washington, either. \n\n Say, that s so. I never thought o  that. \n\n Why,  I said,  the world is only half as big as it was before you\nfellows came along stringing your wires! I can get to town now from my\nfarm in two minutes, when it used to take me an hour. \n\nI really believe I gave him more of his own business than ever he had\nbefore, for he listened so intently that his pipe went out.\n\nI found that Bill was from Ohio, and that he had been as far south as\nAtlanta and as far west as Denver. He got his three dollars and a half\na day, rain or shine, and thought it wonderful pay; and besides, he was\nseein  the country  free, gratis, fer nothing. \n\nHe got his coat out of the truck and took from the pocket a\nmany-coloured folder.\n\n Say, Mister, have you ever been to the Northwest? \n\n No,  said I.\n\n Well, it s a great country, and I m goin  up there. \n\nHe spread out the glittering folder and placed his big forefinger on a\nspot about the size of Rhode Island somewhere this side of the Rockies.\n\n How ll you do it?  I asked.\n\n Oh, a lineman can go anywhere,  said he with a flourish,  A lineman\ndon t have to beg a job. Besides, I got eighty dollars sewed up. \n\nTalk about freedom! Never have I got a clearer impression of it than\nBill gave me that day. No millionaire, no potentate, could touch him.\n\nThe crew came back all too soon for me. Bill knocked the ashes out of\nhis pipe on his boot heel, and put his  bucket  back in the truck. Five\nminutes later he was climbing a tall pole with legs bowed out, striking\nin his spikes at each step. From the cross-arm, up among the hemlock\ntops, he called out to me:\n\n Good-bye, pard. \n\n Stop in, Bill, and see me when you come by my place,  said I.\n\n You bet,  said he.\n\nAnd he did, the next day, and I showed him off to Harriet, who brought\nhim a plate of her best doughnuts and asked him about his mother.\n\nYesterday I saw him again careering by in the truck. The job was\nfinished. He waved his hand at me.\n\n I m off,  said he.\n\n Where?  I shouted.\n\n Canada. \n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\nON LIVING IN THE COUNTRY\n\n\n Why risk with men your hard won gold?\nBuy grain and sow your Brother Dust\nWill pay you back a hundred fold \nThe earth commits no breach of trust. \n\n\n_Hindu Proverb, Translated by Arthur Guiterman_.\n\nIt is astonishing how many people there are in cities and towns who\nhave a secret longing to get back into quiet country places, to own a\nbit of the soil of the earth, and to cultivate it. To some it appears\nas a troublesome malady only in spring and will be relieved by a whirl\nor two in country roads, by a glimpse of the hills, or a day by the\nsea; but to others the homesickness is deeper seated and will be\nquieted by no hasty visits. These must actually go home.\n\nI have had, in recent years, many letters from friends asking about\nlife in the country, but the longer I remain here, the more I know\nabout it, the less able I am to answer them at least briefly. It is as\nthough one should come and ask:  Is love worth trying?  or,  How about\nreligion?  For country life is to each human being a fresh, strange,\noriginal adventure. We enjoy it, or we do not enjoy it, or more\nprobably, we do both. It is packed and crowded with the zest of\nadventure, or it is dull and miserable. We may, if we are skilled\nenough, make our whole living from the land, or only a part of it, or\nwe may find in a few cherished acres the inspiration and power for\nother work, whatever it may be. There is many a man whose strength is\nrenewed like that of the wrestler of Irassa, every time his feet touch\nthe earth.\n\nOf all places in the world where life can be lived to its fullest and\nfreest, where it can be met in its greatest variety and beauty, I am\nconvinced that there is none to equal the open country, or the country\ntown. For all country people in these days may have the city some city\nor town not too far away: but there are millions of men and women in\nAmerica who have no country and no sense of the country. What do they\nnot lose out of life!\n\nI know well the disadvantages charged against country life at its\nworst. At its worst there are long hours and much lonely labour and an\nincome pitifully small. Drudgery, yes, especially for the women, and\nloneliness. But where is there not drudgery when men are poor where\nlife is at its worst? I have never seen drudgery in the country\ncomparable for a moment to the dreary and lonely drudgery of city\ntenements, city mills, factories, and sweat shops. And in recent years\nboth the drudgery and loneliness of country life have been disappearing\nbefore the motor and trolley car, the telephone, the rural post, the\ngasoline engine. I have seen a machine plant as many potatoes in one\nday as a man, at hand work, could have planted in a week. While there\nis, indeed, real drudgery in the country, much that is looked upon as\ndrudgery by people who long for easy ways and a soft life, is only\ngood, honest, wholesome hard work the kind of work that makes for fiber\nin a man or in a nation, the kind that most city life in no wise\nprovides.\n\nThere are a thousand nuisances and annoyances that men must meet who\ncome face to face with nature itself. You have set out your upper acres\nto peach trees: and the deer come down from the hills at night and\nstrip the young foliage; or the field mice in winter, working under the\nsnow, girdle and kill them. The season brings too much rain and the\npotatoes rot in the ground, the crows steal the corn, the bees swarm\nwhen no out is watching, the cow smothers her calf, the hens  eggs\nprove infertile, and a storm in a day ravages a crop that has been\ngrowing all summer. A constant warfare with insects and blights and\nfungi a real, bitter warfare, which can cease neither summer nor\nwinter!\n\nIt is something to meet, year after year, the quiet implacability of\nthe land. While it is patient, it never waits long for you. There is a\nchosen time for planting, a time for cultivating, a time for\nharvesting. You accept the gauge thrown down well and good, you shall\nhave a chance to fight! You do not accept it? There is no complaint.\nThe land cheerfully springs up to wild yellow mustard and dandelion and\npig-weed and will be productive and beautiful in spite of you.\n\nNor can you enter upon the full satisfaction of cultivating even a\nsmall piece of land at second hand. To be accepted as One Who Belongs,\nthere must be sweat and weariness.\n\nThe other day I was digging with Dick in a ditch that is to run down\nthrough the orchard and connect finally with the land drain we put in\nfour years ago. We laid the tile just in the gravel below the silt,\nabout two feet deep, covering the openings with tar paper and then\nthrowing in gravel. It was a bright, cool afternoon. In the field below\na ploughman was at work: I could see the furrows of the dark earth\nglisten as he turned it over. The grass in the meadow was a full rich\ngreen, the new chickens were active in their yards, running to the\ncluck of the hens, already the leaves of the orchard trees showed\ngreen. And as I worked there with Dick I had the curious deep feeling\nof coming somehow into a new and more intimate possession of my own\nland. For titles do not really pass with signatures and red seals, nor\nwith money changing from one hand to another, but for true possession\none must work and serve according to the most ancient law. There is no\nmitigation and no haggling of price. Those who think they can win the\ngreatest joys of country life on any easier terms are mistaken.\n\nBut if one has drained his land, and ploughed it, and fertilized it,\nand planted it and harvested it even though it be only a few acres  how\nhe comes to know and to love every rod of it. He knows the wet spots,\nand the stony spots, and the warmest and most fertile spots  until his\nacres have all the qualities of a personality, whose every\ncharacteristic he knows. It is so also that he comes to know his horses\nand cattle and pigs and hens. It is a fine thing, on a warm day in\nearly spring, to bring out the bee-hives and let the bees have their\nfirst flight in the sunshine. What cleanly folk they are! And later to\nsee them coming in yellow all over with pollen from the willows! It is\na fine thing to watch the cherries and plum trees come into blossom,\nwith us about the first of May, while all the remainder of the orchard\nseems still sleeping. It is a fine thing to see the cattle turned for\nthe first time in spring into the green meadows. It is a fine thing one\nof the finest of all to see and smell the rain in a corn-field after\nweeks of drought. How it comes softly out of gray skies, the first\ndrops throwing up spatters of dust and losing themselves in the dry\nsoil. Then the clouds sweep forward up the valley, darkening the\nmeadows and blotting out the hills, and then there is the whispering of\nthe rain as it first sweeps across the corn-field. At once what a stir\nof life! What rustling of the long green leaves. What joyful shaking\nand swaying of the tassels! And have you watched how eagerly the\ngrooved leaves catch the early drops, and, lest there be too little\nrain after all, conduct them jealously down the stalks where they will\nsoonest reach the thirsty roots? What a fine thing is this to see!\n\nOne who thus takes part in the whole process of the year comes soon to\nhave an indescribable affection for his land, his garden, his animals.\nThere are thoughts of his in every tree: memories in every fence\ncorner. Just now, the fourth of June, I walked down past my blackberry\npatch, now come gorgeously into full white bloom and heavy with\nfragrance. I set out these plants with my own hands, I have fed them,\ncultivated them, mulched them, pruned them, trellised them, and helped\nevery year to pick the berries. How could they be otherwise than full\nof associations! They bear a fruit more beautiful than can be found in\nany catalogue: and stranger and wilder than in any learned botany book!\n\nWhy, one who comes thus to love a bit of countryside may enjoy it all\nthe year round. When he awakens in the middle of a long winter night he\nmay send his mind out to the snowy fields I ve done it a thousand\ntimes! and visit each part in turn, stroll through the orchard and pay\nhis respects to each tree in a small orchard one comes to know\nfamiliarly every tree as he knows his friends stop at the strawberry\nbed, consider the grape trellises, feel himself opening the door of the\nwarm, dark stable and listening to the welcoming whicker of his horses,\nor visiting his cows, his pigs, his sheep, his hens, or so many of them\nas he may have.\n\nSo much of the best in the world seems to have come fragrant out of\nfields, gardens, and hillsides. So many truths spoken by the Master\nPoet come to us exhaling the odours of the open country. His stories\nwere so often of sowers, husbandmen, herdsmen: his similes and\nillustrations so often dealt with the common and familiar beauty of the\nfields.  Consider the lilies how they grow.  It was on a hillside that\nhe preached his greatest Sermon, and when in the last agony he sought a\nplace to meet his God, where did he go but to a garden? A carpenter you\nsay? Yes, but of this one may be sure: there were gardens and fields\nall about: he knew gardens, and cattle, and the simple processes of the\nland: he must have worked in a garden and loved it well.\n\nA country life rather spoils one for the so-called luxuries. A farmer\nor gardener may indeed have a small cash income, but at least he eats\nat the first table. He may have the sweetest of the milk, there are\nthousands, perhaps millions, of men and women in America who have never\nin their lives tasted really sweet milk and the freshest of eggs, and\nthe ripest of fruit. One does not know how good strawberries or\nraspberries are when picked before breakfast and eaten with the dew\nstill on them. And while he must work and sweat for what he gets, he\nmay have all these things in almost unmeasured abundance, and without a\nthought of what they cost. A man from the country is often made\nuncomfortable, upon visiting the city, to find two cans of sweet corn\nserved for twenty or thirty cents, or a dish of raspberries at\ntwenty-five or forty and neither, even at their best, equal in quality\nto those he may have fresh from the garden every day. One need say this\nin no boastful spirit, but as a simple statement of the fact: for\nfruits sent to the city are nearly always picked before they are fully\nripe and lose that last perfection of flavour which the sun and the\nopen air impart: and both fruits and vegetables, as well as milk and\neggs, suffer more than most people think from handling and shipment.\nThese things can be set down as one of the make-weights against the\nfamiliar presentation of the farmer s life as a hard one.\n\nOne of the greatest curses of mill or factory work and with much city\nwork of all kinds, is its interminable monotony: the same process\nrepeated hour after hour and day after day. In the country there is\nindeed monotonous work but rarely monotony. No task continues very\nlong: everything changes infinitely with the seasons. Processes are not\nrepetitive but creative. Nature hates monotony, is ever changing and\nrestless, brings up a storm to drive the haymakers from their hurried\nwork in the fields, sends rain to stop the ploughing, or a frost to\nhurry the apple harvest. Everything is full of adventure and\nvicissitude! A man who has been a farmer for two hours at the mowing\nmust suddenly turn blacksmith when his machine breaks down and tinker\nwith wrench and hammer; and later in the day he becomes dairyman,\nfarrier, harness-maker, merchant. No kind of wheat but is grist to his\nmill, no knowledge that he cannot use! And who is freer to be a citizen\nthan he: freer to take his part in town meeting and serve his state in\nsome one of the innumerable small offices which form the solid blocks\nof organization beneath our commonwealth.\n\nI thought last fall that corn-husking came as near being monotonous\nwork, as any I had ever done in the country. I presume in the great\ncorn-fields of the West, where the husking goes on for weeks at a time,\nit probably does grow really monotonous. But I soon found that there\nwas a curious counter-reward attending even a process as repetitive as\nthis.\n\nI remember one afternoon in particular. It was brisk and cool with\nragged clouds like flung pennants in a poverty-stricken sky, and the\nhills were a hazy brown, rather sad to see, and in one of the apple\ntrees at the edge of the meadow the crows were holding their mournful\nautumn parliament.\n\nAt such work as this one s mind often drops asleep, or at least goes\ndreaming, except for the narrow margin of awareness required for the\nsimple processes of the hands. Its orders have indeed been given: you\nmust kneel here, pull aside the stalks one by one, rip down the husks,\nand twist off the ear and there is the pile for the stripped stalks,\nand here the basket for the gathered corn, and these processes\ninfinitely repeated.\n\nWhile all this is going on, the mind itself wanders off to its own far\nsweet pastures, upon its own dear adventures or rests, or plays. It is\nin these times that most of the airy flying things of this beautiful\nworld come home to us things that heavy-footed reason never quite\novertakes, nor stodgy knowledge ever knows. I think sometimes (as\nSterne says) we thus intercept thoughts never intended for us at all,\nor uncover strange primitive memories of older times than these racial\nmemories.\n\nAt any rate, the hours pass and suddenly the mind comes home again, it\ncomes home from its wanderings refreshed, stimulated, happy. And\nnowhere, whether in cities, or travelling in trains, or sailing upon\nthe sea, have I so often felt this curious enrichment as I have upon\nthis hillside, working alone in field, or garden, or orchard, It seems\nto come up out of the soil, or respond to the touch of growing things.\n\nWhat makes any work interesting is the fact that one can make\nexperiments, try new things, develop specialties and _grow_. And where\ncan he do this with such success as on the land and in direct contact\nwith nature. The possibilities are here infinite new machinery,\nspraying, seed testing, fertilizers, experimentation with new\nvarieties. A thousand and one methods, all creative, which may be tried\nout in that great essential struggle of the farmer or gardener to\ncommand all the forces of nature.\n\nBecause there are farmers, and many of them, who do not experiment and\ndo not grow, but make their occupation a veritable black drudgery, this\nis no reason for painting a sombre-hued picture of country life. Any\ncalling, the law, the ministry, the medical profession, can be blasted\nby fixing one s eyes only upon its ugliest aspects. And farming, at its\nbest, has become a highly scientific, extraordinarily absorbing, and\nwhen all is said, a profitable, profession. Neighbours of mine have\ndeveloped systems of overhead irrigation to make rain when there is no\nrain, and have covered whole fields with cloth canopies to increase the\nwarmth and to protect the crops from wind and hail, and by the analysis\nof the soil and exact methods of feeding it with fertilizers, have come\nas near a complete command of nature as any farmers in the world. What\nindependent, resourceful men they are! And many of them have also grown\nrich in money. It is not what nature does with a man that matters but\nwhat he does with nature.\n\nNor is it necessary in these days for the farmer or the country dweller\nto be uncultivated or uninterested in what are often called, with no\nvery clear definition, the  finer things of life.  Many educated men\nare now on the farms and have their books and magazines, and their\nmusic and lectures and dramas not too far off in the towns. A great\nchange in this respect has come over American country life in twenty\nyears. The real hardships of pioneering have passed away, and with good\nroads and machinery, and telephones, and newspapers every day by rural\npost, the farmer may maintain as close a touch with the best things the\nworld has to offer as any man. And if he really have such broader\ninterests the winter furnishes him time and leisure that no other class\nof people can command.\n\nI do not know, truly, what we are here for upon this wonderful and\nbeautiful earth, this incalculably interesting earth, unless it is to\ncrowd into a few short years when all is said, terribly short\nyears! every possible fine experience and adventure: unless it is to\nlive our lives to the uttermost: unless it is to seize upon every fresh\nimpression, develop every latent capacity: to grow as much as ever we\nhave it in our power to grow. What else can there be? If there is no\nlife beyond this one, we have lived _here_ to the uttermost. We ve had\nwhat we ve had! But if there is more life, and still more life, beyond\nthis one, and above and under this one, and around and through this\none, we shall be well prepared for that, whatever it may be.\n\nThe real advantages of country life have come to be a strong lure to\nmany people in towns and cities: but no one should attempt to  go back\nto the land  with the idea that it is an easy way to escape the real\nproblems and difficulties of life. The fact is, there is no escape. The\nproblems and the difficulties must be boldly met whether in city or\ncountry. Farming in these days is not  easy living,  but a highly\nskilled profession, requiring much knowledge, and actual manual labour\nand plenty of it. So many come to the country too light-heartedly, buy\ntoo much land, attempt unfamiliar crops, expect to hire the work\ndone and soon find themselves facing discouragement and failure. Any\ncity man who would venture on this new way of life should try it first\nfor a year or so before he commits himself try himself out against the\nactual problems. Or, by moving to the country, still within reach of\nhis accustomed work, he can have a garden or even a small farm to\nexperiment with. The shorter work-day has made this possible for a\nmultitude of wage-workers, and I know many instances in which life\nbecause of this opportunity to get to the soil has become a very\ndifferent and much finer thing for them.\n\nIt is easy also for many men who are engaged in professional work to\nlive where they can get their hands into the soil for part of the time\nat least: and this may be made as real an experience as far as it goes\nas though they owned wider acres and devoted their whole time to the\nwork.\n\nA man who thus faces the problem squarely will soon see whether country\nlife is the thing for him; if he finds it truly so, he can be as nearly\nassured of  living happily ever after  as any one outside of a\nstory-book can ever be. Out of it all is likely to come some of the\ngreatest rewards that men can know, a robust body, a healthy appetite,\na serene and cheerful spirit!\n\nAnd finally there is one advantage not so easy to express. Long ago I\nread a story of Tolstoi s called  The Candle how a peasant Russian\nforced to plough on Easter Day lighted a candle to his Lord and kept it\nburning on his plough as he worked through the sacred day. When I see a\nman ploughing in his fields I often think of Tolstoi s peasant, and\nwonder if this is not as true a way as any of worshipping God. I wonder\nif any one truly worships God who sets about it with deliberation, or\nknows quite why he does it.\n\n My doctrine shall drop as the rain, my speech shall distil as the dew,\nas the small rain upon the tender herb, and as showers upon the grass. \n\nTHE END"
    },
    {
        "title": "The Wind in the Willows",
        "author": "Kenneth Grahame",
        "category": "Children's Books",
        "EN": "I.\nTHE RIVER BANK\n\n\nThe Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning\nhis little home. First with brooms, then with dusters; then on ladders\nand steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash; till he had\ndust in his throat and eyes, and splashes of whitewash all over his\nblack fur, and an aching back and weary arms. Spring was moving in the\nair above and in the earth below and around him, penetrating even his\ndark and lowly little house with its spirit of divine discontent and\nlonging. It was small wonder, then, that he suddenly flung down his\nbrush on the floor, said  Bother!  and  O blow!  and also  Hang\nspring-cleaning!  and bolted out of the house without even waiting to\nput on his coat. Something up above was calling him imperiously, and he\nmade for the steep little tunnel which answered in his case to the\ngravelled carriage-drive owned by animals whose residences are nearer\nto the sun and air. So he scraped and scratched and scrabbled and\nscrooged and then he scrooged again and scrabbled and scratched and\nscraped, working busily with his little paws and muttering to himself,\n Up we go! Up we go!  till at last, pop! his snout came out into the\nsunlight, and he found himself rolling in the warm grass of a great\nmeadow.\n\n This is fine!  he said to himself.  This is better than whitewashing! \nThe sunshine struck hot on his fur, soft breezes caressed his heated\nbrow, and after the seclusion of the cellarage he had lived in so long\nthe carol of happy birds fell on his dulled hearing almost like a\nshout. Jumping off all his four legs at once, in the joy of living and\nthe delight of spring without its cleaning, he pursued his way across\nthe meadow till he reached the hedge on the further side.\n\n Hold up!  said an elderly rabbit at the gap.  Sixpence for the\nprivilege of passing by the private road!  He was bowled over in an\ninstant by the impatient and contemptuous Mole, who trotted along the\nside of the hedge chaffing the other rabbits as they peeped hurriedly\nfrom their holes to see what the row was about.  Onion-sauce!\nOnion-sauce!  he remarked jeeringly, and was gone before they could\nthink of a thoroughly satisfactory reply. Then they all started\ngrumbling at each other.  How _stupid_ you are! Why didn t you tell\nhim   Well, why didn t _you_ say   You might have reminded him \nand so on, in the usual way; but, of course, it was then much too late,\nas is always the case.\n\nIt all seemed too good to be true. Hither and thither through the\nmeadows he rambled busily, along the hedgerows, across the copses,\nfinding everywhere birds building, flowers budding, leaves\nthrusting everything happy, and progressive, and occupied. And instead\nof having an uneasy conscience pricking him and whispering  whitewash! \nhe somehow could only feel how jolly it was to be the only idle dog\namong all these busy citizens. After all, the best part of a holiday is\nperhaps not so much to be resting yourself, as to see all the other\nfellows busy working.\n\nHe thought his happiness was complete when, as he meandered aimlessly\nalong, suddenly he stood by the edge of a full-fed river. Never in his\nlife had he seen a river before this sleek, sinuous, full-bodied\nanimal, chasing and chuckling, gripping things with a gurgle and\nleaving them with a laugh, to fling itself on fresh playmates that\nshook themselves free, and were caught and held again. All was a-shake\nand a-shiver glints and gleams and sparkles, rustle and swirl, chatter\nand bubble. The Mole was bewitched, entranced, fascinated. By the side\nof the river he trotted as one trots, when very small, by the side of a\nman who holds one spell-bound by exciting stories; and when tired at\nlast, he sat on the bank, while the river still chattered on to him, a\nbabbling procession of the best stories in the world, sent from the\nheart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea.\n\nAs he sat on the grass and looked across the river, a dark hole in the\nbank opposite, just above the water s edge, caught his eye, and\ndreamily he fell to considering what a nice snug dwelling-place it\nwould make for an animal with few wants and fond of a bijou riverside\nresidence, above flood level and remote from noise and dust. As he\ngazed, something bright and small seemed to twinkle down in the heart\nof it, vanished, then twinkled once more like a tiny star. But it could\nhardly be a star in such an unlikely situation; and it was too\nglittering and small for a glow-worm. Then, as he looked, it winked at\nhim, and so declared itself to be an eye; and a small face began\ngradually to grow up round it, like a frame round a picture.\n\nA brown little face, with whiskers.\n\nA grave round face, with the same twinkle in its eye that had first\nattracted his notice.\n\nSmall neat ears and thick silky hair.\n\nIt was the Water Rat!\n\nThen the two animals stood and regarded each other cautiously.\n\n Hullo, Mole!  said the Water Rat.\n\n Hullo, Rat!  said the Mole.\n\n Would you like to come over?  enquired the Rat presently.\n\n Oh, its all very well to _talk_,  said the Mole, rather pettishly, he\nbeing new to a river and riverside life and its ways.\n\nThe Rat said nothing, but stooped and unfastened a rope and hauled on\nit; then lightly stepped into a little boat which the Mole had not\nobserved. It was painted blue outside and white within, and was just\nthe size for two animals; and the Mole s whole heart went out to it at\nonce, even though he did not yet fully understand its uses.\n\nThe Rat sculled smartly across and made fast. Then he held up his\nforepaw as the Mole stepped gingerly down.  Lean on that!  he said.\n Now then, step lively!  and the Mole to his surprise and rapture found\nhimself actually seated in the stern of a real boat.\n\n This has been a wonderful day!  said he, as the Rat shoved off and\ntook to the sculls again.  Do you know, I ve never been in a boat\nbefore in all my life. \n\n What?  cried the Rat, open-mouthed:  Never been in a you never well\nI what have you been doing, then? \n\n Is it so nice as all that?  asked the Mole shyly, though he was quite\nprepared to believe it as he leant back in his seat and surveyed the\ncushions, the oars, the rowlocks, and all the fascinating fittings, and\nfelt the boat sway lightly under him.\n\n Nice? It s the _only_ thing,  said the Water Rat solemnly, as he leant\nforward for his stroke.  Believe me, my young friend, there is\n_nothing_ absolute nothing half so much worth doing as simply messing\nabout in boats. Simply messing,  he went on dreamily:\n messing about in boats; messing \n\n Look ahead, Rat!  cried the Mole suddenly.\n\nIt was too late. The boat struck the bank full tilt. The dreamer, the\njoyous oarsman, lay on his back at the bottom of the boat, his heels in\nthe air.\n\n about in boats or _with_ boats,  the Rat went on composedly, picking\nhimself up with a pleasant laugh.  In or out of  em, it doesn t matter.\nNothing seems really to matter, that s the charm of it. Whether you get\naway, or whether you don t; whether you arrive at your destination or\nwhether you reach somewhere else, or whether you never get anywhere at\nall, you re always busy, and you never do anything in particular; and\nwhen you ve done it there s always something else to do, and you can do\nit if you like, but you d much better not. Look here! If you ve really\nnothing else on hand this morning, supposing we drop down the river\ntogether, and have a long day of it? \n\nThe Mole waggled his toes from sheer happiness, spread his chest with a\nsigh of full contentment, and leaned back blissfully into the soft\ncushions.  _What_ a day I m having!  he said.  Let us start at once! \n\n Hold hard a minute, then!  said the Rat. He looped the painter through\na ring in his landing-stage, climbed up into his hole above, and after\na short interval reappeared staggering under a fat, wicker\nluncheon-basket.\n\n Shove that under your feet,  he observed to the Mole, as he passed it\ndown into the boat. Then he untied the painter and took the sculls\nagain.\n\n What s inside it?  asked the Mole, wriggling with curiosity.\n\n There s cold chicken inside it,  replied the Rat briefly;  \ncoldtonguecoldhamcoldbeefpickledgherkinssaladfrenchrollscresssandwiches\npottedme atgingerbeerlemonadesodawater \n\n O stop, stop,  cried the Mole in ecstacies:  This is too much! \n\n Do you really think so?  enquired the Rat seriously.  It s only what I\nalways take on these little excursions; and the other animals are\nalways telling me that I m a mean beast and cut it _very_ fine! \n\nThe Mole never heard a word he was saying. Absorbed in the new life he\nwas entering upon, intoxicated with the sparkle, the ripple, the scents\nand the sounds and the sunlight, he trailed a paw in the water and\ndreamed long waking dreams. The Water Rat, like the good little fellow\nhe was, sculled steadily on and forebore to disturb him.\n\n I like your clothes awfully, old chap,  he remarked after some half an\nhour or so had passed.  I m going to get a black velvet smoking-suit\nmyself some day, as soon as I can afford it. \n\n I beg your pardon,  said the Mole, pulling himself together with an\neffort.  You must think me very rude; but all this is so new to me.\nSo this is a River! \n\n _The_ River,  corrected the Rat.\n\n And you really live by the river? What a jolly life! \n\n By it and with it and on it and in it,  said the Rat.  It s brother\nand sister to me, and aunts, and company, and food and drink, and\n(naturally) washing. It s my world, and I don t want any other. What it\nhasn t got is not worth having, and what it doesn t know is not worth\nknowing. Lord! the times we ve had together! Whether in winter or\nsummer, spring or autumn, it s always got its fun and its excitements.\nWhen the floods are on in February, and my cellars and basement are\nbrimming with drink that s no good to me, and the brown water runs by\nmy best bedroom window; or again when it all drops away and, shows\npatches of mud that smells like plum-cake, and the rushes and weed clog\nthe channels, and I can potter about dry shod over most of the bed of\nit and find fresh food to eat, and things careless people have dropped\nout of boats! \n\n But isn t it a bit dull at times?  the Mole ventured to ask.  Just you\nand the river, and no one else to pass a word with? \n\n No one else to well, I mustn t be hard on you,  said the Rat with\nforbearance.  You re new to it, and of course you don t know. The bank\nis so crowded nowadays that many people are moving away altogether: O\nno, it isn t what it used to be, at all. Otters, kingfishers,\ndabchicks, moorhens, all of them about all day long and always wanting\nyou to _do_ something as if a fellow had no business of his own to\nattend to! \n\n What lies over _there?_  asked the Mole, waving a paw towards a\nbackground of woodland that darkly framed the water-meadows on one side\nof the river.\n\n That? O, that s just the Wild Wood,  said the Rat shortly.  We don t\ngo there very much, we river-bankers. \n\n Aren t they aren t they very _nice_ people in there?  said the Mole, a\ntrifle nervously.\n\n W-e-ll,  replied the Rat,  let me see. The squirrels are all right.\n_And_ the rabbits some of  em, but rabbits are a mixed lot. And then\nthere s Badger, of course. He lives right in the heart of it; wouldn t\nlive anywhere else, either, if you paid him to do it. Dear old Badger!\nNobody interferes with _him_. They d better not,  he added\nsignificantly.\n\n Why, who _should_ interfere with him?  asked the Mole.\n\n Well, of course there are others,  explained the Rat in a hesitating\nsort of way.\n\n Weasels and stoats and foxes and so on. They re all right in a way I m\nvery good friends with them pass the time of day when we meet, and all\nthat but they break out sometimes, there s no denying it, and\nthen well, you can t really trust them, and that s the fact. \n\nThe Mole knew well that it is quite against animal-etiquette to dwell\non possible trouble ahead, or even to allude to it; so he dropped the\nsubject.\n\n And beyond the Wild Wood again?  he asked:  Where it s all blue and\ndim, and one sees what may be hills or perhaps they mayn t, and\nsomething like the smoke of towns, or is it only cloud-drift? \n\n Beyond the Wild Wood comes the Wide World,  said the Rat.  And that s\nsomething that doesn t matter, either to you or me. I ve never been\nthere, and I m never going, nor you either, if you ve got any sense at\nall. Don t ever refer to it again, please. Now then! Here s our\nbackwater at last, where we re going to lunch. \n\nLeaving the main stream, they now passed into what seemed at first\nsight like a little land-locked lake. Green turf sloped down to either\nedge, brown snaky tree-roots gleamed below the surface of the quiet\nwater, while ahead of them the silvery shoulder and foamy tumble of a\nweir, arm-in-arm with a restless dripping mill-wheel, that held up in\nits turn a grey-gabled mill-house, filled the air with a soothing\nmurmur of sound, dull and smothery, yet with little clear voices\nspeaking up cheerfully out of it at intervals. It was so very beautiful\nthat the Mole could only hold up both forepaws and gasp,  O my! O my! O\nmy! \n\nThe Rat brought the boat alongside the bank, made her fast, helped the\nstill awkward Mole safely ashore, and swung out the luncheon-basket.\nThe Mole begged as a favour to be allowed to unpack it all by himself;\nand the Rat was very pleased to indulge him, and to sprawl at full\nlength on the grass and rest, while his excited friend shook out the\ntable-cloth and spread it, took out all the mysterious packets one by\none and arranged their contents in due order, still gasping,  O my! O\nmy!  at each fresh revelation. When all was ready, the Rat said,  Now,\npitch in, old fellow!  and the Mole was indeed very glad to obey, for\nhe had started his spring-cleaning at a very early hour that morning,\nas people _will_ do, and had not paused for bite or sup; and he had\nbeen through a very great deal since that distant time which now seemed\nso many days ago.\n\n What are you looking at?  said the Rat presently, when the edge of\ntheir hunger was somewhat dulled, and the Mole s eyes were able to\nwander off the table-cloth a little.\n\n I am looking,  said the Mole,  at a streak of bubbles that I see\ntravelling along the surface of the water. That is a thing that strikes\nme as funny. \n\n Bubbles? Oho!  said the Rat, and chirruped cheerily in an inviting\nsort of way.\n\nA broad glistening muzzle showed itself above the edge of the bank, and\nthe Otter hauled himself out and shook the water from his coat.\n\n Greedy beggars!  he observed, making for the provender.  Why didn t\nyou invite me, Ratty? \n\n This was an impromptu affair,  explained the Rat.  By the way my\nfriend Mr. Mole. \n\n Proud, I m sure,  said the Otter, and the two animals were friends\nforthwith.\n\n Such a rumpus everywhere!  continued the Otter.  All the world seems\nout on the river to-day. I came up this backwater to try and get a\nmoment s peace, and then stumble upon you fellows! At least I beg\npardon I don t exactly mean that, you know. \n\nThere was a rustle behind them, proceeding from a hedge wherein last\nyear s leaves still clung thick, and a stripy head, with high shoulders\nbehind it, peered forth on them.\n\n Come on, old Badger!  shouted the Rat.\n\nThe Badger trotted forward a pace or two; then grunted,  H m! Company, \nand turned his back and disappeared from view.\n\n That s _just_ the sort of fellow he is!  observed the disappointed\nRat.  Simply hates Society! Now we shan t see any more of him to-day.\nWell, tell us, _who s_ out on the river? \n\n Toad s out, for one,  replied the Otter.  In his brand-new wager-boat;\nnew togs, new everything! \n\nThe two animals looked at each other and laughed.\n\n Once, it was nothing but sailing,  said the Rat,  Then he tired of\nthat and took to punting. Nothing would please him but to punt all day\nand every day, and a nice mess he made of it. Last year it was\nhouse-boating, and we all had to go and stay with him in his\nhouse-boat, and pretend we liked it. He was going to spend the rest of\nhis life in a house-boat. It s all the same, whatever he takes up; he\ngets tired of it, and starts on something fresh. \n\n Such a good fellow, too,  remarked the Otter reflectively:  But no\nstability especially in a boat! \n\nFrom where they sat they could get a glimpse of the main stream across\nthe island that separated them; and just then a wager-boat flashed into\nview, the rower a short, stout figure splashing badly and rolling a\ngood deal, but working his hardest. The Rat stood up and hailed him,\nbut Toad for it was he shook his head and settled sternly to his work.\n\n He ll be out of the boat in a minute if he rolls like that,  said the\nRat, sitting down again.\n\n Of course he will,  chuckled the Otter.  Did I ever tell you that good\nstory about Toad and the lock-keeper? It happened this way. Toad.... \n\nAn errant May-fly swerved unsteadily athwart the current in the\nintoxicated fashion affected by young bloods of May-flies seeing life.\nA swirl of water and a  cloop!  and the May-fly was visible no more.\n\nNeither was the Otter.\n\nThe Mole looked down. The voice was still in his ears, but the turf\nwhereon he had sprawled was clearly vacant. Not an Otter to be seen, as\nfar as the distant horizon.\n\nBut again there was a streak of bubbles on the surface of the river.\n\nThe Rat hummed a tune, and the Mole recollected that animal-etiquette\nforbade any sort of comment on the sudden disappearance of one s\nfriends at any moment, for any reason or no reason whatever.\n\n Well, well,  said the Rat,  I suppose we ought to be moving. I wonder\nwhich of us had better pack the luncheon-basket?  He did not speak as\nif he was frightfully eager for the treat.\n\n O, please let me,  said the Mole. So, of course, the Rat let him.\n\nPacking the basket was not quite such pleasant work as unpacking the\nbasket. It never is. But the Mole was bent on enjoying everything, and\nalthough just when he had got the basket packed and strapped up tightly\nhe saw a plate staring up at him from the grass, and when the job had\nbeen done again the Rat pointed out a fork which anybody ought to have\nseen, and last of all, behold! the mustard pot, which he had been\nsitting on without knowing it still, somehow, the thing got finished at\nlast, without much loss of temper.\n\nThe afternoon sun was getting low as the Rat sculled gently homewards\nin a dreamy mood, murmuring poetry-things over to himself, and not\npaying much attention to Mole. But the Mole was very full of lunch, and\nself-satisfaction, and pride, and already quite at home in a boat (so\nhe thought) and was getting a bit restless besides: and presently he\nsaid,  Ratty! Please, _I_ want to row, now! \n\nThe Rat shook his head with a smile.  Not yet, my young friend,  he\nsaid wait till you ve had a few lessons. It s not so easy as it\nlooks. \n\nThe Mole was quiet for a minute or two. But he began to feel more and\nmore jealous of Rat, sculling so strongly and so easily along, and his\npride began to whisper that he could do it every bit as well. He jumped\nup and seized the sculls, so suddenly, that the Rat, who was gazing out\nover the water and saying more poetry-things to himself, was taken by\nsurprise and fell backwards off his seat with his legs in the air for\nthe second time, while the triumphant Mole took his place and grabbed\nthe sculls with entire confidence.\n\n Stop it, you _silly_ ass!  cried the Rat, from the bottom of the boat.\n You can t do it! You ll have us over! \n\nThe Mole flung his sculls back with a flourish, and made a great dig at\nthe water. He missed the surface altogether, his legs flew up above his\nhead, and he found himself lying on the top of the prostrate Rat.\nGreatly alarmed, he made a grab at the side of the boat, and the next\nmoment Sploosh!\n\nOver went the boat, and he found himself struggling in the river.\n\nO my, how cold the water was, and O, how _very_ wet it felt. How it\nsang in his ears as he went down, down, down! How bright and welcome\nthe sun looked as he rose to the surface coughing and spluttering! How\nblack was his despair when he felt himself sinking again! Then a firm\npaw gripped him by the back of his neck. It was the Rat, and he was\nevidently laughing the Mole could _feel_ him laughing, right down his\narm and through his paw, and so into his the Mole s neck.\n\nThe Rat got hold of a scull and shoved it under the Mole s arm; then he\ndid the same by the other side of him and, swimming behind, propelled\nthe helpless animal to shore, hauled him out, and set him down on the\nbank, a squashy, pulpy lump of misery.\n\nWhen the Rat had rubbed him down a bit, and wrung some of the wet out\nof him, he said,  Now, then, old fellow! Trot up and down the\ntowing-path as hard as you can, till you re warm and dry again, while I\ndive for the luncheon-basket. \n\nSo the dismal Mole, wet without and ashamed within, trotted about till\nhe was fairly dry, while the Rat plunged into the water again,\nrecovered the boat, righted her and made her fast, fetched his floating\nproperty to shore by degrees, and finally dived successfully for the\nluncheon-basket and struggled to land with it.\n\nWhen all was ready for a start once more, the Mole, limp and dejected,\ntook his seat in the stern of the boat; and as they set off, he said in\na low voice, broken with emotion,  Ratty, my generous friend! I am very\nsorry indeed for my foolish and ungrateful conduct. My heart quite\nfails me when I think how I might have lost that beautiful\nluncheon-basket. Indeed, I have been a complete ass, and I know it.\nWill you overlook it this once and forgive me, and let things go on as\nbefore? \n\n That s all right, bless you!  responded the Rat cheerily.  What s a\nlittle wet to a Water Rat? I m more in the water than out of it most\ndays. Don t you think any more about it; and, look here! I really think\nyou had better come and stop with me for a little time. It s very plain\nand rough, you know not like Toad s house at all but you haven t seen\nthat yet; still, I can make you comfortable. And I ll teach you to row,\nand to swim, and you ll soon be as handy on the water as any of us. \n\nThe Mole was so touched by his kind manner of speaking that he could\nfind no voice to answer him; and he had to brush away a tear or two\nwith the back of his paw. But the Rat kindly looked in another\ndirection, and presently the Mole s spirits revived again, and he was\neven able to give some straight back-talk to a couple of moorhens who\nwere sniggering to each other about his bedraggled appearance.\n\nWhen they got home, the Rat made a bright fire in the parlour, and\nplanted the Mole in an arm-chair in front of it, having fetched down a\ndressing-gown and slippers for him, and told him river stories till\nsupper-time. Very thrilling stories they were, too, to an\nearth-dwelling animal like Mole. Stories about weirs, and sudden\nfloods, and leaping pike, and steamers that flung hard bottles at least\nbottles were certainly flung, and _from_ steamers, so presumably _by_\nthem; and about herons, and how particular they were whom they spoke\nto; and about adventures down drains, and night-fishings with Otter, or\nexcursions far a-field with Badger. Supper was a most cheerful meal;\nbut very shortly afterwards a terribly sleepy Mole had to be escorted\nupstairs by his considerate host, to the best bedroom, where he soon\nlaid his head on his pillow in great peace and contentment, knowing\nthat his new-found friend the River was lapping the sill of his window.\n\nThis day was only the first of many similar ones for the emancipated\nMole, each of them longer and full of interest as the ripening summer\nmoved onward. He learnt to swim and to row, and entered into the joy of\nrunning water; and with his ear to the reed-stems he caught, at\nintervals, something of what the wind went whispering so constantly\namong them.\n\n\n\n\nII.\nTHE OPEN ROAD\n\n\n Ratty,  said the Mole suddenly, one bright summer morning,  if you\nplease, I want to ask you a favour. \n\nThe Rat was sitting on the river bank, singing a little song. He had\njust composed it himself, so he was very taken up with it, and would\nnot pay proper attention to Mole or anything else. Since early morning\nhe had been swimming in the river, in company with his friends the\nducks. And when the ducks stood on their heads suddenly, as ducks will,\nhe would dive down and tickle their necks, just under where their chins\nwould be if ducks had chins, till they were forced to come to the\nsurface again in a hurry, spluttering and angry and shaking their\nfeathers at him, for it is impossible to say quite _all_ you feel when\nyour head is under water. At last they implored him to go away and\nattend to his own affairs and leave them to mind theirs. So the Rat\nwent away, and sat on the river bank in the sun, and made up a song\nabout them, which he called\n\n DUCKS  DITTY. \n\nAll along the backwater,\nThrough the rushes tall,\nDucks are a-dabbling,\nUp tails all!\nDucks  tails, drakes  tails,\nYellow feet a-quiver,\nYellow bills all out of sight\nBusy in the river!\n\nSlushy green undergrowth\nWhere the roach swim \nHere we keep our larder,\nCool and full and dim.\n\nEveryone for what he likes!\n_We_ like to be\nHeads down, tails up,\nDabbling free!\n\nHigh in the blue above\nSwifts whirl and call \n_We_ are down a-dabbling\nUptails all!\n\n\n I don t know that I think so _very_ much of that little song, Rat, \nobserved the Mole cautiously. He was no poet himself and didn t care\nwho knew it; and he had a candid nature.\n\n Nor don t the ducks neither,  replied the Rat cheerfully.  They say,\n _Why_ can t fellows be allowed to do what they like _when_ they like\nand _as_ they like, instead of other fellows sitting on banks and\nwatching them all the time and making remarks and poetry and things\nabout them? What _nonsense_ it all is!  That s what the ducks say. \n\n So it is, so it is,  said the Mole, with great heartiness.\n\n No, it isn t!  cried the Rat indignantly.\n\n Well then, it isn t, it isn t,  replied the Mole soothingly.  But what\nI wanted to ask you was, won t you take me to call on Mr. Toad? I ve\nheard so much about him, and I do so want to make his acquaintance. \n\n Why, certainly,  said the good-natured Rat, jumping to his feet and\ndismissing poetry from his mind for the day.  Get the boat out, and\nwe ll paddle up there at once. It s never the wrong time to call on\nToad. Early or late he s always the same fellow. Always good-tempered,\nalways glad to see you, always sorry when you go! \n\n He must be a very nice animal,  observed the Mole, as he got into the\nboat and took the sculls, while the Rat settled himself comfortably in\nthe stern.\n\n He is indeed the best of animals,  replied Rat.  So simple, so\ngood-natured, and so affectionate. Perhaps he s not very clever we\ncan t all be geniuses; and it may be that he is both boastful and\nconceited. But he has got some great qualities, has Toady. \n\nRounding a bend in the river, they came in sight of a handsome,\ndignified old house of mellowed red brick, with well-kept lawns\nreaching down to the water s edge.\n\n There s Toad Hall,  said the Rat;  and that creek on the left, where\nthe notice-board says,  Private. No landing allowed,  leads to his\nboat-house, where we ll leave the boat. The stables are over there to\nthe right. That s the banqueting-hall you re looking at now very old,\nthat is. Toad is rather rich, you know, and this is really one of the\nnicest houses in these parts, though we never admit as much to Toad. \n\nThey glided up the creek, and the Mole shipped his sculls as they\npassed into the shadow of a large boat-house. Here they saw many\nhandsome boats, slung from the cross beams or hauled up on a slip, but\nnone in the water; and the place had an unused and a deserted air.\n\nThe Rat looked around him.  I understand,  said he.  Boating is played\nout. He s tired of it, and done with it. I wonder what new fad he has\ntaken up now? Come along and let s look him up. We shall hear all about\nit quite soon enough. \n\nThey disembarked, and strolled across the gay flower-decked lawns in\nsearch of Toad, whom they presently happened upon resting in a wicker\ngarden-chair, with a pre-occupied expression of face, and a large map\nspread out on his knees.\n\n Hooray!  he cried, jumping up on seeing them,  this is splendid!  He\nshook the paws of both of them warmly, never waiting for an\nintroduction to the Mole.  How _kind_ of you!  he went on, dancing\nround them.  I was just going to send a boat down the river for you,\nRatty, with strict orders that you were to be fetched up here at once,\nwhatever you were doing. I want you badly both of you. Now what will\nyou take? Come inside and have something! You don t know how lucky it\nis, your turning up just now! \n\n Let s sit quiet a bit, Toady!  said the Rat, throwing himself into an\neasy chair, while the Mole took another by the side of him and made\nsome civil remark about Toad s  delightful residence. \n\n Finest house on the whole river,  cried Toad boisterously.  Or\nanywhere else, for that matter,  he could not help adding.\n\nHere the Rat nudged the Mole. Unfortunately the Toad saw him do it, and\nturned very red. There was a moment s painful silence. Then Toad burst\nout laughing.  All right, Ratty,  he said.  It s only my way, you know.\nAnd it s not such a very bad house, is it? You know you rather like it\nyourself. Now, look here. Let s be sensible. You are the very animals I\nwanted. You ve got to help me. It s most important! \n\n It s about your rowing, I suppose,  said the Rat, with an innocent\nair.  You re getting on fairly well, though you splash a good bit\nstill. With a great deal of patience, and any quantity of coaching, you\nmay \n\n O, pooh! boating!  interrupted the Toad, in great disgust.  Silly\nboyish amusement. I ve given that up _long_ ago. Sheer waste of time,\nthat s what it is. It makes me downright sorry to see you fellows, who\nought to know better, spending all your energies in that aimless\nmanner. No, I ve discovered the real thing, the only genuine occupation\nfor a life time. I propose to devote the remainder of mine to it, and\ncan only regret the wasted years that lie behind me, squandered in\ntrivialities. Come with me, dear Ratty, and your amiable friend also,\nif he will be so very good, just as far as the stable-yard, and you\nshall see what you shall see! \n\nHe led the way to the stable-yard accordingly, the Rat following with a\nmost mistrustful expression; and there, drawn out of the coach house\ninto the open, they saw a gipsy caravan, shining with newness, painted\na canary-yellow picked out with green, and red wheels.\n\n There you are!  cried the Toad, straddling and expanding himself.\n There s real life for you, embodied in that little cart. The open\nroad, the dusty highway, the heath, the common, the hedgerows, the\nrolling downs! Camps, villages, towns, cities! Here to-day, up and off\nto somewhere else to-morrow! Travel, change, interest, excitement! The\nwhole world before you, and a horizon that s always changing! And mind!\nthis is the very finest cart of its sort that was ever built, without\nany exception. Come inside and look at the arrangements. Planned  em\nall myself, I did! \n\nThe Mole was tremendously interested and excited, and followed him\neagerly up the steps and into the interior of the caravan. The Rat only\nsnorted and thrust his hands deep into his pockets, remaining where he\nwas.\n\nIt was indeed very compact and comfortable. Little sleeping bunks a\nlittle table that folded up against the wall a cooking-stove, lockers,\nbookshelves, a bird-cage with a bird in it; and pots, pans, jugs and\nkettles of every size and variety.\n\n All complete!  said the Toad triumphantly, pulling open a locker.  You\nsee biscuits, potted lobster, sardines everything you can possibly\nwant. Soda-water here baccy there letter-paper, bacon, jam, cards and\ndominoes you ll find,  he continued, as they descended the steps again,\n you ll find that nothing what ever has been forgotten, when we make\nour start this afternoon. \n\n I beg your pardon,  said the Rat slowly, as he chewed a straw,  but\ndid I overhear you say something about  _we_,  and  _start_,  and\n _this afternoon?_ \n\n Now, you dear good old Ratty,  said Toad, imploringly,  don t begin\ntalking in that stiff and sniffy sort of way, because you know you ve\n_got_ to come. I can t possibly manage without you, so please consider\nit settled, and don t argue it s the one thing I can t stand. You\nsurely don t mean to stick to your dull fusty old river all your life,\nand just live in a hole in a bank, and _boat?_ I want to show you the\nworld! I m going to make an _animal_ of you, my boy! \n\n I don t care,  said the Rat, doggedly.  I m not coming, and that s\nflat. And I _am_ going to stick to my old river, _and_ live in a hole,\n_and_ boat, as I ve always done. And what s more, Mole s going to stick\nto me and do as I do, aren t you, Mole? \n\n Of course I am,  said the Mole, loyally.  I ll always stick to you,\nRat, and what you say is to be has got to be. All the same, it sounds\nas if it might have been well, rather fun, you know!  he added,\nwistfully. Poor Mole! The Life Adventurous was so new a thing to him,\nand so thrilling; and this fresh aspect of it was so tempting; and he\nhad fallen in love at first sight with the canary-coloured cart and all\nits little fitments.\n\nThe Rat saw what was passing in his mind, and wavered. He hated\ndisappointing people, and he was fond of the Mole, and would do almost\nanything to oblige him. Toad was watching both of them closely.\n\n Come along in, and have some lunch,  he said, diplomatically,  and\nwe ll talk it over. We needn t decide anything in a hurry. Of course,\n_I_ don t really care. I only want to give pleasure to you fellows.\n Live for others!  That s my motto in life. \n\nDuring luncheon which was excellent, of course, as everything at Toad\nHall always was the Toad simply let himself go. Disregarding the Rat,\nhe proceeded to play upon the inexperienced Mole as on a harp.\nNaturally a voluble animal, and always mastered by his imagination, he\npainted the prospects of the trip and the joys of the open life and the\nroadside in such glowing colours that the Mole could hardly sit in his\nchair for excitement. Somehow, it soon seemed taken for granted by all\nthree of them that the trip was a settled thing; and the Rat, though\nstill unconvinced in his mind, allowed his good-nature to over-ride his\npersonal objections. He could not bear to disappoint his two friends,\nwho were already deep in schemes and anticipations, planning out each\nday s separate occupation for several weeks ahead.\n\nWhen they were quite ready, the now triumphant Toad led his companions\nto the paddock and set them to capture the old grey horse, who, without\nhaving been consulted, and to his own extreme annoyance, had been told\noff by Toad for the dustiest job in this dusty expedition. He frankly\npreferred the paddock, and took a deal of catching. Meantime Toad\npacked the lockers still tighter with necessaries, and hung nosebags,\nnets of onions, bundles of hay, and baskets from the bottom of the\ncart. At last the horse was caught and harnessed, and they set off, all\ntalking at once, each animal either trudging by the side of the cart or\nsitting on the shaft, as the humour took him. It was a golden\nafternoon. The smell of the dust they kicked up was rich and\nsatisfying; out of thick orchards on either side the road, birds called\nand whistled to them cheerily; good-natured wayfarers, passing them,\ngave them  Good-day,  or stopped to say nice things about their\nbeautiful cart; and rabbits, sitting at their front doors in the\nhedgerows, held up their fore-paws, and said,  O my! O my! O my! \n\nLate in the evening, tired and happy and miles from home, they drew up\non a remote common far from habitations, turned the horse loose to\ngraze, and ate their simple supper sitting on the grass by the side of\nthe cart. Toad talked big about all he was going to do in the days to\ncome, while stars grew fuller and larger all around them, and a yellow\nmoon, appearing suddenly and silently from nowhere in particular, came\nto keep them company and listen to their talk. At last they turned in\nto their little bunks in the cart; and Toad, kicking out his legs,\nsleepily said,  Well, good night, you fellows! This is the real life\nfor a gentleman! Talk about your old river! \n\n I _don t_ talk about my river,  replied the patient Rat.  You _know_ I\ndon t, Toad. But I _think_ about it,  he added pathetically, in a lower\ntone:  I think about it all the time! \n\nThe Mole reached out from under his blanket, felt for the Rat s paw in\nthe darkness, and gave it a squeeze.  I ll do whatever you like,\nRatty,  he whispered.  Shall we run away to-morrow morning, quite\nearly _very_ early and go back to our dear old hole on the river? \n\n No, no, we ll see it out,  whispered back the Rat.  Thanks awfully,\nbut I ought to stick by Toad till this trip is ended. It wouldn t be\nsafe for him to be left to himself. It won t take very long. His fads\nnever do. Good night! \n\nThe end was indeed nearer than even the Rat suspected.\n\nAfter so much open air and excitement the Toad slept very soundly, and\nno amount of shaking could rouse him out of bed next morning. So the\nMole and Rat turned to, quietly and manfully, and while the Rat saw to\nthe horse, and lit a fire, and cleaned last night s cups and platters,\nand got things ready for breakfast, the Mole trudged off to the nearest\nvillage, a long way off, for milk and eggs and various necessaries the\nToad had, of course, forgotten to provide. The hard work had all been\ndone, and the two animals were resting, thoroughly exhausted, by the\ntime Toad appeared on the scene, fresh and gay, remarking what a\npleasant easy life it was they were all leading now, after the cares\nand worries and fatigues of housekeeping at home.\n\nThey had a pleasant ramble that day over grassy downs and along narrow\nby-lanes, and camped as before, on a common, only this time the two\nguests took care that Toad should do his fair share of work. In\nconsequence, when the time came for starting next morning, Toad was by\nno means so rapturous about the simplicity of the primitive life, and\nindeed attempted to resume his place in his bunk, whence he was hauled\nby force. Their way lay, as before, across country by narrow lanes, and\nit was not till the afternoon that they came out on the high-road,\ntheir first high-road; and there disaster, fleet and unforeseen, sprang\nout on them disaster momentous indeed to their expedition, but simply\noverwhelming in its effect on the after-career of Toad.\n\nThey were strolling along the high-road easily, the Mole by the horse s\nhead, talking to him, since the horse had complained that he was being\nfrightfully left out of it, and nobody considered him in the least; the\nToad and the Water Rat walking behind the cart talking together at\nleast Toad was talking, and Rat was saying at intervals,  Yes,\nprecisely; and what did _you_ say to _him?_ and thinking all the time\nof something very different, when far behind them they heard a faint\nwarning hum; like the drone of a distant bee. Glancing back, they saw a\nsmall cloud of dust, with a dark centre of energy, advancing on them at\nincredible speed, while from out the dust a faint  Poop-poop!  wailed\nlike an uneasy animal in pain. Hardly regarding it, they turned to\nresume their conversation, when in an instant (as it seemed) the\npeaceful scene was changed, and with a blast of wind and a whirl of\nsound that made them jump for the nearest ditch, It was on them! The\n Poop-poop  rang with a brazen shout in their ears, they had a moment s\nglimpse of an interior of glittering plate-glass and rich morocco, and\nthe magnificent motor-car, immense, breath-snatching, passionate, with\nits pilot tense and hugging his wheel, possessed all earth and air for\nthe fraction of a second, flung an enveloping cloud of dust that\nblinded and enwrapped them utterly, and then dwindled to a speck in the\nfar distance, changed back into a droning bee once more.\n\nThe old grey horse, dreaming, as he plodded along, of his quiet\npaddock, in a new raw situation such as this simply abandoned himself\nto his natural emotions. Rearing, plunging, backing steadily, in spite\nof all the Mole s efforts at his head, and all the Mole s lively\nlanguage directed at his better feelings, he drove the cart backwards\ntowards the deep ditch at the side of the road. It wavered an\ninstant then there was a heartrending crash and the canary-coloured\ncart, their pride and their joy, lay on its side in the ditch, an\nirredeemable wreck.\n\nThe Rat danced up and down in the road, simply transported with\npassion.  You villains!  he shouted, shaking both fists,  You\nscoundrels, you highwaymen, you you roadhogs! I ll have the law of you!\nI ll report you! I ll take you through all the Courts!  His\nhome-sickness had quite slipped away from him, and for the moment he\nwas the skipper of the canary-coloured vessel driven on a shoal by the\nreckless jockeying of rival mariners, and he was trying to recollect\nall the fine and biting things he used to say to masters of\nsteam-launches when their wash, as they drove too near the bank, used\nto flood his parlour-carpet at home.\n\nToad sat straight down in the middle of the dusty road, his legs\nstretched out before him, and stared fixedly in the direction of the\ndisappearing motor-car. He breathed short, his face wore a placid\nsatisfied expression, and at intervals he faintly murmured  Poop-poop! \n\nThe Mole was busy trying to quiet the horse, which he succeeded in\ndoing after a time. Then he went to look at the cart, on its side in\nthe ditch. It was indeed a sorry sight. Panels and windows smashed,\naxles hopelessly bent, one wheel off, sardine-tins scattered over the\nwide world, and the bird in the bird-cage sobbing pitifully and calling\nto be let out.\n\nThe Rat came to help him, but their united efforts were not sufficient\nto right the cart.  Hi! Toad!  they cried.  Come and bear a hand, can t\nyou! \n\nThe Toad never answered a word, or budged from his seat in the road; so\nthey went to see what was the matter with him. They found him in a sort\nof a trance, a happy smile on his face, his eyes still fixed on the\ndusty wake of their destroyer. At intervals he was still heard to\nmurmur  Poop-poop! \n\nThe Rat shook him by the shoulder.  Are you coming to help us, Toad? \nhe demanded sternly.\n\n Glorious, stirring sight!  murmured Toad, never offering to move.  The\npoetry of motion! The _real_ way to travel! The _only_ way to travel!\nHere to-day in next week to-morrow! Villages skipped, towns and cities\njumped always somebody else s horizon! O bliss! O poop-poop! O my! O\nmy! \n\n O _stop_ being an ass, Toad!  cried the Mole despairingly.\n\n And to think I never _knew!_  went on the Toad in a dreamy monotone.\n All those wasted years that lie behind me, I never knew, never even\n_dreamt!_ But _now_ but now that I know, now that I fully realise! O\nwhat a flowery track lies spread before me, henceforth! What\ndust-clouds shall spring up behind me as I speed on my reckless way!\nWhat carts I shall fling carelessly into the ditch in the wake of my\nmagnificent onset! Horrid little carts common carts canary-coloured\ncarts! \n\n What are we to do with him?  asked the Mole of the Water Rat.\n\n Nothing at all,  replied the Rat firmly.  Because there is really\nnothing to be done. You see, I know him from of old. He is now\npossessed. He has got a new craze, and it always takes him that way, in\nits first stage. He ll continue like that for days now, like an animal\nwalking in a happy dream, quite useless for all practical purposes.\nNever mind him. Let s go and see what there is to be done about the\ncart. \n\nA careful inspection showed them that, even if they succeeded in\nrighting it by themselves, the cart would travel no longer. The axles\nwere in a hopeless state, and the missing wheel was shattered into\npieces.\n\nThe Rat knotted the horse s reins over his back and took him by the\nhead, carrying the bird cage and its hysterical occupant in the other\nhand.  Come on!  he said grimly to the Mole.  It s five or six miles to\nthe nearest town, and we shall just have to walk it. The sooner we make\na start the better. \n\n But what about Toad?  asked the Mole anxiously, as they set off\ntogether.  We can t leave him here, sitting in the middle of the road\nby himself, in the distracted state he s in! It s not safe. Supposing\nanother Thing were to come along? \n\n O, _bother_ Toad,  said the Rat savagely;  I ve done with him! \n\nThey had not proceeded very far on their way, however, when there was a\npattering of feet behind them, and Toad caught them up and thrust a paw\ninside the elbow of each of them; still breathing short and staring\ninto vacancy.\n\n Now, look here, Toad!  said the Rat sharply:  as soon as we get to the\ntown, you ll have to go straight to the police-station, and see if they\nknow anything about that motor-car and who it belongs to, and lodge a\ncomplaint against it. And then you ll have to go to a blacksmith s or a\nwheelwright s and arrange for the cart to be fetched and mended and put\nto rights. It ll take time, but it s not quite a hopeless smash.\nMeanwhile, the Mole and I will go to an inn and find comfortable rooms\nwhere we can stay till the cart s ready, and till your nerves have\nrecovered their shock. \n\n Police-station! Complaint!  murmured Toad dreamily.  Me _complain_ of\nthat beautiful, that heavenly vision that has been vouchsafed me!\n_Mend_ the _cart!_ I ve done with carts for ever. I never want to see\nthe cart, or to hear of it, again. O, Ratty! You can t think how\nobliged I am to you for consenting to come on this trip! I wouldn t\nhave gone without you, and then I might never have seen that that swan,\nthat sunbeam, that thunderbolt! I might never have heard that\nentrancing sound, or smelt that bewitching smell! I owe it all to you,\nmy best of friends! \n\nThe Rat turned from him in despair.  You see what it is?  he said to\nthe Mole, addressing him across Toad s head:  He s quite hopeless. I\ngive it up when we get to the town we ll go to the railway station, and\nwith luck we may pick up a train there that ll get us back to riverbank\nto-night. And if ever you catch me going a-pleasuring with this\nprovoking animal again! He snorted, and during the rest of that weary\ntrudge addressed his remarks exclusively to Mole.\n\nOn reaching the town they went straight to the station and deposited\nToad in the second-class waiting-room, giving a porter twopence to keep\na strict eye on him. They then left the horse at an inn stable, and\ngave what directions they could about the cart and its contents.\nEventually, a slow train having landed them at a station not very far\nfrom Toad Hall, they escorted the spell-bound, sleep-walking Toad to\nhis door, put him inside it, and instructed his housekeeper to feed\nhim, undress him, and put him to bed. Then they got out their boat from\nthe boat-house, sculled down the river home, and at a very late hour\nsat down to supper in their own cosy riverside parlour, to the Rat s\ngreat joy and contentment.\n\nThe following evening the Mole, who had risen late and taken things\nvery easy all day, was sitting on the bank fishing, when the Rat, who\nhad been looking up his friends and gossiping, came strolling along to\nfind him.  Heard the news?  he said.  There s nothing else being talked\nabout, all along the river bank. Toad went up to Town by an early train\nthis morning. And he has ordered a large and very expensive motor-car. \n\n\n\n\nIII.\nTHE WILD WOOD\n\n\nThe Mole had long wanted to make the acquaintance of the Badger. He\nseemed, by all accounts, to be such an important personage and, though\nrarely visible, to make his unseen influence felt by everybody about\nthe place. But whenever the Mole mentioned his wish to the Water Rat he\nalways found himself put off.  It s all right,  the Rat would say.\n Badger ll turn up some day or other he s always turning up and then\nI ll introduce you. The best of fellows! But you must not only take him\n_as_ you find him, but _when_ you find him. \n\n Couldn t you ask him here dinner or something?  said the Mole.\n\n He wouldn t come,  replied the Rat simply.  Badger hates Society, and\ninvitations, and dinner, and all that sort of thing. \n\n Well, then, supposing we go and call on _him?_  suggested the Mole.\n\n O, I m sure he wouldn t like that at _all_,  said the Rat, quite\nalarmed.  He s so very shy, he d be sure to be offended. I ve never\neven ventured to call on him at his own home myself, though I know him\nso well. Besides, we can t. It s quite out of the question, because he\nlives in the very middle of the Wild Wood. \n\n Well, supposing he does,  said the Mole.  You told me the Wild Wood\nwas all right, you know. \n\n O, I know, I know, so it is,  replied the Rat evasively.  But I think\nwe won t go there just now. Not _just_ yet. It s a long way, and he\nwouldn t be at home at this time of year anyhow, and he ll be coming\nalong some day, if you ll wait quietly. \n\nThe Mole had to be content with this. But the Badger never came along,\nand every day brought its amusements, and it was not till summer was\nlong over, and cold and frost and miry ways kept them much indoors, and\nthe swollen river raced past outside their windows with a speed that\nmocked at boating of any sort or kind, that he found his thoughts\ndwelling again with much persistence on the solitary grey Badger, who\nlived his own life by himself, in his hole in the middle of the Wild\nWood.\n\nIn the winter time the Rat slept a great deal, retiring early and\nrising late. During his short day he sometimes scribbled poetry or did\nother small domestic jobs about the house; and, of course, there were\nalways animals dropping in for a chat, and consequently there was a\ngood deal of story-telling and comparing notes on the past summer and\nall its doings.\n\nSuch a rich chapter it had been, when one came to look back on it all!\nWith illustrations so numerous and so very highly coloured! The pageant\nof the river bank had marched steadily along, unfolding itself in\nscene-pictures that succeeded each other in stately procession. Purple\nloosestrife arrived early, shaking luxuriant tangled locks along the\nedge of the mirror whence its own face laughed back at it. Willow-herb,\ntender and wistful, like a pink sunset cloud, was not slow to follow.\nComfrey, the purple hand-in-hand with the white, crept forth to take\nits place in the line; and at last one morning the diffident and\ndelaying dog-rose stepped delicately on the stage, and one knew, as if\nstring-music had announced it in stately chords that strayed into a\ngavotte, that June at last was here. One member of the company was\nstill awaited; the shepherd-boy for the nymphs to woo, the knight for\nwhom the ladies waited at the window, the prince that was to kiss the\nsleeping summer back to life and love. But when meadow-sweet, debonair\nand odorous in amber jerkin, moved graciously to his place in the\ngroup, then the play was ready to begin.\n\nAnd what a play it had been! Drowsy animals, snug in their holes while\nwind and rain were battering at their doors, recalled still keen\nmornings, an hour before sunrise, when the white mist, as yet\nundispersed, clung closely along the surface of the water; then the\nshock of the early plunge, the scamper along the bank, and the radiant\ntransformation of earth, air, and water, when suddenly the sun was with\nthem again, and grey was gold and colour was born and sprang out of the\nearth once more. They recalled the languorous siesta of hot mid-day,\ndeep in green undergrowth, the sun striking through in tiny golden\nshafts and spots; the boating and bathing of the afternoon, the rambles\nalong dusty lanes and through yellow cornfields; and the long, cool\nevening at last, when so many threads were gathered up, so many\nfriendships rounded, and so many adventures planned for the morrow.\nThere was plenty to talk about on those short winter days when the\nanimals found themselves round the fire; still, the Mole had a good\ndeal of spare time on his hands, and so one afternoon, when the Rat in\nhis arm-chair before the blaze was alternately dozing and trying over\nrhymes that wouldn t fit, he formed the resolution to go out by himself\nand explore the Wild Wood, and perhaps strike up an acquaintance with\nMr. Badger.\n\nIt was a cold still afternoon with a hard steely sky overhead, when he\nslipped out of the warm parlour into the open air. The country lay bare\nand entirely leafless around him, and he thought that he had never seen\nso far and so intimately into the insides of things as on that winter\nday when Nature was deep in her annual slumber and seemed to have\nkicked the clothes off. Copses, dells, quarries and all hidden places,\nwhich had been mysterious mines for exploration in leafy summer, now\nexposed themselves and their secrets pathetically, and seemed to ask\nhim to overlook their shabby poverty for a while, till they could riot\nin rich masquerade as before, and trick and entice him with the old\ndeceptions. It was pitiful in a way, and yet cheering even\nexhilarating. He was glad that he liked the country undecorated, hard,\nand stripped of its finery. He had got down to the bare bones of it,\nand they were fine and strong and simple. He did not want the warm\nclover and the play of seeding grasses; the screens of quickset, the\nbillowy drapery of beech and elm seemed best away; and with great\ncheerfulness of spirit he pushed on towards the Wild Wood, which lay\nbefore him low and threatening, like a black reef in some still\nsouthern sea.\n\nThere was nothing to alarm him at first entry. Twigs crackled under his\nfeet, logs tripped him, funguses on stumps resembled caricatures, and\nstartled him for the moment by their likeness to something familiar and\nfar away; but that was all fun, and exciting. It led him on, and he\npenetrated to where the light was less, and trees crouched nearer and\nnearer, and holes made ugly mouths at him on either side.\n\nEverything was very still now. The dusk advanced on him steadily,\nrapidly, gathering in behind and before; and the light seemed to be\ndraining away like flood-water.\n\nThen the faces began.\n\nIt was over his shoulder, and indistinctly, that he first thought he\nsaw a face; a little evil wedge-shaped face, looking out at him from a\nhole. When he turned and confronted it, the thing had vanished.\n\nHe quickened his pace, telling himself cheerfully not to begin\nimagining things, or there would be simply no end to it. He passed\nanother hole, and another, and another; and then yes! no! yes!\ncertainly a little narrow face, with hard eyes, had flashed up for an\ninstant from a hole, and was gone. He hesitated braced himself up for\nan effort and strode on. Then suddenly, and as if it had been so all\nthe time, every hole, far and near, and there were hundreds of them,\nseemed to possess its face, coming and going rapidly, all fixing on him\nglances of malice and hatred: all hard-eyed and evil and sharp.\n\nIf he could only get away from the holes in the banks, he thought,\nthere would be no more faces. He swung off the path and plunged into\nthe untrodden places of the wood.\n\nThen the whistling began.\n\nVery faint and shrill it was, and far behind him, when first he heard\nit; but somehow it made him hurry forward. Then, still very faint and\nshrill, it sounded far ahead of him, and made him hesitate and want to\ngo back. As he halted in indecision it broke out on either side, and\nseemed to be caught up and passed on throughout the whole length of the\nwood to its farthest limit. They were up and alert and ready,\nevidently, whoever they were! And he he was alone, and unarmed, and far\nfrom any help; and the night was closing in.\n\nThen the pattering began.\n\nHe thought it was only falling leaves at first, so slight and delicate\nwas the sound of it. Then as it grew it took a regular rhythm, and he\nknew it for nothing else but the pat-pat-pat of little feet still a\nvery long way off. Was it in front or behind? It seemed to be first\none, and then the other, then both. It grew and it multiplied, till\nfrom every quarter as he listened anxiously, leaning this way and that,\nit seemed to be closing in on him. As he stood still to hearken, a\nrabbit came running hard towards him through the trees. He waited,\nexpecting it to slacken pace, or to swerve from him into a different\ncourse. Instead, the animal almost brushed him as it dashed past, his\nface set and hard, his eyes staring.  Get out of this, you fool, get\nout!  the Mole heard him mutter as he swung round a stump and\ndisappeared down a friendly burrow.\n\nThe pattering increased till it sounded like sudden hail on the dry\nleaf-carpet spread around him. The whole wood seemed running now,\nrunning hard, hunting, chasing, closing in round something or somebody?\nIn panic, he began to run too, aimlessly, he knew not whither. He ran\nup against things, he fell over things and into things, he darted under\nthings and dodged round things. At last he took refuge in the deep dark\nhollow of an old beech tree, which offered shelter, concealment perhaps\neven safety, but who could tell? Anyhow, he was too tired to run any\nfurther, and could only snuggle down into the dry leaves which had\ndrifted into the hollow and hope he was safe for a time. And as he lay\nthere panting and trembling, and listened to the whistlings and the\npatterings outside, he knew it at last, in all its fullness, that dread\nthing which other little dwellers in field and hedgerow had encountered\nhere, and known as their darkest moment that thing which the Rat had\nvainly tried to shield him from the Terror of the Wild Wood!\n\nMeantime the Rat, warm and comfortable, dozed by his fireside. His\npaper of half-finished verses slipped from his knee, his head fell\nback, his mouth opened, and he wandered by the verdant banks of\ndream-rivers. Then a coal slipped, the fire crackled and sent up a\nspurt of flame, and he woke with a start. Remembering what he had been\nengaged upon, he reached down to the floor for his verses, pored over\nthem for a minute, and then looked round for the Mole to ask him if he\nknew a good rhyme for something or other.\n\nBut the Mole was not there.\n\nHe listened for a time. The house seemed very quiet.\n\nThen he called  Moly!  several times, and, receiving no answer, got up\nand went out into the hall.\n\nThe Mole s cap was missing from its accustomed peg. His goloshes, which\nalways lay by the umbrella-stand, were also gone.\n\nThe Rat left the house, and carefully examined the muddy surface of the\nground outside, hoping to find the Mole s tracks. There they were, sure\nenough. The goloshes were new, just bought for the winter, and the\npimples on their soles were fresh and sharp. He could see the imprints\nof them in the mud, running along straight and purposeful, leading\ndirect to the Wild Wood.\n\nThe Rat looked very grave, and stood in deep thought for a minute or\ntwo. Then he re-entered the house, strapped a belt round his waist,\nshoved a brace of pistols into it, took up a stout cudgel that stood in\na corner of the hall, and set off for the Wild Wood at a smart pace.\n\nIt was already getting towards dusk when he reached the first fringe of\ntrees and plunged without hesitation into the wood, looking anxiously\non either side for any sign of his friend. Here and there wicked little\nfaces popped out of holes, but vanished immediately at sight of the\nvalorous animal, his pistols, and the great ugly cudgel in his grasp;\nand the whistling and pattering, which he had heard quite plainly on\nhis first entry, died away and ceased, and all was very still. He made\nhis way manfully through the length of the wood, to its furthest edge;\nthen, forsaking all paths, he set himself to traverse it, laboriously\nworking over the whole ground, and all the time calling out cheerfully,\n Moly, Moly, Moly! Where are you? It s me it s old Rat! \n\nHe had patiently hunted through the wood for an hour or more, when at\nlast to his joy he heard a little answering cry. Guiding himself by the\nsound, he made his way through the gathering darkness to the foot of an\nold beech tree, with a hole in it, and from out of the hole came a\nfeeble voice, saying  Ratty! Is that really you? \n\nThe Rat crept into the hollow, and there he found the Mole, exhausted\nand still trembling.  O Rat!  he cried,  I ve been so frightened, you\ncan t think! \n\n O, I quite understand,  said the Rat soothingly.  You shouldn t really\nhave gone and done it, Mole. I did my best to keep you from it. We\nriver-bankers, we hardly ever come here by ourselves. If we have to\ncome, we come in couples, at least; then we re generally all right.\nBesides, there are a hundred things one has to know, which we\nunderstand all about and you don t, as yet. I mean passwords, and\nsigns, and sayings which have power and effect, and plants you carry in\nyour pocket, and verses you repeat, and dodges and tricks you practise;\nall simple enough when you know them, but they ve got to be known if\nyou re small, or you ll find yourself in trouble. Of course if you were\nBadger or Otter, it would be quite another matter. \n\n Surely the brave Mr. Toad wouldn t mind coming here by himself, would\nhe?  inquired the Mole.\n\n Old Toad?  said the Rat, laughing heartily.  He wouldn t show his face\nhere alone, not for a whole hatful of golden guineas, Toad wouldn t. \n\nThe Mole was greatly cheered by the sound of the Rat s careless\nlaughter, as well as by the sight of his stick and his gleaming\npistols, and he stopped shivering and began to feel bolder and more\nhimself again.\n\n Now then,  said the Rat presently,  we really must pull ourselves\ntogether and make a start for home while there s still a little light\nleft. It will never do to spend the night here, you understand. Too\ncold, for one thing. \n\n Dear Ratty,  said the poor Mole,  I m dreadfully sorry, but I m simply\ndead beat and that s a solid fact. You _must_ let me rest here a while\nlonger, and get my strength back, if I m to get home at all. \n\n O, all right,  said the good-natured Rat,  rest away. It s pretty\nnearly pitch dark now, anyhow; and there ought to be a bit of a moon\nlater. \n\nSo the Mole got well into the dry leaves and stretched himself out, and\npresently dropped off into sleep, though of a broken and troubled sort;\nwhile the Rat covered himself up, too, as best he might, for warmth,\nand lay patiently waiting, with a pistol in his paw.\n\nWhen at last the Mole woke up, much refreshed and in his usual spirits,\nthe Rat said,  Now then! I ll just take a look outside and see if\neverything s quiet, and then we really must be off. \n\nHe went to the entrance of their retreat and put his head out. Then the\nMole heard him saying quietly to himself,  Hullo! hullo! here is a go! \n\n What s up, Ratty?  asked the Mole.\n\n _Snow_ is up,  replied the Rat briefly;  or rather, _down_. It s\nsnowing hard. \n\nThe Mole came and crouched beside him, and, looking out, saw the wood\nthat had been so dreadful to him in quite a changed aspect. Holes,\nhollows, pools, pitfalls, and other black menaces to the wayfarer were\nvanishing fast, and a gleaming carpet of faery was springing up\neverywhere, that looked too delicate to be trodden upon by rough feet.\nA fine powder filled the air and caressed the cheek with a tingle in\nits touch, and the black boles of the trees showed up in a light that\nseemed to come from below.\n\n Well, well, it can t be helped,  said the Rat, after pondering.  We\nmust make a start, and take our chance, I suppose. The worst of it is,\nI don t exactly know where we are. And now this snow makes everything\nlook so very different. \n\nIt did indeed. The Mole would not have known that it was the same wood.\nHowever, they set out bravely, and took the line that seemed most\npromising, holding on to each other and pretending with invincible\ncheerfulness that they recognized an old friend in every fresh tree\nthat grimly and silently greeted them, or saw openings, gaps, or paths\nwith a familiar turn in them, in the monotony of white space and black\ntree-trunks that refused to vary.\n\nAn hour or two later they had lost all count of time they pulled up,\ndispirited, weary, and hopelessly at sea, and sat down on a fallen\ntree-trunk to recover their breath and consider what was to be done.\nThey were aching with fatigue and bruised with tumbles; they had fallen\ninto several holes and got wet through; the snow was getting so deep\nthat they could hardly drag their little legs through it, and the trees\nwere thicker and more like each other than ever. There seemed to be no\nend to this wood, and no beginning, and no difference in it, and, worst\nof all, no way out.\n\n We can t sit here very long,  said the Rat.  We shall have to make\nanother push for it, and do something or other. The cold is too awful\nfor anything, and the snow will soon be too deep for us to wade\nthrough.  He peered about him and considered.  Look here,  he went on,\n this is what occurs to me. There s a sort of dell down here in front\nof us, where the ground seems all hilly and humpy and hummocky. We ll\nmake our way down into that, and try and find some sort of shelter, a\ncave or hole with a dry floor to it, out of the snow and the wind, and\nthere we ll have a good rest before we try again, for we re both of us\npretty dead beat. Besides, the snow may leave off, or something may\nturn up. \n\nSo once more they got on their feet, and struggled down into the dell,\nwhere they hunted about for a cave or some corner that was dry and a\nprotection from the keen wind and the whirling snow. They were\ninvestigating one of the hummocky bits the Rat had spoken of, when\nsuddenly the Mole tripped up and fell forward on his face with a\nsqueal.\n\n O my leg!  he cried.  O my poor shin!  and he sat up on the snow and\nnursed his leg in both his front paws.\n\n Poor old Mole!  said the Rat kindly.\n\n You don t seem to be having much luck to-day, do you? Let s have a\nlook at the leg. Yes,  he went on, going down on his knees to look,\n you ve cut your shin, sure enough. Wait till I get at my handkerchief,\nand I ll tie it up for you. \n\n I must have tripped over a hidden branch or a stump,  said the Mole\nmiserably.  O, my! O, my! \n\n It s a very clean cut,  said the Rat, examining it again attentively.\n That was never done by a branch or a stump. Looks as if it was made by\na sharp edge of something in metal. Funny!  He pondered awhile, and\nexamined the humps and slopes that surrounded them.\n\n Well, never mind what done it,  said the Mole, forgetting his grammar\nin his pain.  It hurts just the same, whatever done it. \n\nBut the Rat, after carefully tying up the leg with his handkerchief,\nhad left him and was busy scraping in the snow. He scratched and\nshovelled and explored, all four legs working busily, while the Mole\nwaited impatiently, remarking at intervals,  O, _come_ on, Rat! \n\nSuddenly the Rat cried  Hooray!  and then\n Hooray-oo-ray-oo-ray-oo-ray!  and fell to executing a feeble jig in\nthe snow.\n\n What _have_ you found, Ratty?  asked the Mole, still nursing his leg.\n\n Come and see!  said the delighted Rat, as he jigged on.\n\nThe Mole hobbled up to the spot and had a good look.\n\n Well,  he said at last, slowly,  I SEE it right enough. Seen the same\nsort of thing before, lots of times. Familiar object, I call it. A\ndoor-scraper! Well, what of it? Why dance jigs around a door-scraper? \n\n But don t you see what it _means_, you you dull-witted animal?  cried\nthe Rat impatiently.\n\n Of course I see what it means,  replied the Mole.  It simply means\nthat some VERY careless and forgetful person has left his door-scraper\nlying about in the middle of the Wild Wood, _just_ where it s _sure_ to\ntrip _everybody_ up. Very thoughtless of him, I call it. When I get\nhome I shall go and complain about it to to somebody or other, see if I\ndon t! \n\n O, dear! O, dear!  cried the Rat, in despair at his obtuseness.  Here,\nstop arguing and come and scrape!  And he set to work again and made\nthe snow fly in all directions around him.\n\nAfter some further toil his efforts were rewarded, and a very shabby\ndoor-mat lay exposed to view.\n\n There, what did I tell you?  exclaimed the Rat in great triumph.\n\n Absolutely nothing whatever,  replied the Mole, with perfect\ntruthfulness.  Well now,  he went on,  you seem to have found another\npiece of domestic litter, done for and thrown away, and I suppose\nyou re perfectly happy. Better go ahead and dance your jig round that\nif you ve got to, and get it over, and then perhaps we can go on and\nnot waste any more time over rubbish-heaps. Can we EAT a doormat? or\nsleep under a door-mat? Or sit on a door-mat and sledge home over the\nsnow on it, you exasperating rodent? \n\n Do you mean to say,  cried the excited Rat,  that this door-mat\ndoesn t _tell_ you anything? \n\n Really, Rat,  said the Mole, quite pettishly,  I think we d had enough\nof this folly. Who ever heard of a door-mat _telling_ anyone anything?\nThey simply don t do it. They are not that sort at all. Door-mats know\ntheir place. \n\n Now look here, you you thick-headed beast,  replied the Rat, really\nangry,  this must stop. Not another word, but scrape scrape and scratch\nand dig and hunt round, especially on the sides of the hummocks, if you\nwant to sleep dry and warm to-night, for it s our last chance! \n\nThe Rat attacked a snow-bank beside them with ardour, probing with his\ncudgel everywhere and then digging with fury; and the Mole scraped\nbusily too, more to oblige the Rat than for any other reason, for his\nopinion was that his friend was getting light-headed.\n\nSome ten minutes  hard work, and the point of the Rat s cudgel struck\nsomething that sounded hollow. He worked till he could get a paw\nthrough and feel; then called the Mole to come and help him. Hard at it\nwent the two animals, till at last the result of their labours stood\nfull in view of the astonished and hitherto incredulous Mole.\n\nIn the side of what had seemed to be a snow-bank stood a solid-looking\nlittle door, painted a dark green. An iron bell-pull hung by the side,\nand below it, on a small brass plate, neatly engraved in square capital\nletters, they could read by the aid of moonlight\n\nMR. BADGER.\n\n\nThe Mole fell backwards on the snow from sheer surprise and delight.\n Rat!  he cried in penitence,  you re a wonder! A real wonder, that s\nwhat you are. I see it all now! You argued it out, step by step, in\nthat wise head of yours, from the very moment that I fell and cut my\nshin, and you looked at the cut, and at once your majestic mind said to\nitself,  Door-scraper!  And then you turned to and found the very\ndoor-scraper that done it! Did you stop there? No. Some people would\nhave been quite satisfied; but not you. Your intellect went on working.\n Let me only just find a door-mat,  says you to yourself,  and my\ntheory is proved!  And of course you found your door-mat. You re so\nclever, I believe you could find anything you liked.  Now,  says you,\n that door exists, as plain as if I saw it. There s nothing else\nremains to be done but to find it!  Well, I ve read about that sort of\nthing in books, but I ve never come across it before in real life. You\nought to go where you ll be properly appreciated. You re simply wasted\nhere, among us fellows. If I only had your head, Ratty \n\n But as you haven t,  interrupted the Rat, rather unkindly,  I suppose\nyou re going to sit on the snow all night and _talk?_ Get up at once\nand hang on to that bell-pull you see there, and ring hard, as hard as\nyou can, while I hammer! \n\nWhile the Rat attacked the door with his stick, the Mole sprang up at\nthe bell-pull, clutched it and swung there, both feet well off the\nground, and from quite a long way off they could faintly hear a\ndeep-toned bell respond.\n\n\n\n\nIV.\nMR. BADGER\n\n\nTHEY waited patiently for what seemed a very long time, stamping in the\nsnow to keep their feet warm. At last they heard the sound of slow\nshuffling footsteps approaching the door from the inside. It seemed, as\nthe Mole remarked to the Rat, like some one walking in carpet slippers\nthat were too large for him and down at heel; which was intelligent of\nMole, because that was exactly what it was.\n\nThere was the noise of a bolt shot back, and the door opened a few\ninches, enough to show a long snout and a pair of sleepy blinking eyes.\n\n Now, the _very_ next time this happens,  said a gruff and suspicious\nvoice,  I shall be exceedingly angry. Who is it _this_ time, disturbing\npeople on such a night? Speak up! \n\n Oh, Badger,  cried the Rat,  let us in, please. It s me, Rat, and my\nfriend Mole, and we ve lost our way in the snow. \n\n What, Ratty, my dear little man!  exclaimed the Badger, in quite a\ndifferent voice.  Come along in, both of you, at once. Why, you must be\nperished. Well I never! Lost in the snow! And in the Wild Wood, too,\nand at this time of night! But come in with you. \n\nThe two animals tumbled over each other in their eagerness to get\ninside, and heard the door shut behind them with great joy and relief.\n\nThe Badger, who wore a long dressing-gown, and whose slippers were\nindeed very down at heel, carried a flat candlestick in his paw and had\nprobably been on his way to bed when their summons sounded. He looked\nkindly down on them and patted both their heads.  This is not the sort\nof night for small animals to be out,  he said paternally.  I m afraid\nyou ve been up to some of your pranks again, Ratty. But come along;\ncome into the kitchen. There s a first-rate fire there, and supper and\neverything. \n\nHe shuffled on in front of them, carrying the light, and they followed\nhim, nudging each other in an anticipating sort of way, down a long,\ngloomy, and, to tell the truth, decidedly shabby passage, into a sort\nof a central hall; out of which they could dimly see other long\ntunnel-like passages branching, passages mysterious and without\napparent end. But there were doors in the hall as well stout oaken\ncomfortable-looking doors. One of these the Badger flung open, and at\nonce they found themselves in all the glow and warmth of a large\nfire-lit kitchen.\n\nThe floor was well-worn red brick, and on the wide hearth burnt a fire\nof logs, between two attractive chimney-corners tucked away in the\nwall, well out of any suspicion of draught. A couple of high-backed\nsettles, facing each other on either side of the fire, gave further\nsitting accommodations for the sociably disposed. In the middle of the\nroom stood a long table of plain boards placed on trestles, with\nbenches down each side. At one end of it, where an arm-chair stood\npushed back, were spread the remains of the Badger s plain but ample\nsupper. Rows of spotless plates winked from the shelves of the dresser\nat the far end of the room, and from the rafters overhead hung hams,\nbundles of dried herbs, nets of onions, and baskets of eggs. It seemed\na place where heroes could fitly feast after victory, where weary\nharvesters could line up in scores along the table and keep their\nHarvest Home with mirth and song, or where two or three friends of\nsimple tastes could sit about as they pleased and eat and smoke and\ntalk in comfort and contentment. The ruddy brick floor smiled up at the\nsmoky ceiling; the oaken settles, shiny with long wear, exchanged\ncheerful glances with each other; plates on the dresser grinned at pots\non the shelf, and the merry firelight flickered and played over\neverything without distinction.\n\nThe kindly Badger thrust them down on a settle to toast themselves at\nthe fire, and bade them remove their wet coats and boots. Then he\nfetched them dressing-gowns and slippers, and himself bathed the Mole s\nshin with warm water and mended the cut with sticking-plaster till the\nwhole thing was just as good as new, if not better. In the embracing\nlight and warmth, warm and dry at last, with weary legs propped up in\nfront of them, and a suggestive clink of plates being arranged on the\ntable behind, it seemed to the storm-driven animals, now in safe\nanchorage, that the cold and trackless Wild Wood just left outside was\nmiles and miles away, and all that they had suffered in it a\nhalf-forgotten dream.\n\nWhen at last they were thoroughly toasted, the Badger summoned them to\nthe table, where he had been busy laying a repast. They had felt pretty\nhungry before, but when they actually saw at last the supper that was\nspread for them, really it seemed only a question of what they should\nattack first where all was so attractive, and whether the other things\nwould obligingly wait for them till they had time to give them\nattention. Conversation was impossible for a long time; and when it was\nslowly resumed, it was that regrettable sort of conversation that\nresults from talking with your mouth full. The Badger did not mind that\nsort of thing at all, nor did he take any notice of elbows on the\ntable, or everybody speaking at once. As he did not go into Society\nhimself, he had got an idea that these things belonged to the things\nthat didn t really matter. (We know of course that he was wrong, and\ntook too narrow a view; because they do matter very much, though it\nwould take too long to explain why.) He sat in his arm-chair at the\nhead of the table, and nodded gravely at intervals as the animals told\ntheir story; and he did not seem surprised or shocked at anything, and\nhe never said,  I told you so,  or,  Just what I always said,  or\nremarked that they ought to have done so-and-so, or ought not to have\ndone something else. The Mole began to feel very friendly towards him.\n\nWhen supper was really finished at last, and each animal felt that his\nskin was now as tight as was decently safe, and that by this time he\ndidn t care a hang for anybody or anything, they gathered round the\nglowing embers of the great wood fire, and thought how jolly it was to\nbe sitting up _so_ late, and _so_ independent, and _so_ full; and after\nthey had chatted for a time about things in general, the Badger said\nheartily,  Now then! tell us the news from your part of the world.\nHow s old Toad going on? \n\n Oh, from bad to worse,  said the Rat gravely, while the Mole, cocked\nup on a settle and basking in the firelight, his heels higher than his\nhead, tried to look properly mournful.  Another smash-up only last\nweek, and a bad one. You see, he will insist on driving himself, and\nhe s hopelessly incapable. If he d only employ a decent, steady,\nwell-trained animal, pay him good wages, and leave everything to him,\nhe d get on all right. But no; he s convinced he s a heaven-born\ndriver, and nobody can teach him anything; and all the rest follows. \n\n How many has he had?  inquired the Badger gloomily.\n\n Smashes, or machines?  asked the Rat.  Oh, well, after all, it s the\nsame thing with Toad. This is the seventh. As for the others you know\nthat coach-house of his? Well, it s piled up literally piled up to the\nroof with fragments of motor-cars, none of them bigger than your hat!\nThat accounts for the other six so far as they can be accounted for. \n\n He s been in hospital three times,  put in the Mole;  and as for the\nfines he s had to pay, it s simply awful to think of. \n\n Yes, and that s part of the trouble,  continued the Rat.  Toad s rich,\nwe all know; but he s not a millionaire. And he s a hopelessly bad\ndriver, and quite regardless of law and order. Killed or ruined it s\ngot to be one of the two things, sooner or later. Badger! we re his\nfriends oughtn t we to do something? \n\nThe Badger went through a bit of hard thinking.  Now look here!  he\nsaid at last, rather severely;  of course you know I can t do anything\n_now?_ \n\nHis two friends assented, quite understanding his point. No animal,\naccording to the rules of animal-etiquette, is ever expected to do\nanything strenuous, or heroic, or even moderately active during the\noff-season of winter. All are sleepy some actually asleep. All are\nweather-bound, more or less; and all are resting from arduous days and\nnights, during which every muscle in them has been severely tested, and\nevery energy kept at full stretch.\n\n Very well then!  continued the Badger.  _But_, when once the year has\nreally turned, and the nights are shorter, and halfway through them one\nrouses and feels fidgety and wanting to be up and doing by sunrise, if\nnot before _you_ know! \n\nBoth animals nodded gravely. _They_ knew!\n\n Well, _then_,  went on the Badger,  we that is, you and me and our\nfriend the Mole here we ll take Toad seriously in hand. We ll stand no\nnonsense whatever. We ll bring him back to reason, by force if need be.\nWe ll _make_ him be a sensible Toad. We ll you re asleep, Rat! \n\n Not me!  said the Rat, waking up with a jerk.\n\n He s been asleep two or three times since supper,  said the Mole,\nlaughing. He himself was feeling quite wakeful and even lively, though\nhe didn t know why. The reason was, of course, that he being naturally\nan underground animal by birth and breeding, the situation of Badger s\nhouse exactly suited him and made him feel at home; while the Rat, who\nslept every night in a bedroom the windows of which opened on a breezy\nriver, naturally felt the atmosphere still and oppressive.\n\n Well, it s time we were all in bed,  said the Badger, getting up and\nfetching flat candlesticks.  Come along, you two, and I ll show you\nyour quarters. And take your time tomorrow morning breakfast at any\nhour you please! \n\nHe conducted the two animals to a long room that seemed half bedchamber\nand half loft. The Badger s winter stores, which indeed were visible\neverywhere, took up half the room piles of apples, turnips, and\npotatoes, baskets full of nuts, and jars of honey; but the two little\nwhite beds on the remainder of the floor looked soft and inviting, and\nthe linen on them, though coarse, was clean and smelt beautifully of\nlavender; and the Mole and the Water Rat, shaking off their garments in\nsome thirty seconds, tumbled in between the sheets in great joy and\ncontentment.\n\nIn accordance with the kindly Badger s injunctions, the two tired\nanimals came down to breakfast very late next morning, and found a\nbright fire burning in the kitchen, and two young hedgehogs sitting on\na bench at the table, eating oatmeal porridge out of wooden bowls. The\nhedgehogs dropped their spoons, rose to their feet, and ducked their\nheads respectfully as the two entered.\n\n There, sit down, sit down,  said the Rat pleasantly,  and go on with\nyour porridge. Where have you youngsters come from? Lost your way in\nthe snow, I suppose? \n\n Yes, please, sir,  said the elder of the two hedgehogs respectfully.\n Me and little Billy here, we was trying to find our way to\nschool mother _would_ have us go, was the weather ever so and of course\nwe lost ourselves, sir, and Billy he got frightened and took and cried,\nbeing young and faint-hearted. And at last we happened up against Mr.\nBadger s back door, and made so bold as to knock, sir, for Mr. Badger\nhe s a kind-hearted gentleman, as everyone knows \n\n I understand,  said the Rat, cutting himself some rashers from a side\nof bacon, while the Mole dropped some eggs into a saucepan.  And what s\nthe weather like outside? You needn t  sir  me quite so much?  he\nadded.\n\n O, terrible bad, sir, terrible deep the snow is,  said the hedgehog.\n No getting out for the likes of you gentlemen to-day. \n\n Where s Mr. Badger?  inquired the Mole, as he warmed the coffee-pot\nbefore the fire.\n\n The master s gone into his study, sir,  replied the hedgehog,  and he\nsaid as how he was going to be particular busy this morning, and on no\naccount was he to be disturbed. \n\nThis explanation, of course, was thoroughly understood by every one\npresent. The fact is, as already set forth, when you live a life of\nintense activity for six months in the year, and of comparative or\nactual somnolence for the other six, during the latter period you\ncannot be continually pleading sleepiness when there are people about\nor things to be done. The excuse gets monotonous. The animals well knew\nthat Badger, having eaten a hearty breakfast, had retired to his study\nand settled himself in an arm-chair with his legs up on another and a\nred cotton handkerchief over his face, and was being  busy  in the\nusual way at this time of the year.\n\nThe front-door bell clanged loudly, and the Rat, who was very greasy\nwith buttered toast, sent Billy, the smaller hedgehog, to see who it\nmight be. There was a sound of much stamping in the hall, and presently\nBilly returned in front of the Otter, who threw himself on the Rat with\nan embrace and a shout of affectionate greeting.\n\n Get off!  spluttered the Rat, with his mouth full.\n\n Thought I should find you here all right,  said the Otter cheerfully.\n They were all in a great state of alarm along River Bank when I\narrived this morning. Rat never been home all night nor Mole\neither something dreadful must have happened, they said; and the snow\nhad covered up all your tracks, of course. But I knew that when people\nwere in any fix they mostly went to Badger, or else Badger got to know\nof it somehow, so I came straight off here, through the Wild Wood and\nthe snow! My! it was fine, coming through the snow as the red sun was\nrising and showing against the black tree-trunks! As you went along in\nthe stillness, every now and then masses of snow slid off the branches\nsuddenly with a flop! making you jump and run for cover. Snow-castles\nand snow-caverns had sprung up out of nowhere in the night and snow\nbridges, terraces, ramparts I could have stayed and played with them\nfor hours. Here and there great branches had been torn away by the\nsheer weight of the snow, and robins perched and hopped on them in\ntheir perky conceited way, just as if they had done it themselves. A\nragged string of wild geese passed overhead, high on the grey sky, and\na few rooks whirled over the trees, inspected, and flapped off\nhomewards with a disgusted expression; but I met no sensible being to\nask the news of. About halfway across I came on a rabbit sitting on a\nstump, cleaning his silly face with his paws. He was a pretty scared\nanimal when I crept up behind him and placed a heavy forepaw on his\nshoulder. I had to cuff his head once or twice to get any sense out of\nit at all. At last I managed to extract from him that Mole had been\nseen in the Wild Wood last night by one of them. It was the talk of the\nburrows, he said, how Mole, Mr. Rat s particular friend, was in a bad\nfix; how he had lost his way, and  They  were up and out hunting, and\nwere chivvying him round and round.  Then why didn t any of you _do_\nsomething?  I asked.  You mayn t be blest with brains, but there are\nhundreds and hundreds of you, big, stout fellows, as fat as butter, and\nyour burrows running in all directions, and you could have taken him in\nand made him safe and comfortable, or tried to, at all events.   What,\n_us?_  he merely said:  _do_ something? us rabbits?  So I cuffed him\nagain and left him. There was nothing else to be done. At any rate, I\nhad learnt something; and if I had had the luck to meet any of  Them \nI d have learnt something more or _they_ would. \n\n Weren t you at all er nervous?  asked the Mole, some of yesterday s\nterror coming back to him at the mention of the Wild Wood.\n\n Nervous?  The Otter showed a gleaming set of strong white teeth as he\nlaughed.  I d give  em nerves if any of them tried anything on with me.\nHere, Mole, fry me some slices of ham, like the good little chap you\nare. I m frightfully hungry, and I ve got any amount to say to Ratty\nhere. Haven t seen him for an age. \n\nSo the good-natured Mole, having cut some slices of ham, set the\nhedgehogs to fry it, and returned to his own breakfast, while the Otter\nand the Rat, their heads together, eagerly talked river-shop, which is\nlong shop and talk that is endless, running on like the babbling river\nitself.\n\nA plate of fried ham had just been cleared and sent back for more, when\nthe Badger entered, yawning and rubbing his eyes, and greeted them all\nin his quiet, simple way, with kind enquiries for every one.  It must\nbe getting on for luncheon time,  he remarked to the Otter.  Better\nstop and have it with us. You must be hungry, this cold morning. \n\n Rather!  replied the Otter, winking at the Mole.  The sight of these\ngreedy young hedgehogs stuffing themselves with fried ham makes me feel\npositively famished. \n\nThe hedgehogs, who were just beginning to feel hungry again after their\nporridge, and after working so hard at their frying, looked timidly up\nat Mr. Badger, but were too shy to say anything.\n\n Here, you two youngsters be off home to your mother,  said the Badger\nkindly.  I ll send some one with you to show you the way. You won t\nwant any dinner to-day, I ll be bound. \n\nHe gave them sixpence apiece and a pat on the head, and they went off\nwith much respectful swinging of caps and touching of forelocks.\n\nPresently they all sat down to luncheon together. The Mole found\nhimself placed next to Mr. Badger, and, as the other two were still\ndeep in river-gossip from which nothing could divert them, he took the\nopportunity to tell Badger how comfortable and home-like it all felt to\nhim.  Once well underground,  he said,  you know exactly where you are.\nNothing can happen to you, and nothing can get at you. You re entirely\nyour own master, and you don t have to consult anybody or mind what\nthey say. Things go on all the same overhead, and you let  em, and\ndon t bother about  em. When you want to, up you go, and there the\nthings are, waiting for you. \n\nThe Badger simply beamed on him.  That s exactly what I say,  he\nreplied.  There s no security, or peace and tranquillity, except\nunderground. And then, if your ideas get larger and you want to\nexpand why, a dig and a scrape, and there you are! If you feel your\nhouse is a bit too big, you stop up a hole or two, and there you are\nagain! No builders, no tradesmen, no remarks passed on you by fellows\nlooking over your wall, and, above all, no _weather_. Look at Rat, now.\nA couple of feet of flood water, and he s got to move into hired\nlodgings; uncomfortable, inconveniently situated, and horribly\nexpensive. Take Toad. I say nothing against Toad Hall; quite the best\nhouse in these parts, _as_ a house. But supposing a fire breaks\nout where s Toad? Supposing tiles are blown off, or walls sink or\ncrack, or windows get broken where s Toad? Supposing the rooms are\ndraughty I _hate_ a draught myself where s Toad? No, up and out of\ndoors is good enough to roam about and get one s living in; but\nunderground to come back to at last that s my idea of _home!_ \n\nThe Mole assented heartily; and the Badger in consequence got very\nfriendly with him.  When lunch is over,  he said,  I ll take you all\nround this little place of mine. I can see you ll appreciate it. You\nunderstand what domestic architecture ought to be, you do. \n\nAfter luncheon, accordingly, when the other two had settled themselves\ninto the chimney-corner and had started a heated argument on the\nsubject of _eels_, the Badger lighted a lantern and bade the Mole\nfollow him. Crossing the hall, they passed down one of the principal\ntunnels, and the wavering light of the lantern gave glimpses on either\nside of rooms both large and small, some mere cupboards, others nearly\nas broad and imposing as Toad s dining-hall. A narrow passage at right\nangles led them into another corridor, and here the same thing was\nrepeated. The Mole was staggered at the size, the extent, the\nramifications of it all; at the length of the dim passages, the solid\nvaultings of the crammed store-chambers, the masonry everywhere, the\npillars, the arches, the pavements.  How on earth, Badger,  he said at\nlast,  did you ever find time and strength to do all this? It s\nastonishing! \n\n It _would_ be astonishing indeed,  said the Badger simply,  if I _had_\ndone it. But as a matter of fact I did none of it only cleaned out the\npassages and chambers, as far as I had need of them. There s lots more\nof it, all round about. I see you don t understand, and I must explain\nit to you. Well, very long ago, on the spot where the Wild Wood waves\nnow, before ever it had planted itself and grown up to what it now is,\nthere was a city a city of people, you know. Here, where we are\nstanding, they lived, and walked, and talked, and slept, and carried on\ntheir business. Here they stabled their horses and feasted, from here\nthey rode out to fight or drove out to trade. They were a powerful\npeople, and rich, and great builders. They built to last, for they\nthought their city would last for ever. \n\n But what has become of them all?  asked the Mole.\n\n Who can tell?  said the Badger.  People come they stay for a while,\nthey flourish, they build and they go. It is their way. But we remain.\nThere were badgers here, I ve been told, long before that same city\never came to be. And now there are badgers here again. We are an\nenduring lot, and we may move out for a time, but we wait, and are\npatient, and back we come. And so it will ever be. \n\n Well, and when they went at last, those people?  said the Mole.\n\n When they went,  continued the Badger,  the strong winds and\npersistent rains took the matter in hand, patiently, ceaselessly, year\nafter year. Perhaps we badgers too, in our small way, helped a\nlittle who knows? It was all down, down, down, gradually ruin and\nlevelling and disappearance. Then it was all up, up, up, gradually, as\nseeds grew to saplings, and saplings to forest trees, and bramble and\nfern came creeping in to help. Leaf-mould rose and obliterated, streams\nin their winter freshets brought sand and soil to clog and to cover,\nand in course of time our home was ready for us again, and we moved in.\nUp above us, on the surface, the same thing happened. Animals arrived,\nliked the look of the place, took up their quarters, settled down,\nspread, and flourished. They didn t bother themselves about the\npast they never do; they re too busy. The place was a bit humpy and\nhillocky, naturally, and full of holes; but that was rather an\nadvantage. And they don t bother about the future, either the future\nwhen perhaps the people will move in again for a time as may very well\nbe. The Wild Wood is pretty well populated by now; with all the usual\nlot, good, bad, and indifferent I name no names. It takes all sorts to\nmake a world. But I fancy you know something about them yourself by\nthis time. \n\n I do indeed,  said the Mole, with a slight shiver.\n\n Well, well,  said the Badger, patting him on the shoulder,  it was\nyour first experience of them, you see. They re not so bad really; and\nwe must all live and let live. But I ll pass the word around to-morrow,\nand I think you ll have no further trouble. Any friend of _mine_ walks\nwhere he likes in this country, or I ll know the reason why! \n\nWhen they got back to the kitchen again, they found the Rat walking up\nand down, very restless. The underground atmosphere was oppressing him\nand getting on his nerves, and he seemed really to be afraid that the\nriver would run away if he wasn t there to look after it. So he had his\novercoat on, and his pistols thrust into his belt again.  Come along,\nMole,  he said anxiously, as soon as he caught sight of them.  We must\nget off while it s daylight. Don t want to spend another night in the\nWild Wood again. \n\n It ll be all right, my fine fellow,  said the Otter.  I m coming along\nwith you, and I know every path blindfold; and if there s a head that\nneeds to be punched, you can confidently rely upon me to punch it. \n\n You really needn t fret, Ratty,  added the Badger placidly.  My\npassages run further than you think, and I ve bolt-holes to the edge of\nthe wood in several directions, though I don t care for everybody to\nknow about them. When you really have to go, you shall leave by one of\nmy short cuts. Meantime, make yourself easy, and sit down again. \n\nThe Rat was nevertheless still anxious to be off and attend to his\nriver, so the Badger, taking up his lantern again, led the way along a\ndamp and airless tunnel that wound and dipped, part vaulted, part hewn\nthrough solid rock, for a weary distance that seemed to be miles. At\nlast daylight began to show itself confusedly through tangled growth\noverhanging the mouth of the passage; and the Badger, bidding them a\nhasty good-bye, pushed them hurriedly through the opening, made\neverything look as natural as possible again, with creepers, brushwood,\nand dead leaves, and retreated.\n\nThey found themselves standing on the very edge of the Wild Wood. Rocks\nand brambles and tree-roots behind them, confusedly heaped and tangled;\nin front, a great space of quiet fields, hemmed by lines of hedges\nblack on the snow, and, far ahead, a glint of the familiar old river,\nwhile the wintry sun hung red and low on the horizon. The Otter, as\nknowing all the paths, took charge of the party, and they trailed out\non a bee-line for a distant stile. Pausing there a moment and looking\nback, they saw the whole mass of the Wild Wood, dense, menacing,\ncompact, grimly set in vast white surroundings; simultaneously they\nturned and made swiftly for home, for firelight and the familiar things\nit played on, for the voice, sounding cheerily outside their window, of\nthe river that they knew and trusted in all its moods, that never made\nthem afraid with any amazement.\n\nAs he hurried along, eagerly anticipating the moment when he would be\nat home again among the things he knew and liked, the Mole saw clearly\nthat he was an animal of tilled field and hedge-row, linked to the\nploughed furrow, the frequented pasture, the lane of evening\nlingerings, the cultivated garden-plot. For others the asperities, the\nstubborn endurance, or the clash of actual conflict, that went with\nNature in the rough; he must be wise, must keep to the pleasant places\nin which his lines were laid and which held adventure enough, in their\nway, to last for a lifetime.\n\n\n\n\nV.\nDULCE DOMUM\n\n\nThe sheep ran huddling together against the hurdles, blowing out thin\nnostrils and stamping with delicate fore-feet, their heads thrown back\nand a light steam rising from the crowded sheep-pen into the frosty\nair, as the two animals hastened by in high spirits, with much chatter\nand laughter. They were returning across country after a long day s\nouting with Otter, hunting and exploring on the wide uplands where\ncertain streams tributary to their own River had their first small\nbeginnings; and the shades of the short winter day were closing in on\nthem, and they had still some distance to go. Plodding at random across\nthe plough, they had heard the sheep and had made for them; and now,\nleading from the sheep-pen, they found a beaten track that made walking\na lighter business, and responded, moreover, to that small inquiring\nsomething which all animals carry inside them, saying unmistakably,\n Yes, quite right; _this_ leads home! \n\n It looks as if we were coming to a village,  said the Mole somewhat\ndubiously, slackening his pace, as the track, that had in time become a\npath and then had developed into a lane, now handed them over to the\ncharge of a well-metalled road. The animals did not hold with villages,\nand their own highways, thickly frequented as they were, took an\nindependent course, regardless of church, post office, or public-house.\n\n Oh, never mind!  said the Rat.  At this season of the year they re all\nsafe indoors by this time, sitting round the fire; men, women, and\nchildren, dogs and cats and all. We shall slip through all right,\nwithout any bother or unpleasantness, and we can have a look at them\nthrough their windows if you like, and see what they re doing. \n\nThe rapid nightfall of mid-December had quite beset the little village\nas they approached it on soft feet over a first thin fall of powdery\nsnow. Little was visible but squares of a dusky orange-red on either\nside of the street, where the firelight or lamplight of each cottage\noverflowed through the casements into the dark world without. Most of\nthe low latticed windows were innocent of blinds, and to the lookers-in\nfrom outside, the inmates, gathered round the tea-table, absorbed in\nhandiwork, or talking with laughter and gesture, had each that happy\ngrace which is the last thing the skilled actor shall capture the\nnatural grace which goes with perfect unconsciousness of observation.\nMoving at will from one theatre to another, the two spectators, so far\nfrom home themselves, had something of wistfulness in their eyes as\nthey watched a cat being stroked, a sleepy child picked up and huddled\noff to bed, or a tired man stretch and knock out his pipe on the end of\na smouldering log.\n\nBut it was from one little window, with its blind drawn down, a mere\nblank transparency on the night, that the sense of home and the little\ncurtained world within walls the larger stressful world of outside\nNature shut out and forgotten most pulsated. Close against the white\nblind hung a bird-cage, clearly silhouetted, every wire, perch, and\nappurtenance distinct and recognisable, even to yesterday s dull-edged\nlump of sugar. On the middle perch the fluffy occupant, head tucked\nwell into feathers, seemed so near to them as to be easily stroked, had\nthey tried; even the delicate tips of his plumped-out plumage pencilled\nplainly on the illuminated screen. As they looked, the sleepy little\nfellow stirred uneasily, woke, shook himself, and raised his head. They\ncould see the gape of his tiny beak as he yawned in a bored sort of\nway, looked round, and then settled his head into his back again, while\nthe ruffled feathers gradually subsided into perfect stillness. Then a\ngust of bitter wind took them in the back of the neck, a small sting of\nfrozen sleet on the skin woke them as from a dream, and they knew their\ntoes to be cold and their legs tired, and their own home distant a\nweary way.\n\nOnce beyond the village, where the cottages ceased abruptly, on either\nside of the road they could smell through the darkness the friendly\nfields again; and they braced themselves for the last long stretch, the\nhome stretch, the stretch that we know is bound to end, some time, in\nthe rattle of the door-latch, the sudden firelight, and the sight of\nfamiliar things greeting us as long-absent travellers from far\nover-sea. They plodded along steadily and silently, each of them\nthinking his own thoughts. The Mole s ran a good deal on supper, as it\nwas pitch-dark, and it was all a strange country for him as far as he\nknew, and he was following obediently in the wake of the Rat, leaving\nthe guidance entirely to him. As for the Rat, he was walking a little\nway ahead, as his habit was, his shoulders humped, his eyes fixed on\nthe straight grey road in front of him; so he did not notice poor Mole\nwhen suddenly the summons reached him, and took him like an electric\nshock.\n\nWe others, who have long lost the more subtle of the physical senses,\nhave not even proper terms to express an animal s inter-communications\nwith his surroundings, living or otherwise, and have only the word\n smell,  for instance, to include the whole range of delicate thrills\nwhich murmur in the nose of the animal night and day, summoning,\nwarning, inciting, repelling. It was one of these mysterious fairy\ncalls from out the void that suddenly reached Mole in the darkness,\nmaking him tingle through and through with its very familiar appeal,\neven while yet he could not clearly remember what it was. He stopped\ndead in his tracks, his nose searching hither and thither in its\nefforts to recapture the fine filament, the telegraphic current, that\nhad so strongly moved him. A moment, and he had caught it again; and\nwith it this time came recollection in fullest flood.\n\nHome! That was what they meant, those caressing appeals, those soft\ntouches wafted through the air, those invisible little hands pulling\nand tugging, all one way! Why, it must be quite close by him at that\nmoment, his old home that he had hurriedly forsaken and never sought\nagain, that day when he first found the river! And now it was sending\nout its scouts and its messengers to capture him and bring him in.\nSince his escape on that bright morning he had hardly given it a\nthought, so absorbed had he been in his new life, in all its pleasures,\nits surprises, its fresh and captivating experiences. Now, with a rush\nof old memories, how clearly it stood up before him, in the darkness!\nShabby indeed, and small and poorly furnished, and yet his, the home he\nhad made for himself, the home he had been so happy to get back to\nafter his day s work. And the home had been happy with him, too,\nevidently, and was missing him, and wanted him back, and was telling\nhim so, through his nose, sorrowfully, reproachfully, but with no\nbitterness or anger; only with plaintive reminder that it was there,\nand wanted him.\n\nThe call was clear, the summons was plain. He must obey it instantly,\nand go.  Ratty!  he called, full of joyful excitement,  hold on! Come\nback! I want you, quick! \n\n Oh, _come_ along, Mole, do!  replied the Rat cheerfully, still\nplodding along.\n\n _Please_ stop, Ratty!  pleaded the poor Mole, in anguish of heart.\n You don t understand! It s my home, my old home! I ve just come across\nthe smell of it, and it s close by here, really quite close. And I\n_must_ go to it, I must, I must! Oh, come back, Ratty! Please, please\ncome back! \n\nThe Rat was by this time very far ahead, too far to hear clearly what\nthe Mole was calling, too far to catch the sharp note of painful appeal\nin his voice. And he was much taken up with the weather, for he too\ncould smell something something suspiciously like approaching snow.\n\n Mole, we mustn t stop now, really!  he called back.  We ll come for it\nto-morrow, whatever it is you ve found. But I daren t stop now it s\nlate, and the snow s coming on again, and I m not sure of the way! And\nI want your nose, Mole, so come on quick, there s a good fellow!  And\nthe Rat pressed forward on his way without waiting for an answer.\n\nPoor Mole stood alone in the road, his heart torn asunder, and a big\nsob gathering, gathering, somewhere low down inside him, to leap up to\nthe surface presently, he knew, in passionate escape. But even under\nsuch a test as this his loyalty to his friend stood firm. Never for a\nmoment did he dream of abandoning him. Meanwhile, the wafts from his\nold home pleaded, whispered, conjured, and finally claimed him\nimperiously. He dared not tarry longer within their magic circle. With\na wrench that tore his very heartstrings he set his face down the road\nand followed submissively in the track of the Rat, while faint, thin\nlittle smells, still dogging his retreating nose, reproached him for\nhis new friendship and his callous forgetfulness.\n\nWith an effort he caught up to the unsuspecting Rat, who began\nchattering cheerfully about what they would do when they got back, and\nhow jolly a fire of logs in the parlour would be, and what a supper he\nmeant to eat; never noticing his companion s silence and distressful\nstate of mind. At last, however, when they had gone some considerable\nway further, and were passing some tree-stumps at the edge of a copse\nthat bordered the road, he stopped and said kindly,  Look here, Mole\nold chap, you seem dead tired. No talk left in you, and your feet\ndragging like lead. We ll sit down here for a minute and rest. The snow\nhas held off so far, and the best part of our journey is over. \n\nThe Mole subsided forlornly on a tree-stump and tried to control\nhimself, for he felt it surely coming. The sob he had fought with so\nlong refused to be beaten. Up and up, it forced its way to the air, and\nthen another, and another, and others thick and fast; till poor Mole at\nlast gave up the struggle, and cried freely and helplessly and openly,\nnow that he knew it was all over and he had lost what he could hardly\nbe said to have found.\n\nThe Rat, astonished and dismayed at the violence of Mole s paroxysm of\ngrief, did not dare to speak for a while. At last he said, very quietly\nand sympathetically,  What is it, old fellow? Whatever can be the\nmatter? Tell us your trouble, and let me see what I can do. \n\nPoor Mole found it difficult to get any words out between the upheavals\nof his chest that followed one upon another so quickly and held back\nspeech and choked it as it came.  I know it s a shabby, dingy little\nplace,  he sobbed forth at last, brokenly:  not like your cosy\nquarters or Toad s beautiful hall or Badger s great house but it was my\nown little home and I was fond of it and I went away and forgot all\nabout it and then I smelt it suddenly on the road, when I called and\nyou wouldn t listen, Rat and everything came back to me with a rush and\nI _wanted_ it! O dear, O dear! and when you _wouldn t_ turn back,\nRatty and I had to leave it, though I was smelling it all the time I\nthought my heart would break. We might have just gone and had one look\nat it, Ratty only one look it was close by but you wouldn t turn back,\nRatty, you wouldn t turn back! O dear, O dear! \n\nRecollection brought fresh waves of sorrow, and sobs again took full\ncharge of him, preventing further speech.\n\nThe Rat stared straight in front of him, saying nothing, only patting\nMole gently on the shoulder. After a time he muttered gloomily,  I see\nit all now! What a _pig_ I have been! A pig that s me! Just a pig a\nplain pig! \n\nHe waited till Mole s sobs became gradually less stormy and more\nrhythmical; he waited till at last sniffs were frequent and sobs only\nintermittent. Then he rose from his seat, and, remarking carelessly,\n Well, now we d really better be getting on, old chap!  set off up the\nroad again, over the toilsome way they had come.\n\n Wherever are you (hic) going to (hic), Ratty?  cried the tearful Mole,\nlooking up in alarm.\n\n We re going to find that home of yours, old fellow,  replied the Rat\npleasantly;  so you had better come along, for it will take some\nfinding, and we shall want your nose. \n\n Oh, come back, Ratty, do!  cried the Mole, getting up and hurrying\nafter him.  It s no good, I tell you! It s too late, and too dark, and\nthe place is too far off, and the snow s coming! And and I never meant\nto let you know I was feeling that way about it it was all an accident\nand a mistake! And think of River Bank, and your supper! \n\n Hang River Bank, and supper too!  said the Rat heartily.  I tell you,\nI m going to find this place now, if I stay out all night. So cheer up,\nold chap, and take my arm, and we ll very soon be back there again. \n\nStill snuffling, pleading, and reluctant, Mole suffered himself to be\ndragged back along the road by his imperious companion, who by a flow\nof cheerful talk and anecdote endeavoured to beguile his spirits back\nand make the weary way seem shorter. When at last it seemed to the Rat\nthat they must be nearing that part of the road where the Mole had been\n held up,  he said,  Now, no more talking. Business! Use your nose, and\ngive your mind to it. \n\nThey moved on in silence for some little way, when suddenly the Rat was\nconscious, through his arm that was linked in Mole s, of a faint sort\nof electric thrill that was passing down that animal s body. Instantly\nhe disengaged himself, fell back a pace, and waited, all attention.\n\nThe signals were coming through!\n\nMole stood a moment rigid, while his uplifted nose, quivering slightly,\nfelt the air.\n\nThen a short, quick run forward a fault a check a try back; and then a\nslow, steady, confident advance.\n\nThe Rat, much excited, kept close to his heels as the Mole, with\nsomething of the air of a sleep-walker, crossed a dry ditch, scrambled\nthrough a hedge, and nosed his way over a field open and trackless and\nbare in the faint starlight.\n\nSuddenly, without giving warning, he dived; but the Rat was on the\nalert, and promptly followed him down the tunnel to which his unerring\nnose had faithfully led him.\n\nIt was close and airless, and the earthy smell was strong, and it\nseemed a long time to Rat ere the passage ended and he could stand\nerect and stretch and shake himself. The Mole struck a match, and by\nits light the Rat saw that they were standing in an open space, neatly\nswept and sanded underfoot, and directly facing them was Mole s little\nfront door, with  Mole End  painted, in Gothic lettering, over the\nbell-pull at the side.\n\nMole reached down a lantern from a nail on the wall and lit it... and\nthe Rat, looking round him, saw that they were in a sort of fore-court.\nA garden-seat stood on one side of the door, and on the other a roller;\nfor the Mole, who was a tidy animal when at home, could not stand\nhaving his ground kicked up by other animals into little runs that\nended in earth-heaps. On the walls hung wire baskets with ferns in\nthem, alternating with brackets carrying plaster statuary Garibaldi,\nand the infant Samuel, and Queen Victoria, and other heroes of modern\nItaly. Down on one side of the forecourt ran a skittle-alley, with\nbenches along it and little wooden tables marked with rings that hinted\nat beer-mugs. In the middle was a small round pond containing gold-fish\nand surrounded by a cockle-shell border. Out of the centre of the pond\nrose a fanciful erection clothed in more cockle-shells and topped by a\nlarge silvered glass ball that reflected everything all wrong and had a\nvery pleasing effect.\n\nMole s face-beamed at the sight of all these objects so dear to him,\nand he hurried Rat through the door, lit a lamp in the hall, and took\none glance round his old home. He saw the dust lying thick on\neverything, saw the cheerless, deserted look of the long-neglected\nhouse, and its narrow, meagre dimensions, its worn and shabby\ncontents and collapsed again on a hall-chair, his nose to his paws.  O\nRatty!  he cried dismally,  why ever did I do it? Why did I bring you\nto this poor, cold little place, on a night like this, when you might\nhave been at River Bank by this time, toasting your toes before a\nblazing fire, with all your own nice things about you! \n\nThe Rat paid no heed to his doleful self-reproaches. He was running\nhere and there, opening doors, inspecting rooms and cupboards, and\nlighting lamps and candles and sticking them, up everywhere.  What a\ncapital little house this is!  he called out cheerily.  So compact! So\nwell planned! Everything here and everything in its place! We ll make a\njolly night of it. The first thing we want is a good fire; I ll see to\nthat I always know where to find things. So this is the parlour?\nSplendid! Your own idea, those little sleeping-bunks in the wall?\nCapital! Now, I ll fetch the wood and the coals, and you get a duster,\nMole you ll find one in the drawer of the kitchen table and try and\nsmarten things up a bit. Bustle about, old chap! \n\nEncouraged by his inspiriting companion, the Mole roused himself and\ndusted and polished with energy and heartiness, while the Rat, running\nto and fro with armfuls of fuel, soon had a cheerful blaze roaring up\nthe chimney. He hailed the Mole to come and warm himself; but Mole\npromptly had another fit of the blues, dropping down on a couch in dark\ndespair and burying his face in his duster.  Rat,  he moaned,  how\nabout your supper, you poor, cold, hungry, weary animal? I ve nothing\nto give you nothing not a crumb! \n\n What a fellow you are for giving in!  said the Rat reproachfully.\n Why, only just now I saw a sardine-opener on the kitchen dresser,\nquite distinctly; and everybody knows that means there are sardines\nabout somewhere in the neighbourhood. Rouse yourself! pull yourself\ntogether, and come with me and forage. \n\nThey went and foraged accordingly, hunting through every cupboard and\nturning out every drawer. The result was not so very depressing after\nall, though of course it might have been better; a tin of sardines a\nbox of captain s biscuits, nearly full and a German sausage encased in\nsilver paper.\n\n There s a banquet for you!  observed the Rat, as he arranged the\ntable.  I know some animals who would give their ears to be sitting\ndown to supper with us to-night! \n\n No bread!  groaned the Mole dolorously;  no butter, no \n\n No _p t  de foie gras_, no champagne!  continued the Rat, grinning.\n And that reminds me what s that little door at the end of the passage?\nYour cellar, of course! Every luxury in this house! Just you wait a\nminute. \n\nHe made for the cellar-door, and presently reappeared, somewhat dusty,\nwith a bottle of beer in each paw and another under each arm,\n Self-indulgent beggar you seem to be, Mole,  he observed.  Deny\nyourself nothing. This is really the jolliest little place I ever was\nin. Now, wherever did you pick up those prints? Make the place look so\nhome-like, they do. No wonder you re so fond of it, Mole. Tell us all\nabout it, and how you came to make it what it is. \n\nThen, while the Rat busied himself fetching plates, and knives and\nforks, and mustard which he mixed in an egg-cup, the Mole, his bosom\nstill heaving with the stress of his recent emotion, related somewhat\nshyly at first, but with more freedom as he warmed to his subject how\nthis was planned, and how that was thought out, and how this was got\nthrough a windfall from an aunt, and that was a wonderful find and a\nbargain, and this other thing was bought out of laborious savings and a\ncertain amount of  going without.  His spirits finally quite restored,\nhe must needs go and caress his possessions, and take a lamp and show\noff their points to his visitor and expatiate on them, quite forgetful\nof the supper they both so much needed; Rat, who was desperately hungry\nbut strove to conceal it, nodding seriously, examining with a puckered\nbrow, and saying,  wonderful,  and  most remarkable,  at intervals,\nwhen the chance for an observation was given him.\n\nAt last the Rat succeeded in decoying him to the table, and had just\ngot seriously to work with the sardine-opener when sounds were heard\nfrom the fore-court without sounds like the scuffling of small feet in\nthe gravel and a confused murmur of tiny voices, while broken sentences\nreached them Now, all in a line hold the lantern up a bit, Tommy clear\nyour throats first no coughing after I say one, two, three. Where s\nyoung Bill? Here, come on, do, we re all a-waiting \n\n What s up?  inquired the Rat, pausing in his labours.\n\n I think it must be the field-mice,  replied the Mole, with a touch of\npride in his manner.  They go round carol-singing regularly at this\ntime of the year. They re quite an institution in these parts. And they\nnever pass me over they come to Mole End last of all; and I used to\ngive them hot drinks, and supper too sometimes, when I could afford it.\nIt will be like old times to hear them again. \n\n Let s have a look at them!  cried the Rat, jumping up and running to\nthe door.\n\nIt was a pretty sight, and a seasonable one, that met their eyes when\nthey flung the door open. In the fore-court, lit by the dim rays of a\nhorn lantern, some eight or ten little fieldmice stood in a semicircle,\nred worsted comforters round their throats, their fore-paws thrust deep\ninto their pockets, their feet jigging for warmth. With bright beady\neyes they glanced shyly at each other, sniggering a little, sniffing\nand applying coat-sleeves a good deal. As the door opened, one of the\nelder ones that carried the lantern was just saying,  Now then, one,\ntwo, three!  and forthwith their shrill little voices uprose on the\nair, singing one of the old-time carols that their forefathers composed\nin fields that were fallow and held by frost, or when snow-bound in\nchimney corners, and handed down to be sung in the miry street to\nlamp-lit windows at Yule-time.\n\nCAROL\n\nVillagers all, this frosty tide,\nLet your doors swing open wide,\nThough wind may follow, and snow beside,\nYet draw us in by your fire to bide;\n    Joy shall be yours in the morning!\n\nHere we stand in the cold and the sleet,\nBlowing fingers and stamping feet,\nCome from far away you to greet \nYou by the fire and we in the street \n    Bidding you joy in the morning!\n\nFor ere one half of the night was gone,\nSudden a star has led us on,\nRaining bliss and benison \nBliss to-morrow and more anon,\n    Joy for every morning!\n\nGoodman Joseph toiled through the snow \nSaw the star o er a stable low;\nMary she might not further go \nWelcome thatch, and litter below!\n    Joy was hers in the morning!\n\nAnd then they heard the angels tell\n Who were the first to cry _Nowell?_\nAnimals all, as it befell,\nIn the stable where they did dwell!\n    Joy shall be theirs in the morning! \n\n\nThe voices ceased, the singers, bashful but smiling, exchanged sidelong\nglances, and silence succeeded but for a moment only. Then, from up\nabove and far away, down the tunnel they had so lately travelled was\nborne to their ears in a faint musical hum the sound of distant bells\nringing a joyful and clangorous peal.\n\n Very well sung, boys!  cried the Rat heartily.  And now come along in,\nall of you, and warm yourselves by the fire, and have something hot! \n\n Yes, come along, field-mice,  cried the Mole eagerly.  This is quite\nlike old times! Shut the door after you. Pull up that settle to the\nfire. Now, you just wait a minute, while we O, Ratty!  he cried in\ndespair, plumping down on a seat, with tears impending.  Whatever are\nwe doing? We ve nothing to give them! \n\n You leave all that to me,  said the masterful Rat.  Here, you with the\nlantern! Come over this way. I want to talk to you. Now, tell me, are\nthere any shops open at this hour of the night? \n\n Why, certainly, sir,  replied the field-mouse respectfully.  At this\ntime of the year our shops keep open to all sorts of hours. \n\n Then look here!  said the Rat.  You go off at once, you and your\nlantern, and you get me \n\nHere much muttered conversation ensued, and the Mole only heard bits of\nit, such as Fresh, mind! no, a pound of that will do see you get\nBuggins s, for I won t have any other no, only the best if you can t\nget it there, try somewhere else yes, of course, home-made, no tinned\nstuff well then, do the best you can!  Finally, there was a chink of\ncoin passing from paw to paw, the field-mouse was provided with an\nample basket for his purchases, and off he hurried, he and his lantern.\n\nThe rest of the field-mice, perched in a row on the settle, their small\nlegs swinging, gave themselves up to enjoyment of the fire, and toasted\ntheir chilblains till they tingled; while the Mole, failing to draw\nthem into easy conversation, plunged into family history and made each\nof them recite the names of his numerous brothers, who were too young,\nit appeared, to be allowed to go out a-carolling this year, but looked\nforward very shortly to winning the parental consent.\n\nThe Rat, meanwhile, was busy examining the label on one of the\nbeer-bottles.  I perceive this to be Old Burton,  he remarked\napprovingly.  _Sensible_ Mole! The very thing! Now we shall be able to\nmull some ale! Get the things ready, Mole, while I draw the corks. \n\nIt did not take long to prepare the brew and thrust the tin heater well\ninto the red heart of the fire; and soon every field-mouse was sipping\nand coughing and choking (for a little mulled ale goes a long way) and\nwiping his eyes and laughing and forgetting he had ever been cold in\nall his life.\n\n They act plays too, these fellows,  the Mole explained to the Rat.\n Make them up all by themselves, and act them afterwards. And very well\nthey do it, too! They gave us a capital one last year, about a\nfield-mouse who was captured at sea by a Barbary corsair, and made to\nrow in a galley; and when he escaped and got home again, his lady-love\nhad gone into a convent. Here, _you!_ You were in it, I remember. Get\nup and recite a bit. \n\nThe field-mouse addressed got up on his legs, giggled shyly, looked\nround the room, and remained absolutely tongue-tied. His comrades\ncheered him on, Mole coaxed and encouraged him, and the Rat went so far\nas to take him by the shoulders and shake him; but nothing could\novercome his stage-fright. They were all busily engaged on him like\nwatermen applying the Royal Humane Society s regulations to a case of\nlong submersion, when the latch clicked, the door opened, and the\nfield-mouse with the lantern reappeared, staggering under the weight of\nhis basket.\n\nThere was no more talk of play-acting once the very real and solid\ncontents of the basket had been tumbled out on the table. Under the\ngeneralship of Rat, everybody was set to do something or to fetch\nsomething. In a very few minutes supper was ready, and Mole, as he took\nthe head of the table in a sort of a dream, saw a lately barren board\nset thick with savoury comforts; saw his little friends  faces brighten\nand beam as they fell to without delay; and then let himself loose for\nhe was famished indeed on the provender so magically provided, thinking\nwhat a happy home-coming this had turned out, after all. As they ate,\nthey talked of old times, and the field-mice gave him the local gossip\nup to date, and answered as well as they could the hundred questions he\nhad to ask them. The Rat said little or nothing, only taking care that\neach guest had what he wanted, and plenty of it, and that Mole had no\ntrouble or anxiety about anything.\n\nThey clattered off at last, very grateful and showering wishes of the\nseason, with their jacket pockets stuffed with remembrances for the\nsmall brothers and sisters at home. When the door had closed on the\nlast of them and the chink of the lanterns had died away, Mole and Rat\nkicked the fire up, drew their chairs in, brewed themselves a last\nnightcap of mulled ale, and discussed the events of the long day. At\nlast the Rat, with a tremendous yawn, said,  Mole, old chap, I m ready\nto drop. Sleepy is simply not the word. That your own bunk over on that\nside? Very well, then, I ll take this. What a ripping little house this\nis! Everything so handy! \n\nHe clambered into his bunk and rolled himself well up in the blankets,\nand slumber gathered him forthwith, as a swathe of barley is folded\ninto the arms of the reaping machine.\n\nThe weary Mole also was glad to turn in without delay, and soon had his\nhead on his pillow, in great joy and contentment. But ere he closed his\neyes he let them wander round his old room, mellow in the glow of the\nfirelight that played or rested on familiar and friendly things which\nhad long been unconsciously a part of him, and now smilingly received\nhim back, without rancour. He was now in just the frame of mind that\nthe tactful Rat had quietly worked to bring about in him. He saw\nclearly how plain and simple how narrow, even it all was; but clearly,\ntoo, how much it all meant to him, and the special value of some such\nanchorage in one s existence. He did not at all want to abandon the new\nlife and its splendid spaces, to turn his back on sun and air and all\nthey offered him and creep home and stay there; the upper world was all\ntoo strong, it called to him still, even down there, and he knew he\nmust return to the larger stage. But it was good to think he had this\nto come back to; this place which was all his own, these things which\nwere so glad to see him again and could always be counted upon for the\nsame simple welcome.\n\n\n\n\nVI.\nMR. TOAD\n\n\nIt was a bright morning in the early part of summer; the river had\nresumed its wonted banks and its accustomed pace, and a hot sun seemed\nto be pulling everything green and bushy and spiky up out of the earth\ntowards him, as if by strings. The Mole and the Water Rat had been up\nsince dawn, very busy on matters connected with boats and the opening\nof the boating season; painting and varnishing, mending paddles,\nrepairing cushions, hunting for missing boat-hooks, and so on; and were\nfinishing breakfast in their little parlour and eagerly discussing\ntheir plans for the day, when a heavy knock sounded at the door.\n\n Bother!  said the Rat, all over egg.  See who it is, Mole, like a good\nchap, since you ve finished. \n\nThe Mole went to attend the summons, and the Rat heard him utter a cry\nof surprise. Then he flung the parlour door open, and announced with\nmuch importance,  Mr. Badger! \n\nThis was a wonderful thing, indeed, that the Badger should pay a formal\ncall on them, or indeed on anybody. He generally had to be caught, if\nyou wanted him badly, as he slipped quietly along a hedgerow of an\nearly morning or a late evening, or else hunted up in his own house in\nthe middle of the Wood, which was a serious undertaking.\n\nThe Badger strode heavily into the room, and stood looking at the two\nanimals with an expression full of seriousness. The Rat let his\negg-spoon fall on the table-cloth, and sat open-mouthed.\n\n The hour has come!  said the Badger at last with great solemnity.\n\n What hour?  asked the Rat uneasily, glancing at the clock on the\nmantelpiece.\n\n _Whose_ hour, you should rather say,  replied the Badger.  Why, Toad s\nhour! The hour of Toad! I said I would take him in hand as soon as the\nwinter was well over, and I m going to take him in hand to-day! \n\n Toad s hour, of course!  cried the Mole delightedly.  Hooray! I\nremember now! _We ll_ teach him to be a sensible Toad! \n\n This very morning,  continued the Badger, taking an arm-chair,  as I\nlearnt last night from a trustworthy source, another new and\nexceptionally powerful motor-car will arrive at Toad Hall on approval\nor return. At this very moment, perhaps, Toad is busy arraying himself\nin those singularly hideous habiliments so dear to him, which transform\nhim from a (comparatively) good-looking Toad into an Object which\nthrows any decent-minded animal that comes across it into a violent\nfit. We must be up and doing, ere it is too late. You two animals will\naccompany me instantly to Toad Hall, and the work of rescue shall be\naccomplished. \n\n Right you are!  cried the Rat, starting up.  We ll rescue the poor\nunhappy animal! We ll convert him! He ll be the most converted Toad\nthat ever was before we ve done with him! \n\nThey set off up the road on their mission of mercy, Badger leading the\nway. Animals when in company walk in a proper and sensible manner, in\nsingle file, instead of sprawling all across the road and being of no\nuse or support to each other in case of sudden trouble or danger.\n\nThey reached the carriage-drive of Toad Hall to find, as the Badger had\nanticipated, a shiny new motor-car, of great size, painted a bright red\n(Toad s favourite colour), standing in front of the house. As they\nneared the door it was flung open, and Mr. Toad, arrayed in goggles,\ncap, gaiters, and enormous overcoat, came swaggering down the steps,\ndrawing on his gauntleted gloves.\n\n Hullo! come on, you fellows!  he cried cheerfully on catching sight of\nthem.  You re just in time to come with me for a jolly to come for a\njolly for a er jolly \n\nHis hearty accents faltered and fell away as he noticed the stern\nunbending look on the countenances of his silent friends, and his\ninvitation remained unfinished.\n\nThe Badger strode up the steps.  Take him inside,  he said sternly to\nhis companions. Then, as Toad was hustled through the door, struggling\nand protesting, he turned to the _chauffeur_ in charge of the new\nmotor-car.\n\n I m afraid you won t be wanted to-day,  he said.  Mr. Toad has changed\nhis mind. He will not require the car. Please understand that this is\nfinal. You needn t wait.  Then he followed the others inside and shut\nthe door.\n\n Now then!  he said to the Toad, when the four of them stood together\nin the Hall,  first of all, take those ridiculous things off! \n\n Shan t!  replied Toad, with great spirit.  What is the meaning of this\ngross outrage? I demand an instant explanation. \n\n Take them off him, then, you two,  ordered the Badger briefly.\n\nThey had to lay Toad out on the floor, kicking and calling all sorts of\nnames, before they could get to work properly. Then the Rat sat on him,\nand the Mole got his motor-clothes off him bit by bit, and they stood\nhim up on his legs again. A good deal of his blustering spirit seemed\nto have evaporated with the removal of his fine panoply. Now that he\nwas merely Toad, and no longer the Terror of the Highway, he giggled\nfeebly and looked from one to the other appealingly, seeming quite to\nunderstand the situation.\n\n You knew it must come to this, sooner or later, Toad,  the Badger\nexplained severely.\n\nYou ve disregarded all the warnings we ve given you, you ve gone on\nsquandering the money your father left you, and you re getting us\nanimals a bad name in the district by your furious driving and your\nsmashes and your rows with the police. Independence is all very well,\nbut we animals never allow our friends to make fools of themselves\nbeyond a certain limit; and that limit you ve reached. Now, you re a\ngood fellow in many respects, and I don t want to be too hard on you.\nI ll make one more effort to bring you to reason. You will come with me\ninto the smoking-room, and there you will hear some facts about\nyourself; and we ll see whether you come out of that room the same Toad\nthat you went in. \n\nHe took Toad firmly by the arm, led him into the smoking-room, and\nclosed the door behind them.\n\n _That s_ no good!  said the Rat contemptuously.  _Talking_ to Toad ll\nnever cure him. He ll _say_ anything. \n\nThey made themselves comfortable in armchairs and waited patiently.\nThrough the closed door they could just hear the long continuous drone\nof the Badger s voice, rising and falling in waves of oratory; and\npresently they noticed that the sermon began to be punctuated at\nintervals by long-drawn sobs, evidently proceeding from the bosom of\nToad, who was a soft-hearted and affectionate fellow, very easily\nconverted for the time being to any point of view.\n\nAfter some three-quarters of an hour the door opened, and the Badger\nreappeared, solemnly leading by the paw a very limp and dejected Toad.\nHis skin hung baggily about him, his legs wobbled, and his cheeks were\nfurrowed by the tears so plentifully called forth by the Badger s\nmoving discourse.\n\n Sit down there, Toad,  said the Badger kindly, pointing to a chair.\n My friends,  he went on,  I am pleased to inform you that Toad has at\nlast seen the error of his ways. He is truly sorry for his misguided\nconduct in the past, and he has undertaken to give up motor-cars\nentirely and for ever. I have his solemn promise to that effect. \n\n That is very good news,  said the Mole gravely.\n\n Very good news indeed,  observed the Rat dubiously,  if only _if_\nonly \n\nHe was looking very hard at Toad as he said this, and could not help\nthinking he perceived something vaguely resembling a twinkle in that\nanimal s still sorrowful eye.\n\n There s only one thing more to be done,  continued the gratified\nBadger.  Toad, I want you solemnly to repeat, before your friends here,\nwhat you fully admitted to me in the smoking-room just now. First, you\nare sorry for what you ve done, and you see the folly of it all? \n\nThere was a long, long pause. Toad looked desperately this way and\nthat, while the other animals waited in grave silence. At last he\nspoke.\n\n No!  he said, a little sullenly, but stoutly;  I m _not_ sorry. And it\nwasn t folly at all! It was simply glorious! \n\n What?  cried the Badger, greatly scandalised.  You backsliding animal,\ndidn t you tell me just now, in there \n\n Oh, yes, yes, in _there_,  said Toad impatiently.  I d have said\nanything in _there_. You re so eloquent, dear Badger, and so moving,\nand so convincing, and put all your points so frightfully well you can\ndo what you like with me in _there_, and you know it. But I ve been\nsearching my mind since, and going over things in it, and I find that\nI m not a bit sorry or repentant really, so it s no earthly good saying\nI am; now, is it? \n\n Then you don t promise,  said the Badger,  never to touch a motor-car\nagain? \n\n Certainly not!  replied Toad emphatically.  On the contrary, I\nfaithfully promise that the very first motor-car I see, poop-poop! off\nI go in it! \n\n Told you so, didn t I?  observed the Rat to the Mole.\n\n Very well, then,  said the Badger firmly, rising to his feet.  Since\nyou won t yield to persuasion, we ll try what force can do. I feared it\nwould come to this all along. You ve often asked us three to come and\nstay with you, Toad, in this handsome house of yours; well, now we re\ngoing to. When we ve converted you to a proper point of view we may\nquit, but not before. Take him upstairs, you two, and lock him up in\nhis bedroom, while we arrange matters between ourselves. \n\n It s for your own good, Toady, you know,  said the Rat kindly, as\nToad, kicking and struggling, was hauled up the stairs by his two\nfaithful friends.  Think what fun we shall all have together, just as\nwe used to, when you ve quite got over this this painful attack of\nyours! \n\n We ll take great care of everything for you till you re well, Toad, \nsaid the Mole;  and we ll see your money isn t wasted, as it has been. \n\n No more of those regrettable incidents with the police, Toad,  said\nthe Rat, as they thrust him into his bedroom.\n\n And no more weeks in hospital, being ordered about by female nurses,\nToad,  added the Mole, turning the key on him.\n\nThey descended the stair, Toad shouting abuse at them through the\nkeyhole; and the three friends then met in conference on the situation.\n\n It s going to be a tedious business,  said the Badger, sighing.  I ve\nnever seen Toad so determined. However, we will see it out. He must\nnever be left an instant unguarded. We shall have to take it in turns\nto be with him, till the poison has worked itself out of his system. \n\nThey arranged watches accordingly. Each animal took it in turns to\nsleep in Toad s room at night, and they divided the day up between\nthem. At first Toad was undoubtedly very trying to his careful\nguardians. When his violent paroxysms possessed him he would arrange\nbedroom chairs in rude resemblance of a motor-car and would crouch on\nthe foremost of them, bent forward and staring fixedly ahead, making\nuncouth and ghastly noises, till the climax was reached, when, turning\na complete somersault, he would lie prostrate amidst the ruins of the\nchairs, apparently completely satisfied for the moment. As time passed,\nhowever, these painful seizures grew gradually less frequent, and his\nfriends strove to divert his mind into fresh channels. But his interest\nin other matters did not seem to revive, and he grew apparently languid\nand depressed.\n\nOne fine morning the Rat, whose turn it was to go on duty, went\nupstairs to relieve Badger, whom he found fidgeting to be off and\nstretch his legs in a long ramble round his wood and down his earths\nand burrows.  Toad s still in bed,  he told the Rat, outside the door.\n Can t get much out of him, except,  O leave him alone, he wants\nnothing, perhaps he ll be better presently, it may pass off in time,\ndon t be unduly anxious,  and so on. Now, you look out, Rat! When\nToad s quiet and submissive and playing at being the hero of a\nSunday-school prize, then he s at his artfullest. There s sure to be\nsomething up. I know him. Well, now, I must be off. \n\n How are you to-day, old chap?  inquired the Rat cheerfully, as he\napproached Toad s bedside.\n\nHe had to wait some minutes for an answer. At last a feeble voice\nreplied,  Thank you so much, dear Ratty! So good of you to inquire! But\nfirst tell me how you are yourself, and the excellent Mole? \n\n O, _we re_ all right,  replied the Rat.  Mole,  he added incautiously,\n is going out for a run round with Badger. They ll be out till luncheon\ntime, so you and I will spend a pleasant morning together, and I ll do\nmy best to amuse you. Now jump up, there s a good fellow, and don t lie\nmoping there on a fine morning like this! \n\n Dear, kind Rat,  murmured Toad,  how little you realise my condition,\nand how very far I am from  jumping up  now if ever! But do not trouble\nabout me. I hate being a burden to my friends, and I do not expect to\nbe one much longer. Indeed, I almost hope not. \n\n Well, I hope not, too,  said the Rat heartily.  You ve been a fine\nbother to us all this time, and I m glad to hear it s going to stop.\nAnd in weather like this, and the boating season just beginning! It s\ntoo bad of you, Toad! It isn t the trouble we mind, but you re making\nus miss such an awful lot. \n\n I m afraid it _is_ the trouble you mind, though,  replied the Toad\nlanguidly.  I can quite understand it. It s natural enough. You re\ntired of bothering about me. I mustn t ask you to do anything further.\nI m a nuisance, I know. \n\n You are, indeed,  said the Rat.  But I tell you, I d take any trouble\non earth for you, if only you d be a sensible animal. \n\n If I thought that, Ratty,  murmured Toad, more feebly than ever,  then\nI would beg you for the last time, probably to step round to the\nvillage as quickly as possible even now it may be too late and fetch\nthe doctor. But don t you bother. It s only a trouble, and perhaps we\nmay as well let things take their course. \n\n Why, what do you want a doctor for?  inquired the Rat, coming closer\nand examining him. He certainly lay very still and flat, and his voice\nwas weaker and his manner much changed.\n\n Surely you have noticed of late  murmured Toad.  But, no why should\nyou? Noticing things is only a trouble. To-morrow, indeed, you may be\nsaying to yourself,  O, if only I had noticed sooner! If only I had\ndone something!  But no; it s a trouble. Never mind forget that I\nasked. \n\n Look here, old man,  said the Rat, beginning to get rather alarmed,\n of course I ll fetch a doctor to you, if you really think you want\nhim. But you can hardly be bad enough for that yet. Let s talk about\nsomething else. \n\n I fear, dear friend,  said Toad, with a sad smile,  that  talk  can do\nlittle in a case like this or doctors either, for that matter; still,\none must grasp at the slightest straw. And, by the way while you are\nabout it I _hate_ to give you additional trouble, but I happen to\nremember that you will pass the door would you mind at the same time\nasking the lawyer to step up? It would be a convenience to me, and\nthere are moments perhaps I should say there is _a_ moment when one\nmust face disagreeable tasks, at whatever cost to exhausted nature! \n\n A lawyer! O, he must be really bad!  the affrighted Rat said to\nhimself, as he hurried from the room, not forgetting, however, to lock\nthe door carefully behind him.\n\nOutside, he stopped to consider. The other two were far away, and he\nhad no one to consult.\n\n It s best to be on the safe side,  he said, on reflection.  I ve known\nToad fancy himself frightfully bad before, without the slightest\nreason; but I ve never heard him ask for a lawyer! If there s nothing\nreally the matter, the doctor will tell him he s an old ass, and cheer\nhim up; and that will be something gained. I d better humour him and\ngo; it won t take very long.  So he ran off to the village on his\nerrand of mercy.\n\nThe Toad, who had hopped lightly out of bed as soon as he heard the key\nturned in the lock, watched him eagerly from the window till he\ndisappeared down the carriage-drive. Then, laughing heartily, he\ndressed as quickly as possible in the smartest suit he could lay hands\non at the moment, filled his pockets with cash which he took from a\nsmall drawer in the dressing-table, and next, knotting the sheets from\nhis bed together and tying one end of the improvised rope round the\ncentral mullion of the handsome Tudor window which formed such a\nfeature of his bedroom, he scrambled out, slid lightly to the ground,\nand, taking the opposite direction to the Rat, marched off\nlightheartedly, whistling a merry tune.\n\nIt was a gloomy luncheon for Rat when the Badger and the Mole at length\nreturned, and he had to face them at table with his pitiful and\nunconvincing story. The Badger s caustic, not to say brutal, remarks\nmay be imagined, and therefore passed over; but it was painful to the\nRat that even the Mole, though he took his friend s side as far as\npossible, could not help saying,  You ve been a bit of a duffer this\ntime, Ratty! Toad, too, of all animals! \n\n He did it awfully well,  said the crestfallen Rat.\n\n He did _you_ awfully well!  rejoined the Badger hotly.  However,\ntalking won t mend matters. He s got clear away for the time, that s\ncertain; and the worst of it is, he ll be so conceited with what he ll\nthink is his cleverness that he may commit any folly. One comfort is,\nwe re free now, and needn t waste any more of our precious time doing\nsentry-go. But we d better continue to sleep at Toad Hall for a while\nlonger. Toad may be brought back at any moment on a stretcher, or\nbetween two policemen. \n\nSo spoke the Badger, not knowing what the future held in store, or how\nmuch water, and of how turbid a character, was to run under bridges\nbefore Toad should sit at ease again in his ancestral Hall.\n\nMeanwhile, Toad, gay and irresponsible, was walking briskly along the\nhigh road, some miles from home. At first he had taken by-paths, and\ncrossed many fields, and changed his course several times, in case of\npursuit; but now, feeling by this time safe from recapture, and the sun\nsmiling brightly on him, and all Nature joining in a chorus of approval\nto the song of self-praise that his own heart was singing to him, he\nalmost danced along the road in his satisfaction and conceit.\n\n Smart piece of work that!  he remarked to himself chuckling.  Brain\nagainst brute force and brain came out on the top as it s bound to do.\nPoor old Ratty! My! won t he catch it when the Badger gets back! A\nworthy fellow, Ratty, with many good qualities, but very little\nintelligence and absolutely no education. I must take him in hand some\nday, and see if I can make something of him. \n\nFilled full of conceited thoughts such as these he strode along, his\nhead in the air, till he reached a little town, where the sign of  The\nRed Lion,  swinging across the road halfway down the main street,\nreminded him that he had not breakfasted that day, and that he was\nexceedingly hungry after his long walk. He marched into the Inn,\nordered the best luncheon that could be provided at so short a notice,\nand sat down to eat it in the coffee-room.\n\nHe was about half-way through his meal when an only too familiar sound,\napproaching down the street, made him start and fall a-trembling all\nover. The poop-poop! drew nearer and nearer, the car could be heard to\nturn into the inn-yard and come to a stop, and Toad had to hold on to\nthe leg of the table to conceal his over-mastering emotion. Presently\nthe party entered the coffee-room, hungry, talkative, and gay, voluble\non their experiences of the morning and the merits of the chariot that\nhad brought them along so well. Toad listened eagerly, all ears, for a\ntime; at last he could stand it no longer. He slipped out of the room\nquietly, paid his bill at the bar, and as soon as he got outside\nsauntered round quietly to the inn-yard.  There cannot be any harm,  he\nsaid to himself,  in my only just _looking_ at it! \n\nThe car stood in the middle of the yard, quite unattended, the\nstable-helps and other hangers-on being all at their dinner. Toad\nwalked slowly round it, inspecting, criticising, musing deeply.\n\n I wonder,  he said to himself presently,  I wonder if this sort of car\n_starts_ easily? \n\nNext moment, hardly knowing how it came about, he found he had hold of\nthe handle and was turning it. As the familiar sound broke forth, the\nold passion seized on Toad and completely mastered him, body and soul.\nAs if in a dream he found himself, somehow, seated in the driver s\nseat; as if in a dream, he pulled the lever and swung the car round the\nyard and out through the archway; and, as if in a dream, all sense of\nright and wrong, all fear of obvious consequences, seemed temporarily\nsuspended. He increased his pace, and as the car devoured the street\nand leapt forth on the high road through the open country, he was only\nconscious that he was Toad once more, Toad at his best and highest,\nToad the terror, the traffic-queller, the Lord of the lone trail,\nbefore whom all must give way or be smitten into nothingness and\neverlasting night. He chanted as he flew, and the car responded with\nsonorous drone; the miles were eaten up under him as he sped he knew\nnot whither, fulfilling his instincts, living his hour, reckless of\nwhat might come to him.\n\n\n To my mind,  observed the Chairman of the Bench of Magistrates\ncheerfully,  the _only_ difficulty that presents itself in this\notherwise very clear case is, how we can possibly make it sufficiently\nhot for the incorrigible rogue and hardened ruffian whom we see\ncowering in the dock before us. Let me see: he has been found guilty,\non the clearest evidence, first, of stealing a valuable motor-car;\nsecondly, of driving to the public danger; and, thirdly, of gross\nimpertinence to the rural police. Mr. Clerk, will you tell us, please,\nwhat is the very stiffest penalty we can impose for each of these\noffences? Without, of course, giving the prisoner the benefit of any\ndoubt, because there isn t any. \n\nThe Clerk scratched his nose with his pen.  Some people would\nconsider,  he observed,  that stealing the motor-car was the worst\noffence; and so it is. But cheeking the police undoubtedly carries the\nseverest penalty; and so it ought. Supposing you were to say twelve\nmonths for the theft, which is mild; and three years for the furious\ndriving, which is lenient; and fifteen years for the cheek, which was\npretty bad sort of cheek, judging by what we ve heard from the\nwitness-box, even if you only believe one-tenth part of what you heard,\nand I never believe more myself those figures, if added together\ncorrectly, tot up to nineteen years \n\n First-rate!  said the Chairman.\n\n So you had better make it a round twenty years and be on the safe\nside,  concluded the Clerk.\n\n An excellent suggestion!  said the Chairman approvingly.  Prisoner!\nPull yourself together and try and stand up straight. It s going to be\ntwenty years for you this time. And mind, if you appear before us\nagain, upon any charge whatever, we shall have to deal with you very\nseriously! \n\nThen the brutal minions of the law fell upon the hapless Toad; loaded\nhim with chains, and dragged him from the Court House, shrieking,\npraying, protesting; across the marketplace, where the playful\npopulace, always as severe upon detected crime as they are sympathetic\nand helpful when one is merely  wanted,  assailed him with jeers,\ncarrots, and popular catch-words; past hooting school children, their\ninnocent faces lit up with the pleasure they ever derive from the sight\nof a gentleman in difficulties; across the hollow-sounding drawbridge,\nbelow the spiky portcullis, under the frowning archway of the grim old\ncastle, whose ancient towers soared high overhead; past guardrooms full\nof grinning soldiery off duty, past sentries who coughed in a horrid,\nsarcastic way, because that is as much as a sentry on his post dare do\nto show his contempt and abhorrence of crime; up time-worn winding\nstairs, past men-at-arms in casquet and corselet of steel, darting\nthreatening looks through their vizards; across courtyards, where\nmastiffs strained at their leash and pawed the air to get at him; past\nancient warders, their halberds leant against the wall, dozing over a\npasty and a flagon of brown ale; on and on, past the rack-chamber and\nthe thumbscrew-room, past the turning that led to the private scaffold,\ntill they reached the door of the grimmest dungeon that lay in the\nheart of the innermost keep. There at last they paused, where an\nancient gaoler sat fingering a bunch of mighty keys.\n\n Oddsbodikins!  said the sergeant of police, taking off his helmet and\nwiping his forehead.  Rouse thee, old loon, and take over from us this\nvile Toad, a criminal of deepest guilt and matchless artfulness and\nresource. Watch and ward him with all thy skill; and mark thee well,\ngreybeard, should aught untoward befall, thy old head shall answer for\nhis and a murrain on both of them! \n\nThe gaoler nodded grimly, laying his withered hand on the shoulder of\nthe miserable Toad. The rusty key creaked in the lock, the great door\nclanged behind them; and Toad was a helpless prisoner in the remotest\ndungeon of the best-guarded keep of the stoutest castle in all the\nlength and breadth of Merry England.\n\n\n\n\nVII.\nTHE PIPER AT THE GATES OF DAWN\n\n\nThe Willow-Wren was twittering his thin little song, hidden himself in\nthe dark selvedge of the river bank. Though it was past ten o clock at\nnight, the sky still clung to and retained some lingering skirts of\nlight from the departed day; and the sullen heats of the torrid\nafternoon broke up and rolled away at the dispersing touch of the cool\nfingers of the short midsummer night. Mole lay stretched on the bank,\nstill panting from the stress of the fierce day that had been cloudless\nfrom dawn to late sunset, and waited for his friend to return. He had\nbeen on the river with some companions, leaving the Water Rat free to\nkeep a engagement of long standing with Otter; and he had come back to\nfind the house dark and deserted, and no sign of Rat, who was doubtless\nkeeping it up late with his old comrade. It was still too hot to think\nof staying indoors, so he lay on some cool dock-leaves, and thought\nover the past day and its doings, and how very good they all had been.\n\nThe Rat s light footfall was presently heard approaching over the\nparched grass.  O, the blessed coolness!  he said, and sat down, gazing\nthoughtfully into the river, silent and pre-occupied.\n\n You stayed to supper, of course?  said the Mole presently.\n\n Simply had to,  said the Rat.  They wouldn t hear of my going before.\nYou know how kind they always are. And they made things as jolly for me\nas ever they could, right up to the moment I left. But I felt a brute\nall the time, as it was clear to me they were very unhappy, though they\ntried to hide it. Mole, I m afraid they re in trouble. Little Portly is\nmissing again; and you know what a lot his father thinks of him, though\nhe never says much about it. \n\n What, that child?  said the Mole lightly.  Well, suppose he is; why\nworry about it? He s always straying off and getting lost, and turning\nup again; he s so adventurous. But no harm ever happens to him.\nEverybody hereabouts knows him and likes him, just as they do old\nOtter, and you may be sure some animal or other will come across him\nand bring him back again all right. Why, we ve found him ourselves,\nmiles from home, and quite self-possessed and cheerful! \n\n Yes; but this time it s more serious,  said the Rat gravely.  He s\nbeen missing for some days now, and the Otters have hunted everywhere,\nhigh and low, without finding the slightest trace. And they ve asked\nevery animal, too, for miles around, and no one knows anything about\nhim. Otter s evidently more anxious than he ll admit. I got out of him\nthat young Portly hasn t learnt to swim very well yet, and I can see\nhe s thinking of the weir. There s a lot of water coming down still,\nconsidering the time of the year, and the place always had a\nfascination for the child. And then there are well, traps and\nthings _you_ know. Otter s not the fellow to be nervous about any son\nof his before it s time. And now he _is_ nervous. When I left, he came\nout with me said he wanted some air, and talked about stretching his\nlegs. But I could see it wasn t that, so I drew him out and pumped him,\nand got it all from him at last. He was going to spend the night\nwatching by the ford. You know the place where the old ford used to be,\nin by-gone days before they built the bridge? \n\n I know it well,  said the Mole.  But why should Otter choose to watch\nthere? \n\n Well, it seems that it was there he gave Portly his first\nswimming-lesson,  continued the Rat.  From that shallow, gravelly spit\nnear the bank. And it was there he used to teach him fishing, and there\nyoung Portly caught his first fish, of which he was so very proud. The\nchild loved the spot, and Otter thinks that if he came wandering back\nfrom wherever he is if he _is_ anywhere by this time, poor little\nchap he might make for the ford he was so fond of; or if he came across\nit he d remember it well, and stop there and play, perhaps. So Otter\ngoes there every night and watches on the chance, you know, just on the\nchance! \n\nThey were silent for a time, both thinking of the same thing the\nlonely, heart-sore animal, crouched by the ford, watching and waiting,\nthe long night through on the chance.\n\n Well, well,  said the Rat presently,  I suppose we ought to be\nthinking about turning in.  But he never offered to move.\n\n Rat,  said the Mole,  I simply can t go and turn in, and go to sleep,\nand _do_ nothing, even though there doesn t seem to be anything to be\ndone. We ll get the boat out, and paddle up stream. The moon will be up\nin an hour or so, and then we will search as well as we can anyhow, it\nwill be better than going to bed and doing _nothing_. \n\n Just what I was thinking myself,  said the Rat.  It s not the sort of\nnight for bed anyhow; and daybreak is not so very far off, and then we\nmay pick up some news of him from early risers as we go along. \n\nThey got the boat out, and the Rat took the sculls, paddling with\ncaution. Out in midstream, there was a clear, narrow track that faintly\nreflected the sky; but wherever shadows fell on the water from bank,\nbush, or tree, they were as solid to all appearance as the banks\nthemselves, and the Mole had to steer with judgment accordingly. Dark\nand deserted as it was, the night was full of small noises, song and\nchatter and rustling, telling of the busy little population who were up\nand about, plying their trades and vocations through the night till\nsunshine should fall on them at last and send them off to their\nwell-earned repose. The water s own noises, too, were more apparent\nthan by day, its gurglings and  cloops  more unexpected and near at\nhand; and constantly they started at what seemed a sudden clear call\nfrom an actual articulate voice.\n\nThe line of the horizon was clear and hard against the sky, and in one\nparticular quarter it showed black against a silvery climbing\nphosphorescence that grew and grew. At last, over the rim of the\nwaiting earth the moon lifted with slow majesty till it swung clear of\nthe horizon and rode off, free of moorings; and once more they began to\nsee surfaces meadows wide-spread, and quiet gardens, and the river\nitself from bank to bank, all softly disclosed, all washed clean of\nmystery and terror, all radiant again as by day, but with a difference\nthat was tremendous. Their old haunts greeted them again in other\nraiment, as if they had slipped away and put on this pure new apparel\nand come quietly back, smiling as they shyly waited to see if they\nwould be recognised again under it.\n\nFastening their boat to a willow, the friends landed in this silent,\nsilver kingdom, and patiently explored the hedges, the hollow trees,\nthe runnels and their little culverts, the ditches and dry water-ways.\nEmbarking again and crossing over, they worked their way up the stream\nin this manner, while the moon, serene and detached in a cloudless sky,\ndid what she could, though so far off, to help them in their quest;\ntill her hour came and she sank earthwards reluctantly, and left them,\nand mystery once more held field and river.\n\nThen a change began slowly to declare itself. The horizon became\nclearer, field and tree came more into sight, and somehow with a\ndifferent look; the mystery began to drop away from them. A bird piped\nsuddenly, and was still; and a light breeze sprang up and set the reeds\nand bulrushes rustling. Rat, who was in the stern of the boat, while\nMole sculled, sat up suddenly and listened with a passionate\nintentness. Mole, who with gentle strokes was just keeping the boat\nmoving while he scanned the banks with care, looked at him with\ncuriosity.\n\n It s gone!  sighed the Rat, sinking back in his seat again.  So\nbeautiful and strange and new. Since it was to end so soon, I almost\nwish I had never heard it. For it has roused a longing in me that is\npain, and nothing seems worth while but just to hear that sound once\nmore and go on listening to it for ever. No! There it is again!  he\ncried, alert once more. Entranced, he was silent for a long space,\nspellbound.\n\n Now it passes on and I begin to lose it,  he said presently.  O Mole!\nthe beauty of it! The merry bubble and joy, the thin, clear, happy call\nof the distant piping! Such music I never dreamed of, and the call in\nit is stronger even than the music is sweet! Row on, Mole, row! For the\nmusic and the call must be for us. \n\nThe Mole, greatly wondering, obeyed.  I hear nothing myself,  he said,\n but the wind playing in the reeds and rushes and osiers. \n\nThe Rat never answered, if indeed he heard. Rapt, transported,\ntrembling, he was possessed in all his senses by this new divine thing\nthat caught up his helpless soul and swung and dandled it, a powerless\nbut happy infant in a strong sustaining grasp.\n\nIn silence Mole rowed steadily, and soon they came to a point where the\nriver divided, a long backwater branching off to one side. With a\nslight movement of his head Rat, who had long dropped the rudder-lines,\ndirected the rower to take the backwater. The creeping tide of light\ngained and gained, and now they could see the colour of the flowers\nthat gemmed the water s edge.\n\n Clearer and nearer still,  cried the Rat joyously.  Now you must\nsurely hear it! Ah at last I see you do! \n\nBreathless and transfixed the Mole stopped rowing as the liquid run of\nthat glad piping broke on him like a wave, caught him up, and possessed\nhim utterly. He saw the tears on his comrade s cheeks, and bowed his\nhead and understood. For a space they hung there, brushed by the purple\nloose-strife that fringed the bank; then the clear imperious summons\nthat marched hand-in-hand with the intoxicating melody imposed its will\non Mole, and mechanically he bent to his oars again. And the light grew\nsteadily stronger, but no birds sang as they were wont to do at the\napproach of dawn; and but for the heavenly music all was marvellously\nstill.\n\nOn either side of them, as they glided onwards, the rich meadow-grass\nseemed that morning of a freshness and a greenness unsurpassable. Never\nhad they noticed the roses so vivid, the willow-herb so riotous, the\nmeadow-sweet so odorous and pervading. Then the murmur of the\napproaching weir began to hold the air, and they felt a consciousness\nthat they were nearing the end, whatever it might be, that surely\nawaited their expedition.\n\nA wide half-circle of foam and glinting lights and shining shoulders of\ngreen water, the great weir closed the backwater from bank to bank,\ntroubled all the quiet surface with twirling eddies and floating\nfoam-streaks, and deadened all other sounds with its solemn and\nsoothing rumble. In midmost of the stream, embraced in the weir s\nshimmering arm-spread, a small island lay anchored, fringed close with\nwillow and silver birch and alder. Reserved, shy, but full of\nsignificance, it hid whatever it might hold behind a veil, keeping it\ntill the hour should come, and, with the hour, those who were called\nand chosen.\n\nSlowly, but with no doubt or hesitation whatever, and in something of a\nsolemn expectancy, the two animals passed through the broken tumultuous\nwater and moored their boat at the flowery margin of the island. In\nsilence they landed, and pushed through the blossom and scented herbage\nand undergrowth that led up to the level ground, till they stood on a\nlittle lawn of a marvellous green, set round with Nature s own\norchard-trees crab-apple, wild cherry, and sloe.\n\n This is the place of my song-dream, the place the music played to me, \nwhispered the Rat, as if in a trance.  Here, in this holy place, here\nif anywhere, surely we shall find Him! \n\nThen suddenly the Mole felt a great Awe fall upon him, an awe that\nturned his muscles to water, bowed his head, and rooted his feet to the\nground. It was no panic terror indeed he felt wonderfully at peace and\nhappy but it was an awe that smote and held him and, without seeing, he\nknew it could only mean that some august Presence was very, very near.\nWith difficulty he turned to look for his friend and saw him at his\nside cowed, stricken, and trembling violently. And still there was\nutter silence in the populous bird-haunted branches around them; and\nstill the light grew and grew.\n\nPerhaps he would never have dared to raise his eyes, but that, though\nthe piping was now hushed, the call and the summons seemed still\ndominant and imperious. He might not refuse, were Death himself waiting\nto strike him instantly, once he had looked with mortal eye on things\nrightly kept hidden. Trembling he obeyed, and raised his humble head;\nand then, in that utter clearness of the imminent dawn, while Nature,\nflushed with fullness of incredible colour, seemed to hold her breath\nfor the event, he looked in the very eyes of the Friend and Helper; saw\nthe backward sweep of the curved horns, gleaming in the growing\ndaylight; saw the stern, hooked nose between the kindly eyes that were\nlooking down on them humourously, while the bearded mouth broke into a\nhalf-smile at the corners; saw the rippling muscles on the arm that lay\nacross the broad chest, the long supple hand still holding the\npan-pipes only just fallen away from the parted lips; saw the splendid\ncurves of the shaggy limbs disposed in majestic ease on the sward; saw,\nlast of all, nestling between his very hooves, sleeping soundly in\nentire peace and contentment, the little, round, podgy, childish form\nof the baby otter. All this he saw, for one moment breathless and\nintense, vivid on the morning sky; and still, as he looked, he lived;\nand still, as he lived, he wondered.\n\n Rat!  he found breath to whisper, shaking.  Are you afraid? \n\n Afraid?  murmured the Rat, his eyes shining with unutterable love.\n Afraid! Of _Him?_ O, never, never! And yet and yet O, Mole, I am\nafraid! \n\nThen the two animals, crouching to the earth, bowed their heads and did\nworship.\n\nSudden and magnificent, the sun s broad golden disc showed itself over\nthe horizon facing them; and the first rays, shooting across the level\nwater-meadows, took the animals full in the eyes and dazzled them. When\nthey were able to look once more, the Vision had vanished, and the air\nwas full of the carol of birds that hailed the dawn.\n\nAs they stared blankly in dumb misery deepening as they slowly realised\nall they had seen and all they had lost, a capricious little breeze,\ndancing up from the surface of the water, tossed the aspens, shook the\ndewy roses and blew lightly and caressingly in their faces; and with\nits soft touch came instant oblivion. For this is the last best gift\nthat the kindly demi-god is careful to bestow on those to whom he has\nrevealed himself in their helping: the gift of forgetfulness. Lest the\nawful remembrance should remain and grow, and overshadow mirth and\npleasure, and the great haunting memory should spoil all the\nafter-lives of little animals helped out of difficulties, in order that\nthey should be happy and lighthearted as before.\n\nMole rubbed his eyes and stared at Rat, who was looking about him in a\npuzzled sort of way.  I beg your pardon; what did you say, Rat?  he\nasked.\n\n I think I was only remarking,  said Rat slowly,  that this was the\nright sort of place, and that here, if anywhere, we should find him.\nAnd look! Why, there he is, the little fellow!  And with a cry of\ndelight he ran towards the slumbering Portly.\n\nBut Mole stood still a moment, held in thought. As one wakened suddenly\nfrom a beautiful dream, who struggles to recall it, and can re-capture\nnothing but a dim sense of the beauty of it, the beauty! Till that,\ntoo, fades away in its turn, and the dreamer bitterly accepts the hard,\ncold waking and all its penalties; so Mole, after struggling with his\nmemory for a brief space, shook his head sadly and followed the Rat.\n\nPortly woke up with a joyous squeak, and wriggled with pleasure at the\nsight of his father s friends, who had played with him so often in past\ndays. In a moment, however, his face grew blank, and he fell to hunting\nround in a circle with pleading whine. As a child that has fallen\nhappily asleep in its nurse s arms, and wakes to find itself alone and\nlaid in a strange place, and searches corners and cupboards, and runs\nfrom room to room, despair growing silently in its heart, even so\nPortly searched the island and searched, dogged and unwearying, till at\nlast the black moment came for giving it up, and sitting down and\ncrying bitterly.\n\nThe Mole ran quickly to comfort the little animal; but Rat, lingering,\nlooked long and doubtfully at certain hoof-marks deep in the sward.\n\n Some great animal has been here,  he murmured slowly and thoughtfully;\nand stood musing, musing; his mind strangely stirred.\n\n Come along, Rat!  called the Mole.  Think of poor Otter, waiting up\nthere by the ford! \n\nPortly had soon been comforted by the promise of a treat a jaunt on the\nriver in Mr. Rat s real boat; and the two animals conducted him to the\nwater s side, placed him securely between them in the bottom of the\nboat, and paddled off down the backwater. The sun was fully up by now,\nand hot on them, birds sang lustily and without restraint, and flowers\nsmiled and nodded from either bank, but somehow so thought the\nanimals with less of richness and blaze of colour than they seemed to\nremember seeing quite recently somewhere they wondered where.\n\nThe main river reached again, they turned the boat s head upstream,\ntowards the point where they knew their friend was keeping his lonely\nvigil. As they drew near the familiar ford, the Mole took the boat in\nto the bank, and they lifted Portly out and set him on his legs on the\ntow-path, gave him his marching orders and a friendly farewell pat on\nthe back, and shoved out into mid-stream. They watched the little\nanimal as he waddled along the path contentedly and with importance;\nwatched him till they saw his muzzle suddenly lift and his waddle break\ninto a clumsy amble as he quickened his pace with shrill whines and\nwriggles of recognition. Looking up the river, they could see Otter\nstart up, tense and rigid, from out of the shallows where he crouched\nin dumb patience, and could hear his amazed and joyous bark as he\nbounded up through the osiers on to the path. Then the Mole, with a\nstrong pull on one oar, swung the boat round and let the full stream\nbear them down again whither it would, their quest now happily ended.\n\n I feel strangely tired, Rat,  said the Mole, leaning wearily over his\noars as the boat drifted.  It s being up all night, you ll say,\nperhaps; but that s nothing. We do as much half the nights of the week,\nat this time of the year. No; I feel as if I had been through something\nvery exciting and rather terrible, and it was just over; and yet\nnothing particular has happened. \n\n Or something very surprising and splendid and beautiful,  murmured the\nRat, leaning back and closing his eyes.  I feel just as you do, Mole;\nsimply dead tired, though not body tired. It s lucky we ve got the\nstream with us, to take us home. Isn t it jolly to feel the sun again,\nsoaking into one s bones! And hark to the wind playing in the reeds! \n\n It s like music far away music,  said the Mole nodding drowsily.\n\n So I was thinking,  murmured the Rat, dreamful and languid.\n Dance-music the lilting sort that runs on without a stop but with\nwords in it, too it passes into words and out of them again I catch\nthem at intervals then it is dance-music once more, and then nothing\nbut the reeds  soft thin whispering. \n\n You hear better than I,  said the Mole sadly.  I cannot catch the\nwords. \n\n Let me try and give you them,  said the Rat softly, his eyes still\nclosed.  Now it is turning into words again faint but clear _Lest the\nawe should dwell And turn your frolic to fret You shall look on my\npower at the helping hour But then you shall forget!_ Now the reeds\ntake it up _forget, forget_, they sigh, and it dies away in a rustle\nand a whisper. Then the voice returns \n\n _Lest limbs be reddened and rent I spring the trap that is set As I\nloose the snare you may glimpse me there For surely you shall forget!_\nRow nearer, Mole, nearer to the reeds! It is hard to catch, and grows\neach minute fainter.\n\n _Helper and healer, I cheer Small waifs in the woodland wet Strays I\nfind in it, wounds I bind in it Bidding them all forget!_ Nearer, Mole,\nnearer! No, it is no good; the song has died away into reed-talk. \n\n But what do the words mean?  asked the wondering Mole.\n\n That I do not know,  said the Rat simply.  I passed them on to you as\nthey reached me. Ah! now they return again, and this time full and\nclear! This time, at last, it is the real, the unmistakable thing,\nsimple passionate perfect \n\n Well, let s have it, then,  said the Mole, after he had waited\npatiently for a few minutes, half-dozing in the hot sun.\n\nBut no answer came. He looked, and understood the silence. With a smile\nof much happiness on his face, and something of a listening look still\nlingering there, the weary Rat was fast asleep.\n\n\n\n\nVIII.\nTOAD S ADVENTURES\n\n\nWhen Toad found himself immured in a dank and noisome dungeon, and knew\nthat all the grim darkness of a medieval fortress lay between him and\nthe outer world of sunshine and well-metalled high roads where he had\nlately been so happy, disporting himself as if he had bought up every\nroad in England, he flung himself at full length on the floor, and shed\nbitter tears, and abandoned himself to dark despair.  This is the end\nof everything  (he said),  at least it is the end of the career of\nToad, which is the same thing; the popular and handsome Toad, the rich\nand hospitable Toad, the Toad so free and careless and debonair! How\ncan I hope to be ever set at large again  (he said),  who have been\nimprisoned so justly for stealing so handsome a motor-car in such an\naudacious manner, and for such lurid and imaginative cheek, bestowed\nupon such a number of fat, red-faced policemen!  (Here his sobs choked\nhim.)  Stupid animal that I was  (he said),  now I must languish in\nthis dungeon, till people who were proud to say they knew me, have\nforgotten the very name of Toad! O wise old Badger!  (he said),  O\nclever, intelligent Rat and sensible Mole! What sound judgments, what a\nknowledge of men and matters you possess! O unhappy and forsaken Toad! \nWith lamentations such as these he passed his days and nights for\nseveral weeks, refusing his meals or intermediate light refreshments,\nthough the grim and ancient gaoler, knowing that Toad s pockets were\nwell lined, frequently pointed out that many comforts, and indeed\nluxuries, could by arrangement be sent in at a price from outside.\n\nNow the gaoler had a daughter, a pleasant wench and good-hearted, who\nassisted her father in the lighter duties of his post. She was\nparticularly fond of animals, and, besides her canary, whose cage hung\non a nail in the massive wall of the keep by day, to the great\nannoyance of prisoners who relished an after-dinner nap, and was\nshrouded in an antimacassar on the parlour table at night, she kept\nseveral piebald mice and a restless revolving squirrel. This\nkind-hearted girl, pitying the misery of Toad, said to her father one\nday,  Father! I can t bear to see that poor beast so unhappy, and\ngetting so thin! You let me have the managing of him. You know how fond\nof animals I am. I ll make him eat from my hand, and sit up, and do all\nsorts of things. \n\nHer father replied that she could do what she liked with him. He was\ntired of Toad, and his sulks and his airs and his meanness. So that day\nshe went on her errand of mercy, and knocked at the door of Toad s\ncell.\n\n Now, cheer up, Toad,  she said, coaxingly, on entering,  and sit up\nand dry your eyes and be a sensible animal. And do try and eat a bit of\ndinner. See, I ve brought you some of mine, hot from the oven! \n\nIt was bubble-and-squeak, between two plates, and its fragrance filled\nthe narrow cell. The penetrating smell of cabbage reached the nose of\nToad as he lay prostrate in his misery on the floor, and gave him the\nidea for a moment that perhaps life was not such a blank and desperate\nthing as he had imagined. But still he wailed, and kicked with his\nlegs, and refused to be comforted. So the wise girl retired for the\ntime, but, of course, a good deal of the smell of hot cabbage remained\nbehind, as it will do, and Toad, between his sobs, sniffed and\nreflected, and gradually began to think new and inspiring thoughts: of\nchivalry, and poetry, and deeds still to be done; of broad meadows, and\ncattle browsing in them, raked by sun and wind; of kitchen-gardens, and\nstraight herb-borders, and warm snap-dragon beset by bees; and of the\ncomforting clink of dishes set down on the table at Toad Hall, and the\nscrape of chair-legs on the floor as every one pulled himself close up\nto his work. The air of the narrow cell took a rosy tinge; he began to\nthink of his friends, and how they would surely be able to do\nsomething; of lawyers, and how they would have enjoyed his case, and\nwhat an ass he had been not to get in a few; and lastly, he thought of\nhis own great cleverness and resource, and all that he was capable of\nif he only gave his great mind to it; and the cure was almost complete.\n\nWhen the girl returned, some hours later, she carried a tray, with a\ncup of fragrant tea steaming on it; and a plate piled up with very hot\nbuttered toast, cut thick, very brown on both sides, with the butter\nrunning through the holes in it in great golden drops, like honey from\nthe honeycomb. The smell of that buttered toast simply talked to Toad,\nand with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on\nbright frosty mornings, of cosy parlour firesides on winter evenings,\nwhen one s ramble was over and slippered feet were propped on the\nfender; of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy\ncanaries. Toad sat up on end once more, dried his eyes, sipped his tea\nand munched his toast, and soon began talking freely about himself, and\nthe house he lived in, and his doings there, and how important he was,\nand what a lot his friends thought of him.\n\nThe gaoler s daughter saw that the topic was doing him as much good as\nthe tea, as indeed it was, and encouraged him to go on.\n\n Tell me about Toad Hall,  said she.  It sounds beautiful. \n\n Toad Hall,  said the Toad proudly,  is an eligible self-contained\ngentleman s residence very unique; dating in part from the fourteenth\ncentury, but replete with every modern convenience. Up-to-date\nsanitation. Five minutes from church, post-office, and golf-links,\nSuitable for \n\n Bless the animal,  said the girl, laughing,  I don t want to _take_\nit. Tell me something _real_ about it. But first wait till I fetch you\nsome more tea and toast. \n\nShe tripped away, and presently returned with a fresh trayful; and\nToad, pitching into the toast with avidity, his spirits quite restored\nto their usual level, told her about the boathouse, and the fish-pond,\nand the old walled kitchen-garden; and about the pig-styes, and the\nstables, and the pigeon-house, and the hen-house; and about the dairy,\nand the wash-house, and the china-cupboards, and the linen-presses (she\nliked that bit especially); and about the banqueting-hall, and the fun\nthey had there when the other animals were gathered round the table and\nToad was at his best, singing songs, telling stories, carrying on\ngenerally. Then she wanted to know about his animal-friends, and was\nvery interested in all he had to tell her about them and how they\nlived, and what they did to pass their time. Of course, she did not say\nshe was fond of animals as _pets_, because she had the sense to see\nthat Toad would be extremely offended. When she said good night, having\nfilled his water-jug and shaken up his straw for him, Toad was very\nmuch the same sanguine, self-satisfied animal that he had been of old.\nHe sang a little song or two, of the sort he used to sing at his\ndinner-parties, curled himself up in the straw, and had an excellent\nnight s rest and the pleasantest of dreams.\n\nThey had many interesting talks together, after that, as the dreary\ndays went on; and the gaoler s daughter grew very sorry for Toad, and\nthought it a great shame that a poor little animal should be locked up\nin prison for what seemed to her a very trivial offence. Toad, of\ncourse, in his vanity, thought that her interest in him proceeded from\na growing tenderness; and he could not help half-regretting that the\nsocial gulf between them was so very wide, for she was a comely lass,\nand evidently admired him very much.\n\nOne morning the girl was very thoughtful, and answered at random, and\ndid not seem to Toad to be paying proper attention to his witty sayings\nand sparkling comments.\n\n Toad,  she said presently,  just listen, please. I have an aunt who is\na washerwoman. \n\n There, there,  said Toad, graciously and affably,  never mind; think\nno more about it. _I_ have several aunts who _ought_ to be\nwasherwomen. \n\n Do be quiet a minute, Toad,  said the girl.  You talk too much, that s\nyour chief fault, and I m trying to think, and you hurt my head. As I\nsaid, I have an aunt who is a washerwoman; she does the washing for all\nthe prisoners in this castle we try to keep any paying business of that\nsort in the family, you understand. She takes out the washing on Monday\nmorning, and brings it in on Friday evening. This is a Thursday. Now,\nthis is what occurs to me: you re very rich at least you re always\ntelling me so and she s very poor. A few pounds wouldn t make any\ndifference to you, and it would mean a lot to her. Now, I think if she\nwere properly approached squared, I believe is the word you animals\nuse you could come to some arrangement by which she would let you have\nher dress and bonnet and so on, and you could escape from the castle as\nthe official washerwoman. You re very alike in many\nrespects particularly about the figure. \n\n We re _not_,  said the Toad in a huff.  I have a very elegant\nfigure for what I am. \n\n So has my aunt,  replied the girl,  for what _she_ is. But have it\nyour own way. You horrid, proud, ungrateful animal, when I m sorry for\nyou, and trying to help you! \n\n Yes, yes, that s all right; thank you very much indeed,  said the Toad\nhurriedly.  But look here! you wouldn t surely have Mr. Toad of Toad\nHall, going about the country disguised as a washerwoman! \n\n Then you can stop here as a Toad,  replied the girl with much spirit.\n I suppose you want to go off in a coach-and-four! \n\nHonest Toad was always ready to admit himself in the wrong.  You are a\ngood, kind, clever girl,  he said,  and I am indeed a proud and a\nstupid toad. Introduce me to your worthy aunt, if you will be so kind,\nand I have no doubt that the excellent lady and I will be able to\narrange terms satisfactory to both parties. \n\nNext evening the girl ushered her aunt into Toad s cell, bearing his\nweek s washing pinned up in a towel. The old lady had been prepared\nbeforehand for the interview, and the sight of certain gold sovereigns\nthat Toad had thoughtfully placed on the table in full view practically\ncompleted the matter and left little further to discuss. In return for\nhis cash, Toad received a cotton print gown, an apron, a shawl, and a\nrusty black bonnet; the only stipulation the old lady made being that\nshe should be gagged and bound and dumped down in a corner. By this not\nvery convincing artifice, she explained, aided by picturesque fiction\nwhich she could supply herself, she hoped to retain her situation, in\nspite of the suspicious appearance of things.\n\nToad was delighted with the suggestion. It would enable him to leave\nthe prison in some style, and with his reputation for being a desperate\nand dangerous fellow untarnished; and he readily helped the gaoler s\ndaughter to make her aunt appear as much as possible the victim of\ncircumstances over which she had no control.\n\n Now it s your turn, Toad,  said the girl.  Take off that coat and\nwaistcoat of yours; you re fat enough as it is. \n\nShaking with laughter, she proceeded to  hook-and-eye  him into the\ncotton print gown, arranged the shawl with a professional fold, and\ntied the strings of the rusty bonnet under his chin.\n\n You re the very image of her,  she giggled,  only I m sure you never\nlooked half so respectable in all your life before. Now, good-bye,\nToad, and good luck. Go straight down the way you came up; and if any\none says anything to you, as they probably will, being but men, you can\nchaff back a bit, of course, but remember you re a widow woman, quite\nalone in the world, with a character to lose. \n\nWith a quaking heart, but as firm a footstep as he could command, Toad\nset forth cautiously on what seemed to be a most hare-brained and\nhazardous undertaking; but he was soon agreeably surprised to find how\neasy everything was made for him, and a little humbled at the thought\nthat both his popularity, and the sex that seemed to inspire it, were\nreally another s. The washerwoman s squat figure in its familiar cotton\nprint seemed a passport for every barred door and grim gateway; even\nwhen he hesitated, uncertain as to the right turning to take, he found\nhimself helped out of his difficulty by the warder at the next gate,\nanxious to be off to his tea, summoning him to come along sharp and not\nkeep him waiting there all night. The chaff and the humourous sallies\nto which he was subjected, and to which, of course, he had to provide\nprompt and effective reply, formed, indeed, his chief danger; for Toad\nwas an animal with a strong sense of his own dignity, and the chaff was\nmostly (he thought) poor and clumsy, and the humour of the sallies\nentirely lacking. However, he kept his temper, though with great\ndifficulty, suited his retorts to his company and his supposed\ncharacter, and did his best not to overstep the limits of good taste.\n\nIt seemed hours before he crossed the last courtyard, rejected the\npressing invitations from the last guardroom, and dodged the outspread\narms of the last warder, pleading with simulated passion for just one\nfarewell embrace. But at last he heard the wicket-gate in the great\nouter door click behind him, felt the fresh air of the outer world upon\nhis anxious brow, and knew that he was free!\n\nDizzy with the easy success of his daring exploit, he walked quickly\ntowards the lights of the town, not knowing in the least what he should\ndo next, only quite certain of one thing, that he must remove himself\nas quickly as possible from the neighbourhood where the lady he was\nforced to represent was so well-known and so popular a character.\n\nAs he walked along, considering, his attention was caught by some red\nand green lights a little way off, to one side of the town, and the\nsound of the puffing and snorting of engines and the banging of shunted\ntrucks fell on his ear.  Aha!  he thought,  this is a piece of luck! A\nrailway station is the thing I want most in the whole world at this\nmoment; and what s more, I needn t go through the town to get it, and\nshan t have to support this humiliating character by repartees which,\nthough thoroughly effective, do not assist one s sense of\nself-respect. \n\nHe made his way to the station accordingly, consulted a time-table, and\nfound that a train, bound more or less in the direction of his home,\nwas due to start in half-an-hour.  More luck!  said Toad, his spirits\nrising rapidly, and went off to the booking-office to buy his ticket.\n\nHe gave the name of the station that he knew to be nearest to the\nvillage of which Toad Hall was the principal feature, and mechanically\nput his fingers, in search of the necessary money, where his waistcoat\npocket should have been. But here the cotton gown, which had nobly\nstood by him so far, and which he had basely forgotten, intervened, and\nfrustrated his efforts. In a sort of nightmare he struggled with the\nstrange uncanny thing that seemed to hold his hands, turn all muscular\nstrivings to water, and laugh at him all the time; while other\ntravellers, forming up in a line behind, waited with impatience, making\nsuggestions of more or less value and comments of more or less\nstringency and point. At last somehow he never rightly understood\nhow he burst the barriers, attained the goal, arrived at where all\nwaistcoat pockets are eternally situated, and found not only no money,\nbut no pocket to hold it, and no waistcoat to hold the pocket!\n\nTo his horror he recollected that he had left both coat and waistcoat\nbehind him in his cell, and with them his pocket-book, money, keys,\nwatch, matches, pencil-case all that makes life worth living, all that\ndistinguishes the many-pocketed animal, the lord of creation, from the\ninferior one-pocketed or no-pocketed productions that hop or trip about\npermissively, unequipped for the real contest.\n\nIn his misery he made one desperate effort to carry the thing off, and,\nwith a return to his fine old manner a blend of the Squire and the\nCollege Don he said,  Look here! I find I ve left my purse behind. Just\ngive me that ticket, will you, and I ll send the money on to-morrow?\nI m well-known in these parts. \n\nThe clerk stared at him and the rusty black bonnet a moment, and then\nlaughed.  I should think you were pretty well known in these parts,  he\nsaid,  if you ve tried this game on often. Here, stand away from the\nwindow, please, madam; you re obstructing the other passengers! \n\nAn old gentleman who had been prodding him in the back for some moments\nhere thrust him away, and, what was worse, addressed him as his good\nwoman, which angered Toad more than anything that had occurred that\nevening.\n\nBaffled and full of despair, he wandered blindly down the platform\nwhere the train was standing, and tears trickled down each side of his\nnose. It was hard, he thought, to be within sight of safety and almost\nof home, and to be baulked by the want of a few wretched shillings and\nby the pettifogging mistrustfulness of paid officials. Very soon his\nescape would be discovered, the hunt would be up, he would be caught,\nreviled, loaded with chains, dragged back again to prison and\nbread-and-water and straw; his guards and penalties would be doubled;\nand O, what sarcastic remarks the girl would make! What was to be done?\nHe was not swift of foot; his figure was unfortunately recognisable.\nCould he not squeeze under the seat of a carriage? He had seen this\nmethod adopted by schoolboys, when the journey-money provided by\nthoughtful parents had been diverted to other and better ends. As he\npondered, he found himself opposite the engine, which was being oiled,\nwiped, and generally caressed by its affectionate driver, a burly man\nwith an oil-can in one hand and a lump of cotton-waste in the other.\n\n Hullo, mother!  said the engine-driver,  what s the trouble? You don t\nlook particularly cheerful. \n\n O, sir!  said Toad, crying afresh,  I am a poor unhappy washerwoman,\nand I ve lost all my money, and can t pay for a ticket, and I _must_\nget home to-night somehow, and whatever I am to do I don t know. O\ndear, O dear! \n\n That s a bad business, indeed,  said the engine-driver reflectively.\n Lost your money and can t get home and got some kids, too, waiting for\nyou, I dare say? \n\n Any amount of  em,  sobbed Toad.  And they ll be hungry and playing\nwith matches and upsetting lamps, the little innocents! and\nquarrelling, and going on generally. O dear, O dear! \n\n Well, I ll tell you what I ll do,  said the good engine-driver.\n You re a washerwoman to your trade, says you. Very well, that s that.\nAnd I m an engine-driver, as you well may see, and there s no denying\nit s terribly dirty work. Uses up a power of shirts, it does, till my\nmissus is fair tired of washing of  em. If you ll wash a few shirts for\nme when you get home, and send  em along, I ll give you a ride on my\nengine. It s against the Company s regulations, but we re not so very\nparticular in these out-of-the-way parts. \n\nThe Toad s misery turned into rapture as he eagerly scrambled up into\nthe cab of the engine. Of course, he had never washed a shirt in his\nlife, and couldn t if he tried and, anyhow, he wasn t going to begin;\nbut he thought:  When I get safely home to Toad Hall, and have money\nagain, and pockets to put it in, I will send the engine-driver enough\nto pay for quite a quantity of washing, and that will be the same\nthing, or better. \n\nThe guard waved his welcome flag, the engine-driver whistled in\ncheerful response, and the train moved out of the station. As the speed\nincreased, and the Toad could see on either side of him real fields,\nand trees, and hedges, and cows, and horses, all flying past him, and\nas he thought how every minute was bringing him nearer to Toad Hall,\nand sympathetic friends, and money to chink in his pocket, and a soft\nbed to sleep in, and good things to eat, and praise and admiration at\nthe recital of his adventures and his surpassing cleverness, he began\nto skip up and down and shout and sing snatches of song, to the great\nastonishment of the engine-driver, who had come across washerwomen\nbefore, at long intervals, but never one at all like this.\n\nThey had covered many and many a mile, and Toad was already considering\nwhat he would have for supper as soon as he got home, when he noticed\nthat the engine-driver, with a puzzled expression on his face, was\nleaning over the side of the engine and listening hard. Then he saw him\nclimb on to the coals and gaze out over the top of the train; then he\nreturned and said to Toad:  It s very strange; we re the last train\nrunning in this direction to-night, yet I could be sworn that I heard\nanother following us! \n\nToad ceased his frivolous antics at once. He became grave and\ndepressed, and a dull pain in the lower part of his spine,\ncommunicating itself to his legs, made him want to sit down and try\ndesperately not to think of all the possibilities.\n\nBy this time the moon was shining brightly, and the engine-driver,\nsteadying himself on the coal, could command a view of the line behind\nthem for a long distance.\n\nPresently he called out,  I can see it clearly now! It is an engine, on\nour rails, coming along at a great pace! It looks as if we were being\npursued! \n\nThe miserable Toad, crouching in the coal-dust, tried hard to think of\nsomething to do, with dismal want of success.\n\n They are gaining on us fast!  cried the engine-driver. And the engine\nis crowded with the queerest lot of people! Men like ancient warders,\nwaving halberds; policemen in their helmets, waving truncheons; and\nshabbily dressed men in pot-hats, obvious and unmistakable\nplain-clothes detectives even at this distance, waving revolvers and\nwalking-sticks; all waving, and all shouting the same thing Stop,\nstop, stop! \n\nThen Toad fell on his knees among the coals and, raising his clasped\npaws in supplication, cried,  Save me, only save me, dear kind Mr.\nEngine-driver, and I will confess everything! I am not the simple\nwasherwoman I seem to be! I have no children waiting for me, innocent\nor otherwise! I am a toad the well-known and popular Mr. Toad, a landed\nproprietor; I have just escaped, by my great daring and cleverness,\nfrom a loathsome dungeon into which my enemies had flung me; and if\nthose fellows on that engine recapture me, it will be chains and\nbread-and-water and straw and misery once more for poor, unhappy,\ninnocent Toad! \n\nThe engine-driver looked down upon him very sternly, and said,  Now\ntell the truth; what were you put in prison for? \n\n It was nothing very much,  said poor Toad, colouring deeply.  I only\nborrowed a motorcar while the owners were at lunch; they had no need of\nit at the time. I didn t mean to steal it, really; but\npeople especially magistrates take such harsh views of thoughtless and\nhigh-spirited actions. \n\nThe engine-driver looked very grave and said,  I fear that you have\nbeen indeed a wicked toad, and by rights I ought to give you up to\noffended justice. But you are evidently in sore trouble and distress,\nso I will not desert you. I don t hold with motor-cars, for one thing;\nand I don t hold with being ordered about by policemen when I m on my\nown engine, for another. And the sight of an animal in tears always\nmakes me feel queer and softhearted. So cheer up, Toad! I ll do my\nbest, and we may beat them yet! \n\nThey piled on more coals, shovelling furiously; the furnace roared, the\nsparks flew, the engine leapt and swung but still their pursuers slowly\ngained. The engine-driver, with a sigh, wiped his brow with a handful\nof cotton-waste, and said,  I m afraid it s no good, Toad. You see,\nthey are running light, and they have the better engine. There s just\none thing left for us to do, and it s your only chance, so attend very\ncarefully to what I tell you. A short way ahead of us is a long tunnel,\nand on the other side of that the line passes through a thick wood.\nNow, I will put on all the speed I can while we are running through the\ntunnel, but the other fellows will slow down a bit, naturally, for fear\nof an accident. When we are through, I will shut off steam and put on\nbrakes as hard as I can, and the moment it s safe to do so you must\njump and hide in the wood, before they get through the tunnel and see\nyou. Then I will go full speed ahead again, and they can chase me if\nthey like, for as long as they like, and as far as they like. Now mind\nand be ready to jump when I tell you! \n\nThey piled on more coals, and the train shot into the tunnel, and the\nengine rushed and roared and rattled, till at last they shot out at the\nother end into fresh air and the peaceful moonlight, and saw the wood\nlying dark and helpful upon either side of the line. The driver shut\noff steam and put on brakes, the Toad got down on the step, and as the\ntrain slowed down to almost a walking pace he heard the driver call\nout,  Now, jump! \n\nToad jumped, rolled down a short embankment, picked himself up unhurt,\nscrambled into the wood and hid.\n\nPeeping out, he saw his train get up speed again and disappear at a\ngreat pace. Then out of the tunnel burst the pursuing engine, roaring\nand whistling, her motley crew waving their various weapons and\nshouting,  Stop! stop! stop!  When they were past, the Toad had a\nhearty laugh for the first time since he was thrown into prison.\n\nBut he soon stopped laughing when he came to consider that it was now\nvery late and dark and cold, and he was in an unknown wood, with no\nmoney and no chance of supper, and still far from friends and home; and\nthe dead silence of everything, after the roar and rattle of the train,\nwas something of a shock. He dared not leave the shelter of the trees,\nso he struck into the wood, with the idea of leaving the railway as far\nas possible behind him.\n\nAfter so many weeks within walls, he found the wood strange and\nunfriendly and inclined, he thought, to make fun of him. Night-jars,\nsounding their mechanical rattle, made him think that the wood was full\nof searching warders, closing in on him. An owl, swooping noiselessly\ntowards him, brushed his shoulder with its wing, making him jump with\nthe horrid certainty that it was a hand; then flitted off, moth-like,\nlaughing its low ho! ho! ho; which Toad thought in very poor taste.\nOnce he met a fox, who stopped, looked him up and down in a sarcastic\nsort of way, and said,  Hullo, washerwoman! Half a pair of socks and a\npillow-case short this week! Mind it doesn t occur again!  and\nswaggered off, sniggering. Toad looked about for a stone to throw at\nhim, but could not succeed in finding one, which vexed him more than\nanything. At last, cold, hungry, and tired out, he sought the shelter\nof a hollow tree, where with branches and dead leaves he made himself\nas comfortable a bed as he could, and slept soundly till the morning.\n\n\n\n\nIX.\nWAYFARERS ALL\n\n\nThe Water Rat was restless, and he did not exactly know why. To all\nappearance the summer s pomp was still at fullest height, and although\nin the tilled acres green had given way to gold, though rowans were\nreddening, and the woods were dashed here and there with a tawny\nfierceness, yet light and warmth and colour were still present in\nundiminished measure, clean of any chilly premonitions of the passing\nyear. But the constant chorus of the orchards and hedges had shrunk to\na casual evensong from a few yet unwearied performers; the robin was\nbeginning to assert himself once more; and there was a feeling in the\nair of change and departure. The cuckoo, of course, had long been\nsilent; but many another feathered friend, for months a part of the\nfamiliar landscape and its small society, was missing too and it seemed\nthat the ranks thinned steadily day by day. Rat, ever observant of all\nwinged movement, saw that it was taking daily a southing tendency; and\neven as he lay in bed at night he thought he could make out, passing in\nthe darkness overhead, the beat and quiver of impatient pinions,\nobedient to the peremptory call.\n\nNature s Grand Hotel has its Season, like the others. As the guests one\nby one pack, pay, and depart, and the seats at the _table-d h te_\nshrink pitifully at each succeeding meal; as suites of rooms are\nclosed, carpets taken up, and waiters sent away; those boarders who are\nstaying on, _en pension_, until the next year s full re-opening, cannot\nhelp being somewhat affected by all these flittings and farewells, this\neager discussion of plans, routes, and fresh quarters, this daily\nshrinkage in the stream of comradeship. One gets unsettled, depressed,\nand inclined to be querulous. Why this craving for change? Why not stay\non quietly here, like us, and be jolly? You don t know this hotel out\nof the season, and what fun we have among ourselves, we fellows who\nremain and see the whole interesting year out. All very true, no doubt\nthe others always reply; we quite envy you and some other year\nperhaps but just now we have engagements and there s the bus at the\ndoor our time is up! So they depart, with a smile and a nod, and we\nmiss them, and feel resentful. The Rat was a self-sufficing sort of\nanimal, rooted to the land, and, whoever went, he stayed; still, he\ncould not help noticing what was in the air, and feeling some of its\ninfluence in his bones.\n\nIt was difficult to settle down to anything seriously, with all this\nflitting going on. Leaving the water-side, where rushes stood thick and\ntall in a stream that was becoming sluggish and low, he wandered\ncountry-wards, crossed a field or two of pasturage already looking\ndusty and parched, and thrust into the great sea of wheat, yellow,\nwavy, and murmurous, full of quiet motion and small whisperings. Here\nhe often loved to wander, through the forest of stiff strong stalks\nthat carried their own golden sky away over his head a sky that was\nalways dancing, shimmering, softly talking; or swaying strongly to the\npassing wind and recovering itself with a toss and a merry laugh. Here,\ntoo, he had many small friends, a society complete in itself, leading\nfull and busy lives, but always with a spare moment to gossip, and\nexchange news with a visitor. Today, however, though they were civil\nenough, the field-mice and harvest-mice seemed preoccupied. Many were\ndigging and tunnelling busily; others, gathered together in small\ngroups, examined plans and drawings of small flats, stated to be\ndesirable and compact, and situated conveniently near the Stores. Some\nwere hauling out dusty trunks and dress-baskets, others were already\nelbow-deep packing their belongings; while everywhere piles and bundles\nof wheat, oats, barley, beech-mast and nuts, lay about ready for\ntransport.\n\n Here s old Ratty!  they cried as soon as they saw him.  Come and bear\na hand, Rat, and don t stand about idle! \n\n What sort of games are you up to?  said the Water Rat severely.  You\nknow it isn t time to be thinking of winter quarters yet, by a long\nway! \n\n O yes, we know that,  explained a field-mouse rather shamefacedly;\n but it s always as well to be in good time, isn t it? We really _must_\nget all the furniture and baggage and stores moved out of this before\nthose horrid machines begin clicking round the fields; and then, you\nknow, the best flats get picked up so quickly nowadays, and if you re\nlate you have to put up with _anything_; and they want such a lot of\ndoing up, too, before they re fit to move into. Of course, we re early,\nwe know that; but we re only just making a start. \n\n O, bother _starts_,  said the Rat.  It s a splendid day. Come for a\nrow, or a stroll along the hedges, or a picnic in the woods, or\nsomething. \n\n Well, I _think_ not _to-day_, thank you,  replied the field-mouse\nhurriedly.  Perhaps some _other_ day when we ve more _time_ \n\nThe Rat, with a snort of contempt, swung round to go, tripped over a\nhat-box, and fell, with undignified remarks.\n\n If people would be more careful,  said a field-mouse rather stiffly,\n and look where they re going, people wouldn t hurt themselves and\nforget themselves. Mind that hold-all, Rat! You d better sit down\nsomewhere. In an hour or two we may be more free to attend to you. \n\n You won t be  free  as you call it much this side of Christmas, I can\nsee that,  retorted the Rat grumpily, as he picked his way out of the\nfield.\n\nHe returned somewhat despondently to his river again his faithful,\nsteady-going old river, which never packed up, flitted, or went into\nwinter quarters.\n\nIn the osiers which fringed the bank he spied a swallow sitting.\nPresently it was joined by another, and then by a third; and the birds,\nfidgeting restlessly on their bough, talked together earnestly and low.\n\n What, _already_,  said the Rat, strolling up to them.  What s the\nhurry? I call it simply ridiculous. \n\n O, we re not off yet, if that s what you mean,  replied the first\nswallow.  We re only making plans and arranging things. Talking it\nover, you know what route we re taking this year, and where we ll stop,\nand so on. That s half the fun! \n\n Fun?  said the Rat;  now that s just what I don t understand. If\nyou ve _got_ to leave this pleasant place, and your friends who will\nmiss you, and your snug homes that you ve just settled into, why, when\nthe hour strikes I ve no doubt you ll go bravely, and face all the\ntrouble and discomfort and change and newness, and make believe that\nyou re not very unhappy. But to want to talk about it, or even think\nabout it, till you really need \n\n No, you don t understand, naturally,  said the second swallow.  First,\nwe feel it stirring within us, a sweet unrest; then back come the\nrecollections one by one, like homing pigeons. They flutter through our\ndreams at night, they fly with us in our wheelings and circlings by\nday. We hunger to inquire of each other, to compare notes and assure\nourselves that it was all really true, as one by one the scents and\nsounds and names of long-forgotten places come gradually back and\nbeckon to us. \n\n Couldn t you stop on for just this year?  suggested the Water Rat,\nwistfully.  We ll all do our best to make you feel at home. You ve no\nidea what good times we have here, while you are far away. \n\n I tried  stopping on  one year,  said the third swallow.  I had grown\nso fond of the place that when the time came I hung back and let the\nothers go on without me. For a few weeks it was all well enough, but\nafterwards, O the weary length of the nights! The shivering, sunless\ndays! The air so clammy and chill, and not an insect in an acre of it!\nNo, it was no good; my courage broke down, and one cold, stormy night I\ntook wing, flying well inland on account of the strong easterly gales.\nIt was snowing hard as I beat through the passes of the great\nmountains, and I had a stiff fight to win through; but never shall I\nforget the blissful feeling of the hot sun again on my back as I sped\ndown to the lakes that lay so blue and placid below me, and the taste\nof my first fat insect! The past was like a bad dream; the future was\nall happy holiday as I moved southwards week by week, easily, lazily,\nlingering as long as I dared, but always heeding the call! No, I had\nhad my warning; never again did I think of disobedience. \n\n Ah, yes, the call of the South, of the South!  twittered the other two\ndreamily.  Its songs its hues, its radiant air! O, do you remember \nand, forgetting the Rat, they slid into passionate reminiscence, while\nhe listened fascinated, and his heart burned within him. In himself,\ntoo, he knew that it was vibrating at last, that chord hitherto dormant\nand unsuspected. The mere chatter of these southern-bound birds, their\npale and second-hand reports, had yet power to awaken this wild new\nsensation and thrill him through and through with it; what would one\nmoment of the real thing work in him one passionate touch of the real\nsouthern sun, one waft of the authentic odor? With closed eyes he dared\nto dream a moment in full abandonment, and when he looked again the\nriver seemed steely and chill, the green fields grey and lightless.\nThen his loyal heart seemed to cry out on his weaker self for its\ntreachery.\n\n Why do you ever come back, then, at all?  he demanded of the swallows\njealously.  What do you find to attract you in this poor drab little\ncountry? \n\n And do you think,  said the first swallow,  that the other call is not\nfor us too, in its due season? The call of lush meadow-grass, wet\norchards, warm, insect-haunted ponds, of browsing cattle, of haymaking,\nand all the farm-buildings clustering round the House of the perfect\nEaves? \n\n Do you suppose,  asked the second one, that you are the only living\nthing that craves with a hungry longing to hear the cuckoo s note\nagain? \n\n In due time,  said the third,  we shall be home-sick once more for\nquiet water-lilies swaying on the surface of an English stream. But\nto-day all that seems pale and thin and very far away. Just now our\nblood dances to other music. \n\nThey fell a-twittering among themselves once more, and this time their\nintoxicating babble was of violet seas, tawny sands, and lizard-haunted\nwalls.\n\nRestlessly the Rat wandered off once more, climbed the slope that rose\ngently from the north bank of the river, and lay looking out towards\nthe great ring of Downs that barred his vision further southwards his\nsimple horizon hitherto, his Mountains of the Moon, his limit behind\nwhich lay nothing he had cared to see or to know. To-day, to him gazing\nSouth with a new-born need stirring in his heart, the clear sky over\ntheir long low outline seemed to pulsate with promise; to-day, the\nunseen was everything, the unknown the only real fact of life. On this\nside of the hills was now the real blank, on the other lay the crowded\nand coloured panorama that his inner eye was seeing so clearly. What\nseas lay beyond, green, leaping, and crested! What sun-bathed coasts,\nalong which the white villas glittered against the olive woods! What\nquiet harbours, thronged with gallant shipping bound for purple islands\nof wine and spice, islands set low in languorous waters!\n\nHe rose and descended river-wards once more; then changed his mind and\nsought the side of the dusty lane. There, lying half-buried in the\nthick, cool under-hedge tangle that bordered it, he could muse on the\nmetalled road and all the wondrous world that it led to; on all the\nwayfarers, too, that might have trodden it, and the fortunes and\nadventures they had gone to seek or found unseeking out there,\nbeyond beyond!\n\nFootsteps fell on his ear, and the figure of one that walked somewhat\nwearily came into view; and he saw that it was a Rat, and a very dusty\none. The wayfarer, as he reached him, saluted with a gesture of\ncourtesy that had something foreign about it hesitated a moment then\nwith a pleasant smile turned from the track and sat down by his side in\nthe cool herbage. He seemed tired, and the Rat let him rest\nunquestioned, understanding something of what was in his thoughts;\nknowing, too, the value all animals attach at times to mere silent\ncompanionship, when the weary muscles slacken and the mind marks time.\n\nThe wayfarer was lean and keen-featured, and somewhat bowed at the\nshoulders; his paws were thin and long, his eyes much wrinkled at the\ncorners, and he wore small gold ear rings in his neatly-set well-shaped\nears. His knitted jersey was of a faded blue, his breeches, patched and\nstained, were based on a blue foundation, and his small belongings that\nhe carried were tied up in a blue cotton handkerchief.\n\nWhen he had rested awhile the stranger sighed, snuffed the air, and\nlooked about him.\n\n That was clover, that warm whiff on the breeze,  he remarked;  and\nthose are cows we hear cropping the grass behind us and blowing softly\nbetween mouthfuls. There is a sound of distant reapers, and yonder\nrises a blue line of cottage smoke against the woodland. The river runs\nsomewhere close by, for I hear the call of a moorhen, and I see by your\nbuild that you re a freshwater mariner. Everything seems asleep, and\nyet going on all the time. It is a goodly life that you lead, friend;\nno doubt the best in the world, if only you are strong enough to lead\nit! \n\n Yes, it s _the_ life, the only life, to live,  responded the Water Rat\ndreamily, and without his usual whole-hearted conviction.\n\n I did not say exactly that,  replied the stranger cautiously;  but no\ndoubt it s the best. I ve tried it, and I know. And because I ve just\ntried it six months of it and know it s the best, here am I, footsore\nand hungry, tramping away from it, tramping southward, following the\nold call, back to the old life, _the_ life which is mine and which will\nnot let me go. \n\n Is this, then, yet another of them?  mused the Rat.  And where have\nyou just come from?  he asked. He hardly dared to ask where he was\nbound for; he seemed to know the answer only too well.\n\n Nice little farm,  replied the wayfarer, briefly.  Upalong in that\ndirection he nodded northwards.  Never mind about it. I had everything\nI could want everything I had any right to expect of life, and more;\nand here I am! Glad to be here all the same, though, glad to be here!\nSo many miles further on the road, so many hours nearer to my heart s\ndesire! \n\nHis shining eyes held fast to the horizon, and he seemed to be\nlistening for some sound that was wanting from that inland acreage,\nvocal as it was with the cheerful music of pasturage and farmyard.\n\n You are not one of _us_,  said the Water Rat,  nor yet a farmer; nor\neven, I should judge, of this country. \n\n Right,  replied the stranger.  I m a seafaring rat, I am, and the port\nI originally hail from is Constantinople, though I m a sort of a\nforeigner there too, in a manner of speaking. You will have heard of\nConstantinople, friend? A fair city, and an ancient and glorious one.\nAnd you may have heard, too, of Sigurd, King of Norway, and how he\nsailed thither with sixty ships, and how he and his men rode up through\nstreets all canopied in their honour with purple and gold; and how the\nEmperor and Empress came down and banqueted with him on board his ship.\nWhen Sigurd returned home, many of his Northmen remained behind and\nentered the Emperor s body-guard, and my ancestor, a Norwegian born,\nstayed behind too, with the ships that Sigurd gave the Emperor.\nSeafarers we have ever been, and no wonder; as for me, the city of my\nbirth is no more my home than any pleasant port between there and the\nLondon River. I know them all, and they know me. Set me down on any of\ntheir quays or foreshores, and I am home again. \n\n I suppose you go great voyages,  said the Water Rat with growing\ninterest.  Months and months out of sight of land, and provisions\nrunning short, and allowanced as to water, and your mind communing with\nthe mighty ocean, and all that sort of thing? \n\n By no means,  said the Sea Rat frankly.  Such a life as you describe\nwould not suit me at all. I m in the coasting trade, and rarely out of\nsight of land. It s the jolly times on shore that appeal to me, as much\nas any seafaring. O, those southern seaports! The smell of them, the\nriding-lights at night, the glamour! \n\n Well, perhaps you have chosen the better way,  said the Water Rat, but\nrather doubtfully.  Tell me something of your coasting, then, if you\nhave a mind to, and what sort of harvest an animal of spirit might hope\nto bring home from it to warm his latter days with gallant memories by\nthe fireside; for my life, I confess to you, feels to me to-day\nsomewhat narrow and circumscribed. \n\n My last voyage,  began the Sea Rat,  that landed me eventually in this\ncountry, bound with high hopes for my inland farm, will serve as a good\nexample of any of them, and, indeed, as an epitome of my\nhighly-coloured life. Family troubles, as usual, began it. The domestic\nstorm-cone was hoisted, and I shipped myself on board a small trading\nvessel bound from Constantinople, by classic seas whose every wave\nthrobs with a deathless memory, to the Grecian Islands and the Levant.\nThose were golden days and balmy nights! In and out of harbour all the\ntime old friends everywhere sleeping in some cool temple or ruined\ncistern during the heat of the day feasting and song after sundown,\nunder great stars set in a velvet sky! Thence we turned and coasted up\nthe Adriatic, its shores swimming in an atmosphere of amber, rose, and\naquamarine; we lay in wide land-locked harbours, we roamed through\nancient and noble cities, until at last one morning, as the sun rose\nroyally behind us, we rode into Venice down a path of gold. O, Venice\nis a fine city, wherein a rat can wander at his ease and take his\npleasure! Or, when weary of wandering, can sit at the edge of the Grand\nCanal at night, feasting with his friends, when the air is full of\nmusic and the sky full of stars, and the lights flash and shimmer on\nthe polished steel prows of the swaying gondolas, packed so that you\ncould walk across the canal on them from side to side! And then the\nfood do you like shellfish? Well, well, we won t linger over that now. \n\nHe was silent for a time; and the Water Rat, silent too and enthralled,\nfloated on dream-canals and heard a phantom song pealing high between\nvaporous grey wave-lapped walls.\n\n Southwards we sailed again at last,  continued the Sea Rat,  coasting\ndown the Italian shore, till finally we made Palermo, and there I\nquitted for a long, happy spell on shore. I never stick too long to one\nship; one gets narrow-minded and prejudiced. Besides, Sicily is one of\nmy happy hunting-grounds. I know everybody there, and their ways just\nsuit me. I spent many jolly weeks in the island, staying with friends\nup country. When I grew restless again I took advantage of a ship that\nwas trading to Sardinia and Corsica; and very glad I was to feel the\nfresh breeze and the sea-spray in my face once more. \n\n But isn t it very hot and stuffy, down in the hold, I think you call\nit?  asked the Water Rat.\n\nThe seafarer looked at him with the suspicion of a wink.  I m an old\nhand,  he remarked with much simplicity.  The captain s cabin s good\nenough for me. \n\n It s a hard life, by all accounts,  murmured the Rat, sunk in deep\nthought.\n\n For the crew it is,  replied the seafarer gravely, again with the\nghost of a wink.\n\n From Corsica,  he went on,  I made use of a ship that was taking wine\nto the mainland. We made Alassio in the evening, lay to, hauled up our\nwine-casks, and hove them overboard, tied one to the other by a long\nline. Then the crew took to the boats and rowed shorewards, singing as\nthey went, and drawing after them the long bobbing procession of casks,\nlike a mile of porpoises. On the sands they had horses waiting, which\ndragged the casks up the steep street of the little town with a fine\nrush and clatter and scramble. When the last cask was in, we went and\nrefreshed and rested, and sat late into the night, drinking with our\nfriends, and next morning I took to the great olive-woods for a spell\nand a rest. For now I had done with islands for the time, and ports and\nshipping were plentiful; so I led a lazy life among the peasants, lying\nand watching them work, or stretched high on the hillside with the blue\nMediterranean far below me. And so at length, by easy stages, and\npartly on foot, partly by sea, to Marseilles, and the meeting of old\nshipmates, and the visiting of great ocean-bound vessels, and feasting\nonce more. Talk of shell-fish! Why, sometimes I dream of the shell-fish\nof Marseilles, and wake up crying! \n\n That reminds me,  said the polite Water Rat;  you happened to mention\nthat you were hungry, and I ought to have spoken earlier. Of course,\nyou will stop and take your midday meal with me? My hole is close by;\nit is some time past noon, and you are very welcome to whatever there\nis. \n\n Now I call that kind and brotherly of you,  said the Sea Rat.  I was\nindeed hungry when I sat down, and ever since I inadvertently happened\nto mention shell-fish, my pangs have been extreme. But couldn t you\nfetch it along out here? I am none too fond of going under hatches,\nunless I m obliged to; and then, while we eat, I could tell you more\nconcerning my voyages and the pleasant life I lead at least, it is very\npleasant to me, and by your attention I judge it commends itself to\nyou; whereas if we go indoors it is a hundred to one that I shall\npresently fall asleep. \n\n That is indeed an excellent suggestion,  said the Water Rat, and\nhurried off home. There he got out the luncheon-basket and packed a\nsimple meal, in which, remembering the stranger s origin and\npreferences, he took care to include a yard of long French bread, a\nsausage out of which the garlic sang, some cheese which lay down and\ncried, and a long-necked straw-covered flask wherein lay bottled\nsunshine shed and garnered on far Southern slopes. Thus laden, he\nreturned with all speed, and blushed for pleasure at the old seaman s\ncommendations of his taste and judgment, as together they unpacked the\nbasket and laid out the contents on the grass by the roadside.\n\nThe Sea Rat, as soon as his hunger was somewhat assuaged, continued the\nhistory of his latest voyage, conducting his simple hearer from port to\nport of Spain, landing him at Lisbon, Oporto, and Bordeaux, introducing\nhim to the pleasant harbours of Cornwall and Devon, and so up the\nChannel to that final quayside, where, landing after winds long\ncontrary, storm-driven and weather-beaten, he had caught the first\nmagical hints and heraldings of another Spring, and, fired by these,\nhad sped on a long tramp inland, hungry for the experiment of life on\nsome quiet farmstead, very far from the weary beating of any sea.\n\nSpell-bound and quivering with excitement, the Water Rat followed the\nAdventurer league by league, over stormy bays, through crowded\nroadsteads, across harbour bars on a racing tide, up winding rivers\nthat hid their busy little towns round a sudden turn; and left him with\na regretful sigh planted at his dull inland farm, about which he\ndesired to hear nothing.\n\nBy this time their meal was over, and the Seafarer, refreshed and\nstrengthened, his voice more vibrant, his eye lit with a brightness\nthat seemed caught from some far-away sea-beacon, filled his glass with\nthe red and glowing vintage of the South, and, leaning towards the\nWater Rat, compelled his gaze and held him, body and soul, while he\ntalked. Those eyes were of the changing foam-streaked grey-green of\nleaping Northern seas; in the glass shone a hot ruby that seemed the\nvery heart of the South, beating for him who had courage to respond to\nits pulsation. The twin lights, the shifting grey and the steadfast\nred, mastered the Water Rat and held him bound, fascinated, powerless.\nThe quiet world outside their rays receded far away and ceased to be.\nAnd the talk, the wonderful talk flowed on or was it speech entirely,\nor did it pass at times into song chanty of the sailors weighing the\ndripping anchor, sonorous hum of the shrouds in a tearing North-Easter,\nballad of the fisherman hauling his nets at sundown against an apricot\nsky, chords of guitar and mandoline from gondola or caique? Did it\nchange into the cry of the wind, plaintive at first, angrily shrill as\nit freshened, rising to a tearing whistle, sinking to a musical trickle\nof air from the leech of the bellying sail? All these sounds the\nspell-bound listener seemed to hear, and with them the hungry complaint\nof the gulls and the sea-mews, the soft thunder of the breaking wave,\nthe cry of the protesting shingle. Back into speech again it passed,\nand with beating heart he was following the adventures of a dozen\nseaports, the fights, the escapes, the rallies, the comradeships, the\ngallant undertakings; or he searched islands for treasure, fished in\nstill lagoons and dozed day-long on warm white sand. Of deep-sea\nfishings he heard tell, and mighty silver gatherings of the mile-long\nnet; of sudden perils, noise of breakers on a moonless night, or the\ntall bows of the great liner taking shape overhead through the fog; of\nthe merry home-coming, the headland rounded, the harbour lights opened\nout; the groups seen dimly on the quay, the cheery hail, the splash of\nthe hawser; the trudge up the steep little street towards the\ncomforting glow of red-curtained windows.\n\nLastly, in his waking dream it seemed to him that the Adventurer had\nrisen to his feet, but was still speaking, still holding him fast with\nhis sea-grey eyes.\n\n And now,  he was softly saying,  I take to the road again, holding on\nsouthwestwards for many a long and dusty day; till at last I reach the\nlittle grey sea town I know so well, that clings along one steep side\nof the harbour. There through dark doorways you look down flights of\nstone steps, overhung by great pink tufts of valerian and ending in a\npatch of sparkling blue water. The little boats that lie tethered to\nthe rings and stanchions of the old sea-wall are gaily painted as those\nI clambered in and out of in my own childhood; the salmon leap on the\nflood tide, schools of mackerel flash and play past quay-sides and\nforeshores, and by the windows the great vessels glide, night and day,\nup to their moorings or forth to the open sea. There, sooner or later,\nthe ships of all seafaring nations arrive; and there, at its destined\nhour, the ship of my choice will let go its anchor. I shall take my\ntime, I shall tarry and bide, till at last the right one lies waiting\nfor me, warped out into midstream, loaded low, her bowsprit pointing\ndown harbour. I shall slip on board, by boat or along hawser; and then\none morning I shall wake to the song and tramp of the sailors, the\nclink of the capstan, and the rattle of the anchor-chain coming merrily\nin. We shall break out the jib and the foresail, the white houses on\nthe harbour side will glide slowly past us as she gathers steering-way,\nand the voyage will have begun! As she forges towards the headland she\nwill clothe herself with canvas; and then, once outside, the sounding\nslap of great green seas as she heels to the wind, pointing South!\n\n And you, you will come too, young brother; for the days pass, and\nnever return, and the South still waits for you. Take the Adventure,\nheed the call, now ere the irrevocable moment passes!  Tis but a\nbanging of the door behind you, a blithesome step forward, and you are\nout of the old life and into the new! Then some day, some day long\nhence, jog home here if you will, when the cup has been drained and the\nplay has been played, and sit down by your quiet river with a store of\ngoodly memories for company. You can easily overtake me on the road,\nfor you are young, and I am ageing and go softly. I will linger, and\nlook back; and at last I will surely see you coming, eager and\nlight-hearted, with all the South in your face! \n\nThe voice died away and ceased as an insect s tiny trumpet dwindles\nswiftly into silence; and the Water Rat, paralysed and staring, saw at\nlast but a distant speck on the white surface of the road.\n\nMechanically he rose and proceeded to repack the luncheon-basket,\ncarefully and without haste. Mechanically he returned home, gathered\ntogether a few small necessaries and special treasures he was fond of,\nand put them in a satchel; acting with slow deliberation, moving about\nthe room like a sleep-walker; listening ever with parted lips. He swung\nthe satchel over his shoulder, carefully selected a stout stick for his\nwayfaring, and with no haste, but with no hesitation at all, he stepped\nacross the threshold just as the Mole appeared at the door.\n\n Why, where are you off to, Ratty?  asked the Mole in great surprise,\ngrasping him by the arm.\n\n Going South, with the rest of them,  murmured the Rat in a dreamy\nmonotone, never looking at him.  Seawards first and then on shipboard,\nand so to the shores that are calling me! \n\nHe pressed resolutely forward, still without haste, but with dogged\nfixity of purpose; but the Mole, now thoroughly alarmed, placed himself\nin front of him, and looking into his eyes saw that they were glazed\nand set and turned a streaked and shifting grey not his friend s eyes,\nbut the eyes of some other animal! Grappling with him strongly he\ndragged him inside, threw him down, and held him.\n\nThe Rat struggled desperately for a few moments, and then his strength\nseemed suddenly to leave him, and he lay still and exhausted, with\nclosed eyes, trembling. Presently the Mole assisted him to rise and\nplaced him in a chair, where he sat collapsed and shrunken into\nhimself, his body shaken by a violent shivering, passing in time into\nan hysterical fit of dry sobbing. Mole made the door fast, threw the\nsatchel into a drawer and locked it, and sat down quietly on the table\nby his friend, waiting for the strange seizure to pass. Gradually the\nRat sank into a troubled doze, broken by starts and confused murmurings\nof things strange and wild and foreign to the unenlightened Mole; and\nfrom that he passed into a deep slumber.\n\nVery anxious in mind, the Mole left him for a time and busied himself\nwith household matters; and it was getting dark when he returned to the\nparlour and found the Rat where he had left him, wide awake indeed, but\nlistless, silent, and dejected. He took one hasty glance at his eyes;\nfound them, to his great gratification, clear and dark and brown again\nas before; and then sat down and tried to cheer him up and help him to\nrelate what had happened to him.\n\nPoor Ratty did his best, by degrees, to explain things; but how could\nhe put into cold words what had mostly been suggestion? How recall, for\nanother s benefit, the haunting sea voices that had sung to him, how\nreproduce at second-hand the magic of the Seafarer s hundred\nreminiscences? Even to himself, now the spell was broken and the\nglamour gone, he found it difficult to account for what had seemed,\nsome hours ago, the inevitable and only thing. It is not surprising,\nthen, that he failed to convey to the Mole any clear idea of what he\nhad been through that day.\n\nTo the Mole this much was plain: the fit, or attack, had passed away,\nand had left him sane again, though shaken and cast down by the\nreaction. But he seemed to have lost all interest for the time in the\nthings that went to make up his daily life, as well as in all pleasant\nforecastings of the altered days and doings that the changing season\nwas surely bringing.\n\nCasually, then, and with seeming indifference, the Mole turned his talk\nto the harvest that was being gathered in, the towering wagons and\ntheir straining teams, the growing ricks, and the large moon rising\nover bare acres dotted with sheaves. He talked of the reddening apples\naround, of the browning nuts, of jams and preserves and the distilling\nof cordials; till by easy stages such as these he reached midwinter,\nits hearty joys and its snug home life, and then he became simply\nlyrical.\n\nBy degrees the Rat began to sit up and to join in. His dull eye\nbrightened, and he lost some of his listening air.\n\nPresently the tactful Mole slipped away and returned with a pencil and\na few half-sheets of paper, which he placed on the table at his\nfriend s elbow.\n\n It s quite a long time since you did any poetry,  he remarked.  You\nmight have a try at it this evening, instead of well, brooding over\nthings so much. I ve an idea that you ll feel a lot better when you ve\ngot something jotted down if it s only just the rhymes. \n\nThe Rat pushed the paper away from him wearily, but the discreet Mole\ntook occasion to leave the room, and when he peeped in again some time\nlater, the Rat was absorbed and deaf to the world; alternately\nscribbling and sucking the top of his pencil. It is true that he sucked\na good deal more than he scribbled; but it was joy to the Mole to know\nthat the cure had at least begun.\n\n\n\n\nX.\nTHE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF TOAD\n\n\nThe front door of the hollow tree faced eastwards, so Toad was called\nat an early hour; partly by the bright sunlight streaming in on him,\npartly by the exceeding coldness of his toes, which made him dream that\nhe was at home in bed in his own handsome room with the Tudor window,\non a cold winter s night, and his bedclothes had got up, grumbling and\nprotesting they couldn t stand the cold any longer, and had run\ndownstairs to the kitchen fire to warm themselves; and he had followed,\non bare feet, along miles and miles of icy stone-paved passages,\narguing and beseeching them to be reasonable. He would probably have\nbeen aroused much earlier, had he not slept for some weeks on straw\nover stone flags, and almost forgotten the friendly feeling of thick\nblankets pulled well up round the chin.\n\nSitting up, he rubbed his eyes first and his complaining toes next,\nwondered for a moment where he was, looking round for familiar stone\nwall and little barred window; then, with a leap of the heart,\nremembered everything his escape, his flight, his pursuit; remembered,\nfirst and best thing of all, that he was free!\n\nFree! The word and the thought alone were worth fifty blankets. He was\nwarm from end to end as he thought of the jolly world outside, waiting\neagerly for him to make his triumphal entrance, ready to serve him and\nplay up to him, anxious to help him and to keep him company, as it\nalways had been in days of old before misfortune fell upon him. He\nshook himself and combed the dry leaves out of his hair with his\nfingers; and, his toilet complete, marched forth into the comfortable\nmorning sun, cold but confident, hungry but hopeful, all nervous\nterrors of yesterday dispelled by rest and sleep and frank and\nheartening sunshine.\n\nHe had the world all to himself, that early summer morning. The dewy\nwoodland, as he threaded it, was solitary and still: the green fields\nthat succeeded the trees were his own to do as he liked with; the road\nitself, when he reached it, in that loneliness that was everywhere,\nseemed, like a stray dog, to be looking anxiously for company. Toad,\nhowever, was looking for something that could talk, and tell him\nclearly which way he ought to go. It is all very well, when you have a\nlight heart, and a clear conscience, and money in your pocket, and\nnobody scouring the country for you to drag you off to prison again, to\nfollow where the road beckons and points, not caring whither. The\npractical Toad cared very much indeed, and he could have kicked the\nroad for its helpless silence when every minute was of importance to\nhim.\n\nThe reserved rustic road was presently joined by a shy little brother\nin the shape of a canal, which took its hand and ambled along by its\nside in perfect confidence, but with the same tongue-tied,\nuncommunicative attitude towards strangers.  Bother them!  said Toad to\nhimself.  But, anyhow, one thing s clear. They must both be coming\n_from_ somewhere, and going _to_ somewhere. You can t get over that.\nToad, my boy!  So he marched on patiently by the water s edge.\n\nRound a bend in the canal came plodding a solitary horse, stooping\nforward as if in anxious thought. From rope traces attached to his\ncollar stretched a long line, taut, but dipping with his stride, the\nfurther part of it dripping pearly drops. Toad let the horse pass, and\nstood waiting for what the fates were sending him.\n\nWith a pleasant swirl of quiet water at its blunt bow the barge slid up\nalongside of him, its gaily painted gunwale level with the towing-path,\nits sole occupant a big stout woman wearing a linen sun-bonnet, one\nbrawny arm laid along the tiller.\n\n A nice morning, ma am!  she remarked to Toad, as she drew up level\nwith him.\n\n I dare say it is, ma am!  responded Toad politely, as he walked along\nthe tow-path abreast of her.  I dare it _is_ a nice morning to them\nthat s not in sore trouble, like what I am. Here s my married daughter,\nshe sends off to me post-haste to come to her at once; so off I comes,\nnot knowing what may be happening or going to happen, but fearing the\nworst, as you will understand, ma am, if you re a mother, too. And I ve\nleft my business to look after itself I m in the washing and laundering\nline, you must know, ma am and I ve left my young children to look\nafter themselves, and a more mischievous and troublesome set of young\nimps doesn t exist, ma am; and I ve lost all my money, and lost my way,\nand as for what may be happening to my married daughter, why, I don t\nlike to think of it, ma am! \n\n Where might your married daughter be living, ma am?  asked the\nbarge-woman.\n\n She lives near to the river, ma am,  replied Toad.  Close to a fine\nhouse called Toad Hall, that s somewheres hereabouts in these parts.\nPerhaps you may have heard of it. \n\n Toad Hall? Why, I m going that way myself,  replied the barge-woman.\n This canal joins the river some miles further on, a little above Toad\nHall; and then it s an easy walk. You come along in the barge with me,\nand I ll give you a lift. \n\nShe steered the barge close to the bank, and Toad, with many humble and\ngrateful acknowledgments, stepped lightly on board and sat down with\ngreat satisfaction.  Toad s luck again!  thought he.  I always come out\non top! \n\n So you re in the washing business, ma am?  said the barge-woman\npolitely, as they glided along.  And a very good business you ve got\ntoo, I dare say, if I m not making too free in saying so. \n\n Finest business in the whole country,  said Toad airily.  All the\ngentry come to me wouldn t go to any one else if they were paid, they\nknow me so well. You see, I understand my work thoroughly, and attend\nto it all myself. Washing, ironing, clear-starching, making up gents \nfine shirts for evening wear everything s done under my own eye! \n\n But surely you don t _do_ all that work yourself, ma am?  asked the\nbarge-woman respectfully.\n\n O, I have girls,  said Toad lightly:  twenty girls or thereabouts,\nalways at work. But you know what _girls_ are, ma am! Nasty little\nhussies, that s what _I_ call  em! \n\n So do I, too,  said the barge-woman with great heartiness.  But I dare\nsay you set yours to rights, the idle trollops! And are you _very_ fond\nof washing? \n\n I love it,  said Toad.  I simply dote on it. Never so happy as when\nI ve got both arms in the wash-tub. But, then, it comes so easy to me!\nNo trouble at all! A real pleasure, I assure you, ma am! \n\n What a bit of luck, meeting you!  observed the barge-woman,\nthoughtfully.  A regular piece of good fortune for both of us! \n\n Why, what do you mean?  asked Toad, nervously.\n\n Well, look at me, now,  replied the barge-woman.  _I_ like washing,\ntoo, just the same as you do; and for that matter, whether I like it or\nnot I have got to do all my own, naturally, moving about as I do. Now\nmy husband, he s such a fellow for shirking his work and leaving the\nbarge to me, that never a moment do I get for seeing to my own affairs.\nBy rights he ought to be here now, either steering or attending to the\nhorse, though luckily the horse has sense enough to attend to himself.\nInstead of which, he s gone off with the dog, to see if they can t pick\nup a rabbit for dinner somewhere. Says he ll catch me up at the next\nlock. Well, that s as may be I don t trust him, once he gets off with\nthat dog, who s worse than he is. But meantime, how am I to get on with\nmy washing? \n\n O, never mind about the washing,  said Toad, not liking the subject.\n Try and fix your mind on that rabbit. A nice fat young rabbit, I ll be\nbound. Got any onions? \n\n I can t fix my mind on anything but my washing,  said the barge-woman,\n and I wonder you can be talking of rabbits, with such a joyful\nprospect before you. There s a heap of things of mine that you ll find\nin a corner of the cabin. If you ll just take one or two of the most\nnecessary sort I won t venture to describe them to a lady like you, but\nyou ll recognise them at a glance and put them through the wash-tub as\nwe go along, why, it ll be a pleasure to you, as you rightly say, and a\nreal help to me. You ll find a tub handy, and soap, and a kettle on the\nstove, and a bucket to haul up water from the canal with. Then I shall\nknow you re enjoying yourself, instead of sitting here idle, looking at\nthe scenery and yawning your head off. \n\n Here, you let me steer!  said Toad, now thoroughly frightened,  and\nthen you can get on with your washing your own way. I might spoil your\nthings, or not do  em as you like. I m more used to gentlemen s things\nmyself. It s my special line. \n\n Let you steer?  replied the barge-woman, laughing.  It takes some\npractice to steer a barge properly. Besides, it s dull work, and I want\nyou to be happy. No, you shall do the washing you are so fond of, and\nI ll stick to the steering that I understand. Don t try and deprive me\nof the pleasure of giving you a treat! \n\nToad was fairly cornered. He looked for escape this way and that, saw\nthat he was too far from the bank for a flying leap, and sullenly\nresigned himself to his fate.  If it comes to that,  he thought in\ndesperation,  I suppose any fool can _wash!_ \n\nHe fetched tub, soap, and other necessaries from the cabin, selected a\nfew garments at random, tried to recollect what he had seen in casual\nglances through laundry windows, and set to.\n\nA long half-hour passed, and every minute of it saw Toad getting\ncrosser and crosser. Nothing that he could do to the things seemed to\nplease them or do them good. He tried coaxing, he tried slapping, he\ntried punching; they smiled back at him out of the tub unconverted,\nhappy in their original sin. Once or twice he looked nervously over his\nshoulder at the barge-woman, but she appeared to be gazing out in front\nof her, absorbed in her steering. His back ached badly, and he noticed\nwith dismay that his paws were beginning to get all crinkly. Now Toad\nwas very proud of his paws. He muttered under his breath words that\nshould never pass the lips of either washerwomen or Toads; and lost the\nsoap, for the fiftieth time.\n\nA burst of laughter made him straighten himself and look round. The\nbarge-woman was leaning back and laughing unrestrainedly, till the\ntears ran down her cheeks.\n\n I ve been watching you all the time,  she gasped.  I thought you must\nbe a humbug all along, from the conceited way you talked. Pretty\nwasherwoman you are! Never washed so much as a dish-clout in your life,\nI ll lay! \n\nToad s temper which had been simmering viciously for some time, now\nfairly boiled over, and he lost all control of himself.\n\n You common, low, _fat_ barge-woman!  he shouted;  don t you dare to\ntalk to your betters like that! Washerwoman indeed! I would have you to\nknow that I am a Toad, a very well-known, respected, distinguished\nToad! I may be under a bit of a cloud at present, but I will _not_ be\nlaughed at by a bargewoman! \n\nThe woman moved nearer to him and peered under his bonnet keenly and\nclosely.  Why, so you are!  she cried.  Well, I never! A horrid, nasty,\ncrawly Toad! And in my nice clean barge, too! Now that is a thing that\nI will _not_ have. \n\nShe relinquished the tiller for a moment. One big mottled arm shot out\nand caught Toad by a fore-leg, while the other-gripped him fast by a\nhind-leg. Then the world turned suddenly upside down, the barge seemed\nto flit lightly across the sky, the wind whistled in his ears, and Toad\nfound himself flying through the air, revolving rapidly as he went.\n\nThe water, when he eventually reached it with a loud splash, proved\nquite cold enough for his taste, though its chill was not sufficient to\nquell his proud spirit, or slake the heat of his furious temper. He\nrose to the surface spluttering, and when he had wiped the duck-weed\nout of his eyes the first thing he saw was the fat barge-woman looking\nback at him over the stern of the retreating barge and laughing; and he\nvowed, as he coughed and choked, to be even with her.\n\nHe struck out for the shore, but the cotton gown greatly impeded his\nefforts, and when at length he touched land he found it hard to climb\nup the steep bank unassisted. He had to take a minute or two s rest to\nrecover his breath; then, gathering his wet skirts well over his arms,\nhe started to run after the barge as fast as his legs would carry him,\nwild with indignation, thirsting for revenge.\n\nThe barge-woman was still laughing when he drew up level with her.  Put\nyourself through your mangle, washerwoman,  she called out,  and iron\nyour face and crimp it, and you ll pass for quite a decent-looking\nToad! \n\nToad never paused to reply. Solid revenge was what he wanted, not\ncheap, windy, verbal triumphs, though he had a thing or two in his mind\nthat he would have liked to say. He saw what he wanted ahead of him.\nRunning swiftly on he overtook the horse, unfastened the towrope and\ncast off, jumped lightly on the horse s back, and urged it to a gallop\nby kicking it vigorously in the sides. He steered for the open country,\nabandoning the tow-path, and swinging his steed down a rutty lane. Once\nhe looked back, and saw that the barge had run aground on the other\nside of the canal, and the barge-woman was gesticulating wildly and\nshouting,  Stop, stop, stop!   I ve heard that song before,  said Toad,\nlaughing, as he continued to spur his steed onward in its wild career.\n\nThe barge-horse was not capable of any very sustained effort, and its\ngallop soon subsided into a trot, and its trot into an easy walk; but\nToad was quite contented with this, knowing that he, at any rate, was\nmoving, and the barge was not. He had quite recovered his temper, now\nthat he had done something he thought really clever; and he was\nsatisfied to jog along quietly in the sun, steering his horse along\nby-ways and bridle-paths, and trying to forget how very long it was\nsince he had had a square meal, till the canal had been left very far\nbehind him.\n\nHe had travelled some miles, his horse and he, and he was feeling\ndrowsy in the hot sunshine, when the horse stopped, lowered his head,\nand began to nibble the grass; and Toad, waking up, just saved himself\nfrom falling off by an effort. He looked about him and found he was on\na wide common, dotted with patches of gorse and bramble as far as he\ncould see. Near him stood a dingy gipsy caravan, and beside it a man\nwas sitting on a bucket turned upside down, very busy smoking and\nstaring into the wide world. A fire of sticks was burning near by, and\nover the fire hung an iron pot, and out of that pot came forth\nbubblings and gurglings, and a vague suggestive steaminess. Also\nsmells warm, rich, and varied smells that twined and twisted and\nwreathed themselves at last into one complete, voluptuous, perfect\nsmell that seemed like the very soul of Nature taking form and\nappearing to her children, a true Goddess, a mother of solace and\ncomfort. Toad now knew well that he had not been really hungry before.\nWhat he had felt earlier in the day had been a mere trifling qualm.\nThis was the real thing at last, and no mistake; and it would have to\nbe dealt with speedily, too, or there would be trouble for somebody or\nsomething. He looked the gipsy over carefully, wondering vaguely\nwhether it would be easier to fight him or cajole him. So there he sat,\nand sniffed and sniffed, and looked at the gipsy; and the gipsy sat and\nsmoked, and looked at him.\n\nPresently the gipsy took his pipe out of his mouth and remarked in a\ncareless way,  Want to sell that there horse of yours? \n\nToad was completely taken aback. He did not know that gipsies were very\nfond of horse-dealing, and never missed an opportunity, and he had not\nreflected that caravans were always on the move and took a deal of\ndrawing. It had not occurred to him to turn the horse into cash, but\nthe gipsy s suggestion seemed to smooth the way towards the two things\nhe wanted so badly ready money, and a solid breakfast.\n\n What?  he said,  me sell this beautiful young horse of mine? O, no;\nit s out of the question. Who s going to take the washing home to my\ncustomers every week? Besides, I m too fond of him, and he simply dotes\non me. \n\n Try and love a donkey,  suggested the gipsy.  Some people do. \n\n You don t seem to see,  continued Toad,  that this fine horse of mine\nis a cut above you altogether. He s a blood horse, he is, partly; not\nthe part you see, of course another part. And he s been a Prize\nHackney, too, in his time that was the time before you knew him, but\nyou can still tell it on him at a glance, if you understand anything\nabout horses. No, it s not to be thought of for a moment. All the same,\nhow much might you be disposed to offer me for this beautiful young\nhorse of mine? \n\nThe gipsy looked the horse over, and then he looked Toad over with\nequal care, and looked at the horse again.  Shillin  a leg,  he said\nbriefly, and turned away, continuing to smoke and try to stare the wide\nworld out of countenance.\n\n A shilling a leg?  cried Toad.  If you please, I must take a little\ntime to work that out, and see just what it comes to. \n\nHe climbed down off his horse, and left it to graze, and sat down by\nthe gipsy, and did sums on his fingers, and at last he said,  A\nshilling a leg? Why, that comes to exactly four shillings, and no more.\nO, no; I could not think of accepting four shillings for this beautiful\nyoung horse of mine. \n\n Well,  said the gipsy,  I ll tell you what I will do. I ll make it\nfive shillings, and that s three-and-sixpence more than the animal s\nworth. And that s my last word. \n\nThen Toad sat and pondered long and deeply. For he was hungry and quite\npenniless, and still some way he knew not how far from home, and\nenemies might still be looking for him. To one in such a situation,\nfive shillings may very well appear a large sum of money. On the other\nhand, it did not seem very much to get for a horse. But then, again,\nthe horse hadn t cost him anything; so whatever he got was all clear\nprofit. At last he said firmly,  Look here, gipsy! I tell you what we\nwill do; and this is _my_ last word. You shall hand me over six\nshillings and sixpence, cash down; and further, in addition thereto,\nyou shall give me as much breakfast as I can possibly eat, at one\nsitting of course, out of that iron pot of yours that keeps sending\nforth such delicious and exciting smells. In return, I will make over\nto you my spirited young horse, with all the beautiful harness and\ntrappings that are on him, freely thrown in. If that s not good enough\nfor you, say so, and I ll be getting on. I know a man near here who s\nwanted this horse of mine for years. \n\nThe gipsy grumbled frightfully, and declared if he did a few more deals\nof that sort he d be ruined. But in the end he lugged a dirty canvas\nbag out of the depths of his trouser pocket, and counted out six\nshillings and sixpence into Toad s paw. Then he disappeared into the\ncaravan for an instant, and returned with a large iron plate and a\nknife, fork, and spoon. He tilted up the pot, and a glorious stream of\nhot rich stew gurgled into the plate. It was, indeed, the most\nbeautiful stew in the world, being made of partridges, and pheasants,\nand chickens, and hares, and rabbits, and pea-hens, and guinea-fowls,\nand one or two other things. Toad took the plate on his lap, almost\ncrying, and stuffed, and stuffed, and stuffed, and kept asking for\nmore, and the gipsy never grudged it him. He thought that he had never\neaten so good a breakfast in all his life.\n\nWhen Toad had taken as much stew on board as he thought he could\npossibly hold, he got up and said good-bye to the gipsy, and took an\naffectionate farewell of the horse; and the gipsy, who knew the\nriverside well, gave him directions which way to go, and he set forth\non his travels again in the best possible spirits. He was, indeed, a\nvery different Toad from the animal of an hour ago. The sun was shining\nbrightly, his wet clothes were quite dry again, he had money in his\npocket once more, he was nearing home and friends and safety, and, most\nand best of all, he had had a substantial meal, hot and nourishing, and\nfelt big, and strong, and careless, and self-confident.\n\nAs he tramped along gaily, he thought of his adventures and escapes,\nand how when things seemed at their worst he had always managed to find\na way out; and his pride and conceit began to swell within him.  Ho,\nho!  he said to himself as he marched along with his chin in the air,\n what a clever Toad I am! There is surely no animal equal to me for\ncleverness in the whole world! My enemies shut me up in prison,\nencircled by sentries, watched night and day by warders; I walk out\nthrough them all, by sheer ability coupled with courage. They pursue me\nwith engines, and policemen, and revolvers; I snap my fingers at them,\nand vanish, laughing, into space. I am, unfortunately, thrown into a\ncanal by a woman fat of body and very evil-minded. What of it? I swim\nashore, I seize her horse, I ride off in triumph, and I sell the horse\nfor a whole pocketful of money and an excellent breakfast! Ho, ho! I am\nThe Toad, the handsome, the popular, the successful Toad!  He got so\npuffed up with conceit that he made up a song as he walked in praise of\nhimself, and sang it at the top of his voice, though there was no one\nto hear it but him. It was perhaps the most conceited song that any\nanimal ever composed.\n\n The world has held great Heroes,\n    As history-books have showed;\nBut never a name to go down to fame\n    Compared with that of Toad!\n\n The clever men at Oxford\n    Know all that there is to be knowed.\nBut they none of them know one half as much\n    As intelligent Mr. Toad!\n\n The animals sat in the Ark and cried,\n    Their tears in torrents flowed.\nWho was it said,  There s land ahead? \n    Encouraging Mr. Toad!\n\n The army all saluted\n    As they marched along the road.\nWas it the King? Or Kitchener?\n    No. It was Mr. Toad.\n\n The Queen and her Ladies-in-waiting\n    Sat at the window and sewed.\nShe cried,  Look! who s that _handsome_ man? \n    They answered,  Mr. Toad. \n\n\nThere was a great deal more of the same sort, but too dreadfully\nconceited to be written down. These are some of the milder verses.\n\nHe sang as he walked, and he walked as he sang, and got more inflated\nevery minute. But his pride was shortly to have a severe fall.\n\nAfter some miles of country lanes he reached the high road, and as he\nturned into it and glanced along its white length, he saw approaching\nhim a speck that turned into a dot and then into a blob, and then into\nsomething very familiar; and a double note of warning, only too well\nknown, fell on his delighted ear.\n\n This is something like!  said the excited Toad.  This is real life\nagain, this is once more the great world from which I have been missed\nso long! I will hail them, my brothers of the wheel, and pitch them a\nyarn, of the sort that has been so successful hitherto; and they will\ngive me a lift, of course, and then I will talk to them some more; and,\nperhaps, with luck, it may even end in my driving up to Toad Hall in a\nmotor-car! That will be one in the eye for Badger! \n\nHe stepped confidently out into the road to hail the motor-car, which\ncame along at an easy pace, slowing down as it neared the lane; when\nsuddenly he became very pale, his heart turned to water, his knees\nshook and yielded under him, and he doubled up and collapsed with a\nsickening pain in his interior. And well he might, the unhappy animal;\nfor the approaching car was the very one he had stolen out of the yard\nof the Red Lion Hotel on that fatal day when all his troubles began!\nAnd the people in it were the very same people he had sat and watched\nat luncheon in the coffee-room!\n\nHe sank down in a shabby, miserable heap in the road, murmuring to\nhimself in his despair,  It s all up! It s all over now! Chains and\npolicemen again! Prison again! Dry bread and water again! O, what a\nfool I have been! What did I want to go strutting about the country\nfor, singing conceited songs, and hailing people in broad day on the\nhigh road, instead of hiding till nightfall and slipping home quietly\nby back ways! O hapless Toad! O ill-fated animal! \n\nThe terrible motor-car drew slowly nearer and nearer, till at last he\nheard it stop just short of him. Two gentlemen got out and walked round\nthe trembling heap of crumpled misery lying in the road, and one of\nthem said,  O dear! this is very sad! Here is a poor old thing a\nwasherwoman apparently who has fainted in the road! Perhaps she is\novercome by the heat, poor creature; or possibly she has not had any\nfood to-day. Let us lift her into the car and take her to the nearest\nvillage, where doubtless she has friends. \n\nThey tenderly lifted Toad into the motor-car and propped him up with\nsoft cushions, and proceeded on their way.\n\nWhen Toad heard them talk in so kind and sympathetic a way, and knew\nthat he was not recognised, his courage began to revive, and he\ncautiously opened first one eye and then the other.\n\n Look!  said one of the gentlemen,  she is better already. The fresh\nair is doing her good. How do you feel now, ma am? \n\n Thank you kindly, Sir,  said Toad in a feeble voice,  I m feeling a\ngreat deal better!   That s right,  said the gentleman.  Now keep quite\nstill, and, above all, don t try to talk. \n\n I won t,  said Toad.  I was only thinking, if I might sit on the front\nseat there, beside the driver, where I could get the fresh air full in\nmy face, I should soon be all right again. \n\n What a very sensible woman!  said the gentleman.  Of course you\nshall.  So they carefully helped Toad into the front seat beside the\ndriver, and on they went again.\n\nToad was almost himself again by now. He sat up, looked about him, and\ntried to beat down the tremors, the yearnings, the old cravings that\nrose up and beset him and took possession of him entirely.\n\n It is fate!  he said to himself.  Why strive? why struggle?  and he\nturned to the driver at his side.\n\n Please, Sir,  he said,  I wish you would kindly let me try and drive\nthe car for a little. I ve been watching you carefully, and it looks so\neasy and so interesting, and I should like to be able to tell my\nfriends that once I had driven a motor-car! \n\nThe driver laughed at the proposal, so heartily that the gentleman\ninquired what the matter was. When he heard, he said, to Toad s\ndelight,  Bravo, ma am! I like your spirit. Let her have a try, and\nlook after her. She won t do any harm. \n\nToad eagerly scrambled into the seat vacated by the driver, took the\nsteering-wheel in his hands, listened with affected humility to the\ninstructions given him, and set the car in motion, but very slowly and\ncarefully at first, for he was determined to be prudent.\n\nThe gentlemen behind clapped their hands and applauded, and Toad heard\nthem saying,  How well she does it! Fancy a washerwoman driving a car\nas well as that, the first time! \n\nToad went a little faster; then faster still, and faster.\n\nHe heard the gentlemen call out warningly,  Be careful, washerwoman! \nAnd this annoyed him, and he began to lose his head.\n\nThe driver tried to interfere, but he pinned him down in his seat with\none elbow, and put on full speed. The rush of air in his face, the hum\nof the engines, and the light jump of the car beneath him intoxicated\nhis weak brain.  Washerwoman, indeed!  he shouted recklessly.  Ho! ho!\nI am the Toad, the motor-car snatcher, the prison-breaker, the Toad who\nalways escapes! Sit still, and you shall know what driving really is,\nfor you are in the hands of the famous, the skilful, the entirely\nfearless Toad! \n\nWith a cry of horror the whole party rose and flung themselves on him.\n Seize him!  they cried,  seize the Toad, the wicked animal who stole\nour motor-car! Bind him, chain him, drag him to the nearest\npolice-station! Down with the desperate and dangerous Toad! \n\nAlas! they should have thought, they ought to have been more prudent,\nthey should have remembered to stop the motor-car somehow before\nplaying any pranks of that sort. With a half-turn of the wheel the Toad\nsent the car crashing through the low hedge that ran along the\nroadside. One mighty bound, a violent shock, and the wheels of the car\nwere churning up the thick mud of a horse-pond.\n\nToad found himself flying through the air with the strong upward rush\nand delicate curve of a swallow. He liked the motion, and was just\nbeginning to wonder whether it would go on until he developed wings and\nturned into a Toad-bird, when he landed on his back with a thump, in\nthe soft rich grass of a meadow. Sitting up, he could just see the\nmotor-car in the pond, nearly submerged; the gentlemen and the driver,\nencumbered by their long coats, were floundering helplessly in the\nwater.\n\nHe picked himself up rapidly, and set off running across country as\nhard as he could, scrambling through hedges, jumping ditches, pounding\nacross fields, till he was breathless and weary, and had to settle down\ninto an easy walk. When he had recovered his breath somewhat, and was\nable to think calmly, he began to giggle, and from giggling he took to\nlaughing, and he laughed till he had to sit down under a hedge.  Ho,\nho!  he cried, in ecstasies of self-admiration,  Toad again! Toad, as\nusual, comes out on the top! Who was it got them to give him a lift?\nWho managed to get on the front seat for the sake of fresh air? Who\npersuaded them into letting him see if he could drive? Who landed them\nall in a horse-pond? Who escaped, flying gaily and unscathed through\nthe air, leaving the narrow-minded, grudging, timid excursionists in\nthe mud where they should rightly be? Why, Toad, of course; clever\nToad, great Toad, _good_ Toad! \n\nThen he burst into song again, and chanted with uplifted voice \n\n The motor-car went Poop-poop-poop,\n    As it raced along the road.\nWho was it steered it into a pond?\n    Ingenious Mr. Toad!\n\n\nO, how clever I am! How clever, how clever, how very clev \n\nA slight noise at a distance behind him made him turn his head and\nlook. O horror! O misery! O despair!\n\nAbout two fields off, a chauffeur in his leather gaiters and two large\nrural policemen were visible, running towards him as hard as they could\ngo!\n\nPoor Toad sprang to his feet and pelted away again, his heart in his\nmouth. O, my!  he gasped, as he panted along,  what an _ass_ I am! What\na _conceited_ and heedless ass! Swaggering again! Shouting and singing\nsongs again! Sitting still and gassing again! O my! O my! O my! \n\nHe glanced back, and saw to his dismay that they were gaining on him.\nOn he ran desperately, but kept looking back, and saw that they still\ngained steadily. He did his best, but he was a fat animal, and his legs\nwere short, and still they gained. He could hear them close behind him\nnow. Ceasing to heed where he was going, he struggled on blindly and\nwildly, looking back over his shoulder at the now triumphant enemy,\nwhen suddenly the earth failed under his feet, he grasped at the air,\nand, splash! he found himself head over ears in deep water, rapid\nwater, water that bore him along with a force he could not contend\nwith; and he knew that in his blind panic he had run straight into the\nriver!\n\nHe rose to the surface and tried to grasp the reeds and the rushes that\ngrew along the water s edge close under the bank, but the stream was so\nstrong that it tore them out of his hands.  O my!  gasped poor Toad,\n if ever I steal a motor-car again! If ever I sing another conceited\nsong then down he went, and came up breathless and spluttering.\nPresently he saw that he was approaching a big dark hole in the bank,\njust above his head, and as the stream bore him past he reached up with\na paw and caught hold of the edge and held on. Then slowly and with\ndifficulty he drew himself up out of the water, till at last he was\nable to rest his elbows on the edge of the hole. There he remained for\nsome minutes, puffing and panting, for he was quite exhausted.\n\nAs he sighed and blew and stared before him into the dark hole, some\nbright small thing shone and twinkled in its depths, moving towards\nhim. As it approached, a face grew up gradually around it, and it was a\nfamiliar face!\n\nBrown and small, with whiskers.\n\nGrave and round, with neat ears and silky hair.\n\nIt was the Water Rat!\n\n\n\n\nXI.\n LIKE SUMMER TEMPESTS CAME HIS TEARS \n\n\nThe Rat put out a neat little brown paw, gripped Toad firmly by the\nscruff of the neck, and gave a great hoist and a pull; and the\nwater-logged Toad came up slowly but surely over the edge of the hole,\ntill at last he stood safe and sound in the hall, streaked with mud and\nweed to be sure, and with the water streaming off him, but happy and\nhigh-spirited as of old, now that he found himself once more in the\nhouse of a friend, and dodgings and evasions were over, and he could\nlay aside a disguise that was unworthy of his position and wanted such\na lot of living up to.\n\n O, Ratty!  he cried.  I ve been through such times since I saw you\nlast, you can t think! Such trials, such sufferings, and all so nobly\nborne! Then such escapes, such disguises such subterfuges, and all so\ncleverly planned and carried out! Been in prison got out of it, of\ncourse! Been thrown into a canal swam ashore! Stole a horse sold him\nfor a large sum of money! Humbugged everybody made  em all do exactly\nwhat I wanted! Oh, I _am_ a smart Toad, and no mistake! What do you\nthink my last exploit was? Just hold on till I tell you \n\n Toad,  said the Water Rat, gravely and firmly,  you go off upstairs at\nonce, and take off that old cotton rag that looks as if it might\nformerly have belonged to some washerwoman, and clean yourself\nthoroughly, and put on some of my clothes, and try and come down\nlooking like a gentleman if you _can;_ for a more shabby, bedraggled,\ndisreputable-looking object than you are I never set eyes on in my\nwhole life! Now, stop swaggering and arguing, and be off! I ll have\nsomething to say to you later! \n\nToad was at first inclined to stop and do some talking back at him. He\nhad had enough of being ordered about when he was in prison, and here\nwas the thing being begun all over again, apparently; and by a Rat,\ntoo! However, he caught sight of himself in the looking-glass over the\nhat-stand, with the rusty black bonnet perched rakishly over one eye,\nand he changed his mind and went very quickly and humbly upstairs to\nthe Rat s dressing-room. There he had a thorough wash and brush-up,\nchanged his clothes, and stood for a long time before the glass,\ncontemplating himself with pride and pleasure, and thinking what utter\nidiots all the people must have been to have ever mistaken him for one\nmoment for a washerwoman.\n\nBy the time he came down again luncheon was on the table, and very glad\nToad was to see it, for he had been through some trying experiences and\nhad taken much hard exercise since the excellent breakfast provided for\nhim by the gipsy. While they ate Toad told the Rat all his adventures,\ndwelling chiefly on his own cleverness, and presence of mind in\nemergencies, and cunning in tight places; and rather making out that he\nhad been having a gay and highly-coloured experience. But the more he\ntalked and boasted, the more grave and silent the Rat became.\n\nWhen at last Toad had talked himself to a standstill, there was silence\nfor a while; and then the Rat said,  Now, Toady, I don t want to give\nyou pain, after all you ve been through already; but, seriously, don t\nyou see what an awful ass you ve been making of yourself? On your own\nadmission you have been handcuffed, imprisoned, starved, chased,\nterrified out of your life, insulted, jeered at, and ignominiously\nflung into the water by a woman, too! Where s the amusement in that?\nWhere does the fun come in? And all because you must needs go and steal\na motor-car. You know that you ve never had anything but trouble from\nmotor-cars from the moment you first set eyes on one. But if you _will_\nbe mixed up with them as you generally are, five minutes after you ve\nstarted why _steal_ them? Be a cripple, if you think it s exciting; be\na bankrupt, for a change, if you ve set your mind on it: but why choose\nto be a convict? When are you going to be sensible, and think of your\nfriends, and try and be a credit to them? Do you suppose it s any\npleasure to me, for instance, to hear animals saying, as I go about,\nthat I m the chap that keeps company with gaol-birds? \n\nNow, it was a very comforting point in Toad s character that he was a\nthoroughly good-hearted animal and never minded being jawed by those\nwho were his real friends. And even when most set upon a thing, he was\nalways able to see the other side of the question. So although, while\nthe Rat was talking so seriously, he kept saying to himself mutinously,\n But it _was_ fun, though! Awful fun!  and making strange suppressed\nnoises inside him, k-i-ck-ck-ck, and poop-p-p, and other sounds\nresembling stifled snorts, or the opening of soda-water bottles, yet\nwhen the Rat had quite finished, he heaved a deep sigh and said, very\nnicely and humbly,  Quite right, Ratty! How _sound_ you always are!\nYes, I ve been a conceited old ass, I can quite see that; but now I m\ngoing to be a good Toad, and not do it any more. As for motor-cars,\nI ve not been at all so keen about them since my last ducking in that\nriver of yours. The fact is, while I was hanging on to the edge of your\nhole and getting my breath, I had a sudden idea a really brilliant\nidea connected with motor-boats there, there! don t take on so, old\nchap, and stamp, and upset things; it was only an idea, and we won t\ntalk any more about it now. We ll have our coffee, _and_ a smoke, and a\nquiet chat, and then I m going to stroll quietly down to Toad Hall, and\nget into clothes of my own, and set things going again on the old\nlines. I ve had enough of adventures. I shall lead a quiet, steady,\nrespectable life, pottering about my property, and improving it, and\ndoing a little landscape gardening at times. There will always be a bit\nof dinner for my friends when they come to see me; and I shall keep a\npony-chaise to jog about the country in, just as I used to in the good\nold days, before I got restless, and wanted to _do_ things. \n\n Stroll quietly down to Toad Hall?  cried the Rat, greatly excited.\n What are you talking about? Do you mean to say you haven t _heard?_ \n\n Heard what?  said Toad, turning rather pale.  Go on, Ratty! Quick!\nDon t spare me! What haven t I heard? \n\n Do you mean to tell me,  shouted the Rat, thumping with his little\nfist upon the table,  that you ve heard nothing about the Stoats and\nWeasels? \n\nWhat, the Wild Wooders?  cried Toad, trembling in every limb.  No, not\na word! What have they been doing? \n\n And how they ve been and taken Toad Hall?  continued the Rat.\n\nToad leaned his elbows on the table, and his chin on his paws; and a\nlarge tear welled up in each of his eyes, overflowed and splashed on\nthe table, plop! plop!\n\n Go on, Ratty,  he murmured presently;  tell me all. The worst is over.\nI am an animal again. I can bear it. \n\n When you got into that that trouble of yours,  said the Rat, slowly\nand impressively;  I mean, when you disappeared from society for a\ntime, over that misunderstanding about a a machine, you know \n\nToad merely nodded.\n\n Well, it was a good deal talked about down here, naturally,  continued\nthe Rat,  not only along the river-side, but even in the Wild Wood.\nAnimals took sides, as always happens. The River-bankers stuck up for\nyou, and said you had been infamously treated, and there was no justice\nto be had in the land nowadays. But the Wild Wood animals said hard\nthings, and served you right, and it was time this sort of thing was\nstopped. And they got very cocky, and went about saying you were done\nfor this time! You would never come back again, never, never! \n\nToad nodded once more, keeping silence.\n\n That s the sort of little beasts they are,  the Rat went on.  But Mole\nand Badger, they stuck out, through thick and thin, that you would come\nback again soon, somehow. They didn t know exactly how, but somehow! \n\nToad began to sit up in his chair again, and to smirk a little.\n\n They argued from history,  continued the Rat.  They said that no\ncriminal laws had ever been known to prevail against cheek and\nplausibility such as yours, combined with the power of a long purse. So\nthey arranged to move their things in to Toad Hall, and sleep there,\nand keep it aired, and have it all ready for you when you turned up.\nThey didn t guess what was going to happen, of course; still, they had\ntheir suspicions of the Wild Wood animals. Now I come to the most\npainful and tragic part of my story. One dark night it was a _very_\ndark night, and blowing hard, too, and raining simply cats and dogs a\nband of weasels, armed to the teeth, crept silently up the\ncarriage-drive to the front entrance. Simultaneously, a body of\ndesperate ferrets, advancing through the kitchen-garden, possessed\nthemselves of the backyard and offices; while a company of skirmishing\nstoats who stuck at nothing occupied the conservatory and the\nbilliard-room, and held the French windows opening on to the lawn.\n\n The Mole and the Badger were sitting by the fire in the smoking-room,\ntelling stories and suspecting nothing, for it wasn t a night for any\nanimals to be out in, when those bloodthirsty villains broke down the\ndoors and rushed in upon them from every side. They made the best fight\nthey could, but what was the good? They were unarmed, and taken by\nsurprise, and what can two animals do against hundreds? They took and\nbeat them severely with sticks, those two poor faithful creatures, and\nturned them out into the cold and the wet, with many insulting and\nuncalled-for remarks! \n\nHere the unfeeling Toad broke into a snigger, and then pulled himself\ntogether and tried to look particularly solemn.\n\n And the Wild Wooders have been living in Toad Hall ever since, \ncontinued the Rat;  and going on simply anyhow! Lying in bed half the\nday, and breakfast at all hours, and the place in such a mess (I m\ntold) it s not fit to be seen! Eating your grub, and drinking your\ndrink, and making bad jokes about you, and singing vulgar songs,\nabout well, about prisons and magistrates, and policemen; horrid\npersonal songs, with no humour in them. And they re telling the\ntradespeople and everybody that they ve come to stay for good. \n\n O, have they!  said Toad getting up and seizing a stick.  I ll jolly\nsoon see about that! \n\n It s no good, Toad!  called the Rat after him.  You d better come back\nand sit down; you ll only get into trouble. \n\nBut the Toad was off, and there was no holding him. He marched rapidly\ndown the road, his stick over his shoulder, fuming and muttering to\nhimself in his anger, till he got near his front gate, when suddenly\nthere popped up from behind the palings a long yellow ferret with a\ngun.\n\n Who comes there?  said the ferret sharply.\n\n Stuff and nonsense!  said Toad, very angrily.  What do you mean by\ntalking like that to me? Come out of that at once, or I ll \n\nThe ferret said never a word, but he brought his gun up to his\nshoulder. Toad prudently dropped flat in the road, and _Bang!_ a bullet\nwhistled over his head.\n\nThe startled Toad scrambled to his feet and scampered off down the road\nas hard as he could; and as he ran he heard the ferret laughing and\nother horrid thin little laughs taking it up and carrying on the sound.\n\nHe went back, very crestfallen, and told the Water Rat.\n\n What did I tell you?  said the Rat.  It s no good. They ve got\nsentries posted, and they are all armed. You must just wait. \n\nStill, Toad was not inclined to give in all at once. So he got out the\nboat, and set off rowing up the river to where the garden front of Toad\nHall came down to the waterside.\n\nArriving within sight of his old home, he rested on his oars and\nsurveyed the land cautiously. All seemed very peaceful and deserted and\nquiet. He could see the whole front of Toad Hall, glowing in the\nevening sunshine, the pigeons settling by twos and threes along the\nstraight line of the roof; the garden, a blaze of flowers; the creek\nthat led up to the boat-house, the little wooden bridge that crossed\nit; all tranquil, uninhabited, apparently waiting for his return. He\nwould try the boat-house first, he thought. Very warily he paddled up\nto the mouth of the creek, and was just passing under the bridge, when\n... _Crash!_\n\nA great stone, dropped from above, smashed through the bottom of the\nboat. It filled and sank, and Toad found himself struggling in deep\nwater. Looking up, he saw two stoats leaning over the parapet of the\nbridge and watching him with great glee.  It will be your head next\ntime, Toady!  they called out to him. The indignant Toad swam to shore,\nwhile the stoats laughed and laughed, supporting each other, and\nlaughed again, till they nearly had two fits that is, one fit each, of\ncourse.\n\nThe Toad retraced his weary way on foot, and related his disappointing\nexperiences to the Water Rat once more.\n\n Well, _what_ did I tell you?  said the Rat very crossly.  And, now,\nlook here! See what you ve been and done! Lost me my boat that I was so\nfond of, that s what you ve done! And simply ruined that nice suit of\nclothes that I lent you! Really, Toad, of all the trying animals I\nwonder you manage to keep any friends at all! \n\nThe Toad saw at once how wrongly and foolishly he had acted. He\nadmitted his errors and wrong-headedness and made a full apology to Rat\nfor losing his boat and spoiling his clothes. And he wound up by\nsaying, with that frank self-surrender which always disarmed his\nfriend s criticism and won them back to his side,  Ratty! I see that I\nhave been a headstrong and a wilful Toad! Henceforth, believe me, I\nwill be humble and submissive, and will take no action without your\nkind advice and full approval! \n\n If that is really so,  said the good-natured Rat, already appeased,\n then my advice to you is, considering the lateness of the hour, to sit\ndown and have your supper, which will be on the table in a minute, and\nbe very patient. For I am convinced that we can do nothing until we\nhave seen the Mole and the Badger, and heard their latest news, and\nheld conference and taken their advice in this difficult matter. \n\n Oh, ah, yes, of course, the Mole and the Badger,  said Toad, lightly.\n What s become of them, the dear fellows? I had forgotten all about\nthem. \n\n Well may you ask!  said the Rat reproachfully.  While you were riding\nabout the country in expensive motor-cars, and galloping proudly on\nblood-horses, and breakfasting on the fat of the land, those two poor\ndevoted animals have been camping out in the open, in every sort of\nweather, living very rough by day and lying very hard by night;\nwatching over your house, patrolling your boundaries, keeping a\nconstant eye on the stoats and the weasels, scheming and planning and\ncontriving how to get your property back for you. You don t deserve to\nhave such true and loyal friends, Toad, you don t, really. Some day,\nwhen it s too late, you ll be sorry you didn t value them more while\nyou had them! \n\n I m an ungrateful beast, I know,  sobbed Toad, shedding bitter tears.\n Let me go out and find them, out into the cold, dark night, and share\ntheir hardships, and try and prove by Hold on a bit! Surely I heard\nthe chink of dishes on a tray! Supper s here at last, hooray! Come on,\nRatty! \n\nThe Rat remembered that poor Toad had been on prison fare for a\nconsiderable time, and that large allowances had therefore to be made.\nHe followed him to the table accordingly, and hospitably encouraged him\nin his gallant efforts to make up for past privations.\n\nThey had just finished their meal and resumed their arm-chairs, when\nthere came a heavy knock at the door.\n\nToad was nervous, but the Rat, nodding mysteriously at him, went\nstraight up to the door and opened it, and in walked Mr. Badger.\n\nHe had all the appearance of one who for some nights had been kept away\nfrom home and all its little comforts and conveniences. His shoes were\ncovered with mud, and he was looking very rough and touzled; but then\nhe had never been a very smart man, the Badger, at the best of times.\nHe came solemnly up to Toad, shook him by the paw, and said,  Welcome\nhome, Toad! Alas! what am I saying? Home, indeed! This is a poor\nhome-coming. Unhappy Toad!  Then he turned his back on him, sat down to\nthe table, drew his chair up, and helped himself to a large slice of\ncold pie.\n\nToad was quite alarmed at this very serious and portentous style of\ngreeting; but the Rat whispered to him,  Never mind; don t take any\nnotice; and don t say anything to him just yet. He s always rather low\nand despondent when he s wanting his victuals. In half an hour s time\nhe ll be quite a different animal. \n\nSo they waited in silence, and presently there came another and a\nlighter knock. The Rat, with a nod to Toad, went to the door and\nushered in the Mole, very shabby and unwashed, with bits of hay and\nstraw sticking in his fur.\n\n Hooray! Here s old Toad!  cried the Mole, his face beaming.  Fancy\nhaving you back again!  And he began to dance round him.  We never\ndreamt you would turn up so soon! Why, you must have managed to escape,\nyou clever, ingenious, intelligent Toad! \n\nThe Rat, alarmed, pulled him by the elbow; but it was too late. Toad\nwas puffing and swelling already.\n\n Clever? O, no!  he said.  I m not really clever, according to my\nfriends. I ve only broken out of the strongest prison in England,\nthat s all! And captured a railway train and escaped on it, that s all!\nAnd disguised myself and gone about the country humbugging everybody,\nthat s all! O, no! I m a stupid ass, I am! I ll tell you one or two of\nmy little adventures, Mole, and you shall judge for yourself! \n\n Well, well,  said the Mole, moving towards the supper-table;\n supposing you talk while I eat. Not a bite since breakfast! O my! O\nmy!  And he sat down and helped himself liberally to cold beef and\npickles.\n\nToad straddled on the hearth-rug, thrust his paw into his\ntrouser-pocket and pulled out a handful of silver.  Look at that!  he\ncried, displaying it.  That s not so bad, is it, for a few minutes \nwork? And how do you think I done it, Mole? Horse-dealing! That s how I\ndone it! \n\n Go on, Toad,  said the Mole, immensely interested.\n\n Toad, do be quiet, please!  said the Rat.  And don t you egg him on,\nMole, when you know what he is; but please tell us as soon as possible\nwhat the position is, and what s best to be done, now that Toad is back\nat last. \n\n The position s about as bad as it can be,  replied the Mole grumpily;\n and as for what s to be done, why, blest if I know! The Badger and I\nhave been round and round the place, by night and by day; always the\nsame thing. Sentries posted everywhere, guns poked out at us, stones\nthrown at us; always an animal on the look-out, and when they see us,\nmy! how they do laugh! That s what annoys me most! \n\n It s a very difficult situation,  said the Rat, reflecting deeply.\n But I think I see now, in the depths of my mind, what Toad really\nought to do. I will tell you. He ought to \n\n No, he oughtn t!  shouted the Mole, with his mouth full.  Nothing of\nthe sort! You don t understand. What he ought to do is, he ought to \n\n Well, I shan t do it, anyway!  cried Toad, getting excited.  I m not\ngoing to be ordered about by you fellows! It s my house we re talking\nabout, and I know exactly what to do, and I ll tell you. I m going\nto \n\nBy this time they were all three talking at once, at the top of their\nvoices, and the noise was simply deafening, when a thin, dry voice made\nitself heard, saying,  Be quiet at once, all of you!  and instantly\nevery one was silent.\n\nIt was the Badger, who, having finished his pie, had turned round in\nhis chair and was looking at them severely. When he saw that he had\nsecured their attention, and that they were evidently waiting for him\nto address them, he turned back to the table again and reached out for\nthe cheese. And so great was the respect commanded by the solid\nqualities of that admirable animal, that not another word was uttered\nuntil he had quite finished his repast and brushed the crumbs from his\nknees. The Toad fidgeted a good deal, but the Rat held him firmly down.\n\nWhen the Badger had quite done, he got up from his seat and stood\nbefore the fireplace, reflecting deeply. At last he spoke.\n\n Toad!  he said severely.  You bad, troublesome little animal! Aren t\nyou ashamed of yourself? What do you think your father, my old friend,\nwould have said if he had been here to-night, and had known of all your\ngoings on? \n\nToad, who was on the sofa by this time, with his legs up, rolled over\non his face, shaken by sobs of contrition.\n\n There, there!  went on the Badger, more kindly.  Never mind. Stop\ncrying. We re going to let bygones be bygones, and try and turn over a\nnew leaf. But what the Mole says is quite true. The stoats are on\nguard, at every point, and they make the best sentinels in the world.\nIt s quite useless to think of attacking the place. They re too strong\nfor us. \n\n Then it s all over,  sobbed the Toad, crying into the sofa cushions.\n I shall go and enlist for a soldier, and never see my dear Toad Hall\nany more! \n\n Come, cheer up, Toady!  said the Badger.  There are more ways of\ngetting back a place than taking it by storm. I haven t said my last\nword yet. Now I m going to tell you a great secret. \n\nToad sat up slowly and dried his eyes. Secrets had an immense\nattraction for him, because he never could keep one, and he enjoyed the\nsort of unhallowed thrill he experienced when he went and told another\nanimal, after having faithfully promised not to.\n\n There is an underground passage,  said the Badger, impressively,  that\nleads from the river-bank, quite near here, right up into the middle of\nToad Hall. \n\n O, nonsense! Badger,  said Toad, rather airily.  You ve been listening\nto some of the yarns they spin in the public-houses about here. I know\nevery inch of Toad Hall, inside and out. Nothing of the sort, I do\nassure you! \n\n My young friend,  said the Badger, with great severity,  your father,\nwho was a worthy animal a lot worthier than some others I know was a\nparticular friend of mine, and told me a great deal he wouldn t have\ndreamt of telling you. He discovered that passage he didn t make it, of\ncourse; that was done hundreds of years before he ever came to live\nthere and he repaired it and cleaned it out, because he thought it\nmight come in useful some day, in case of trouble or danger; and he\nshowed it to me.  Don t let my son know about it,  he said.  He s a\ngood boy, but very light and volatile in character, and simply cannot\nhold his tongue. If he s ever in a real fix, and it would be of use to\nhim, you may tell him about the secret passage; but not before. \n\nThe other animals looked hard at Toad to see how he would take it. Toad\nwas inclined to be sulky at first; but he brightened up immediately,\nlike the good fellow he was.\n\n Well, well,  he said;  perhaps I am a bit of a talker. A popular\nfellow such as I am my friends get round me we chaff, we sparkle, we\ntell witty stories and somehow my tongue gets wagging. I have the gift\nof conversation. I ve been told I ought to have a _salon_, whatever\nthat may be. Never mind. Go on, Badger. How s this passage of yours\ngoing to help us? \n\n I ve found out a thing or two lately,  continued the Badger.  I got\nOtter to disguise himself as a sweep and call at the back-door with\nbrushes over his shoulder, asking for a job. There s going to be a big\nbanquet to-morrow night. It s somebody s birthday the Chief Weasel s, I\nbelieve and all the weasels will be gathered together in the\ndining-hall, eating and drinking and laughing and carrying on,\nsuspecting nothing. No guns, no swords, no sticks, no arms of any sort\nwhatever! \n\n But the sentinels will be posted as usual,  remarked the Rat.\n\n Exactly,  said the Badger;  that is my point. The weasels will trust\nentirely to their excellent sentinels. And that is where the passage\ncomes in. That very useful tunnel leads right up under the butler s\npantry, next to the dining-hall! \n\n Aha! that squeaky board in the butler s pantry!  said Toad.  Now I\nunderstand it! \n\n We shall creep out quietly into the butler s pantry  cried the Mole.\n\n with our pistols and swords and sticks  shouted the Rat.\n\n and rush in upon them,  said the Badger.\n\n and whack  em, and whack  em, and whack  em!  cried the Toad in\necstasy, running round and round the room, and jumping over the chairs.\n\n Very well, then,  said the Badger, resuming his usual dry manner,  our\nplan is settled, and there s nothing more for you to argue and squabble\nabout. So, as it s getting very late, all of you go right off to bed at\nonce. We will make all the necessary arrangements in the course of the\nmorning to-morrow. \n\nToad, of course, went off to bed dutifully with the rest he knew better\nthan to refuse though he was feeling much too excited to sleep. But he\nhad had a long day, with many events crowded into it; and sheets and\nblankets were very friendly and comforting things, after plain straw,\nand not too much of it, spread on the stone floor of a draughty cell;\nand his head had not been many seconds on his pillow before he was\nsnoring happily. Naturally, he dreamt a good deal; about roads that ran\naway from him just when he wanted them, and canals that chased him and\ncaught him, and a barge that sailed into the banqueting-hall with his\nweek s washing, just as he was giving a dinner-party; and he was alone\nin the secret passage, pushing onwards, but it twisted and turned round\nand shook itself, and sat up on its end; yet somehow, at the last, he\nfound himself back in Toad Hall, safe and triumphant, with all his\nfriends gathered round about him, earnestly assuring him that he really\nwas a clever Toad.\n\nHe slept till a late hour next morning, and by the time he got down he\nfound that the other animals had finished their breakfast some time\nbefore. The Mole had slipped off somewhere by himself, without telling\nany one where he was going to. The Badger sat in the arm-chair, reading\nthe paper, and not concerning himself in the slightest about what was\ngoing to happen that very evening. The Rat, on the other hand, was\nrunning round the room busily, with his arms full of weapons of every\nkind, distributing them in four little heaps on the floor, and saying\nexcitedly under his breath, as he ran,  Here s-a-sword-for-the-Rat,\nhere s-a-sword-for-the Mole, here s-a-sword-for-the-Toad,\nhere s-a-sword-for-the-Badger! Here s-a-pistol-for-the-Rat,\nhere s-a-pistol-for-the-Mole, here s-a-pistol-for-the-Toad,\nhere s-a-pistol-for-the-Badger!  And so on, in a regular, rhythmical\nway, while the four little heaps gradually grew and grew.\n\n That s all very well, Rat,  said the Badger presently, looking at the\nbusy little animal over the edge of his newspaper;  I m not blaming\nyou. But just let us once get past the stoats, with those detestable\nguns of theirs, and I assure you we shan t want any swords or pistols.\nWe four, with our sticks, once we re inside the dining-hall, why, we\nshall clear the floor of all the lot of them in five minutes. I d have\ndone the whole thing by myself, only I didn t want to deprive you\nfellows of the fun! \n\n It s as well to be on the safe side,  said the Rat reflectively,\npolishing a pistol-barrel on his sleeve and looking along it.\n\nThe Toad, having finished his breakfast, picked up a stout stick and\nswung it vigorously, belabouring imaginary animals.  I ll learn  em to\nsteal my house!  he cried.  I ll learn  em, I ll learn  em! \n\n Don t say  learn  em,  Toad,  said the Rat, greatly shocked.  It s not\ngood English. \n\n What are you always nagging at Toad for?  inquired the Badger, rather\npeevishly.  What s the matter with his English? It s the same what I\nuse myself, and if it s good enough for me, it ought to be good enough\nfor you! \n\n I m very sorry,  said the Rat humbly.  Only I _think_ it ought to be\n teach  em,  not  learn  em. \n\n But we don t _want_ to teach  em,  replied the Badger.  We want to\n_learn_  em learn  em, learn  em! And what s more, we re going to _do_\nit, too! \n\n Oh, very well, have it your own way,  said the Rat. He was getting\nrather muddled about it himself, and presently he retired into a\ncorner, where he could be heard muttering,  Learn  em, teach  em, teach\n em, learn  em!  till the Badger told him rather sharply to leave off.\n\nPresently the Mole came tumbling into the room, evidently very pleased\nwith himself.  I ve been having such fun!  he began at once;  I ve been\ngetting a rise out of the stoats! \n\n I hope you ve been very careful, Mole?  said the Rat anxiously.\n\n I should hope so, too,  said the Mole confidently.  I got the idea\nwhen I went into the kitchen, to see about Toad s breakfast being kept\nhot for him. I found that old washerwoman-dress that he came home in\nyesterday, hanging on a towel-horse before the fire. So I put it on,\nand the bonnet as well, and the shawl, and off I went to Toad Hall, as\nbold as you please. The sentries were on the look-out, of course, with\ntheir guns and their  Who comes there?  and all the rest of their\nnonsense.  Good morning, gentlemen!  says I, very respectful.  Want any\nwashing done to-day? \n\n They looked at me very proud and stiff and haughty, and said,  Go\naway, washerwoman! We don t do any washing on duty.   Or any other\ntime?  says I. Ho, ho, ho! Wasn t I _funny_, Toad? \n\n Poor, frivolous animal!  said Toad, very loftily. The fact is, he felt\nexceedingly jealous of Mole for what he had just done. It was exactly\nwhat he would have liked to have done himself, if only he had thought\nof it first, and hadn t gone and overslept himself.\n\n Some of the stoats turned quite pink,  continued the Mole,  and the\nSergeant in charge, he said to me, very short, he said,  Now run away,\nmy good woman, run away! Don t keep my men idling and talking on their\nposts.   Run away?  says I;  it won t be me that ll be running away, in\na very short time from now! \n\n O _Moly_, how could you?  said the Rat, dismayed.\n\nThe Badger laid down his paper.\n\n I could see them pricking up their ears and looking at each other, \nwent on the Mole;  and the Sergeant said to them,  Never mind _her;_\nshe doesn t know what she s talking about. \n\n O! don t I?  said I.  Well, let me tell you this. My daughter, she\nwashes for Mr. Badger, and that ll show you whether I know what I m\ntalking about; and _you> ll_ know pretty soon, too! A hundred\nbloodthirsty badgers, armed with rifles, are going to attack Toad Hall\nthis very night, by way of the paddock. Six boatloads of Rats, with\npistols and cutlasses, will come up the river and effect a landing in\nthe garden; while a picked body of Toads, known at the Die-hards, or\nthe Death-or-Glory Toads, will storm the orchard and carry everything\nbefore them, yelling for vengeance. There won t be much left of you to\nwash, by the time they ve done with you, unless you clear out while you\nhave the chance!  Then I ran away, and when I was out of sight I hid;\nand presently I came creeping back along the ditch and took a peep at\nthem through the hedge. They were all as nervous and flustered as could\nbe, running all ways at once, and falling over each other, and every\none giving orders to everybody else and not listening; and the Sergeant\nkept sending off parties of stoats to distant parts of the grounds, and\nthen sending other fellows to fetch  em back again; and I heard them\nsaying to each other,  That s just like the weasels; they re to stop\ncomfortably in the banqueting-hall, and have feasting and toasts and\nsongs and all sorts of fun, while we must stay on guard in the cold and\nthe dark, and in the end be cut to pieces by bloodthirsty Badgers! \n\n Oh, you silly ass, Mole!  cried Toad,  You ve been and spoilt\neverything! \n\n Mole,  said the Badger, in his dry, quiet way,  I perceive you have\nmore sense in your little finger than some other animals have in the\nwhole of their fat bodies. You have managed excellently, and I begin to\nhave great hopes of you. Good Mole! Clever Mole! \n\nThe Toad was simply wild with jealousy, more especially as he couldn t\nmake out for the life of him what the Mole had done that was so\nparticularly clever; but, fortunately for him, before he could show\ntemper or expose himself to the Badger s sarcasm, the bell rang for\nluncheon.\n\nIt was a simple but sustaining meal bacon and broad beans, and a\nmacaroni pudding; and when they had quite done, the Badger settled\nhimself into an arm-chair, and said,  Well, we ve got our work cut out\nfor us to-night, and it will probably be pretty late before we re quite\nthrough with it; so I m just going to take forty winks, while I can. \nAnd he drew a handkerchief over his face and was soon snoring.\n\nThe anxious and laborious Rat at once resumed his preparations, and\nstarted running between his four little heaps, muttering,\n Here s-a-belt-for-the-Rat, here s-a-belt-for-the-Mole,\nhere s-a-belt-for-the-Toad, here s-a-belt-for-the-Badger!  and so on,\nwith every fresh accoutrement he produced, to which there seemed really\nno end; so the Mole drew his arm through Toad s, led him out into the\nopen air, shoved him into a wicker chair, and made him tell him all his\nadventures from beginning to end, which Toad was only too willing to\ndo. The Mole was a good listener, and Toad, with no one to check his\nstatements or to criticise in an unfriendly spirit, rather let himself\ngo. Indeed, much that he related belonged more properly to the category\nof what-might-have-happened-had-I-only-thought-of-it-in-time-instead-of\nten-minutes-afterwards. Those are always the best and the raciest\nadventures; and why should they not be truly ours, as much as the\nsomewhat inadequate things that really come off?\n\n\n\n\nXII.\nTHE RETURN OF ULYSSES\n\n\nWhen it began to grow dark, the Rat, with an air of excitement and\nmystery, summoned them back into the parlour, stood each of them up\nalongside of his little heap, and proceeded to dress them up for the\ncoming expedition. He was very earnest and thoroughgoing about it, and\nthe affair took quite a long time. First, there was a belt to go round\neach animal, and then a sword to be stuck into each belt, and then a\ncutlass on the other side to balance it. Then a pair of pistols, a\npoliceman s truncheon, several sets of handcuffs, some bandages and\nsticking-plaster, and a flask and a sandwich-case. The Badger laughed\ngood-humouredly and said,  All right, Ratty! It amuses you and it\ndoesn t hurt me. I m going to do all I ve got to do with this here\nstick.  But the Rat only said,  _please_, Badger. You know I shouldn t\nlike you to blame me afterwards and say I had forgotten _anything!_ \n\nWhen all was quite ready, the Badger took a dark lantern in one paw,\ngrasped his great stick with the other, and said,  Now then, follow me!\nMole first,  cos I m very pleased with him; Rat next; Toad last. And\nlook here, Toady! Don t you chatter so much as usual, or you ll be sent\nback, as sure as fate! \n\nThe Toad was so anxious not to be left out that he took up the inferior\nposition assigned to him without a murmur, and the animals set off. The\nBadger led them along by the river for a little way, and then suddenly\nswung himself over the edge into a hole in the river-bank, a little\nabove the water. The Mole and the Rat followed silently, swinging\nthemselves successfully into the hole as they had seen the Badger do;\nbut when it came to Toad s turn, of course he managed to slip and fall\ninto the water with a loud splash and a squeal of alarm. He was hauled\nout by his friends, rubbed down and wrung out hastily, comforted, and\nset on his legs; but the Badger was seriously angry, and told him that\nthe very next time he made a fool of himself he would most certainly be\nleft behind.\n\nSo at last they were in the secret passage, and the cutting-out\nexpedition had really begun!\n\nIt was cold, and dark, and damp, and low, and narrow, and poor Toad\nbegan to shiver, partly from dread of what might be before him, partly\nbecause he was wet through. The lantern was far ahead, and he could not\nhelp lagging behind a little in the darkness. Then he heard the Rat\ncall out warningly,  _Come_ on, Toad!  and a terror seized him of being\nleft behind, alone in the darkness, and he  came on  with such a rush\nthat he upset the Rat into the Mole and the Mole into the Badger, and\nfor a moment all was confusion. The Badger thought they were being\nattacked from behind, and, as there was no room to use a stick or a\ncutlass, drew a pistol, and was on the point of putting a bullet into\nToad. When he found out what had really happened he was very angry\nindeed, and said,  Now this time that tiresome Toad _shall_ be left\nbehind! \n\nBut Toad whimpered, and the other two promised that they would be\nanswerable for his good conduct, and at last the Badger was pacified,\nand the procession moved on; only this time the Rat brought up the\nrear, with a firm grip on the shoulder of Toad.\n\nSo they groped and shuffled along, with their ears pricked up and their\npaws on their pistols, till at last the Badger said,  We ought by now\nto be pretty nearly under the Hall. \n\nThen suddenly they heard, far away as it might be, and yet apparently\nnearly over their heads, a confused murmur of sound, as if people were\nshouting and cheering and stamping on the floor and hammering on\ntables. The Toad s nervous terrors all returned, but the Badger only\nremarked placidly,  They _are_ going it, the Weasels! \n\nThe passage now began to slope upwards; they groped onward a little\nfurther, and then the noise broke out again, quite distinct this time,\nand very close above them.  Ooo-ray-ooray-oo-ray-ooray!  they heard,\nand the stamping of little feet on the floor, and the clinking of\nglasses as little fists pounded on the table.  _What_ a time they re\nhaving!  said the Badger.  Come on!  They hurried along the passage\ntill it came to a full stop, and they found themselves standing under\nthe trap-door that led up into the butler s pantry.\n\nSuch a tremendous noise was going on in the banqueting-hall that there\nwas little danger of their being overheard. The Badger said,  Now,\nboys, all together!  and the four of them put their shoulders to the\ntrap-door and heaved it back. Hoisting each other up, they found\nthemselves standing in the pantry, with only a door between them and\nthe banqueting-hall, where their unconscious enemies were carousing.\n\nThe noise, as they emerged from the passage, was simply deafening. At\nlast, as the cheering and hammering slowly subsided, a voice could be\nmade out saying,  Well, I do not propose to detain you much\nlonger (great applause) but before I resume my seat (renewed\ncheering) I should like to say one word about our kind host, Mr. Toad.\nWe all know Toad! (great laughter) _Good_ Toad, _modest_ Toad,\n_honest_ Toad!  (shrieks of merriment).\n\n Only just let me get at him!  muttered Toad, grinding his teeth.\n\n Hold hard a minute!  said the Badger, restraining him with difficulty.\n Get ready, all of you! \n\n Let me sing you a little song,  went on the voice,  which I have\ncomposed on the subject of Toad (prolonged applause).\n\nThen the Chief Weasel for it was he began in a high, squeaky voice \n\n Toad he went a-pleasuring\nGaily down the street \n\n\nThe Badger drew himself up, took a firm grip of his stick with both\npaws, glanced round at his comrades, and cried \n\n The hour is come! Follow me! \n\nAnd flung the door open wide.\n\nMy!\n\nWhat a squealing and a squeaking and a screeching filled the air!\n\nWell might the terrified weasels dive under the tables and spring madly\nup at the windows! Well might the ferrets rush wildly for the fireplace\nand get hopelessly jammed in the chimney! Well might tables and chairs\nbe upset, and glass and china be sent crashing on the floor, in the\npanic of that terrible moment when the four Heroes strode wrathfully\ninto the room! The mighty Badger, his whiskers bristling, his great\ncudgel whistling through the air; Mole, black and grim, brandishing his\nstick and shouting his awful war-cry,  A Mole! A Mole!  Rat; desperate\nand determined, his belt bulging with weapons of every age and every\nvariety; Toad, frenzied with excitement and injured pride, swollen to\ntwice his ordinary size, leaping into the air and emitting Toad-whoops\nthat chilled them to the marrow!  Toad he went a-pleasuring!  he\nyelled.  _I ll_ pleasure  em!  and he went straight for the Chief\nWeasel. They were but four in all, but to the panic-stricken weasels\nthe hall seemed full of monstrous animals, grey, black, brown and\nyellow, whooping and flourishing enormous cudgels; and they broke and\nfled with squeals of terror and dismay, this way and that, through the\nwindows, up the chimney, anywhere to get out of reach of those terrible\nsticks.\n\nThe affair was soon over. Up and down, the whole length of the hall,\nstrode the four Friends, whacking with their sticks at every head that\nshowed itself; and in five minutes the room was cleared. Through the\nbroken windows the shrieks of terrified weasels escaping across the\nlawn were borne faintly to their ears; on the floor lay prostrate some\ndozen or so of the enemy, on whom the Mole was busily engaged in\nfitting handcuffs. The Badger, resting from his labours, leant on his\nstick and wiped his honest brow.\n\n Mole,  he said,   you re the best of fellows! Just cut along outside\nand look after those stoat-sentries of yours, and see what they re\ndoing. I ve an idea that, thanks to you, we shan t have much trouble\nfrom _them_ to-night! \n\nThe Mole vanished promptly through a window; and the Badger bade the\nother two set a table on its legs again, pick up knives and forks and\nplates and glasses from the _d bris_ on the floor, and see if they\ncould find materials for a supper.  I want some grub, I do,  he said,\nin that rather common way he had of speaking.  Stir your stumps, Toad,\nand look lively! We ve got your house back for you, and you don t offer\nus so much as a sandwich.  Toad felt rather hurt that the Badger didn t\nsay pleasant things to him, as he had to the Mole, and tell him what a\nfine fellow he was, and how splendidly he had fought; for he was rather\nparticularly pleased with himself and the way he had gone for the Chief\nWeasel and sent him flying across the table with one blow of his stick.\nBut he bustled about, and so did the Rat, and soon they found some\nguava jelly in a glass dish, and a cold chicken, a tongue that had\nhardly been touched, some trifle, and quite a lot of lobster salad; and\nin the pantry they came upon a basketful of French rolls and any\nquantity of cheese, butter, and celery. They were just about to sit\ndown when the Mole clambered in through the window, chuckling, with an\narmful of rifles.\n\n It s all over,  he reported.  From what I can make out, as soon as the\nstoats, who were very nervous and jumpy already, heard the shrieks and\nthe yells and the uproar inside the hall, some of them threw down their\nrifles and fled. The others stood fast for a bit, but when the weasels\ncame rushing out upon them they thought they were betrayed; and the\nstoats grappled with the weasels, and the weasels fought to get away,\nand they wrestled and wriggled and punched each other, and rolled over\nand over, till most of  em rolled into the river! They ve all\ndisappeared by now, one way or another; and I ve got their rifles. So\n_that s_ all right! \n\n Excellent and deserving animal!  said the Badger, his mouth full of\nchicken and trifle.  Now, there s just one more thing I want you to do,\nMole, before you sit down to your supper along of us; and I wouldn t\ntrouble you only I know I can trust you to see a thing done, and I wish\nI could say the same of every one I know. I d send Rat, if he wasn t a\npoet. I want you to take those fellows on the floor there upstairs with\nyou, and have some bedrooms cleaned out and tidied up and made really\ncomfortable. See that they sweep _under_ the beds, and put clean sheets\nand pillow-cases on, and turn down one corner of the bed-clothes, just\nas you know it ought to be done; and have a can of hot water, and clean\ntowels, and fresh cakes of soap, put in each room. And then you can\ngive them a licking a-piece, if it s any satisfaction to you, and put\nthem out by the back-door, and we shan t see any more of _them_, I\nfancy. And then come along and have some of this cold tongue. It s\nfirst rate. I m very pleased with you, Mole! \n\nThe goodnatured Mole picked up a stick, formed his prisoners up in a\nline on the floor, gave them the order  Quick march!  and led his squad\noff to the upper floor. After a time, he appeared again, smiling, and\nsaid that every room was ready, and as clean as a new pin.  And I\ndidn t have to lick them, either,  he added.  I thought, on the whole,\nthey had had licking enough for one night, and the weasels, when I put\nthe point to them, quite agreed with me, and said they wouldn t think\nof troubling me. They were very penitent, and said they were extremely\nsorry for what they had done, but it was all the fault of the Chief\nWeasel and the stoats, and if ever they could do anything for us at any\ntime to make up, we had only got to mention it. So I gave them a roll\na-piece, and let them out at the back, and off they ran, as hard as\nthey could! \n\nThen the Mole pulled his chair up to the table, and pitched into the\ncold tongue; and Toad, like the gentleman he was, put all his jealousy\nfrom him, and said heartily,  Thank you kindly, dear Mole, for all your\npains and trouble tonight, and especially for your cleverness this\nmorning!  The Badger was pleased at that, and said,  There spoke my\nbrave Toad!  So they finished their supper in great joy and\ncontentment, and presently retired to rest between clean sheets, safe\nin Toad s ancestral home, won back by matchless valour, consummate\nstrategy, and a proper handling of sticks.\n\nThe following morning, Toad, who had overslept himself as usual, came\ndown to breakfast disgracefully late, and found on the table a certain\nquantity of egg-shells, some fragments of cold and leathery toast, a\ncoffee-pot three-fourths empty, and really very little else; which did\nnot tend to improve his temper, considering that, after all, it was his\nown house. Through the French windows of the breakfast-room he could\nsee the Mole and the Water Rat sitting in wicker-chairs out on the\nlawn, evidently telling each other stories; roaring with laughter and\nkicking their short legs up in the air. The Badger, who was in an\narm-chair and deep in the morning paper, merely looked up and nodded\nwhen Toad entered the room. But Toad knew his man, so he sat down and\nmade the best breakfast he could, merely observing to himself that he\nwould get square with the others sooner or later. When he had nearly\nfinished, the Badger looked up and remarked rather shortly:  I m sorry,\nToad, but I m afraid there s a heavy morning s work in front of you.\nYou see, we really ought to have a Banquet at once, to celebrate this\naffair. It s expected of you in fact, it s the rule. \n\n O, all right!  said the Toad, readily.  Anything to oblige. Though why\non earth you should want to have a Banquet in the morning I cannot\nunderstand. But you know I do not live to please myself, but merely to\nfind out what my friends want, and then try and arrange it for  em, you\ndear old Badger! \n\n Don t pretend to be stupider than you really are,  replied the Badger,\ncrossly;  and don t chuckle and splutter in your coffee while you re\ntalking; it s not manners. What I mean is, the Banquet will be at\nnight, of course, but the invitations will have to be written and got\noff at once, and you ve got to write  em. Now, sit down at that\ntable there s stacks of letter-paper on it, with  Toad Hall  at the top\nin blue and gold and write invitations to all our friends, and if you\nstick to it we shall get them out before luncheon. And _I ll_ bear a\nhand, too; and take my share of the burden. _I ll_ order the Banquet. \n\n What!  cried Toad, dismayed.  Me stop indoors and write a lot of\nrotten letters on a jolly morning like this, when I want to go around\nmy property, and set everything and everybody to rights, and swagger\nabout and enjoy myself! Certainly not! I ll be I ll see you Stop a\nminute, though! Why, of course, dear Badger! What is my pleasure or\nconvenience compared with that of others! You wish it done, and it\nshall be done. Go, Badger, order the Banquet, order what you like; then\njoin our young friends outside in their innocent mirth, oblivious of me\nand my cares and toils. I sacrifice this fair morning on the altar of\nduty and friendship! \n\nThe Badger looked at him very suspiciously, but Toad s frank, open\ncountenance made it difficult to suggest any unworthy motive in this\nchange of attitude. He quitted the room, accordingly, in the direction\nof the kitchen, and as soon as the door had closed behind him, Toad\nhurried to the writing-table. A fine idea had occurred to him while he\nwas talking. He _would_ write the invitations; and he would take care\nto mention the leading part he had taken in the fight, and how he had\nlaid the Chief Weasel flat; and he would hint at his adventures, and\nwhat a career of triumph he had to tell about; and on the fly-leaf he\nwould set out a sort of a programme of entertainment for the\nevening something like this, as he sketched it out in his head: \n\nSPEECH. . . . BY TOAD.\n(There will be other speeches by TOAD during the evening.)\n\n\nADDRESS. . . BY TOAD\nSYNOPSIS Our Prison System the Waterways of Old England Horse-dealing,\nand how to deal Property, its rights and its duties Back to the Land A\nTypical English Squire.\n\n\nSONG. . . . BY TOAD.\n(Composed by himself.)\n\n\nOTHER COMPOSITIONS. BY TOAD\nwill be sung in the course of the evening by the. . . COMPOSER.\n\n\nThe idea pleased him mightily, and he worked very hard and got all the\nletters finished by noon, at which hour it was reported to him that\nthere was a small and rather bedraggled weasel at the door, inquiring\ntimidly whether he could be of any service to the gentlemen. Toad\nswaggered out and found it was one of the prisoners of the previous\nevening, very respectful and anxious to please. He patted him on the\nhead, shoved the bundle of invitations into his paw, and told him to\ncut along quick and deliver them as fast as he could, and if he liked\nto come back again in the evening, perhaps there might be a shilling\nfor him, or, again, perhaps there mightn t; and the poor weasel seemed\nreally quite grateful, and hurried off eagerly to do his mission.\n\nWhen the other animals came back to luncheon, very boisterous and\nbreezy after a morning on the river, the Mole, whose conscience had\nbeen pricking him, looked doubtfully at Toad, expecting to find him\nsulky or depressed. Instead, he was so uppish and inflated that the\nMole began to suspect something; while the Rat and the Badger exchanged\nsignificant glances.\n\nAs soon as the meal was over, Toad thrust his paws deep into his\ntrouser-pockets, remarked casually,  Well, look after yourselves, you\nfellows! Ask for anything you want!  and was swaggering off in the\ndirection of the garden, where he wanted to think out an idea or two\nfor his coming speeches, when the Rat caught him by the arm.\n\nToad rather suspected what he was after, and did his best to get away;\nbut when the Badger took him firmly by the other arm he began to see\nthat the game was up. The two animals conducted him between them into\nthe small smoking-room that opened out of the entrance-hall, shut the\ndoor, and put him into a chair. Then they both stood in front of him,\nwhile Toad sat silent and regarded them with much suspicion and\nill-humour.\n\n Now, look here, Toad,  said the Rat.  It s about this Banquet, and\nvery sorry I am to have to speak to you like this. But we want you to\nunderstand clearly, once and for all, that there are going to be no\nspeeches and no songs. Try and grasp the fact that on this occasion\nwe re not arguing with you; we re just telling you. \n\nToad saw that he was trapped. They understood him, they saw through\nhim, they had got ahead of him. His pleasant dream was shattered.\n\n Mayn t I sing them just one _little_ song?  he pleaded piteously.\n\n No, not _one_ little song,  replied the Rat firmly, though his heart\nbled as he noticed the trembling lip of the poor disappointed Toad.\n It s no good, Toady; you know well that your songs are all conceit and\nboasting and vanity; and your speeches are all self-praise\nand and well, and gross exaggeration and and \n\n And gas,  put in the Badger, in his common way.\n\n It s for your own good, Toady,  went on the Rat.  You know you _must_\nturn over a new leaf sooner or later, and now seems a splendid time to\nbegin; a sort of turning-point in your career. Please don t think that\nsaying all this doesn t hurt me more than it hurts you. \n\nToad remained a long while plunged in thought. At last he raised his\nhead, and the traces of strong emotion were visible on his features.\n You have conquered, my friends,  he said in broken accents.  It was,\nto be sure, but a small thing that I asked merely leave to blossom and\nexpand for yet one more evening, to let myself go and hear the\ntumultuous applause that always seems to me somehow to bring out my\nbest qualities. However, you are right, I know, and I am wrong. Hence\nforth I will be a very different Toad. My friends, you shall never have\noccasion to blush for me again. But, O dear, O dear, this is a hard\nworld! \n\nAnd, pressing his handkerchief to his face, he left the room, with\nfaltering footsteps.\n\n Badger,  said the Rat,  _I_ feel like a brute; I wonder what _you_\nfeel like? \n\n O, I know, I know,  said the Badger gloomily.  But the thing had to be\ndone. This good fellow has got to live here, and hold his own, and be\nrespected. Would you have him a common laughing-stock, mocked and\njeered at by stoats and weasels? \n\n Of course not,  said the Rat.  And, talking of weasels, it s lucky we\ncame upon that little weasel, just as he was setting out with Toad s\ninvitations. I suspected something from what you told me, and had a\nlook at one or two; they were simply disgraceful. I confiscated the\nlot, and the good Mole is now sitting in the blue boudoir, filling up\nplain, simple invitation cards. \n\n\nAt last the hour for the banquet began to draw near, and Toad, who on\nleaving the others had retired to his bedroom, was still sitting there,\nmelancholy and thoughtful. His brow resting on his paw, he pondered\nlong and deeply. Gradually his countenance cleared, and he began to\nsmile long, slow smiles. Then he took to giggling in a shy,\nself-conscious manner. At last he got up, locked the door, drew the\ncurtains across the windows, collected all the chairs in the room and\narranged them in a semicircle, and took up his position in front of\nthem, swelling visibly. Then he bowed, coughed twice, and, letting\nhimself go, with uplifted voice he sang, to the enraptured audience\nthat his imagination so clearly saw.\n\nTOAD S LAST LITTLE SONG!\n\nThe Toad came home!\nThere was panic in the parlours and howling in the halls,\nThere was crying in the cow-sheds and shrieking in the stalls,\nWhen the Toad came home!\n\nWhen the Toad came home!\nThere was smashing in of window and crashing in of door,\nThere was chivvying of weasels that fainted on the floor,\nWhen the Toad came home!\n\nBang! go the drums!\nThe trumpeters are tooting and the soldiers are saluting,\nAnd the cannon they are shooting and the motor-cars are hooting,\nAs the Hero comes!\n\nShout Hoo-ray!\nAnd let each one of the crowd try and shout it very loud,\nIn honour of an animal of whom you re justly proud,\nFor it s Toad s great day!\n\n\nHe sang this very loud, with great unction and expression; and when he\nhad done, he sang it all over again.\n\nThen he heaved a deep sigh; a long, long, long sigh.\n\nThen he dipped his hairbrush in the water-jug, parted his hair in the\nmiddle, and plastered it down very straight and sleek on each side of\nhis face; and, unlocking the door, went quietly down the stairs to\ngreet his guests, who he knew must be assembling in the drawing-room.\n\nAll the animals cheered when he entered, and crowded round to\ncongratulate him and say nice things about his courage, and his\ncleverness, and his fighting qualities; but Toad only smiled faintly,\nand murmured,  Not at all!  Or, sometimes, for a change,  On the\ncontrary!  Otter, who was standing on the hearthrug, describing to an\nadmiring circle of friends exactly how he would have managed things had\nhe been there, came forward with a shout, threw his arm round Toad s\nneck, and tried to take him round the room in triumphal progress; but\nToad, in a mild way, was rather snubby to him, remarking gently, as he\ndisengaged himself,  Badger s was the mastermind; the Mole and the\nWater Rat bore the brunt of the fighting; I merely served in the ranks\nand did little or nothing.  The animals were evidently puzzled and\ntaken aback by this unexpected attitude of his; and Toad felt, as he\nmoved from one guest to the other, making his modest responses, that he\nwas an object of absorbing interest to every one.\n\nThe Badger had ordered everything of the best, and the banquet was a\ngreat success. There was much talking and laughter and chaff among the\nanimals, but through it all Toad, who of course was in the chair,\nlooked down his nose and murmured pleasant nothings to the animals on\neither side of him. At intervals he stole a glance at the Badger and\nthe Rat, and always when he looked they were staring at each other with\ntheir mouths open; and this gave him the greatest satisfaction. Some of\nthe younger and livelier animals, as the evening wore on, got\nwhispering to each other that things were not so amusing as they used\nto be in the good old days; and there were some knockings on the table\nand cries of  Toad! Speech! Speech from Toad! Song! Mr. Toad s song! \nBut Toad only shook his head gently, raised one paw in mild protest,\nand, by pressing delicacies on his guests, by topical small-talk, and\nby earnest inquiries after members of their families not yet old enough\nto appear at social functions, managed to convey to them that this\ndinner was being run on strictly conventional lines.\n\nHe was indeed an altered Toad!\n\n\nAfter this climax, the four animals continued to lead their lives, so\nrudely broken in upon by civil war, in great joy and contentment,\nundisturbed by further risings or invasions. Toad, after due\nconsultation with his friends, selected a handsome gold chain and\nlocket set with pearls, which he dispatched to the gaoler s daughter\nwith a letter that even the Badger admitted to be modest, grateful, and\nappreciative; and the engine-driver, in his turn, was properly thanked\nand compensated for all his pains and trouble. Under severe compulsion\nfrom the Badger, even the barge-woman was, with some trouble, sought\nout and the value of her horse discreetly made good to her; though Toad\nkicked terribly at this, holding himself to be an instrument of Fate,\nsent to punish fat women with mottled arms who couldn t tell a real\ngentleman when they saw one. The amount involved, it was true, was not\nvery burdensome, the gipsy s valuation being admitted by local\nassessors to be approximately correct.\n\nSometimes, in the course of long summer evenings, the friends would\ntake a stroll together in the Wild Wood, now successfully tamed so far\nas they were concerned; and it was pleasing to see how respectfully\nthey were greeted by the inhabitants, and how the mother-weasels would\nbring their young ones to the mouths of their holes, and say, pointing,\n Look, baby! There goes the great Mr. Toad! And that s the gallant\nWater Rat, a terrible fighter, walking along o  him! And yonder comes\nthe famous Mr. Mole, of whom you so often have heard your father tell! \nBut when their infants were fractious and quite beyond control, they\nwould quiet them by telling how, if they didn t hush them and not fret\nthem, the terrible grey Badger would up and get them. This was a base\nlibel on Badger, who, though he cared little about Society, was rather\nfond of children; but it never failed to have its full effect."
    },
    {
        "title": "Jane Eyre",
        "author": "Charlotte Brontë",
        "category": "Classics",
        "EN": "PREFACE\n\n\nA preface to the first edition of  Jane Eyre  being unnecessary, I gave\nnone: this second edition demands a few words both of acknowledgment\nand miscellaneous remark.\n\nMy thanks are due in three quarters.\n\nTo the Public, for the indulgent ear it has inclined to a plain tale\nwith few pretensions.\n\nTo the Press, for the fair field its honest suffrage has opened to an\nobscure aspirant.\n\nTo my Publishers, for the aid their tact, their energy, their practical\nsense and frank liberality have afforded an unknown and unrecommended\nAuthor.\n\nThe Press and the Public are but vague personifications for me, and I\nmust thank them in vague terms; but my Publishers are definite: so are\ncertain generous critics who have encouraged me as only large-hearted\nand high-minded men know how to encourage a struggling stranger; to\nthem, _i.e._, to my Publishers and the select Reviewers, I say\ncordially, Gentlemen, I thank you from my heart.\n\nHaving thus acknowledged what I owe those who have aided and approved\nme, I turn to another class; a small one, so far as I know, but not,\ntherefore, to be overlooked. I mean the timorous or carping few who\ndoubt the tendency of such books as  Jane Eyre:  in whose eyes whatever\nis unusual is wrong; whose ears detect in each protest against\nbigotry that parent of crime an insult to piety, that regent of God on\nearth. I would suggest to such doubters certain obvious distinctions; I\nwould remind them of certain simple truths.\n\nConventionality is not morality. Self-righteousness is not religion. To\nattack the first is not to assail the last. To pluck the mask from the\nface of the Pharisee, is not to lift an impious hand to the Crown of\nThorns.\n\nThese things and deeds are diametrically opposed: they are as distinct\nas is vice from virtue. Men too often confound them: they should not be\nconfounded: appearance should not be mistaken for truth; narrow human\ndoctrines, that only tend to elate and magnify a few, should not be\nsubstituted for the world-redeeming creed of Christ. There is I repeat\nit a difference; and it is a good, and not a bad action to mark broadly\nand clearly the line of separation between them.\n\nThe world may not like to see these ideas dissevered, for it has been\naccustomed to blend them; finding it convenient to make external show\npass for sterling worth to let white-washed walls vouch for clean\nshrines. It may hate him who dares to scrutinise and expose to rase the\ngilding, and show base metal under it to penetrate the sepulchre, and\nreveal charnel relics: but hate as it will, it is indebted to him.\n\nAhab did not like Micaiah, because he never prophesied good concerning\nhim, but evil; probably he liked the sycophant son of Chenaanah\nbetter; yet might Ahab have escaped a bloody death, had he but stopped\nhis ears to flattery, and opened them to faithful counsel.\n\nThere is a man in our own days whose words are not framed to tickle\ndelicate ears: who, to my thinking, comes before the great ones of\nsociety, much as the son of Imlah came before the throned Kings of\nJudah and Israel; and who speaks truth as deep, with a power as\nprophet-like and as vital a mien as dauntless and as daring. Is the\nsatirist of  Vanity Fair  admired in high places? I cannot tell; but I\nthink if some of those amongst whom he hurls the Greek fire of his\nsarcasm, and over whom he flashes the levin-brand of his denunciation,\nwere to take his warnings in time they or their seed might yet escape a\nfatal Rimoth-Gilead.\n\nWhy have I alluded to this man? I have alluded to him, Reader, because\nI think I see in him an intellect profounder and more unique than his\ncontemporaries have yet recognised; because I regard him as the first\nsocial regenerator of the day as the very master of that working corps\nwho would restore to rectitude the warped system of things; because I\nthink no commentator on his writings has yet found the comparison that\nsuits him, the terms which rightly characterise his talent. They say he\nis like Fielding: they talk of his wit, humour, comic powers. He\nresembles Fielding as an eagle does a vulture: Fielding could stoop on\ncarrion, but Thackeray never does. His wit is bright, his humour\nattractive, but both bear the same relation to his serious genius that\nthe mere lambent sheet-lightning playing under the edge of the\nsummer-cloud does to the electric death-spark hid in its womb. Finally,\nI have alluded to Mr. Thackeray, because to him if he will accept the\ntribute of a total stranger I have dedicated this second edition of\n JANE EYRE. \n\nCURRER BELL.\n\n_December_ 21_st_, 1847.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nThere was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been\nwandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning;\nbut since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early)\nthe cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain\nso penetrating, that further outdoor exercise was now out of the\nquestion.\n\nI was glad of it: I never liked long walks, especially on chilly\nafternoons: dreadful to me was the coming home in the raw twilight,\nwith nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened by the chidings of\nBessie, the nurse, and humbled by the consciousness of my physical\ninferiority to Eliza, John, and Georgiana Reed.\n\nThe said Eliza, John, and Georgiana were now clustered round their mama\nin the drawing-room: she lay reclined on a sofa by the fireside, and\nwith her darlings about her (for the time neither quarrelling nor\ncrying) looked perfectly happy. Me, she had dispensed from joining the\ngroup; saying,  She regretted to be under the necessity of keeping me\nat a distance; but that until she heard from Bessie, and could discover\nby her own observation, that I was endeavouring in good earnest to\nacquire a more sociable and childlike disposition, a more attractive\nand sprightly manner something lighter, franker, more natural, as it\nwere she really must exclude me from privileges intended only for\ncontented, happy, little children. \n\n What does Bessie say I have done?  I asked.\n\n Jane, I don t like cavillers or questioners; besides, there is\nsomething truly forbidding in a child taking up her elders in that\nmanner. Be seated somewhere; and until you can speak pleasantly, remain\nsilent. \n\nA breakfast-room adjoined the drawing-room, I slipped in there. It\ncontained a bookcase: I soon possessed myself of a volume, taking care\nthat it should be one stored with pictures. I mounted into the\nwindow-seat: gathering up my feet, I sat cross-legged, like a Turk;\nand, having drawn the red moreen curtain nearly close, I was shrined in\ndouble retirement.\n\nFolds of scarlet drapery shut in my view to the right hand; to the left\nwere the clear panes of glass, protecting, but not separating me from\nthe drear November day. At intervals, while turning over the leaves of\nmy book, I studied the aspect of that winter afternoon. Afar, it\noffered a pale blank of mist and cloud; near a scene of wet lawn and\nstorm-beat shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before a\nlong and lamentable blast.\n\nI returned to my book Bewick s History of British Birds: the\nletterpress thereof I cared little for, generally speaking; and yet\nthere were certain introductory pages that, child as I was, I could not\npass quite as a blank. They were those which treat of the haunts of\nsea-fowl; of  the solitary rocks and promontories  by them only\ninhabited; of the coast of Norway, studded with isles from its southern\nextremity, the Lindeness, or Naze, to the North Cape \n\n Where the Northern Ocean, in vast whirls,\nBoils round the naked, melancholy isles\nOf farthest Thule; and the Atlantic surge\nPours in among the stormy Hebrides. \n\n\nNor could I pass unnoticed the suggestion of the bleak shores of\nLapland, Siberia, Spitzbergen, Nova Zembla, Iceland, Greenland, with\n the vast sweep of the Arctic Zone, and those forlorn regions of dreary\nspace, that reservoir of frost and snow, where firm fields of ice, the\naccumulation of centuries of winters, glazed in Alpine heights above\nheights, surround the pole, and concentre the multiplied rigours of\nextreme cold.  Of these death-white realms I formed an idea of my own:\nshadowy, like all the half-comprehended notions that float dim through\nchildren s brains, but strangely impressive. The words in these\nintroductory pages connected themselves with the succeeding vignettes,\nand gave significance to the rock standing up alone in a sea of billow\nand spray; to the broken boat stranded on a desolate coast; to the cold\nand ghastly moon glancing through bars of cloud at a wreck just\nsinking.\n\nI cannot tell what sentiment haunted the quite solitary churchyard,\nwith its inscribed headstone; its gate, its two trees, its low horizon,\ngirdled by a broken wall, and its newly-risen crescent, attesting the\nhour of eventide.\n\nThe two ships becalmed on a torpid sea, I believed to be marine\nphantoms.\n\nThe fiend pinning down the thief s pack behind him, I passed over\nquickly: it was an object of terror.\n\nSo was the black horned thing seated aloof on a rock, surveying a\ndistant crowd surrounding a gallows.\n\nEach picture told a story; mysterious often to my undeveloped\nunderstanding and imperfect feelings, yet ever profoundly interesting:\nas interesting as the tales Bessie sometimes narrated on winter\nevenings, when she chanced to be in good humour; and when, having\nbrought her ironing-table to the nursery hearth, she allowed us to sit\nabout it, and while she got up Mrs. Reed s lace frills, and crimped her\nnightcap borders, fed our eager attention with passages of love and\nadventure taken from old fairy tales and other ballads; or (as at a\nlater period I discovered) from the pages of Pamela, and Henry, Earl of\nMoreland.\n\nWith Bewick on my knee, I was then happy: happy at least in my way. I\nfeared nothing but interruption, and that came too soon. The\nbreakfast-room door opened.\n\n Boh! Madam Mope!  cried the voice of John Reed; then he paused: he\nfound the room apparently empty.\n\n Where the dickens is she!  he continued.  Lizzy! Georgy! (calling to\nhis sisters) Joan is not here: tell mama she is run out into the\nrain bad animal! \n\n It is well I drew the curtain,  thought I; and I wished fervently he\nmight not discover my hiding-place: nor would John Reed have found it\nout himself; he was not quick either of vision or conception; but Eliza\njust put her head in at the door, and said at once \n\n She is in the window-seat, to be sure, Jack. \n\nAnd I came out immediately, for I trembled at the idea of being dragged\nforth by the said Jack.\n\n What do you want?  I asked, with awkward diffidence.\n\n Say,  What do you want, Master Reed?  was the answer.  I want you to\ncome here;  and seating himself in an arm-chair, he intimated by a\ngesture that I was to approach and stand before him.\n\nJohn Reed was a schoolboy of fourteen years old; four years older than\nI, for I was but ten: large and stout for his age, with a dingy and\nunwholesome skin; thick lineaments in a spacious visage, heavy limbs\nand large extremities. He gorged himself habitually at table, which\nmade him bilious, and gave him a dim and bleared eye and flabby cheeks.\nHe ought now to have been at school; but his mama had taken him home\nfor a month or two,  on account of his delicate health.  Mr. Miles, the\nmaster, affirmed that he would do very well if he had fewer cakes and\nsweetmeats sent him from home; but the mother s heart turned from an\nopinion so harsh, and inclined rather to the more refined idea that\nJohn s sallowness was owing to over-application and, perhaps, to pining\nafter home.\n\nJohn had not much affection for his mother and sisters, and an\nantipathy to me. He bullied and punished me; not two or three times in\nthe week, nor once or twice in the day, but continually: every nerve I\nhad feared him, and every morsel of flesh in my bones shrank when he\ncame near. There were moments when I was bewildered by the terror he\ninspired, because I had no appeal whatever against either his menaces\nor his inflictions; the servants did not like to offend their young\nmaster by taking my part against him, and Mrs. Reed was blind and deaf\non the subject: she never saw him strike or heard him abuse me, though\nhe did both now and then in her very presence, more frequently,\nhowever, behind her back.\n\nHabitually obedient to John, I came up to his chair: he spent some\nthree minutes in thrusting out his tongue at me as far as he could\nwithout damaging the roots: I knew he would soon strike, and while\ndreading the blow, I mused on the disgusting and ugly appearance of him\nwho would presently deal it. I wonder if he read that notion in my\nface; for, all at once, without speaking, he struck suddenly and\nstrongly. I tottered, and on regaining my equilibrium retired back a\nstep or two from his chair.\n\n That is for your impudence in answering mama awhile since,  said he,\n and for your sneaking way of getting behind curtains, and for the look\nyou had in your eyes two minutes since, you rat! \n\nAccustomed to John Reed s abuse, I never had an idea of replying to it;\nmy care was how to endure the blow which would certainly follow the\ninsult.\n\n What were you doing behind the curtain?  he asked.\n\n I was reading. \n\n Show the book. \n\nI returned to the window and fetched it thence.\n\n You have no business to take our books; you are a dependent, mama\nsays; you have no money; your father left you none; you ought to beg,\nand not to live here with gentlemen s children like us, and eat the\nsame meals we do, and wear clothes at our mama s expense. Now, I ll\nteach you to rummage my bookshelves: for they _are_ mine; all the house\nbelongs to me, or will do in a few years. Go and stand by the door, out\nof the way of the mirror and the windows. \n\nI did so, not at first aware what was his intention; but when I saw him\nlift and poise the book and stand in act to hurl it, I instinctively\nstarted aside with a cry of alarm: not soon enough, however; the volume\nwas flung, it hit me, and I fell, striking my head against the door and\ncutting it. The cut bled, the pain was sharp: my terror had passed its\nclimax; other feelings succeeded.\n\n Wicked and cruel boy!  I said.  You are like a murderer you are like a\nslave-driver you are like the Roman emperors! \n\nI had read Goldsmith s History of Rome, and had formed my opinion of\nNero, Caligula, &c. Also I had drawn parallels in silence, which I\nnever thought thus to have declared aloud.\n\n What! what!  he cried.  Did she say that to me? Did you hear her,\nEliza and Georgiana? Won t I tell mama? but first \n\nHe ran headlong at me: I felt him grasp my hair and my shoulder: he had\nclosed with a desperate thing. I really saw in him a tyrant, a\nmurderer. I felt a drop or two of blood from my head trickle down my\nneck, and was sensible of somewhat pungent suffering: these sensations\nfor the time predominated over fear, and I received him in frantic\nsort. I don t very well know what I did with my hands, but he called me\n Rat! Rat!  and bellowed out aloud. Aid was near him: Eliza and\nGeorgiana had run for Mrs. Reed, who was gone upstairs: she now came\nupon the scene, followed by Bessie and her maid Abbot. We were parted:\nI heard the words \n\n Dear! dear! What a fury to fly at Master John! \n\n Did ever anybody see such a picture of passion! \n\nThen Mrs. Reed subjoined \n\n Take her away to the red-room, and lock her in there.  Four hands were\nimmediately laid upon me, and I was borne upstairs.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nI resisted all the way: a new thing for me, and a circumstance which\ngreatly strengthened the bad opinion Bessie and Miss Abbot were\ndisposed to entertain of me. The fact is, I was a trifle beside myself;\nor rather _out_ of myself, as the French would say: I was conscious\nthat a moment s mutiny had already rendered me liable to strange\npenalties, and, like any other rebel slave, I felt resolved, in my\ndesperation, to go all lengths.\n\n Hold her arms, Miss Abbot: she s like a mad cat. \n\n For shame! for shame!  cried the lady s-maid.  What shocking conduct,\nMiss Eyre, to strike a young gentleman, your benefactress s son! Your\nyoung master. \n\n Master! How is he my master? Am I a servant? \n\n No; you are less than a servant, for you do nothing for your keep.\nThere, sit down, and think over your wickedness. \n\nThey had got me by this time into the apartment indicated by Mrs. Reed,\nand had thrust me upon a stool: my impulse was to rise from it like a\nspring; their two pair of hands arrested me instantly.\n\n If you don t sit still, you must be tied down,  said Bessie.  Miss\nAbbot, lend me your garters; she would break mine directly. \n\nMiss Abbot turned to divest a stout leg of the necessary ligature. This\npreparation for bonds, and the additional ignominy it inferred, took a\nlittle of the excitement out of me.\n\n Don t take them off,  I cried;  I will not stir. \n\nIn guarantee whereof, I attached myself to my seat by my hands.\n\n Mind you don t,  said Bessie; and when she had ascertained that I was\nreally subsiding, she loosened her hold of me; then she and Miss Abbot\nstood with folded arms, looking darkly and doubtfully on my face, as\nincredulous of my sanity.\n\n She never did so before,  at last said Bessie, turning to the Abigail.\n\n But it was always in her,  was the reply.  I ve told Missis often my\nopinion about the child, and Missis agreed with me. She s an underhand\nlittle thing: I never saw a girl of her age with so much cover. \n\nBessie answered not; but ere long, addressing me, she said \n\n You ought to be aware, Miss, that you are under obligations to Mrs.\nReed: she keeps you: if she were to turn you off, you would have to go\nto the poorhouse. \n\nI had nothing to say to these words: they were not new to me: my very\nfirst recollections of existence included hints of the same kind. This\nreproach of my dependence had become a vague sing-song in my ear: very\npainful and crushing, but only half intelligible. Miss Abbot joined in \n\n And you ought not to think yourself on an equality with the Misses\nReed and Master Reed, because Missis kindly allows you to be brought up\nwith them. They will have a great deal of money, and you will have\nnone: it is your place to be humble, and to try to make yourself\nagreeable to them. \n\n What we tell you is for your good,  added Bessie, in no harsh voice,\n you should try to be useful and pleasant, then, perhaps, you would\nhave a home here; but if you become passionate and rude, Missis will\nsend you away, I am sure. \n\n Besides,  said Miss Abbot,  God will punish her: He might strike her\ndead in the midst of her tantrums, and then where would she go? Come,\nBessie, we will leave her: I wouldn t have her heart for anything. Say\nyour prayers, Miss Eyre, when you are by yourself; for if you don t\nrepent, something bad might be permitted to come down the chimney and\nfetch you away. \n\nThey went, shutting the door, and locking it behind them.\n\nThe red-room was a square chamber, very seldom slept in, I might say\nnever, indeed, unless when a chance influx of visitors at Gateshead\nHall rendered it necessary to turn to account all the accommodation it\ncontained: yet it was one of the largest and stateliest chambers in the\nmansion. A bed supported on massive pillars of mahogany, hung with\ncurtains of deep red damask, stood out like a tabernacle in the centre;\nthe two large windows, with their blinds always drawn down, were half\nshrouded in festoons and falls of similar drapery; the carpet was red;\nthe table at the foot of the bed was covered with a crimson cloth; the\nwalls were a soft fawn colour with a blush of pink in it; the wardrobe,\nthe toilet-table, the chairs were of darkly polished old mahogany. Out\nof these deep surrounding shades rose high, and glared white, the\npiled-up mattresses and pillows of the bed, spread with a snowy\nMarseilles counterpane. Scarcely less prominent was an ample cushioned\neasy-chair near the head of the bed, also white, with a footstool\nbefore it; and looking, as I thought, like a pale throne.\n\nThis room was chill, because it seldom had a fire; it was silent,\nbecause remote from the nursery and kitchen; solemn, because it was\nknown to be so seldom entered. The house-maid alone came here on\nSaturdays, to wipe from the mirrors and the furniture a week s quiet\ndust: and Mrs. Reed herself, at far intervals, visited it to review the\ncontents of a certain secret drawer in the wardrobe, where were stored\ndivers parchments, her jewel-casket, and a miniature of her deceased\nhusband; and in those last words lies the secret of the red-room the\nspell which kept it so lonely in spite of its grandeur.\n\nMr. Reed had been dead nine years: it was in this chamber he breathed\nhis last; here he lay in state; hence his coffin was borne by the\nundertaker s men; and, since that day, a sense of dreary consecration\nhad guarded it from frequent intrusion.\n\nMy seat, to which Bessie and the bitter Miss Abbot had left me riveted,\nwas a low ottoman near the marble chimney-piece; the bed rose before\nme; to my right hand there was the high, dark wardrobe, with subdued,\nbroken reflections varying the gloss of its panels; to my left were the\nmuffled windows; a great looking-glass between them repeated the vacant\nmajesty of the bed and room. I was not quite sure whether they had\nlocked the door; and when I dared move, I got up and went to see. Alas!\nyes: no jail was ever more secure. Returning, I had to cross before the\nlooking-glass; my fascinated glance involuntarily explored the depth it\nrevealed. All looked colder and darker in that visionary hollow than in\nreality: and the strange little figure there gazing at me, with a white\nface and arms specking the gloom, and glittering eyes of fear moving\nwhere all else was still, had the effect of a real spirit: I thought it\nlike one of the tiny phantoms, half fairy, half imp, Bessie s evening\nstories represented as coming out of lone, ferny dells in moors, and\nappearing before the eyes of belated travellers. I returned to my\nstool.\n\nSuperstition was with me at that moment; but it was not yet her hour\nfor complete victory: my blood was still warm; the mood of the revolted\nslave was still bracing me with its bitter vigour; I had to stem a\nrapid rush of retrospective thought before I quailed to the dismal\npresent.\n\nAll John Reed s violent tyrannies, all his sisters  proud indifference,\nall his mother s aversion, all the servants  partiality, turned up in\nmy disturbed mind like a dark deposit in a turbid well. Why was I\nalways suffering, always browbeaten, always accused, for ever\ncondemned? Why could I never please? Why was it useless to try to win\nany one s favour? Eliza, who was headstrong and selfish, was respected.\nGeorgiana, who had a spoiled temper, a very acrid spite, a captious and\ninsolent carriage, was universally indulged. Her beauty, her pink\ncheeks and golden curls, seemed to give delight to all who looked at\nher, and to purchase indemnity for every fault. John no one thwarted,\nmuch less punished; though he twisted the necks of the pigeons, killed\nthe little pea-chicks, set the dogs at the sheep, stripped the hothouse\nvines of their fruit, and broke the buds off the choicest plants in the\nconservatory: he called his mother  old girl,  too; sometimes reviled\nher for her dark skin, similar to his own; bluntly disregarded her\nwishes; not unfrequently tore and spoiled her silk attire; and he was\nstill  her own darling.  I dared commit no fault: I strove to fulfil\nevery duty; and I was termed naughty and tiresome, sullen and sneaking,\nfrom morning to noon, and from noon to night.\n\nMy head still ached and bled with the blow and fall I had received: no\none had reproved John for wantonly striking me; and because I had\nturned against him to avert farther irrational violence, I was loaded\nwith general opprobrium.\n\n Unjust! unjust!  said my reason, forced by the agonising stimulus into\nprecocious though transitory power: and Resolve, equally wrought up,\ninstigated some strange expedient to achieve escape from insupportable\noppression as running away, or, if that could not be effected, never\neating or drinking more, and letting myself die.\n\nWhat a consternation of soul was mine that dreary afternoon! How all my\nbrain was in tumult, and all my heart in insurrection! Yet in what\ndarkness, what dense ignorance, was the mental battle fought! I could\nnot answer the ceaseless inward question _why_ I thus suffered; now, at\nthe distance of I will not say how many years, I see it clearly.\n\nI was a discord in Gateshead Hall: I was like nobody there; I had\nnothing in harmony with Mrs. Reed or her children, or her chosen\nvassalage. If they did not love me, in fact, as little did I love them.\nThey were not bound to regard with affection a thing that could not\nsympathise with one amongst them; a heterogeneous thing, opposed to\nthem in temperament, in capacity, in propensities; a useless thing,\nincapable of serving their interest, or adding to their pleasure; a\nnoxious thing, cherishing the germs of indignation at their treatment,\nof contempt of their judgment. I know that had I been a sanguine,\nbrilliant, careless, exacting, handsome, romping child though equally\ndependent and friendless Mrs. Reed would have endured my presence more\ncomplacently; her children would have entertained for me more of the\ncordiality of fellow-feeling; the servants would have been less prone\nto make me the scapegoat of the nursery.\n\nDaylight began to forsake the red-room; it was past four o clock, and\nthe beclouded afternoon was tending to drear twilight. I heard the rain\nstill beating continuously on the staircase window, and the wind\nhowling in the grove behind the hall; I grew by degrees cold as a\nstone, and then my courage sank. My habitual mood of humiliation,\nself-doubt, forlorn depression, fell damp on the embers of my decaying\nire. All said I was wicked, and perhaps I might be so; what thought had\nI been but just conceiving of starving myself to death? That certainly\nwas a crime: and was I fit to die? Or was the vault under the chancel\nof Gateshead Church an inviting bourne? In such vault I had been told\ndid Mr. Reed lie buried; and led by this thought to recall his idea, I\ndwelt on it with gathering dread. I could not remember him; but I knew\nthat he was my own uncle my mother s brother that he had taken me when\na parentless infant to his house; and that in his last moments he had\nrequired a promise of Mrs. Reed that she would rear and maintain me as\none of her own children. Mrs. Reed probably considered she had kept\nthis promise; and so she had, I dare say, as well as her nature would\npermit her; but how could she really like an interloper not of her\nrace, and unconnected with her, after her husband s death, by any tie?\nIt must have been most irksome to find herself bound by a hard-wrung\npledge to stand in the stead of a parent to a strange child she could\nnot love, and to see an uncongenial alien permanently intruded on her\nown family group.\n\nA singular notion dawned upon me. I doubted not never doubted that if\nMr. Reed had been alive he would have treated me kindly; and now, as I\nsat looking at the white bed and overshadowed walls occasionally also\nturning a fascinated eye towards the dimly gleaming mirror I began to\nrecall what I had heard of dead men, troubled in their graves by the\nviolation of their last wishes, revisiting the earth to punish the\nperjured and avenge the oppressed; and I thought Mr. Reed s spirit,\nharassed by the wrongs of his sister s child, might quit its\nabode whether in the church vault or in the unknown world of the\ndeparted and rise before me in this chamber. I wiped my tears and\nhushed my sobs, fearful lest any sign of violent grief might waken a\npreternatural voice to comfort me, or elicit from the gloom some haloed\nface, bending over me with strange pity. This idea, consolatory in\ntheory, I felt would be terrible if realised: with all my might I\nendeavoured to stifle it I endeavoured to be firm. Shaking my hair from\nmy eyes, I lifted my head and tried to look boldly round the dark room;\nat this moment a light gleamed on the wall. Was it, I asked myself, a\nray from the moon penetrating some aperture in the blind? No; moonlight\nwas still, and this stirred; while I gazed, it glided up to the ceiling\nand quivered over my head. I can now conjecture readily that this\nstreak of light was, in all likelihood, a gleam from a lantern carried\nby some one across the lawn: but then, prepared as my mind was for\nhorror, shaken as my nerves were by agitation, I thought the swift\ndarting beam was a herald of some coming vision from another world. My\nheart beat thick, my head grew hot; a sound filled my ears, which I\ndeemed the rushing of wings; something seemed near me; I was oppressed,\nsuffocated: endurance broke down; I rushed to the door and shook the\nlock in desperate effort. Steps came running along the outer passage;\nthe key turned, Bessie and Abbot entered.\n\n Miss Eyre, are you ill?  said Bessie.\n\n What a dreadful noise! it went quite through me!  exclaimed Abbot.\n\n Take me out! Let me go into the nursery!  was my cry.\n\n What for? Are you hurt? Have you seen something?  again demanded\nBessie.\n\n Oh! I saw a light, and I thought a ghost would come.  I had now got\nhold of Bessie s hand, and she did not snatch it from me.\n\n She has screamed out on purpose,  declared Abbot, in some disgust.\n And what a scream! If she had been in great pain one would have\nexcused it, but she only wanted to bring us all here: I know her\nnaughty tricks. \n\n What is all this?  demanded another voice peremptorily; and Mrs. Reed\ncame along the corridor, her cap flying wide, her gown rustling\nstormily.  Abbot and Bessie, I believe I gave orders that Jane Eyre\nshould be left in the red-room till I came to her myself. \n\n Miss Jane screamed so loud, ma am,  pleaded Bessie.\n\n Let her go,  was the only answer.  Loose Bessie s hand, child: you\ncannot succeed in getting out by these means, be assured. I abhor\nartifice, particularly in children; it is my duty to show you that\ntricks will not answer: you will now stay here an hour longer, and it\nis only on condition of perfect submission and stillness that I shall\nliberate you then. \n\n O aunt! have pity! Forgive me! I cannot endure it let me be punished\nsome other way! I shall be killed if \n\n Silence! This violence is all most repulsive:  and so, no doubt, she\nfelt it. I was a precocious actress in her eyes; she sincerely looked\non me as a compound of virulent passions, mean spirit, and dangerous\nduplicity.\n\nBessie and Abbot having retreated, Mrs. Reed, impatient of my now\nfrantic anguish and wild sobs, abruptly thrust me back and locked me\nin, without farther parley. I heard her sweeping away; and soon after\nshe was gone, I suppose I had a species of fit: unconsciousness closed\nthe scene.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nThe next thing I remember is, waking up with a feeling as if I had had\na frightful nightmare, and seeing before me a terrible red glare,\ncrossed with thick black bars. I heard voices, too, speaking with a\nhollow sound, and as if muffled by a rush of wind or water: agitation,\nuncertainty, and an all-predominating sense of terror confused my\nfaculties. Ere long, I became aware that some one was handling me;\nlifting me up and supporting me in a sitting posture, and that more\ntenderly than I had ever been raised or upheld before. I rested my head\nagainst a pillow or an arm, and felt easy.\n\nIn five minutes more the cloud of bewilderment dissolved: I knew quite\nwell that I was in my own bed, and that the red glare was the nursery\nfire. It was night: a candle burnt on the table; Bessie stood at the\nbed-foot with a basin in her hand, and a gentleman sat in a chair near\nmy pillow, leaning over me.\n\nI felt an inexpressible relief, a soothing conviction of protection and\nsecurity, when I knew that there was a stranger in the room, an\nindividual not belonging to Gateshead, and not related to Mrs. Reed.\nTurning from Bessie (though her presence was far less obnoxious to me\nthan that of Abbot, for instance, would have been), I scrutinised the\nface of the gentleman: I knew him; it was Mr. Lloyd, an apothecary,\nsometimes called in by Mrs. Reed when the servants were ailing: for\nherself and the children she employed a physician.\n\n Well, who am I?  he asked.\n\nI pronounced his name, offering him at the same time my hand: he took\nit, smiling and saying,  We shall do very well by-and-by.  Then he laid\nme down, and addressing Bessie, charged her to be very careful that I\nwas not disturbed during the night. Having given some further\ndirections, and intimated that he should call again the next day, he\ndeparted; to my grief: I felt so sheltered and befriended while he sat\nin the chair near my pillow; and as he closed the door after him, all\nthe room darkened and my heart again sank: inexpressible sadness\nweighed it down.\n\n Do you feel as if you should sleep, Miss?  asked Bessie, rather\nsoftly.\n\nScarcely dared I answer her; for I feared the next sentence might be\nrough.  I will try. \n\n Would you like to drink, or could you eat anything? \n\n No, thank you, Bessie. \n\n Then I think I shall go to bed, for it is past twelve o clock; but you\nmay call me if you want anything in the night. \n\nWonderful civility this! It emboldened me to ask a question.\n\n Bessie, what is the matter with me? Am I ill? \n\n You fell sick, I suppose, in the red-room with crying; you ll be\nbetter soon, no doubt. \n\nBessie went into the housemaid s apartment, which was near. I heard her\nsay \n\n Sarah, come and sleep with me in the nursery; I daren t for my life be\nalone with that poor child to-night: she might die; it s such a strange\nthing she should have that fit: I wonder if she saw anything. Missis\nwas rather too hard. \n\nSarah came back with her; they both went to bed; they were whispering\ntogether for half-an-hour before they fell asleep. I caught scraps of\ntheir conversation, from which I was able only too distinctly to infer\nthe main subject discussed.\n\n Something passed her, all dressed in white, and vanished A great\nblack dog behind him Three loud raps on the chamber door A light in\nthe churchyard just over his grave,  &c., &c.\n\nAt last both slept: the fire and the candle went out. For me, the\nwatches of that long night passed in ghastly wakefulness; ear, eye, and\nmind were alike strained by dread: such dread as children only can\nfeel.\n\nNo severe or prolonged bodily illness followed this incident of the\nred-room; it only gave my nerves a shock of which I feel the\nreverberation to this day. Yes, Mrs. Reed, to you I owe some fearful\npangs of mental suffering, but I ought to forgive you, for you knew not\nwhat you did: while rending my heart-strings, you thought you were only\nuprooting my bad propensities.\n\nNext day, by noon, I was up and dressed, and sat wrapped in a shawl by\nthe nursery hearth. I felt physically weak and broken down: but my\nworse ailment was an unutterable wretchedness of mind: a wretchedness\nwhich kept drawing from me silent tears; no sooner had I wiped one salt\ndrop from my cheek than another followed. Yet, I thought, I ought to\nhave been happy, for none of the Reeds were there, they were all gone\nout in the carriage with their mama. Abbot, too, was sewing in another\nroom, and Bessie, as she moved hither and thither, putting away toys\nand arranging drawers, addressed to me every now and then a word of\nunwonted kindness. This state of things should have been to me a\nparadise of peace, accustomed as I was to a life of ceaseless reprimand\nand thankless fagging; but, in fact, my racked nerves were now in such\na state that no calm could soothe, and no pleasure excite them\nagreeably.\n\nBessie had been down into the kitchen, and she brought up with her a\ntart on a certain brightly painted china plate, whose bird of paradise,\nnestling in a wreath of convolvuli and rosebuds, had been wont to stir\nin me a most enthusiastic sense of admiration; and which plate I had\noften petitioned to be allowed to take in my hand in order to examine\nit more closely, but had always hitherto been deemed unworthy of such a\nprivilege. This precious vessel was now placed on my knee, and I was\ncordially invited to eat the circlet of delicate pastry upon it. Vain\nfavour! coming, like most other favours long deferred and often wished\nfor, too late! I could not eat the tart; and the plumage of the bird,\nthe tints of the flowers, seemed strangely faded: I put both plate and\ntart away. Bessie asked if I would have a book: the word _book_ acted\nas a transient stimulus, and I begged her to fetch Gulliver s Travels\nfrom the library. This book I had again and again perused with delight.\nI considered it a narrative of facts, and discovered in it a vein of\ninterest deeper than what I found in fairy tales: for as to the elves,\nhaving sought them in vain among foxglove leaves and bells, under\nmushrooms and beneath the ground-ivy mantling old wall-nooks, I had at\nlength made up my mind to the sad truth, that they were all gone out of\nEngland to some savage country where the woods were wilder and thicker,\nand the population more scant; whereas, Lilliput and Brobdignag being,\nin my creed, solid parts of the earth s surface, I doubted not that I\nmight one day, by taking a long voyage, see with my own eyes the little\nfields, houses, and trees, the diminutive people, the tiny cows, sheep,\nand birds of the one realm; and the corn-fields forest-high, the mighty\nmastiffs, the monster cats, the tower-like men and women, of the other.\nYet, when this cherished volume was now placed in my hand when I turned\nover its leaves, and sought in its marvellous pictures the charm I had,\ntill now, never failed to find all was eerie and dreary; the giants\nwere gaunt goblins, the pigmies malevolent and fearful imps, Gulliver a\nmost desolate wanderer in most dread and dangerous regions. I closed\nthe book, which I dared no longer peruse, and put it on the table,\nbeside the untasted tart.\n\nBessie had now finished dusting and tidying the room, and having washed\nher hands, she opened a certain little drawer, full of splendid shreds\nof silk and satin, and began making a new bonnet for Georgiana s doll.\nMeantime she sang: her song was \n\n In the days when we went gipsying,\n    A long time ago. \n\n\nI had often heard the song before, and always with lively delight; for\nBessie had a sweet voice, at least, I thought so. But now, though her\nvoice was still sweet, I found in its melody an indescribable sadness.\nSometimes, preoccupied with her work, she sang the refrain very low,\nvery lingeringly;  A long time ago  came out like the saddest cadence\nof a funeral hymn. She passed into another ballad, this time a really\ndoleful one.\n\n My feet they are sore, and my limbs they are weary;\n    Long is the way, and the mountains are wild;\nSoon will the twilight close moonless and dreary\n    Over the path of the poor orphan child.\n\nWhy did they send me so far and so lonely,\n    Up where the moors spread and grey rocks are piled?\nMen are hard-hearted, and kind angels only\n    Watch o er the steps of a poor orphan child.\n\nYet distant and soft the night breeze is blowing,\n    Clouds there are none, and clear stars beam mild,\nGod, in His mercy, protection is showing,\n    Comfort and hope to the poor orphan child.\n\nEv n should I fall o er the broken bridge passing,\n    Or stray in the marshes, by false lights beguiled,\nStill will my Father, with promise and blessing,\n    Take to His bosom the poor orphan child.\n\nThere is a thought that for strength should avail me,\n    Though both of shelter and kindred despoiled;\nHeaven is a home, and a rest will not fail me;\n    God is a friend to the poor orphan child. \n\n\n Come, Miss Jane, don t cry,  said Bessie as she finished. She might as\nwell have said to the fire,  don t burn!  but how could she divine the\nmorbid suffering to which I was a prey? In the course of the morning\nMr. Lloyd came again.\n\n What, already up!  said he, as he entered the nursery.  Well, nurse,\nhow is she? \n\nBessie answered that I was doing very well.\n\n Then she ought to look more cheerful. Come here, Miss Jane: your name\nis Jane, is it not? \n\n Yes, sir, Jane Eyre. \n\n Well, you have been crying, Miss Jane Eyre; can you tell me what\nabout? Have you any pain? \n\n No, sir. \n\n Oh! I daresay she is crying because she could not go out with Missis\nin the carriage,  interposed Bessie.\n\n Surely not! why, she is too old for such pettishness. \n\nI thought so too; and my self-esteem being wounded by the false charge,\nI answered promptly,  I never cried for such a thing in my life: I hate\ngoing out in the carriage. I cry because I am miserable. \n\n Oh fie, Miss!  said Bessie.\n\nThe good apothecary appeared a little puzzled. I was standing before\nhim; he fixed his eyes on me very steadily: his eyes were small and\ngrey; not very bright, but I dare say I should think them shrewd now:\nhe had a hard-featured yet good-natured looking face. Having considered\nme at leisure, he said \n\n What made you ill yesterday? \n\n She had a fall,  said Bessie, again putting in her word.\n\n Fall! why, that is like a baby again! Can t she manage to walk at her\nage? She must be eight or nine years old. \n\n I was knocked down,  was the blunt explanation, jerked out of me by\nanother pang of mortified pride;  but that did not make me ill,  I\nadded; while Mr. Lloyd helped himself to a pinch of snuff.\n\nAs he was returning the box to his waistcoat pocket, a loud bell rang\nfor the servants  dinner; he knew what it was.  That s for you, nurse, \nsaid he;  you can go down; I ll give Miss Jane a lecture till you come\nback. \n\nBessie would rather have stayed, but she was obliged to go, because\npunctuality at meals was rigidly enforced at Gateshead Hall.\n\n The fall did not make you ill; what did, then?  pursued Mr. Lloyd when\nBessie was gone.\n\n I was shut up in a room where there is a ghost till after dark. \n\nI saw Mr. Lloyd smile and frown at the same time.\n\n Ghost! What, you are a baby after all! You are afraid of ghosts? \n\n Of Mr. Reed s ghost I am: he died in that room, and was laid out\nthere. Neither Bessie nor any one else will go into it at night, if\nthey can help it; and it was cruel to shut me up alone without a\ncandle, so cruel that I think I shall never forget it. \n\n Nonsense! And is it that makes you so miserable? Are you afraid now in\ndaylight? \n\n No: but night will come again before long: and besides, I am\nunhappy, very unhappy, for other things. \n\n What other things? Can you tell me some of them? \n\nHow much I wished to reply fully to this question! How difficult it was\nto frame any answer! Children can feel, but they cannot analyse their\nfeelings; and if the analysis is partially effected in thought, they\nknow not how to express the result of the process in words. Fearful,\nhowever, of losing this first and only opportunity of relieving my\ngrief by imparting it, I, after a disturbed pause, contrived to frame a\nmeagre, though, as far as it went, true response.\n\n For one thing, I have no father or mother, brothers or sisters. \n\n You have a kind aunt and cousins. \n\nAgain I paused; then bunglingly enounced \n\n But John Reed knocked me down, and my aunt shut me up in the\nred-room. \n\nMr. Lloyd a second time produced his snuff-box.\n\n Don t you think Gateshead Hall a very beautiful house?  asked he.  Are\nyou not very thankful to have such a fine place to live at? \n\n It is not my house, sir; and Abbot says I have less right to be here\nthan a servant. \n\n Pooh! you can t be silly enough to wish to leave such a splendid\nplace? \n\n If I had anywhere else to go, I should be glad to leave it; but I can\nnever get away from Gateshead till I am a woman. \n\n Perhaps you may who knows? Have you any relations besides Mrs. Reed? \n\n I think not, sir. \n\n None belonging to your father? \n\n I don t know: I asked Aunt Reed once, and she said possibly I might\nhave some poor, low relations called Eyre, but she knew nothing about\nthem. \n\n If you had such, would you like to go to them? \n\nI reflected. Poverty looks grim to grown people; still more so to\nchildren: they have not much idea of industrious, working, respectable\npoverty; they think of the word only as connected with ragged clothes,\nscanty food, fireless grates, rude manners, and debasing vices: poverty\nfor me was synonymous with degradation.\n\n No; I should not like to belong to poor people,  was my reply.\n\n Not even if they were kind to you? \n\nI shook my head: I could not see how poor people had the means of being\nkind; and then to learn to speak like them, to adopt their manners, to\nbe uneducated, to grow up like one of the poor women I saw sometimes\nnursing their children or washing their clothes at the cottage doors of\nthe village of Gateshead: no, I was not heroic enough to purchase\nliberty at the price of caste.\n\n But are your relatives so very poor? Are they working people? \n\n I cannot tell; Aunt Reed says if I have any, they must be a beggarly\nset: I should not like to go a begging. \n\n Would you like to go to school? \n\nAgain I reflected: I scarcely knew what school was: Bessie sometimes\nspoke of it as a place where young ladies sat in the stocks, wore\nbackboards, and were expected to be exceedingly genteel and precise:\nJohn Reed hated his school, and abused his master; but John Reed s\ntastes were no rule for mine, and if Bessie s accounts of\nschool-discipline (gathered from the young ladies of a family where she\nhad lived before coming to Gateshead) were somewhat appalling, her\ndetails of certain accomplishments attained by these same young ladies\nwere, I thought, equally attractive. She boasted of beautiful paintings\nof landscapes and flowers by them executed; of songs they could sing\nand pieces they could play, of purses they could net, of French books\nthey could translate; till my spirit was moved to emulation as I\nlistened. Besides, school would be a complete change: it implied a long\njourney, an entire separation from Gateshead, an entrance into a new\nlife.\n\n I should indeed like to go to school,  was the audible conclusion of\nmy musings.\n\n Well, well! who knows what may happen?  said Mr. Lloyd, as he got up.\n The child ought to have change of air and scene,  he added, speaking\nto himself;  nerves not in a good state. \n\nBessie now returned; at the same moment the carriage was heard rolling\nup the gravel-walk.\n\n Is that your mistress, nurse?  asked Mr. Lloyd.  I should like to\nspeak to her before I go. \n\nBessie invited him to walk into the breakfast-room, and led the way\nout. In the interview which followed between him and Mrs. Reed, I\npresume, from after-occurrences, that the apothecary ventured to\nrecommend my being sent to school; and the recommendation was no doubt\nreadily enough adopted; for as Abbot said, in discussing the subject\nwith Bessie when both sat sewing in the nursery one night, after I was\nin bed, and, as they thought, asleep,  Missis was, she dared say, glad\nenough to get rid of such a tiresome, ill-conditioned child, who always\nlooked as if she were watching everybody, and scheming plots\nunderhand.  Abbot, I think, gave me credit for being a sort of\ninfantine Guy Fawkes.\n\nOn that same occasion I learned, for the first time, from Miss Abbot s\ncommunications to Bessie, that my father had been a poor clergyman;\nthat my mother had married him against the wishes of her friends, who\nconsidered the match beneath her; that my grandfather Reed was so\nirritated at her disobedience, he cut her off without a shilling; that\nafter my mother and father had been married a year, the latter caught\nthe typhus fever while visiting among the poor of a large manufacturing\ntown where his curacy was situated, and where that disease was then\nprevalent: that my mother took the infection from him, and both died\nwithin a month of each other.\n\nBessie, when she heard this narrative, sighed and said,  Poor Miss Jane\nis to be pitied, too, Abbot. \n\n Yes,  responded Abbot;  if she were a nice, pretty child, one might\ncompassionate her forlornness; but one really cannot care for such a\nlittle toad as that. \n\n Not a great deal, to be sure,  agreed Bessie:  at any rate, a beauty\nlike Miss Georgiana would be more moving in the same condition. \n\n Yes, I doat on Miss Georgiana!  cried the fervent Abbot.  Little\ndarling! with her long curls and her blue eyes, and such a sweet colour\nas she has; just as if she were painted! Bessie, I could fancy a Welsh\nrabbit for supper. \n\n So could I with a roast onion. Come, we ll go down.  They went.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nFrom my discourse with Mr. Lloyd, and from the above reported\nconference between Bessie and Abbot, I gathered enough of hope to\nsuffice as a motive for wishing to get well: a change seemed near, I\ndesired and waited it in silence. It tarried, however: days and weeks\npassed: I had regained my normal state of health, but no new allusion\nwas made to the subject over which I brooded. Mrs. Reed surveyed me at\ntimes with a severe eye, but seldom addressed me: since my illness, she\nhad drawn a more marked line of separation than ever between me and her\nown children; appointing me a small closet to sleep in by myself,\ncondemning me to take my meals alone, and pass all my time in the\nnursery, while my cousins were constantly in the drawing-room. Not a\nhint, however, did she drop about sending me to school: still I felt an\ninstinctive certainty that she would not long endure me under the same\nroof with her; for her glance, now more than ever, when turned on me,\nexpressed an insuperable and rooted aversion.\n\nEliza and Georgiana, evidently acting according to orders, spoke to me\nas little as possible: John thrust his tongue in his cheek whenever he\nsaw me, and once attempted chastisement; but as I instantly turned\nagainst him, roused by the same sentiment of deep ire and desperate\nrevolt which had stirred my corruption before, he thought it better to\ndesist, and ran from me uttering execrations, and vowing I had burst\nhis nose. I had indeed levelled at that prominent feature as hard a\nblow as my knuckles could inflict; and when I saw that either that or\nmy look daunted him, I had the greatest inclination to follow up my\nadvantage to purpose; but he was already with his mama. I heard him in\na blubbering tone commence the tale of how  that nasty Jane Eyre  had\nflown at him like a mad cat: he was stopped rather harshly \n\n Don t talk to me about her, John: I told you not to go near her; she\nis not worthy of notice; I do not choose that either you or your\nsisters should associate with her. \n\nHere, leaning over the banister, I cried out suddenly, and without at\nall deliberating on my words \n\n They are not fit to associate with me. \n\nMrs. Reed was rather a stout woman; but, on hearing this strange and\naudacious declaration, she ran nimbly up the stair, swept me like a\nwhirlwind into the nursery, and crushing me down on the edge of my\ncrib, dared me in an emphatic voice to rise from that place, or utter\none syllable during the remainder of the day.\n\n What would Uncle Reed say to you, if he were alive?  was my scarcely\nvoluntary demand. I say scarcely voluntary, for it seemed as if my\ntongue pronounced words without my will consenting to their utterance:\nsomething spoke out of me over which I had no control.\n\n What?  said Mrs. Reed under her breath: her usually cold composed grey\neye became troubled with a look like fear; she took her hand from my\narm, and gazed at me as if she really did not know whether I were child\nor fiend. I was now in for it.\n\n My Uncle Reed is in heaven, and can see all you do and think; and so\ncan papa and mama: they know how you shut me up all day long, and how\nyou wish me dead. \n\nMrs. Reed soon rallied her spirits: she shook me most soundly, she\nboxed both my ears, and then left me without a word. Bessie supplied\nthe hiatus by a homily of an hour s length, in which she proved beyond\na doubt that I was the most wicked and abandoned child ever reared\nunder a roof. I half believed her; for I felt indeed only bad feelings\nsurging in my breast.\n\nNovember, December, and half of January passed away. Christmas and the\nNew Year had been celebrated at Gateshead with the usual festive cheer;\npresents had been interchanged, dinners and evening parties given. From\nevery enjoyment I was, of course, excluded: my share of the gaiety\nconsisted in witnessing the daily apparelling of Eliza and Georgiana,\nand seeing them descend to the drawing-room, dressed out in thin muslin\nfrocks and scarlet sashes, with hair elaborately ringletted; and\nafterwards, in listening to the sound of the piano or the harp played\nbelow, to the passing to and fro of the butler and footman, to the\njingling of glass and china as refreshments were handed, to the broken\nhum of conversation as the drawing-room door opened and closed. When\ntired of this occupation, I would retire from the stairhead to the\nsolitary and silent nursery: there, though somewhat sad, I was not\nmiserable. To speak truth, I had not the least wish to go into company,\nfor in company I was very rarely noticed; and if Bessie had but been\nkind and companionable, I should have deemed it a treat to spend the\nevenings quietly with her, instead of passing them under the formidable\neye of Mrs. Reed, in a room full of ladies and gentlemen. But Bessie,\nas soon as she had dressed her young ladies, used to take herself off\nto the lively regions of the kitchen and housekeeper s room, generally\nbearing the candle along with her. I then sat with my doll on my knee\ntill the fire got low, glancing round occasionally to make sure that\nnothing worse than myself haunted the shadowy room; and when the embers\nsank to a dull red, I undressed hastily, tugging at knots and strings\nas I best might, and sought shelter from cold and darkness in my crib.\nTo this crib I always took my doll; human beings must love something,\nand, in the dearth of worthier objects of affection, I contrived to\nfind a pleasure in loving and cherishing a faded graven image, shabby\nas a miniature scarecrow. It puzzles me now to remember with what\nabsurd sincerity I doated on this little toy, half fancying it alive\nand capable of sensation. I could not sleep unless it was folded in my\nnight-gown; and when it lay there safe and warm, I was comparatively\nhappy, believing it to be happy likewise.\n\nLong did the hours seem while I waited the departure of the company,\nand listened for the sound of Bessie s step on the stairs: sometimes\nshe would come up in the interval to seek her thimble or her scissors,\nor perhaps to bring me something by way of supper a bun or a\ncheese-cake then she would sit on the bed while I ate it, and when I\nhad finished, she would tuck the clothes round me, and twice she kissed\nme, and said,  Good night, Miss Jane.  When thus gentle, Bessie seemed\nto me the best, prettiest, kindest being in the world; and I wished\nmost intensely that she would always be so pleasant and amiable, and\nnever push me about, or scold, or task me unreasonably, as she was too\noften wont to do. Bessie Lee must, I think, have been a girl of good\nnatural capacity, for she was smart in all she did, and had a\nremarkable knack of narrative; so, at least, I judge from the\nimpression made on me by her nursery tales. She was pretty too, if my\nrecollections of her face and person are correct. I remember her as a\nslim young woman, with black hair, dark eyes, very nice features, and\ngood, clear complexion; but she had a capricious and hasty temper, and\nindifferent ideas of principle or justice: still, such as she was, I\npreferred her to any one else at Gateshead Hall.\n\nIt was the fifteenth of January, about nine o clock in the morning:\nBessie was gone down to breakfast; my cousins had not yet been summoned\nto their mama; Eliza was putting on her bonnet and warm garden-coat to\ngo and feed her poultry, an occupation of which she was fond: and not\nless so of selling the eggs to the housekeeper and hoarding up the\nmoney she thus obtained. She had a turn for traffic, and a marked\npropensity for saving; shown not only in the vending of eggs and\nchickens, but also in driving hard bargains with the gardener about\nflower-roots, seeds, and slips of plants; that functionary having\norders from Mrs. Reed to buy of his young lady all the products of her\nparterre she wished to sell: and Eliza would have sold the hair off her\nhead if she could have made a handsome profit thereby. As to her money,\nshe first secreted it in odd corners, wrapped in a rag or an old\ncurl-paper; but some of these hoards having been discovered by the\nhousemaid, Eliza, fearful of one day losing her valued treasure,\nconsented to intrust it to her mother, at a usurious rate of\ninterest fifty or sixty per cent.; which interest she exacted every\nquarter, keeping her accounts in a little book with anxious accuracy.\n\nGeorgiana sat on a high stool, dressing her hair at the glass, and\ninterweaving her curls with artificial flowers and faded feathers, of\nwhich she had found a store in a drawer in the attic. I was making my\nbed, having received strict orders from Bessie to get it arranged\nbefore she returned (for Bessie now frequently employed me as a sort of\nunder-nurserymaid, to tidy the room, dust the chairs, &c.). Having\nspread the quilt and folded my night-dress, I went to the window-seat\nto put in order some picture-books and doll s house furniture scattered\nthere; an abrupt command from Georgiana to let her playthings alone\n(for the tiny chairs and mirrors, the fairy plates and cups, were her\nproperty) stopped my proceedings; and then, for lack of other\noccupation, I fell to breathing on the frost-flowers with which the\nwindow was fretted, and thus clearing a space in the glass through\nwhich I might look out on the grounds, where all was still and\npetrified under the influence of a hard frost.\n\nFrom this window were visible the porter s lodge and the carriage-road,\nand just as I had dissolved so much of the silver-white foliage veiling\nthe panes as left room to look out, I saw the gates thrown open and a\ncarriage roll through. I watched it ascending the drive with\nindifference; carriages often came to Gateshead, but none ever brought\nvisitors in whom I was interested; it stopped in front of the house,\nthe door-bell rang loudly, the new-comer was admitted. All this being\nnothing to me, my vacant attention soon found livelier attraction in\nthe spectacle of a little hungry robin, which came and chirruped on the\ntwigs of the leafless cherry-tree nailed against the wall near the\ncasement. The remains of my breakfast of bread and milk stood on the\ntable, and having crumbled a morsel of roll, I was tugging at the sash\nto put out the crumbs on the window-sill, when Bessie came running\nupstairs into the nursery.\n\n Miss Jane, take off your pinafore; what are you doing there? Have you\nwashed your hands and face this morning?  I gave another tug before I\nanswered, for I wanted the bird to be secure of its bread: the sash\nyielded; I scattered the crumbs, some on the stone sill, some on the\ncherry-tree bough, then, closing the window, I replied \n\n No, Bessie; I have only just finished dusting. \n\n Troublesome, careless child! and what are you doing now? You look\nquite red, as if you had been about some mischief: what were you\nopening the window for? \n\nI was spared the trouble of answering, for Bessie seemed in too great a\nhurry to listen to explanations; she hauled me to the washstand,\ninflicted a merciless, but happily brief scrub on my face and hands\nwith soap, water, and a coarse towel; disciplined my head with a\nbristly brush, denuded me of my pinafore, and then hurrying me to the\ntop of the stairs, bid me go down directly, as I was wanted in the\nbreakfast-room.\n\nI would have asked who wanted me: I would have demanded if Mrs. Reed\nwas there; but Bessie was already gone, and had closed the nursery-door\nupon me. I slowly descended. For nearly three months, I had never been\ncalled to Mrs. Reed s presence; restricted so long to the nursery, the\nbreakfast, dining, and drawing-rooms were become for me awful regions,\non which it dismayed me to intrude.\n\nI now stood in the empty hall; before me was the breakfast-room door,\nand I stopped, intimidated and trembling. What a miserable little\npoltroon had fear, engendered of unjust punishment, made of me in those\ndays! I feared to return to the nursery, and feared to go forward to\nthe parlour; ten minutes I stood in agitated hesitation; the vehement\nringing of the breakfast-room bell decided me; I _must_ enter.\n\n Who could want me?  I asked inwardly, as with both hands I turned the\nstiff door-handle, which, for a second or two, resisted my efforts.\n What should I see besides Aunt Reed in the apartment? a man or a\nwoman?  The handle turned, the door unclosed, and passing through and\ncurtseying low, I looked up at a black pillar! such, at least, appeared\nto me, at first sight, the straight, narrow, sable-clad shape standing\nerect on the rug: the grim face at the top was like a carved mask,\nplaced above the shaft by way of capital.\n\nMrs. Reed occupied her usual seat by the fireside; she made a signal to\nme to approach; I did so, and she introduced me to the stony stranger\nwith the words:  This is the little girl respecting whom I applied to\nyou. \n\n_He_, for it was a man, turned his head slowly towards where I stood,\nand having examined me with the two inquisitive-looking grey eyes which\ntwinkled under a pair of bushy brows, said solemnly, and in a bass\nvoice,  Her size is small: what is her age? \n\n Ten years. \n\n So much?  was the doubtful answer; and he prolonged his scrutiny for\nsome minutes. Presently he addressed me Your name, little girl? \n\n Jane Eyre, sir. \n\nIn uttering these words I looked up: he seemed to me a tall gentleman;\nbut then I was very little; his features were large, and they and all\nthe lines of his frame were equally harsh and prim.\n\n Well, Jane Eyre, and are you a good child? \n\nImpossible to reply to this in the affirmative: my little world held a\ncontrary opinion: I was silent. Mrs. Reed answered for me by an\nexpressive shake of the head, adding soon,  Perhaps the less said on\nthat subject the better, Mr. Brocklehurst. \n\n Sorry indeed to hear it! she and I must have some talk;  and bending\nfrom the perpendicular, he installed his person in the arm-chair\nopposite Mrs. Reed s.  Come here,  he said.\n\nI stepped across the rug; he placed me square and straight before him.\nWhat a face he had, now that it was almost on a level with mine! what a\ngreat nose! and what a mouth! and what large prominent teeth!\n\n No sight so sad as that of a naughty child,  he began,  especially a\nnaughty little girl. Do you know where the wicked go after death? \n\n They go to hell,  was my ready and orthodox answer.\n\n And what is hell? Can you tell me that? \n\n A pit full of fire. \n\n And should you like to fall into that pit, and to be burning there for\never? \n\n No, sir. \n\n What must you do to avoid it? \n\nI deliberated a moment; my answer, when it did come, was objectionable:\n I must keep in good health, and not die. \n\n How can you keep in good health? Children younger than you die daily.\nI buried a little child of five years old only a day or two since, a\ngood little child, whose soul is now in heaven. It is to be feared the\nsame could not be said of you were you to be called hence. \n\nNot being in a condition to remove his doubt, I only cast my eyes down\non the two large feet planted on the rug, and sighed, wishing myself\nfar enough away.\n\n I hope that sigh is from the heart, and that you repent of ever having\nbeen the occasion of discomfort to your excellent benefactress. \n\n Benefactress! benefactress!  said I inwardly:  they all call Mrs. Reed\nmy benefactress; if so, a benefactress is a disagreeable thing. \n\n Do you say your prayers night and morning?  continued my interrogator.\n\n Yes, sir. \n\n Do you read your Bible? \n\n Sometimes. \n\n With pleasure? Are you fond of it? \n\n I like Revelations, and the book of Daniel, and Genesis and Samuel,\nand a little bit of Exodus, and some parts of Kings and Chronicles, and\nJob and Jonah. \n\n And the Psalms? I hope you like them? \n\n No, sir. \n\n No? oh, shocking! I have a little boy, younger than you, who knows six\nPsalms by heart: and when you ask him which he would rather have, a\ngingerbread-nut to eat or a verse of a Psalm to learn, he says:  Oh!\nthe verse of a Psalm! angels sing Psalms;  says he,  I wish to be a\nlittle angel here below;  he then gets two nuts in recompense for his\ninfant piety. \n\n Psalms are not interesting,  I remarked.\n\n That proves you have a wicked heart; and you must pray to God to\nchange it: to give you a new and clean one: to take away your heart of\nstone and give you a heart of flesh. \n\nI was about to propound a question, touching the manner in which that\noperation of changing my heart was to be performed, when Mrs. Reed\ninterposed, telling me to sit down; she then proceeded to carry on the\nconversation herself.\n\n Mr. Brocklehurst, I believe I intimated in the letter which I wrote to\nyou three weeks ago, that this little girl has not quite the character\nand disposition I could wish: should you admit her into Lowood school,\nI should be glad if the superintendent and teachers were requested to\nkeep a strict eye on her, and, above all, to guard against her worst\nfault, a tendency to deceit. I mention this in your hearing, Jane, that\nyou may not attempt to impose on Mr. Brocklehurst. \n\nWell might I dread, well might I dislike Mrs. Reed; for it was her\nnature to wound me cruelly; never was I happy in her presence; however\ncarefully I obeyed, however strenuously I strove to please her, my\nefforts were still repulsed and repaid by such sentences as the above.\nNow, uttered before a stranger, the accusation cut me to the heart; I\ndimly perceived that she was already obliterating hope from the new\nphase of existence which she destined me to enter; I felt, though I\ncould not have expressed the feeling, that she was sowing aversion and\nunkindness along my future path; I saw myself transformed under Mr.\nBrocklehurst s eye into an artful, noxious child, and what could I do\nto remedy the injury?\n\n Nothing, indeed,  thought I, as I struggled to repress a sob, and\nhastily wiped away some tears, the impotent evidences of my anguish.\n\n Deceit is, indeed, a sad fault in a child,  said Mr. Brocklehurst;  it\nis akin to falsehood, and all liars will have their portion in the lake\nburning with fire and brimstone; she shall, however, be watched, Mrs.\nReed. I will speak to Miss Temple and the teachers. \n\n I should wish her to be brought up in a manner suiting her prospects, \ncontinued my benefactress;  to be made useful, to be kept humble: as\nfor the vacations, she will, with your permission, spend them always at\nLowood. \n\n Your decisions are perfectly judicious, madam,  returned Mr.\nBrocklehurst.  Humility is a Christian grace, and one peculiarly\nappropriate to the pupils of Lowood; I, therefore, direct that especial\ncare shall be bestowed on its cultivation amongst them. I have studied\nhow best to mortify in them the worldly sentiment of pride; and, only\nthe other day, I had a pleasing proof of my success. My second\ndaughter, Augusta, went with her mama to visit the school, and on her\nreturn she exclaimed:  Oh, dear papa, how quiet and plain all the girls\nat Lowood look, with their hair combed behind their ears, and their\nlong pinafores, and those little holland pockets outside their\nfrocks they are almost like poor people s children! and,  said she,\n they looked at my dress and mama s, as if they had never seen a silk\ngown before. \n\n This is the state of things I quite approve,  returned Mrs. Reed;  had\nI sought all England over, I could scarcely have found a system more\nexactly fitting a child like Jane Eyre. Consistency, my dear Mr.\nBrocklehurst; I advocate consistency in all things. \n\n Consistency, madam, is the first of Christian duties; and it has been\nobserved in every arrangement connected with the establishment of\nLowood: plain fare, simple attire, unsophisticated accommodations,\nhardy and active habits; such is the order of the day in the house and\nits inhabitants. \n\n Quite right, sir. I may then depend upon this child being received as\na pupil at Lowood, and there being trained in conformity to her\nposition and prospects? \n\n Madam, you may: she shall be placed in that nursery of chosen plants,\nand I trust she will show herself grateful for the inestimable\nprivilege of her election. \n\n I will send her, then, as soon as possible, Mr. Brocklehurst; for, I\nassure you, I feel anxious to be relieved of a responsibility that was\nbecoming too irksome. \n\n No doubt, no doubt, madam; and now I wish you good morning. I shall\nreturn to Brocklehurst Hall in the course of a week or two: my good\nfriend, the Archdeacon, will not permit me to leave him sooner. I shall\nsend Miss Temple notice that she is to expect a new girl, so that there\nwill be no difficulty about receiving her. Good-bye. \n\n Good-bye, Mr. Brocklehurst; remember me to Mrs. and Miss Brocklehurst,\nand to Augusta and Theodore, and Master Broughton Brocklehurst. \n\n I will, madam. Little girl, here is a book entitled the  Child s\nGuide ; read it with prayer, especially that part containing  An\naccount of the awfully sudden death of Martha G , a naughty child\naddicted to falsehood and deceit. \n\nWith these words Mr. Brocklehurst put into my hand a thin pamphlet sewn\nin a cover, and having rung for his carriage, he departed.\n\nMrs. Reed and I were left alone: some minutes passed in silence; she\nwas sewing, I was watching her. Mrs. Reed might be at that time some\nsix or seven and thirty; she was a woman of robust frame,\nsquare-shouldered and strong-limbed, not tall, and, though stout, not\nobese: she had a somewhat large face, the under jaw being much\ndeveloped and very solid; her brow was low, her chin large and\nprominent, mouth and nose sufficiently regular; under her light\neyebrows glimmered an eye devoid of ruth; her skin was dark and opaque,\nher hair nearly flaxen; her constitution was sound as a bell illness\nnever came near her; she was an exact, clever manager; her household\nand tenantry were thoroughly under her control; her children only at\ntimes defied her authority and laughed it to scorn; she dressed well,\nand had a presence and port calculated to set off handsome attire.\n\nSitting on a low stool, a few yards from her arm-chair, I examined her\nfigure; I perused her features. In my hand I held the tract containing\nthe sudden death of the Liar, to which narrative my attention had been\npointed as to an appropriate warning. What had just passed; what Mrs.\nReed had said concerning me to Mr. Brocklehurst; the whole tenor of\ntheir conversation, was recent, raw, and stinging in my mind; I had\nfelt every word as acutely as I had heard it plainly, and a passion of\nresentment fomented now within me.\n\nMrs. Reed looked up from her work; her eye settled on mine, her fingers\nat the same time suspended their nimble movements.\n\n Go out of the room; return to the nursery,  was her mandate. My look\nor something else must have struck her as offensive, for she spoke with\nextreme though suppressed irritation. I got up, I went to the door; I\ncame back again; I walked to the window, across the room, then close up\nto her.\n\n_Speak_ I must: I had been trodden on severely, and _must_ turn: but\nhow? What strength had I to dart retaliation at my antagonist? I\ngathered my energies and launched them in this blunt sentence \n\n I am not deceitful: if I were, I should say I loved _you;_ but I\ndeclare I do not love you: I dislike you the worst of anybody in the\nworld except John Reed; and this book about the liar, you may give to\nyour girl, Georgiana, for it is she who tells lies, and not I. \n\nMrs. Reed s hands still lay on her work inactive: her eye of ice\ncontinued to dwell freezingly on mine.\n\n What more have you to say?  she asked, rather in the tone in which a\nperson might address an opponent of adult age than such as is\nordinarily used to a child.\n\nThat eye of hers, that voice stirred every antipathy I had. Shaking\nfrom head to foot, thrilled with ungovernable excitement, I continued \n\n I am glad you are no relation of mine: I will never call you aunt\nagain as long as I live. I will never come to see you when I am grown\nup; and if any one asks me how I liked you, and how you treated me, I\nwill say the very thought of you makes me sick, and that you treated me\nwith miserable cruelty. \n\n How dare you affirm that, Jane Eyre? \n\n How dare I, Mrs. Reed? How dare I? Because it is the _truth_. You\nthink I have no feelings, and that I can do without one bit of love or\nkindness; but I cannot live so: and you have no pity. I shall remember\nhow you thrust me back roughly and violently thrust me back into the\nred-room, and locked me up there, to my dying day; though I was in\nagony; though I cried out, while suffocating with distress,  Have\nmercy! Have mercy, Aunt Reed!  And that punishment you made me suffer\nbecause your wicked boy struck me knocked me down for nothing. I will\ntell anybody who asks me questions, this exact tale. People think you a\ngood woman, but you are bad, hard-hearted. _You_ are deceitful! \n\n\nHow dare I, Mrs. Reed? How dare I? Because it is the truth\n\nEre I had finished this reply, my soul began to expand, to exult, with\nthe strangest sense of freedom, of triumph, I ever felt. It seemed as\nif an invisible bond had burst, and that I had struggled out into\nunhoped-for liberty. Not without cause was this sentiment: Mrs. Reed\nlooked frightened; her work had slipped from her knee; she was lifting\nup her hands, rocking herself to and fro, and even twisting her face as\nif she would cry.\n\n Jane, you are under a mistake: what is the matter with you? Why do you\ntremble so violently? Would you like to drink some water? \n\n No, Mrs. Reed. \n\n Is there anything else you wish for, Jane? I assure you, I desire to\nbe your friend. \n\n Not you. You told Mr. Brocklehurst I had a bad character, a deceitful\ndisposition; and I ll let everybody at Lowood know what you are, and\nwhat you have done. \n\n Jane, you don t understand these things: children must be corrected\nfor their faults. \n\n Deceit is not my fault!  I cried out in a savage, high voice.\n\n But you are passionate, Jane, that you must allow: and now return to\nthe nursery there s a dear and lie down a little. \n\n I am not your dear; I cannot lie down: send me to school soon, Mrs.\nReed, for I hate to live here. \n\n I will indeed send her to school soon,  murmured Mrs. Reed _sotto\nvoce_; and gathering up her work, she abruptly quitted the apartment.\n\nI was left there alone winner of the field. It was the hardest battle I\nhad fought, and the first victory I had gained: I stood awhile on the\nrug, where Mr. Brocklehurst had stood, and I enjoyed my conqueror s\nsolitude. First, I smiled to myself and felt elate; but this fierce\npleasure subsided in me as fast as did the accelerated throb of my\npulses. A child cannot quarrel with its elders, as I had done; cannot\ngive its furious feelings uncontrolled play, as I had given mine,\nwithout experiencing afterwards the pang of remorse and the chill of\nreaction. A ridge of lighted heath, alive, glancing, devouring, would\nhave been a meet emblem of my mind when I accused and menaced Mrs.\nReed: the same ridge, black and blasted after the flames are dead,\nwould have represented as meetly my subsequent condition, when\nhalf-an-hour s silence and reflection had shown me the madness of my\nconduct, and the dreariness of my hated and hating position.\n\nSomething of vengeance I had tasted for the first time; as aromatic\nwine it seemed, on swallowing, warm and racy: its after-flavour,\nmetallic and corroding, gave me a sensation as if I had been poisoned.\nWillingly would I now have gone and asked Mrs. Reed s pardon; but I\nknew, partly from experience and partly from instinct, that was the way\nto make her repulse me with double scorn, thereby re-exciting every\nturbulent impulse of my nature.\n\nI would fain exercise some better faculty than that of fierce speaking;\nfain find nourishment for some less fiendish feeling than that of\nsombre indignation. I took a book some Arabian tales; I sat down and\nendeavoured to read. I could make no sense of the subject; my own\nthoughts swam always between me and the page I had usually found\nfascinating. I opened the glass-door in the breakfast-room: the\nshrubbery was quite still: the black frost reigned, unbroken by sun or\nbreeze, through the grounds. I covered my head and arms with the skirt\nof my frock, and went out to walk in a part of the plantation which was\nquite sequestrated; but I found no pleasure in the silent trees, the\nfalling fir-cones, the congealed relics of autumn, russet leaves, swept\nby past winds in heaps, and now stiffened together. I leaned against a\ngate, and looked into an empty field where no sheep were feeding, where\nthe short grass was nipped and blanched. It was a very grey day; a most\nopaque sky,  onding on snaw,  canopied all; thence flakes fell at\nintervals, which settled on the hard path and on the hoary lea without\nmelting. I stood, a wretched child enough, whispering to myself over\nand over again,  What shall I do? what shall I do? \n\nAll at once I heard a clear voice call,  Miss Jane! where are you? Come\nto lunch! \n\nIt was Bessie, I knew well enough; but I did not stir; her light step\ncame tripping down the path.\n\n You naughty little thing!  she said.  Why don t you come when you are\ncalled? \n\nBessie s presence, compared with the thoughts over which I had been\nbrooding, seemed cheerful; even though, as usual, she was somewhat\ncross. The fact is, after my conflict with and victory over Mrs. Reed,\nI was not disposed to care much for the nursemaid s transitory anger;\nand I _was_ disposed to bask in her youthful lightness of heart. I just\nput my two arms round her and said,  Come, Bessie! don t scold. \n\nThe action was more frank and fearless than any I was habituated to\nindulge in: somehow it pleased her.\n\n You are a strange child, Miss Jane,  she said, as she looked down at\nme;  a little roving, solitary thing: and you are going to school, I\nsuppose? \n\nI nodded.\n\n And won t you be sorry to leave poor Bessie? \n\n What does Bessie care for me? She is always scolding me. \n\n Because you re such a queer, frightened, shy little thing. You should\nbe bolder. \n\n What! to get more knocks? \n\n Nonsense! But you are rather put upon, that s certain. My mother said,\nwhen she came to see me last week, that she would not like a little one\nof her own to be in your place. Now, come in, and I ve some good news\nfor you. \n\n I don t think you have, Bessie. \n\n Child! what do you mean? What sorrowful eyes you fix on me! Well, but\nMissis and the young ladies and Master John are going out to tea this\nafternoon, and you shall have tea with me. I ll ask cook to bake you a\nlittle cake, and then you shall help me to look over your drawers; for\nI am soon to pack your trunk. Missis intends you to leave Gateshead in\na day or two, and you shall choose what toys you like to take with\nyou. \n\n Bessie, you must promise not to scold me any more till I go. \n\n Well, I will; but mind you are a very good girl, and don t be afraid\nof me. Don t start when I chance to speak rather sharply; it s so\nprovoking. \n\n I don t think I shall ever be afraid of you again, Bessie, because I\nhave got used to you, and I shall soon have another set of people to\ndread. \n\n If you dread them they ll dislike you. \n\n As you do, Bessie? \n\n I don t dislike you, Miss; I believe I am fonder of you than of all\nthe others. \n\n You don t show it. \n\n You little sharp thing! you ve got quite a new way of talking. What\nmakes you so venturesome and hardy? \n\n Why, I shall soon be away from you, and besides I was going to say\nsomething about what had passed between me and Mrs. Reed, but on second\nthoughts I considered it better to remain silent on that head.\n\n And so you re glad to leave me? \n\n Not at all, Bessie; indeed, just now I m rather sorry. \n\n Just now! and rather! How coolly my little lady says it! I dare say\nnow if I were to ask you for a kiss you wouldn t give it me: you d say\nyou d _rather_ not. \n\n I ll kiss you and welcome: bend your head down.  Bessie stooped; we\nmutually embraced, and I followed her into the house quite comforted.\nThat afternoon lapsed in peace and harmony; and in the evening Bessie\ntold me some of her most enchanting stories, and sang me some of her\nsweetest songs. Even for me life had its gleams of sunshine.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\nFive o clock had hardly struck on the morning of the 19th of January,\nwhen Bessie brought a candle into my closet and found me already up and\nnearly dressed. I had risen half-an-hour before her entrance, and had\nwashed my face, and put on my clothes by the light of a half-moon just\nsetting, whose rays streamed through the narrow window near my crib. I\nwas to leave Gateshead that day by a coach which passed the lodge gates\nat six A.M. Bessie was the only person yet risen; she had lit a fire in\nthe nursery, where she now proceeded to make my breakfast. Few children\ncan eat when excited with the thoughts of a journey; nor could I.\nBessie, having pressed me in vain to take a few spoonfuls of the boiled\nmilk and bread she had prepared for me, wrapped up some biscuits in a\npaper and put them into my bag; then she helped me on with my pelisse\nand bonnet, and wrapping herself in a shawl, she and I left the\nnursery. As we passed Mrs. Reed s bedroom, she said,  Will you go in\nand bid Missis good-bye? \n\n No, Bessie: she came to my crib last night when you were gone down to\nsupper, and said I need not disturb her in the morning, or my cousins\neither; and she told me to remember that she had always been my best\nfriend, and to speak of her and be grateful to her accordingly. \n\n What did you say, Miss? \n\n Nothing: I covered my face with the bedclothes, and turned from her to\nthe wall. \n\n That was wrong, Miss Jane. \n\n It was quite right, Bessie. Your Missis has not been my friend: she\nhas been my foe. \n\n O Miss Jane! don t say so! \n\n Good-bye to Gateshead!  cried I, as we passed through the hall and\nwent out at the front door.\n\nThe moon was set, and it was very dark; Bessie carried a lantern, whose\nlight glanced on wet steps and gravel road sodden by a recent thaw. Raw\nand chill was the winter morning: my teeth chattered as I hastened down\nthe drive. There was a light in the porter s lodge: when we reached it,\nwe found the porter s wife just kindling her fire: my trunk, which had\nbeen carried down the evening before, stood corded at the door. It\nwanted but a few minutes of six, and shortly after that hour had\nstruck, the distant roll of wheels announced the coming coach; I went\nto the door and watched its lamps approach rapidly through the gloom.\n\n Is she going by herself?  asked the porter s wife.\n\n Yes. \n\n And how far is it? \n\n Fifty miles. \n\n What a long way! I wonder Mrs. Reed is not afraid to trust her so far\nalone. \n\nThe coach drew up; there it was at the gates with its four horses and\nits top laden with passengers: the guard and coachman loudly urged\nhaste; my trunk was hoisted up; I was taken from Bessie s neck, to\nwhich I clung with kisses.\n\n Be sure and take good care of her,  cried she to the guard, as he\nlifted me into the inside.\n\n Ay, ay!  was the answer: the door was slapped to, a voice exclaimed\n All right,  and on we drove. Thus was I severed from Bessie and\nGateshead; thus whirled away to unknown, and, as I then deemed, remote\nand mysterious regions.\n\nI remember but little of the journey; I only know that the day seemed\nto me of a preternatural length, and that we appeared to travel over\nhundreds of miles of road. We passed through several towns, and in one,\na very large one, the coach stopped; the horses were taken out, and the\npassengers alighted to dine. I was carried into an inn, where the guard\nwanted me to have some dinner; but, as I had no appetite, he left me in\nan immense room with a fireplace at each end, a chandelier pendent from\nthe ceiling, and a little red gallery high up against the wall filled\nwith musical instruments. Here I walked about for a long time, feeling\nvery strange, and mortally apprehensive of some one coming in and\nkidnapping me; for I believed in kidnappers, their exploits having\nfrequently figured in Bessie s fireside chronicles. At last the guard\nreturned; once more I was stowed away in the coach, my protector\nmounted his own seat, sounded his hollow horn, and away we rattled over\nthe  stony street  of L .\n\nThe afternoon came on wet and somewhat misty: as it waned into dusk, I\nbegan to feel that we were getting very far indeed from Gateshead: we\nceased to pass through towns; the country changed; great grey hills\nheaved up round the horizon: as twilight deepened, we descended a\nvalley, dark with wood, and long after night had overclouded the\nprospect, I heard a wild wind rushing amongst trees.\n\nLulled by the sound, I at last dropped asleep; I had not long slumbered\nwhen the sudden cessation of motion awoke me; the coach-door was open,\nand a person like a servant was standing at it: I saw her face and\ndress by the light of the lamps.\n\n Is there a little girl called Jane Eyre here?  she asked. I answered\n Yes,  and was then lifted out; my trunk was handed down, and the coach\ninstantly drove away.\n\nI was stiff with long sitting, and bewildered with the noise and motion\nof the coach: gathering my faculties, I looked about me. Rain, wind,\nand darkness filled the air; nevertheless, I dimly discerned a wall\nbefore me and a door open in it; through this door I passed with my new\nguide: she shut and locked it behind her. There was now visible a house\nor houses for the building spread far with many windows, and lights\nburning in some; we went up a broad pebbly path, splashing wet, and\nwere admitted at a door; then the servant led me through a passage into\na room with a fire, where she left me alone.\n\nI stood and warmed my numbed fingers over the blaze, then I looked\nround; there was no candle, but the uncertain light from the hearth\nshowed, by intervals, papered walls, carpet, curtains, shining mahogany\nfurniture: it was a parlour, not so spacious or splendid as the\ndrawing-room at Gateshead, but comfortable enough. I was puzzling to\nmake out the subject of a picture on the wall, when the door opened,\nand an individual carrying a light entered; another followed close\nbehind.\n\nThe first was a tall lady with dark hair, dark eyes, and a pale and\nlarge forehead; her figure was partly enveloped in a shawl, her\ncountenance was grave, her bearing erect.\n\n The child is very young to be sent alone,  said she, putting her\ncandle down on the table. She considered me attentively for a minute or\ntwo, then further added \n\n She had better be put to bed soon; she looks tired: are you tired? \nshe asked, placing her hand on my shoulder.\n\n A little, ma am. \n\n And hungry too, no doubt: let her have some supper before she goes to\nbed, Miss Miller. Is this the first time you have left your parents to\ncome to school, my little girl? \n\nI explained to her that I had no parents. She inquired how long they\nhad been dead: then how old I was, what was my name, whether I could\nread, write, and sew a little: then she touched my cheek gently with\nher forefinger, and saying,  She hoped I should be a good child, \ndismissed me along with Miss Miller.\n\nThe lady I had left might be about twenty-nine; the one who went with\nme appeared some years younger: the first impressed me by her voice,\nlook, and air. Miss Miller was more ordinary; ruddy in complexion,\nthough of a careworn countenance; hurried in gait and action, like one\nwho had always a multiplicity of tasks on hand: she looked, indeed,\nwhat I afterwards found she really was, an under-teacher. Led by her, I\npassed from compartment to compartment, from passage to passage, of a\nlarge and irregular building; till, emerging from the total and\nsomewhat dreary silence pervading that portion of the house we had\ntraversed, we came upon the hum of many voices, and presently entered a\nwide, long room, with great deal tables, two at each end, on each of\nwhich burnt a pair of candles, and seated all round on benches, a\ncongregation of girls of every age, from nine or ten to twenty. Seen by\nthe dim light of the dips, their number to me appeared countless,\nthough not in reality exceeding eighty; they were uniformly dressed in\nbrown stuff frocks of quaint fashion, and long holland pinafores. It\nwas the hour of study; they were engaged in conning over their\nto-morrow s task, and the hum I had heard was the combined result of\ntheir whispered repetitions.\n\nMiss Miller signed to me to sit on a bench near the door, then walking\nup to the top of the long room she cried out \n\n Monitors, collect the lesson-books and put them away! \n\nFour tall girls arose from different tables, and going round, gathered\nthe books and removed them. Miss Miller again gave the word of command \n\n Monitors, fetch the supper-trays! \n\nThe tall girls went out and returned presently, each bearing a tray,\nwith portions of something, I knew not what, arranged thereon, and a\npitcher of water and mug in the middle of each tray. The portions were\nhanded round; those who liked took a draught of the water, the mug\nbeing common to all. When it came to my turn, I drank, for I was\nthirsty, but did not touch the food, excitement and fatigue rendering\nme incapable of eating: I now saw, however, that it was a thin oaten\ncake shared into fragments.\n\nThe meal over, prayers were read by Miss Miller, and the classes filed\noff, two and two, upstairs. Overpowered by this time with weariness, I\nscarcely noticed what sort of a place the bedroom was, except that,\nlike the schoolroom, I saw it was very long. To-night I was to be Miss\nMiller s bed-fellow; she helped me to undress: when laid down I glanced\nat the long rows of beds, each of which was quickly filled with two\noccupants; in ten minutes the single light was extinguished, and amidst\nsilence and complete darkness I fell asleep.\n\nThe night passed rapidly: I was too tired even to dream; I only once\nawoke to hear the wind rave in furious gusts, and the rain fall in\ntorrents, and to be sensible that Miss Miller had taken her place by my\nside. When I again unclosed my eyes, a loud bell was ringing; the girls\nwere up and dressing; day had not yet begun to dawn, and a rushlight or\ntwo burned in the room. I too rose reluctantly; it was bitter cold, and\nI dressed as well as I could for shivering, and washed when there was a\nbasin at liberty, which did not occur soon, as there was but one basin\nto six girls, on the stands down the middle of the room. Again the bell\nrang: all formed in file, two and two, and in that order descended the\nstairs and entered the cold and dimly lit schoolroom: here prayers were\nread by Miss Miller; afterwards she called out \n\n Form classes! \n\nA great tumult succeeded for some minutes, during which Miss Miller\nrepeatedly exclaimed,  Silence!  and  Order!  When it subsided, I saw\nthem all drawn up in four semicircles, before four chairs, placed at\nthe four tables; all held books in their hands, and a great book, like\na Bible, lay on each table, before the vacant seat. A pause of some\nseconds succeeded, filled up by the low, vague hum of numbers; Miss\nMiller walked from class to class, hushing this indefinite sound.\n\nA distant bell tinkled: immediately three ladies entered the room, each\nwalked to a table and took her seat; Miss Miller assumed the fourth\nvacant chair, which was that nearest the door, and around which the\nsmallest of the children were assembled: to this inferior class I was\ncalled, and placed at the bottom of it.\n\nBusiness now began: the day s Collect was repeated, then certain texts\nof Scripture were said, and to these succeeded a protracted reading of\nchapters in the Bible, which lasted an hour. By the time that exercise\nwas terminated, day had fully dawned. The indefatigable bell now\nsounded for the fourth time: the classes were marshalled and marched\ninto another room to breakfast: how glad I was to behold a prospect of\ngetting something to eat! I was now nearly sick from inanition, having\ntaken so little the day before.\n\nThe refectory was a great, low-ceiled, gloomy room; on two long tables\nsmoked basins of something hot, which, however, to my dismay, sent\nforth an odour far from inviting. I saw a universal manifestation of\ndiscontent when the fumes of the repast met the nostrils of those\ndestined to swallow it; from the van of the procession, the tall girls\nof the first class, rose the whispered words \n\n Disgusting! The porridge is burnt again! \n\n Silence!  ejaculated a voice; not that of Miss Miller, but one of the\nupper teachers, a little and dark personage, smartly dressed, but of\nsomewhat morose aspect, who installed herself at the top of one table,\nwhile a more buxom lady presided at the other. I looked in vain for her\nI had first seen the night before; she was not visible: Miss Miller\noccupied the foot of the table where I sat, and a strange,\nforeign-looking, elderly lady, the French teacher, as I afterwards\nfound, took the corresponding seat at the other board. A long grace was\nsaid and a hymn sung; then a servant brought in some tea for the\nteachers, and the meal began.\n\nRavenous, and now very faint, I devoured a spoonful or two of my\nportion without thinking of its taste; but the first edge of hunger\nblunted, I perceived I had got in hand a nauseous mess; burnt porridge\nis almost as bad as rotten potatoes; famine itself soon sickens over\nit. The spoons were moved slowly: I saw each girl taste her food and\ntry to swallow it; but in most cases the effort was soon relinquished.\nBreakfast was over, and none had breakfasted. Thanks being returned for\nwhat we had not got, and a second hymn chanted, the refectory was\nevacuated for the schoolroom. I was one of the last to go out, and in\npassing the tables, I saw one teacher take a basin of the porridge and\ntaste it; she looked at the others; all their countenances expressed\ndispleasure, and one of them, the stout one, whispered \n\n Abominable stuff! How shameful! \n\nA quarter of an hour passed before lessons again began, during which\nthe schoolroom was in a glorious tumult; for that space of time it\nseemed to be permitted to talk loud and more freely, and they used\ntheir privilege. The whole conversation ran on the breakfast, which one\nand all abused roundly. Poor things! it was the sole consolation they\nhad. Miss Miller was now the only teacher in the room: a group of great\ngirls standing about her spoke with serious and sullen gestures. I\nheard the name of Mr. Brocklehurst pronounced by some lips; at which\nMiss Miller shook her head disapprovingly; but she made no great effort\nto check the general wrath; doubtless she shared in it.\n\nA clock in the schoolroom struck nine; Miss Miller left her circle, and\nstanding in the middle of the room, cried \n\n Silence! To your seats! \n\nDiscipline prevailed: in five minutes the confused throng was resolved\ninto order, and comparative silence quelled the Babel clamour of\ntongues. The upper teachers now punctually resumed their posts: but\nstill, all seemed to wait. Ranged on benches down the sides of the\nroom, the eighty girls sat motionless and erect; a quaint assemblage\nthey appeared, all with plain locks combed from their faces, not a curl\nvisible; in brown dresses, made high and surrounded by a narrow tucker\nabout the throat, with little pockets of holland (shaped something like\na Highlander s purse) tied in front of their frocks, and destined to\nserve the purpose of a work-bag: all, too, wearing woollen stockings\nand country-made shoes, fastened with brass buckles. Above twenty of\nthose clad in this costume were full-grown girls, or rather young\nwomen; it suited them ill, and gave an air of oddity even to the\nprettiest.\n\nI was still looking at them, and also at intervals examining the\nteachers none of whom precisely pleased me; for the stout one was a\nlittle coarse, the dark one not a little fierce, the foreigner harsh\nand grotesque, and Miss Miller, poor thing! looked purple,\nweather-beaten, and over-worked when, as my eye wandered from face to\nface, the whole school rose simultaneously, as if moved by a common\nspring.\n\nWhat was the matter? I had heard no order given: I was puzzled. Ere I\nhad gathered my wits, the classes were again seated: but as all eyes\nwere now turned to one point, mine followed the general direction, and\nencountered the personage who had received me last night. She stood at\nthe bottom of the long room, on the hearth; for there was a fire at\neach end; she surveyed the two rows of girls silently and gravely. Miss\nMiller approaching, seemed to ask her a question, and having received\nher answer, went back to her place, and said aloud \n\n Monitor of the first class, fetch the globes! \n\nWhile the direction was being executed, the lady consulted moved slowly\nup the room. I suppose I have a considerable organ of veneration, for I\nretain yet the sense of admiring awe with which my eyes traced her\nsteps. Seen now, in broad daylight, she looked tall, fair, and shapely;\nbrown eyes with a benignant light in their irids, and a fine pencilling\nof long lashes round, relieved the whiteness of her large front; on\neach of her temples her hair, of a very dark brown, was clustered in\nround curls, according to the fashion of those times, when neither\nsmooth bands nor long ringlets were in vogue; her dress, also in the\nmode of the day, was of purple cloth, relieved by a sort of Spanish\ntrimming of black velvet; a gold watch (watches were not so common then\nas now) shone at her girdle. Let the reader add, to complete the\npicture, refined features; a complexion, if pale, clear; and a stately\nair and carriage, and he will have, at least, as clearly as words can\ngive it, a correct idea of the exterior of Miss Temple Maria Temple, as\nI afterwards saw the name written in a prayer-book intrusted to me to\ncarry to church.\n\nThe superintendent of Lowood (for such was this lady) having taken her\nseat before a pair of globes placed on one of the tables, summoned the\nfirst class round her, and commenced giving a lesson on geography; the\nlower classes were called by the teachers: repetitions in history,\ngrammar, &c., went on for an hour; writing and arithmetic succeeded,\nand music lessons were given by Miss Temple to some of the elder girls.\nThe duration of each lesson was measured by the clock, which at last\nstruck twelve. The superintendent rose \n\n I have a word to address to the pupils,  said she.\n\nThe tumult of cessation from lessons was already breaking forth, but it\nsank at her voice. She went on \n\n You had this morning a breakfast which you could not eat; you must be\nhungry: I have ordered that a lunch of bread and cheese shall be served\nto all. \n\nThe teachers looked at her with a sort of surprise.\n\n It is to be done on my responsibility,  she added, in an explanatory\ntone to them, and immediately afterwards left the room.\n\nThe bread and cheese was presently brought in and distributed, to the\nhigh delight and refreshment of the whole school. The order was now\ngiven  To the garden!  Each put on a coarse straw bonnet, with strings\nof coloured calico, and a cloak of grey frieze. I was similarly\nequipped, and, following the stream, I made my way into the open air.\n\nThe garden was a wide inclosure, surrounded with walls so high as to\nexclude every glimpse of prospect; a covered verandah ran down one\nside, and broad walks bordered a middle space divided into scores of\nlittle beds: these beds were assigned as gardens for the pupils to\ncultivate, and each bed had an owner. When full of flowers they would\ndoubtless look pretty; but now, at the latter end of January, all was\nwintry blight and brown decay. I shuddered as I stood and looked round\nme: it was an inclement day for outdoor exercise; not positively rainy,\nbut darkened by a drizzling yellow fog; all under foot was still\nsoaking wet with the floods of yesterday. The stronger among the girls\nran about and engaged in active games, but sundry pale and thin ones\nherded together for shelter and warmth in the verandah; and amongst\nthese, as the dense mist penetrated to their shivering frames, I heard\nfrequently the sound of a hollow cough.\n\nAs yet I had spoken to no one, nor did anybody seem to take notice of\nme; I stood lonely enough: but to that feeling of isolation I was\naccustomed; it did not oppress me much. I leant against a pillar of the\nverandah, drew my grey mantle close about me, and, trying to forget the\ncold which nipped me without, and the unsatisfied hunger which gnawed\nme within, delivered myself up to the employment of watching and\nthinking. My reflections were too undefined and fragmentary to merit\nrecord: I hardly yet knew where I was; Gateshead and my past life\nseemed floated away to an immeasurable distance; the present was vague\nand strange, and of the future I could form no conjecture. I looked\nround the convent-like garden, and then up at the house a large\nbuilding, half of which seemed grey and old, the other half quite new.\nThe new part, containing the schoolroom and dormitory, was lit by\nmullioned and latticed windows, which gave it a church-like aspect; a\nstone tablet over the door bore this inscription: \n\nLOWOOD INSTITUTION.\n\nThis portion was rebuilt A.D.  , by Naomi Brocklehurst,\nof Brocklehurst Hall, in this county.\n\n Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works,\nand glorify your Father which is in heaven. St. Matt. v. 16.\n\n\nI read these words over and over again: I felt that an explanation\nbelonged to them, and was unable fully to penetrate their import. I was\nstill pondering the signification of  Institution,  and endeavouring to\nmake out a connection between the first words and the verse of\nScripture, when the sound of a cough close behind me made me turn my\nhead. I saw a girl sitting on a stone bench near; she was bent over a\nbook, on the perusal of which she seemed intent: from where I stood I\ncould see the title it was  Rasselas;  a name that struck me as\nstrange, and consequently attractive. In turning a leaf she happened to\nlook up, and I said to her directly \n\n Is your book interesting?  I had already formed the intention of\nasking her to lend it to me some day.\n\n I like it,  she answered, after a pause of a second or two, during\nwhich she examined me.\n\n What is it about?  I continued. I hardly know where I found the\nhardihood thus to open a conversation with a stranger; the step was\ncontrary to my nature and habits: but I think her occupation touched a\nchord of sympathy somewhere; for I too liked reading, though of a\nfrivolous and childish kind; I could not digest or comprehend the\nserious or substantial.\n\n You may look at it,  replied the girl, offering me the book.\n\nI did so; a brief examination convinced me that the contents were less\ntaking than the title:  Rasselas  looked dull to my trifling taste; I\nsaw nothing about fairies, nothing about genii; no bright variety\nseemed spread over the closely-printed pages. I returned it to her; she\nreceived it quietly, and without saying anything she was about to\nrelapse into her former studious mood: again I ventured to disturb her \n\n Can you tell me what the writing on that stone over the door means?\nWhat is Lowood Institution? \n\n This house where you are come to live. \n\n And why do they call it Institution? Is it in any way different from\nother schools? \n\n It is partly a charity-school: you and I, and all the rest of us, are\ncharity-children. I suppose you are an orphan: are not either your\nfather or your mother dead? \n\n Both died before I can remember. \n\n Well, all the girls here have lost either one or both parents, and\nthis is called an institution for educating orphans. \n\n Do we pay no money? Do they keep us for nothing? \n\n We pay, or our friends pay, fifteen pounds a year for each. \n\n Then why do they call us charity-children? \n\n Because fifteen pounds is not enough for board and teaching, and the\ndeficiency is supplied by subscription. \n\n Who subscribes? \n\n Different benevolent-minded ladies and gentlemen in this neighbourhood\nand in London. \n\n Who was Naomi Brocklehurst? \n\n The lady who built the new part of this house as that tablet records,\nand whose son overlooks and directs everything here. \n\n Why? \n\n Because he is treasurer and manager of the establishment. \n\n Then this house does not belong to that tall lady who wears a watch,\nand who said we were to have some bread and cheese? \n\n To Miss Temple? Oh, no! I wish it did: she has to answer to Mr.\nBrocklehurst for all she does. Mr. Brocklehurst buys all our food and\nall our clothes. \n\n Does he live here? \n\n No two miles off, at a large hall. \n\n Is he a good man? \n\n He is a clergyman, and is said to do a great deal of good. \n\n Did you say that tall lady was called Miss Temple? \n\n Yes. \n\n And what are the other teachers called? \n\n The one with red cheeks is called Miss Smith; she attends to the work,\nand cuts out for we make our own clothes, our frocks, and pelisses, and\neverything; the little one with black hair is Miss Scatcherd; she\nteaches history and grammar, and hears the second class repetitions;\nand the one who wears a shawl, and has a pocket-handkerchief tied to\nher side with a yellow ribband, is Madame Pierrot: she comes from\nLisle, in France, and teaches French. \n\n Do you like the teachers? \n\n Well enough. \n\n Do you like the little black one, and the Madame  ? I cannot\npronounce her name as you do. \n\n Miss Scatcherd is hasty you must take care not to offend her; Madame\nPierrot is not a bad sort of person. \n\n But Miss Temple is the best isn t she? \n\n Miss Temple is very good and very clever; she is above the rest,\nbecause she knows far more than they do. \n\n Have you been long here? \n\n Two years. \n\n Are you an orphan? \n\n My mother is dead. \n\n Are you happy here? \n\n You ask rather too many questions. I have given you answers enough for\nthe present: now I want to read. \n\nBut at that moment the summons sounded for dinner; all re-entered the\nhouse. The odour which now filled the refectory was scarcely more\nappetising than that which had regaled our nostrils at breakfast: the\ndinner was served in two huge tin-plated vessels, whence rose a strong\nsteam redolent of rancid fat. I found the mess to consist of\nindifferent potatoes and strange shreds of rusty meat, mixed and cooked\ntogether. Of this preparation a tolerably abundant plateful was\napportioned to each pupil. I ate what I could, and wondered within\nmyself whether every day s fare would be like this.\n\nAfter dinner, we immediately adjourned to the schoolroom: lessons\nrecommenced, and were continued till five o clock.\n\nThe only marked event of the afternoon was, that I saw the girl with\nwhom I had conversed in the verandah dismissed in disgrace by Miss\nScatcherd from a history class, and sent to stand in the middle of the\nlarge schoolroom. The punishment seemed to me in a high degree\nignominious, especially for so great a girl she looked thirteen or\nupwards. I expected she would show signs of great distress and shame;\nbut to my surprise she neither wept nor blushed: composed, though\ngrave, she stood, the central mark of all eyes.  How can she bear it so\nquietly so firmly?  I asked of myself.  Were I in her place, it seems\nto me I should wish the earth to open and swallow me up. She looks as\nif she were thinking of something beyond her punishment beyond her\nsituation: of something not round her nor before her. I have heard of\nday-dreams is she in a day-dream now? Her eyes are fixed on the floor,\nbut I am sure they do not see it her sight seems turned in, gone down\ninto her heart: she is looking at what she can remember, I believe; not\nat what is really present. I wonder what sort of a girl she is whether\ngood or naughty. \n\nSoon after five P.M. we had another meal, consisting of a small mug of\ncoffee, and half-a-slice of brown bread. I devoured my bread and drank\nmy coffee with relish; but I should have been glad of as much more I\nwas still hungry. Half-an-hour s recreation succeeded, then study; then\nthe glass of water and the piece of oat-cake, prayers, and bed. Such\nwas my first day at Lowood.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nThe next day commenced as before, getting up and dressing by rushlight;\nbut this morning we were obliged to dispense with the ceremony of\nwashing; the water in the pitchers was frozen. A change had taken place\nin the weather the preceding evening, and a keen north-east wind,\nwhistling through the crevices of our bedroom windows all night long,\nhad made us shiver in our beds, and turned the contents of the ewers to\nice.\n\nBefore the long hour and a half of prayers and Bible-reading was over,\nI felt ready to perish with cold. Breakfast-time came at last, and this\nmorning the porridge was not burnt; the quality was eatable, the\nquantity small. How small my portion seemed! I wished it had been\ndoubled.\n\nIn the course of the day I was enrolled a member of the fourth class,\nand regular tasks and occupations were assigned me: hitherto, I had\nonly been a spectator of the proceedings at Lowood; I was now to become\nan actor therein. At first, being little accustomed to learn by heart,\nthe lessons appeared to me both long and difficult; the frequent change\nfrom task to task, too, bewildered me; and I was glad when, about three\no clock in the afternoon, Miss Smith put into my hands a border of\nmuslin two yards long, together with needle, thimble, &c., and sent me\nto sit in a quiet corner of the schoolroom, with directions to hem the\nsame. At that hour most of the others were sewing likewise; but one\nclass still stood round Miss Scatcherd s chair reading, and as all was\nquiet, the subject of their lessons could be heard, together with the\nmanner in which each girl acquitted herself, and the animadversions or\ncommendations of Miss Scatcherd on the performance. It was English\nhistory: among the readers I observed my acquaintance of the verandah:\nat the commencement of the lesson, her place had been at the top of the\nclass, but for some error of pronunciation, or some inattention to\nstops, she was suddenly sent to the very bottom. Even in that obscure\nposition, Miss Scatcherd continued to make her an object of constant\nnotice: she was continually addressing to her such phrases as the\nfollowing: \n\n Burns  (such it seems was her name: the girls here were all called by\ntheir surnames, as boys are elsewhere),  Burns, you are standing on the\nside of your shoe; turn your toes out immediately.   Burns, you poke\nyour chin most unpleasantly; draw it in.   Burns, I insist on your\nholding your head up; I will not have you before me in that attitude, \n&c. &c.\n\nA chapter having been read through twice, the books were closed and the\ngirls examined. The lesson had comprised part of the reign of Charles\nI., and there were sundry questions about tonnage and poundage and\nship-money, which most of them appeared unable to answer; still, every\nlittle difficulty was solved instantly when it reached Burns: her\nmemory seemed to have retained the substance of the whole lesson, and\nshe was ready with answers on every point. I kept expecting that Miss\nScatcherd would praise her attention; but, instead of that, she\nsuddenly cried out \n\n You dirty, disagreeable girl! you have never cleaned your nails this\nmorning! \n\nBurns made no answer: I wondered at her silence.\n\n Why,  thought I,  does she not explain that she could neither clean\nher nails nor wash her face, as the water was frozen? \n\nMy attention was now called off by Miss Smith desiring me to hold a\nskein of thread: while she was winding it, she talked to me from time\nto time, asking whether I had ever been at school before, whether I\ncould mark, stitch, knit, &c.; till she dismissed me, I could not\npursue my observations on Miss Scatcherd s movements. When I returned\nto my seat, that lady was just delivering an order of which I did not\ncatch the import; but Burns immediately left the class, and going into\nthe small inner room where the books were kept, returned in half a\nminute, carrying in her hand a bundle of twigs tied together at one\nend. This ominous tool she presented to Miss Scatcherd with a\nrespectful curtesy; then she quietly, and without being told, unloosed\nher pinafore, and the teacher instantly and sharply inflicted on her\nneck a dozen strokes with the bunch of twigs. Not a tear rose to Burns \neye; and, while I paused from my sewing, because my fingers quivered at\nthis spectacle with a sentiment of unavailing and impotent anger, not a\nfeature of her pensive face altered its ordinary expression.\n\n Hardened girl!  exclaimed Miss Scatcherd;  nothing can correct you of\nyour slatternly habits: carry the rod away. \n\nBurns obeyed: I looked at her narrowly as she emerged from the\nbook-closet; she was just putting back her handkerchief into her\npocket, and the trace of a tear glistened on her thin cheek.\n\nThe play-hour in the evening I thought the pleasantest fraction of the\nday at Lowood: the bit of bread, the draught of coffee swallowed at\nfive o clock had revived vitality, if it had not satisfied hunger: the\nlong restraint of the day was slackened; the schoolroom felt warmer\nthan in the morning its fires being allowed to burn a little more\nbrightly, to supply, in some measure, the place of candles, not yet\nintroduced: the ruddy gloaming, the licensed uproar, the confusion of\nmany voices gave one a welcome sense of liberty.\n\nOn the evening of the day on which I had seen Miss Scatcherd flog her\npupil, Burns, I wandered as usual among the forms and tables and\nlaughing groups without a companion, yet not feeling lonely: when I\npassed the windows, I now and then lifted a blind, and looked out; it\nsnowed fast, a drift was already forming against the lower panes;\nputting my ear close to the window, I could distinguish from the\ngleeful tumult within, the disconsolate moan of the wind outside.\n\nProbably, if I had lately left a good home and kind parents, this would\nhave been the hour when I should most keenly have regretted the\nseparation; that wind would then have saddened my heart; this obscure\nchaos would have disturbed my peace! as it was, I derived from both a\nstrange excitement, and reckless and feverish, I wished the wind to\nhowl more wildly, the gloom to deepen to darkness, and the confusion to\nrise to clamour.\n\nJumping over forms, and creeping under tables, I made my way to one of\nthe fire-places; there, kneeling by the high wire fender, I found\nBurns, absorbed, silent, abstracted from all round her by the\ncompanionship of a book, which she read by the dim glare of the embers.\n\n Is it still  Rasselas ?  I asked, coming behind her.\n\n Yes,  she said,  and I have just finished it. \n\nAnd in five minutes more she shut it up. I was glad of this.\n\n Now,  thought I,  I can perhaps get her to talk.  I sat down by her on\nthe floor.\n\n What is your name besides Burns? \n\n Helen. \n\n Do you come a long way from here? \n\n I come from a place farther north, quite on the borders of Scotland. \n\n Will you ever go back? \n\n I hope so; but nobody can be sure of the future. \n\n You must wish to leave Lowood? \n\n No! why should I? I was sent to Lowood to get an education; and it\nwould be of no use going away until I have attained that object. \n\n But that teacher, Miss Scatcherd, is so cruel to you? \n\n Cruel? Not at all! She is severe: she dislikes my faults. \n\n And if I were in your place I should dislike her; I should resist her.\nIf she struck me with that rod, I should get it from her hand; I should\nbreak it under her nose. \n\n Probably you would do nothing of the sort: but if you did, Mr.\nBrocklehurst would expel you from the school; that would be a great\ngrief to your relations. It is far better to endure patiently a smart\nwhich nobody feels but yourself, than to commit a hasty action whose\nevil consequences will extend to all connected with you; and besides,\nthe Bible bids us return good for evil. \n\n But then it seems disgraceful to be flogged, and to be sent to stand\nin the middle of a room full of people; and you are such a great girl:\nI am far younger than you, and I could not bear it. \n\n Yet it would be your duty to bear it, if you could not avoid it: it is\nweak and silly to say you _cannot bear_ what it is your fate to be\nrequired to bear. \n\nI heard her with wonder: I could not comprehend this doctrine of\nendurance; and still less could I understand or sympathise with the\nforbearance she expressed for her chastiser. Still I felt that Helen\nBurns considered things by a light invisible to my eyes. I suspected\nshe might be right and I wrong; but I would not ponder the matter\ndeeply; like Felix, I put it off to a more convenient season.\n\n You say you have faults, Helen: what are they? To me you seem very\ngood. \n\n Then learn from me, not to judge by appearances: I am, as Miss\nScatcherd said, slatternly; I seldom put, and never keep, things in\norder; I am careless; I forget rules; I read when I should learn my\nlessons; I have no method; and sometimes I say, like you, I cannot\n_bear_ to be subjected to systematic arrangements. This is all very\nprovoking to Miss Scatcherd, who is naturally neat, punctual, and\nparticular. \n\n And cross and cruel,  I added; but Helen Burns would not admit my\naddition: she kept silence.\n\n Is Miss Temple as severe to you as Miss Scatcherd? \n\nAt the utterance of Miss Temple s name, a soft smile flitted over her\ngrave face.\n\n Miss Temple is full of goodness; it pains her to be severe to any one,\neven the worst in the school: she sees my errors, and tells me of them\ngently; and, if I do anything worthy of praise, she gives me my meed\nliberally. One strong proof of my wretchedly defective nature is, that\neven her expostulations, so mild, so rational, have not influence to\ncure me of my faults; and even her praise, though I value it most\nhighly, cannot stimulate me to continued care and foresight. \n\n That is curious,  said I,  it is so easy to be careful. \n\n For _you_ I have no doubt it is. I observed you in your class this\nmorning, and saw you were closely attentive: your thoughts never seemed\nto wander while Miss Miller explained the lesson and questioned you.\nNow, mine continually rove away; when I should be listening to Miss\nScatcherd, and collecting all she says with assiduity, often I lose the\nvery sound of her voice; I fall into a sort of dream. Sometimes I think\nI am in Northumberland, and that the noises I hear round me are the\nbubbling of a little brook which runs through Deepden, near our\nhouse; then, when it comes to my turn to reply, I have to be awakened;\nand having heard nothing of what was read for listening to the\nvisionary brook, I have no answer ready. \n\n Yet how well you replied this afternoon. \n\n It was mere chance; the subject on which we had been reading had\ninterested me. This afternoon, instead of dreaming of Deepden, I was\nwondering how a man who wished to do right could act so unjustly and\nunwisely as Charles the First sometimes did; and I thought what a pity\nit was that, with his integrity and conscientiousness, he could see no\nfarther than the prerogatives of the crown. If he had but been able to\nlook to a distance, and see how what they call the spirit of the age\nwas tending! Still, I like Charles I respect him I pity him, poor\nmurdered king! Yes, his enemies were the worst: they shed blood they\nhad no right to shed. How dared they kill him! \n\nHelen was talking to herself now: she had forgotten I could not very\nwell understand her that I was ignorant, or nearly so, of the subject\nshe discussed. I recalled her to my level.\n\n And when Miss Temple teaches you, do your thoughts wander then? \n\n No, certainly, not often; because Miss Temple has generally something\nto say which is newer than my own reflections; her language is\nsingularly agreeable to me, and the information she communicates is\noften just what I wished to gain. \n\n Well, then, with Miss Temple you are good? \n\n Yes, in a passive way: I make no effort; I follow as inclination\nguides me. There is no merit in such goodness. \n\n A great deal: you are good to those who are good to you. It is all I\never desire to be. If people were always kind and obedient to those who\nare cruel and unjust, the wicked people would have it all their own\nway: they would never feel afraid, and so they would never alter, but\nwould grow worse and worse. When we are struck at without a reason, we\nshould strike back again very hard; I am sure we should so hard as to\nteach the person who struck us never to do it again. \n\n You will change your mind, I hope, when you grow older: as yet you are\nbut a little untaught girl. \n\n But I feel this, Helen; I must dislike those who, whatever I do to\nplease them, persist in disliking me; I must resist those who punish me\nunjustly. It is as natural as that I should love those who show me\naffection, or submit to punishment when I feel it is deserved. \n\n Heathens and savage tribes hold that doctrine, but Christians and\ncivilised nations disown it. \n\n How? I don t understand. \n\n It is not violence that best overcomes hate nor vengeance that most\ncertainly heals injury. \n\n What then? \n\n Read the New Testament, and observe what Christ says, and how He acts;\nmake His word your rule, and His conduct your example. \n\n What does He say? \n\n Love your enemies; bless them that curse you; do good to them that\nhate you and despitefully use you. \n\n Then I should love Mrs. Reed, which I cannot do; I should bless her\nson John, which is impossible. \n\nIn her turn, Helen Burns asked me to explain, and I proceeded forthwith\nto pour out, in my own way, the tale of my sufferings and resentments.\nBitter and truculent when excited, I spoke as I felt, without reserve\nor softening.\n\nHelen heard me patiently to the end: I expected she would then make a\nremark, but she said nothing.\n\n Well,  I asked impatiently,  is not Mrs. Reed a hard-hearted, bad\nwoman? \n\n She has been unkind to you, no doubt; because you see, she dislikes\nyour cast of character, as Miss Scatcherd does mine; but how minutely\nyou remember all she has done and said to you! What a singularly deep\nimpression her injustice seems to have made on your heart! No ill-usage\nso brands its record on my feelings. Would you not be happier if you\ntried to forget her severity, together with the passionate emotions it\nexcited? Life appears to me too short to be spent in nursing animosity\nor registering wrongs. We are, and must be, one and all, burdened with\nfaults in this world: but the time will soon come when, I trust, we\nshall put them off in putting off our corruptible bodies; when\ndebasement and sin will fall from us with this cumbrous frame of flesh,\nand only the spark of the spirit will remain, the impalpable principle\nof light and thought, pure as when it left the Creator to inspire the\ncreature: whence it came it will return; perhaps again to be\ncommunicated to some being higher than man perhaps to pass through\ngradations of glory, from the pale human soul to brighten to the\nseraph! Surely it will never, on the contrary, be suffered to\ndegenerate from man to fiend? No; I cannot believe that: I hold another\ncreed: which no one ever taught me, and which I seldom mention; but in\nwhich I delight, and to which I cling: for it extends hope to all: it\nmakes Eternity a rest a mighty home, not a terror and an abyss.\nBesides, with this creed, I can so clearly distinguish between the\ncriminal and his crime; I can so sincerely forgive the first while I\nabhor the last: with this creed revenge never worries my heart,\ndegradation never too deeply disgusts me, injustice never crushes me\ntoo low: I live in calm, looking to the end. \n\nHelen s head, always drooping, sank a little lower as she finished this\nsentence. I saw by her look she wished no longer to talk to me, but\nrather to converse with her own thoughts. She was not allowed much time\nfor meditation: a monitor, a great rough girl, presently came up,\nexclaiming in a strong Cumberland accent \n\n Helen Burns, if you don t go and put your drawer in order, and fold up\nyour work this minute, I ll tell Miss Scatcherd to come and look at\nit! \n\nHelen sighed as her reverie fled, and getting up, obeyed the monitor\nwithout reply as without delay.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\nMy first quarter at Lowood seemed an age; and not the golden age\neither; it comprised an irksome struggle with difficulties in\nhabituating myself to new rules and unwonted tasks. The fear of failure\nin these points harassed me worse than the physical hardships of my\nlot; though these were no trifles.\n\nDuring January, February, and part of March, the deep snows, and, after\ntheir melting, the almost impassable roads, prevented our stirring\nbeyond the garden walls, except to go to church; but within these\nlimits we had to pass an hour every day in the open air. Our clothing\nwas insufficient to protect us from the severe cold: we had no boots,\nthe snow got into our shoes and melted there: our ungloved hands became\nnumbed and covered with chilblains, as were our feet: I remember well\nthe distracting irritation I endured from this cause every evening,\nwhen my feet inflamed; and the torture of thrusting the swelled, raw,\nand stiff toes into my shoes in the morning. Then the scanty supply of\nfood was distressing: with the keen appetites of growing children, we\nhad scarcely sufficient to keep alive a delicate invalid. From this\ndeficiency of nourishment resulted an abuse, which pressed hardly on\nthe younger pupils: whenever the famished great girls had an\nopportunity, they would coax or menace the little ones out of their\nportion. Many a time I have shared between two claimants the precious\nmorsel of brown bread distributed at tea-time; and after relinquishing\nto a third half the contents of my mug of coffee, I have swallowed the\nremainder with an accompaniment of secret tears, forced from me by the\nexigency of hunger.\n\nSundays were dreary days in that wintry season. We had to walk two\nmiles to Brocklebridge Church, where our patron officiated. We set out\ncold, we arrived at church colder: during the morning service we became\nalmost paralysed. It was too far to return to dinner, and an allowance\nof cold meat and bread, in the same penurious proportion observed in\nour ordinary meals, was served round between the services.\n\nAt the close of the afternoon service we returned by an exposed and\nhilly road, where the bitter winter wind, blowing over a range of snowy\nsummits to the north, almost flayed the skin from our faces.\n\nI can remember Miss Temple walking lightly and rapidly along our\ndrooping line, her plaid cloak, which the frosty wind fluttered,\ngathered close about her, and encouraging us, by precept and example,\nto keep up our spirits, and march forward, as she said,  like stalwart\nsoldiers.  The other teachers, poor things, were generally themselves\ntoo much dejected to attempt the task of cheering others.\n\nHow we longed for the light and heat of a blazing fire when we got\nback! But, to the little ones at least, this was denied: each hearth in\nthe schoolroom was immediately surrounded by a double row of great\ngirls, and behind them the younger children crouched in groups,\nwrapping their starved arms in their pinafores.\n\nA little solace came at tea-time, in the shape of a double ration of\nbread a whole, instead of a half, slice with the delicious addition of\na thin scrape of butter: it was the hebdomadal treat to which we all\nlooked forward from Sabbath to Sabbath. I generally contrived to\nreserve a moiety of this bounteous repast for myself; but the remainder\nI was invariably obliged to part with.\n\nThe Sunday evening was spent in repeating, by heart, the Church\nCatechism, and the fifth, sixth, and seventh chapters of St. Matthew;\nand in listening to a long sermon, read by Miss Miller, whose\nirrepressible yawns attested her weariness. A frequent interlude of\nthese performances was the enactment of the part of Eutychus by some\nhalf-dozen of little girls, who, overpowered with sleep, would fall\ndown, if not out of the third loft, yet off the fourth form, and be\ntaken up half dead. The remedy was, to thrust them forward into the\ncentre of the schoolroom, and oblige them to stand there till the\nsermon was finished. Sometimes their feet failed them, and they sank\ntogether in a heap; they were then propped up with the monitors  high\nstools.\n\nI have not yet alluded to the visits of Mr. Brocklehurst; and indeed\nthat gentleman was from home during the greater part of the first month\nafter my arrival; perhaps prolonging his stay with his friend the\narchdeacon: his absence was a relief to me. I need not say that I had\nmy own reasons for dreading his coming: but come he did at last.\n\nOne afternoon (I had then been three weeks at Lowood), as I was sitting\nwith a slate in my hand, puzzling over a sum in long division, my eyes,\nraised in abstraction to the window, caught sight of a figure just\npassing: I recognised almost instinctively that gaunt outline; and\nwhen, two minutes after, all the school, teachers included, rose _en\nmasse_, it was not necessary for me to look up in order to ascertain\nwhose entrance they thus greeted. A long stride measured the\nschoolroom, and presently beside Miss Temple, who herself had risen,\nstood the same black column which had frowned on me so ominously from\nthe hearthrug of Gateshead. I now glanced sideways at this piece of\narchitecture. Yes, I was right: it was Mr. Brocklehurst, buttoned up in\na surtout, and looking longer, narrower, and more rigid than ever.\n\nI had my own reasons for being dismayed at this apparition; too well I\nremembered the perfidious hints given by Mrs. Reed about my\ndisposition, &c.; the promise pledged by Mr. Brocklehurst to apprise\nMiss Temple and the teachers of my vicious nature. All along I had been\ndreading the fulfilment of this promise, I had been looking out daily\nfor the  Coming Man,  whose information respecting my past life and\nconversation was to brand me as a bad child for ever: now there he was.\n\nHe stood at Miss Temple s side; he was speaking low in her ear: I did\nnot doubt he was making disclosures of my villainy; and I watched her\neye with painful anxiety, expecting every moment to see its dark orb\nturn on me a glance of repugnance and contempt. I listened too; and as\nI happened to be seated quite at the top of the room, I caught most of\nwhat he said: its import relieved me from immediate apprehension.\n\n I suppose, Miss Temple, the thread I bought at Lowton will do; it\nstruck me that it would be just of the quality for the calico chemises,\nand I sorted the needles to match. You may tell Miss Smith that I\nforgot to make a memorandum of the darning needles, but she shall have\nsome papers sent in next week; and she is not, on any account, to give\nout more than one at a time to each pupil: if they have more, they are\napt to be careless and lose them. And, O ma am! I wish the woollen\nstockings were better looked to! when I was here last, I went into the\nkitchen-garden and examined the clothes drying on the line; there was a\nquantity of black hose in a very bad state of repair: from the size of\nthe holes in them I was sure they had not been well mended from time to\ntime. \n\nHe paused.\n\n Your directions shall be attended to, sir,  said Miss Temple.\n\n And, ma am,  he continued,  the laundress tells me some of the girls\nhave two clean tuckers in the week: it is too much; the rules limit\nthem to one. \n\n I think I can explain that circumstance, sir. Agnes and Catherine\nJohnstone were invited to take tea with some friends at Lowton last\nThursday, and I gave them leave to put on clean tuckers for the\noccasion. \n\nMr. Brocklehurst nodded.\n\n Well, for once it may pass; but please not to let the circumstance\noccur too often. And there is another thing which surprised me; I find,\nin settling accounts with the housekeeper, that a lunch, consisting of\nbread and cheese, has twice been served out to the girls during the\npast fortnight. How is this? I looked over the regulations, and I find\nno such meal as lunch mentioned. Who introduced this innovation? and by\nwhat authority? \n\n I must be responsible for the circumstance, sir,  replied Miss Temple:\n the breakfast was so ill prepared that the pupils could not possibly\neat it; and I dared not allow them to remain fasting till dinner-time. \n\n Madam, allow me an instant. You are aware that my plan in bringing up\nthese girls is, not to accustom them to habits of luxury and\nindulgence, but to render them hardy, patient, self-denying. Should any\nlittle accidental disappointment of the appetite occur, such as the\nspoiling of a meal, the under or the over dressing of a dish, the\nincident ought not to be neutralised by replacing with something more\ndelicate the comfort lost, thus pampering the body and obviating the\naim of this institution; it ought to be improved to the spiritual\nedification of the pupils, by encouraging them to evince fortitude\nunder the temporary privation. A brief address on those occasions would\nnot be mistimed, wherein a judicious instructor would take the\nopportunity of referring to the sufferings of the primitive Christians;\nto the torments of martyrs; to the exhortations of our blessed Lord\nHimself, calling upon His disciples to take up their cross and follow\nHim; to His warnings that man shall not live by bread alone, but by\nevery word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God; to His divine\nconsolations,  If ye suffer hunger or thirst for My sake, happy are\nye.  Oh, madam, when you put bread and cheese, instead of burnt\nporridge, into these children s mouths, you may indeed feed their vile\nbodies, but you little think how you starve their immortal souls! \n\nMr. Brocklehurst again paused perhaps overcome by his feelings. Miss\nTemple had looked down when he first began to speak to her; but she now\ngazed straight before her, and her face, naturally pale as marble,\nappeared to be assuming also the coldness and fixity of that material;\nespecially her mouth, closed as if it would have required a sculptor s\nchisel to open it, and her brow settled gradually into petrified\nseverity.\n\nMeantime, Mr. Brocklehurst, standing on the hearth with his hands\nbehind his back, majestically surveyed the whole school. Suddenly his\neye gave a blink, as if it had met something that either dazzled or\nshocked its pupil; turning, he said in more rapid accents than he had\nhitherto used \n\n Miss Temple, Miss Temple, what _what_ is that girl with curled hair?\nRed hair, ma am, curled curled all over?  And extending his cane he\npointed to the awful object, his hand shaking as he did so.\n\n It is Julia Severn,  replied Miss Temple, very quietly.\n\n Julia Severn, ma am! And why has she, or any other, curled hair? Why,\nin defiance of every precept and principle of this house, does she\nconform to the world so openly here in an evangelical, charitable\nestablishment as to wear her hair one mass of curls? \n\n Julia s hair curls naturally,  returned Miss Temple, still more\nquietly.\n\n Naturally! Yes, but we are not to conform to nature; I wish these\ngirls to be the children of Grace: and why that abundance? I have again\nand again intimated that I desire the hair to be arranged closely,\nmodestly, plainly. Miss Temple, that girl s hair must be cut off\nentirely; I will send a barber to-morrow: and I see others who have far\ntoo much of the excrescence that tall girl, tell her to turn round.\nTell all the first form to rise up and direct their faces to the wall. \n\nMiss Temple passed her handkerchief over her lips, as if to smooth away\nthe involuntary smile that curled them; she gave the order, however,\nand when the first class could take in what was required of them, they\nobeyed. Leaning a little back on my bench, I could see the looks and\ngrimaces with which they commented on this manoeuvre: it was a pity Mr.\nBrocklehurst could not see them too; he would perhaps have felt that,\nwhatever he might do with the outside of the cup and platter, the\ninside was further beyond his interference than he imagined.\n\nHe scrutinised the reverse of these living medals some five minutes,\nthen pronounced sentence. These words fell like the knell of doom \n\n All those top-knots must be cut off. \n\nMiss Temple seemed to remonstrate.\n\n Madam,  he pursued,  I have a Master to serve whose kingdom is not of\nthis world: my mission is to mortify in these girls the lusts of the\nflesh; to teach them to clothe themselves with shame-facedness and\nsobriety, not with braided hair and costly apparel; and each of the\nyoung persons before us has a string of hair twisted in plaits which\nvanity itself might have woven; these, I repeat, must be cut off; think\nof the time wasted, of \n\nMr. Brocklehurst was here interrupted: three other visitors, ladies,\nnow entered the room. They ought to have come a little sooner to have\nheard his lecture on dress, for they were splendidly attired in velvet,\nsilk, and furs. The two younger of the trio (fine girls of sixteen and\nseventeen) had grey beaver hats, then in fashion, shaded with ostrich\nplumes, and from under the brim of this graceful head-dress fell a\nprofusion of light tresses, elaborately curled; the elder lady was\nenveloped in a costly velvet shawl, trimmed with ermine, and she wore a\nfalse front of French curls.\n\nThese ladies were deferentially received by Miss Temple, as Mrs. and\nthe Misses Brocklehurst, and conducted to seats of honour at the top of\nthe room. It seems they had come in the carriage with their reverend\nrelative, and had been conducting a rummaging scrutiny of the room\nupstairs, while he transacted business with the housekeeper, questioned\nthe laundress, and lectured the superintendent. They now proceeded to\naddress divers remarks and reproofs to Miss Smith, who was charged with\nthe care of the linen and the inspection of the dormitories: but I had\nno time to listen to what they said; other matters called off and\nenchanted my attention.\n\nHitherto, while gathering up the discourse of Mr. Brocklehurst and Miss\nTemple, I had not, at the same time, neglected precautions to secure my\npersonal safety; which I thought would be effected, if I could only\nelude observation. To this end, I had sat well back on the form, and\nwhile seeming to be busy with my sum, had held my slate in such a\nmanner as to conceal my face: I might have escaped notice, had not my\ntreacherous slate somehow happened to slip from my hand, and falling\nwith an obtrusive crash, directly drawn every eye upon me; I knew it\nwas all over now, and, as I stooped to pick up the two fragments of\nslate, I rallied my forces for the worst. It came.\n\n A careless girl!  said Mr. Brocklehurst, and immediately after It is\nthe new pupil, I perceive.  And before I could draw breath,  I must not\nforget I have a word to say respecting her.  Then aloud: how loud it\nseemed to me!  Let the child who broke her slate come forward! \n\nOf my own accord I could not have stirred; I was paralysed: but the two\ngreat girls who sat on each side of me, set me on my legs and pushed me\ntowards the dread judge, and then Miss Temple gently assisted me to his\nvery feet, and I caught her whispered counsel \n\n Don t be afraid, Jane, I saw it was an accident; you shall not be\npunished. \n\nThe kind whisper went to my heart like a dagger.\n\n Another minute, and she will despise me for a hypocrite,  thought I;\nand an impulse of fury against Reed, Brocklehurst, and Co. bounded in\nmy pulses at the conviction. I was no Helen Burns.\n\n Fetch that stool,  said Mr. Brocklehurst, pointing to a very high one\nfrom which a monitor had just risen: it was brought.\n\n Place the child upon it. \n\nAnd I was placed there, by whom I don t know: I was in no condition to\nnote particulars; I was only aware that they had hoisted me up to the\nheight of Mr. Brocklehurst s nose, that he was within a yard of me, and\nthat a spread of shot orange and purple silk pelisses and a cloud of\nsilvery plumage extended and waved below me.\n\nMr. Brocklehurst hemmed.\n\n Ladies,  said he, turning to his family,  Miss Temple, teachers, and\nchildren, you all see this girl? \n\nOf course they did; for I felt their eyes directed like burning-glasses\nagainst my scorched skin.\n\n You see she is yet young; you observe she possesses the ordinary form\nof childhood; God has graciously given her the shape that He has given\nto all of us; no signal deformity points her out as a marked character.\nWho would think that the Evil One had already found a servant and agent\nin her? Yet such, I grieve to say, is the case. \n\nA pause in which I began to steady the palsy of my nerves, and to feel\nthat the Rubicon was passed; and that the trial, no longer to be\nshirked, must be firmly sustained.\n\n My dear children,  pursued the black marble clergyman, with pathos,\n this is a sad, a melancholy occasion; for it becomes my duty to warn\nyou, that this girl, who might be one of God s own lambs, is a little\ncastaway: not a member of the true flock, but evidently an interloper\nand an alien. You must be on your guard against her; you must shun her\nexample; if necessary, avoid her company, exclude her from your sports,\nand shut her out from your converse. Teachers, you must watch her: keep\nyour eyes on her movements, weigh well her words, scrutinise her\nactions, punish her body to save her soul: if, indeed, such salvation\nbe possible, for (my tongue falters while I tell it) this girl, this\nchild, the native of a Christian land, worse than many a little heathen\nwho says its prayers to Brahma and kneels before Juggernaut this girl\nis a liar! \n\nNow came a pause of ten minutes, during which I, by this time in\nperfect possession of my wits, observed all the female Brocklehursts\nproduce their pocket-handkerchiefs and apply them to their optics,\nwhile the elderly lady swayed herself to and fro, and the two younger\nones whispered,  How shocking! \n\nMr. Brocklehurst resumed.\n\n This I learned from her benefactress; from the pious and charitable\nlady who adopted her in her orphan state, reared her as her own\ndaughter, and whose kindness, whose generosity the unhappy girl repaid\nby an ingratitude so bad, so dreadful, that at last her excellent\npatroness was obliged to separate her from her own young ones, fearful\nlest her vicious example should contaminate their purity: she has sent\nher here to be healed, even as the Jews of old sent their diseased to\nthe troubled pool of Bethesda; and, teachers, superintendent, I beg of\nyou not to allow the waters to stagnate round her. \n\nWith this sublime conclusion, Mr. Brocklehurst adjusted the top button\nof his surtout, muttered something to his family, who rose, bowed to\nMiss Temple, and then all the great people sailed in state from the\nroom. Turning at the door, my judge said \n\n Let her stand half-an-hour longer on that stool, and let no one speak\nto her during the remainder of the day. \n\nThere was I, then, mounted aloft; I, who had said I could not bear the\nshame of standing on my natural feet in the middle of the room, was now\nexposed to general view on a pedestal of infamy. What my sensations\nwere, no language can describe; but just as they all rose, stifling my\nbreath and constricting my throat, a girl came up and passed me: in\npassing, she lifted her eyes. What a strange light inspired them! What\nan extraordinary sensation that ray sent through me! How the new\nfeeling bore me up! It was as if a martyr, a hero, had passed a slave\nor victim, and imparted strength in the transit. I mastered the rising\nhysteria, lifted up my head, and took a firm stand on the stool. Helen\nBurns asked some slight question about her work of Miss Smith, was\nchidden for the triviality of the inquiry, returned to her place, and\nsmiled at me as she again went by. What a smile! I remember it now, and\nI know that it was the effluence of fine intellect, of true courage; it\nlit up her marked lineaments, her thin face, her sunken grey eye, like\na reflection from the aspect of an angel. Yet at that moment Helen\nBurns wore on her arm  the untidy badge;  scarcely an hour ago I had\nheard her condemned by Miss Scatcherd to a dinner of bread and water on\nthe morrow because she had blotted an exercise in copying it out. Such\nis the imperfect nature of man! such spots are there on the disc of the\nclearest planet; and eyes like Miss Scatcherd s can only see those\nminute defects, and are blind to the full brightness of the orb.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\nEre the half-hour ended, five o clock struck; school was dismissed, and\nall were gone into the refectory to tea. I now ventured to descend: it\nwas deep dusk; I retired into a corner and sat down on the floor. The\nspell by which I had been so far supported began to dissolve; reaction\ntook place, and soon, so overwhelming was the grief that seized me, I\nsank prostrate with my face to the ground. Now I wept: Helen Burns was\nnot here; nothing sustained me; left to myself I abandoned myself, and\nmy tears watered the boards. I had meant to be so good, and to do so\nmuch at Lowood: to make so many friends, to earn respect and win\naffection. Already I had made visible progress: that very morning I had\nreached the head of my class; Miss Miller had praised me warmly; Miss\nTemple had smiled approbation; she had promised to teach me drawing,\nand to let me learn French, if I continued to make similar improvement\ntwo months longer: and then I was well received by my fellow-pupils;\ntreated as an equal by those of my own age, and not molested by any;\nnow, here I lay again crushed and trodden on; and could I ever rise\nmore?\n\n Never,  I thought; and ardently I wished to die. While sobbing out\nthis wish in broken accents, some one approached: I started up again\nHelen Burns was near me; the fading fires just showed her coming up the\nlong, vacant room; she brought my coffee and bread.\n\n Come, eat something,  she said; but I put both away from me, feeling\nas if a drop or a crumb would have choked me in my present condition.\nHelen regarded me, probably with surprise: I could not now abate my\nagitation, though I tried hard; I continued to weep aloud. She sat down\non the ground near me, embraced her knees with her arms, and rested her\nhead upon them; in that attitude she remained silent as an Indian. I\nwas the first who spoke \n\n Helen, why do you stay with a girl whom everybody believes to be a\nliar? \n\n Everybody, Jane? Why, there are only eighty people who have heard you\ncalled so, and the world contains hundreds of millions. \n\n But what have I to do with millions? The eighty I know despise me. \n\n Jane, you are mistaken: probably not one in the school either despises\nor dislikes you: many, I am sure, pity you much. \n\n How can they pity me after what Mr. Brocklehurst has said? \n\n Mr. Brocklehurst is not a god: nor is he even a great and admired man:\nhe is little liked here; he never took steps to make himself liked. Had\nhe treated you as an especial favourite, you would have found enemies,\ndeclared or covert, all around you; as it is, the greater number would\noffer you sympathy if they dared. Teachers and pupils may look coldly\non you for a day or two, but friendly feelings are concealed in their\nhearts; and if you persevere in doing well, these feelings will ere\nlong appear so much the more evidently for their temporary suppression.\nBesides, Jane she paused.\n\n Well, Helen?  said I, putting my hand into hers: she chafed my fingers\ngently to warm them, and went on \n\n If all the world hated you, and believed you wicked, while your own\nconscience approved you, and absolved you from guilt, you would not be\nwithout friends. \n\n No; I know I should think well of myself; but that is not enough: if\nothers don t love me I would rather die than live I cannot bear to be\nsolitary and hated, Helen. Look here; to gain some real affection from\nyou, or Miss Temple, or any other whom I truly love, I would willingly\nsubmit to have the bone of my arm broken, or to let a bull toss me, or\nto stand behind a kicking horse, and let it dash its hoof at my chest \n\n Hush, Jane! you think too much of the love of human beings; you are\ntoo impulsive, too vehement; the sovereign hand that created your\nframe, and put life into it, has provided you with other resources than\nyour feeble self, or than creatures feeble as you. Besides this earth,\nand besides the race of men, there is an invisible world and a kingdom\nof spirits: that world is round us, for it is everywhere; and those\nspirits watch us, for they are commissioned to guard us; and if we were\ndying in pain and shame, if scorn smote us on all sides, and hatred\ncrushed us, angels see our tortures, recognise our innocence (if\ninnocent we be: as I know you are of this charge which Mr. Brocklehurst\nhas weakly and pompously repeated at second-hand from Mrs. Reed; for I\nread a sincere nature in your ardent eyes and on your clear front), and\nGod waits only the separation of spirit from flesh to crown us with a\nfull reward. Why, then, should we ever sink overwhelmed with distress,\nwhen life is so soon over, and death is so certain an entrance to\nhappiness to glory? \n\nI was silent; Helen had calmed me; but in the tranquillity she imparted\nthere was an alloy of inexpressible sadness. I felt the impression of\nwoe as she spoke, but I could not tell whence it came; and when, having\ndone speaking, she breathed a little fast and coughed a short cough, I\nmomentarily forgot my own sorrows to yield to a vague concern for her.\n\nResting my head on Helen s shoulder, I put my arms round her waist; she\ndrew me to her, and we reposed in silence. We had not sat long thus,\nwhen another person came in. Some heavy clouds, swept from the sky by a\nrising wind, had left the moon bare; and her light, streaming in\nthrough a window near, shone full both on us and on the approaching\nfigure, which we at once recognised as Miss Temple.\n\n I came on purpose to find you, Jane Eyre,  said she;  I want you in my\nroom; and as Helen Burns is with you, she may come too. \n\nWe went; following the superintendent s guidance, we had to thread some\nintricate passages, and mount a staircase before we reached her\napartment; it contained a good fire, and looked cheerful. Miss Temple\ntold Helen Burns to be seated in a low arm-chair on one side of the\nhearth, and herself taking another, she called me to her side.\n\n Is it all over?  she asked, looking down at my face.  Have you cried\nyour grief away? \n\n I am afraid I never shall do that. \n\n Why? \n\n Because I have been wrongly accused; and you, ma am, and everybody\nelse, will now think me wicked. \n\n We shall think you what you prove yourself to be, my child. Continue\nto act as a good girl, and you will satisfy us. \n\n Shall I, Miss Temple? \n\n You will,  said she, passing her arm round me.  And now tell me who is\nthe lady whom Mr. Brocklehurst called your benefactress? \n\n Mrs. Reed, my uncle s wife. My uncle is dead, and he left me to her\ncare. \n\n Did she not, then, adopt you of her own accord? \n\n No, ma am; she was sorry to have to do it: but my uncle, as I have\noften heard the servants say, got her to promise before he died that\nshe would always keep me. \n\n Well now, Jane, you know, or at least I will tell you, that when a\ncriminal is accused, he is always allowed to speak in his own defence.\nYou have been charged with falsehood; defend yourself to me as well as\nyou can. Say whatever your memory suggests is true; but add nothing and\nexaggerate nothing. \n\nI resolved, in the depth of my heart, that I would be most\nmoderate most correct; and, having reflected a few minutes in order to\narrange coherently what I had to say, I told her all the story of my\nsad childhood. Exhausted by emotion, my language was more subdued than\nit generally was when it developed that sad theme; and mindful of\nHelen s warnings against the indulgence of resentment, I infused into\nthe narrative far less of gall and wormwood than ordinary. Thus\nrestrained and simplified, it sounded more credible: I felt as I went\non that Miss Temple fully believed me.\n\nIn the course of the tale I had mentioned Mr. Lloyd as having come to\nsee me after the fit: for I never forgot the, to me, frightful episode\nof the red-room: in detailing which, my excitement was sure, in some\ndegree, to break bounds; for nothing could soften in my recollection\nthe spasm of agony which clutched my heart when Mrs. Reed spurned my\nwild supplication for pardon, and locked me a second time in the dark\nand haunted chamber.\n\nI had finished: Miss Temple regarded me a few minutes in silence; she\nthen said \n\n I know something of Mr. Lloyd; I shall write to him; if his reply\nagrees with your statement, you shall be publicly cleared from every\nimputation; to me, Jane, you are clear now. \n\nShe kissed me, and still keeping me at her side (where I was well\ncontented to stand, for I derived a child s pleasure from the\ncontemplation of her face, her dress, her one or two ornaments, her\nwhite forehead, her clustered and shining curls, and beaming dark\neyes), she proceeded to address Helen Burns.\n\n How are you to-night, Helen? Have you coughed much to-day? \n\n Not quite so much, I think, ma am. \n\n And the pain in your chest? \n\n It is a little better. \n\nMiss Temple got up, took her hand and examined her pulse; then she\nreturned to her own seat: as she resumed it, I heard her sigh low. She\nwas pensive a few minutes, then rousing herself, she said cheerfully \n\n But you two are my visitors to-night; I must treat you as such.  She\nrang her bell.\n\n Barbara,  she said to the servant who answered it,  I have not yet had\ntea; bring the tray and place cups for these two young ladies. \n\nAnd a tray was soon brought. How pretty, to my eyes, did the china cups\nand bright teapot look, placed on the little round table near the fire!\nHow fragrant was the steam of the beverage, and the scent of the toast!\nof which, however, I, to my dismay (for I was beginning to be hungry)\ndiscerned only a very small portion: Miss Temple discerned it too.\n\n Barbara,  said she,  can you not bring a little more bread and butter?\nThere is not enough for three. \n\nBarbara went out: she returned soon \n\n Madam, Mrs. Harden says she has sent up the usual quantity. \n\nMrs. Harden, be it observed, was the housekeeper: a woman after Mr.\nBrocklehurst s own heart, made up of equal parts of whalebone and iron.\n\n Oh, very well!  returned Miss Temple;  we must make it do, Barbara, I\nsuppose.  And as the girl withdrew she added, smiling,  Fortunately, I\nhave it in my power to supply deficiencies for this once. \n\nHaving invited Helen and me to approach the table, and placed before\neach of us a cup of tea with one delicious but thin morsel of toast,\nshe got up, unlocked a drawer, and taking from it a parcel wrapped in\npaper, disclosed presently to our eyes a good-sized seed-cake.\n\n I meant to give each of you some of this to take with you,  said she,\n but as there is so little toast, you must have it now,  and she\nproceeded to cut slices with a generous hand.\n\nWe feasted that evening as on nectar and ambrosia; and not the least\ndelight of the entertainment was the smile of gratification with which\nour hostess regarded us, as we satisfied our famished appetites on the\ndelicate fare she liberally supplied.\n\nTea over and the tray removed, she again summoned us to the fire; we\nsat one on each side of her, and now a conversation followed between\nher and Helen, which it was indeed a privilege to be admitted to hear.\n\nMiss Temple had always something of serenity in her air, of state in\nher mien, of refined propriety in her language, which precluded\ndeviation into the ardent, the excited, the eager: something which\nchastened the pleasure of those who looked on her and listened to her,\nby a controlling sense of awe; and such was my feeling now: but as to\nHelen Burns, I was struck with wonder.\n\nThe refreshing meal, the brilliant fire, the presence and kindness of\nher beloved instructress, or, perhaps, more than all these, something\nin her own unique mind, had roused her powers within her. They woke,\nthey kindled: first, they glowed in the bright tint of her cheek, which\ntill this hour I had never seen but pale and bloodless; then they shone\nin the liquid lustre of her eyes, which had suddenly acquired a beauty\nmore singular than that of Miss Temple s a beauty neither of fine\ncolour nor long eyelash, nor pencilled brow, but of meaning, of\nmovement, of radiance. Then her soul sat on her lips, and language\nflowed, from what source I cannot tell. Has a girl of fourteen a heart\nlarge enough, vigorous enough, to hold the swelling spring of pure,\nfull, fervid eloquence? Such was the characteristic of Helen s\ndiscourse on that, to me, memorable evening; her spirit seemed\nhastening to live within a very brief span as much as many live during\na protracted existence.\n\nThey conversed of things I had never heard of; of nations and times\npast; of countries far away; of secrets of nature discovered or guessed\nat: they spoke of books: how many they had read! What stores of\nknowledge they possessed! Then they seemed so familiar with French\nnames and French authors: but my amazement reached its climax when Miss\nTemple asked Helen if she sometimes snatched a moment to recall the\nLatin her father had taught her, and taking a book from a shelf, bade\nher read and construe a page of Virgil; and Helen obeyed, my organ of\nveneration expanding at every sounding line. She had scarcely finished\nere the bell announced bedtime! no delay could be admitted; Miss Temple\nembraced us both, saying, as she drew us to her heart \n\n God bless you, my children! \n\nHelen she held a little longer than me: she let her go more\nreluctantly; it was Helen her eye followed to the door; it was for her\nshe a second time breathed a sad sigh; for her she wiped a tear from\nher cheek.\n\nOn reaching the bedroom, we heard the voice of Miss Scatcherd: she was\nexamining drawers; she had just pulled out Helen Burns s, and when we\nentered Helen was greeted with a sharp reprimand, and told that\nto-morrow she should have half-a-dozen of untidily folded articles\npinned to her shoulder.\n\n My things were indeed in shameful disorder,  murmured Helen to me, in\na low voice:  I intended to have arranged them, but I forgot. \n\nNext morning, Miss Scatcherd wrote in conspicuous characters on a piece\nof pasteboard the word  Slattern,  and bound it like a phylactery round\nHelen s large, mild, intelligent, and benign-looking forehead. She wore\nit till evening, patient, unresentful, regarding it as a deserved\npunishment. The moment Miss Scatcherd withdrew after afternoon school,\nI ran to Helen, tore it off, and thrust it into the fire: the fury of\nwhich she was incapable had been burning in my soul all day, and tears,\nhot and large, had continually been scalding my cheek; for the\nspectacle of her sad resignation gave me an intolerable pain at the\nheart.\n\nAbout a week subsequently to the incidents above narrated, Miss Temple,\nwho had written to Mr. Lloyd, received his answer: it appeared that\nwhat he said went to corroborate my account. Miss Temple, having\nassembled the whole school, announced that inquiry had been made into\nthe charges alleged against Jane Eyre, and that she was most happy to\nbe able to pronounce her completely cleared from every imputation. The\nteachers then shook hands with me and kissed me, and a murmur of\npleasure ran through the ranks of my companions.\n\nThus relieved of a grievous load, I from that hour set to work afresh,\nresolved to pioneer my way through every difficulty: I toiled hard, and\nmy success was proportionate to my efforts; my memory, not naturally\ntenacious, improved with practice; exercise sharpened my wits; in a few\nweeks I was promoted to a higher class; in less than two months I was\nallowed to commence French and drawing. I learned the first two tenses\nof the verb _Etre_, and sketched my first cottage (whose walls,\nby-the-bye, outrivalled in slope those of the leaning tower of Pisa),\non the same day. That night, on going to bed, I forgot to prepare in\nimagination the Barmecide supper of hot roast potatoes, or white bread\nand new milk, with which I was wont to amuse my inward cravings: I\nfeasted instead on the spectacle of ideal drawings, which I saw in the\ndark; all the work of my own hands: freely pencilled houses and trees,\npicturesque rocks and ruins, Cuyp-like groups of cattle, sweet\npaintings of butterflies hovering over unblown roses, of birds picking\nat ripe cherries, of wren s nests enclosing pearl-like eggs, wreathed\nabout with young ivy sprays. I examined, too, in thought, the\npossibility of my ever being able to translate currently a certain\nlittle French story which Madame Pierrot had that day shown me; nor was\nthat problem solved to my satisfaction ere I fell sweetly asleep.\n\nWell has Solomon said Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than\na stalled ox and hatred therewith. \n\nI would not now have exchanged Lowood with all its privations for\nGateshead and its daily luxuries.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\nBut the privations, or rather the hardships, of Lowood lessened. Spring\ndrew on: she was indeed already come; the frosts of winter had ceased;\nits snows were melted, its cutting winds ameliorated. My wretched feet,\nflayed and swollen to lameness by the sharp air of January, began to\nheal and subside under the gentler breathings of April; the nights and\nmornings no longer by their Canadian temperature froze the very blood\nin our veins; we could now endure the play-hour passed in the garden:\nsometimes on a sunny day it began even to be pleasant and genial, and a\ngreenness grew over those brown beds, which, freshening daily,\nsuggested the thought that Hope traversed them at night, and left each\nmorning brighter traces of her steps. Flowers peeped out amongst the\nleaves; snow-drops, crocuses, purple auriculas, and golden-eyed\npansies. On Thursday afternoons (half-holidays) we now took walks, and\nfound still sweeter flowers opening by the wayside, under the hedges.\n\nI discovered, too, that a great pleasure, an enjoyment which the\nhorizon only bounded, lay all outside the high and spike-guarded walls\nof our garden: this pleasure consisted in prospect of noble summits\ngirdling a great hill-hollow, rich in verdure and shadow; in a bright\nbeck, full of dark stones and sparkling eddies. How different had this\nscene looked when I viewed it laid out beneath the iron sky of winter,\nstiffened in frost, shrouded with snow! when mists as chill as death\nwandered to the impulse of east winds along those purple peaks, and\nrolled down  ing  and holm till they blended with the frozen fog of the\nbeck! That beck itself was then a torrent, turbid and curbless: it tore\nasunder the wood, and sent a raving sound through the air, often\nthickened with wild rain or whirling sleet; and for the forest on its\nbanks, _that_ showed only ranks of skeletons.\n\nApril advanced to May: a bright serene May it was; days of blue sky,\nplacid sunshine, and soft western or southern gales filled up its\nduration. And now vegetation matured with vigour; Lowood shook loose\nits tresses; it became all green, all flowery; its great elm, ash, and\noak skeletons were restored to majestic life; woodland plants sprang up\nprofusely in its recesses; unnumbered varieties of moss filled its\nhollows, and it made a strange ground-sunshine out of the wealth of its\nwild primrose plants: I have seen their pale gold gleam in overshadowed\nspots like scatterings of the sweetest lustre. All this I enjoyed often\nand fully, free, unwatched, and almost alone: for this unwonted liberty\nand pleasure there was a cause, to which it now becomes my task to\nadvert.\n\nHave I not described a pleasant site for a dwelling, when I speak of it\nas bosomed in hill and wood, and rising from the verge of a stream?\nAssuredly, pleasant enough: but whether healthy or not is another\nquestion.\n\nThat forest-dell, where Lowood lay, was the cradle of fog and fog-bred\npestilence; which, quickening with the quickening spring, crept into\nthe Orphan Asylum, breathed typhus through its crowded schoolroom and\ndormitory, and, ere May arrived, transformed the seminary into an\nhospital.\n\nSemi-starvation and neglected colds had predisposed most of the pupils\nto receive infection: forty-five out of the eighty girls lay ill at one\ntime. Classes were broken up, rules relaxed. The few who continued well\nwere allowed almost unlimited license; because the medical attendant\ninsisted on the necessity of frequent exercise to keep them in health:\nand had it been otherwise, no one had leisure to watch or restrain\nthem. Miss Temple s whole attention was absorbed by the patients: she\nlived in the sick-room, never quitting it except to snatch a few hours \nrest at night. The teachers were fully occupied with packing up and\nmaking other necessary preparations for the departure of those girls\nwho were fortunate enough to have friends and relations able and\nwilling to remove them from the seat of contagion. Many, already\nsmitten, went home only to die: some died at the school, and were\nburied quietly and quickly, the nature of the malady forbidding delay.\n\nWhile disease had thus become an inhabitant of Lowood, and death its\nfrequent visitor; while there was gloom and fear within its walls;\nwhile its rooms and passages steamed with hospital smells, the drug and\nthe pastille striving vainly to overcome the effluvia of mortality,\nthat bright May shone unclouded over the bold hills and beautiful\nwoodland out of doors. Its garden, too, glowed with flowers: hollyhocks\nhad sprung up tall as trees, lilies had opened, tulips and roses were\nin bloom; the borders of the little beds were gay with pink thrift and\ncrimson double daisies; the sweetbriars gave out, morning and evening,\ntheir scent of spice and apples; and these fragrant treasures were all\nuseless for most of the inmates of Lowood, except to furnish now and\nthen a handful of herbs and blossoms to put in a coffin.\n\nBut I, and the rest who continued well, enjoyed fully the beauties of\nthe scene and season; they let us ramble in the wood, like gipsies,\nfrom morning till night; we did what we liked, went where we liked: we\nlived better too. Mr. Brocklehurst and his family never came near\nLowood now: household matters were not scrutinised into; the cross\nhousekeeper was gone, driven away by the fear of infection; her\nsuccessor, who had been matron at the Lowton Dispensary, unused to the\nways of her new abode, provided with comparative liberality. Besides,\nthere were fewer to feed; the sick could eat little; our\nbreakfast-basins were better filled; when there was no time to prepare\na regular dinner, which often happened, she would give us a large piece\nof cold pie, or a thick slice of bread and cheese, and this we carried\naway with us to the wood, where we each chose the spot we liked best,\nand dined sumptuously.\n\nMy favourite seat was a smooth and broad stone, rising white and dry\nfrom the very middle of the beck, and only to be got at by wading\nthrough the water; a feat I accomplished barefoot. The stone was just\nbroad enough to accommodate, comfortably, another girl and me, at that\ntime my chosen comrade one Mary Ann Wilson; a shrewd, observant\npersonage, whose society I took pleasure in, partly because she was\nwitty and original, and partly because she had a manner which set me at\nmy ease. Some years older than I, she knew more of the world, and could\ntell me many things I liked to hear: with her my curiosity found\ngratification: to my faults also she gave ample indulgence, never\nimposing curb or rein on anything I said. She had a turn for narrative,\nI for analysis; she liked to inform, I to question; so we got on\nswimmingly together, deriving much entertainment, if not much\nimprovement, from our mutual intercourse.\n\nAnd where, meantime, was Helen Burns? Why did I not spend these sweet\ndays of liberty with her? Had I forgotten her? or was I so worthless as\nto have grown tired of her pure society? Surely the Mary Ann Wilson I\nhave mentioned was inferior to my first acquaintance: she could only\ntell me amusing stories, and reciprocate any racy and pungent gossip I\nchose to indulge in; while, if I have spoken truth of Helen, she was\nqualified to give those who enjoyed the privilege of her converse a\ntaste of far higher things.\n\nTrue, reader; and I knew and felt this: and though I am a defective\nbeing, with many faults and few redeeming points, yet I never tired of\nHelen Burns; nor ever ceased to cherish for her a sentiment of\nattachment, as strong, tender, and respectful as any that ever animated\nmy heart. How could it be otherwise, when Helen, at all times and under\nall circumstances, evinced for me a quiet and faithful friendship,\nwhich ill-humour never soured, nor irritation never troubled? But Helen\nwas ill at present: for some weeks she had been removed from my sight\nto I knew not what room upstairs. She was not, I was told, in the\nhospital portion of the house with the fever patients; for her\ncomplaint was consumption, not typhus: and by consumption I, in my\nignorance, understood something mild, which time and care would be sure\nto alleviate.\n\nI was confirmed in this idea by the fact of her once or twice coming\ndownstairs on very warm sunny afternoons, and being taken by Miss\nTemple into the garden; but, on these occasions, I was not allowed to\ngo and speak to her; I only saw her from the schoolroom window, and\nthen not distinctly; for she was much wrapped up, and sat at a distance\nunder the verandah.\n\nOne evening, in the beginning of June, I had stayed out very late with\nMary Ann in the wood; we had, as usual, separated ourselves from the\nothers, and had wandered far; so far that we lost our way, and had to\nask it at a lonely cottage, where a man and woman lived, who looked\nafter a herd of half-wild swine that fed on the mast in the wood. When\nwe got back, it was after moonrise: a pony, which we knew to be the\nsurgeon s, was standing at the garden door. Mary Ann remarked that she\nsupposed some one must be very ill, as Mr. Bates had been sent for at\nthat time of the evening. She went into the house; I stayed behind a\nfew minutes to plant in my garden a handful of roots I had dug up in\nthe forest, and which I feared would wither if I left them till the\nmorning. This done, I lingered yet a little longer: the flowers smelt\nso sweet as the dew fell; it was such a pleasant evening, so serene, so\nwarm; the still glowing west promised so fairly another fine day on the\nmorrow; the moon rose with such majesty in the grave east. I was noting\nthese things and enjoying them as a child might, when it entered my\nmind as it had never done before: \n\n How sad to be lying now on a sick bed, and to be in danger of dying!\nThis world is pleasant it would be dreary to be called from it, and to\nhave to go who knows where? \n\nAnd then my mind made its first earnest effort to comprehend what had\nbeen infused into it concerning heaven and hell; and for the first time\nit recoiled, baffled; and for the first time glancing behind, on each\nside, and before it, it saw all round an unfathomed gulf: it felt the\none point where it stood the present; all the rest was formless cloud\nand vacant depth; and it shuddered at the thought of tottering, and\nplunging amid that chaos. While pondering this new idea, I heard the\nfront door open; Mr. Bates came out, and with him was a nurse. After\nshe had seen him mount his horse and depart, she was about to close the\ndoor, but I ran up to her.\n\n How is Helen Burns? \n\n Very poorly,  was the answer.\n\n Is it her Mr. Bates has been to see? \n\n Yes. \n\n And what does he say about her? \n\n He says she ll not be here long. \n\nThis phrase, uttered in my hearing yesterday, would have only conveyed\nthe notion that she was about to be removed to Northumberland, to her\nown home. I should not have suspected that it meant she was dying; but\nI knew instantly now! It opened clear on my comprehension that Helen\nBurns was numbering her last days in this world, and that she was going\nto be taken to the region of spirits, if such region there were. I\nexperienced a shock of horror, then a strong thrill of grief, then a\ndesire a necessity to see her; and I asked in what room she lay.\n\n She is in Miss Temple s room,  said the nurse.\n\n May I go up and speak to her? \n\n Oh no, child! It is not likely; and now it is time for you to come in;\nyou ll catch the fever if you stop out when the dew is falling. \n\nThe nurse closed the front door; I went in by the side entrance which\nled to the schoolroom: I was just in time; it was nine o clock, and\nMiss Miller was calling the pupils to go to bed.\n\nIt might be two hours later, probably near eleven, when I not having\nbeen able to fall asleep, and deeming, from the perfect silence of the\ndormitory, that my companions were all wrapt in profound repose rose\nsoftly, put on my frock over my night-dress, and, without shoes, crept\nfrom the apartment, and set off in quest of Miss Temple s room. It was\nquite at the other end of the house; but I knew my way; and the light\nof the unclouded summer moon, entering here and there at passage\nwindows, enabled me to find it without difficulty. An odour of camphor\nand burnt vinegar warned me when I came near the fever room: and I\npassed its door quickly, fearful lest the nurse who sat up all night\nshould hear me. I dreaded being discovered and sent back; for I _must_\nsee Helen, I must embrace her before she died, I must give her one last\nkiss, exchange with her one last word.\n\nHaving descended a staircase, traversed a portion of the house below,\nand succeeded in opening and shutting, without noise, two doors, I\nreached another flight of steps; these I mounted, and then just\nopposite to me was Miss Temple s room. A light shone through the\nkeyhole and from under the door; a profound stillness pervaded the\nvicinity. Coming near, I found the door slightly ajar; probably to\nadmit some fresh air into the close abode of sickness. Indisposed to\nhesitate, and full of impatient impulses soul and senses quivering with\nkeen throes I put it back and looked in. My eye sought Helen, and\nfeared to find death.\n\nClose by Miss Temple s bed, and half covered with its white curtains,\nthere stood a little crib. I saw the outline of a form under the\nclothes, but the face was hid by the hangings: the nurse I had spoken\nto in the garden sat in an easy-chair asleep; an unsnuffed candle burnt\ndimly on the table. Miss Temple was not to be seen: I knew afterwards\nthat she had been called to a delirious patient in the fever-room. I\nadvanced; then paused by the crib side: my hand was on the curtain, but\nI preferred speaking before I withdrew it. I still recoiled at the\ndread of seeing a corpse.\n\n Helen!  I whispered softly,  are you awake? \n\nShe stirred herself, put back the curtain, and I saw her face, pale,\nwasted, but quite composed: she looked so little changed that my fear\nwas instantly dissipated.\n\n Can it be you, Jane?  she asked, in her own gentle voice.\n\n Oh!  I thought,  she is not going to die; they are mistaken: she could\nnot speak and look so calmly if she were. \n\nI got on to her crib and kissed her: her forehead was cold, and her\ncheek both cold and thin, and so were her hand and wrist; but she\nsmiled as of old.\n\n Why are you come here, Jane? It is past eleven o clock: I heard it\nstrike some minutes since. \n\n I came to see you, Helen: I heard you were very ill, and I could not\nsleep till I had spoken to you. \n\n You came to bid me good-bye, then: you are just in time probably. \n\n Are you going somewhere, Helen? Are you going home? \n\n Yes; to my long home my last home. \n\n No, no, Helen!  I stopped, distressed. While I tried to devour my\ntears, a fit of coughing seized Helen; it did not, however, wake the\nnurse; when it was over, she lay some minutes exhausted; then she\nwhispered \n\n Jane, your little feet are bare; lie down and cover yourself with my\nquilt. \n\nI did so: she put her arm over me, and I nestled close to her. After a\nlong silence, she resumed, still whispering \n\n I am very happy, Jane; and when you hear that I am dead, you must be\nsure and not grieve: there is nothing to grieve about. We all must die\none day, and the illness which is removing me is not painful; it is\ngentle and gradual: my mind is at rest. I leave no one to regret me\nmuch: I have only a father; and he is lately married, and will not miss\nme. By dying young, I shall escape great sufferings. I had not\nqualities or talents to make my way very well in the world: I should\nhave been continually at fault. \n\n But where are you going to, Helen? Can you see? Do you know? \n\n I believe; I have faith: I am going to God. \n\n Where is God? What is God? \n\n My Maker and yours, who will never destroy what He created. I rely\nimplicitly on His power, and confide wholly in His goodness: I count\nthe hours till that eventful one arrives which shall restore me to Him,\nreveal Him to me. \n\n You are sure, then, Helen, that there is such a place as heaven, and\nthat our souls can get to it when we die? \n\n I am sure there is a future state; I believe God is good; I can resign\nmy immortal part to Him without any misgiving. God is my father; God is\nmy friend: I love Him; I believe He loves me. \n\n And shall I see you again, Helen, when I die? \n\n You will come to the same region of happiness: be received by the same\nmighty, universal Parent, no doubt, dear Jane. \n\nAgain I questioned, but this time only in thought.  Where is that\nregion? Does it exist?  And I clasped my arms closer round Helen; she\nseemed dearer to me than ever; I felt as if I could not let her go; I\nlay with my face hidden on her neck. Presently she said, in the\nsweetest tone \n\n How comfortable I am! That last fit of coughing has tired me a little;\nI feel as if I could sleep: but don t leave me, Jane; I like to have\nyou near me. \n\n I ll stay with you, _dear_ Helen: no one shall take me away. \n\n Are you warm, darling? \n\n Yes. \n\n Good-night, Jane. \n\n Good-night, Helen. \n\nShe kissed me, and I her, and we both soon slumbered.\n\nWhen I awoke it was day: an unusual movement roused me; I looked up; I\nwas in somebody s arms; the nurse held me; she was carrying me through\nthe passage back to the dormitory. I was not reprimanded for leaving my\nbed; people had something else to think about; no explanation was\nafforded then to my many questions; but a day or two afterwards I\nlearned that Miss Temple, on returning to her own room at dawn, had\nfound me laid in the little crib; my face against Helen Burns s\nshoulder, my arms round her neck. I was asleep, and Helen was dead.\n\nHer grave is in Brocklebridge churchyard: for fifteen years after her\ndeath it was only covered by a grassy mound; but now a grey marble\ntablet marks the spot, inscribed with her name, and the word\n Resurgam. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\nHitherto I have recorded in detail the events of my insignificant\nexistence: to the first ten years of my life I have given almost as\nmany chapters. But this is not to be a regular autobiography: I am only\nbound to invoke Memory where I know her responses will possess some\ndegree of interest; therefore I now pass a space of eight years almost\nin silence: a few lines only are necessary to keep up the links of\nconnection.\n\nWhen the typhus fever had fulfilled its mission of devastation at\nLowood, it gradually disappeared from thence; but not till its\nvirulence and the number of its victims had drawn public attention on\nthe school. Inquiry was made into the origin of the scourge, and by\ndegrees various facts came out which excited public indignation in a\nhigh degree. The unhealthy nature of the site; the quantity and quality\nof the children s food; the brackish, fetid water used in its\npreparation; the pupils  wretched clothing and accommodations all these\nthings were discovered, and the discovery produced a result mortifying\nto Mr. Brocklehurst, but beneficial to the institution.\n\nSeveral wealthy and benevolent individuals in the county subscribed\nlargely for the erection of a more convenient building in a better\nsituation; new regulations were made; improvements in diet and clothing\nintroduced; the funds of the school were intrusted to the management of\na committee. Mr. Brocklehurst, who, from his wealth and family\nconnections, could not be overlooked, still retained the post of\ntreasurer; but he was aided in the discharge of his duties by gentlemen\nof rather more enlarged and sympathising minds: his office of\ninspector, too, was shared by those who knew how to combine reason with\nstrictness, comfort with economy, compassion with uprightness. The\nschool, thus improved, became in time a truly useful and noble\ninstitution. I remained an inmate of its walls, after its regeneration,\nfor eight years: six as pupil, and two as teacher; and in both\ncapacities I bear my testimony to its value and importance.\n\nDuring these eight years my life was uniform: but not unhappy, because\nit was not inactive. I had the means of an excellent education placed\nwithin my reach; a fondness for some of my studies, and a desire to\nexcel in all, together with a great delight in pleasing my teachers,\nespecially such as I loved, urged me on: I availed myself fully of the\nadvantages offered me. In time I rose to be the first girl of the first\nclass; then I was invested with the office of teacher; which I\ndischarged with zeal for two years: but at the end of that time I\naltered.\n\nMiss Temple, through all changes, had thus far continued superintendent\nof the seminary: to her instruction I owed the best part of my\nacquirements; her friendship and society had been my continual solace;\nshe had stood me in the stead of mother, governess, and, latterly,\ncompanion. At this period she married, removed with her husband (a\nclergyman, an excellent man, almost worthy of such a wife) to a distant\ncounty, and consequently was lost to me.\n\nFrom the day she left I was no longer the same: with her was gone every\nsettled feeling, every association that had made Lowood in some degree\na home to me. I had imbibed from her something of her nature and much\nof her habits: more harmonious thoughts: what seemed better regulated\nfeelings had become the inmates of my mind. I had given in allegiance\nto duty and order; I was quiet; I believed I was content: to the eyes\nof others, usually even to my own, I appeared a disciplined and subdued\ncharacter.\n\nBut destiny, in the shape of the Rev. Mr. Nasmyth, came between me and\nMiss Temple: I saw her in her travelling dress step into a post-chaise,\nshortly after the marriage ceremony; I watched the chaise mount the\nhill and disappear beyond its brow; and then retired to my own room,\nand there spent in solitude the greatest part of the half-holiday\ngranted in honour of the occasion.\n\nI walked about the chamber most of the time. I imagined myself only to\nbe regretting my loss, and thinking how to repair it; but when my\nreflections were concluded, and I looked up and found that the\nafternoon was gone, and evening far advanced, another discovery dawned\non me, namely, that in the interval I had undergone a transforming\nprocess; that my mind had put off all it had borrowed of Miss Temple or\nrather that she had taken with her the serene atmosphere I had been\nbreathing in her vicinity and that now I was left in my natural\nelement, and beginning to feel the stirring of old emotions. It did not\nseem as if a prop were withdrawn, but rather as if a motive were gone:\nit was not the power to be tranquil which had failed me, but the reason\nfor tranquillity was no more. My world had for some years been in\nLowood: my experience had been of its rules and systems; now I\nremembered that the real world was wide, and that a varied field of\nhopes and fears, of sensations and excitements, awaited those who had\ncourage to go forth into its expanse, to seek real knowledge of life\namidst its perils.\n\nI went to my window, opened it, and looked out. There were the two\nwings of the building; there was the garden; there were the skirts of\nLowood; there was the hilly horizon. My eye passed all other objects to\nrest on those most remote, the blue peaks; it was those I longed to\nsurmount; all within their boundary of rock and heath seemed\nprison-ground, exile limits. I traced the white road winding round the\nbase of one mountain, and vanishing in a gorge between two; how I\nlonged to follow it farther! I recalled the time when I had travelled\nthat very road in a coach; I remembered descending that hill at\ntwilight; an age seemed to have elapsed since the day which brought me\nfirst to Lowood, and I had never quitted it since. My vacations had all\nbeen spent at school: Mrs. Reed had never sent for me to Gateshead;\nneither she nor any of her family had ever been to visit me. I had had\nno communication by letter or message with the outer world:\nschool-rules, school-duties, school-habits and notions, and voices, and\nfaces, and phrases, and costumes, and preferences, and antipathies such\nwas what I knew of existence. And now I felt that it was not enough; I\ntired of the routine of eight years in one afternoon. I desired\nliberty; for liberty I gasped; for liberty I uttered a prayer; it\nseemed scattered on the wind then faintly blowing. I abandoned it and\nframed a humbler supplication; for change, stimulus: that petition,\ntoo, seemed swept off into vague space:  Then,  I cried, half\ndesperate,  grant me at least a new servitude! \n\nHere a bell, ringing the hour of supper, called me downstairs.\n\nI was not free to resume the interrupted chain of my reflections till\nbedtime: even then a teacher who occupied the same room with me kept me\nfrom the subject to which I longed to recur, by a prolonged effusion of\nsmall talk. How I wished sleep would silence her. It seemed as if,\ncould I but go back to the idea which had last entered my mind as I\nstood at the window, some inventive suggestion would rise for my\nrelief.\n\nMiss Gryce snored at last; she was a heavy Welshwoman, and till now her\nhabitual nasal strains had never been regarded by me in any other light\nthan as a nuisance; to-night I hailed the first deep notes with\nsatisfaction; I was debarrassed of interruption; my half-effaced\nthought instantly revived.\n\n A new servitude! There is something in that,  I soliloquised\n(mentally, be it understood; I did not talk aloud).  I know there is,\nbecause it does not sound too sweet; it is not like such words as\nLiberty, Excitement, Enjoyment: delightful sounds truly; but no more\nthan sounds for me; and so hollow and fleeting that it is mere waste of\ntime to listen to them. But Servitude! That must be matter of fact. Any\none may serve: I have served here eight years; now all I want is to\nserve elsewhere. Can I not get so much of my own will? Is not the thing\nfeasible? Yes yes the end is not so difficult; if I had only a brain\nactive enough to ferret out the means of attaining it. \n\nI sat up in bed by way of arousing this said brain: it was a chilly\nnight; I covered my shoulders with a shawl, and then I proceeded _to\nthink_ again with all my might.\n\n What do I want? A new place, in a new house, amongst new faces, under\nnew circumstances: I want this because it is of no use wanting anything\nbetter. How do people do to get a new place? They apply to friends, I\nsuppose: I have no friends. There are many others who have no friends,\nwho must look about for themselves and be their own helpers; and what\nis their resource? \n\nI could not tell: nothing answered me; I then ordered my brain to find\na response, and quickly. It worked and worked faster: I felt the pulses\nthrob in my head and temples; but for nearly an hour it worked in\nchaos; and no result came of its efforts. Feverish with vain labour, I\ngot up and took a turn in the room; undrew the curtain, noted a star or\ntwo, shivered with cold, and again crept to bed.\n\nA kind fairy, in my absence, had surely dropped the required suggestion\non my pillow; for as I lay down, it came quietly and naturally to my\nmind: Those who want situations advertise; you must advertise in the\n_ shire Herald_. \n\n How? I know nothing about advertising. \n\nReplies rose smooth and prompt now: \n\n You must enclose the advertisement and the money to pay for it under a\ncover directed to the editor of the _Herald_; you must put it, the\nfirst opportunity you have, into the post at Lowton; answers must be\naddressed to J.E., at the post-office there; you can go and inquire in\nabout a week after you send your letter, if any are come, and act\naccordingly. \n\nThis scheme I went over twice, thrice; it was then digested in my mind;\nI had it in a clear practical form: I felt satisfied, and fell asleep.\n\nWith earliest day, I was up: I had my advertisement written, enclosed,\nand directed before the bell rang to rouse the school; it ran thus: \n\n A young lady accustomed to tuition  (had I not been a teacher two\nyears?)  is desirous of meeting with a situation in a private family\nwhere the children are under fourteen  (I thought that as I was barely\neighteen, it would not do to undertake the guidance of pupils nearer my\nown age).  She is qualified to teach the usual branches of a good\nEnglish education, together with French, Drawing, and Music  (in those\ndays, reader, this now narrow catalogue of accomplishments, would have\nbeen held tolerably comprehensive).  Address, J.E., Post-office,\nLowton,  shire. \n\nThis document remained locked in my drawer all day: after tea, I asked\nleave of the new superintendent to go to Lowton, in order to perform\nsome small commissions for myself and one or two of my fellow-teachers;\npermission was readily granted; I went. It was a walk of two miles, and\nthe evening was wet, but the days were still long; I visited a shop or\ntwo, slipped the letter into the post-office, and came back through\nheavy rain, with streaming garments, but with a relieved heart.\n\nThe succeeding week seemed long: it came to an end at last, however,\nlike all sublunary things, and once more, towards the close of a\npleasant autumn day, I found myself afoot on the road to Lowton. A\npicturesque track it was, by the way; lying along the side of the beck\nand through the sweetest curves of the dale: but that day I thought\nmore of the letters, that might or might not be awaiting me at the\nlittle burgh whither I was bound, than of the charms of lea and water.\n\nMy ostensible errand on this occasion was to get measured for a pair of\nshoes; so I discharged that business first, and when it was done, I\nstepped across the clean and quiet little street from the shoemaker s\nto the post-office: it was kept by an old dame, who wore horn\nspectacles on her nose, and black mittens on her hands.\n\n Are there any letters for J.E.?  I asked.\n\nShe peered at me over her spectacles, and then she opened a drawer and\nfumbled among its contents for a long time, so long that my hopes began\nto falter. At last, having held a document before her glasses for\nnearly five minutes, she presented it across the counter, accompanying\nthe act by another inquisitive and mistrustful glance it was for J.E.\n\n Is there only one?  I demanded.\n\n There are no more,  said she; and I put it in my pocket and turned my\nface homeward: I could not open it then; rules obliged me to be back by\neight, and it was already half-past seven.\n\nVarious duties awaited me on my arrival: I had to sit with the girls\nduring their hour of study; then it was my turn to read prayers; to see\nthem to bed: afterwards I supped with the other teachers. Even when we\nfinally retired for the night, the inevitable Miss Gryce was still my\ncompanion: we had only a short end of candle in our candlestick, and I\ndreaded lest she should talk till it was all burnt out; fortunately,\nhowever, the heavy supper she had eaten produced a soporific effect:\nshe was already snoring before I had finished undressing. There still\nremained an inch of candle: I now took out my letter; the seal was an\ninitial F.; I broke it; the contents were brief.\n\n If J.E., who advertised in the _ shire Herald_ of last Thursday,\npossesses the acquirements mentioned, and if she is in a position to\ngive satisfactory references as to character and competency, a\nsituation can be offered her where there is but one pupil, a little\ngirl, under ten years of age; and where the salary is thirty pounds per\nannum. J.E. is requested to send references, name, address, and all\nparticulars to the direction: \n\n Mrs. Fairfax, Thornfield, near Millcote,  shire. \n\nI examined the document long: the writing was old-fashioned and rather\nuncertain, like that of an elderly lady. This circumstance was\nsatisfactory: a private fear had haunted me, that in thus acting for\nmyself, and by my own guidance, I ran the risk of getting into some\nscrape; and, above all things, I wished the result of my endeavours to\nbe respectable, proper, _en r gle_. I now felt that an elderly lady was\nno bad ingredient in the business I had on hand. Mrs. Fairfax! I saw\nher in a black gown and widow s cap; frigid, perhaps, but not uncivil:\na model of elderly English respectability. Thornfield! that, doubtless,\nwas the name of her house: a neat orderly spot, I was sure; though I\nfailed in my efforts to conceive a correct plan of the premises.\nMillcote,  shire; I brushed up my recollections of the map of England;\nyes, I saw it; both the shire and the town.  shire was seventy miles\nnearer London than the remote county where I now resided: that was a\nrecommendation to me. I longed to go where there was life and movement:\nMillcote was a large manufacturing town on the banks of the A : a busy\nplace enough, doubtless: so much the better; it would be a complete\nchange at least. Not that my fancy was much captivated by the idea of\nlong chimneys and clouds of smoke but,  I argued,  Thornfield will,\nprobably, be a good way from the town. \n\nHere the socket of the candle dropped, and the wick went out.\n\nNext day new steps were to be taken; my plans could no longer be\nconfined to my own breast; I must impart them in order to achieve their\nsuccess. Having sought and obtained an audience of the superintendent\nduring the noontide recreation, I told her I had a prospect of getting\na new situation where the salary would be double what I now received\n(for at Lowood I only got  15 per annum); and requested she would break\nthe matter for me to Mr. Brocklehurst, or some of the committee, and\nascertain whether they would permit me to mention them as references.\nShe obligingly consented to act as mediatrix in the matter. The next\nday she laid the affair before Mr. Brocklehurst, who said that Mrs.\nReed must be written to, as she was my natural guardian. A note was\naccordingly addressed to that lady, who returned for answer, that  I\nmight do as I pleased: she had long relinquished all interference in my\naffairs.  This note went the round of the committee, and at last, after\nwhat appeared to me most tedious delay, formal leave was given me to\nbetter my condition if I could; and an assurance added, that as I had\nalways conducted myself well, both as teacher and pupil, at Lowood, a\ntestimonial of character and capacity, signed by the inspectors of that\ninstitution, should forthwith be furnished me.\n\nThis testimonial I accordingly received in about a month, forwarded a\ncopy of it to Mrs. Fairfax, and got that lady s reply, stating that she\nwas satisfied, and fixing that day fortnight as the period for my\nassuming the post of governess in her house.\n\nI now busied myself in preparations: the fortnight passed rapidly. I\nhad not a very large wardrobe, though it was adequate to my wants; and\nthe last day sufficed to pack my trunk, the same I had brought with me\neight years ago from Gateshead.\n\nThe box was corded, the card nailed on. In half-an-hour the carrier was\nto call for it to take it to Lowton, whither I myself was to repair at\nan early hour the next morning to meet the coach. I had brushed my\nblack stuff travelling-dress, prepared my bonnet, gloves, and muff;\nsought in all my drawers to see that no article was left behind; and\nnow having nothing more to do, I sat down and tried to rest. I could\nnot; though I had been on foot all day, I could not now repose an\ninstant; I was too much excited. A phase of my life was closing\nto-night, a new one opening to-morrow: impossible to slumber in the\ninterval; I must watch feverishly while the change was being\naccomplished.\n\n Miss,  said a servant who met me in the lobby, where I was wandering\nlike a troubled spirit,  a person below wishes to see you. \n\n The carrier, no doubt,  I thought, and ran downstairs without inquiry.\nI was passing the back-parlour or teachers  sitting-room, the door of\nwhich was half open, to go to the kitchen, when some one ran out \n\n It s her, I am sure! I could have told her anywhere!  cried the\nindividual who stopped my progress and took my hand.\n\nI looked: I saw a woman attired like a well-dressed servant, matronly,\nyet still young; very good-looking, with black hair and eyes, and\nlively complexion.\n\n Well, who is it?  she asked, in a voice and with a smile I half\nrecognised;  you ve not quite forgotten me, I think, Miss Jane? \n\nIn another second I was embracing and kissing her rapturously:  Bessie!\nBessie! Bessie!  that was all I said; whereat she half laughed, half\ncried, and we both went into the parlour. By the fire stood a little\nfellow of three years old, in plaid frock and trousers.\n\n That is my little boy,  said Bessie directly.\n\n Then you are married, Bessie? \n\n Yes; nearly five years since to Robert Leaven, the coachman; and I ve\na little girl besides Bobby there, that I ve christened Jane. \n\n And you don t live at Gateshead? \n\n I live at the lodge: the old porter has left. \n\n Well, and how do they all get on? Tell me everything about them,\nBessie: but sit down first; and, Bobby, come and sit on my knee, will\nyou?  but Bobby preferred sidling over to his mother.\n\n You re not grown so very tall, Miss Jane, nor so very stout, \ncontinued Mrs. Leaven.  I dare say they ve not kept you too well at\nschool: Miss Reed is the head and shoulders taller than you are; and\nMiss Georgiana would make two of you in breadth. \n\n Georgiana is handsome, I suppose, Bessie? \n\n Very. She went up to London last winter with her mama, and there\neverybody admired her, and a young lord fell in love with her: but his\nrelations were against the match; and what do you think? he and Miss\nGeorgiana made it up to run away; but they were found out and stopped.\nIt was Miss Reed that found them out: I believe she was envious; and\nnow she and her sister lead a cat and dog life together; they are\nalways quarrelling \n\n Well, and what of John Reed? \n\n Oh, he is not doing so well as his mama could wish. He went to\ncollege, and he got plucked, I think they call it: and then his uncles\nwanted him to be a barrister, and study the law: but he is such a\ndissipated young man, they will never make much of him, I think. \n\n What does he look like? \n\n He is very tall: some people call him a fine-looking young man; but he\nhas such thick lips. \n\n And Mrs. Reed? \n\n Missis looks stout and well enough in the face, but I think she s not\nquite easy in her mind: Mr. John s conduct does not please her he\nspends a deal of money. \n\n Did she send you here, Bessie? \n\n No, indeed: but I have long wanted to see you, and when I heard that\nthere had been a letter from you, and that you were going to another\npart of the country, I thought I d just set off, and get a look at you\nbefore you were quite out of my reach. \n\n I am afraid you are disappointed in me, Bessie.  I said this laughing:\nI perceived that Bessie s glance, though it expressed regard, did in no\nshape denote admiration.\n\n No, Miss Jane, not exactly: you are genteel enough; you look like a\nlady, and it is as much as ever I expected of you: you were no beauty\nas a child. \n\nI smiled at Bessie s frank answer: I felt that it was correct, but I\nconfess I was not quite indifferent to its import: at eighteen most\npeople wish to please, and the conviction that they have not an\nexterior likely to second that desire brings anything but\ngratification.\n\n I dare say you are clever, though,  continued Bessie, by way of\nsolace.  What can you do? Can you play on the piano? \n\n A little. \n\nThere was one in the room; Bessie went and opened it, and then asked me\nto sit down and give her a tune: I played a waltz or two, and she was\ncharmed.\n\n The Miss Reeds could not play as well!  said she exultingly.  I always\nsaid you would surpass them in learning: and can you draw? \n\n That is one of my paintings over the chimney-piece.  It was a\nlandscape in water colours, of which I had made a present to the\nsuperintendent, in acknowledgment of her obliging mediation with the\ncommittee on my behalf, and which she had framed and glazed.\n\n Well, that is beautiful, Miss Jane! It is as fine a picture as any\nMiss Reed s drawing-master could paint, let alone the young ladies\nthemselves, who could not come near it: and have you learnt French? \n\n Yes, Bessie, I can both read it and speak it. \n\n And you can work on muslin and canvas? \n\n I can. \n\n Oh, you are quite a lady, Miss Jane! I knew you would be: you will get\non whether your relations notice you or not. There was something I\nwanted to ask you. Have you ever heard anything from your father s\nkinsfolk, the Eyres? \n\n Never in my life. \n\n Well, you know Missis always said they were poor and quite despicable:\nand they may be poor; but I believe they are as much gentry as the\nReeds are; for one day, nearly seven years ago, a Mr. Eyre came to\nGateshead and wanted to see you; Missis said you were at school fifty\nmiles off; he seemed so much disappointed, for he could not stay: he\nwas going on a voyage to a foreign country, and the ship was to sail\nfrom London in a day or two. He looked quite a gentleman, and I believe\nhe was your father s brother. \n\n What foreign country was he going to, Bessie? \n\n An island thousands of miles off, where they make wine the butler did\ntell me \n\n Madeira?  I suggested.\n\n Yes, that is it that is the very word. \n\n So he went? \n\n Yes; he did not stay many minutes in the house: Missis was very high\nwith him; she called him afterwards a  sneaking tradesman.  My Robert\nbelieves he was a wine-merchant. \n\n Very likely,  I returned;  or perhaps clerk or agent to a\nwine-merchant. \n\nBessie and I conversed about old times an hour longer, and then she was\nobliged to leave me: I saw her again for a few minutes the next morning\nat Lowton, while I was waiting for the coach. We parted finally at the\ndoor of the Brocklehurst Arms there: each went her separate way; she\nset off for the brow of Lowood Fell to meet the conveyance which was to\ntake her back to Gateshead, I mounted the vehicle which was to bear me\nto new duties and a new life in the unknown environs of Millcote.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n\nA new chapter in a novel is something like a new scene in a play; and\nwhen I draw up the curtain this time, reader, you must fancy you see a\nroom in the George Inn at Millcote, with such large figured papering on\nthe walls as inn rooms have; such a carpet, such furniture, such\nornaments on the mantelpiece, such prints, including a portrait of\nGeorge the Third, and another of the Prince of Wales, and a\nrepresentation of the death of Wolfe. All this is visible to you by the\nlight of an oil lamp hanging from the ceiling, and by that of an\nexcellent fire, near which I sit in my cloak and bonnet; my muff and\numbrella lie on the table, and I am warming away the numbness and chill\ncontracted by sixteen hours  exposure to the rawness of an October day:\nI left Lowton at four o clock A.M., and the Millcote town clock is now\njust striking eight.\n\nReader, though I look comfortably accommodated, I am not very tranquil\nin my mind. I thought when the coach stopped here there would be some\none to meet me; I looked anxiously round as I descended the wooden\nsteps the  boots  placed for my convenience, expecting to hear my name\npronounced, and to see some description of carriage waiting to convey\nme to Thornfield. Nothing of the sort was visible; and when I asked a\nwaiter if any one had been to inquire after a Miss Eyre, I was answered\nin the negative: so I had no resource but to request to be shown into a\nprivate room: and here I am waiting, while all sorts of doubts and\nfears are troubling my thoughts.\n\nIt is a very strange sensation to inexperienced youth to feel itself\nquite alone in the world, cut adrift from every connection, uncertain\nwhether the port to which it is bound can be reached, and prevented by\nmany impediments from returning to that it has quitted. The charm of\nadventure sweetens that sensation, the glow of pride warms it; but then\nthe throb of fear disturbs it; and fear with me became predominant when\nhalf-an-hour elapsed and still I was alone. I bethought myself to ring\nthe bell.\n\n Is there a place in this neighbourhood called Thornfield?  I asked of\nthe waiter who answered the summons.\n\n Thornfield? I don t know, ma am; I ll inquire at the bar.  He\nvanished, but reappeared instantly \n\n Is your name Eyre, Miss? \n\n Yes. \n\n Person here waiting for you. \n\nI jumped up, took my muff and umbrella, and hastened into the\ninn-passage: a man was standing by the open door, and in the lamp-lit\nstreet I dimly saw a one-horse conveyance.\n\n This will be your luggage, I suppose?  said the man rather abruptly\nwhen he saw me, pointing to my trunk in the passage.\n\n Yes.  He hoisted it on to the vehicle, which was a sort of car, and\nthen I got in; before he shut me up, I asked him how far it was to\nThornfield.\n\n A matter of six miles. \n\n How long shall we be before we get there? \n\n Happen an hour and a half. \n\nHe fastened the car door, climbed to his own seat outside, and we set\noff. Our progress was leisurely, and gave me ample time to reflect; I\nwas content to be at length so near the end of my journey; and as I\nleaned back in the comfortable though not elegant conveyance, I\nmeditated much at my ease.\n\n I suppose,  thought I,  judging from the plainness of the servant and\ncarriage, Mrs. Fairfax is not a very dashing person: so much the\nbetter; I never lived amongst fine people but once, and I was very\nmiserable with them. I wonder if she lives alone except this little\ngirl; if so, and if she is in any degree amiable, I shall surely be\nable to get on with her; I will do my best; it is a pity that doing\none s best does not always answer. At Lowood, indeed, I took that\nresolution, kept it, and succeeded in pleasing; but with Mrs. Reed, I\nremember my best was always spurned with scorn. I pray God Mrs. Fairfax\nmay not turn out a second Mrs. Reed; but if she does, I am not bound to\nstay with her! let the worst come to the worst, I can advertise again.\nHow far are we on our road now, I wonder? \n\nI let down the window and looked out; Millcote was behind us; judging\nby the number of its lights, it seemed a place of considerable\nmagnitude, much larger than Lowton. We were now, as far as I could see,\non a sort of common; but there were houses scattered all over the\ndistrict; I felt we were in a different region to Lowood, more\npopulous, less picturesque; more stirring, less romantic.\n\nThe roads were heavy, the night misty; my conductor let his horse walk\nall the way, and the hour and a half extended, I verily believe, to two\nhours; at last he turned in his seat and said \n\n You re noan so far fro  Thornfield now. \n\nAgain I looked out: we were passing a church; I saw its low broad tower\nagainst the sky, and its bell was tolling a quarter; I saw a narrow\ngalaxy of lights too, on a hillside, marking a village or hamlet. About\nten minutes after, the driver got down and opened a pair of gates: we\npassed through, and they clashed to behind us. We now slowly ascended a\ndrive, and came upon the long front of a house: candlelight gleamed\nfrom one curtained bow-window; all the rest were dark. The car stopped\nat the front door; it was opened by a maid-servant; I alighted and went\nin.\n\n Will you walk this way, ma am?  said the girl; and I followed her\nacross a square hall with high doors all round: she ushered me into a\nroom whose double illumination of fire and candle at first dazzled me,\ncontrasting as it did with the darkness to which my eyes had been for\ntwo hours inured; when I could see, however, a cosy and agreeable\npicture presented itself to my view.\n\nA snug small room; a round table by a cheerful fire; an arm-chair\nhigh-backed and old-fashioned, wherein sat the neatest imaginable\nlittle elderly lady, in widow s cap, black silk gown, and snowy muslin\napron; exactly like what I had fancied Mrs. Fairfax, only less stately\nand milder looking. She was occupied in knitting; a large cat sat\ndemurely at her feet; nothing in short was wanting to complete the\nbeau-ideal of domestic comfort. A more reassuring introduction for a\nnew governess could scarcely be conceived; there was no grandeur to\noverwhelm, no stateliness to embarrass; and then, as I entered, the old\nlady got up and promptly and kindly came forward to meet me.\n\n How do you do, my dear? I am afraid you have had a tedious ride; John\ndrives so slowly; you must be cold, come to the fire. \n\n Mrs. Fairfax, I suppose?  said I.\n\n Yes, you are right: do sit down. \n\nShe conducted me to her own chair, and then began to remove my shawl\nand untie my bonnet-strings; I begged she would not give herself so\nmuch trouble.\n\n Oh, it is no trouble; I dare say your own hands are almost numbed with\ncold. Leah, make a little hot negus and cut a sandwich or two: here are\nthe keys of the storeroom. \n\nAnd she produced from her pocket a most housewifely bunch of keys, and\ndelivered them to the servant.\n\n Now, then, draw nearer to the fire,  she continued.  You ve brought\nyour luggage with you, haven t you, my dear? \n\n Yes, ma am. \n\n I ll see it carried into your room,  she said, and bustled out.\n\n She treats me like a visitor,  thought I.  I little expected such a\nreception; I anticipated only coldness and stiffness: this is not like\nwhat I have heard of the treatment of governesses; but I must not exult\ntoo soon. \n\nShe returned; with her own hands cleared her knitting apparatus and a\nbook or two from the table, to make room for the tray which Leah now\nbrought, and then herself handed me the refreshments. I felt rather\nconfused at being the object of more attention than I had ever before\nreceived, and, that too, shown by my employer and superior; but as she\ndid not herself seem to consider she was doing anything out of her\nplace, I thought it better to take her civilities quietly.\n\n Shall I have the pleasure of seeing Miss Fairfax to-night?  I asked,\nwhen I had partaken of what she offered me.\n\n What did you say, my dear? I am a little deaf,  returned the good\nlady, approaching her ear to my mouth.\n\nI repeated the question more distinctly.\n\n Miss Fairfax? Oh, you mean Miss Varens! Varens is the name of your\nfuture pupil. \n\n Indeed! Then she is not your daughter? \n\n No, I have no family. \n\nI should have followed up my first inquiry, by asking in what way Miss\nVarens was connected with her; but I recollected it was not polite to\nask too many questions: besides, I was sure to hear in time.\n\n I am so glad,  she continued, as she sat down opposite to me, and took\nthe cat on her knee;  I am so glad you are come; it will be quite\npleasant living here now with a companion. To be sure it is pleasant at\nany time; for Thornfield is a fine old hall, rather neglected of late\nyears perhaps, but still it is a respectable place; yet you know in\nwinter-time one feels dreary quite alone in the best quarters. I say\nalone Leah is a nice girl to be sure, and John and his wife are very\ndecent people; but then you see they are only servants, and one can t\nconverse with them on terms of equality: one must keep them at due\ndistance, for fear of losing one s authority. I m sure last winter (it\nwas a very severe one, if you recollect, and when it did not snow, it\nrained and blew), not a creature but the butcher and postman came to\nthe house, from November till February; and I really got quite\nmelancholy with sitting night after night alone; I had Leah in to read\nto me sometimes; but I don t think the poor girl liked the task much:\nshe felt it confining. In spring and summer one got on better: sunshine\nand long days make such a difference; and then, just at the\ncommencement of this autumn, little Adela Varens came and her nurse: a\nchild makes a house alive all at once; and now you are here I shall be\nquite gay. \n\nMy heart really warmed to the worthy lady as I heard her talk; and I\ndrew my chair a little nearer to her, and expressed my sincere wish\nthat she might find my company as agreeable as she anticipated.\n\n But I ll not keep you sitting up late to-night,  said she;  it is on\nthe stroke of twelve now, and you have been travelling all day: you\nmust feel tired. If you have got your feet well warmed, I ll show you\nyour bedroom. I ve had the room next to mine prepared for you; it is\nonly a small apartment, but I thought you would like it better than one\nof the large front chambers: to be sure they have finer furniture, but\nthey are so dreary and solitary, I never sleep in them myself. \n\nI thanked her for her considerate choice, and as I really felt fatigued\nwith my long journey, expressed my readiness to retire. She took her\ncandle, and I followed her from the room. First she went to see if the\nhall-door was fastened; having taken the key from the lock, she led the\nway upstairs. The steps and banisters were of oak; the staircase window\nwas high and latticed; both it and the long gallery into which the\nbedroom doors opened looked as if they belonged to a church rather than\na house. A very chill and vault-like air pervaded the stairs and\ngallery, suggesting cheerless ideas of space and solitude; and I was\nglad, when finally ushered into my chamber, to find it of small\ndimensions, and furnished in ordinary, modern style.\n\nWhen Mrs. Fairfax had bidden me a kind good-night, and I had fastened\nmy door, gazed leisurely round, and in some measure effaced the eerie\nimpression made by that wide hall, that dark and spacious staircase,\nand that long, cold gallery, by the livelier aspect of my little room,\nI remembered that, after a day of bodily fatigue and mental anxiety, I\nwas now at last in safe haven. The impulse of gratitude swelled my\nheart, and I knelt down at the bedside, and offered up thanks where\nthanks were due; not forgetting, ere I rose, to implore aid on my\nfurther path, and the power of meriting the kindness which seemed so\nfrankly offered me before it was earned. My couch had no thorns in it\nthat night; my solitary room no fears. At once weary and content, I\nslept soon and soundly: when I awoke it was broad day.\n\nThe chamber looked such a bright little place to me as the sun shone in\nbetween the gay blue chintz window curtains, showing papered walls and\na carpeted floor, so unlike the bare planks and stained plaster of\nLowood, that my spirits rose at the view. Externals have a great effect\non the young: I thought that a fairer era of life was beginning for me,\none that was to have its flowers and pleasures, as well as its thorns\nand toils. My faculties, roused by the change of scene, the new field\noffered to hope, seemed all astir. I cannot precisely define what they\nexpected, but it was something pleasant: not perhaps that day or that\nmonth, but at an indefinite future period.\n\nI rose; I dressed myself with care: obliged to be plain for I had no\narticle of attire that was not made with extreme simplicity I was still\nby nature solicitous to be neat. It was not my habit to be disregardful\nof appearance or careless of the impression I made: on the contrary, I\never wished to look as well as I could, and to please as much as my\nwant of beauty would permit. I sometimes regretted that I was not\nhandsomer; I sometimes wished to have rosy cheeks, a straight nose, and\nsmall cherry mouth; I desired to be tall, stately, and finely developed\nin figure; I felt it a misfortune that I was so little, so pale, and\nhad features so irregular and so marked. And why had I these\naspirations and these regrets? It would be difficult to say: I could\nnot then distinctly say it to myself; yet I had a reason, and a\nlogical, natural reason too. However, when I had brushed my hair very\nsmooth, and put on my black frock which, Quakerlike as it was, at least\nhad the merit of fitting to a nicety and adjusted my clean white\ntucker, I thought I should do respectably enough to appear before Mrs.\nFairfax, and that my new pupil would not at least recoil from me with\nantipathy. Having opened my chamber window, and seen that I left all\nthings straight and neat on the toilet table, I ventured forth.\n\nTraversing the long and matted gallery, I descended the slippery steps\nof oak; then I gained the hall: I halted there a minute; I looked at\nsome pictures on the walls (one, I remember, represented a grim man in\na cuirass, and one a lady with powdered hair and a pearl necklace), at\na bronze lamp pendent from the ceiling, at a great clock whose case was\nof oak curiously carved, and ebon black with time and rubbing.\nEverything appeared very stately and imposing to me; but then I was so\nlittle accustomed to grandeur. The hall-door, which was half of glass,\nstood open; I stepped over the threshold. It was a fine autumn morning;\nthe early sun shone serenely on embrowned groves and still green\nfields; advancing on to the lawn, I looked up and surveyed the front of\nthe mansion. It was three storeys high, of proportions not vast, though\nconsiderable: a gentleman s manor-house, not a nobleman s seat:\nbattlements round the top gave it a picturesque look. Its grey front\nstood out well from the background of a rookery, whose cawing tenants\nwere now on the wing: they flew over the lawn and grounds to alight in\na great meadow, from which these were separated by a sunk fence, and\nwhere an array of mighty old thorn trees, strong, knotty, and broad as\noaks, at once explained the etymology of the mansion s designation.\nFarther off were hills: not so lofty as those round Lowood, nor so\ncraggy, nor so like barriers of separation from the living world; but\nyet quiet and lonely hills enough, and seeming to embrace Thornfield\nwith a seclusion I had not expected to find existent so near the\nstirring locality of Millcote. A little hamlet, whose roofs were blent\nwith trees, straggled up the side of one of these hills; the church of\nthe district stood nearer Thornfield: its old tower-top looked over a\nknoll between the house and gates.\n\nI was yet enjoying the calm prospect and pleasant fresh air, yet\nlistening with delight to the cawing of the rooks, yet surveying the\nwide, hoary front of the hall, and thinking what a great place it was\nfor one lonely little dame like Mrs. Fairfax to inhabit, when that lady\nappeared at the door.\n\n What! out already?  said she.  I see you are an early riser.  I went\nup to her, and was received with an affable kiss and shake of the hand.\n\n How do you like Thornfield?  she asked. I told her I liked it very\nmuch.\n\n Yes,  she said,  it is a pretty place; but I fear it will be getting\nout of order, unless Mr. Rochester should take it into his head to come\nand reside here permanently; or, at least, visit it rather oftener:\ngreat houses and fine grounds require the presence of the proprietor. \n\n Mr. Rochester!  I exclaimed.  Who is he? \n\n The owner of Thornfield,  she responded quietly.  Did you not know he\nwas called Rochester? \n\nOf course I did not I had never heard of him before; but the old lady\nseemed to regard his existence as a universally understood fact, with\nwhich everybody must be acquainted by instinct.\n\n I thought,  I continued,  Thornfield belonged to you. \n\n To me? Bless you, child; what an idea! To me! I am only the\nhousekeeper the manager. To be sure I am distantly related to the\nRochesters by the mother s side, or at least my husband was; he was a\nclergyman, incumbent of Hay that little village yonder on the hill and\nthat church near the gates was his. The present Mr. Rochester s mother\nwas a Fairfax, and second cousin to my husband: but I never presume on\nthe connection in fact, it is nothing to me; I consider myself quite in\nthe light of an ordinary housekeeper: my employer is always civil, and\nI expect nothing more. \n\n And the little girl my pupil! \n\n She is Mr. Rochester s ward; he commissioned me to find a governess\nfor her. He intended to have her brought up in  shire, I believe. Here\nshe comes, with her  bonne,  as she calls her nurse.  The enigma then\nwas explained: this affable and kind little widow was no great dame;\nbut a dependent like myself. I did not like her the worse for that; on\nthe contrary, I felt better pleased than ever. The equality between her\nand me was real; not the mere result of condescension on her part: so\nmuch the better my position was all the freer.\n\nAs I was meditating on this discovery, a little girl, followed by her\nattendant, came running up the lawn. I looked at my pupil, who did not\nat first appear to notice me: she was quite a child, perhaps seven or\neight years old, slightly built, with a pale, small-featured face, and\na redundancy of hair falling in curls to her waist.\n\n Good morning, Miss Adela,  said Mrs. Fairfax.  Come and speak to the\nlady who is to teach you, and to make you a clever woman some day.  She\napproached.\n\n C est l  ma gouvernante!  said she, pointing to me, and addressing her\nnurse; who answered \n\n Mais oui, certainement. \n\n Are they foreigners?  I inquired, amazed at hearing the French\nlanguage.\n\n The nurse is a foreigner, and Adela was born on the Continent; and, I\nbelieve, never left it till within six months ago. When she first came\nhere she could speak no English; now she can make shift to talk it a\nlittle: I don t understand her, she mixes it so with French; but you\nwill make out her meaning very well, I dare say. \n\nFortunately I had had the advantage of being taught French by a French\nlady; and as I had always made a point of conversing with Madame\nPierrot as often as I could, and had besides, during the last seven\nyears, learnt a portion of French by heart daily applying myself to\ntake pains with my accent, and imitating as closely as possible the\npronunciation of my teacher, I had acquired a certain degree of\nreadiness and correctness in the language, and was not likely to be\nmuch at a loss with Mademoiselle Adela. She came and shook hands with\nme when she heard that I was her governess; and as I led her in to\nbreakfast, I addressed some phrases to her in her own tongue: she\nreplied briefly at first, but after we were seated at the table, and\nshe had examined me some ten minutes with her large hazel eyes, she\nsuddenly commenced chattering fluently.\n\n Ah!  cried she, in French,  you speak my language as well as Mr.\nRochester does: I can talk to you as I can to him, and so can Sophie.\nShe will be glad: nobody here understands her: Madame Fairfax is all\nEnglish. Sophie is my nurse; she came with me over the sea in a great\nship with a chimney that smoked how it did smoke! and I was sick, and\nso was Sophie, and so was Mr. Rochester. Mr. Rochester lay down on a\nsofa in a pretty room called the salon, and Sophie and I had little\nbeds in another place. I nearly fell out of mine; it was like a shelf.\nAnd Mademoiselle what is your name? \n\n Eyre Jane Eyre. \n\n Aire? Bah! I cannot say it. Well, our ship stopped in the morning,\nbefore it was quite daylight, at a great city a huge city, with very\ndark houses and all smoky; not at all like the pretty clean town I came\nfrom; and Mr. Rochester carried me in his arms over a plank to the\nland, and Sophie came after, and we all got into a coach, which took us\nto a beautiful large house, larger than this and finer, called an\nhotel. We stayed there nearly a week: I and Sophie used to walk every\nday in a great green place full of trees, called the Park; and there\nwere many children there besides me, and a pond with beautiful birds in\nit, that I fed with crumbs. \n\n Can you understand her when she runs on so fast?  asked Mrs. Fairfax.\n\nI understood her very well, for I had been accustomed to the fluent\ntongue of Madame Pierrot.\n\n I wish,  continued the good lady,  you would ask her a question or two\nabout her parents: I wonder if she remembers them? \n\n Ad le,  I inquired,  with whom did you live when you were in that\npretty clean town you spoke of? \n\n I lived long ago with mama; but she is gone to the Holy Virgin. Mama\nused to teach me to dance and sing, and to say verses. A great many\ngentlemen and ladies came to see mama, and I used to dance before them,\nor to sit on their knees and sing to them: I liked it. Shall I let you\nhear me sing now? \n\nShe had finished her breakfast, so I permitted her to give a specimen\nof her accomplishments. Descending from her chair, she came and placed\nherself on my knee; then, folding her little hands demurely before her,\nshaking back her curls and lifting her eyes to the ceiling, she\ncommenced singing a song from some opera. It was the strain of a\nforsaken lady, who, after bewailing the perfidy of her lover, calls\npride to her aid; desires her attendant to deck her in her brightest\njewels and richest robes, and resolves to meet the false one that night\nat a ball, and prove to him, by the gaiety of her demeanour, how little\nhis desertion has affected her.\n\nThe subject seemed strangely chosen for an infant singer; but I suppose\nthe point of the exhibition lay in hearing the notes of love and\njealousy warbled with the lisp of childhood; and in very bad taste that\npoint was: at least I thought so.\n\nAd le sang the canzonette tunefully enough, and with the _na vet _ of\nher age. This achieved, she jumped from my knee and said,  Now,\nMademoiselle, I will repeat you some poetry. \n\nAssuming an attitude, she began,  La Ligue des Rats: fable de La\nFontaine.  She then declaimed the little piece with an attention to\npunctuation and emphasis, a flexibility of voice and an appropriateness\nof gesture, very unusual indeed at her age, and which proved she had\nbeen carefully trained.\n\n Was it your mama who taught you that piece?  I asked.\n\n Yes, and she just used to say it in this way:  Qu avez vous donc? lui\ndit un de ces rats; parlez!  She made me lift my hand so to remind me\nto raise my voice at the question. Now shall I dance for you? \n\n No, that will do: but after your mama went to the Holy Virgin, as you\nsay, with whom did you live then? \n\n With Madame Fr d ric and her husband: she took care of me, but she is\nnothing related to me. I think she is poor, for she had not so fine a\nhouse as mama. I was not long there. Mr. Rochester asked me if I would\nlike to go and live with him in England, and I said yes; for I knew Mr.\nRochester before I knew Madame Fr d ric, and he was always kind to me\nand gave me pretty dresses and toys: but you see he has not kept his\nword, for he has brought me to England, and now he is gone back again\nhimself, and I never see him. \n\nAfter breakfast, Ad le and I withdrew to the library, which room, it\nappears, Mr. Rochester had directed should be used as the schoolroom.\nMost of the books were locked up behind glass doors; but there was one\nbookcase left open containing everything that could be needed in the\nway of elementary works, and several volumes of light literature,\npoetry, biography, travels, a few romances, &c. I suppose he had\nconsidered that these were all the governess would require for her\nprivate perusal; and, indeed, they contented me amply for the present;\ncompared with the scanty pickings I had now and then been able to glean\nat Lowood, they seemed to offer an abundant harvest of entertainment\nand information. In this room, too, there was a cabinet piano, quite\nnew and of superior tone; also an easel for painting and a pair of\nglobes.\n\nI found my pupil sufficiently docile, though disinclined to apply: she\nhad not been used to regular occupation of any kind. I felt it would be\ninjudicious to confine her too much at first; so, when I had talked to\nher a great deal, and got her to learn a little, and when the morning\nhad advanced to noon, I allowed her to return to her nurse. I then\nproposed to occupy myself till dinner-time in drawing some little\nsketches for her use.\n\nAs I was going upstairs to fetch my portfolio and pencils, Mrs. Fairfax\ncalled to me:  Your morning school-hours are over now, I suppose,  said\nshe. She was in a room the folding-doors of which stood open: I went in\nwhen she addressed me. It was a large, stately apartment, with purple\nchairs and curtains, a Turkey carpet, walnut-panelled walls, one vast\nwindow rich in stained glass, and a lofty ceiling, nobly moulded. Mrs.\nFairfax was dusting some vases of fine purple spar, which stood on a\nsideboard.\n\n What a beautiful room!  I exclaimed, as I looked round; for I had\nnever before seen any half so imposing.\n\n Yes; this is the dining-room. I have just opened the window, to let in\na little air and sunshine; for everything gets so damp in apartments\nthat are seldom inhabited; the drawing-room yonder feels like a vault. \n\nShe pointed to a wide arch corresponding to the window, and hung like\nit with a Tyrian-dyed curtain, now looped up. Mounting to it by two\nbroad steps, and looking through, I thought I caught a glimpse of a\nfairy place, so bright to my novice-eyes appeared the view beyond. Yet\nit was merely a very pretty drawing-room, and within it a boudoir, both\nspread with white carpets, on which seemed laid brilliant garlands of\nflowers; both ceiled with snowy mouldings of white grapes and\nvine-leaves, beneath which glowed in rich contrast crimson couches and\nottomans; while the ornaments on the pale Parian mantelpiece were of\nsparkling Bohemian glass, ruby red; and between the windows large\nmirrors repeated the general blending of snow and fire.\n\n In what order you keep these rooms, Mrs. Fairfax!  said I.  No dust,\nno canvas coverings: except that the air feels chilly, one would think\nthey were inhabited daily. \n\n Why, Miss Eyre, though Mr. Rochester s visits here are rare, they are\nalways sudden and unexpected; and as I observed that it put him out to\nfind everything swathed up, and to have a bustle of arrangement on his\narrival, I thought it best to keep the rooms in readiness. \n\n Is Mr. Rochester an exacting, fastidious sort of man? \n\n Not particularly so; but he has a gentleman s tastes and habits, and\nhe expects to have things managed in conformity to them. \n\n Do you like him? Is he generally liked? \n\n Oh, yes; the family have always been respected here. Almost all the\nland in this neighbourhood, as far as you can see, has belonged to the\nRochesters time out of mind. \n\n Well, but, leaving his land out of the question, do you like him? Is\nhe liked for himself? \n\n _I_ have no cause to do otherwise than like him; and I believe he is\nconsidered a just and liberal landlord by his tenants: but he has never\nlived much amongst them. \n\n But has he no peculiarities? What, in short, is his character? \n\n Oh! his character is unimpeachable, I suppose. He is rather peculiar,\nperhaps: he has travelled a great deal, and seen a great deal of the\nworld, I should think. I dare say he is clever, but I never had much\nconversation with him. \n\n In what way is he peculiar? \n\n I don t know it is not easy to describe nothing striking, but you feel\nit when he speaks to you; you cannot be always sure whether he is in\njest or earnest, whether he is pleased or the contrary; you don t\nthoroughly understand him, in short at least, I don t: but it is of no\nconsequence, he is a very good master. \n\nThis was all the account I got from Mrs. Fairfax of her employer and\nmine. There are people who seem to have no notion of sketching a\ncharacter, or observing and describing salient points, either in\npersons or things: the good lady evidently belonged to this class; my\nqueries puzzled, but did not draw her out. Mr. Rochester was Mr.\nRochester in her eyes; a gentleman, a landed proprietor nothing more:\nshe inquired and searched no further, and evidently wondered at my wish\nto gain a more definite notion of his identity.\n\nWhen we left the dining-room, she proposed to show me over the rest of\nthe house; and I followed her upstairs and downstairs, admiring as I\nwent; for all was well arranged and handsome. The large front chambers\nI thought especially grand: and some of the third-storey rooms, though\ndark and low, were interesting from their air of antiquity. The\nfurniture once appropriated to the lower apartments had from time to\ntime been removed here, as fashions changed: and the imperfect light\nentering by their narrow casement showed bedsteads of a hundred years\nold; chests in oak or walnut, looking, with their strange carvings of\npalm branches and cherubs  heads, like types of the Hebrew ark; rows of\nvenerable chairs, high-backed and narrow; stools still more antiquated,\non whose cushioned tops were yet apparent traces of half-effaced\nembroideries, wrought by fingers that for two generations had been\ncoffin-dust. All these relics gave to the third storey of Thornfield\nHall the aspect of a home of the past: a shrine of memory. I liked the\nhush, the gloom, the quaintness of these retreats in the day; but I by\nno means coveted a night s repose on one of those wide and heavy beds:\nshut in, some of them, with doors of oak; shaded, others, with wrought\nold English hangings crusted with thick work, portraying effigies of\nstrange flowers, and stranger birds, and strangest human beings, all\nwhich would have looked strange, indeed, by the pallid gleam of\nmoonlight.\n\n Do the servants sleep in these rooms?  I asked.\n\n No; they occupy a range of smaller apartments to the back; no one ever\nsleeps here: one would almost say that, if there were a ghost at\nThornfield Hall, this would be its haunt. \n\n So I think: you have no ghost, then? \n\n None that I ever heard of,  returned Mrs. Fairfax, smiling.\n\n Nor any traditions of one? no legends or ghost stories? \n\n I believe not. And yet it is said the Rochesters have been rather a\nviolent than a quiet race in their time: perhaps, though, that is the\nreason they rest tranquilly in their graves now. \n\n Yes after life s fitful fever they sleep well,  I muttered.  Where\nare you going now, Mrs. Fairfax?  for she was moving away.\n\n On to the leads; will you come and see the view from thence?  I\nfollowed still, up a very narrow staircase to the attics, and thence by\na ladder and through a trap-door to the roof of the hall. I was now on\na level with the crow colony, and could see into their nests. Leaning\nover the battlements and looking far down, I surveyed the grounds laid\nout like a map: the bright and velvet lawn closely girdling the grey\nbase of the mansion; the field, wide as a park, dotted with its ancient\ntimber; the wood, dun and sere, divided by a path visibly overgrown,\ngreener with moss than the trees were with foliage; the church at the\ngates, the road, the tranquil hills, all reposing in the autumn day s\nsun; the horizon bounded by a propitious sky, azure, marbled with\npearly white. No feature in the scene was extraordinary, but all was\npleasing. When I turned from it and repassed the trap-door, I could\nscarcely see my way down the ladder; the attic seemed black as a vault\ncompared with that arch of blue air to which I had been looking up, and\nto that sunlit scene of grove, pasture, and green hill, of which the\nhall was the centre, and over which I had been gazing with delight.\n\nMrs. Fairfax stayed behind a moment to fasten the trap-door; I, by dint\nof groping, found the outlet from the attic, and proceeded to descend\nthe narrow garret staircase. I lingered in the long passage to which\nthis led, separating the front and back rooms of the third storey:\nnarrow, low, and dim, with only one little window at the far end, and\nlooking, with its two rows of small black doors all shut, like a\ncorridor in some Bluebeard s castle.\n\nWhile I paced softly on, the last sound I expected to hear in so still\na region, a laugh, struck my ear. It was a curious laugh; distinct,\nformal, mirthless. I stopped: the sound ceased, only for an instant; it\nbegan again, louder: for at first, though distinct, it was very low. It\npassed off in a clamorous peal that seemed to wake an echo in every\nlonely chamber; though it originated but in one, and I could have\npointed out the door whence the accents issued.\n\n Mrs. Fairfax!  I called out: for I now heard her descending the great\nstairs.  Did you hear that loud laugh? Who is it? \n\n Some of the servants, very likely,  she answered:  perhaps Grace\nPoole. \n\n Did you hear it?  I again inquired.\n\n Yes, plainly: I often hear her: she sews in one of these rooms.\nSometimes Leah is with her; they are frequently noisy together. \n\nThe laugh was repeated in its low, syllabic tone, and terminated in an\nodd murmur.\n\n Grace!  exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax.\n\nI really did not expect any Grace to answer; for the laugh was as\ntragic, as preternatural a laugh as any I ever heard; and, but that it\nwas high noon, and that no circumstance of ghostliness accompanied the\ncurious cachinnation; but that neither scene nor season favoured fear,\nI should have been superstitiously afraid. However, the event showed me\nI was a fool for entertaining a sense even of surprise.\n\nThe door nearest me opened, and a servant came out, a woman of between\nthirty and forty; a set, square-made figure, red-haired, and with a\nhard, plain face: any apparition less romantic or less ghostly could\nscarcely be conceived.\n\n Too much noise, Grace,  said Mrs. Fairfax.  Remember directions! \nGrace curtseyed silently and went in.\n\n She is a person we have to sew and assist Leah in her housemaid s\nwork,  continued the widow;  not altogether unobjectionable in some\npoints, but she does well enough. By-the-bye, how have you got on with\nyour new pupil this morning? \n\nThe conversation, thus turned on Ad le, continued till we reached the\nlight and cheerful region below. Ad le came running to meet us in the\nhall, exclaiming \n\n Mesdames, vous  tes servies!  adding,  J ai bien faim, moi! \n\nWe found dinner ready, and waiting for us in Mrs. Fairfax s room.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\n\nThe promise of a smooth career, which my first calm introduction to\nThornfield Hall seemed to pledge, was not belied on a longer\nacquaintance with the place and its inmates. Mrs. Fairfax turned out to\nbe what she appeared, a placid-tempered, kind-natured woman, of\ncompetent education and average intelligence. My pupil was a lively\nchild, who had been spoilt and indulged, and therefore was sometimes\nwayward; but as she was committed entirely to my care, and no\ninjudicious interference from any quarter ever thwarted my plans for\nher improvement, she soon forgot her little freaks, and became obedient\nand teachable. She had no great talents, no marked traits of character,\nno peculiar development of feeling or taste which raised her one inch\nabove the ordinary level of childhood; but neither had she any\ndeficiency or vice which sunk her below it. She made reasonable\nprogress, entertained for me a vivacious, though perhaps not very\nprofound, affection; and by her simplicity, gay prattle, and efforts to\nplease, inspired me, in return, with a degree of attachment sufficient\nto make us both content in each other s society.\n\nThis, _par parenth se_, will be thought cool language by persons who\nentertain solemn doctrines about the angelic nature of children, and\nthe duty of those charged with their education to conceive for them an\nidolatrous devotion: but I am not writing to flatter parental egotism,\nto echo cant, or prop up humbug; I am merely telling the truth. I felt\na conscientious solicitude for Ad le s welfare and progress, and a\nquiet liking for her little self: just as I cherished towards Mrs.\nFairfax a thankfulness for her kindness, and a pleasure in her society\nproportionate to the tranquil regard she had for me, and the moderation\nof her mind and character.\n\nAnybody may blame me who likes, when I add further, that, now and then,\nwhen I took a walk by myself in the grounds; when I went down to the\ngates and looked through them along the road; or when, while Ad le\nplayed with her nurse, and Mrs. Fairfax made jellies in the storeroom,\nI climbed the three staircases, raised the trap-door of the attic, and\nhaving reached the leads, looked out afar over sequestered field and\nhill, and along dim sky-line that then I longed for a power of vision\nwhich might overpass that limit; which might reach the busy world,\ntowns, regions full of life I had heard of but never seen that then I\ndesired more of practical experience than I possessed; more of\nintercourse with my kind, of acquaintance with variety of character,\nthan was here within my reach. I valued what was good in Mrs. Fairfax,\nand what was good in Ad le; but I believed in the existence of other\nand more vivid kinds of goodness, and what I believed in I wished to\nbehold.\n\nWho blames me? Many, no doubt; and I shall be called discontented. I\ncould not help it: the restlessness was in my nature; it agitated me to\npain sometimes. Then my sole relief was to walk along the corridor of\nthe third storey, backwards and forwards, safe in the silence and\nsolitude of the spot, and allow my mind s eye to dwell on whatever\nbright visions rose before it and, certainly, they were many and\nglowing; to let my heart be heaved by the exultant movement, which,\nwhile it swelled it in trouble, expanded it with life; and, best of\nall, to open my inward ear to a tale that was never ended a tale my\nimagination created, and narrated continuously; quickened with all of\nincident, life, fire, feeling, that I desired and had not in my actual\nexistence.\n\nIt is in vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied with\ntranquillity: they must have action; and they will make it if they\ncannot find it. Millions are condemned to a stiller doom than mine, and\nmillions are in silent revolt against their lot. Nobody knows how many\nrebellions besides political rebellions ferment in the masses of life\nwhich people earth. Women are supposed to be very calm generally: but\nwomen feel just as men feel; they need exercise for their faculties,\nand a field for their efforts, as much as their brothers do; they\nsuffer from too rigid a restraint, too absolute a stagnation, precisely\nas men would suffer; and it is narrow-minded in their more privileged\nfellow-creatures to say that they ought to confine themselves to making\npuddings and knitting stockings, to playing on the piano and\nembroidering bags. It is thoughtless to condemn them, or laugh at them,\nif they seek to do more or learn more than custom has pronounced\nnecessary for their sex.\n\nWhen thus alone, I not unfrequently heard Grace Poole s laugh: the same\npeal, the same low, slow ha! ha! which, when first heard, had thrilled\nme: I heard, too, her eccentric murmurs; stranger than her laugh. There\nwere days when she was quite silent; but there were others when I could\nnot account for the sounds she made. Sometimes I saw her: she would\ncome out of her room with a basin, or a plate, or a tray in her hand,\ngo down to the kitchen and shortly return, generally (oh, romantic\nreader, forgive me for telling the plain truth!) bearing a pot of\nporter. Her appearance always acted as a damper to the curiosity raised\nby her oral oddities: hard-featured and staid, she had no point to\nwhich interest could attach. I made some attempts to draw her into\nconversation, but she seemed a person of few words: a monosyllabic\nreply usually cut short every effort of that sort.\n\nThe other members of the household, viz., John and his wife, Leah the\nhousemaid, and Sophie the French nurse, were decent people; but in no\nrespect remarkable; with Sophie I used to talk French, and sometimes I\nasked her questions about her native country; but she was not of a\ndescriptive or narrative turn, and generally gave such vapid and\nconfused answers as were calculated rather to check than encourage\ninquiry.\n\nOctober, November, December passed away. One afternoon in January, Mrs.\nFairfax had begged a holiday for Ad le, because she had a cold; and, as\nAd le seconded the request with an ardour that reminded me how precious\noccasional holidays had been to me in my own childhood, I accorded it,\ndeeming that I did well in showing pliability on the point. It was a\nfine, calm day, though very cold; I was tired of sitting still in the\nlibrary through a whole long morning: Mrs. Fairfax had just written a\nletter which was waiting to be posted, so I put on my bonnet and cloak\nand volunteered to carry it to Hay; the distance, two miles, would be a\npleasant winter afternoon walk. Having seen Ad le comfortably seated in\nher little chair by Mrs. Fairfax s parlour fireside, and given her her\nbest wax doll (which I usually kept enveloped in silver paper in a\ndrawer) to play with, and a story-book for change of amusement; and\nhaving replied to her  Revenez bient t, ma bonne amie, ma ch re Mdlle.\nJeannette,  with a kiss, I set out.\n\nThe ground was hard, the air was still, my road was lonely; I walked\nfast till I got warm, and then I walked slowly to enjoy and analyse the\nspecies of pleasure brooding for me in the hour and situation. It was\nthree o clock; the church bell tolled as I passed under the belfry: the\ncharm of the hour lay in its approaching dimness, in the low-gliding\nand pale-beaming sun. I was a mile from Thornfield, in a lane noted for\nwild roses in summer, for nuts and blackberries in autumn, and even now\npossessing a few coral treasures in hips and haws, but whose best\nwinter delight lay in its utter solitude and leafless repose. If a\nbreath of air stirred, it made no sound here; for there was not a\nholly, not an evergreen to rustle, and the stripped hawthorn and hazel\nbushes were as still as the white, worn stones which causewayed the\nmiddle of the path. Far and wide, on each side, there were only fields,\nwhere no cattle now browsed; and the little brown birds, which stirred\noccasionally in the hedge, looked like single russet leaves that had\nforgotten to drop.\n\nThis lane inclined up-hill all the way to Hay; having reached the\nmiddle, I sat down on a stile which led thence into a field. Gathering\nmy mantle about me, and sheltering my hands in my muff, I did not feel\nthe cold, though it froze keenly; as was attested by a sheet of ice\ncovering the causeway, where a little brooklet, now congealed, had\noverflowed after a rapid thaw some days since. From my seat I could\nlook down on Thornfield: the grey and battlemented hall was the\nprincipal object in the vale below me; its woods and dark rookery rose\nagainst the west. I lingered till the sun went down amongst the trees,\nand sank crimson and clear behind them. I then turned eastward.\n\nOn the hill-top above me sat the rising moon; pale yet as a cloud, but\nbrightening momentarily, she looked over Hay, which, half lost in\ntrees, sent up a blue smoke from its few chimneys: it was yet a mile\ndistant, but in the absolute hush I could hear plainly its thin murmurs\nof life. My ear, too, felt the flow of currents; in what dales and\ndepths I could not tell: but there were many hills beyond Hay, and\ndoubtless many becks threading their passes. That evening calm betrayed\nalike the tinkle of the nearest streams, the sough of the most remote.\n\nA rude noise broke on these fine ripplings and whisperings, at once so\nfar away and so clear: a positive tramp, tramp, a metallic clatter,\nwhich effaced the soft wave-wanderings; as, in a picture, the solid\nmass of a crag, or the rough boles of a great oak, drawn in dark and\nstrong on the foreground, efface the a rial distance of azure hill,\nsunny horizon, and blended clouds where tint melts into tint.\n\nThe din was on the causeway: a horse was coming; the windings of the\nlane yet hid it, but it approached. I was just leaving the stile; yet,\nas the path was narrow, I sat still to let it go by. In those days I\nwas young, and all sorts of fancies bright and dark tenanted my mind:\nthe memories of nursery stories were there amongst other rubbish; and\nwhen they recurred, maturing youth added to them a vigour and vividness\nbeyond what childhood could give. As this horse approached, and as I\nwatched for it to appear through the dusk, I remembered certain of\nBessie s tales, wherein figured a North-of-England spirit called a\n Gytrash,  which, in the form of horse, mule, or large dog, haunted\nsolitary ways, and sometimes came upon belated travellers, as this\nhorse was now coming upon me.\n\nIt was very near, but not yet in sight; when, in addition to the tramp,\ntramp, I heard a rush under the hedge, and close down by the hazel\nstems glided a great dog, whose black and white colour made him a\ndistinct object against the trees. It was exactly one form of Bessie s\nGytrash a lion-like creature with long hair and a huge head: it passed\nme, however, quietly enough; not staying to look up, with strange\npretercanine eyes, in my face, as I half expected it would. The horse\nfollowed, a tall steed, and on its back a rider. The man, the human\nbeing, broke the spell at once. Nothing ever rode the Gytrash: it was\nalways alone; and goblins, to my notions, though they might tenant the\ndumb carcasses of beasts, could scarce covet shelter in the commonplace\nhuman form. No Gytrash was this, only a traveller taking the short cut\nto Millcote. He passed, and I went on; a few steps, and I turned: a\nsliding sound and an exclamation of  What the deuce is to do now?  and\na clattering tumble, arrested my attention. Man and horse were down;\nthey had slipped on the sheet of ice which glazed the causeway. The dog\ncame bounding back, and seeing his master in a predicament, and hearing\nthe horse groan, barked till the evening hills echoed the sound, which\nwas deep in proportion to his magnitude. He snuffed round the prostrate\ngroup, and then he ran up to me; it was all he could do, there was no\nother help at hand to summon. I obeyed him, and walked down to the\ntraveller, by this time struggling himself free of his steed. His\nefforts were so vigorous, I thought he could not be much hurt; but I\nasked him the question \n\n Are you injured, sir? \n\nI think he was swearing, but am not certain; however, he was\npronouncing some formula which prevented him from replying to me\ndirectly.\n\n Can I do anything?  I asked again.\n\n You must just stand on one side,  he answered as he rose, first to his\nknees, and then to his feet. I did; whereupon began a heaving,\nstamping, clattering process, accompanied by a barking and baying which\nremoved me effectually some yards  distance; but I would not be driven\nquite away till I saw the event. This was finally fortunate; the horse\nwas re-established, and the dog was silenced with a  Down, Pilot!  The\ntraveller now, stooping, felt his foot and leg, as if trying whether\nthey were sound; apparently something ailed them, for he halted to the\nstile whence I had just risen, and sat down.\n\nI was in the mood for being useful, or at least officious, I think, for\nI now drew near him again.\n\n If you are hurt, and want help, sir, I can fetch some one either from\nThornfield Hall or from Hay. \n\n Thank you: I shall do: I have no broken bones, only a sprain;  and\nagain he stood up and tried his foot, but the result extorted an\ninvoluntary  Ugh! \n\nSomething of daylight still lingered, and the moon was waxing bright: I\ncould see him plainly. His figure was enveloped in a riding cloak, fur\ncollared and steel clasped; its details were not apparent, but I traced\nthe general points of middle height and considerable breadth of chest.\nHe had a dark face, with stern features and a heavy brow; his eyes and\ngathered eyebrows looked ireful and thwarted just now; he was past\nyouth, but had not reached middle-age; perhaps he might be thirty-five.\nI felt no fear of him, and but little shyness. Had he been a handsome,\nheroic-looking young gentleman, I should not have dared to stand thus\nquestioning him against his will, and offering my services unasked. I\nhad hardly ever seen a handsome youth; never in my life spoken to one.\nI had a theoretical reverence and homage for beauty, elegance,\ngallantry, fascination; but had I met those qualities incarnate in\nmasculine shape, I should have known instinctively that they neither\nhad nor could have sympathy with anything in me, and should have\nshunned them as one would fire, lightning, or anything else that is\nbright but antipathetic.\n\nIf even this stranger had smiled and been good-humoured to me when I\naddressed him; if he had put off my offer of assistance gaily and with\nthanks, I should have gone on my way and not felt any vocation to renew\ninquiries: but the frown, the roughness of the traveller, set me at my\nease: I retained my station when he waved to me to go, and announced \n\n I cannot think of leaving you, sir, at so late an hour, in this\nsolitary lane, till I see you are fit to mount your horse. \n\nHe looked at me when I said this; he had hardly turned his eyes in my\ndirection before.\n\n I should think you ought to be at home yourself,  said he,  if you\nhave a home in this neighbourhood: where do you come from? \n\n From just below; and I am not at all afraid of being out late when it\nis moonlight: I will run over to Hay for you with pleasure, if you wish\nit: indeed, I am going there to post a letter. \n\n You live just below do you mean at that house with the battlements? \npointing to Thornfield Hall, on which the moon cast a hoary gleam,\nbringing it out distinct and pale from the woods that, by contrast with\nthe western sky, now seemed one mass of shadow.\n\n Yes, sir. \n\n Whose house is it? \n\n Mr. Rochester s. \n\n Do you know Mr. Rochester? \n\n No, I have never seen him. \n\n He is not resident, then? \n\n No. \n\n Can you tell me where he is? \n\n I cannot. \n\n You are not a servant at the hall, of course. You are  He stopped,\nran his eye over my dress, which, as usual, was quite simple: a black\nmerino cloak, a black beaver bonnet; neither of them half fine enough\nfor a lady s-maid. He seemed puzzled to decide what I was; I helped\nhim.\n\n I am the governess. \n\n Ah, the governess!  he repeated;  deuce take me, if I had not\nforgotten! The governess!  and again my raiment underwent scrutiny. In\ntwo minutes he rose from the stile: his face expressed pain when he\ntried to move.\n\n I cannot commission you to fetch help,  he said;  but you may help me\na little yourself, if you will be so kind. \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n You have not an umbrella that I can use as a stick? \n\n No. \n\n Try to get hold of my horse s bridle and lead him to me: you are not\nafraid? \n\nI should have been afraid to touch a horse when alone, but when told to\ndo it, I was disposed to obey. I put down my muff on the stile, and\nwent up to the tall steed; I endeavoured to catch the bridle, but it\nwas a spirited thing, and would not let me come near its head; I made\neffort on effort, though in vain: meantime, I was mortally afraid of\nits trampling fore-feet. The traveller waited and watched for some\ntime, and at last he laughed.\n\n\nI was mortally afraid of its trampling forefeet\n\n I see,  he said,  the mountain will never be brought to Mahomet, so\nall you can do is to aid Mahomet to go to the mountain; I must beg of\nyou to come here. \n\nI came.  Excuse me,  he continued:  necessity compels me to make you\nuseful.  He laid a heavy hand on my shoulder, and leaning on me with\nsome stress, limped to his horse. Having once caught the bridle, he\nmastered it directly and sprang to his saddle; grimacing grimly as he\nmade the effort, for it wrenched his sprain.\n\n Now,  said he, releasing his under lip from a hard bite,  just hand me\nmy whip; it lies there under the hedge. \n\nI sought it and found it.\n\n Thank you; now make haste with the letter to Hay, and return as fast\nas you can. \n\nA touch of a spurred heel made his horse first start and rear, and then\nbound away; the dog rushed in his traces; all three vanished,\n\n Like heath that, in the wilderness,\n    The wild wind whirls away. \n\n\nI took up my muff and walked on. The incident had occurred and was gone\nfor me: it _was_ an incident of no moment, no romance, no interest in a\nsense; yet it marked with change one single hour of a monotonous life.\nMy help had been needed and claimed; I had given it: I was pleased to\nhave done something; trivial, transitory though the deed was, it was\nyet an active thing, and I was weary of an existence all passive. The\nnew face, too, was like a new picture introduced to the gallery of\nmemory; and it was dissimilar to all the others hanging there: firstly,\nbecause it was masculine; and, secondly, because it was dark, strong,\nand stern. I had it still before me when I entered Hay, and slipped the\nletter into the post-office; I saw it as I walked fast down-hill all\nthe way home. When I came to the stile, I stopped a minute, looked\nround and listened, with an idea that a horse s hoofs might ring on the\ncauseway again, and that a rider in a cloak, and a Gytrash-like\nNewfoundland dog, might be again apparent: I saw only the hedge and a\npollard willow before me, rising up still and straight to meet the\nmoonbeams; I heard only the faintest waft of wind roaming fitful among\nthe trees round Thornfield, a mile distant; and when I glanced down in\nthe direction of the murmur, my eye, traversing the hall-front, caught\na light kindling in a window: it reminded me that I was late, and I\nhurried on.\n\nI did not like re-entering Thornfield. To pass its threshold was to\nreturn to stagnation; to cross the silent hall, to ascend the darksome\nstaircase, to seek my own lonely little room, and then to meet tranquil\nMrs. Fairfax, and spend the long winter evening with her, and her only,\nwas to quell wholly the faint excitement wakened by my walk, to slip\nagain over my faculties the viewless fetters of an uniform and too\nstill existence; of an existence whose very privileges of security and\nease I was becoming incapable of appreciating. What good it would have\ndone me at that time to have been tossed in the storms of an uncertain\nstruggling life, and to have been taught by rough and bitter experience\nto long for the calm amidst which I now repined! Yes, just as much good\nas it would do a man tired of sitting still in a  too easy chair  to\ntake a long walk: and just as natural was the wish to stir, under my\ncircumstances, as it would be under his.\n\nI lingered at the gates; I lingered on the lawn; I paced backwards and\nforwards on the pavement; the shutters of the glass door were closed; I\ncould not see into the interior; and both my eyes and spirit seemed\ndrawn from the gloomy house from the grey hollow filled with rayless\ncells, as it appeared to me to that sky expanded before me, a blue sea\nabsolved from taint of cloud; the moon ascending it in solemn march;\nher orb seeming to look up as she left the hill-tops, from behind which\nshe had come, far and farther below her, and aspired to the zenith,\nmidnight dark in its fathomless depth and measureless distance; and for\nthose trembling stars that followed her course; they made my heart\ntremble, my veins glow when I viewed them. Little things recall us to\nearth; the clock struck in the hall; that sufficed; I turned from moon\nand stars, opened a side-door, and went in.\n\nThe hall was not dark, nor yet was it lit, only by the high-hung bronze\nlamp; a warm glow suffused both it and the lower steps of the oak\nstaircase. This ruddy shine issued from the great dining-room, whose\ntwo-leaved door stood open, and showed a genial fire in the grate,\nglancing on marble hearth and brass fire-irons, and revealing purple\ndraperies and polished furniture, in the most pleasant radiance. It\nrevealed, too, a group near the mantelpiece: I had scarcely caught it,\nand scarcely become aware of a cheerful mingling of voices, amongst\nwhich I seemed to distinguish the tones of Ad le, when the door closed.\n\nI hastened to Mrs. Fairfax s room; there was a fire there too, but no\ncandle, and no Mrs. Fairfax. Instead, all alone, sitting upright on the\nrug, and gazing with gravity at the blaze, I beheld a great black and\nwhite long-haired dog, just like the Gytrash of the lane. It was so\nlike it that I went forward and said Pilot,  and the thing got up and\ncame to me and snuffed me. I caressed him, and he wagged his great\ntail; but he looked an eerie creature to be alone with, and I could not\ntell whence he had come. I rang the bell, for I wanted a candle; and I\nwanted, too, to get an account of this visitant. Leah entered.\n\n What dog is this? \n\n He came with master. \n\n With whom? \n\n With master Mr. Rochester he is just arrived. \n\n Indeed! and is Mrs. Fairfax with him? \n\n Yes, and Miss Ad le; they are in the dining-room, and John is gone for\na surgeon; for master has had an accident; his horse fell and his ankle\nis sprained. \n\n Did the horse fall in Hay Lane? \n\n Yes, coming down-hill; it slipped on some ice. \n\n Ah! Bring me a candle will you Leah? \n\nLeah brought it; she entered, followed by Mrs. Fairfax, who repeated\nthe news; adding that Mr. Carter the surgeon was come, and was now with\nMr. Rochester: then she hurried out to give orders about tea, and I\nwent upstairs to take off my things.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\n\nMr. Rochester, it seems, by the surgeon s orders, went to bed early\nthat night; nor did he rise soon next morning. When he did come down,\nit was to attend to business: his agent and some of his tenants were\narrived, and waiting to speak with him.\n\nAd le and I had now to vacate the library: it would be in daily\nrequisition as a reception-room for callers. A fire was lit in an\napartment upstairs, and there I carried our books, and arranged it for\nthe future schoolroom. I discerned in the course of the morning that\nThornfield Hall was a changed place: no longer silent as a church, it\nechoed every hour or two to a knock at the door, or a clang of the\nbell; steps, too, often traversed the hall, and new voices spoke in\ndifferent keys below; a rill from the outer world was flowing through\nit; it had a master: for my part, I liked it better.\n\nAd le was not easy to teach that day; she could not apply: she kept\nrunning to the door and looking over the banisters to see if she could\nget a glimpse of Mr. Rochester; then she coined pretexts to go\ndownstairs, in order, as I shrewdly suspected, to visit the library,\nwhere I knew she was not wanted; then, when I got a little angry, and\nmade her sit still, she continued to talk incessantly of her  ami,\nMonsieur Edouard Fairfax _de_ Rochester,  as she dubbed him (I had not\nbefore heard his prenomens), and to conjecture what presents he had\nbrought her: for it appears he had intimated the night before, that\nwhen his luggage came from Millcote, there would be found amongst it a\nlittle box in whose contents she had an interest.\n\n Et cela doit signifier,  said she,  qu il y aura l  dedans un cadeau\npour moi, et peut- tre pour vous aussi, mademoiselle. Monsieur a parl \nde vous: il m a demand  le nom de ma gouvernante, et si elle n tait\npas une petite personne, assez mince et un peu p le. J ai dit qu oui:\ncar c est vrai, n est-ce pas, mademoiselle? \n\nI and my pupil dined as usual in Mrs. Fairfax s parlour; the afternoon\nwas wild and snowy, and we passed it in the schoolroom. At dark I\nallowed Ad le to put away books and work, and to run downstairs; for,\nfrom the comparative silence below, and from the cessation of appeals\nto the door-bell, I conjectured that Mr. Rochester was now at liberty.\nLeft alone, I walked to the window; but nothing was to be seen thence:\ntwilight and snowflakes together thickened the air, and hid the very\nshrubs on the lawn. I let down the curtain and went back to the\nfireside.\n\nIn the clear embers I was tracing a view, not unlike a picture I\nremembered to have seen of the castle of Heidelberg, on the Rhine, when\nMrs. Fairfax came in, breaking up by her entrance the fiery mosaic I\nhad been piercing together, and scattering too some heavy unwelcome\nthoughts that were beginning to throng on my solitude.\n\n Mr. Rochester would be glad if you and your pupil would take tea with\nhim in the drawing-room this evening,  said she:  he has been so much\nengaged all day that he could not ask to see you before. \n\n When is his tea-time?  I inquired.\n\n Oh, at six o clock: he keeps early hours in the country. You had\nbetter change your frock now; I will go with you and fasten it. Here is\na candle. \n\n Is it necessary to change my frock? \n\n Yes, you had better: I always dress for the evening when Mr. Rochester\nis here. \n\nThis additional ceremony seemed somewhat stately; however, I repaired\nto my room, and, with Mrs. Fairfax s aid, replaced my black stuff dress\nby one of black silk; the best and the only additional one I had,\nexcept one of light grey, which, in my Lowood notions of the toilette,\nI thought too fine to be worn, except on first-rate occasions.\n\n You want a brooch,  said Mrs. Fairfax. I had a single little pearl\nornament which Miss Temple gave me as a parting keepsake: I put it on,\nand then we went downstairs. Unused as I was to strangers, it was\nrather a trial to appear thus formally summoned in Mr. Rochester s\npresence. I let Mrs. Fairfax precede me into the dining-room, and kept\nin her shade as we crossed that apartment; and, passing the arch, whose\ncurtain was now dropped, entered the elegant recess beyond.\n\nTwo wax candles stood lighted on the table, and two on the mantelpiece;\nbasking in the light and heat of a superb fire, lay Pilot Ad le knelt\nnear him. Half reclined on a couch appeared Mr. Rochester, his foot\nsupported by the cushion; he was looking at Ad le and the dog: the fire\nshone full on his face. I knew my traveller with his broad and jetty\neyebrows; his square forehead, made squarer by the horizontal sweep of\nhis black hair. I recognised his decisive nose, more remarkable for\ncharacter than beauty; his full nostrils, denoting, I thought, choler;\nhis grim mouth, chin, and jaw yes, all three were very grim, and no\nmistake. His shape, now divested of cloak, I perceived harmonised in\nsquareness with his physiognomy: I suppose it was a good figure in the\nathletic sense of the term broad chested and thin flanked, though\nneither tall nor graceful.\n\nMr. Rochester must have been aware of the entrance of Mrs. Fairfax and\nmyself; but it appeared he was not in the mood to notice us, for he\nnever lifted his head as we approached.\n\n Here is Miss Eyre, sir,  said Mrs. Fairfax, in her quiet way. He\nbowed, still not taking his eyes from the group of the dog and child.\n\n Let Miss Eyre be seated,  said he: and there was something in the\nforced stiff bow, in the impatient yet formal tone, which seemed\nfurther to express,  What the deuce is it to me whether Miss Eyre be\nthere or not? At this moment I am not disposed to accost her. \n\nI sat down quite disembarrassed. A reception of finished politeness\nwould probably have confused me: I could not have returned or repaid it\nby answering grace and elegance on my part; but harsh caprice laid me\nunder no obligation; on the contrary, a decent quiescence, under the\nfreak of manner, gave me the advantage. Besides, the eccentricity of\nthe proceeding was piquant: I felt interested to see how he would go\non.\n\nHe went on as a statue would, that is, he neither spoke nor moved. Mrs.\nFairfax seemed to think it necessary that some one should be amiable,\nand she began to talk. Kindly, as usual and, as usual, rather trite she\ncondoled with him on the pressure of business he had had all day; on\nthe annoyance it must have been to him with that painful sprain: then\nshe commended his patience and perseverance in going through with it.\n\n Madam, I should like some tea,  was the sole rejoinder she got. She\nhastened to ring the bell; and when the tray came, she proceeded to\narrange the cups, spoons, &c., with assiduous celerity. I and Ad le\nwent to the table; but the master did not leave his couch.\n\n Will you hand Mr. Rochester s cup?  said Mrs. Fairfax to me;  Ad le\nmight perhaps spill it. \n\nI did as requested. As he took the cup from my hand, Ad le, thinking\nthe moment propitious for making a request in my favour, cried out \n\n N est-ce pas, monsieur, qu il y a un cadeau pour Mademoiselle Eyre\ndans votre petit coffre? \n\n Who talks of cadeaux?  said he gruffly.  Did you expect a present,\nMiss Eyre? Are you fond of presents?  and he searched my face with eyes\nthat I saw were dark, irate, and piercing.\n\n I hardly know, sir; I have little experience of them: they are\ngenerally thought pleasant things. \n\n Generally thought? But what do _you_ think? \n\n I should be obliged to take time, sir, before I could give you an\nanswer worthy of your acceptance: a present has many faces to it, has\nit not? and one should consider all, before pronouncing an opinion as\nto its nature. \n\n Miss Eyre, you are not so unsophisticated as Ad le: she demands a\n cadeau,  clamorously, the moment she sees me: you beat about the\nbush. \n\n Because I have less confidence in my deserts than Ad le has: she can\nprefer the claim of old acquaintance, and the right too of custom; for\nshe says you have always been in the habit of giving her playthings;\nbut if I had to make out a case I should be puzzled, since I am a\nstranger, and have done nothing to entitle me to an acknowledgment. \n\n Oh, don t fall back on over-modesty! I have examined Ad le, and find\nyou have taken great pains with her: she is not bright, she has no\ntalents; yet in a short time she has made much improvement. \n\n Sir, you have now given me my  cadeau;  I am obliged to you: it is the\nmeed teachers most covet praise of their pupils  progress. \n\n Humph!  said Mr. Rochester, and he took his tea in silence.\n\n Come to the fire,  said the master, when the tray was taken away, and\nMrs. Fairfax had settled into a corner with her knitting; while Ad le\nwas leading me by the hand round the room, showing me the beautiful\nbooks and ornaments on the consoles and chiffonni res. We obeyed, as in\nduty bound; Ad le wanted to take a seat on my knee, but she was ordered\nto amuse herself with Pilot.\n\n You have been resident in my house three months? \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n And you came from ? \n\n From Lowood school, in  shire. \n\n Ah! a charitable concern. How long were you there? \n\n Eight years. \n\n Eight years! you must be tenacious of life. I thought half the time in\nsuch a place would have done up any constitution! No wonder you have\nrather the look of another world. I marvelled where you had got that\nsort of face. When you came on me in Hay Lane last night, I thought\nunaccountably of fairy tales, and had half a mind to demand whether you\nhad bewitched my horse: I am not sure yet. Who are your parents? \n\n I have none. \n\n Nor ever had, I suppose: do you remember them? \n\n No. \n\n I thought not. And so you were waiting for your people when you sat on\nthat stile? \n\n For whom, sir? \n\n For the men in green: it was a proper moonlight evening for them. Did\nI break through one of your rings, that you spread that damned ice on\nthe causeway? \n\nI shook my head.  The men in green all forsook England a hundred years\nago,  said I, speaking as seriously as he had done.  And not even in\nHay Lane, or the fields about it, could you find a trace of them. I\ndon t think either summer or harvest, or winter moon, will ever shine\non their revels more. \n\nMrs. Fairfax had dropped her knitting, and, with raised eyebrows,\nseemed wondering what sort of talk this was.\n\n Well,  resumed Mr. Rochester,  if you disown parents, you must have\nsome sort of kinsfolk: uncles and aunts? \n\n No; none that I ever saw. \n\n And your home? \n\n I have none. \n\n Where do your brothers and sisters live? \n\n I have no brothers or sisters. \n\n Who recommended you to come here? \n\n I advertised, and Mrs. Fairfax answered my advertisement. \n\n Yes,  said the good lady, who now knew what ground we were upon,  and\nI am daily thankful for the choice Providence led me to make. Miss Eyre\nhas been an invaluable companion to me, and a kind and careful teacher\nto Ad le. \n\n Don t trouble yourself to give her a character,  returned Mr.\nRochester:  eulogiums will not bias me; I shall judge for myself. She\nbegan by felling my horse. \n\n Sir?  said Mrs. Fairfax.\n\n I have to thank her for this sprain. \n\nThe widow looked bewildered.\n\n Miss Eyre, have you ever lived in a town? \n\n No, sir. \n\n Have you seen much society? \n\n None but the pupils and teachers of Lowood, and now the inmates of\nThornfield. \n\n Have you read much? \n\n Only such books as came in my way; and they have not been numerous or\nvery learned. \n\n You have lived the life of a nun: no doubt you are well drilled in\nreligious forms; Brocklehurst, who I understand directs Lowood, is a\nparson, is he not? \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n And you girls probably worshipped him, as a convent full of\nreligieuses would worship their director. \n\n Oh, no. \n\n You are very cool! No! What! a novice not worship her priest! That\nsounds blasphemous. \n\n I disliked Mr. Brocklehurst; and I was not alone in the feeling. He is\na harsh man; at once pompous and meddling; he cut off our hair; and for\neconomy s sake bought us bad needles and thread, with which we could\nhardly sew. \n\n That was very false economy,  remarked Mrs. Fairfax, who now again\ncaught the drift of the dialogue.\n\n And was that the head and front of his offending?  demanded Mr.\nRochester.\n\n He starved us when he had the sole superintendence of the provision\ndepartment, before the committee was appointed; and he bored us with\nlong lectures once a week, and with evening readings from books of his\nown inditing, about sudden deaths and judgments, which made us afraid\nto go to bed. \n\n What age were you when you went to Lowood? \n\n About ten. \n\n And you stayed there eight years: you are now, then, eighteen? \n\nI assented.\n\n Arithmetic, you see, is useful; without its aid, I should hardly have\nbeen able to guess your age. It is a point difficult to fix where the\nfeatures and countenance are so much at variance as in your case. And\nnow what did you learn at Lowood? Can you play? \n\n A little. \n\n Of course: that is the established answer. Go into the library I mean,\nif you please. (Excuse my tone of command; I am used to say,  Do this, \nand it is done: I cannot alter my customary habits for one new\ninmate.) Go, then, into the library; take a candle with you; leave the\ndoor open; sit down to the piano, and play a tune. \n\nI departed, obeying his directions.\n\n Enough!  he called out in a few minutes.  You play _a little_, I see;\nlike any other English school-girl; perhaps rather better than some,\nbut not well. \n\nI closed the piano and returned. Mr. Rochester continued \n\n Ad le showed me some sketches this morning, which she said were yours.\nI don t know whether they were entirely of your doing; probably a\nmaster aided you? \n\n No, indeed!  I interjected.\n\n Ah! that pricks pride. Well, fetch me your portfolio, if you can vouch\nfor its contents being original; but don t pass your word unless you\nare certain: I can recognise patchwork. \n\n Then I will say nothing, and you shall judge for yourself, sir. \n\nI brought the portfolio from the library.\n\n Approach the table,  said he; and I wheeled it to his couch. Ad le and\nMrs. Fairfax drew near to see the pictures.\n\n No crowding,  said Mr. Rochester:  take the drawings from my hand as I\nfinish with them; but don t push your faces up to mine. \n\nHe deliberately scrutinised each sketch and painting. Three he laid\naside; the others, when he had examined them, he swept from him.\n\n Take them off to the other table, Mrs. Fairfax,  said he,  and look at\nthem with Ad le; you  (glancing at me)  resume your seat, and answer my\nquestions. I perceive those pictures were done by one hand: was that\nhand yours? \n\n Yes. \n\n And when did you find time to do them? They have taken much time, and\nsome thought. \n\n I did them in the last two vacations I spent at Lowood, when I had no\nother occupation. \n\n Where did you get your copies? \n\n Out of my head. \n\n That head I see now on your shoulders? \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n Has it other furniture of the same kind within? \n\n I should think it may have: I should hope better. \n\nHe spread the pictures before him, and again surveyed them alternately.\n\nWhile he is so occupied, I will tell you, reader, what they are: and\nfirst, I must premise that they are nothing wonderful. The subjects\nhad, indeed, risen vividly on my mind. As I saw them with the spiritual\neye, before I attempted to embody them, they were striking; but my hand\nwould not second my fancy, and in each case it had wrought out but a\npale portrait of the thing I had conceived.\n\nThese pictures were in water-colours. The first represented clouds low\nand livid, rolling over a swollen sea: all the distance was in eclipse;\nso, too, was the foreground; or rather, the nearest billows, for there\nwas no land. One gleam of light lifted into relief a half-submerged\nmast, on which sat a cormorant, dark and large, with wings flecked with\nfoam; its beak held a gold bracelet set with gems, that I had touched\nwith as brilliant tints as my palette could yield, and as glittering\ndistinctness as my pencil could impart. Sinking below the bird and\nmast, a drowned corpse glanced through the green water; a fair arm was\nthe only limb clearly visible, whence the bracelet had been washed or\ntorn.\n\nThe second picture contained for foreground only the dim peak of a\nhill, with grass and some leaves slanting as if by a breeze. Beyond and\nabove spread an expanse of sky, dark blue as at twilight: rising into\nthe sky was a woman s shape to the bust, portrayed in tints as dusk and\nsoft as I could combine. The dim forehead was crowned with a star; the\nlineaments below were seen as through the suffusion of vapour; the eyes\nshone dark and wild; the hair streamed shadowy, like a beamless cloud\ntorn by storm or by electric travail. On the neck lay a pale reflection\nlike moonlight; the same faint lustre touched the train of thin clouds\nfrom which rose and bowed this vision of the Evening Star.\n\nThe third showed the pinnacle of an iceberg piercing a polar winter\nsky: a muster of northern lights reared their dim lances, close\nserried, along the horizon. Throwing these into distance, rose, in the\nforeground, a head, a colossal head, inclined towards the iceberg, and\nresting against it. Two thin hands, joined under the forehead, and\nsupporting it, drew up before the lower features a sable veil; a brow\nquite bloodless, white as bone, and an eye hollow and fixed, blank of\nmeaning but for the glassiness of despair, alone were visible. Above\nthe temples, amidst wreathed turban folds of black drapery, vague in\nits character and consistency as cloud, gleamed a ring of white flame,\ngemmed with sparkles of a more lurid tinge. This pale crescent was  the\nlikeness of a kingly crown;  what it diademed was  the shape which\nshape had none. \n\n Were you happy when you painted these pictures?  asked Mr. Rochester\npresently.\n\n I was absorbed, sir: yes, and I was happy. To paint them, in short,\nwas to enjoy one of the keenest pleasures I have ever known. \n\n That is not saying much. Your pleasures, by your own account, have\nbeen few; but I daresay you did exist in a kind of artist s dreamland\nwhile you blent and arranged these strange tints. Did you sit at them\nlong each day? \n\n I had nothing else to do, because it was the vacation, and I sat at\nthem from morning till noon, and from noon till night: the length of\nthe midsummer days favoured my inclination to apply. \n\n And you felt self-satisfied with the result of your ardent labours? \n\n Far from it. I was tormented by the contrast between my idea and my\nhandiwork: in each case I had imagined something which I was quite\npowerless to realise. \n\n Not quite: you have secured the shadow of your thought; but no more,\nprobably. You had not enough of the artist s skill and science to give\nit full being: yet the drawings are, for a school-girl, peculiar. As to\nthe thoughts, they are elfish. These eyes in the Evening Star you must\nhave seen in a dream. How could you make them look so clear, and yet\nnot at all brilliant? for the planet above quells their rays. And what\nmeaning is that in their solemn depth? And who taught you to paint\nwind? There is a high gale in that sky, and on this hill-top. Where did\nyou see Latmos? For that is Latmos. There! put the drawings away! \n\nI had scarce tied the strings of the portfolio, when, looking at his\nwatch, he said abruptly \n\n It is nine o clock: what are you about, Miss Eyre, to let Ad le sit up\nso long? Take her to bed. \n\nAd le went to kiss him before quitting the room: he endured the caress,\nbut scarcely seemed to relish it more than Pilot would have done, nor\nso much.\n\n I wish you all good-night, now,  said he, making a movement of the\nhand towards the door, in token that he was tired of our company, and\nwished to dismiss us. Mrs. Fairfax folded up her knitting: I took my\nportfolio: we curtseyed to him, received a frigid bow in return, and so\nwithdrew.\n\n You said Mr. Rochester was not strikingly peculiar, Mrs. Fairfax,  I\nobserved, when I rejoined her in her room, after putting Ad le to bed.\n\n Well, is he? \n\n I think so: he is very changeful and abrupt. \n\n True: no doubt he may appear so to a stranger, but I am so accustomed\nto his manner, I never think of it; and then, if he has peculiarities\nof temper, allowance should be made. \n\n Why? \n\n Partly because it is his nature and we can none of us help our nature;\nand partly because he has painful thoughts, no doubt, to harass him,\nand make his spirits unequal. \n\n What about? \n\n Family troubles, for one thing. \n\n But he has no family. \n\n Not now, but he has had or, at least, relatives. He lost his elder\nbrother a few years since. \n\n His _elder_ brother? \n\n Yes. The present Mr. Rochester has not been very long in possession of\nthe property; only about nine years. \n\n Nine years is a tolerable time. Was he so very fond of his brother as\nto be still inconsolable for his loss? \n\n Why, no perhaps not. I believe there were some misunderstandings\nbetween them. Mr. Rowland Rochester was not quite just to Mr. Edward;\nand perhaps he prejudiced his father against him. The old gentleman was\nfond of money, and anxious to keep the family estate together. He did\nnot like to diminish the property by division, and yet he was anxious\nthat Mr. Edward should have wealth, too, to keep up the consequence of\nthe name; and, soon after he was of age, some steps were taken that\nwere not quite fair, and made a great deal of mischief. Old Mr.\nRochester and Mr. Rowland combined to bring Mr. Edward into what he\nconsidered a painful position, for the sake of making his fortune: what\nthe precise nature of that position was I never clearly knew, but his\nspirit could not brook what he had to suffer in it. He is not very\nforgiving: he broke with his family, and now for many years he has led\nan unsettled kind of life. I don t think he has ever been resident at\nThornfield for a fortnight together, since the death of his brother\nwithout a will left him master of the estate; and, indeed, no wonder he\nshuns the old place. \n\n Why should he shun it? \n\n Perhaps he thinks it gloomy. \n\nThe answer was evasive. I should have liked something clearer; but Mrs.\nFairfax either could not, or would not, give me more explicit\ninformation of the origin and nature of Mr. Rochester s trials. She\naverred they were a mystery to herself, and that what she knew was\nchiefly from conjecture. It was evident, indeed, that she wished me to\ndrop the subject, which I did accordingly.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\n\nFor several subsequent days I saw little of Mr. Rochester. In the\nmornings he seemed much engaged with business, and, in the afternoon,\ngentlemen from Millcote or the neighbourhood called, and sometimes\nstayed to dine with him. When his sprain was well enough to admit of\nhorse exercise, he rode out a good deal; probably to return these\nvisits, as he generally did not come back till late at night.\n\nDuring this interval, even Ad le was seldom sent for to his presence,\nand all my acquaintance with him was confined to an occasional\nrencontre in the hall, on the stairs, or in the gallery, when he would\nsometimes pass me haughtily and coldly, just acknowledging my presence\nby a distant nod or a cool glance, and sometimes bow and smile with\ngentlemanlike affability. His changes of mood did not offend me,\nbecause I saw that I had nothing to do with their alternation; the ebb\nand flow depended on causes quite disconnected with me.\n\nOne day he had had company to dinner, and had sent for my portfolio; in\norder, doubtless, to exhibit its contents: the gentlemen went away\nearly, to attend a public meeting at Millcote, as Mrs. Fairfax informed\nme; but the night being wet and inclement, Mr. Rochester did not\naccompany them. Soon after they were gone he rang the bell: a message\ncame that I and Ad le were to go downstairs. I brushed Ad le s hair and\nmade her neat, and having ascertained that I was myself in my usual\nQuaker trim, where there was nothing to retouch all being too close and\nplain, braided locks included, to admit of disarrangement we descended,\nAd le wondering whether the _petit coffre_ was at length come; for,\nowing to some mistake, its arrival had hitherto been delayed. She was\ngratified: there it stood, a little carton, on the table when we\nentered the dining-room. She appeared to know it by instinct.\n\n Ma boite! ma boite!  exclaimed she, running towards it.\n\n Yes, there is your  boite  at last: take it into a corner, you genuine\ndaughter of Paris, and amuse yourself with disembowelling it,  said the\ndeep and rather sarcastic voice of Mr. Rochester, proceeding from the\ndepths of an immense easy-chair at the fireside.  And mind,  he\ncontinued,  don t bother me with any details of the anatomical process,\nor any notice of the condition of the entrails: let your operation be\nconducted in silence: tiens-toi tranquille, enfant; comprends-tu? \n\nAd le seemed scarcely to need the warning; she had already retired to a\nsofa with her treasure, and was busy untying the cord which secured the\nlid. Having removed this impediment, and lifted certain silvery\nenvelopes of tissue paper, she merely exclaimed \n\n Oh ciel! Que c est beau!  and then remained absorbed in ecstatic\ncontemplation.\n\n Is Miss Eyre there?  now demanded the master, half rising from his\nseat to look round to the door, near which I still stood.\n\n Ah! well, come forward; be seated here.  He drew a chair near his own.\n I am not fond of the prattle of children,  he continued;  for, old\nbachelor as I am, I have no pleasant associations connected with their\nlisp. It would be intolerable to me to pass a whole evening\n_t te- -t te_ with a brat. Don t draw that chair farther off, Miss\nEyre; sit down exactly where I placed it if you please, that is.\nConfound these civilities! I continually forget them. Nor do I\nparticularly affect simple-minded old ladies. By-the-bye, I must have\nmine in mind; it won t do to neglect her; she is a Fairfax, or wed to\none; and blood is said to be thicker than water. \n\nHe rang, and despatched an invitation to Mrs. Fairfax, who soon\narrived, knitting-basket in hand.\n\n Good evening, madam; I sent to you for a charitable purpose. I have\nforbidden Ad le to talk to me about her presents, and she is bursting\nwith repletion; have the goodness to serve her as auditress and\ninterlocutrice; it will be one of the most benevolent acts you ever\nperformed. \n\nAd le, indeed, no sooner saw Mrs. Fairfax, than she summoned her to her\nsofa, and there quickly filled her lap with the porcelain, the ivory,\nthe waxen contents of her  boite;  pouring out, meantime, explanations\nand raptures in such broken English as she was mistress of.\n\n Now I have performed the part of a good host,  pursued Mr. Rochester,\n put my guests into the way of amusing each other, I ought to be at\nliberty to attend to my own pleasure. Miss Eyre, draw your chair still\na little farther forward: you are yet too far back; I cannot see you\nwithout disturbing my position in this comfortable chair, which I have\nno mind to do. \n\nI did as I was bid, though I would much rather have remained somewhat\nin the shade; but Mr. Rochester had such a direct way of giving orders,\nit seemed a matter of course to obey him promptly.\n\nWe were, as I have said, in the dining-room: the lustre, which had been\nlit for dinner, filled the room with a festal breadth of light; the\nlarge fire was all red and clear; the purple curtains hung rich and\nample before the lofty window and loftier arch; everything was still,\nsave the subdued chat of Ad le (she dared not speak loud), and, filling\nup each pause, the beating of winter rain against the panes.\n\nMr. Rochester, as he sat in his damask-covered chair, looked different\nto what I had seen him look before; not quite so stern much less\ngloomy. There was a smile on his lips, and his eyes sparkled, whether\nwith wine or not, I am not sure; but I think it very probable. He was,\nin short, in his after-dinner mood; more expanded and genial, and also\nmore self-indulgent than the frigid and rigid temper of the morning;\nstill he looked preciously grim, cushioning his massive head against\nthe swelling back of his chair, and receiving the light of the fire on\nhis granite-hewn features, and in his great, dark eyes; for he had\ngreat, dark eyes, and very fine eyes, too not without a certain change\nin their depths sometimes, which, if it was not softness, reminded you,\nat least, of that feeling.\n\nHe had been looking two minutes at the fire, and I had been looking the\nsame length of time at him, when, turning suddenly, he caught my gaze\nfastened on his physiognomy.\n\n You examine me, Miss Eyre,  said he:  do you think me handsome? \n\nI should, if I had deliberated, have replied to this question by\nsomething conventionally vague and polite; but the answer somehow\nslipped from my tongue before I was aware No, sir. \n\n Ah! By my word! there is something singular about you,  said he:  you\nhave the air of a little _nonnette_; quaint, quiet, grave, and simple,\nas you sit with your hands before you, and your eyes generally bent on\nthe carpet (except, by-the-bye, when they are directed piercingly to my\nface; as just now, for instance); and when one asks you a question, or\nmakes a remark to which you are obliged to reply, you rap out a round\nrejoinder, which, if not blunt, is at least brusque. What do you mean\nby it? \n\n Sir, I was too plain; I beg your pardon. I ought to have replied that\nit was not easy to give an impromptu answer to a question about\nappearances; that tastes mostly differ; and that beauty is of little\nconsequence, or something of that sort. \n\n You ought to have replied no such thing. Beauty of little consequence,\nindeed! And so, under pretence of softening the previous outrage, of\nstroking and soothing me into placidity, you stick a sly penknife under\nmy ear! Go on: what fault do you find with me, pray? I suppose I have\nall my limbs and all my features like any other man? \n\n Mr. Rochester, allow me to disown my first answer: I intended no\npointed repartee: it was only a blunder. \n\n Just so: I think so: and you shall be answerable for it. Criticise me:\ndoes my forehead not please you? \n\nHe lifted up the sable waves of hair which lay horizontally over his\nbrow, and showed a solid enough mass of intellectual organs, but an\nabrupt deficiency where the suave sign of benevolence should have\nrisen.\n\n Now, ma am, am I a fool? \n\n Far from it, sir. You would, perhaps, think me rude if I inquired in\nreturn whether you are a philanthropist? \n\n There again! Another stick of the penknife, when she pretended to pat\nmy head: and that is because I said I did not like the society of\nchildren and old women (low be it spoken!). No, young lady, I am not a\ngeneral philanthropist; but I bear a conscience;  and he pointed to the\nprominences which are said to indicate that faculty, and which,\nfortunately for him, were sufficiently conspicuous; giving, indeed, a\nmarked breadth to the upper part of his head:  and, besides, I once had\na kind of rude tenderness of heart. When I was as old as you, I was a\nfeeling fellow enough; partial to the unfledged, unfostered, and\nunlucky; but Fortune has knocked me about since: she has even kneaded\nme with her knuckles, and now I flatter myself I am hard and tough as\nan India-rubber ball; pervious, though, through a chink or two still,\nand with one sentient point in the middle of the lump. Yes: does that\nleave hope for me? \n\n Hope of what, sir? \n\n Of my final re-transformation from India-rubber back to flesh? \n\n Decidedly he has had too much wine,  I thought; and I did not know\nwhat answer to make to his queer question: how could I tell whether he\nwas capable of being re-transformed?\n\n You looked very much puzzled, Miss Eyre; and though you are not pretty\nany more than I am handsome, yet a puzzled air becomes you; besides, it\nis convenient, for it keeps those searching eyes of yours away from my\nphysiognomy, and busies them with the worsted flowers of the rug; so\npuzzle on. Young lady, I am disposed to be gregarious and communicative\nto-night. \n\nWith this announcement he rose from his chair, and stood, leaning his\narm on the marble mantelpiece: in that attitude his shape was seen\nplainly as well as his face; his unusual breadth of chest,\ndisproportionate almost to his length of limb. I am sure most people\nwould have thought him an ugly man; yet there was so much unconscious\npride in his port; so much ease in his demeanour; such a look of\ncomplete indifference to his own external appearance; so haughty a\nreliance on the power of other qualities, intrinsic or adventitious, to\natone for the lack of mere personal attractiveness, that, in looking at\nhim, one inevitably shared the indifference, and, even in a blind,\nimperfect sense, put faith in the confidence.\n\n I am disposed to be gregarious and communicative to-night,  he\nrepeated,  and that is why I sent for you: the fire and the chandelier\nwere not sufficient company for me; nor would Pilot have been, for none\nof these can talk. Ad le is a degree better, but still far below the\nmark; Mrs. Fairfax ditto; you, I am persuaded, can suit me if you will:\nyou puzzled me the first evening I invited you down here. I have almost\nforgotten you since: other ideas have driven yours from my head; but\nto-night I am resolved to be at ease; to dismiss what importunes, and\nrecall what pleases. It would please me now to draw you out to learn\nmore of you therefore speak. \n\nInstead of speaking, I smiled; and not a very complacent or submissive\nsmile either.\n\n Speak,  he urged.\n\n What about, sir? \n\n Whatever you like. I leave both the choice of subject and the manner\nof treating it entirely to yourself. \n\nAccordingly I sat and said nothing:  If he expects me to talk for the\nmere sake of talking and showing off, he will find he has addressed\nhimself to the wrong person,  I thought.\n\n You are dumb, Miss Eyre. \n\nI was dumb still. He bent his head a little towards me, and with a\nsingle hasty glance seemed to dive into my eyes.\n\n Stubborn?  he said,  and annoyed. Ah! it is consistent. I put my\nrequest in an absurd, almost insolent form. Miss Eyre, I beg your\npardon. The fact is, once for all, I don t wish to treat you like an\ninferior: that is  (correcting himself),  I claim only such superiority\nas must result from twenty years  difference in age and a century s\nadvance in experience. This is legitimate, _et j y tiens_, as Ad le\nwould say; and it is by virtue of this superiority, and this alone,\nthat I desire you to have the goodness to talk to me a little now, and\ndivert my thoughts, which are galled with dwelling on one\npoint cankering as a rusty nail. \n\nHe had deigned an explanation, almost an apology, and I did not feel\ninsensible to his condescension, and would not seem so.\n\n I am willing to amuse you, if I can, sir quite willing; but I cannot\nintroduce a topic, because how do I know what will interest you? Ask me\nquestions, and I will do my best to answer them. \n\n Then, in the first place, do you agree with me that I have a right to\nbe a little masterful, abrupt, perhaps exacting, sometimes, on the\ngrounds I stated, namely, that I am old enough to be your father, and\nthat I have battled through a varied experience with many men of many\nnations, and roamed over half the globe, while you have lived quietly\nwith one set of people in one house? \n\n Do as you please, sir. \n\n That is no answer; or rather it is a very irritating, because a very\nevasive one. Reply clearly. \n\n I don t think, sir, you have a right to command me, merely because you\nare older than I, or because you have seen more of the world than I\nhave; your claim to superiority depends on the use you have made of\nyour time and experience. \n\n Humph! Promptly spoken. But I won t allow that, seeing that it would\nnever suit my case, as I have made an indifferent, not to say a bad,\nuse of both advantages. Leaving superiority out of the question, then,\nyou must still agree to receive my orders now and then, without being\npiqued or hurt by the tone of command. Will you? \n\nI smiled: I thought to myself Mr. Rochester _is_ peculiar he seems to\nforget that he pays me  30 per annum for receiving his orders.\n\n The smile is very well,  said he, catching instantly the passing\nexpression;  but speak too. \n\n I was thinking, sir, that very few masters would trouble themselves to\ninquire whether or not their paid subordinates were piqued and hurt by\ntheir orders. \n\n Paid subordinates! What! you are my paid subordinate, are you? Oh yes,\nI had forgotten the salary! Well then, on that mercenary ground, will\nyou agree to let me hector a little? \n\n No, sir, not on that ground; but, on the ground that you did forget\nit, and that you care whether or not a dependent is comfortable in his\ndependency, I agree heartily. \n\n And will you consent to dispense with a great many conventional forms\nand phrases, without thinking that the omission arises from insolence? \n\n I am sure, sir, I should never mistake informality for insolence: one\nI rather like, the other nothing free-born would submit to, even for a\nsalary. \n\n Humbug! Most things free-born will submit to anything for a salary;\ntherefore, keep to yourself, and don t venture on generalities of which\nyou are intensely ignorant. However, I mentally shake hands with you\nfor your answer, despite its inaccuracy; and as much for the manner in\nwhich it was said, as for the substance of the speech; the manner was\nfrank and sincere; one does not often see such a manner: no, on the\ncontrary, affectation, or coldness, or stupid, coarse-minded\nmisapprehension of one s meaning are the usual rewards of candour. Not\nthree in three thousand raw school-girl-governesses would have answered\nme as you have just done. But I don t mean to flatter you: if you are\ncast in a different mould to the majority, it is no merit of yours:\nNature did it. And then, after all, I go too fast in my conclusions:\nfor what I yet know, you may be no better than the rest; you may have\nintolerable defects to counterbalance your few good points. \n\n And so may you,  I thought. My eye met his as the idea crossed my\nmind: he seemed to read the glance, answering as if its import had been\nspoken as well as imagined \n\n Yes, yes, you are right,  said he;  I have plenty of faults of my own:\nI know it, and I don t wish to palliate them, I assure you. God wot I\nneed not be too severe about others; I have a past existence, a series\nof deeds, a colour of life to contemplate within my own breast, which\nmight well call my sneers and censures from my neighbours to myself. I\nstarted, or rather (for like other defaulters, I like to lay half the\nblame on ill fortune and adverse circumstances) was thrust on to a\nwrong tack at the age of one-and-twenty, and have never recovered the\nright course since: but I might have been very different; I might have\nbeen as good as you wiser almost as stainless. I envy you your peace of\nmind, your clean conscience, your unpolluted memory. Little girl, a\nmemory without blot or contamination must be an exquisite treasure an\ninexhaustible source of pure refreshment: is it not? \n\n How was your memory when you were eighteen, sir? \n\n All right then; limpid, salubrious: no gush of bilge water had turned\nit to fetid puddle. I was your equal at eighteen quite your equal.\nNature meant me to be, on the whole, a good man, Miss Eyre; one of the\nbetter kind, and you see I am not so. You would say you don t see it;\nat least I flatter myself I read as much in your eye (beware,\nby-the-bye, what you express with that organ; I am quick at\ninterpreting its language). Then take my word for it, I am not a\nvillain: you are not to suppose that not to attribute to me any such\nbad eminence; but, owing, I verily believe, rather to circumstances\nthan to my natural bent, I am a trite commonplace sinner, hackneyed in\nall the poor petty dissipations with which the rich and worthless try\nto put on life. Do you wonder that I avow this to you? Know, that in\nthe course of your future life you will often find yourself elected the\ninvoluntary confidant of your acquaintances  secrets: people will\ninstinctively find out, as I have done, that it is not your forte to\ntell of yourself, but to listen while others talk of themselves; they\nwill feel, too, that you listen with no malevolent scorn of their\nindiscretion, but with a kind of innate sympathy; not the less\ncomforting and encouraging because it is very unobtrusive in its\nmanifestations. \n\n How do you know? how can you guess all this, sir? \n\n I know it well; therefore I proceed almost as freely as if I were\nwriting my thoughts in a diary. You would say, I should have been\nsuperior to circumstances; so I should so I should; but you see I was\nnot. When fate wronged me, I had not the wisdom to remain cool: I\nturned desperate; then I degenerated. Now, when any vicious simpleton\nexcites my disgust by his paltry ribaldry, I cannot flatter myself that\nI am better than he: I am forced to confess that he and I are on a\nlevel. I wish I had stood firm God knows I do! Dread remorse when you\nare tempted to err, Miss Eyre; remorse is the poison of life. \n\n Repentance is said to be its cure, sir. \n\n It is not its cure. Reformation may be its cure; and I could reform I\nhave strength yet for that if but where is the use of thinking of it,\nhampered, burdened, cursed as I am? Besides, since happiness is\nirrevocably denied me, I have a right to get pleasure out of life: and\nI _will_ get it, cost what it may. \n\n Then you will degenerate still more, sir. \n\n Possibly: yet why should I, if I can get sweet, fresh pleasure? And I\nmay get it as sweet and fresh as the wild honey the bee gathers on the\nmoor. \n\n It will sting it will taste bitter, sir. \n\n How do you know? you never tried it. How very serious how very solemn\nyou look: and you are as ignorant of the matter as this cameo head \n(taking one from the mantelpiece).  You have no right to preach to me,\nyou neophyte, that have not passed the porch of life, and are\nabsolutely unacquainted with its mysteries. \n\n I only remind you of your own words, sir: you said error brought\nremorse, and you pronounced remorse the poison of existence. \n\n And who talks of error now? I scarcely think the notion that flittered\nacross my brain was an error. I believe it was an inspiration rather\nthan a temptation: it was very genial, very soothing I know that. Here\nit comes again! It is no devil, I assure you; or if it be, it has put\non the robes of an angel of light. I think I must admit so fair a guest\nwhen it asks entrance to my heart. \n\n Distrust it, sir; it is not a true angel. \n\n Once more, how do you know? By what instinct do you pretend to\ndistinguish between a fallen seraph of the abyss and a messenger from\nthe eternal throne between a guide and a seducer? \n\n I judged by your countenance, sir, which was troubled when you said\nthe suggestion had returned upon you. I feel sure it will work you more\nmisery if you listen to it. \n\n Not at all it bears the most gracious message in the world: for the\nrest, you are not my conscience-keeper, so don t make yourself uneasy.\nHere, come in, bonny wanderer! \n\nHe said this as if he spoke to a vision, viewless to any eye but his\nown; then, folding his arms, which he had half extended, on his chest,\nhe seemed to enclose in their embrace the invisible being.\n\n Now,  he continued, again addressing me,  I have received the\npilgrim a disguised deity, as I verily believe. Already it has done me\ngood: my heart was a sort of charnel; it will now be a shrine. \n\n To speak truth, sir, I don t understand you at all: I cannot keep up\nthe conversation, because it has got out of my depth. Only one thing, I\nknow: you said you were not as good as you should like to be, and that\nyou regretted your own imperfection; one thing I can comprehend: you\nintimated that to have a sullied memory was a perpetual bane. It seems\nto me, that if you tried hard, you would in time find it possible to\nbecome what you yourself would approve; and that if from this day you\nbegan with resolution to correct your thoughts and actions, you would\nin a few years have laid up a new and stainless store of recollections,\nto which you might revert with pleasure. \n\n Justly thought; rightly said, Miss Eyre; and, at this moment, I am\npaving hell with energy. \n\n Sir? \n\n I am laying down good intentions, which I believe durable as flint.\nCertainly, my associates and pursuits shall be other than they have\nbeen. \n\n And better? \n\n And better so much better as pure ore is than foul dross. You seem to\ndoubt me; I don t doubt myself: I know what my aim is, what my motives\nare; and at this moment I pass a law, unalterable as that of the Medes\nand Persians, that both are right. \n\n They cannot be, sir, if they require a new statute to legalise them. \n\n They are, Miss Eyre, though they absolutely require a new statute:\nunheard-of combinations of circumstances demand unheard-of rules. \n\n That sounds a dangerous maxim, sir; because one can see at once that\nit is liable to abuse. \n\n Sententious sage! so it is: but I swear by my household gods not to\nabuse it. \n\n You are human and fallible. \n\n I am: so are you what then? \n\n The human and fallible should not arrogate a power with which the\ndivine and perfect alone can be safely intrusted. \n\n What power? \n\n That of saying of any strange, unsanctioned line of action, Let it be\nright. \n\n Let it be right the very words: you have pronounced them. \n\n _May_ it be right then,  I said, as I rose, deeming it useless to\ncontinue a discourse which was all darkness to me; and, besides,\nsensible that the character of my interlocutor was beyond my\npenetration; at least, beyond its present reach; and feeling the\nuncertainty, the vague sense of insecurity, which accompanies a\nconviction of ignorance.\n\n Where are you going? \n\n To put Ad le to bed: it is past her bedtime. \n\n You are afraid of me, because I talk like a Sphynx. \n\n Your language is enigmatical, sir: but though I am bewildered, I am\ncertainly not afraid. \n\n You _are_ afraid your self-love dreads a blunder. \n\n In that sense I do feel apprehensive I have no wish to talk nonsense. \n\n If you did, it would be in such a grave, quiet manner, I should\nmistake it for sense. Do you never laugh, Miss Eyre? Don t trouble\nyourself to answer I see you laugh rarely; but you can laugh very\nmerrily: believe me, you are not naturally austere, any more than I am\nnaturally vicious. The Lowood constraint still clings to you somewhat;\ncontrolling your features, muffling your voice, and restricting your\nlimbs; and you fear in the presence of a man and a brother or father,\nor master, or what you will to smile too gaily, speak too freely, or\nmove too quickly: but, in time, I think you will learn to be natural\nwith me, as I find it impossible to be conventional with you; and then\nyour looks and movements will have more vivacity and variety than they\ndare offer now. I see at intervals the glance of a curious sort of bird\nthrough the close-set bars of a cage: a vivid, restless, resolute\ncaptive is there; were it but free, it would soar cloud-high. You are\nstill bent on going? \n\n It has struck nine, sir. \n\n Never mind, wait a minute: Ad le is not ready to go to bed yet. My\nposition, Miss Eyre, with my back to the fire, and my face to the room,\nfavours observation. While talking to you, I have also occasionally\nwatched Ad le (I have my own reasons for thinking her a curious\nstudy, reasons that I may, nay, that I shall, impart to you some day).\nShe pulled out of her box, about ten minutes ago, a little pink silk\nfrock; rapture lit her face as she unfolded it; coquetry runs in her\nblood, blends with her brains, and seasons the marrow of her bones.  Il\nfaut que je l essaie!  cried she,  et   l instant m me!  and she rushed\nout of the room. She is now with Sophie, undergoing a robing process:\nin a few minutes she will re-enter; and I know what I shall see, a\nminiature of C line Varens, as she used to appear on the boards at the\nrising of But never mind that. However, my tenderest feelings are about\nto receive a shock: such is my presentiment; stay now, to see whether\nit will be realised. \n\nEre long, Ad le s little foot was heard tripping across the hall. She\nentered, transformed as her guardian had predicted. A dress of\nrose-coloured satin, very short, and as full in the skirt as it could\nbe gathered, replaced the brown frock she had previously worn; a wreath\nof rosebuds circled her forehead; her feet were dressed in silk\nstockings and small white satin sandals.\n\n Est-ce que ma robe va bien?  cried she, bounding forwards;  et mes\nsouliers? et mes bas? Tenez, je crois que je vais danser! \n\nAnd spreading out her dress, she chass ed across the room till, having\nreached Mr. Rochester, she wheeled lightly round before him on tip-toe,\nthen dropped on one knee at his feet, exclaiming \n\n Monsieur, je vous remercie mille fois de votre bont ;  then rising,\nshe added,  C est comme cela que maman faisait, n est-ce pas,\nmonsieur? \n\n Pre-cise-ly!  was the answer;  and,  comme cela,  she charmed my\nEnglish gold out of my British breeches  pocket. I have been green,\ntoo, Miss Eyre, ay, grass green: not a more vernal tint freshens you\nnow than once freshened me. My Spring is gone, however, but it has left\nme that French floweret on my hands, which, in some moods, I would fain\nbe rid of. Not valuing now the root whence it sprang; having found that\nit was of a sort which nothing but gold dust could manure, I have but\nhalf a liking to the blossom, especially when it looks so artificial as\njust now. I keep it and rear it rather on the Roman Catholic principle\nof expiating numerous sins, great or small, by one good work. I ll\nexplain all this some day. Good-night. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\n\nMr. Rochester did, on a future occasion, explain it. It was one\nafternoon, when he chanced to meet me and Ad le in the grounds: and\nwhile she played with Pilot and her shuttlecock, he asked me to walk up\nand down a long beech avenue within sight of her.\n\nHe then said that she was the daughter of a French opera-dancer, C line\nVarens, towards whom he had once cherished what he called a  _grande\npassion_.  This passion C line had professed to return with even\nsuperior ardour. He thought himself her idol, ugly as he was: he\nbelieved, as he said, that she preferred his  _taille d athl te_  to\nthe elegance of the Apollo Belvidere.\n\n And, Miss Eyre, so much was I flattered by this preference of the\nGallic sylph for her British gnome, that I installed her in an hotel;\ngave her a complete establishment of servants, a carriage, cashmeres,\ndiamonds, dentelles, &c. In short, I began the process of ruining\nmyself in the received style, like any other spoony. I had not, it\nseems, the originality to chalk out a new road to shame and\ndestruction, but trode the old track with stupid exactness not to\ndeviate an inch from the beaten centre. I had as I deserved to have the\nfate of all other spoonies. Happening to call one evening when C line\ndid not expect me, I found her out; but it was a warm night, and I was\ntired with strolling through Paris, so I sat down in her boudoir; happy\nto breathe the air consecrated so lately by her presence. No, I\nexaggerate; I never thought there was any consecrating virtue about\nher: it was rather a sort of pastille perfume she had left; a scent of\nmusk and amber, than an odour of sanctity. I was just beginning to\nstifle with the fumes of conservatory flowers and sprinkled essences,\nwhen I bethought myself to open the window and step out on to the\nbalcony. It was moonlight and gaslight besides, and very still and\nserene. The balcony was furnished with a chair or two; I sat down, and\ntook out a cigar, I will take one now, if you will excuse me. \n\nHere ensued a pause, filled up by the producing and lighting of a\ncigar; having placed it to his lips and breathed a trail of Havannah\nincense on the freezing and sunless air, he went on \n\n I liked bonbons too in those days, Miss Eyre, and I was\n_croquant_ (overlook the barbarism) _croquant_ chocolate comfits, and\nsmoking alternately, watching meantime the equipages that rolled along\nthe fashionable streets towards the neighbouring opera-house, when in\nan elegant close carriage drawn by a beautiful pair of English horses,\nand distinctly seen in the brilliant city-night, I recognised the\n voiture  I had given C line. She was returning: of course my heart\nthumped with impatience against the iron rails I leant upon. The\ncarriage stopped, as I had expected, at the hotel door; my flame (that\nis the very word for an opera inamorata) alighted: though muffed in a\ncloak an unnecessary encumbrance, by-the-bye, on so warm a June\nevening I knew her instantly by her little foot, seen peeping from the\nskirt of her dress, as she skipped from the carriage-step. Bending over\nthe balcony, I was about to murmur  Mon ange in a tone, of course,\nwhich should be audible to the ear of love alone when a figure jumped\nfrom the carriage after her; cloaked also; but that was a spurred heel\nwhich had rung on the pavement, and that was a hatted head which now\npassed under the arched _porte coch re_ of the hotel.\n\n You never felt jealousy, did you, Miss Eyre? Of course not: I need not\nask you; because you never felt love. You have both sentiments yet to\nexperience: your soul sleeps; the shock is yet to be given which shall\nwaken it. You think all existence lapses in as quiet a flow as that in\nwhich your youth has hitherto slid away. Floating on with closed eyes\nand muffled ears, you neither see the rocks bristling not far off in\nthe bed of the flood, nor hear the breakers boil at their base. But I\ntell you and you may mark my words you will come some day to a craggy\npass in the channel, where the whole of life s stream will be broken up\ninto whirl and tumult, foam and noise: either you will be dashed to\natoms on crag points, or lifted up and borne on by some master-wave\ninto a calmer current as I am now.\n\n I like this day; I like that sky of steel; I like the sternness and\nstillness of the world under this frost. I like Thornfield, its\nantiquity, its retirement, its old crow-trees and thorn-trees, its grey\nfa ade, and lines of dark windows reflecting that metal welkin: and yet\nhow long have I abhorred the very thought of it, shunned it like a\ngreat plague-house? How I do still abhor \n\nHe ground his teeth and was silent: he arrested his step and struck his\nboot against the hard ground. Some hated thought seemed to have him in\nits grip, and to hold him so tightly that he could not advance.\n\nWe were ascending the avenue when he thus paused; the hall was before\nus. Lifting his eye to its battlements, he cast over them a glare such\nas I never saw before or since. Pain, shame, ire, impatience, disgust,\ndetestation, seemed momentarily to hold a quivering conflict in the\nlarge pupil dilating under his ebon eyebrow. Wild was the wrestle which\nshould be paramount; but another feeling rose and triumphed: something\nhard and cynical: self-willed and resolute: it settled his passion and\npetrified his countenance: he went on \n\n During the moment I was silent, Miss Eyre, I was arranging a point\nwith my destiny. She stood there, by that beech-trunk a hag like one of\nthose who appeared to Macbeth on the heath of Forres.  You like\nThornfield?  she said, lifting her finger; and then she wrote in the\nair a memento, which ran in lurid hieroglyphics all along the\nhouse-front, between the upper and lower row of windows,  Like it if\nyou can! Like it if you dare! \n\n I will like it,  said I;  I dare like it;  and  (he subjoined\nmoodily)  I will keep my word; I will break obstacles to happiness, to\ngoodness yes, goodness. I wish to be a better man than I have been,\nthan I am; as Job s leviathan broke the spear, the dart, and the\nhabergeon, hindrances which others count as iron and brass, I will\nesteem but straw and rotten wood. \n\nAd le here ran before him with her shuttlecock.  Away!  he cried\nharshly;  keep at a distance, child; or go in to Sophie!  Continuing\nthen to pursue his walk in silence, I ventured to recall him to the\npoint whence he had abruptly diverged \n\n Did you leave the balcony, sir,  I asked,  when Mdlle. Varens\nentered? \n\nI almost expected a rebuff for this hardly well-timed question, but, on\nthe contrary, waking out of his scowling abstraction, he turned his\neyes towards me, and the shade seemed to clear off his brow.  Oh, I had\nforgotten C line! Well, to resume. When I saw my charmer thus come in\naccompanied by a cavalier, I seemed to hear a hiss, and the green snake\nof jealousy, rising on undulating coils from the moonlit balcony,\nglided within my waistcoat, and ate its way in two minutes to my\nheart s core. Strange!  he exclaimed, suddenly starting again from the\npoint.  Strange that I should choose you for the confidant of all this,\nyoung lady; passing strange that you should listen to me quietly, as if\nit were the most usual thing in the world for a man like me to tell\nstories of his opera-mistresses to a quaint, inexperienced girl like\nyou! But the last singularity explains the first, as I intimated once\nbefore: you, with your gravity, considerateness, and caution were made\nto be the recipient of secrets. Besides, I know what sort of a mind I\nhave placed in communication with my own: I know it is one not liable\nto take infection: it is a peculiar mind: it is a unique one. Happily I\ndo not mean to harm it: but, if I did, it would not take harm from me.\nThe more you and I converse, the better; for while I cannot blight you,\nyou may refresh me.  After this digression he proceeded \n\n I remained in the balcony.  They will come to her boudoir, no doubt, \nthought I:  let me prepare an ambush.  So putting my hand in through\nthe open window, I drew the curtain over it, leaving only an opening\nthrough which I could take observations; then I closed the casement,\nall but a chink just wide enough to furnish an outlet to lovers \nwhispered vows: then I stole back to my chair; and as I resumed it the\npair came in. My eye was quickly at the aperture. C line s chamber-maid\nentered, lit a lamp, left it on the table, and withdrew. The couple\nwere thus revealed to me clearly: both removed their cloaks, and there\nwas  the Varens,  shining in satin and jewels, my gifts of course, and\nthere was her companion in an officer s uniform; and I knew him for a\nyoung rou  of a vicomte a brainless and vicious youth whom I had\nsometimes met in society, and had never thought of hating because I\ndespised him so absolutely. On recognising him, the fang of the snake\nJealousy was instantly broken; because at the same moment my love for\nC line sank under an extinguisher. A woman who could betray me for such\na rival was not worth contending for; she deserved only scorn; less,\nhowever, than I, who had been her dupe.\n\n They began to talk; their conversation eased me completely: frivolous,\nmercenary, heartless, and senseless, it was rather calculated to weary\nthan enrage a listener. A card of mine lay on the table; this being\nperceived, brought my name under discussion. Neither of them possessed\nenergy or wit to belabour me soundly, but they insulted me as coarsely\nas they could in their little way: especially C line, who even waxed\nrather brilliant on my personal defects deformities she termed them.\nNow it had been her custom to launch out into fervent admiration of\nwhat she called my  _beaut  m le_:  wherein she differed diametrically\nfrom you, who told me point-blank, at the second interview, that you\ndid not think me handsome. The contrast struck me at the time and \n\nAd le here came running up again.\n\n Monsieur, John has just been to say that your agent has called and\nwishes to see you. \n\n Ah! in that case I must abridge. Opening the window, I walked in upon\nthem; liberated C line from my protection; gave her notice to vacate\nher hotel; offered her a purse for immediate exigencies; disregarded\nscreams, hysterics, prayers, protestations, convulsions; made an\nappointment with the vicomte for a meeting at the Bois de Boulogne.\nNext morning I had the pleasure of encountering him; left a bullet in\none of his poor etiolated arms, feeble as the wing of a chicken in the\npip, and then thought I had done with the whole crew. But unluckily the\nVarens, six months before, had given me this filette Ad le, who, she\naffirmed, was my daughter; and perhaps she may be, though I see no\nproofs of such grim paternity written in her countenance: Pilot is more\nlike me than she. Some years after I had broken with the mother, she\nabandoned her child, and ran away to Italy with a musician or singer. I\nacknowledged no natural claim on Ad le s part to be supported by me,\nnor do I now acknowledge any, for I am not her father; but hearing that\nshe was quite destitute, I e en took the poor thing out of the slime\nand mud of Paris, and transplanted it here, to grow up clean in the\nwholesome soil of an English country garden. Mrs. Fairfax found you to\ntrain it; but now you know that it is the illegitimate offspring of a\nFrench opera-girl, you will perhaps think differently of your post and\nprot g e: you will be coming to me some day with notice that you have\nfound another place that you beg me to look out for a new governess,\n&c. Eh? \n\n No: Ad le is not answerable for either her mother s faults or yours: I\nhave a regard for her; and now that I know she is, in a sense,\nparentless forsaken by her mother and disowned by you, sir I shall\ncling closer to her than before. How could I possibly prefer the spoilt\npet of a wealthy family, who would hate her governess as a nuisance, to\na lonely little orphan, who leans towards her as a friend? \n\n Oh, that is the light in which you view it! Well, I must go in now;\nand you too: it darkens. \n\nBut I stayed out a few minutes longer with Ad le and Pilot ran a race\nwith her, and played a game of battledore and shuttlecock. When we went\nin, and I had removed her bonnet and coat, I took her on my knee; kept\nher there an hour, allowing her to prattle as she liked: not rebuking\neven some little freedoms and trivialities into which she was apt to\nstray when much noticed, and which betrayed in her a superficiality of\ncharacter, inherited probably from her mother, hardly congenial to an\nEnglish mind. Still she had her merits; and I was disposed to\nappreciate all that was good in her to the utmost. I sought in her\ncountenance and features a likeness to Mr. Rochester, but found none:\nno trait, no turn of expression announced relationship. It was a pity:\nif she could but have been proved to resemble him, he would have\nthought more of her.\n\nIt was not till after I had withdrawn to my own chamber for the night,\nthat I steadily reviewed the tale Mr. Rochester had told me. As he had\nsaid, there was probably nothing at all extraordinary in the substance\nof the narrative itself: a wealthy Englishman s passion for a French\ndancer, and her treachery to him, were every-day matters enough, no\ndoubt, in society; but there was something decidedly strange in the\nparoxysm of emotion which had suddenly seized him when he was in the\nact of expressing the present contentment of his mood, and his newly\nrevived pleasure in the old hall and its environs. I meditated\nwonderingly on this incident; but gradually quitting it, as I found it\nfor the present inexplicable, I turned to the consideration of my\nmaster s manner to myself. The confidence he had thought fit to repose\nin me seemed a tribute to my discretion: I regarded and accepted it as\nsuch. His deportment had now for some weeks been more uniform towards\nme than at the first. I never seemed in his way; he did not take fits\nof chilling hauteur: when he met me unexpectedly, the encounter seemed\nwelcome; he had always a word and sometimes a smile for me: when\nsummoned by formal invitation to his presence, I was honoured by a\ncordiality of reception that made me feel I really possessed the power\nto amuse him, and that these evening conferences were sought as much\nfor his pleasure as for my benefit.\n\nI, indeed, talked comparatively little, but I heard him talk with\nrelish. It was his nature to be communicative; he liked to open to a\nmind unacquainted with the world glimpses of its scenes and ways (I do\nnot mean its corrupt scenes and wicked ways, but such as derived their\ninterest from the great scale on which they were acted, the strange\nnovelty by which they were characterised); and I had a keen delight in\nreceiving the new ideas he offered, in imagining the new pictures he\nportrayed, and following him in thought through the new regions he\ndisclosed, never startled or troubled by one noxious allusion.\n\nThe ease of his manner freed me from painful restraint: the friendly\nfrankness, as correct as cordial, with which he treated me, drew me to\nhim. I felt at times as if he were my relation rather than my master:\nyet he was imperious sometimes still; but I did not mind that; I saw it\nwas his way. So happy, so gratified did I become with this new interest\nadded to life, that I ceased to pine after kindred: my thin\ncrescent-destiny seemed to enlarge; the blanks of existence were filled\nup; my bodily health improved; I gathered flesh and strength.\n\nAnd was Mr. Rochester now ugly in my eyes? No, reader: gratitude, and\nmany associations, all pleasurable and genial, made his face the object\nI best liked to see; his presence in a room was more cheering than the\nbrightest fire. Yet I had not forgotten his faults; indeed, I could\nnot, for he brought them frequently before me. He was proud, sardonic,\nharsh to inferiority of every description: in my secret soul I knew\nthat his great kindness to me was balanced by unjust severity to many\nothers. He was moody, too; unaccountably so; I more than once, when\nsent for to read to him, found him sitting in his library alone, with\nhis head bent on his folded arms; and, when he looked up, a morose,\nalmost a malignant, scowl blackened his features. But I believed that\nhis moodiness, his harshness, and his former faults of morality (I say\n_former_, for now he seemed corrected of them) had their source in some\ncruel cross of fate. I believed he was naturally a man of better\ntendencies, higher principles, and purer tastes than such as\ncircumstances had developed, education instilled, or destiny\nencouraged. I thought there were excellent materials in him; though for\nthe present they hung together somewhat spoiled and tangled. I cannot\ndeny that I grieved for his grief, whatever that was, and would have\ngiven much to assuage it.\n\nThough I had now extinguished my candle and was laid down in bed, I\ncould not sleep for thinking of his look when he paused in the avenue,\nand told how his destiny had risen up before him, and dared him to be\nhappy at Thornfield.\n\n Why not?  I asked myself.  What alienates him from the house? Will he\nleave it again soon? Mrs. Fairfax said he seldom stayed here longer\nthan a fortnight at a time; and he has now been resident eight weeks.\nIf he does go, the change will be doleful. Suppose he should be absent\nspring, summer, and autumn: how joyless sunshine and fine days will\nseem! \n\nI hardly know whether I had slept or not after this musing; at any\nrate, I started wide awake on hearing a vague murmur, peculiar and\nlugubrious, which sounded, I thought, just above me. I wished I had\nkept my candle burning: the night was drearily dark; my spirits were\ndepressed. I rose and sat up in bed, listening. The sound was hushed.\n\nI tried again to sleep; but my heart beat anxiously: my inward\ntranquillity was broken. The clock, far down in the hall, struck two.\nJust then it seemed my chamber-door was touched; as if fingers had\nswept the panels in groping a way along the dark gallery outside. I\nsaid,  Who is there?  Nothing answered. I was chilled with fear.\n\nAll at once I remembered that it might be Pilot, who, when the\nkitchen-door chanced to be left open, not unfrequently found his way up\nto the threshold of Mr. Rochester s chamber: I had seen him lying there\nmyself in the mornings. The idea calmed me somewhat: I lay down.\nSilence composes the nerves; and as an unbroken hush now reigned again\nthrough the whole house, I began to feel the return of slumber. But it\nwas not fated that I should sleep that night. A dream had scarcely\napproached my ear, when it fled affrighted, scared by a marrow-freezing\nincident enough.\n\nThis was a demoniac laugh low, suppressed, and deep uttered, as it\nseemed, at the very keyhole of my chamber door. The head of my bed was\nnear the door, and I thought at first the goblin-laugher stood at my\nbedside or rather, crouched by my pillow: but I rose, looked round, and\ncould see nothing; while, as I still gazed, the unnatural sound was\nreiterated: and I knew it came from behind the panels. My first impulse\nwas to rise and fasten the bolt; my next, again to cry out,  Who is\nthere? \n\nSomething gurgled and moaned. Ere long, steps retreated up the gallery\ntowards the third-storey staircase: a door had lately been made to shut\nin that staircase; I heard it open and close, and all was still.\n\n Was that Grace Poole? and is she possessed with a devil?  thought I.\nImpossible now to remain longer by myself: I must go to Mrs. Fairfax. I\nhurried on my frock and a shawl; I withdrew the bolt and opened the\ndoor with a trembling hand. There was a candle burning just outside,\nand on the matting in the gallery. I was surprised at this\ncircumstance: but still more was I amazed to perceive the air quite\ndim, as if filled with smoke; and, while looking to the right hand and\nleft, to find whence these blue wreaths issued, I became further aware\nof a strong smell of burning.\n\nSomething creaked: it was a door ajar; and that door was Mr.\nRochester s, and the smoke rushed in a cloud from thence. I thought no\nmore of Mrs. Fairfax; I thought no more of Grace Poole, or the laugh:\nin an instant, I was within the chamber. Tongues of flame darted round\nthe bed: the curtains were on fire. In the midst of blaze and vapour,\nMr. Rochester lay stretched motionless, in deep sleep.\n\n Wake! wake!  I cried. I shook him, but he only murmured and turned:\nthe smoke had stupefied him. Not a moment could be lost: the very\nsheets were kindling, I rushed to his basin and ewer; fortunately, one\nwas wide and the other deep, and both were filled with water. I heaved\nthem up, deluged the bed and its occupant, flew back to my own room,\nbrought my own water-jug, baptized the couch afresh, and, by God s aid,\nsucceeded in extinguishing the flames which were devouring it.\n\nThe hiss of the quenched element, the breakage of a pitcher which I\nflung from my hand when I had emptied it, and, above all, the splash of\nthe shower-bath I had liberally bestowed, roused Mr. Rochester at last.\nThough it was now dark, I knew he was awake; because I heard him\nfulminating strange anathemas at finding himself lying in a pool of\nwater.\n\n Is there a flood?  he cried.\n\n No, sir,  I answered;  but there has been a fire: get up, do; you are\nquenched now; I will fetch you a candle. \n\n In the name of all the elves in Christendom, is that Jane Eyre?  he\ndemanded.  What have you done with me, witch, sorceress? Who is in the\nroom besides you? Have you plotted to drown me? \n\n I will fetch you a candle, sir; and, in Heaven s name, get up.\nSomebody has plotted something: you cannot too soon find out who and\nwhat it is. \n\n There! I am up now; but at your peril you fetch a candle yet: wait two\nminutes till I get into some dry garments, if any dry there be yes,\nhere is my dressing-gown. Now run! \n\nI did run; I brought the candle which still remained in the gallery. He\ntook it from my hand, held it up, and surveyed the bed, all blackened\nand scorched, the sheets drenched, the carpet round swimming in water.\n\n What is it? and who did it?  he asked.\n\nI briefly related to him what had transpired: the strange laugh I had\nheard in the gallery: the step ascending to the third storey; the\nsmoke, the smell of fire which had conducted me to his room; in what\nstate I had found matters there, and how I had deluged him with all the\nwater I could lay hands on.\n\n\n What is it and who did it?  he asked\n\nHe listened very gravely; his face, as I went on, expressed more\nconcern than astonishment; he did not immediately speak when I had\nconcluded.\n\n Shall I call Mrs. Fairfax?  I asked.\n\n Mrs. Fairfax? No; what the deuce would you call her for? What can she\ndo? Let her sleep unmolested. \n\n Then I will fetch Leah, and wake John and his wife. \n\n Not at all: just be still. You have a shawl on. If you are not warm\nenough, you may take my cloak yonder; wrap it about you, and sit down\nin the arm-chair: there, I will put it on. Now place your feet on the\nstool, to keep them out of the wet. I am going to leave you a few\nminutes. I shall take the candle. Remain where you are till I return;\nbe as still as a mouse. I must pay a visit to the second storey. Don t\nmove, remember, or call any one. \n\nHe went: I watched the light withdraw. He passed up the gallery very\nsoftly, unclosed the staircase door with as little noise as possible,\nshut it after him, and the last ray vanished. I was left in total\ndarkness. I listened for some noise, but heard nothing. A very long\ntime elapsed. I grew weary: it was cold, in spite of the cloak; and\nthen I did not see the use of staying, as I was not to rouse the house.\nI was on the point of risking Mr. Rochester s displeasure by disobeying\nhis orders, when the light once more gleamed dimly on the gallery wall,\nand I heard his unshod feet tread the matting.  I hope it is he, \nthought I,  and not something worse. \n\nHe re-entered, pale and very gloomy.  I have found it all out,  said\nhe, setting his candle down on the washstand;  it is as I thought. \n\n How, sir? \n\nHe made no reply, but stood with his arms folded, looking on the\nground. At the end of a few minutes he inquired in rather a peculiar\ntone \n\n I forget whether you said you saw anything when you opened your\nchamber door. \n\n No, sir, only the candlestick on the ground. \n\n But you heard an odd laugh? You have heard that laugh before, I should\nthink, or something like it? \n\n Yes, sir: there is a woman who sews here, called Grace Poole, she\nlaughs in that way. She is a singular person. \n\n Just so. Grace Poole you have guessed it. She is, as you say,\nsingular very. Well, I shall reflect on the subject. Meantime, I am\nglad that you are the only person, besides myself, acquainted with the\nprecise details of to-night s incident. You are no talking fool: say\nnothing about it. I will account for this state of affairs  (pointing\nto the bed):  and now return to your own room. I shall do very well on\nthe sofa in the library for the rest of the night. It is near four: in\ntwo hours the servants will be up. \n\n Good-night, then, sir,  said I, departing.\n\nHe seemed surprised very inconsistently so, as he had just told me to\ngo.\n\n What!  he exclaimed,  are you quitting me already, and in that way? \n\n You said I might go, sir. \n\n But not without taking leave; not without a word or two of\nacknowledgment and good-will: not, in short, in that brief, dry\nfashion. Why, you have saved my life! snatched me from a horrible and\nexcruciating death! and you walk past me as if we were mutual\nstrangers! At least shake hands. \n\nHe held out his hand; I gave him mine: he took it first in one, then in\nboth his own.\n\n You have saved my life: I have a pleasure in owing you so immense a\ndebt. I cannot say more. Nothing else that has being would have been\ntolerable to me in the character of creditor for such an obligation:\nbut you: it is different; I feel your benefits no burden, Jane. \n\nHe paused; gazed at me: words almost visible trembled on his lips, but\nhis voice was checked.\n\n Good-night again, sir. There is no debt, benefit, burden, obligation,\nin the case. \n\n I knew,  he continued,  you would do me good in some way, at some\ntime; I saw it in your eyes when I first beheld you: their expression\nand smile did not (again he stopped) did not  (he proceeded hastily)\n strike delight to my very inmost heart so for nothing. People talk of\nnatural sympathies; I have heard of good genii: there are grains of\ntruth in the wildest fable. My cherished preserver, good-night! \n\nStrange energy was in his voice, strange fire in his look.\n\n I am glad I happened to be awake,  I said: and then I was going.\n\n What! you _will_ go? \n\n I am cold, sir. \n\n Cold? Yes, and standing in a pool! Go, then, Jane; go!  But he still\nretained my hand, and I could not free it. I bethought myself of an\nexpedient.\n\n I think I hear Mrs. Fairfax move, sir,  said I.\n\n Well, leave me:  he relaxed his fingers, and I was gone.\n\nI regained my couch, but never thought of sleep. Till morning dawned I\nwas tossed on a buoyant but unquiet sea, where billows of trouble\nrolled under surges of joy. I thought sometimes I saw beyond its wild\nwaters a shore, sweet as the hills of Beulah; and now and then a\nfreshening gale, wakened by hope, bore my spirit triumphantly towards\nthe bourne: but I could not reach it, even in fancy a counteracting\nbreeze blew off land, and continually drove me back. Sense would resist\ndelirium: judgment would warn passion. Too feverish to rest, I rose as\nsoon as day dawned.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\n\nI both wished and feared to see Mr. Rochester on the day which followed\nthis sleepless night: I wanted to hear his voice again, yet feared to\nmeet his eye. During the early part of the morning, I momentarily\nexpected his coming; he was not in the frequent habit of entering the\nschoolroom, but he did step in for a few minutes sometimes, and I had\nthe impression that he was sure to visit it that day.\n\nBut the morning passed just as usual: nothing happened to interrupt the\nquiet course of Ad le s studies; only soon after breakfast, I heard\nsome bustle in the neighbourhood of Mr. Rochester s chamber, Mrs.\nFairfax s voice, and Leah s, and the cook s that is, John s wife and\neven John s own gruff tones. There were exclamations of  What a mercy\nmaster was not burnt in his bed!   It is always dangerous to keep a\ncandle lit at night.   How providential that he had presence of mind to\nthink of the water-jug!   I wonder he waked nobody!   It is to be hoped\nhe will not take cold with sleeping on the library sofa,  &c.\n\nTo much confabulation succeeded a sound of scrubbing and setting to\nrights; and when I passed the room, in going downstairs to dinner, I\nsaw through the open door that all was again restored to complete\norder; only the bed was stripped of its hangings. Leah stood up in the\nwindow-seat, rubbing the panes of glass dimmed with smoke. I was about\nto address her, for I wished to know what account had been given of the\naffair: but, on advancing, I saw a second person in the chamber a woman\nsitting on a chair by the bedside, and sewing rings to new curtains.\nThat woman was no other than Grace Poole.\n\nThere she sat, staid and taciturn-looking, as usual, in her brown stuff\ngown, her check apron, white handkerchief, and cap. She was intent on\nher work, in which her whole thoughts seemed absorbed: on her hard\nforehead, and in her commonplace features, was nothing either of the\npaleness or desperation one would have expected to see marking the\ncountenance of a woman who had attempted murder, and whose intended\nvictim had followed her last night to her lair, and (as I believed),\ncharged her with the crime she wished to perpetrate. I was\namazed confounded. She looked up, while I still gazed at her: no start,\nno increase or failure of colour betrayed emotion, consciousness of\nguilt, or fear of detection. She said  Good morning, Miss,  in her\nusual phlegmatic and brief manner; and taking up another ring and more\ntape, went on with her sewing.\n\n I will put her to some test,  thought I:  such absolute\nimpenetrability is past comprehension. \n\n Good morning, Grace,  I said.  Has anything happened here? I thought I\nheard the servants all talking together a while ago. \n\n Only master had been reading in his bed last night; he fell asleep\nwith his candle lit, and the curtains got on fire; but, fortunately, he\nawoke before the bed-clothes or the wood-work caught, and contrived to\nquench the flames with the water in the ewer. \n\n A strange affair!  I said, in a low voice: then, looking at her\nfixedly Did Mr. Rochester wake nobody? Did no one hear him move? \n\nShe again raised her eyes to me, and this time there was something of\nconsciousness in their expression. She seemed to examine me warily;\nthen she answered \n\n The servants sleep so far off, you know, Miss, they would not be\nlikely to hear. Mrs. Fairfax s room and yours are the nearest to\nmaster s; but Mrs. Fairfax said she heard nothing: when people get\nelderly, they often sleep heavy.  She paused, and then added, with a\nsort of assumed indifference, but still in a marked and significant\ntone But you are young, Miss; and I should say a light sleeper:\nperhaps you may have heard a noise? \n\n I did,  said I, dropping my voice, so that Leah, who was still\npolishing the panes, could not hear me,  and at first I thought it was\nPilot: but Pilot cannot laugh; and I am certain I heard a laugh, and a\nstrange one. \n\nShe took a new needleful of thread, waxed it carefully, threaded her\nneedle with a steady hand, and then observed, with perfect composure \n\n It is hardly likely master would laugh, I should think, Miss, when he\nwas in such danger: You must have been dreaming. \n\n I was not dreaming,  I said, with some warmth, for her brazen coolness\nprovoked me. Again she looked at me; and with the same scrutinising and\nconscious eye.\n\n Have you told master that you heard a laugh?  she inquired.\n\n I have not had the opportunity of speaking to him this morning. \n\n You did not think of opening your door and looking out into the\ngallery?  she further asked.\n\nShe appeared to be cross-questioning me, attempting to draw from me\ninformation unawares. The idea struck me that if she discovered I knew\nor suspected her guilt, she would be playing of some of her malignant\npranks on me; I thought it advisable to be on my guard.\n\n On the contrary,  said I,  I bolted my door. \n\n Then you are not in the habit of bolting your door every night before\nyou get into bed? \n\n Fiend! she wants to know my habits, that she may lay her plans\naccordingly!  Indignation again prevailed over prudence: I replied\nsharply,  Hitherto I have often omitted to fasten the bolt: I did not\nthink it necessary. I was not aware any danger or annoyance was to be\ndreaded at Thornfield Hall: but in future  (and I laid marked stress on\nthe words)  I shall take good care to make all secure before I venture\nto lie down. \n\n It will be wise so to do,  was her answer:  this neighbourhood is as\nquiet as any I know, and I never heard of the hall being attempted by\nrobbers since it was a house; though there are hundreds of pounds \nworth of plate in the plate-closet, as is well known. And you see, for\nsuch a large house, there are very few servants, because master has\nnever lived here much; and when he does come, being a bachelor, he\nneeds little waiting on: but I always think it best to err on the safe\nside; a door is soon fastened, and it is as well to have a drawn bolt\nbetween one and any mischief that may be about. A deal of people, Miss,\nare for trusting all to Providence; but I say Providence will not\ndispense with the means, though He often blesses them when they are\nused discreetly.  And here she closed her harangue: a long one for her,\nand uttered with the demureness of a Quakeress.\n\nI still stood absolutely dumfoundered at what appeared to me her\nmiraculous self-possession and most inscrutable hypocrisy, when the\ncook entered.\n\n Mrs. Poole,  said she, addressing Grace,  the servants  dinner will\nsoon be ready: will you come down? \n\n No; just put my pint of porter and bit of pudding on a tray, and I ll\ncarry it upstairs. \n\n You ll have some meat? \n\n Just a morsel, and a taste of cheese, that s all. \n\n And the sago? \n\n Never mind it at present: I shall be coming down before teatime: I ll\nmake it myself. \n\nThe cook here turned to me, saying that Mrs. Fairfax was waiting for\nme: so I departed.\n\nI hardly heard Mrs. Fairfax s account of the curtain conflagration\nduring dinner, so much was I occupied in puzzling my brains over the\nenigmatical character of Grace Poole, and still more in pondering the\nproblem of her position at Thornfield and questioning why she had not\nbeen given into custody that morning, or, at the very least, dismissed\nfrom her master s service. He had almost as much as declared his\nconviction of her criminality last night: what mysterious cause\nwithheld him from accusing her? Why had he enjoined me, too, to\nsecrecy? It was strange: a bold, vindictive, and haughty gentleman\nseemed somehow in the power of one of the meanest of his dependents; so\nmuch in her power, that even when she lifted her hand against his life,\nhe dared not openly charge her with the attempt, much less punish her\nfor it.\n\nHad Grace been young and handsome, I should have been tempted to think\nthat tenderer feelings than prudence or fear influenced Mr. Rochester\nin her behalf; but, hard-favoured and matronly as she was, the idea\ncould not be admitted.  Yet,  I reflected,  she has been young once;\nher youth would be contemporary with her master s: Mrs. Fairfax told me\nonce, she had lived here many years. I don t think she can ever have\nbeen pretty; but, for aught I know, she may possess originality and\nstrength of character to compensate for the want of personal\nadvantages. Mr. Rochester is an amateur of the decided and eccentric:\nGrace is eccentric at least. What if a former caprice (a freak very\npossible to a nature so sudden and headstrong as his) has delivered him\ninto her power, and she now exercises over his actions a secret\ninfluence, the result of his own indiscretion, which he cannot shake\noff, and dare not disregard?  But, having reached this point of\nconjecture, Mrs. Poole s square, flat figure, and uncomely, dry, even\ncoarse face, recurred so distinctly to my mind s eye, that I thought,\n No; impossible! my supposition cannot be correct. Yet,  suggested the\nsecret voice which talks to us in our own hearts,  _you_ are not\nbeautiful either, and perhaps Mr. Rochester approves you: at any rate,\nyou have often felt as if he did; and last night remember his words;\nremember his look; remember his voice! \n\nI well remembered all; language, glance, and tone seemed at the moment\nvividly renewed. I was now in the schoolroom; Ad le was drawing; I bent\nover her and directed her pencil. She looked up with a sort of start.\n\n Qu avez-vous, mademoiselle?  said she.  Vos doigts tremblent comme la\nfeuille, et vos joues sont rouges: mais, rouges comme des cerises! \n\n I am hot, Ad le, with stooping!  She went on sketching; I went on\nthinking.\n\nI hastened to drive from my mind the hateful notion I had been\nconceiving respecting Grace Poole; it disgusted me. I compared myself\nwith her, and found we were different. Bessie Leaven had said I was\nquite a lady; and she spoke truth I was a lady. And now I looked much\nbetter than I did when Bessie saw me; I had more colour and more flesh,\nmore life, more vivacity, because I had brighter hopes and keener\nenjoyments.\n\n Evening approaches,  said I, as I looked towards the window.  I have\nnever heard Mr. Rochester s voice or step in the house to-day; but\nsurely I shall see him before night: I feared the meeting in the\nmorning; now I desire it, because expectation has been so long baffled\nthat it is grown impatient. \n\nWhen dusk actually closed, and when Ad le left me to go and play in the\nnursery with Sophie, I did most keenly desire it. I listened for the\nbell to ring below; I listened for Leah coming up with a message; I\nfancied sometimes I heard Mr. Rochester s own tread, and I turned to\nthe door, expecting it to open and admit him. The door remained shut;\ndarkness only came in through the window. Still it was not late; he\noften sent for me at seven and eight o clock, and it was yet but six.\nSurely I should not be wholly disappointed to-night, when I had so many\nthings to say to him! I wanted again to introduce the subject of Grace\nPoole, and to hear what he would answer; I wanted to ask him plainly if\nhe really believed it was she who had made last night s hideous\nattempt; and if so, why he kept her wickedness a secret. It little\nmattered whether my curiosity irritated him; I knew the pleasure of\nvexing and soothing him by turns; it was one I chiefly delighted in,\nand a sure instinct always prevented me from going too far; beyond the\nverge of provocation I never ventured; on the extreme brink I liked\nwell to try my skill. Retaining every minute form of respect, every\npropriety of my station, I could still meet him in argument without\nfear or uneasy restraint; this suited both him and me.\n\nA tread creaked on the stairs at last. Leah made her appearance; but it\nwas only to intimate that tea was ready in Mrs. Fairfax s room. Thither\nI repaired, glad at least to go downstairs; for that brought me, I\nimagined, nearer to Mr. Rochester s presence.\n\n You must want your tea,  said the good lady, as I joined her;  you ate\nso little at dinner. I am afraid,  she continued,  you are not well\nto-day: you look flushed and feverish. \n\n Oh, quite well! I never felt better. \n\n Then you must prove it by evincing a good appetite; will you fill the\nteapot while I knit off this needle?  Having completed her task, she\nrose to draw down the blind, which she had hitherto kept up, by way, I\nsuppose, of making the most of daylight, though dusk was now fast\ndeepening into total obscurity.\n\n It is fair to-night,  said she, as she looked through the panes,\n though not starlight; Mr. Rochester has, on the whole, had a\nfavourable day for his journey. \n\n Journey! Is Mr. Rochester gone anywhere? I did not know he was out. \n\n Oh, he set off the moment he had breakfasted! He is gone to the Leas,\nMr. Eshton s place, ten miles on the other side Millcote. I believe\nthere is quite a party assembled there; Lord Ingram, Sir George Lynn,\nColonel Dent, and others. \n\n Do you expect him back to-night? \n\n No nor to-morrow either; I should think he is very likely to stay a\nweek or more: when these fine, fashionable people get together, they\nare so surrounded by elegance and gaiety, so well provided with all\nthat can please and entertain, they are in no hurry to separate.\nGentlemen especially are often in request on such occasions; and Mr.\nRochester is so talented and so lively in society, that I believe he is\na general favourite: the ladies are very fond of him; though you would\nnot think his appearance calculated to recommend him particularly in\ntheir eyes: but I suppose his acquirements and abilities, perhaps his\nwealth and good blood, make amends for any little fault of look. \n\n Are there ladies at the Leas? \n\n There are Mrs. Eshton and her three daughters very elegant young\nladies indeed; and there are the Honourable Blanche and Mary Ingram,\nmost beautiful women, I suppose: indeed I have seen Blanche, six or\nseven years since, when she was a girl of eighteen. She came here to a\nChristmas ball and party Mr. Rochester gave. You should have seen the\ndining-room that day how richly it was decorated, how brilliantly lit\nup! I should think there were fifty ladies and gentlemen present all of\nthe first county families; and Miss Ingram was considered the belle of\nthe evening. \n\n You saw her, you say, Mrs. Fairfax: what was she like? \n\n Yes, I saw her. The dining-room doors were thrown open; and, as it was\nChristmas-time, the servants were allowed to assemble in the hall, to\nhear some of the ladies sing and play. Mr. Rochester would have me to\ncome in, and I sat down in a quiet corner and watched them. I never saw\na more splendid scene: the ladies were magnificently dressed; most of\nthem at least most of the younger ones looked handsome; but Miss Ingram\nwas certainly the queen. \n\n And what was she like? \n\n Tall, fine bust, sloping shoulders; long, graceful neck: olive\ncomplexion, dark and clear; noble features; eyes rather like Mr.\nRochester s: large and black, and as brilliant as her jewels. And then\nshe had such a fine head of hair; raven-black and so becomingly\narranged: a crown of thick plaits behind, and in front the longest, the\nglossiest curls I ever saw. She was dressed in pure white; an\namber-coloured scarf was passed over her shoulder and across her\nbreast, tied at the side, and descending in long, fringed ends below\nher knee. She wore an amber-coloured flower, too, in her hair: it\ncontrasted well with the jetty mass of her curls. \n\n She was greatly admired, of course? \n\n Yes, indeed: and not only for her beauty, but for her accomplishments.\nShe was one of the ladies who sang: a gentleman accompanied her on the\npiano. She and Mr. Rochester sang a duet. \n\n Mr. Rochester? I was not aware he could sing. \n\n Oh! he has a fine bass voice, and an excellent taste for music. \n\n And Miss Ingram: what sort of a voice had she? \n\n A very rich and powerful one: she sang delightfully; it was a treat to\nlisten to her; and she played afterwards. I am no judge of music, but\nMr. Rochester is; and I heard him say her execution was remarkably\ngood. \n\n And this beautiful and accomplished lady, she is not yet married? \n\n It appears not: I fancy neither she nor her sister have very large\nfortunes. Old Lord Ingram s estates were chiefly entailed, and the\neldest son came in for everything almost. \n\n But I wonder no wealthy nobleman or gentleman has taken a fancy to\nher: Mr. Rochester, for instance. He is rich, is he not? \n\n Oh! yes. But you see there is a considerable difference in age: Mr.\nRochester is nearly forty; she is but twenty-five. \n\n What of that? More unequal matches are made every day. \n\n True: yet I should scarcely fancy Mr. Rochester would entertain an\nidea of the sort. But you eat nothing: you have scarcely tasted since\nyou began tea. \n\n No: I am too thirsty to eat. Will you let me have another cup? \n\nI was about again to revert to the probability of a union between Mr.\nRochester and the beautiful Blanche; but Ad le came in, and the\nconversation was turned into another channel.\n\nWhen once more alone, I reviewed the information I had got; looked into\nmy heart, examined its thoughts and feelings, and endeavoured to bring\nback with a strict hand such as had been straying through imagination s\nboundless and trackless waste, into the safe fold of common sense.\n\nArraigned at my own bar, Memory having given her evidence of the hopes,\nwishes, sentiments I had been cherishing since last night of the\ngeneral state of mind in which I had indulged for nearly a fortnight\npast; Reason having come forward and told, in her own quiet way, a\nplain, unvarnished tale, showing how I had rejected the real, and\nrabidly devoured the ideal; I pronounced judgment to this effect: \n\nThat a greater fool than Jane Eyre had never breathed the breath of\nlife; that a more fantastic idiot had never surfeited herself on sweet\nlies, and swallowed poison as if it were nectar.\n\n _You_,  I said,  a favourite with Mr. Rochester? _You_ gifted with the\npower of pleasing him? _You_ of importance to him in any way? Go! your\nfolly sickens me. And you have derived pleasure from occasional tokens\nof preference equivocal tokens shown by a gentleman of family and a man\nof the world to a dependent and a novice. How dared you? Poor stupid\ndupe! Could not even self-interest make you wiser? You repeated to\nyourself this morning the brief scene of last night? Cover your face\nand be ashamed! He said something in praise of your eyes, did he? Blind\npuppy! Open their bleared lids and look on your own accursed\nsenselessness! It does good to no woman to be flattered by her\nsuperior, who cannot possibly intend to marry her; and it is madness in\nall women to let a secret love kindle within them, which, if unreturned\nand unknown, must devour the life that feeds it; and, if discovered and\nresponded to, must lead, _ignis-fatuus_-like, into miry wilds whence\nthere is no extrication.\n\n Listen, then, Jane Eyre, to your sentence: to-morrow, place the glass\nbefore you, and draw in chalk your own picture, faithfully, without\nsoftening one defect; omit no harsh line, smooth away no displeasing\nirregularity; write under it,  Portrait of a Governess, disconnected,\npoor, and plain. \n\n Afterwards, take a piece of smooth ivory you have one prepared in your\ndrawing-box: take your palette, mix your freshest, finest, clearest\ntints; choose your most delicate camel-hair pencils; delineate\ncarefully the loveliest face you can imagine; paint it in your softest\nshades and sweetest lines, according to the description given by Mrs.\nFairfax of Blanche Ingram; remember the raven ringlets, the oriental\neye; What! you revert to Mr. Rochester as a model! Order! No snivel! no\nsentiment! no regret! I will endure only sense and resolution. Recall\nthe august yet harmonious lineaments, the Grecian neck and bust; let\nthe round and dazzling arm be visible, and the delicate hand; omit\nneither diamond ring nor gold bracelet; portray faithfully the attire,\na rial lace and glistening satin, graceful scarf and golden rose; call\nit  Blanche, an accomplished lady of rank. \n\n Whenever, in future, you should chance to fancy Mr. Rochester thinks\nwell of you, take out these two pictures and compare them: say,  Mr.\nRochester might probably win that noble lady s love, if he chose to\nstrive for it; is it likely he would waste a serious thought on this\nindigent and insignificant plebeian? \n\n I ll do it,  I resolved: and having framed this determination, I grew\ncalm, and fell asleep.\n\nI kept my word. An hour or two sufficed to sketch my own portrait in\ncrayons; and in less than a fortnight I had completed an ivory\nminiature of an imaginary Blanche Ingram. It looked a lovely face\nenough, and when compared with the real head in chalk, the contrast was\nas great as self-control could desire. I derived benefit from the task:\nit had kept my head and hands employed, and had given force and\nfixedness to the new impressions I wished to stamp indelibly on my\nheart.\n\nEre long, I had reason to congratulate myself on the course of\nwholesome discipline to which I had thus forced my feelings to submit.\nThanks to it, I was able to meet subsequent occurrences with a decent\ncalm, which, had they found me unprepared, I should probably have been\nunequal to maintain, even externally.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\n\nA week passed, and no news arrived of Mr. Rochester: ten days, and\nstill he did not come. Mrs. Fairfax said she should not be surprised if\nhe were to go straight from the Leas to London, and thence to the\nContinent, and not show his face again at Thornfield for a year to\ncome; he had not unfrequently quitted it in a manner quite as abrupt\nand unexpected. When I heard this, I was beginning to feel a strange\nchill and failing at the heart. I was actually permitting myself to\nexperience a sickening sense of disappointment; but rallying my wits,\nand recollecting my principles, I at once called my sensations to\norder; and it was wonderful how I got over the temporary blunder how I\ncleared up the mistake of supposing Mr. Rochester s movements a matter\nin which I had any cause to take a vital interest. Not that I humbled\nmyself by a slavish notion of inferiority: on the contrary, I just\nsaid \n\n You have nothing to do with the master of Thornfield, further than to\nreceive the salary he gives you for teaching his prot g e, and to be\ngrateful for such respectful and kind treatment as, if you do your\nduty, you have a right to expect at his hands. Be sure that is the only\ntie he seriously acknowledges between you and him; so don t make him\nthe object of your fine feelings, your raptures, agonies, and so forth.\nHe is not of your order: keep to your caste, and be too self-respecting\nto lavish the love of the whole heart, soul, and strength, where such a\ngift is not wanted and would be despised. \n\nI went on with my day s business tranquilly; but ever and anon vague\nsuggestions kept wandering across my brain of reasons why I should quit\nThornfield; and I kept involuntarily framing advertisements and\npondering conjectures about new situations: these thoughts I did not\nthink to check; they might germinate and bear fruit if they could.\n\nMr. Rochester had been absent upwards of a fortnight, when the post\nbrought Mrs. Fairfax a letter.\n\n It is from the master,  said she, as she looked at the direction.  Now\nI suppose we shall know whether we are to expect his return or not. \n\nAnd while she broke the seal and perused the document, I went on taking\nmy coffee (we were at breakfast): it was hot, and I attributed to that\ncircumstance a fiery glow which suddenly rose to my face. Why my hand\nshook, and why I involuntarily spilt half the contents of my cup into\nmy saucer, I did not choose to consider.\n\n Well, I sometimes think we are too quiet; but we run a chance of being\nbusy enough now: for a little while at least,  said Mrs. Fairfax, still\nholding the note before her spectacles.\n\nEre I permitted myself to request an explanation, I tied the string of\nAd le s pinafore, which happened to be loose: having helped her also to\nanother bun and refilled her mug with milk, I said, nonchalantly \n\n Mr. Rochester is not likely to return soon, I suppose? \n\n Indeed he is in three days, he says: that will be next Thursday; and\nnot alone either. I don t know how many of the fine people at the Leas\nare coming with him: he sends directions for all the best bedrooms to\nbe prepared; and the library and drawing-rooms are to be cleaned out; I\nam to get more kitchen hands from the George Inn, at Millcote, and from\nwherever else I can; and the ladies will bring their maids and the\ngentlemen their valets: so we shall have a full house of it.  And Mrs.\nFairfax swallowed her breakfast and hastened away to commence\noperations.\n\nThe three days were, as she had foretold, busy enough. I had thought\nall the rooms at Thornfield beautifully clean and well arranged; but it\nappears I was mistaken. Three women were got to help; and such\nscrubbing, such brushing, such washing of paint and beating of carpets,\nsuch taking down and putting up of pictures, such polishing of mirrors\nand lustres, such lighting of fires in bedrooms, such airing of sheets\nand feather-beds on hearths, I never beheld, either before or since.\nAd le ran quite wild in the midst of it: the preparations for company\nand the prospect of their arrival, seemed to throw her into ecstasies.\nShe would have Sophie to look over all her  toilettes,  as she called\nfrocks; to furbish up any that were  _pass es_,  and to air and arrange\nthe new. For herself, she did nothing but caper about in the front\nchambers, jump on and off the bedsteads, and lie on the mattresses and\npiled-up bolsters and pillows before the enormous fires roaring in the\nchimneys. From school duties she was exonerated: Mrs. Fairfax had\npressed me into her service, and I was all day in the storeroom,\nhelping (or hindering) her and the cook; learning to make custards and\ncheese-cakes and French pastry, to truss game and garnish\ndesert-dishes.\n\nThe party were expected to arrive on Thursday afternoon, in time for\ndinner at six. During the intervening period I had no time to nurse\nchimeras; and I believe I was as active and gay as anybody Ad le\nexcepted. Still, now and then, I received a damping check to my\ncheerfulness; and was, in spite of myself, thrown back on the region of\ndoubts and portents, and dark conjectures. This was when I chanced to\nsee the third-storey staircase door (which of late had always been kept\nlocked) open slowly, and give passage to the form of Grace Poole, in\nprim cap, white apron, and handkerchief; when I watched her glide along\nthe gallery, her quiet tread muffled in a list slipper; when I saw her\nlook into the bustling, topsy-turvy bedrooms, just say a word, perhaps,\nto the charwoman about the proper way to polish a grate, or clean a\nmarble mantelpiece, or take stains from papered walls, and then pass\non. She would thus descend to the kitchen once a day, eat her dinner,\nsmoke a moderate pipe on the hearth, and go back, carrying her pot of\nporter with her, for her private solace, in her own gloomy, upper\nhaunt. Only one hour in the twenty-four did she pass with her\nfellow-servants below; all the rest of her time was spent in some\nlow-ceiled, oaken chamber of the second storey: there she sat and\nsewed and probably laughed drearily to herself, as companionless as a\nprisoner in his dungeon.\n\nThe strangest thing of all was, that not a soul in the house, except\nme, noticed her habits, or seemed to marvel at them: no one discussed\nher position or employment; no one pitied her solitude or isolation. I\nonce, indeed, overheard part of a dialogue between Leah and one of the\ncharwomen, of which Grace formed the subject. Leah had been saying\nsomething I had not caught, and the charwoman remarked \n\n She gets good wages, I guess? \n\n Yes,  said Leah;  I wish I had as good; not that mine are to complain\nof, there s no stinginess at Thornfield; but they re not one fifth of\nthe sum Mrs. Poole receives. And she is laying by: she goes every\nquarter to the bank at Millcote. I should not wonder but she has saved\nenough to keep her independent if she liked to leave; but I suppose\nshe s got used to the place; and then she s not forty yet, and strong\nand able for anything. It is too soon for her to give up business. \n\n She is a good hand, I daresay,  said the charwoman.\n\n Ah! she understands what she has to do, nobody better,  rejoined Leah\nsignificantly;  and it is not every one could fill her shoes not for\nall the money she gets. \n\n That it is not!  was the reply.  I wonder whether the master \n\nThe charwoman was going on; but here Leah turned and perceived me, and\nshe instantly gave her companion a nudge.\n\n Doesn t she know?  I heard the woman whisper.\n\nLeah shook her head, and the conversation was of course dropped. All I\nhad gathered from it amounted to this, that there was a mystery at\nThornfield; and that from participation in that mystery I was purposely\nexcluded.\n\nThursday came: all work had been completed the previous evening;\ncarpets were laid down, bed-hangings festooned, radiant white\ncounterpanes spread, toilet tables arranged, furniture rubbed, flowers\npiled in vases: both chambers and saloons looked as fresh and bright as\nhands could make them. The hall, too, was scoured; and the great carved\nclock, as well as the steps and banisters of the staircase, were\npolished to the brightness of glass; in the dining-room, the sideboard\nflashed resplendent with plate; in the drawing-room and boudoir, vases\nof exotics bloomed on all sides.\n\nAfternoon arrived: Mrs. Fairfax assumed her best black satin gown, her\ngloves, and her gold watch; for it was her part to receive the\ncompany, to conduct the ladies to their rooms, &c. Ad le, too, would be\ndressed: though I thought she had little chance of being introduced to\nthe party that day at least. However, to please her, I allowed Sophie\nto apparel her in one of her short, full muslin frocks. For myself, I\nhad no need to make any change; I should not be called upon to quit my\nsanctum of the schoolroom; for a sanctum it was now become to me, a\nvery pleasant refuge in time of trouble. \n\nIt had been a mild, serene spring day one of those days which, towards\nthe end of March or the beginning of April, rise shining over the earth\nas heralds of summer. It was drawing to an end now; but the evening was\neven warm, and I sat at work in the schoolroom with the window open.\n\n It gets late,  said Mrs. Fairfax, entering in rustling state.  I am\nglad I ordered dinner an hour after the time Mr. Rochester mentioned;\nfor it is past six now. I have sent John down to the gates to see if\nthere is anything on the road: one can see a long way from thence in\nthe direction of Millcote.  She went to the window.  Here he is!  said\nshe.  Well, John  (leaning out),  any news? \n\n They re coming, ma am,  was the answer.  They ll be here in ten\nminutes. \n\nAd le flew to the window. I followed, taking care to stand on one side,\nso that, screened by the curtain, I could see without being seen.\n\nThe ten minutes John had given seemed very long, but at last wheels\nwere heard; four equestrians galloped up the drive, and after them came\ntwo open carriages. Fluttering veils and waving plumes filled the\nvehicles; two of the cavaliers were young, dashing-looking gentlemen;\nthe third was Mr. Rochester, on his black horse, Mesrour, Pilot\nbounding before him; at his side rode a lady, and he and she were the\nfirst of the party. Her purple riding-habit almost swept the ground,\nher veil streamed long on the breeze; mingling with its transparent\nfolds, and gleaming through them, shone rich raven ringlets.\n\n Miss Ingram!  exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax, and away she hurried to her post\nbelow.\n\nThe cavalcade, following the sweep of the drive, quickly turned the\nangle of the house, and I lost sight of it. Ad le now petitioned to go\ndown; but I took her on my knee, and gave her to understand that she\nmust not on any account think of venturing in sight of the ladies,\neither now or at any other time, unless expressly sent for: that Mr.\nRochester would be very angry, &c.  Some natural tears she shed  on\nbeing told this; but as I began to look very grave, she consented at\nlast to wipe them.\n\nA joyous stir was now audible in the hall: gentlemen s deep tones and\nladies  silvery accents blent harmoniously together, and\ndistinguishable above all, though not loud, was the sonorous voice of\nthe master of Thornfield Hall, welcoming his fair and gallant guests\nunder its roof. Then light steps ascended the stairs; and there was a\ntripping through the gallery, and soft cheerful laughs, and opening and\nclosing doors, and, for a time, a hush.\n\n Elles changent de toilettes,  said Ad le; who, listening attentively,\nhad followed every movement; and she sighed.\n\n Chez maman,  said she,  quand il y avait du monde, je le suivais\npartout, au salon et   leurs chambres; souvent je regardais les femmes\nde chambre coiffer et habiller les dames, et c tait si amusant: comme\ncela on apprend. \n\n Don t you feel hungry, Ad le? \n\n Mais oui, mademoiselle: voil  cinq ou six heures que nous n avons pas\nmang . \n\n Well now, while the ladies are in their rooms, I will venture down and\nget you something to eat. \n\nAnd issuing from my asylum with precaution, I sought a back-stairs\nwhich conducted directly to the kitchen. All in that region was fire\nand commotion; the soup and fish were in the last stage of projection,\nand the cook hung over her crucibles in a frame of mind and body\nthreatening spontaneous combustion. In the servants  hall two coachmen\nand three gentlemen s gentlemen stood or sat round the fire; the\nabigails, I suppose, were upstairs with their mistresses; the new\nservants, that had been hired from Millcote, were bustling about\neverywhere. Threading this chaos, I at last reached the larder; there I\ntook possession of a cold chicken, a roll of bread, some tarts, a plate\nor two and a knife and fork: with this booty I made a hasty retreat. I\nhad regained the gallery, and was just shutting the back-door behind\nme, when an accelerated hum warned me that the ladies were about to\nissue from their chambers. I could not proceed to the schoolroom\nwithout passing some of their doors, and running the risk of being\nsurprised with my cargo of victualage; so I stood still at this end,\nwhich, being windowless, was dark: quite dark now, for the sun was set\nand twilight gathering.\n\nPresently the chambers gave up their fair tenants one after another:\neach came out gaily and airily, with dress that gleamed lustrous\nthrough the dusk. For a moment they stood grouped together at the other\nextremity of the gallery, conversing in a key of sweet subdued\nvivacity: they then descended the staircase almost as noiselessly as a\nbright mist rolls down a hill. Their collective appearance had left on\nme an impression of high-born elegance, such as I had never before\nreceived.\n\nI found Ad le peeping through the schoolroom door, which she held ajar.\n What beautiful ladies!  cried she in English.  Oh, I wish I might go\nto them! Do you think Mr. Rochester will send for us by-and-by, after\ndinner? \n\n No, indeed, I don t; Mr. Rochester has something else to think about.\nNever mind the ladies to-night; perhaps you will see them to-morrow:\nhere is your dinner. \n\nShe was really hungry, so the chicken and tarts served to divert her\nattention for a time. It was well I secured this forage, or both she,\nI, and Sophie, to whom I conveyed a share of our repast, would have run\na chance of getting no dinner at all: every one downstairs was too much\nengaged to think of us. The dessert was not carried out till after\nnine; and at ten footmen were still running to and fro with trays and\ncoffee-cups. I allowed Ad le to sit up much later than usual; for she\ndeclared she could not possibly go to sleep while the doors kept\nopening and shutting below, and people bustling about. Besides, she\nadded, a message might possibly come from Mr. Rochester when she was\nundressed;  et alors quel dommage! \n\nI told her stories as long as she would listen to them; and then for a\nchange I took her out into the gallery. The hall lamp was now lit, and\nit amused her to look over the balustrade and watch the servants\npassing backwards and forwards. When the evening was far advanced, a\nsound of music issued from the drawing-room, whither the piano had been\nremoved; Ad le and I sat down on the top step of the stairs to listen.\nPresently a voice blent with the rich tones of the instrument; it was a\nlady who sang, and very sweet her notes were. The solo over, a duet\nfollowed, and then a glee: a joyous conversational murmur filled up the\nintervals. I listened long: suddenly I discovered that my ear was\nwholly intent on analysing the mingled sounds, and trying to\ndiscriminate amidst the confusion of accents those of Mr. Rochester;\nand when it caught them, which it soon did, it found a further task in\nframing the tones, rendered by distance inarticulate, into words.\n\nThe clock struck eleven. I looked at Ad le, whose head leant against my\nshoulder; her eyes were waxing heavy, so I took her up in my arms and\ncarried her off to bed. It was near one before the gentlemen and ladies\nsought their chambers.\n\nThe next day was as fine as its predecessor: it was devoted by the\nparty to an excursion to some site in the neighbourhood. They set out\nearly in the forenoon, some on horseback, the rest in carriages; I\nwitnessed both the departure and the return. Miss Ingram, as before,\nwas the only lady equestrian; and, as before, Mr. Rochester galloped at\nher side; the two rode a little apart from the rest. I pointed out this\ncircumstance to Mrs. Fairfax, who was standing at the window with me \n\n You said it was not likely they should think of being married,  said\nI,  but you see Mr. Rochester evidently prefers her to any of the other\nladies. \n\n Yes, I daresay: no doubt he admires her. \n\n And she him,  I added;  look how she leans her head towards him as if\nshe were conversing confidentially; I wish I could see her face; I have\nnever had a glimpse of it yet. \n\n You will see her this evening,  answered Mrs. Fairfax.  I happened to\nremark to Mr. Rochester how much Ad le wished to be introduced to the\nladies, and he said:  Oh! let her come into the drawing-room after\ndinner; and request Miss Eyre to accompany her. \n\n Yes; he said that from mere politeness: I need not go, I am sure,  I\nanswered.\n\n Well, I observed to him that as you were unused to company, I did not\nthink you would like appearing before so gay a party all strangers; and\nhe replied, in his quick way Nonsense! If she objects, tell her it is\nmy particular wish; and if she resists, say I shall come and fetch her\nin case of contumacy. \n\n I will not give him that trouble,  I answered.  I will go, if no\nbetter may be; but I don t like it. Shall you be there, Mrs. Fairfax? \n\n No; I pleaded off, and he admitted my plea. I ll tell you how to\nmanage so as to avoid the embarrassment of making a formal entrance,\nwhich is the most disagreeable part of the business. You must go into\nthe drawing-room while it is empty, before the ladies leave the\ndinner-table; choose your seat in any quiet nook you like; you need not\nstay long after the gentlemen come in, unless you please: just let Mr.\nRochester see you are there and then slip away nobody will notice you. \n\n Will these people remain long, do you think? \n\n Perhaps two or three weeks, certainly not more. After the Easter\nrecess, Sir George Lynn, who was lately elected member for Millcote,\nwill have to go up to town and take his seat; I daresay Mr. Rochester\nwill accompany him: it surprises me that he has already made so\nprotracted a stay at Thornfield. \n\nIt was with some trepidation that I perceived the hour approach when I\nwas to repair with my charge to the drawing-room. Ad le had been in a\nstate of ecstasy all day, after hearing she was to be presented to the\nladies in the evening; and it was not till Sophie commenced the\noperation of dressing her that she sobered down. Then the importance of\nthe process quickly steadied her, and by the time she had her curls\narranged in well-smoothed, drooping clusters, her pink satin frock put\non, her long sash tied, and her lace mittens adjusted, she looked as\ngrave as any judge. No need to warn her not to disarrange her attire:\nwhen she was dressed, she sat demurely down in her little chair, taking\ncare previously to lift up the satin skirt for fear she should crease\nit, and assured me she would not stir thence till I was ready. This I\nquickly was: my best dress (the silver-grey one, purchased for Miss\nTemple s wedding, and never worn since) was soon put on; my hair was\nsoon smoothed; my sole ornament, the pearl brooch, soon assumed. We\ndescended.\n\nFortunately there was another entrance to the drawing-room than that\nthrough the saloon where they were all seated at dinner. We found the\napartment vacant; a large fire burning silently on the marble hearth,\nand wax candles shining in bright solitude, amid the exquisite flowers\nwith which the tables were adorned. The crimson curtain hung before the\narch: slight as was the separation this drapery formed from the party\nin the adjoining saloon, they spoke in so low a key that nothing of\ntheir conversation could be distinguished beyond a soothing murmur.\n\nAd le, who appeared to be still under the influence of a most\nsolemnising impression, sat down, without a word, on the footstool I\npointed out to her. I retired to a window-seat, and taking a book from\na table near, endeavoured to read. Ad le brought her stool to my feet;\nere long she touched my knee.\n\n What is it, Ad le? \n\n Est-ce que je ne puis pas prendre une seule de ces fleurs magnifiques,\nmademoiselle? Seulement pour completer ma toilette. \n\n You think too much of your  toilette,  Ad le: but you may have a\nflower.  And I took a rose from a vase and fastened it in her sash. She\nsighed a sigh of ineffable satisfaction, as if her cup of happiness\nwere now full. I turned my face away to conceal a smile I could not\nsuppress: there was something ludicrous as well as painful in the\nlittle Parisienne s earnest and innate devotion to matters of dress.\n\nA soft sound of rising now became audible; the curtain was swept back\nfrom the arch; through it appeared the dining-room, with its lit lustre\npouring down light on the silver and glass of a magnificent\ndessert-service covering a long table; a band of ladies stood in the\nopening; they entered, and the curtain fell behind them.\n\nThere were but eight; yet, somehow, as they flocked in, they gave the\nimpression of a much larger number. Some of them were very tall; many\nwere dressed in white; and all had a sweeping amplitude of array that\nseemed to magnify their persons as a mist magnifies the moon. I rose\nand curtseyed to them: one or two bent their heads in return, the\nothers only stared at me.\n\nThey dispersed about the room, reminding me, by the lightness and\nbuoyancy of their movements, of a flock of white plumy birds. Some of\nthem threw themselves in half-reclining positions on the sofas and\nottomans: some bent over the tables and examined the flowers and books:\nthe rest gathered in a group round the fire: all talked in a low but\nclear tone which seemed habitual to them. I knew their names\nafterwards, and may as well mention them now.\n\nFirst, there was Mrs. Eshton and two of her daughters. She had\nevidently been a handsome woman, and was well preserved still. Of her\ndaughters, the eldest, Amy, was rather little: na ve, and child-like in\nface and manner, and piquant in form; her white muslin dress and blue\nsash became her well. The second, Louisa, was taller and more elegant\nin figure; with a very pretty face, of that order the French term\n_minois chiffon _: both sisters were fair as lilies.\n\nLady Lynn was a large and stout personage of about forty, very erect,\nvery haughty-looking, richly dressed in a satin robe of changeful\nsheen: her dark hair shone glossily under the shade of an azure plume,\nand within the circlet of a band of gems.\n\nMrs. Colonel Dent was less showy; but, I thought, more lady-like. She\nhad a slight figure, a pale, gentle face, and fair hair. Her black\nsatin dress, her scarf of rich foreign lace, and her pearl ornaments,\npleased me better than the rainbow radiance of the titled dame.\n\nBut the three most distinguished partly, perhaps, because the tallest\nfigures of the band were the Dowager Lady Ingram and her daughters,\nBlanche and Mary. They were all three of the loftiest stature of women.\nThe Dowager might be between forty and fifty: her shape was still fine;\nher hair (by candle-light at least) still black; her teeth, too, were\nstill apparently perfect. Most people would have termed her a splendid\nwoman of her age: and so she was, no doubt, physically speaking; but\nthen there was an expression of almost insupportable haughtiness in her\nbearing and countenance. She had Roman features and a double chin,\ndisappearing into a throat like a pillar: these features appeared to me\nnot only inflated and darkened, but even furrowed with pride; and the\nchin was sustained by the same principle, in a position of almost\npreternatural erectness. She had, likewise, a fierce and a hard eye: it\nreminded me of Mrs. Reed s; she mouthed her words in speaking; her\nvoice was deep, its inflections very pompous, very dogmatical, very\nintolerable, in short. A crimson velvet robe, and a shawl turban of\nsome gold-wrought Indian fabric, invested her (I suppose she thought)\nwith a truly imperial dignity.\n\nBlanche and Mary were of equal stature, straight and tall as poplars.\nMary was too slim for her height, but Blanche was moulded like a Dian.\nI regarded her, of course, with special interest. First, I wished to\nsee whether her appearance accorded with Mrs. Fairfax s description;\nsecondly, whether it at all resembled the fancy miniature I had painted\nof her; and thirdly it will out! whether it were such as I should fancy\nlikely to suit Mr. Rochester s taste.\n\nAs far as person went, she answered point for point, both to my picture\nand Mrs. Fairfax s description. The noble bust, the sloping shoulders,\nthe graceful neck, the dark eyes and black ringlets were all there; but\nher face? Her face was like her mother s; a youthful unfurrowed\nlikeness: the same low brow, the same high features, the same pride. It\nwas not, however, so saturnine a pride! she laughed continually; her\nlaugh was satirical, and so was the habitual expression of her arched\nand haughty lip.\n\nGenius is said to be self-conscious. I cannot tell whether Miss Ingram\nwas a genius, but she was self-conscious remarkably self-conscious\nindeed. She entered into a discourse on botany with the gentle Mrs.\nDent. It seemed Mrs. Dent had not studied that science: though, as she\nsaid, she liked flowers,  especially wild ones;  Miss Ingram had, and\nshe ran over its vocabulary with an air. I presently perceived she was\n(what is vernacularly termed) _trailing_ Mrs. Dent; that is, playing on\nher ignorance; her _trail_ might be clever, but it was decidedly not\ngood-natured. She played: her execution was brilliant; she sang: her\nvoice was fine; she talked French apart to her mamma; and she talked it\nwell, with fluency and with a good accent.\n\nMary had a milder and more open countenance than Blanche; softer\nfeatures too, and a skin some shades fairer (Miss Ingram was dark as a\nSpaniard) but Mary was deficient in life: her face lacked expression,\nher eye lustre; she had nothing to say, and having once taken her seat,\nremained fixed like a statue in its niche. The sisters were both\nattired in spotless white.\n\nAnd did I now think Miss Ingram such a choice as Mr. Rochester would be\nlikely to make? I could not tell I did not know his taste in female\nbeauty. If he liked the majestic, she was the very type of majesty:\nthen she was accomplished, sprightly. Most gentlemen would admire her,\nI thought; and that he _did_ admire her, I already seemed to have\nobtained proof: to remove the last shade of doubt, it remained but to\nsee them together.\n\nYou are not to suppose, reader, that Ad le has all this time been\nsitting motionless on the stool at my feet: no; when the ladies\nentered, she rose, advanced to meet them, made a stately reverence, and\nsaid with gravity \n\n Bon jour, mesdames. \n\nAnd Miss Ingram had looked down at her with a mocking air, and\nexclaimed,  Oh, what a little puppet! \n\nLady Lynn had remarked,  It is Mr. Rochester s ward, I suppose the\nlittle French girl he was speaking of. \n\nMrs. Dent had kindly taken her hand, and given her a kiss. Amy and\nLouisa Eshton had cried out simultaneously \n\n What a love of a child! \n\nAnd then they had called her to a sofa, where she now sat, ensconced\nbetween them, chattering alternately in French and broken English;\nabsorbing not only the young ladies  attention, but that of Mrs. Eshton\nand Lady Lynn, and getting spoilt to her heart s content.\n\nAt last coffee is brought in, and the gentlemen are summoned. I sit in\nthe shade if any shade there be in this brilliantly-lit apartment; the\nwindow-curtain half hides me. Again the arch yawns; they come. The\ncollective appearance of the gentlemen, like that of the ladies, is\nvery imposing: they are all costumed in black; most of them are tall,\nsome young. Henry and Frederick Lynn are very dashing sparks indeed;\nand Colonel Dent is a fine soldierly man. Mr. Eshton, the magistrate of\nthe district, is gentleman-like: his hair is quite white, his eyebrows\nand whiskers still dark, which gives him something of the appearance of\na  p re noble de th tre.  Lord Ingram, like his sisters, is very tall;\nlike them, also, he is handsome; but he shares Mary s apathetic and\nlistless look: he seems to have more length of limb than vivacity of\nblood or vigour of brain.\n\nAnd where is Mr. Rochester?\n\nHe comes in last: I am not looking at the arch, yet I see him enter. I\ntry to concentrate my attention on those netting-needles, on the meshes\nof the purse I am forming I wish to think only of the work I have in my\nhands, to see only the silver beads and silk threads that lie in my\nlap; whereas, I distinctly behold his figure, and I inevitably recall\nthe moment when I last saw it; just after I had rendered him, what he\ndeemed, an essential service, and he, holding my hand, and looking down\non my face, surveyed me with eyes that revealed a heart full and eager\nto overflow; in whose emotions I had a part. How near had I approached\nhim at that moment! What had occurred since, calculated to change his\nand my relative positions? Yet now, how distant, how far estranged we\nwere! So far estranged, that I did not expect him to come and speak to\nme. I did not wonder, when, without looking at me, he took a seat at\nthe other side of the room, and began conversing with some of the\nladies.\n\nNo sooner did I see that his attention was riveted on them, and that I\nmight gaze without being observed, than my eyes were drawn\ninvoluntarily to his face; I could not keep their lids under control:\nthey would rise, and the irids would fix on him. I looked, and had an\nacute pleasure in looking, a precious yet poignant pleasure; pure gold,\nwith a steely point of agony: a pleasure like what the thirst-perishing\nman might feel who knows the well to which he has crept is poisoned,\nyet stoops and drinks divine draughts nevertheless.\n\nMost true is it that  beauty is in the eye of the gazer.  My master s\ncolourless, olive face, square, massive brow, broad and jetty eyebrows,\ndeep eyes, strong features, firm, grim mouth, all energy, decision,\nwill, were not beautiful, according to rule; but they were more than\nbeautiful to me; they were full of an interest, an influence that quite\nmastered me, that took my feelings from my own power and fettered them\nin his. I had not intended to love him; the reader knows I had wrought\nhard to extirpate from my soul the germs of love there detected; and\nnow, at the first renewed view of him, they spontaneously arrived,\ngreen and strong! He made me love him without looking at me.\n\nI compared him with his guests. What was the gallant grace of the\nLynns, the languid elegance of Lord Ingram, even the military\ndistinction of Colonel Dent, contrasted with his look of native pith\nand genuine power? I had no sympathy in their appearance, their\nexpression: yet I could imagine that most observers would call them\nattractive, handsome, imposing; while they would pronounce Mr.\nRochester at once harsh-featured and melancholy-looking. I saw them\nsmile, laugh it was nothing; the light of the candles had as much soul\nin it as their smile; the tinkle of the bell as much significance as\ntheir laugh. I saw Mr. Rochester smile: his stern features softened;\nhis eye grew both brilliant and gentle, its ray both searching and\nsweet. He was talking, at the moment, to Louisa and Amy Eshton. I\nwondered to see them receive with calm that look which seemed to me so\npenetrating: I expected their eyes to fall, their colour to rise under\nit; yet I was glad when I found they were in no sense moved.  He is not\nto them what he is to me,  I thought:  he is not of their kind. I\nbelieve he is of mine; I am sure he is I feel akin to him I understand\nthe language of his countenance and movements: though rank and wealth\nsever us widely, I have something in my brain and heart, in my blood\nand nerves, that assimilates me mentally to him. Did I say, a few days\nsince, that I had nothing to do with him but to receive my salary at\nhis hands? Did I forbid myself to think of him in any other light than\nas a paymaster? Blasphemy against nature! Every good, true, vigorous\nfeeling I have gathers impulsively round him. I know I must conceal my\nsentiments: I must smother hope; I must remember that he cannot care\nmuch for me. For when I say that I am of his kind, I do not mean that I\nhave his force to influence, and his spell to attract; I mean only that\nI have certain tastes and feelings in common with him. I must, then,\nrepeat continually that we are for ever sundered: and yet, while I\nbreathe and think, I must love him. \n\nCoffee is handed. The ladies, since the gentlemen entered, have become\nlively as larks; conversation waxes brisk and merry. Colonel Dent and\nMr. Eshton argue on politics; their wives listen. The two proud\ndowagers, Lady Lynn and Lady Ingram, confabulate together. Sir\nGeorge whom, by-the-bye, I have forgotten to describe, a very big, and\nvery fresh-looking country gentleman, stands before their sofa,\ncoffee-cup in hand, and occasionally puts in a word. Mr. Frederick Lynn\nhas taken a seat beside Mary Ingram, and is showing her the engravings\nof a splendid volume: she looks, smiles now and then, but apparently\nsays little. The tall and phlegmatic Lord Ingram leans with folded arms\non the chair-back of the little and lively Amy Eshton; she glances up\nat him, and chatters like a wren: she likes him better than she does\nMr. Rochester. Henry Lynn has taken possession of an ottoman at the\nfeet of Louisa: Ad le shares it with him: he is trying to talk French\nwith her, and Louisa laughs at his blunders. With whom will Blanche\nIngram pair? She is standing alone at the table, bending gracefully\nover an album. She seems waiting to be sought; but she will not wait\ntoo long: she herself selects a mate.\n\nMr. Rochester, having quitted the Eshtons, stands on the hearth as\nsolitary as she stands by the table: she confronts him, taking her\nstation on the opposite side of the mantelpiece.\n\n Mr. Rochester, I thought you were not fond of children? \n\n Nor am I. \n\n Then, what induced you to take charge of such a little doll as that? \n(pointing to Ad le).  Where did you pick her up? \n\n I did not pick her up; she was left on my hands. \n\n You should have sent her to school. \n\n I could not afford it: schools are so dear. \n\n Why, I suppose you have a governess for her: I saw a person with her\njust now is she gone? Oh, no! there she is still, behind the\nwindow-curtain. You pay her, of course; I should think it quite as\nexpensive, more so; for you have them both to keep in addition. \n\nI feared or should I say, hoped? the allusion to me would make Mr.\nRochester glance my way; and I involuntarily shrank farther into the\nshade: but he never turned his eyes.\n\n I have not considered the subject,  said he indifferently, looking\nstraight before him.\n\n No, you men never do consider economy and common sense. You should\nhear mama on the chapter of governesses: Mary and I have had, I should\nthink, a dozen at least in our day; half of them detestable and the\nrest ridiculous, and all incubi were they not, mama? \n\n Did you speak, my own? \n\nThe young lady thus claimed as the dowager s special property,\nreiterated her question with an explanation.\n\n My dearest, don t mention governesses; the word makes me nervous. I\nhave suffered a martyrdom from their incompetency and caprice. I thank\nHeaven I have now done with them! \n\nMrs. Dent here bent over to the pious lady and whispered something in\nher ear; I suppose, from the answer elicited, it was a reminder that\none of the anathematised race was present.\n\n Tant pis!  said her Ladyship,  I hope it may do her good!  Then, in a\nlower tone, but still loud enough for me to hear,  I noticed her; I am\na judge of physiognomy, and in hers I see all the faults of her class. \n\n What are they, madam?  inquired Mr. Rochester aloud.\n\n I will tell you in your private ear,  replied she, wagging her turban\nthree times with portentous significancy.\n\n But my curiosity will be past its appetite; it craves food now. \n\n Ask Blanche; she is nearer you than I. \n\n Oh, don t refer him to me, mama! I have just one word to say of the\nwhole tribe; they are a nuisance. Not that I ever suffered much from\nthem; I took care to turn the tables. What tricks Theodore and I used\nto play on our Miss Wilsons, and Mrs. Greys, and Madame Jouberts! Mary\nwas always too sleepy to join in a plot with spirit. The best fun was\nwith Madame Joubert: Miss Wilson was a poor sickly thing, lachrymose\nand low-spirited, not worth the trouble of vanquishing, in short; and\nMrs. Grey was coarse and insensible; no blow took effect on her. But\npoor Madame Joubert! I see her yet in her raging passions, when we had\ndriven her to extremities spilt our tea, crumbled our bread and butter,\ntossed our books up to the ceiling, and played a charivari with the\nruler and desk, the fender and fire-irons. Theodore, do you remember\nthose merry days? \n\n Yaas, to be sure I do,  drawled Lord Ingram;  and the poor old stick\nused to cry out,  Oh you villains childs! and then we sermonised her on\nthe presumption of attempting to teach such clever blades as we were,\nwhen she was herself so ignorant. \n\n We did; and, Tedo, you know, I helped you in prosecuting (or\npersecuting) your tutor, whey-faced Mr. Vining the parson in the pip,\nas we used to call him. He and Miss Wilson took the liberty of falling\nin love with each other at least Tedo and I thought so; we surprised\nsundry tender glances and sighs which we interpreted as tokens of  la\nbelle passion,  and I promise you the public soon had the benefit of\nour discovery; we employed it as a sort of lever to hoist our\ndead-weights from the house. Dear mama, there, as soon as she got an\ninkling of the business, found out that it was of an immoral tendency.\nDid you not, my lady-mother? \n\n Certainly, my best. And I was quite right: depend on that: there are a\nthousand reasons why liaisons between governesses and tutors should\nnever be tolerated a moment in any well-regulated house; firstly \n\n Oh, gracious, mama! Spare us the enumeration! _Au reste_, we all know\nthem: danger of bad example to innocence of childhood; distractions and\nconsequent neglect of duty on the part of the attached mutual alliance\nand reliance; confidence thence resulting insolence accompanying mutiny\nand general blow-up. Am I right, Baroness Ingram, of Ingram Park? \n\n My lily-flower, you are right now, as always. \n\n Then no more need be said: change the subject. \n\nAmy Eshton, not hearing or not heeding this dictum, joined in with her\nsoft, infantine tone:  Louisa and I used to quiz our governess too; but\nshe was such a good creature, she would bear anything: nothing put her\nout. She was never cross with us; was she, Louisa? \n\n No, never: we might do what we pleased; ransack her desk and her\nworkbox, and turn her drawers inside out; and she was so good-natured,\nshe would give us anything we asked for. \n\n I suppose, now,  said Miss Ingram, curling her lip sarcastically,  we\nshall have an abstract of the memoirs of all the governesses extant: in\norder to avert such a visitation, I again move the introduction of a\nnew topic. Mr. Rochester, do you second my motion? \n\n Madam, I support you on this point, as on every other. \n\n Then on me be the onus of bringing it forward. Signior Eduardo, are\nyou in voice to-night? \n\n Donna Bianca, if you command it, I will be. \n\n Then, signior, I lay on you my sovereign behest to furbish up your\nlungs and other vocal organs, as they will be wanted on my royal\nservice. \n\n Who would not be the Rizzio of so divine a Mary? \n\n A fig for Rizzio!  cried she, tossing her head with all its curls, as\nshe moved to the piano.  It is my opinion the fiddler David must have\nbeen an insipid sort of fellow; I like black Bothwell better: to my\nmind a man is nothing without a spice of the devil in him; and history\nmay say what it will of James Hepburn, but I have a notion, he was just\nthe sort of wild, fierce, bandit hero whom I could have consented to\ngift with my hand. \n\n Gentlemen, you hear! Now which of you most resembles Bothwell?  cried\nMr. Rochester.\n\n I should say the preference lies with you,  responded Colonel Dent.\n\n On my honour, I am much obliged to you,  was the reply.\n\nMiss Ingram, who had now seated herself with proud grace at the piano,\nspreading out her snowy robes in queenly amplitude, commenced a\nbrilliant prelude; talking meantime. She appeared to be on her high\nhorse to-night; both her words and her air seemed intended to excite\nnot only the admiration, but the amazement of her auditors: she was\nevidently bent on striking them as something very dashing and daring\nindeed.\n\n Oh, I am so sick of the young men of the present day!  exclaimed she,\nrattling away at the instrument.  Poor, puny things, not fit to stir a\nstep beyond papa s park gates: nor to go even so far without mama s\npermission and guardianship! Creatures so absorbed in care about their\npretty faces, and their white hands, and their small feet; as if a man\nhad anything to do with beauty! As if loveliness were not the special\nprerogative of woman her legitimate appanage and heritage! I grant an\nugly _woman_ is a blot on the fair face of creation; but as to the\n_gentlemen_, let them be solicitous to possess only strength and\nvalour: let their motto be: Hunt, shoot, and fight: the rest is not\nworth a fillip. Such should be my device, were I a man. \n\n Whenever I marry,  she continued after a pause which none interrupted,\n I am resolved my husband shall not be a rival, but a foil to me. I\nwill suffer no competitor near the throne; I shall exact an undivided\nhomage: his devotions shall not be shared between me and the shape he\nsees in his mirror. Mr. Rochester, now sing, and I will play for you. \n\n I am all obedience,  was the response.\n\n Here then is a Corsair-song. Know that I doat on Corsairs; and for\nthat reason, sing it _con spirito_. \n\n Commands from Miss Ingram s lips would put spirit into a mug of milk\nand water. \n\n Take care, then: if you don t please me, I will shame you by showing\nhow such things _should_ be done. \n\n That is offering a premium on incapacity: I shall now endeavour to\nfail. \n\n Gardez-vous en bien! If you err wilfully, I shall devise a\nproportionate punishment. \n\n Miss Ingram ought to be clement, for she has it in her power to\ninflict a chastisement beyond mortal endurance. \n\n Ha! explain!  commanded the lady.\n\n Pardon me, madam: no need of explanation; your own fine sense must\ninform you that one of your frowns would be a sufficient substitute for\ncapital punishment. \n\n Sing!  said she, and again touching the piano, she commenced an\naccompaniment in spirited style.\n\n Now is my time to slip away,  thought I: but the tones that then\nsevered the air arrested me. Mrs. Fairfax had said Mr. Rochester\npossessed a fine voice: he did a mellow, powerful bass, into which he\nthrew his own feeling, his own force; finding a way through the ear to\nthe heart, and there waking sensation strangely. I waited till the last\ndeep and full vibration had expired till the tide of talk, checked an\ninstant, had resumed its flow; I then quitted my sheltered corner and\nmade my exit by the side-door, which was fortunately near. Thence a\nnarrow passage led into the hall: in crossing it, I perceived my sandal\nwas loose; I stopped to tie it, kneeling down for that purpose on the\nmat at the foot of the staircase. I heard the dining-room door unclose;\na gentleman came out; rising hastily, I stood face to face with him: it\nwas Mr. Rochester.\n\n How do you do?  he asked.\n\n I am very well, sir. \n\n Why did you not come and speak to me in the room? \n\nI thought I might have retorted the question on him who put it: but I\nwould not take that freedom. I answered \n\n I did not wish to disturb you, as you seemed engaged, sir. \n\n What have you been doing during my absence? \n\n Nothing particular; teaching Ad le as usual. \n\n And getting a good deal paler than you were as I saw at first sight.\nWhat is the matter? \n\n Nothing at all, sir. \n\n Did you take any cold that night you half drowned me? \n\n Not the least. \n\n Return to the drawing-room: you are deserting too early. \n\n I am tired, sir. \n\nHe looked at me for a minute.\n\n And a little depressed,  he said.  What about? Tell me. \n\n Nothing nothing, sir. I am not depressed. \n\n But I affirm that you are: so much depressed that a few more words\nwould bring tears to your eyes indeed, they are there now, shining and\nswimming; and a bead has slipped from the lash and fallen on to the\nflag. If I had time, and was not in mortal dread of some prating prig\nof a servant passing, I would know what all this means. Well, to-night\nI excuse you; but understand that so long as my visitors stay, I expect\nyou to appear in the drawing-room every evening; it is my wish; don t\nneglect it. Now go, and send Sophie for Ad le. Good-night, my  He\nstopped, bit his lip, and abruptly left me.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\n\nMerry days were these at Thornfield Hall; and busy days too: how\ndifferent from the first three months of stillness, monotony, and\nsolitude I had passed beneath its roof! All sad feelings seemed now\ndriven from the house, all gloomy associations forgotten: there was\nlife everywhere, movement all day long. You could not now traverse the\ngallery, once so hushed, nor enter the front chambers, once so\ntenantless, without encountering a smart lady s-maid or a dandy valet.\n\nThe kitchen, the butler s pantry, the servants  hall, the entrance\nhall, were equally alive; and the saloons were only left void and still\nwhen the blue sky and halcyon sunshine of the genial spring weather\ncalled their occupants out into the grounds. Even when that weather was\nbroken, and continuous rain set in for some days, no damp seemed cast\nover enjoyment: indoor amusements only became more lively and varied,\nin consequence of the stop put to outdoor gaiety.\n\nI wondered what they were going to do the first evening a change of\nentertainment was proposed: they spoke of  playing charades,  but in my\nignorance I did not understand the term. The servants were called in,\nthe dining-room tables wheeled away, the lights otherwise disposed, the\nchairs placed in a semicircle opposite the arch. While Mr. Rochester\nand the other gentlemen directed these alterations, the ladies were\nrunning up and down stairs ringing for their maids. Mrs. Fairfax was\nsummoned to give information respecting the resources of the house in\nshawls, dresses, draperies of any kind; and certain wardrobes of the\nthird storey were ransacked, and their contents, in the shape of\nbrocaded and hooped petticoats, satin sacques, black modes, lace\nlappets, &c., were brought down in armfuls by the abigails; then a\nselection was made, and such things as were chosen were carried to the\nboudoir within the drawing-room.\n\nMeantime, Mr. Rochester had again summoned the ladies round him, and\nwas selecting certain of their number to be of his party.  Miss Ingram\nis mine, of course,  said he: afterwards he named the two Misses\nEshton, and Mrs. Dent. He looked at me: I happened to be near him, as I\nhad been fastening the clasp of Mrs. Dent s bracelet, which had got\nloose.\n\n Will you play?  he asked. I shook my head. He did not insist, which I\nrather feared he would have done; he allowed me to return quietly to my\nusual seat.\n\nHe and his aids now withdrew behind the curtain: the other party, which\nwas headed by Colonel Dent, sat down on the crescent of chairs. One of\nthe gentlemen, Mr. Eshton, observing me, seemed to propose that I\nshould be asked to join them; but Lady Ingram instantly negatived the\nnotion.\n\n No,  I heard her say:  she looks too stupid for any game of the sort. \n\nEre long a bell tinkled, and the curtain drew up. Within the arch, the\nbulky figure of Sir George Lynn, whom Mr. Rochester had likewise\nchosen, was seen enveloped in a white sheet: before him, on a table,\nlay open a large book; and at his side stood Amy Eshton, draped in Mr.\nRochester s cloak, and holding a book in her hand. Somebody, unseen,\nrang the bell merrily; then Ad le (who had insisted on being one of her\nguardian s party), bounded forward, scattering round her the contents\nof a basket of flowers she carried on her arm. Then appeared the\nmagnificent figure of Miss Ingram, clad in white, a long veil on her\nhead, and a wreath of roses round her brow; by her side walked Mr.\nRochester, and together they drew near the table. They knelt; while\nMrs. Dent and Louisa Eshton, dressed also in white, took up their\nstations behind them. A ceremony followed, in dumb show, in which it\nwas easy to recognise the pantomime of a marriage. At its termination,\nColonel Dent and his party consulted in whispers for two minutes, then\nthe Colonel called out \n\n Bride!  Mr. Rochester bowed, and the curtain fell.\n\nA considerable interval elapsed before it again rose. Its second rising\ndisplayed a more elaborately prepared scene than the last. The\ndrawing-room, as I have before observed, was raised two steps above the\ndining-room, and on the top of the upper step, placed a yard or two\nback within the room, appeared a large marble basin, which I recognised\nas an ornament of the conservatory where it usually stood, surrounded\nby exotics, and tenanted by gold fish and whence it must have been\ntransported with some trouble, on account of its size and weight.\n\nSeated on the carpet, by the side of this basin, was seen Mr.\nRochester, costumed in shawls, with a turban on his head. His dark eyes\nand swarthy skin and Paynim features suited the costume exactly: he\nlooked the very model of an Eastern emir, an agent or a victim of the\nbowstring. Presently advanced into view Miss Ingram. She, too, was\nattired in oriental fashion: a crimson scarf tied sash-like round the\nwaist: an embroidered handkerchief knotted about her temples; her\nbeautifully-moulded arms bare, one of them upraised in the act of\nsupporting a pitcher, poised gracefully on her head. Both her cast of\nform and feature, her complexion and her general air, suggested the\nidea of some Israelitish princess of the patriarchal days; and such was\ndoubtless the character she intended to represent.\n\nShe approached the basin, and bent over it as if to fill her pitcher;\nshe again lifted it to her head. The personage on the well-brink now\nseemed to accost her; to make some request: She hasted, let down her\npitcher on her hand, and gave him to drink.  From the bosom of his robe\nhe then produced a casket, opened it and showed magnificent bracelets\nand earrings; she acted astonishment and admiration; kneeling, he laid\nthe treasure at her feet; incredulity and delight were expressed by her\nlooks and gestures; the stranger fastened the bracelets on her arms and\nthe rings in her ears. It was Eliezer and Rebecca: the camels only were\nwanting.\n\nThe divining party again laid their heads together: apparently they\ncould not agree about the word or syllable the scene illustrated.\nColonel Dent, their spokesman, demanded  the tableau of the whole; \nwhereupon the curtain again descended.\n\nOn its third rising only a portion of the drawing-room was disclosed;\nthe rest being concealed by a screen, hung with some sort of dark and\ncoarse drapery. The marble basin was removed; in its place, stood a\ndeal table and a kitchen chair: these objects were visible by a very\ndim light proceeding from a horn lantern, the wax candles being all\nextinguished.\n\nAmidst this sordid scene, sat a man with his clenched hands resting on\nhis knees, and his eyes bent on the ground. I knew Mr. Rochester;\nthough the begrimed face, the disordered dress (his coat hanging loose\nfrom one arm, as if it had been almost torn from his back in a\nscuffle), the desperate and scowling countenance, the rough, bristling\nhair might well have disguised him. As he moved, a chain clanked; to\nhis wrists were attached fetters.\n\n Bridewell!  exclaimed Colonel Dent, and the charade was solved.\n\nA sufficient interval having elapsed for the performers to resume their\nordinary costume, they re-entered the dining-room. Mr. Rochester led in\nMiss Ingram; she was complimenting him on his acting.\n\n Do you know,  said she,  that, of the three characters, I liked you in\nthe last best? Oh, had you but lived a few years earlier, what a\ngallant gentleman-highwayman you would have made! \n\n Is all the soot washed from my face?  he asked, turning it towards\nher.\n\n Alas! yes: the more s the pity! Nothing could be more becoming to your\ncomplexion than that ruffian s rouge. \n\n You would like a hero of the road then? \n\n An English hero of the road would be the next best thing to an Italian\nbandit; and that could only be surpassed by a Levantine pirate. \n\n Well, whatever I am, remember you are my wife; we were married an hour\nsince, in the presence of all these witnesses.  She giggled, and her\ncolour rose.\n\n Now, Dent,  continued Mr. Rochester,  it is your turn.  And as the\nother party withdrew, he and his band took the vacated seats. Miss\nIngram placed herself at her leader s right hand; the other diviners\nfilled the chairs on each side of him and her. I did not now watch the\nactors; I no longer waited with interest for the curtain to rise; my\nattention was absorbed by the spectators; my eyes, erewhile fixed on\nthe arch, were now irresistibly attracted to the semicircle of chairs.\nWhat charade Colonel Dent and his party played, what word they chose,\nhow they acquitted themselves, I no longer remember; but I still see\nthe consultation which followed each scene: I see Mr. Rochester turn to\nMiss Ingram, and Miss Ingram to him; I see her incline her head towards\nhim, till the jetty curls almost touch his shoulder and wave against\nhis cheek; I hear their mutual whisperings; I recall their interchanged\nglances; and something even of the feeling roused by the spectacle\nreturns in memory at this moment.\n\nI have told you, reader, that I had learnt to love Mr. Rochester: I\ncould not unlove him now, merely because I found that he had ceased to\nnotice me because I might pass hours in his presence, and he would\nnever once turn his eyes in my direction because I saw all his\nattentions appropriated by a great lady, who scorned to touch me with\nthe hem of her robes as she passed; who, if ever her dark and imperious\neye fell on me by chance, would withdraw it instantly as from an object\ntoo mean to merit observation. I could not unlove him, because I felt\nsure he would soon marry this very lady because I read daily in her a\nproud security in his intentions respecting her because I witnessed\nhourly in him a style of courtship which, if careless and choosing\nrather to be sought than to seek, was yet, in its very carelessness,\ncaptivating, and in its very pride, irresistible.\n\nThere was nothing to cool or banish love in these circumstances, though\nmuch to create despair. Much too, you will think, reader, to engender\njealousy: if a woman, in my position, could presume to be jealous of a\nwoman in Miss Ingram s. But I was not jealous: or very rarely; the\nnature of the pain I suffered could not be explained by that word. Miss\nIngram was a mark beneath jealousy: she was too inferior to excite the\nfeeling. Pardon the seeming paradox; I mean what I say. She was very\nshowy, but she was not genuine: she had a fine person, many brilliant\nattainments; but her mind was poor, her heart barren by nature: nothing\nbloomed spontaneously on that soil; no unforced natural fruit delighted\nby its freshness. She was not good; she was not original: she used to\nrepeat sounding phrases from books: she never offered, nor had, an\nopinion of her own. She advocated a high tone of sentiment; but she did\nnot know the sensations of sympathy and pity; tenderness and truth were\nnot in her. Too often she betrayed this, by the undue vent she gave to\na spiteful antipathy she had conceived against little Ad le: pushing\nher away with some contumelious epithet if she happened to approach\nher; sometimes ordering her from the room, and always treating her with\ncoldness and acrimony. Other eyes besides mine watched these\nmanifestations of character watched them closely, keenly, shrewdly.\nYes; the future bridegroom, Mr. Rochester himself, exercised over his\nintended a ceaseless surveillance; and it was from this sagacity this\nguardedness of his this perfect, clear consciousness of his fair one s\ndefects this obvious absence of passion in his sentiments towards her,\nthat my ever-torturing pain arose.\n\nI saw he was going to marry her, for family, perhaps political reasons,\nbecause her rank and connections suited him; I felt he had not given\nher his love, and that her qualifications were ill adapted to win from\nhim that treasure. This was the point this was where the nerve was\ntouched and teased this was where the fever was sustained and fed: _she\ncould not charm him_.\n\nIf she had managed the victory at once, and he had yielded and\nsincerely laid his heart at her feet, I should have covered my face,\nturned to the wall, and (figuratively) have died to them. If Miss\nIngram had been a good and noble woman, endowed with force, fervour,\nkindness, sense, I should have had one vital struggle with two\ntigers jealousy and despair: then, my heart torn out and devoured, I\nshould have admired her acknowledged her excellence, and been quiet for\nthe rest of my days: and the more absolute her superiority, the deeper\nwould have been my admiration the more truly tranquil my quiescence.\nBut as matters really stood, to watch Miss Ingram s efforts at\nfascinating Mr. Rochester, to witness their repeated failure herself\nunconscious that they did fail; vainly fancying that each shaft\nlaunched hit the mark, and infatuatedly pluming herself on success,\nwhen her pride and self-complacency repelled further and further what\nshe wished to allure to witness _this_, was to be at once under\nceaseless excitation and ruthless restraint.\n\nBecause, when she failed, I saw how she might have succeeded. Arrows\nthat continually glanced off from Mr. Rochester s breast and fell\nharmless at his feet, might, I knew, if shot by a surer hand, have\nquivered keen in his proud heart have called love into his stern eye,\nand softness into his sardonic face; or, better still, without weapons\na silent conquest might have been won.\n\n Why can she not influence him more, when she is privileged to draw so\nnear to him?  I asked myself.  Surely she cannot truly like him, or not\nlike him with true affection! If she did, she need not coin her smiles\nso lavishly, flash her glances so unremittingly, manufacture airs so\nelaborate, graces so multitudinous. It seems to me that she might, by\nmerely sitting quietly at his side, saying little and looking less, get\nnigher his heart. I have seen in his face a far different expression\nfrom that which hardens it now while she is so vivaciously accosting\nhim; but then it came of itself: it was not elicited by meretricious\narts and calculated manoeuvres; and one had but to accept it to answer\nwhat he asked without pretension, to address him when needful without\ngrimace and it increased and grew kinder and more genial, and warmed\none like a fostering sunbeam. How will she manage to please him when\nthey are married? I do not think she will manage it; and yet it might\nbe managed; and his wife might, I verily believe, be the very happiest\nwoman the sun shines on. \n\nI have not yet said anything condemnatory of Mr. Rochester s project of\nmarrying for interest and connections. It surprised me when I first\ndiscovered that such was his intention: I had thought him a man\nunlikely to be influenced by motives so commonplace in his choice of a\nwife; but the longer I considered the position, education, &c., of the\nparties, the less I felt justified in judging and blaming either him or\nMiss Ingram for acting in conformity to ideas and principles instilled\ninto them, doubtless, from their childhood. All their class held these\nprinciples: I supposed, then, they had reasons for holding them such as\nI could not fathom. It seemed to me that, were I a gentleman like him,\nI would take to my bosom only such a wife as I could love; but the very\nobviousness of the advantages to the husband s own happiness offered by\nthis plan convinced me that there must be arguments against its general\nadoption of which I was quite ignorant: otherwise I felt sure all the\nworld would act as I wished to act.\n\nBut in other points, as well as this, I was growing very lenient to my\nmaster: I was forgetting all his faults, for which I had once kept a\nsharp look-out. It had formerly been my endeavour to study all sides of\nhis character: to take the bad with the good; and from the just\nweighing of both, to form an equitable judgment. Now I saw no bad. The\nsarcasm that had repelled, the harshness that had startled me once,\nwere only like keen condiments in a choice dish: their presence was\npungent, but their absence would be felt as comparatively insipid. And\nas for the vague something was it a sinister or a sorrowful, a\ndesigning or a desponding expression? that opened upon a careful\nobserver, now and then, in his eye, and closed again before one could\nfathom the strange depth partially disclosed; that something which used\nto make me fear and shrink, as if I had been wandering amongst\nvolcanic-looking hills, and had suddenly felt the ground quiver and\nseen it gape: that something, I, at intervals, beheld still; and with\nthrobbing heart, but not with palsied nerves. Instead of wishing to\nshun, I longed only to dare to divine it; and I thought Miss Ingram\nhappy, because one day she might look into the abyss at her leisure,\nexplore its secrets and analyse their nature.\n\nMeantime, while I thought only of my master and his future bride saw\nonly them, heard only their discourse, and considered only their\nmovements of importance the rest of the party were occupied with their\nown separate interests and pleasures. The Ladies Lynn and Ingram\ncontinued to consort in solemn conferences, where they nodded their two\nturbans at each other, and held up their four hands in confronting\ngestures of surprise, or mystery, or horror, according to the theme on\nwhich their gossip ran, like a pair of magnified puppets. Mild Mrs.\nDent talked with good-natured Mrs. Eshton; and the two sometimes\nbestowed a courteous word or smile on me. Sir George Lynn, Colonel\nDent, and Mr. Eshton discussed politics, or county affairs, or justice\nbusiness. Lord Ingram flirted with Amy Eshton; Louisa played and sang\nto and with one of the Messrs. Lynn; and Mary Ingram listened languidly\nto the gallant speeches of the other. Sometimes all, as with one\nconsent, suspended their by-play to observe and listen to the principal\nactors: for, after all, Mr. Rochester and because closely connected\nwith him Miss Ingram were the life and soul of the party. If he was\nabsent from the room an hour, a perceptible dulness seemed to steal\nover the spirits of his guests; and his re-entrance was sure to give a\nfresh impulse to the vivacity of conversation.\n\nThe want of his animating influence appeared to be peculiarly felt one\nday that he had been summoned to Millcote on business, and was not\nlikely to return till late. The afternoon was wet: a walk the party had\nproposed to take to see a gipsy camp, lately pitched on a common beyond\nHay, was consequently deferred. Some of the gentlemen were gone to the\nstables: the younger ones, together with the younger ladies, were\nplaying billiards in the billiard-room. The dowagers Ingram and Lynn\nsought solace in a quiet game at cards. Blanche Ingram, after having\nrepelled, by supercilious taciturnity, some efforts of Mrs. Dent and\nMrs. Eshton to draw her into conversation, had first murmured over some\nsentimental tunes and airs on the piano, and then, having fetched a\nnovel from the library, had flung herself in haughty listlessness on a\nsofa, and prepared to beguile, by the spell of fiction, the tedious\nhours of absence. The room and the house were silent: only now and then\nthe merriment of the billiard-players was heard from above.\n\nIt was verging on dusk, and the clock had already given warning of the\nhour to dress for dinner, when little Ad le, who knelt by me in the\ndrawing-room window-seat, suddenly exclaimed \n\n Voil  Monsieur Rochester, qui revient! \n\nI turned, and Miss Ingram darted forwards from her sofa: the others,\ntoo, looked up from their several occupations; for at the same time a\ncrunching of wheels and a splashing tramp of horse-hoofs became audible\non the wet gravel. A post-chaise was approaching.\n\n What can possess him to come home in that style?  said Miss Ingram.\n He rode Mesrour (the black horse), did he not, when he went out? and\nPilot was with him: what has he done with the animals? \n\nAs she said this, she approached her tall person and ample garments so\nnear the window, that I was obliged to bend back almost to the breaking\nof my spine: in her eagerness she did not observe me at first, but when\nshe did, she curled her lip and moved to another casement. The\npost-chaise stopped; the driver rang the door-bell, and a gentleman\nalighted attired in travelling garb; but it was not Mr. Rochester; it\nwas a tall, fashionable-looking man, a stranger.\n\n How provoking!  exclaimed Miss Ingram:  you tiresome monkey! \n(apostrophising Ad le),  who perched you up in the window to give false\nintelligence?  and she cast on me an angry glance, as if I were in\nfault.\n\nSome parleying was audible in the hall, and soon the new-comer entered.\nHe bowed to Lady Ingram, as deeming her the eldest lady present.\n\n It appears I come at an inopportune time, madam,  said he,  when my\nfriend, Mr. Rochester, is from home; but I arrive from a very long\njourney, and I think I may presume so far on old and intimate\nacquaintance as to instal myself here till he returns. \n\nHis manner was polite; his accent, in speaking, struck me as being\nsomewhat unusual, not precisely foreign, but still not altogether\nEnglish: his age might be about Mr. Rochester s, between thirty and\nforty; his complexion was singularly sallow: otherwise he was a\nfine-looking man, at first sight especially. On closer examination, you\ndetected something in his face that displeased, or rather that failed\nto please. His features were regular, but too relaxed: his eye was\nlarge and well cut, but the life looking out of it was a tame, vacant\nlife at least so I thought.\n\nThe sound of the dressing-bell dispersed the party. It was not till\nafter dinner that I saw him again: he then seemed quite at his ease.\nBut I liked his physiognomy even less than before: it struck me as\nbeing at the same time unsettled and inanimate. His eye wandered, and\nhad no meaning in its wandering: this gave him an odd look, such as I\nnever remembered to have seen. For a handsome and not an\nunamiable-looking man, he repelled me exceedingly: there was no power\nin that smooth-skinned face of a full oval shape: no firmness in that\naquiline nose and small cherry mouth; there was no thought on the low,\neven forehead; no command in that blank, brown eye.\n\nAs I sat in my usual nook, and looked at him with the light of the\ngirandoles on the mantelpiece beaming full over him for he occupied an\narm-chair drawn close to the fire, and kept shrinking still nearer, as\nif he were cold, I compared him with Mr. Rochester. I think (with\ndeference be it spoken) the contrast could not be much greater between\na sleek gander and a fierce falcon: between a meek sheep and the\nrough-coated keen-eyed dog, its guardian.\n\nHe had spoken of Mr. Rochester as an old friend. A curious friendship\ntheirs must have been: a pointed illustration, indeed, of the old adage\nthat  extremes meet. \n\nTwo or three of the gentlemen sat near him, and I caught at times\nscraps of their conversation across the room. At first I could not make\nmuch sense of what I heard; for the discourse of Louisa Eshton and Mary\nIngram, who sat nearer to me, confused the fragmentary sentences that\nreached me at intervals. These last were discussing the stranger; they\nboth called him  a beautiful man.  Louisa said he was  a love of a\ncreature,  and she  adored him;  and Mary instanced his  pretty little\nmouth, and nice nose,  as her ideal of the charming.\n\n And what a sweet-tempered forehead he has!  cried Louisa, so\nsmooth none of those frowning irregularities I dislike so much; and\nsuch a placid eye and smile! \n\nAnd then, to my great relief, Mr. Henry Lynn summoned them to the other\nside of the room, to settle some point about the deferred excursion to\nHay Common.\n\nI was now able to concentrate my attention on the group by the fire,\nand I presently gathered that the new-comer was called Mr. Mason; then\nI learned that he was but just arrived in England, and that he came\nfrom some hot country: which was the reason, doubtless, his face was so\nsallow, and that he sat so near the hearth, and wore a surtout in the\nhouse. Presently the words Jamaica, Kingston, Spanish Town, indicated\nthe West Indies as his residence; and it was with no little surprise I\ngathered, ere long, that he had there first seen and become acquainted\nwith Mr. Rochester. He spoke of his friend s dislike of the burning\nheats, the hurricanes, and rainy seasons of that region. I knew Mr.\nRochester had been a traveller: Mrs. Fairfax had said so; but I thought\nthe continent of Europe had bounded his wanderings; till now I had\nnever heard a hint given of visits to more distant shores.\n\nI was pondering these things, when an incident, and a somewhat\nunexpected one, broke the thread of my musings. Mr. Mason, shivering as\nsome one chanced to open the door, asked for more coal to be put on the\nfire, which had burnt out its flame, though its mass of cinder still\nshone hot and red. The footman who brought the coal, in going out,\nstopped near Mr. Eshton s chair, and said something to him in a low\nvoice, of which I heard only the words,  old woman, quite\ntroublesome. \n\n Tell her she shall be put in the stocks if she does not take herself\noff,  replied the magistrate.\n\n No stop!  interrupted Colonel Dent.  Don t send her away, Eshton; we\nmight turn the thing to account; better consult the ladies.  And\nspeaking aloud, he continued Ladies, you talked of going to Hay Common\nto visit the gipsy camp; Sam here says that one of the old Mother\nBunches is in the servants  hall at this moment, and insists upon being\nbrought in before  the quality,  to tell them their fortunes. Would you\nlike to see her? \n\n Surely, colonel,  cried Lady Ingram,  you would not encourage such a\nlow impostor? Dismiss her, by all means, at once! \n\n But I cannot persuade her to go away, my lady,  said the footman;  nor\ncan any of the servants: Mrs. Fairfax is with her just now, entreating\nher to be gone; but she has taken a chair in the chimney-corner, and\nsays nothing shall stir her from it till she gets leave to come in\nhere. \n\n What does she want?  asked Mrs. Eshton.\n\n To tell the gentry their fortunes,  she says, ma am; and she swears\nshe must and will do it. \n\n What is she like?  inquired the Misses Eshton, in a breath.\n\n A shockingly ugly old creature, miss; almost as black as a crock. \n\n Why, she s a real sorceress!  cried Frederick Lynn.  Let us have her\nin, of course. \n\n To be sure,  rejoined his brother;  it would be a thousand pities to\nthrow away such a chance of fun. \n\n My dear boys, what are you thinking about?  exclaimed Mrs. Lynn.\n\n I cannot possibly countenance any such inconsistent proceeding, \nchimed in the Dowager Ingram.\n\n Indeed, mama, but you can and will,  pronounced the haughty voice of\nBlanche, as she turned round on the piano-stool; where till now she had\nsat silent, apparently examining sundry sheets of music.  I have a\ncuriosity to hear my fortune told: therefore, Sam, order the beldame\nforward. \n\n My darling Blanche! recollect \n\n I do I recollect all you can suggest; and I must have my will quick,\nSam! \n\n Yes yes yes!  cried all the juveniles, both ladies and gentlemen.  Let\nher come it will be excellent sport! \n\nThe footman still lingered.  She looks such a rough one,  said he.\n\n Go!  ejaculated Miss Ingram, and the man went.\n\nExcitement instantly seized the whole party: a running fire of raillery\nand jests was proceeding when Sam returned.\n\n She won t come now,  said he.  She says it s not her mission to appear\nbefore the  vulgar herd  (them s her words). I must show her into a\nroom by herself, and then those who wish to consult her must go to her\none by one. \n\n You see now, my queenly Blanche,  began Lady Ingram,  she encroaches.\nBe advised, my angel girl and \n\n Show her into the library, of course,  cut in the  angel girl.   It is\nnot my mission to listen to her before the vulgar herd either: I mean\nto have her all to myself. Is there a fire in the library? \n\n Yes, ma am but she looks such a tinkler. \n\n Cease that chatter, blockhead! and do my bidding. \n\nAgain Sam vanished; and mystery, animation, expectation rose to full\nflow once more.\n\n She s ready now,  said the footman, as he reappeared.  She wishes to\nknow who will be her first visitor. \n\n I think I had better just look in upon her before any of the ladies\ngo,  said Colonel Dent.\n\n Tell her, Sam, a gentleman is coming. \n\nSam went and returned.\n\n She says, sir, that she ll have no gentlemen; they need not trouble\nthemselves to come near her; nor,  he added, with difficulty\nsuppressing a titter,  any ladies either, except the young, and\nsingle. \n\n By Jove, she has taste!  exclaimed Henry Lynn.\n\nMiss Ingram rose solemnly:  I go first,  she said, in a tone which\nmight have befitted the leader of a forlorn hope, mounting a breach in\nthe van of his men.\n\n Oh, my best! oh, my dearest! pause reflect!  was her mama s cry; but\nshe swept past her in stately silence, passed through the door which\nColonel Dent held open, and we heard her enter the library.\n\nA comparative silence ensued. Lady Ingram thought it  le cas  to wring\nher hands: which she did accordingly. Miss Mary declared she felt, for\nher part, she never dared venture. Amy and Louisa Eshton tittered under\ntheir breath, and looked a little frightened.\n\nThe minutes passed very slowly: fifteen were counted before the\nlibrary-door again opened. Miss Ingram returned to us through the arch.\n\nWould she laugh? Would she take it as a joke? All eyes met her with a\nglance of eager curiosity, and she met all eyes with one of rebuff and\ncoldness; she looked neither flurried nor merry: she walked stiffly to\nher seat, and took it in silence.\n\n Well, Blanche?  said Lord Ingram.\n\n What did she say, sister?  asked Mary.\n\n What did you think? How do you feel? Is she a real fortune-teller? \ndemanded the Misses Eshton.\n\n Now, now, good people,  returned Miss Ingram,  don t press upon me.\nReally your organs of wonder and credulity are easily excited: you\nseem, by the importance of you all my good mama included ascribe to\nthis matter, absolutely to believe we have a genuine witch in the\nhouse, who is in close alliance with the old gentleman. I have seen a\ngipsy vagabond; she has practised in hackneyed fashion the science of\npalmistry and told me what such people usually tell. My whim is\ngratified; and now I think Mr. Eshton will do well to put the hag in\nthe stocks to-morrow morning, as he threatened. \n\nMiss Ingram took a book, leant back in her chair, and so declined\nfurther conversation. I watched her for nearly half-an-hour: during all\nthat time she never turned a page, and her face grew momently darker,\nmore dissatisfied, and more sourly expressive of disappointment. She\nhad obviously not heard anything to her advantage: and it seemed to me,\nfrom her prolonged fit of gloom and taciturnity, that she herself,\nnotwithstanding her professed indifference, attached undue importance\nto whatever revelations had been made her.\n\n\nDuring all that time she never turned a page\n\nMeantime, Mary Ingram, Amy and Louisa Eshton, declared they dared not\ngo alone; and yet they all wished to go. A negotiation was opened\nthrough the medium of the ambassador, Sam; and after much pacing to and\nfro, till, I think, the said Sam s calves must have ached with the\nexercise, permission was at last, with great difficulty, extorted from\nthe rigorous Sibyl, for the three to wait upon her in a body.\n\nTheir visit was not so still as Miss Ingram s had been: we heard\nhysterical giggling and little shrieks proceeding from the library; and\nat the end of about twenty minutes they burst the door open, and came\nrunning across the hall, as if they were half-scared out of their wits.\n\n I am sure she is something not right!  they cried, one and all.  She\ntold us such things! She knows all about us!  and they sank breathless\ninto the various seats the gentlemen hastened to bring them.\n\nPressed for further explanation, they declared she had told them of\nthings they had said and done when they were mere children; described\nbooks and ornaments they had in their boudoirs at home: keepsakes that\ndifferent relations had presented to them. They affirmed that she had\neven divined their thoughts, and had whispered in the ear of each the\nname of the person she liked best in the world, and informed them of\nwhat they most wished for.\n\nHere the gentlemen interposed with earnest petitions to be further\nenlightened on these two last-named points; but they got only blushes,\nejaculations, tremors, and titters, in return for their importunity.\nThe matrons, meantime, offered vinaigrettes and wielded fans; and again\nand again reiterated the expression of their concern that their warning\nhad not been taken in time; and the elder gentlemen laughed, and the\nyounger urged their services on the agitated fair ones.\n\nIn the midst of the tumult, and while my eyes and ears were fully\nengaged in the scene before me, I heard a hem close at my elbow: I\nturned, and saw Sam.\n\n If you please, miss, the gipsy declares that there is another young\nsingle lady in the room who has not been to her yet, and she swears she\nwill not go till she has seen all. I thought it must be you: there is\nno one else for it. What shall I tell her? \n\n Oh, I will go by all means,  I answered: and I was glad of the\nunexpected opportunity to gratify my much-excited curiosity. I slipped\nout of the room, unobserved by any eye for the company were gathered in\none mass about the trembling trio just returned and I closed the door\nquietly behind me.\n\n If you like, miss,  said Sam,  I ll wait in the hall for you; and if\nshe frightens you, just call and I ll come in. \n\n No, Sam, return to the kitchen: I am not in the least afraid.  Nor was\nI; but I was a good deal interested and excited.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\n\nThe library looked tranquil enough as I entered it, and the Sibyl if\nSibyl she were was seated snugly enough in an easy-chair at the\nchimney-corner. She had on a red cloak and a black bonnet: or rather, a\nbroad-brimmed gipsy hat, tied down with a striped handkerchief under\nher chin. An extinguished candle stood on the table; she was bending\nover the fire, and seemed reading in a little black book, like a\nprayer-book, by the light of the blaze: she muttered the words to\nherself, as most old women do, while she read; she did not desist\nimmediately on my entrance: it appeared she wished to finish a\nparagraph.\n\nI stood on the rug and warmed my hands, which were rather cold with\nsitting at a distance from the drawing-room fire. I felt now as\ncomposed as ever I did in my life: there was nothing indeed in the\ngipsy s appearance to trouble one s calm. She shut her book and slowly\nlooked up; her hat-brim partially shaded her face, yet I could see, as\nshe raised it, that it was a strange one. It looked all brown and\nblack: elf-locks bristled out from beneath a white band which passed\nunder her chin, and came half over her cheeks, or rather jaws: her eye\nconfronted me at once, with a bold and direct gaze.\n\n Well, and you want your fortune told?  she said, in a voice as decided\nas her glance, as harsh as her features.\n\n I don t care about it, mother; you may please yourself: but I ought to\nwarn you, I have no faith. \n\n It s like your impudence to say so: I expected it of you; I heard it\nin your step as you crossed the threshold. \n\n Did you? You ve a quick ear. \n\n I have; and a quick eye and a quick brain. \n\n You need them all in your trade. \n\n I do; especially when I ve customers like you to deal with. Why don t\nyou tremble? \n\n I m not cold. \n\n Why don t you turn pale? \n\n I am not sick. \n\n Why don t you consult my art? \n\n I m not silly. \n\nThe old crone  nichered  a laugh under her bonnet and bandage; she then\ndrew out a short black pipe, and lighting it began to smoke. Having\nindulged a while in this sedative, she raised her bent body, took the\npipe from her lips, and while gazing steadily at the fire, said very\ndeliberately \n\n You are cold; you are sick; and you are silly. \n\n Prove it,  I rejoined.\n\n I will, in few words. You are cold, because you are alone: no contact\nstrikes the fire from you that is in you. You are sick; because the\nbest of feelings, the highest and the sweetest given to man, keeps far\naway from you. You are silly, because, suffer as you may, you will not\nbeckon it to approach, nor will you stir one step to meet it where it\nwaits you. \n\nShe again put her short black pipe to her lips, and renewed her smoking\nwith vigour.\n\n You might say all that to almost any one who you knew lived as a\nsolitary dependent in a great house. \n\n I might say it to almost any one: but would it be true of almost any\none? \n\n In my circumstances. \n\n Yes; just so, in _your_ circumstances: but find me another precisely\nplaced as you are. \n\n It would be easy to find you thousands. \n\n You could scarcely find me one. If you knew it, you are peculiarly\nsituated: very near happiness; yes, within reach of it. The materials\nare all prepared; there only wants a movement to combine them. Chance\nlaid them somewhat apart; let them be once approached and bliss\nresults. \n\n I don t understand enigmas. I never could guess a riddle in my life. \n\n If you wish me to speak more plainly, show me your palm. \n\n And I must cross it with silver, I suppose? \n\n To be sure. \n\nI gave her a shilling: she put it into an old stocking-foot which she\ntook out of her pocket, and having tied it round and returned it, she\ntold me to hold out my hand. I did. She approached her face to the\npalm, and pored over it without touching it.\n\n It is too fine,  said she.  I can make nothing of such a hand as that;\nalmost without lines: besides, what is in a palm? Destiny is not\nwritten there. \n\n I believe you,  said I.\n\n No,  she continued,  it is in the face: on the forehead, about the\neyes, in the lines of the mouth. Kneel, and lift up your head. \n\n Ah! now you are coming to reality,  I said, as I obeyed her.  I shall\nbegin to put some faith in you presently. \n\nI knelt within half a yard of her. She stirred the fire, so that a\nripple of light broke from the disturbed coal: the glare, however, as\nshe sat, only threw her face into deeper shadow: mine, it illumined.\n\n I wonder with what feelings you came to me to-night,  she said, when\nshe had examined me a while.  I wonder what thoughts are busy in your\nheart during all the hours you sit in yonder room with the fine people\nflitting before you like shapes in a magic-lantern: just as little\nsympathetic communion passing between you and them as if they were\nreally mere shadows of human forms, and not the actual substance. \n\n I feel tired often, sleepy sometimes, but seldom sad. \n\n Then you have some secret hope to buoy you up and please you with\nwhispers of the future? \n\n Not I. The utmost I hope is, to save money enough out of my earnings\nto set up a school some day in a little house rented by myself. \n\n A mean nutriment for the spirit to exist on: and sitting in that\nwindow-seat (you see I know your habits) \n\n You have learned them from the servants. \n\n Ah! you think yourself sharp. Well, perhaps I have: to speak truth, I\nhave an acquaintance with one of them, Mrs. Poole \n\nI started to my feet when I heard the name.\n\n You have have you?  thought I;  there is diablerie in the business\nafter all, then! \n\n Don t be alarmed,  continued the strange being;  she s a safe hand is\nMrs. Poole: close and quiet; any one may repose confidence in her. But,\nas I was saying: sitting in that window-seat, do you think of nothing\nbut your future school? Have you no present interest in any of the\ncompany who occupy the sofas and chairs before you? Is there not one\nface you study? one figure whose movements you follow with at least\ncuriosity? \n\n I like to observe all the faces and all the figures. \n\n But do you never single one from the rest or it may be, two? \n\n I do frequently; when the gestures or looks of a pair seem telling a\ntale: it amuses me to watch them. \n\n What tale do you like best to hear? \n\n Oh, I have not much choice! They generally run on the same\ntheme courtship; and promise to end in the same catastrophe marriage. \n\n And do you like that monotonous theme? \n\n Positively, I don t care about it: it is nothing to me. \n\n Nothing to you? When a lady, young and full of life and health,\ncharming with beauty and endowed with the gifts of rank and fortune,\nsits and smiles in the eyes of a gentleman you \n\n I what? \n\n You know and perhaps think well of. \n\n I don t know the gentlemen here. I have scarcely interchanged a\nsyllable with one of them; and as to thinking well of them, I consider\nsome respectable, and stately, and middle-aged, and others young,\ndashing, handsome, and lively: but certainly they are all at liberty to\nbe the recipients of whose smiles they please, without my feeling\ndisposed to consider the transaction of any moment to me. \n\n You don t know the gentlemen here? You have not exchanged a syllable\nwith one of them? Will you say that of the master of the house! \n\n He is not at home. \n\n A profound remark! A most ingenious quibble! He went to Millcote this\nmorning, and will be back here to-night or to-morrow: does that\ncircumstance exclude him from the list of your acquaintance blot him,\nas it were, out of existence? \n\n No; but I can scarcely see what Mr. Rochester has to do with the theme\nyou had introduced. \n\n I was talking of ladies smiling in the eyes of gentlemen; and of late\nso many smiles have been shed into Mr. Rochester s eyes that they\noverflow like two cups filled above the brim: have you never remarked\nthat? \n\n Mr. Rochester has a right to enjoy the society of his guests. \n\n No question about his right: but have you never observed that, of all\nthe tales told here about matrimony, Mr. Rochester has been favoured\nwith the most lively and the most continuous? \n\n The eagerness of a listener quickens the tongue of a narrator.  I said\nthis rather to myself than to the gipsy, whose strange talk, voice,\nmanner, had by this time wrapped me in a kind of dream. One unexpected\nsentence came from her lips after another, till I got involved in a web\nof mystification; and wondered what unseen spirit had been sitting for\nweeks by my heart watching its workings and taking record of every\npulse.\n\n Eagerness of a listener!  repeated she:  yes; Mr. Rochester has sat by\nthe hour, his ear inclined to the fascinating lips that took such\ndelight in their task of communicating; and Mr. Rochester was so\nwilling to receive and looked so grateful for the pastime given him;\nyou have noticed this? \n\n Grateful! I cannot remember detecting gratitude in his face. \n\n Detecting! You have analysed, then. And what did you detect, if not\ngratitude? \n\nI said nothing.\n\n You have seen love: have you not? and, looking forward, you have seen\nhim married, and beheld his bride happy? \n\n Humph! Not exactly. Your witch s skill is rather at fault sometimes. \n\n What the devil have you seen, then? \n\n Never mind: I came here to inquire, not to confess. Is it known that\nMr. Rochester is to be married? \n\n Yes; and to the beautiful Miss Ingram. \n\n Shortly? \n\n Appearances would warrant that conclusion: and, no doubt (though, with\nan audacity that wants chastising out of you, you seem to question it),\nthey will be a superlatively happy pair. He must love such a handsome,\nnoble, witty, accomplished lady; and probably she loves him, or, if not\nhis person, at least his purse. I know she considers the Rochester\nestate eligible to the last degree; though (God pardon me!) I told her\nsomething on that point about an hour ago which made her look wondrous\ngrave: the corners of her mouth fell half an inch. I would advise her\nblackaviced suitor to look out: if another comes, with a longer or\nclearer rent-roll, he s dished \n\n But, mother, I did not come to hear Mr. Rochester s fortune: I came to\nhear my own; and you have told me nothing of it. \n\n Your fortune is yet doubtful: when I examined your face, one trait\ncontradicted another. Chance has meted you a measure of happiness: that\nI know. I knew it before I came here this evening. She has laid it\ncarefully on one side for you. I saw her do it. It depends on yourself\nto stretch out your hand, and take it up: but whether you will do so,\nis the problem I study. Kneel again on the rug. \n\n Don t keep me long; the fire scorches me. \n\n\nShe did not stoop towards me, but only gazed, leaning back in her chair\n\nI knelt. She did not stoop towards me, but only gazed, leaning back in\nher chair. She began muttering, \n\n The flame flickers in the eye; the eye shines like dew; it looks soft\nand full of feeling; it smiles at my jargon: it is susceptible;\nimpression follows impression through its clear sphere; where it ceases\nto smile, it is sad; an unconscious lassitude weighs on the lid: that\nsignifies melancholy resulting from loneliness. It turns from me; it\nwill not suffer further scrutiny; it seems to deny, by a mocking\nglance, the truth of the discoveries I have already made, to disown the\ncharge both of sensibility and chagrin: its pride and reserve only\nconfirm me in my opinion. The eye is favourable.\n\n As to the mouth, it delights at times in laughter; it is disposed to\nimpart all that the brain conceives; though I daresay it would be\nsilent on much the heart experiences. Mobile and flexible, it was never\nintended to be compressed in the eternal silence of solitude: it is a\nmouth which should speak much and smile often, and have human affection\nfor its interlocutor. That feature too is propitious.\n\n I see no enemy to a fortunate issue but in the brow; and that brow\nprofesses to say, I can live alone, if self-respect, and circumstances\nrequire me so to do. I need not sell my soul to buy bliss. I have an\ninward treasure born with me, which can keep me alive if all extraneous\ndelights should be withheld, or offered only at a price I cannot afford\nto give.  The forehead declares,  Reason sits firm and holds the reins,\nand she will not let the feelings burst away and hurry her to wild\nchasms. The passions may rage furiously, like true heathens, as they\nare; and the desires may imagine all sorts of vain things: but judgment\nshall still have the last word in every argument, and the casting vote\nin every decision. Strong wind, earthquake-shock, and fire may pass by:\nbut I shall follow the guiding of that still small voice which\ninterprets the dictates of conscience. \n\n Well said, forehead; your declaration shall be respected. I have\nformed my plans right plans I deem them and in them I have attended to\nthe claims of conscience, the counsels of reason. I know how soon youth\nwould fade and bloom perish, if, in the cup of bliss offered, but one\ndreg of shame, or one flavour of remorse were detected; and I do not\nwant sacrifice, sorrow, dissolution such is not my taste. I wish to\nfoster, not to blight to earn gratitude, not to wring tears of\nblood no, nor of brine: my harvest must be in smiles, in endearments,\nin sweet That will do. I think I rave in a kind of exquisite delirium.\nI should wish now to protract this moment _ad infinitum_; but I dare\nnot. So far I have governed myself thoroughly. I have acted as I\ninwardly swore I would act; but further might try me beyond my\nstrength. Rise, Miss Eyre: leave me;  the play is played out. \n\nWhere was I? Did I wake or sleep? Had I been dreaming? Did I dream\nstill? The old woman s voice had changed: her accent, her gesture, and\nall were familiar to me as my own face in a glass as the speech of my\nown tongue. I got up, but did not go. I looked; I stirred the fire, and\nI looked again: but she drew her bonnet and her bandage closer about\nher face, and again beckoned me to depart. The flame illuminated her\nhand stretched out: roused now, and on the alert for discoveries, I at\nonce noticed that hand. It was no more the withered limb of eld than my\nown; it was a rounded supple member, with smooth fingers, symmetrically\nturned; a broad ring flashed on the little finger, and stooping\nforward, I looked at it, and saw a gem I had seen a hundred times\nbefore. Again I looked at the face; which was no longer turned from\nme on the contrary, the bonnet was doffed, the bandage displaced, the\nhead advanced.\n\n Well, Jane, do you know me?  asked the familiar voice.\n\n Only take off the red cloak, sir, and then \n\n But the string is in a knot help me. \n\n Break it, sir. \n\n There, then Off, ye lendings!  And Mr. Rochester stepped out of his\ndisguise.\n\n Now, sir, what a strange idea! \n\n But well carried out, eh? Don t you think so? \n\n With the ladies you must have managed well. \n\n But not with you? \n\n You did not act the character of a gipsy with me. \n\n What character did I act? My own? \n\n No; some unaccountable one. In short, I believe you have been trying\nto draw me out or in; you have been talking nonsense to make me talk\nnonsense. It is scarcely fair, sir. \n\n Do you forgive me, Jane? \n\n I cannot tell till I have thought it all over. If, on reflection, I\nfind I have fallen into no great absurdity, I shall try to forgive you;\nbut it was not right. \n\n Oh, you have been very correct very careful, very sensible. \n\nI reflected, and thought, on the whole, I had. It was a comfort; but,\nindeed, I had been on my guard almost from the beginning of the\ninterview. Something of masquerade I suspected. I knew gipsies and\nfortune-tellers did not express themselves as this seeming old woman\nhad expressed herself; besides I had noted her feigned voice, her\nanxiety to conceal her features. But my mind had been running on Grace\nPoole that living enigma, that mystery of mysteries, as I considered\nher. I had never thought of Mr. Rochester.\n\n Well,  said he,  what are you musing about? What does that grave smile\nsignify? \n\n Wonder and self-congratulation, sir. I have your permission to retire\nnow, I suppose? \n\n No; stay a moment; and tell me what the people in the drawing-room\nyonder are doing. \n\n Discussing the gipsy, I daresay. \n\n Sit down! Let me hear what they said about me. \n\n I had better not stay long, sir; it must be near eleven o clock. Oh,\nare you aware, Mr. Rochester, that a stranger has arrived here since\nyou left this morning? \n\n A stranger! no; who can it be? I expected no one; is he gone? \n\n No; he said he had known you long, and that he could take the liberty\nof installing himself here till you returned. \n\n The devil he did! Did he give his name? \n\n His name is Mason, sir; and he comes from the West Indies; from\nSpanish Town, in Jamaica, I think. \n\nMr. Rochester was standing near me; he had taken my hand, as if to lead\nme to a chair. As I spoke he gave my wrist a convulsive grip; the smile\non his lips froze: apparently a spasm caught his breath.\n\n Mason! the West Indies!  he said, in the tone one might fancy a\nspeaking automaton to enounce its single words;  Mason! the West\nIndies!  he reiterated; and he went over the syllables three times,\ngrowing, in the intervals of speaking, whiter than ashes: he hardly\nseemed to know what he was doing.\n\n Do you feel ill, sir?  I inquired.\n\n Jane, I ve got a blow; I ve got a blow, Jane!  He staggered.\n\n Oh, lean on me, sir. \n\n Jane, you offered me your shoulder once before; let me have it now. \n\n Yes, sir, yes; and my arm. \n\nHe sat down, and made me sit beside him. Holding my hand in both his\nown, he chafed it; gazing on me, at the same time, with the most\ntroubled and dreary look.\n\n My little friend!  said he,  I wish I were in a quiet island with only\nyou; and trouble, and danger, and hideous recollections removed from\nme. \n\n Can I help you, sir? I d give my life to serve you. \n\n Jane, if aid is wanted, I ll seek it at your hands; I promise you\nthat. \n\n Thank you, sir. Tell me what to do, I ll try, at least, to do it. \n\n Fetch me now, Jane, a glass of wine from the dining-room: they will be\nat supper there; and tell me if Mason is with them, and what he is\ndoing. \n\nI went. I found all the party in the dining-room at supper, as Mr.\nRochester had said; they were not seated at table, the supper was\narranged on the sideboard; each had taken what he chose, and they stood\nabout here and there in groups, their plates and glasses in their\nhands. Every one seemed in high glee; laughter and conversation were\ngeneral and animated. Mr. Mason stood near the fire, talking to Colonel\nand Mrs. Dent, and appeared as merry as any of them. I filled a\nwine-glass (I saw Miss Ingram watch me frowningly as I did so: she\nthought I was taking a liberty, I daresay), and I returned to the\nlibrary.\n\nMr. Rochester s extreme pallor had disappeared, and he looked once more\nfirm and stern. He took the glass from my hand.\n\n Here is to your health, ministrant spirit!  he said. He swallowed the\ncontents and returned it to me.  What are they doing, Jane? \n\n Laughing and talking, sir. \n\n They don t look grave and mysterious, as if they had heard something\nstrange? \n\n Not at all: they are full of jests and gaiety. \n\n And Mason? \n\n He was laughing too. \n\n If all these people came in a body and spat at me, what would you do,\nJane? \n\n Turn them out of the room, sir, if I could. \n\nHe half smiled.  But if I were to go to them, and they only looked at\nme coldly, and whispered sneeringly amongst each other, and then\ndropped off and left me one by one, what then? Would you go with them? \n\n I rather think not, sir: I should have more pleasure in staying with\nyou. \n\n To comfort me? \n\n Yes, sir, to comfort you, as well as I could. \n\n And if they laid you under a ban for adhering to me? \n\n I, probably, should know nothing about their ban; and if I did, I\nshould care nothing about it. \n\n Then, you could dare censure for my sake? \n\n I could dare it for the sake of any friend who deserved my adherence;\nas you, I am sure, do. \n\n Go back now into the room; step quietly up to Mason, and whisper in\nhis ear that Mr. Rochester is come and wishes to see him: show him in\nhere and then leave me. \n\n Yes, sir. \n\nI did his behest. The company all stared at me as I passed straight\namong them. I sought Mr. Mason, delivered the message, and preceded him\nfrom the room: I ushered him into the library, and then I went\nupstairs.\n\nAt a late hour, after I had been in bed some time, I heard the visitors\nrepair to their chambers: I distinguished Mr. Rochester s voice, and\nheard him say,  This way, Mason; this is your room. \n\nHe spoke cheerfully: the gay tones set my heart at ease. I was soon\nasleep.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\n\nI had forgotten to draw my curtain, which I usually did, and also to\nlet down my window-blind. The consequence was, that when the moon,\nwhich was full and bright (for the night was fine), came in her course\nto that space in the sky opposite my casement, and looked in at me\nthrough the unveiled panes, her glorious gaze roused me. Awaking in the\ndead of night, I opened my eyes on her disk silver-white and crystal\nclear. It was beautiful, but too solemn: I half rose, and stretched my\narm to draw the curtain.\n\nGood God! What a cry!\n\nThe night its silence its rest, was rent in twain by a savage, a sharp,\na shrilly sound that ran from end to end of Thornfield Hall.\n\nMy pulse stopped: my heart stood still; my stretched arm was paralysed.\nThe cry died, and was not renewed. Indeed, whatever being uttered that\nfearful shriek could not soon repeat it: not the widest-winged condor\non the Andes could, twice in succession, send out such a yell from the\ncloud shrouding his eyrie. The thing delivering such utterance must\nrest ere it could repeat the effort.\n\nIt came out of the third storey; for it passed overhead. And\noverhead yes, in the room just above my chamber-ceiling I now heard a\nstruggle: a deadly one it seemed from the noise; and a half-smothered\nvoice shouted \n\n Help! help! help!  three times rapidly.\n\n Will no one come?  it cried; and then, while the staggering and\nstamping went on wildly, I distinguished through plank and plaster: \n\n Rochester! Rochester! for God s sake, come! \n\nA chamber-door opened: some one ran, or rushed, along the gallery.\nAnother step stamped on the flooring above and something fell; and\nthere was silence.\n\nI had put on some clothes, though horror shook all my limbs; I issued\nfrom my apartment. The sleepers were all aroused: ejaculations,\nterrified murmurs sounded in every room; door after door unclosed; one\nlooked out and another looked out; the gallery filled. Gentlemen and\nladies alike had quitted their beds; and  Oh! what is it? Who is\nhurt? What has happened? Fetch a light! Is it fire? Are there\nrobbers? Where shall we run?  was demanded confusedly on all hands.\nBut for the moonlight they would have been in complete darkness. They\nran to and fro; they crowded together: some sobbed, some stumbled: the\nconfusion was inextricable.\n\n Where the devil is Rochester?  cried Colonel Dent.  I cannot find him\nin his bed. \n\n Here! here!  was shouted in return.  Be composed, all of you: I m\ncoming. \n\nAnd the door at the end of the gallery opened, and Mr. Rochester\nadvanced with a candle: he had just descended from the upper storey.\nOne of the ladies ran to him directly; she seized his arm: it was Miss\nIngram.\n\n What awful event has taken place?  said she.  Speak! let us know the\nworst at once! \n\n But don t pull me down or strangle me,  he replied: for the Misses\nEshton were clinging about him now; and the two dowagers, in vast white\nwrappers, were bearing down on him like ships in full sail.\n\n All s right! all s right!  he cried.  It s a mere rehearsal of Much\nAdo about Nothing. Ladies, keep off, or I shall wax dangerous. \n\nAnd dangerous he looked: his black eyes darted sparks. Calming himself\nby an effort, he added \n\n A servant has had the nightmare; that is all. She s an excitable,\nnervous person: she construed her dream into an apparition, or\nsomething of that sort, no doubt; and has taken a fit with fright. Now,\nthen, I must see you all back into your rooms; for, till the house is\nsettled, she cannot be looked after. Gentlemen, have the goodness to\nset the ladies the example. Miss Ingram, I am sure you will not fail in\nevincing superiority to idle terrors. Amy and Louisa, return to your\nnests like a pair of doves, as you are. Mesdames  (to the dowagers),\n you will take cold to a dead certainty, if you stay in this chill\ngallery any longer. \n\nAnd so, by dint of alternate coaxing and commanding, he contrived to\nget them all once more enclosed in their separate dormitories. I did\nnot wait to be ordered back to mine, but retreated unnoticed, as\nunnoticed I had left it.\n\nNot, however, to go to bed: on the contrary, I began and dressed myself\ncarefully. The sounds I had heard after the scream, and the words that\nhad been uttered, had probably been heard only by me; for they had\nproceeded from the room above mine: but they assured me that it was not\na servant s dream which had thus struck horror through the house; and\nthat the explanation Mr. Rochester had given was merely an invention\nframed to pacify his guests. I dressed, then, to be ready for\nemergencies. When dressed, I sat a long time by the window looking out\nover the silent grounds and silvered fields and waiting for I knew not\nwhat. It seemed to me that some event must follow the strange cry,\nstruggle, and call.\n\nNo: stillness returned: each murmur and movement ceased gradually, and\nin about an hour Thornfield Hall was again as hushed as a desert. It\nseemed that sleep and night had resumed their empire. Meantime the moon\ndeclined: she was about to set. Not liking to sit in the cold and\ndarkness, I thought I would lie down on my bed, dressed as I was. I\nleft the window, and moved with little noise across the carpet; as I\nstooped to take off my shoes, a cautious hand tapped low at the door.\n\n Am I wanted?  I asked.\n\n Are you up?  asked the voice I expected to hear, viz., my master s.\n\n Yes, sir. \n\n And dressed? \n\n Yes. \n\n Come out, then, quietly. \n\nI obeyed. Mr. Rochester stood in the gallery holding a light.\n\n I want you,  he said:  come this way: take your time, and make no\nnoise. \n\nMy slippers were thin: I could walk the matted floor as softly as a\ncat. He glided up the gallery and up the stairs, and stopped in the\ndark, low corridor of the fateful third storey: I had followed and\nstood at his side.\n\n Have you a sponge in your room?  he asked in a whisper.\n\n Yes, sir. \n\n Have you any salts volatile salts? \n\n Yes. \n\n Go back and fetch both. \n\nI returned, sought the sponge on the washstand, the salts in my drawer,\nand once more retraced my steps. He still waited; he held a key in his\nhand: approaching one of the small, black doors, he put it in the lock;\nhe paused, and addressed me again.\n\n You don t turn sick at the sight of blood? \n\n I think I shall not: I have never been tried yet. \n\nI felt a thrill while I answered him; but no coldness, and no\nfaintness.\n\n Just give me your hand,  he said:  it will not do to risk a fainting\nfit. \n\nI put my fingers into his.  Warm and steady,  was his remark: he turned\nthe key and opened the door.\n\nI saw a room I remembered to have seen before, the day Mrs. Fairfax\nshowed me over the house: it was hung with tapestry; but the tapestry\nwas now looped up in one part, and there was a door apparent, which had\nthen been concealed. This door was open; a light shone out of the room\nwithin: I heard thence a snarling, snatching sound, almost like a dog\nquarrelling. Mr. Rochester, putting down his candle, said to me,  Wait\na minute,  and he went forward to the inner apartment. A shout of\nlaughter greeted his entrance; noisy at first, and terminating in Grace\nPoole s own goblin ha! ha! _She_ then was there. He made some sort of\narrangement without speaking, though I heard a low voice address him:\nhe came out and closed the door behind him.\n\n Here, Jane!  he said; and I walked round to the other side of a large\nbed, which with its drawn curtains concealed a considerable portion of\nthe chamber. An easy-chair was near the bed-head: a man sat in it,\ndressed with the exception of his coat; he was still; his head leant\nback; his eyes were closed. Mr. Rochester held the candle over him; I\nrecognised in his pale and seemingly lifeless face the stranger, Mason:\nI saw too that his linen on one side, and one arm, was almost soaked in\nblood.\n\n Hold the candle,  said Mr. Rochester, and I took it: he fetched a\nbasin of water from the washstand:  Hold that,  said he. I obeyed. He\ntook the sponge, dipped it in, and moistened the corpse-like face; he\nasked for my smelling-bottle, and applied it to the nostrils. Mr. Mason\nshortly unclosed his eyes; he groaned. Mr. Rochester opened the shirt\nof the wounded man, whose arm and shoulder were bandaged: he sponged\naway blood, trickling fast down.\n\n Is there immediate danger?  murmured Mr. Mason.\n\n Pooh! No a mere scratch. Don t be so overcome, man: bear up! I ll\nfetch a surgeon for you now, myself: you ll be able to be removed by\nmorning, I hope. Jane,  he continued.\n\n Sir? \n\n I shall have to leave you in this room with this gentleman, for an\nhour, or perhaps two hours: you will sponge the blood as I do when it\nreturns: if he feels faint, you will put the glass of water on that\nstand to his lips, and your salts to his nose. You will not speak to\nhim on any pretext and Richard, it will be at the peril of your life if\nyou speak to her: open your lips agitate yourself and I ll not answer\nfor the consequences. \n\nAgain the poor man groaned; he looked as if he dared not move; fear,\neither of death or of something else, appeared almost to paralyse him.\nMr. Rochester put the now bloody sponge into my hand, and I proceeded\nto use it as he had done. He watched me a second, then saying,\n Remember! No conversation,  he left the room. I experienced a strange\nfeeling as the key grated in the lock, and the sound of his retreating\nstep ceased to be heard.\n\nHere then I was in the third storey, fastened into one of its mystic\ncells; night around me; a pale and bloody spectacle under my eyes and\nhands; a murderess hardly separated from me by a single door: yes that\nwas appalling the rest I could bear; but I shuddered at the thought of\nGrace Poole bursting out upon me.\n\nI must keep to my post, however. I must watch this ghastly\ncountenance these blue, still lips forbidden to unclose these eyes now\nshut, now opening, now wandering through the room, now fixing on me,\nand ever glazed with the dulness of horror. I must dip my hand again\nand again in the basin of blood and water, and wipe away the trickling\ngore. I must see the light of the unsnuffed candle wane on my\nemployment; the shadows darken on the wrought, antique tapestry round\nme, and grow black under the hangings of the vast old bed, and quiver\nstrangely over the doors of a great cabinet opposite whose front,\ndivided into twelve panels, bore, in grim design, the heads of the\ntwelve apostles, each enclosed in its separate panel as in a frame;\nwhile above them at the top rose an ebon crucifix and a dying Christ.\n\nAccording as the shifting obscurity and flickering gleam hovered here\nor glanced there, it was now the bearded physician, Luke, that bent his\nbrow; now St. John s long hair that waved; and anon the devilish face\nof Judas, that grew out of the panel, and seemed gathering life and\nthreatening a revelation of the arch-traitor of Satan himself in his\nsubordinate s form.\n\nAmidst all this, I had to listen as well as watch: to listen for the\nmovements of the wild beast or the fiend in yonder side den. But since\nMr. Rochester s visit it seemed spellbound: all the night I heard but\nthree sounds at three long intervals, a step creak, a momentary renewal\nof the snarling, canine noise, and a deep human groan.\n\nThen my own thoughts worried me. What crime was this, that lived\nincarnate in this sequestered mansion, and could neither be expelled\nnor subdued by the owner? what mystery, that broke out now in fire and\nnow in blood, at the deadest hours of night? What creature was it,\nthat, masked in an ordinary woman s face and shape, uttered the voice,\nnow of a mocking demon, and anon of a carrion-seeking bird of prey?\n\nAnd this man I bent over this commonplace, quiet stranger how had he\nbecome involved in the web of horror? and why had the Fury flown at\nhim? What made him seek this quarter of the house at an untimely\nseason, when he should have been asleep in bed? I had heard Mr.\nRochester assign him an apartment below what brought him here! And why,\nnow, was he so tame under the violence or treachery done him? Why did\nhe so quietly submit to the concealment Mr. Rochester enforced? Why\n_did_ Mr. Rochester enforce this concealment? His guest had been\noutraged, his own life on a former occasion had been hideously plotted\nagainst; and both attempts he smothered in secrecy and sank in\noblivion! Lastly, I saw Mr. Mason was submissive to Mr. Rochester; that\nthe impetuous will of the latter held complete sway over the inertness\nof the former: the few words which had passed between them assured me\nof this. It was evident that in their former intercourse, the passive\ndisposition of the one had been habitually influenced by the active\nenergy of the other: whence then had arisen Mr. Rochester s dismay when\nhe heard of Mr. Mason s arrival? Why had the mere name of this\nunresisting individual whom his word now sufficed to control like a\nchild fallen on him, a few hours since, as a thunderbolt might fall on\nan oak?\n\nOh! I could not forget his look and his paleness when he whispered:\n Jane, I have got a blow I have got a blow, Jane.  I could not forget\nhow the arm had trembled which he rested on my shoulder: and it was no\nlight matter which could thus bow the resolute spirit and thrill the\nvigorous frame of Fairfax Rochester.\n\n When will he come? When will he come?  I cried inwardly, as the night\nlingered and lingered as my bleeding patient drooped, moaned, sickened:\nand neither day nor aid arrived. I had, again and again, held the water\nto Mason s white lips; again and again offered him the stimulating\nsalts: my efforts seemed ineffectual: either bodily or mental\nsuffering, or loss of blood, or all three combined, were fast\nprostrating his strength. He moaned so, and looked so weak, wild, and\nlost, I feared he was dying; and I might not even speak to him.\n\nThe candle, wasted at last, went out; as it expired, I perceived\nstreaks of grey light edging the window curtains: dawn was then\napproaching. Presently I heard Pilot bark far below, out of his distant\nkennel in the courtyard: hope revived. Nor was it unwarranted: in five\nminutes more the grating key, the yielding lock, warned me my watch was\nrelieved. It could not have lasted more than two hours: many a week has\nseemed shorter.\n\nMr. Rochester entered, and with him the surgeon he had been to fetch.\n\n Now, Carter, be on the alert,  he said to this last:  I give you but\nhalf-an-hour for dressing the wound, fastening the bandages, getting\nthe patient downstairs and all. \n\n But is he fit to move, sir? \n\n No doubt of it; it is nothing serious; he is nervous, his spirits must\nbe kept up. Come, set to work. \n\nMr. Rochester drew back the thick curtain, drew up the holland blind,\nlet in all the daylight he could; and I was surprised and cheered to\nsee how far dawn was advanced: what rosy streaks were beginning to\nbrighten the east. Then he approached Mason, whom the surgeon was\nalready handling.\n\n Now, my good fellow, how are you?  he asked.\n\n She s done for me, I fear,  was the faint reply.\n\n Not a whit! courage! This day fortnight you ll hardly be a pin the\nworse of it: you ve lost a little blood; that s all. Carter, assure him\nthere s no danger. \n\n I can do that conscientiously,  said Carter, who had now undone the\nbandages;  only I wish I could have got here sooner: he would not have\nbled so much but how is this? The flesh on the shoulder is torn as well\nas cut. This wound was not done with a knife: there have been teeth\nhere! \n\n She bit me,  he murmured.  She worried me like a tigress, when\nRochester got the knife from her. \n\n You should not have yielded: you should have grappled with her at\nonce,  said Mr. Rochester.\n\n But under such circumstances, what could one do?  returned Mason.  Oh,\nit was frightful!  he added, shuddering.  And I did not expect it: she\nlooked so quiet at first. \n\n I warned you,  was his friend s answer;  I said be on your guard when\nyou go near her. Besides, you might have waited till to-morrow, and had\nme with you: it was mere folly to attempt the interview to-night, and\nalone. \n\n I thought I could have done some good. \n\n You thought! you thought! Yes, it makes me impatient to hear you: but,\nhowever, you have suffered, and are likely to suffer enough for not\ntaking my advice; so I ll say no more. Carter hurry! hurry! The sun\nwill soon rise, and I must have him off. \n\n Directly, sir; the shoulder is just bandaged. I must look to this\nother wound in the arm: she has had her teeth here too, I think. \n\n She sucked the blood: she said she d drain my heart,  said Mason.\n\nI saw Mr. Rochester shudder: a singularly marked expression of disgust,\nhorror, hatred, warped his countenance almost to distortion; but he\nonly said \n\n Come, be silent, Richard, and never mind her gibberish: don t repeat\nit. \n\n I wish I could forget it,  was the answer.\n\n You will when you are out of the country: when you get back to Spanish\nTown, you may think of her as dead and buried or rather, you need not\nthink of her at all. \n\n Impossible to forget this night! \n\n It is not impossible: have some energy, man. You thought you were as\ndead as a herring two hours since, and you are all alive and talking\nnow. There! Carter has done with you or nearly so; I ll make you decent\nin a trice. Jane  (he turned to me for the first time since his\nre-entrance),  take this key: go down into my bedroom, and walk\nstraight forward into my dressing-room: open the top drawer of the\nwardrobe and take out a clean shirt and neck-handkerchief: bring them\nhere; and be nimble. \n\nI went; sought the repository he had mentioned, found the articles\nnamed, and returned with them.\n\n Now,  said he,  go to the other side of the bed while I order his\ntoilet; but don t leave the room: you may be wanted again. \n\nI retired as directed.\n\n Was anybody stirring below when you went down, Jane?  inquired Mr.\nRochester presently.\n\n No, sir; all was very still. \n\n We shall get you off cannily, Dick: and it will be better, both for\nyour sake, and for that of the poor creature in yonder. I have striven\nlong to avoid exposure, and I should not like it to come at last. Here,\nCarter, help him on with his waist-coat. Where did you leave your\nfurred cloak? You can t travel a mile without that, I know, in this\ndamned cold climate. In your room? Jane, run down to Mr. Mason s\nroom, the one next mine, and fetch a cloak you will see there. \n\nAgain I ran, and again returned, bearing an immense mantle lined and\nedged with fur.\n\n Now, I ve another errand for you,  said my untiring master;  you must\naway to my room again. What a mercy you are shod with velvet, Jane! a\nclod-hopping messenger would never do at this juncture. You must open\nthe middle drawer of my toilet-table and take out a little phial and a\nlittle glass you will find there, quick! \n\nI flew thither and back, bringing the desired vessels.\n\n That s well! Now, doctor, I shall take the liberty of administering a\ndose myself, on my own responsibility. I got this cordial at Rome, of\nan Italian charlatan a fellow you would have kicked, Carter. It is not\na thing to be used indiscriminately, but it is good upon occasion: as\nnow, for instance. Jane, a little water. \n\nHe held out the tiny glass, and I half filled it from the water-bottle\non the washstand.\n\n That will do; now wet the lip of the phial. \n\nI did so; he measured twelve drops of a crimson liquid, and presented\nit to Mason.\n\n Drink, Richard: it will give you the heart you lack, for an hour or\nso. \n\n But will it hurt me? is it inflammatory? \n\n Drink! drink! drink! \n\nMr. Mason obeyed, because it was evidently useless to resist. He was\ndressed now: he still looked pale, but he was no longer gory and\nsullied. Mr. Rochester let him sit three minutes after he had swallowed\nthe liquid; he then took his arm \n\n Now I am sure you can get on your feet,  he said try. \n\nThe patient rose.\n\n Carter, take him under the other shoulder. Be of good cheer, Richard;\nstep out that s it! \n\n I do feel better,  remarked Mr. Mason.\n\n I am sure you do. Now, Jane, trip on before us away to the backstairs;\nunbolt the side-passage door, and tell the driver of the post-chaise\nyou will see in the yard or just outside, for I told him not to drive\nhis rattling wheels over the pavement to be ready; we are coming: and,\nJane, if any one is about, come to the foot of the stairs and hem. \n\nIt was by this time half-past five, and the sun was on the point of\nrising; but I found the kitchen still dark and silent. The side-passage\ndoor was fastened; I opened it with as little noise as possible: all\nthe yard was quiet; but the gates stood wide open, and there was a\npost-chaise, with horses ready harnessed, and driver seated on the box,\nstationed outside. I approached him, and said the gentlemen were\ncoming; he nodded: then I looked carefully round and listened. The\nstillness of early morning slumbered everywhere; the curtains were yet\ndrawn over the servants  chamber windows; little birds were just\ntwittering in the blossom-blanched orchard trees, whose boughs drooped\nlike white garlands over the wall enclosing one side of the yard; the\ncarriage horses stamped from time to time in their closed stables: all\nelse was still.\n\nThe gentlemen now appeared. Mason, supported by Mr. Rochester and the\nsurgeon, seemed to walk with tolerable ease: they assisted him into the\nchaise; Carter followed.\n\n Take care of him,  said Mr. Rochester to the latter,  and keep him at\nyour house till he is quite well: I shall ride over in a day or two to\nsee how he gets on. Richard, how is it with you? \n\n The fresh air revives me, Fairfax. \n\n Leave the window open on his side, Carter; there is no wind good-bye,\nDick. \n\n Fairfax \n\n Well what is it? \n\n Let her be taken care of; let her be treated as tenderly as may be:\nlet her  he stopped and burst into tears.\n\n I do my best; and have done it, and will do it,  was the answer: he\nshut up the chaise door, and the vehicle drove away.\n\n Yet would to God there was an end of all this!  added Mr. Rochester,\nas he closed and barred the heavy yard-gates.\n\nThis done, he moved with slow step and abstracted air towards a door in\nthe wall bordering the orchard. I, supposing he had done with me,\nprepared to return to the house; again, however, I heard him call\n Jane!  He had opened the portal and stood at it, waiting for me.\n\n Come where there is some freshness, for a few moments,  he said;  that\nhouse is a mere dungeon: don t you feel it so? \n\n It seems to me a splendid mansion, sir. \n\n The glamour of inexperience is over your eyes,  he answered;  and you\nsee it through a charmed medium: you cannot discern that the gilding is\nslime and the silk draperies cobwebs; that the marble is sordid slate,\nand the polished woods mere refuse chips and scaly bark. Now _here_ \n(he pointed to the leafy enclosure we had entered)  all is real, sweet,\nand pure. \n\nHe strayed down a walk edged with box, with apple trees, pear trees,\nand cherry trees on one side, and a border on the other full of all\nsorts of old-fashioned flowers, stocks, sweet-williams, primroses,\npansies, mingled with southernwood, sweet-briar, and various fragrant\nherbs. They were fresh now as a succession of April showers and gleams,\nfollowed by a lovely spring morning, could make them: the sun was just\nentering the dappled east, and his light illumined the wreathed and\ndewy orchard trees and shone down the quiet walks under them.\n\n Jane, will you have a flower? \n\nHe gathered a half-blown rose, the first on the bush, and offered it to\nme.\n\n Thank you, sir. \n\n Do you like this sunrise, Jane? That sky with its high and light\nclouds which are sure to melt away as the day waxes warm this placid\nand balmly atmosphere? \n\n I do, very much. \n\n You have passed a strange night, Jane. \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n And it has made you look pale were you afraid when I left you alone\nwith Mason? \n\n I was afraid of some one coming out of the inner room. \n\n But I had fastened the door I had the key in my pocket: I should have\nbeen a careless shepherd if I had left a lamb my pet lamb so near a\nwolf s den, unguarded: you were safe. \n\n Will Grace Poole live here still, sir? \n\n Oh yes! don t trouble your head about her put the thing out of your\nthoughts. \n\n Yet it seems to me your life is hardly secure while she stays. \n\n Never fear I will take care of myself. \n\n Is the danger you apprehended last night gone by now, sir? \n\n I cannot vouch for that till Mason is out of England: nor even then.\nTo live, for me, Jane, is to stand on a crater-crust which may crack\nand spue fire any day. \n\n But Mr. Mason seems a man easily led. Your influence, sir, is\nevidently potent with him: he will never set you at defiance or\nwilfully injure you. \n\n Oh, no! Mason will not defy me; nor, knowing it, will he hurt me but,\nunintentionally, he might in a moment, by one careless word, deprive\nme, if not of life, yet for ever of happiness. \n\n Tell him to be cautious, sir: let him know what you fear, and show him\nhow to avert the danger. \n\nHe laughed sardonically, hastily took my hand, and as hastily threw it\nfrom him.\n\n If I could do that, simpleton, where would the danger be? Annihilated\nin a moment. Ever since I have known Mason, I have only had to say to\nhim  Do that,  and the thing has been done. But I cannot give him\norders in this case: I cannot say  Beware of harming me, Richard;  for\nit is imperative that I should keep him ignorant that harm to me is\npossible. Now you look puzzled; and I will puzzle you further. You are\nmy little friend, are you not? \n\n I like to serve you, sir, and to obey you in all that is right. \n\n Precisely: I see you do. I see genuine contentment in your gait and\nmien, your eye and face, when you are helping me and pleasing\nme working for me, and with me, in, as you characteristically say,\n _all that is right_:  for if I bid you do what you thought wrong,\nthere would be no light-footed running, no neat-handed alacrity, no\nlively glance and animated complexion. My friend would then turn to me,\nquiet and pale, and would say,  No, sir; that is impossible: I cannot\ndo it, because it is wrong;  and would become immutable as a fixed\nstar. Well, you too have power over me, and may injure me: yet I dare\nnot show you where I am vulnerable, lest, faithful and friendly as you\nare, you should transfix me at once. \n\n If you have no more to fear from Mr. Mason than you have from me, sir,\nyou are very safe. \n\n God grant it may be so! Here, Jane, is an arbour; sit down. \n\nThe arbour was an arch in the wall, lined with ivy; it contained a\nrustic seat. Mr. Rochester took it, leaving room, however, for me: but\nI stood before him.\n\n Sit,  he said;  the bench is long enough for two. You don t hesitate\nto take a place at my side, do you? Is that wrong, Jane? \n\nI answered him by assuming it: to refuse would, I felt, have been\nunwise.\n\n Now, my little friend, while the sun drinks the dew while all the\nflowers in this old garden awake and expand, and the birds fetch their\nyoung ones  breakfast out of the Thornfield, and the early bees do\ntheir first spell of work I ll put a case to you, which you must\nendeavour to suppose your own: but first, look at me, and tell me you\nare at ease, and not fearing that I err in detaining you, or that you\nerr in staying. \n\n No, sir; I am content. \n\n Well then, Jane, call to aid your fancy: suppose you were no longer a\ngirl well reared and disciplined, but a wild boy indulged from\nchildhood upwards; imagine yourself in a remote foreign land; conceive\nthat you there commit a capital error, no matter of what nature or from\nwhat motives, but one whose consequences must follow you through life\nand taint all your existence. Mind, I don t say a _crime_; I am not\nspeaking of shedding of blood or any other guilty act, which might make\nthe perpetrator amenable to the law: my word is _error_. The results of\nwhat you have done become in time to you utterly insupportable; you\ntake measures to obtain relief: unusual measures, but neither unlawful\nnor culpable. Still you are miserable; for hope has quitted you on the\nvery confines of life: your sun at noon darkens in an eclipse, which\nyou feel will not leave it till the time of setting. Bitter and base\nassociations have become the sole food of your memory: you wander here\nand there, seeking rest in exile: happiness in pleasure I mean in\nheartless, sensual pleasure such as dulls intellect and blights\nfeeling. Heart-weary and soul-withered, you come home after years of\nvoluntary banishment: you make a new acquaintance how or where no\nmatter: you find in this stranger much of the good and bright qualities\nwhich you have sought for twenty years, and never before encountered;\nand they are all fresh, healthy, without soil and without taint. Such\nsociety revives, regenerates: you feel better days come back higher\nwishes, purer feelings; you desire to recommence your life, and to\nspend what remains to you of days in a way more worthy of an immortal\nbeing. To attain this end, are you justified in overleaping an obstacle\nof custom a mere conventional impediment which neither your conscience\nsanctifies nor your judgment approves? \n\nHe paused for an answer: and what was I to say? Oh, for some good\nspirit to suggest a judicious and satisfactory response! Vain\naspiration! The west wind whispered in the ivy round me; but no gentle\nAriel borrowed its breath as a medium of speech: the birds sang in the\ntree-tops; but their song, however sweet, was inarticulate.\n\nAgain Mr. Rochester propounded his query:\n\n Is the wandering and sinful, but now rest-seeking and repentant, man\njustified in daring the world s opinion, in order to attach to him for\never this gentle, gracious, genial stranger, thereby securing his own\npeace of mind and regeneration of life? \n\n Sir,  I answered,  a wanderer s repose or a sinner s reformation\nshould never depend on a fellow-creature. Men and women die;\nphilosophers falter in wisdom, and Christians in goodness: if any one\nyou know has suffered and erred, let him look higher than his equals\nfor strength to amend and solace to heal. \n\n But the instrument the instrument! God, who does the work, ordains the\ninstrument. I have myself I tell it you without parable been a worldly,\ndissipated, restless man; and I believe I have found the instrument for\nmy cure in \n\nHe paused: the birds went on carolling, the leaves lightly rustling. I\nalmost wondered they did not check their songs and whispers to catch\nthe suspended revelation; but they would have had to wait many\nminutes so long was the silence protracted. At last I looked up at the\ntardy speaker: he was looking eagerly at me.\n\n Little friend,  said he, in quite a changed tone while his face\nchanged too, losing all its softness and gravity, and becoming harsh\nand sarcastic you have noticed my tender penchant for Miss Ingram:\ndon t you think if I married her she would regenerate me with a\nvengeance? \n\nHe got up instantly, went quite to the other end of the walk, and when\nhe came back he was humming a tune.\n\n Jane, Jane,  said he, stopping before me,  you are quite pale with\nyour vigils: don t you curse me for disturbing your rest? \n\n Curse you? No, sir. \n\n Shake hands in confirmation of the word. What cold fingers! They were\nwarmer last night when I touched them at the door of the mysterious\nchamber. Jane, when will you watch with me again? \n\n Whenever I can be useful, sir. \n\n For instance, the night before I am married! I am sure I shall not be\nable to sleep. Will you promise to sit up with me to bear me company?\nTo you I can talk of my lovely one: for now you have seen her and know\nher. \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n She s a rare one, is she not, Jane? \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n A strapper a real strapper, Jane: big, brown, and buxom; with hair\njust such as the ladies of Carthage must have had. Bless me! there s\nDent and Lynn in the stables! Go in by the shrubbery, through that\nwicket. \n\nAs I went one way, he went another, and I heard him in the yard, saying\ncheerfully \n\n Mason got the start of you all this morning; he was gone before\nsunrise: I rose at four to see him off. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\n\nPresentiments are strange things! and so are sympathies; and so are\nsigns; and the three combined make one mystery to which humanity has\nnot yet found the key. I never laughed at presentiments in my life,\nbecause I have had strange ones of my own. Sympathies, I believe, exist\n(for instance, between far-distant, long-absent, wholly estranged\nrelatives asserting, notwithstanding their alienation, the unity of the\nsource to which each traces his origin) whose workings baffle mortal\ncomprehension. And signs, for aught we know, may be but the sympathies\nof Nature with man.\n\nWhen I was a little girl, only six years old, I one night heard Bessie\nLeaven say to Martha Abbot that she had been dreaming about a little\nchild; and that to dream of children was a sure sign of trouble, either\nto one s self or one s kin. The saying might have worn out of my\nmemory, had not a circumstance immediately followed which served\nindelibly to fix it there. The next day Bessie was sent for home to the\ndeathbed of her little sister.\n\nOf late I had often recalled this saying and this incident; for during\nthe past week scarcely a night had gone over my couch that had not\nbrought with it a dream of an infant, which I sometimes hushed in my\narms, sometimes dandled on my knee, sometimes watched playing with\ndaisies on a lawn, or again, dabbling its hands in running water. It\nwas a wailing child this night, and a laughing one the next: now it\nnestled close to me, and now it ran from me; but whatever mood the\napparition evinced, whatever aspect it wore, it failed not for seven\nsuccessive nights to meet me the moment I entered the land of slumber.\n\nI did not like this iteration of one idea this strange recurrence of\none image, and I grew nervous as bedtime approached and the hour of the\nvision drew near. It was from companionship with this baby-phantom I\nhad been roused on that moonlight night when I heard the cry; and it\nwas on the afternoon of the day following I was summoned downstairs by\na message that some one wanted me in Mrs. Fairfax s room. On repairing\nthither, I found a man waiting for me, having the appearance of a\ngentleman s servant: he was dressed in deep mourning, and the hat he\nheld in his hand was surrounded with a crape band.\n\n I daresay you hardly remember me, Miss,  he said, rising as I entered;\n but my name is Leaven: I lived coachman with Mrs. Reed when you were\nat Gateshead, eight or nine years since, and I live there still. \n\n Oh, Robert! how do you do? I remember you very well: you used to give\nme a ride sometimes on Miss Georgiana s bay pony. And how is Bessie?\nYou are married to Bessie? \n\n Yes, Miss: my wife is very hearty, thank you; she brought me another\nlittle one about two months since we have three now and both mother and\nchild are thriving. \n\n And are the family well at the house, Robert? \n\n I am sorry I can t give you better news of them, Miss: they are very\nbadly at present in great trouble. \n\n I hope no one is dead,  I said, glancing at his black dress. He too\nlooked down at the crape round his hat and replied \n\n Mr. John died yesterday was a week, at his chambers in London. \n\n Mr. John? \n\n Yes. \n\n And how does his mother bear it? \n\n Why, you see, Miss Eyre, it is not a common mishap: his life has been\nvery wild: these last three years he gave himself up to strange ways,\nand his death was shocking. \n\n I heard from Bessie he was not doing well. \n\n Doing well! He could not do worse: he ruined his health and his estate\namongst the worst men and the worst women. He got into debt and into\njail: his mother helped him out twice, but as soon as he was free he\nreturned to his old companions and habits. His head was not strong: the\nknaves he lived amongst fooled him beyond anything I ever heard. He\ncame down to Gateshead about three weeks ago and wanted missis to give\nup all to him. Missis refused: her means have long been much reduced by\nhis extravagance; so he went back again, and the next news was that he\nwas dead. How he died, God knows! they say he killed himself. \n\nI was silent: the tidings were frightful. Robert Leaven resumed \n\n Missis had been out of health herself for some time: she had got very\nstout, but was not strong with it; and the loss of money and fear of\npoverty were quite breaking her down. The information about Mr. John s\ndeath and the manner of it came too suddenly: it brought on a stroke.\nShe was three days without speaking; but last Tuesday she seemed rather\nbetter: she appeared as if she wanted to say something, and kept making\nsigns to my wife and mumbling. It was only yesterday morning, however,\nthat Bessie understood she was pronouncing your name; and at last she\nmade out the words,  Bring Jane fetch Jane Eyre: I want to speak to\nher.  Bessie is not sure whether she is in her right mind, or means\nanything by the words; but she told Miss Reed and Miss Georgiana, and\nadvised them to send for you. The young ladies put it off at first; but\ntheir mother grew so restless, and said,  Jane, Jane,  so many times,\nthat at last they consented. I left Gateshead yesterday: and if you can\nget ready, Miss, I should like to take you back with me early to-morrow\nmorning. \n\n Yes, Robert, I shall be ready: it seems to me that I ought to go. \n\n I think so too, Miss. Bessie said she was sure you would not refuse:\nbut I suppose you will have to ask leave before you can get off? \n\n Yes; and I will do it now;  and having directed him to the servants \nhall, and recommended him to the care of John s wife, and the\nattentions of John himself, I went in search of Mr. Rochester.\n\nHe was not in any of the lower rooms; he was not in the yard, the\nstables, or the grounds. I asked Mrs. Fairfax if she had seen him; yes:\nshe believed he was playing billiards with Miss Ingram. To the\nbilliard-room I hastened: the click of balls and the hum of voices\nresounded thence; Mr. Rochester, Miss Ingram, the two Misses Eshton,\nand their admirers, were all busied in the game. It required some\ncourage to disturb so interesting a party; my errand, however, was one\nI could not defer, so I approached the master where he stood at Miss\nIngram s side. She turned as I drew near, and looked at me haughtily:\nher eyes seemed to demand,  What can the creeping creature want now? \nand when I said, in a low voice,  Mr. Rochester,  she made a movement\nas if tempted to order me away. I remember her appearance at the\nmoment it was very graceful and very striking: she wore a morning robe\nof sky-blue crape; a gauzy azure scarf was twisted in her hair. She had\nbeen all animation with the game, and irritated pride did not lower the\nexpression of her haughty lineaments.\n\n Does that person want you?  she inquired of Mr. Rochester; and Mr.\nRochester turned to see who the  person  was. He made a curious\ngrimace one of his strange and equivocal demonstrations threw down his\ncue and followed me from the room.\n\n Well, Jane?  he said, as he rested his back against the schoolroom\ndoor, which he had shut.\n\n If you please, sir, I want leave of absence for a week or two. \n\n What to do? where to go? \n\n To see a sick lady who has sent for me. \n\n What sick lady? where does she live? \n\n At Gateshead; in  shire. \n\n -shire? That is a hundred miles off! Who may she be that sends for\npeople to see her that distance? \n\n Her name is Reed, sir Mrs. Reed. \n\n Reed of Gateshead? There was a Reed of Gateshead, a magistrate. \n\n It is his widow, sir. \n\n And what have you to do with her? How do you know her? \n\n Mr. Reed was my uncle my mother s brother. \n\n The deuce he was! You never told me that before: you always said you\nhad no relations. \n\n None that would own me, sir. Mr. Reed is dead, and his wife cast me\noff. \n\n Why? \n\n Because I was poor, and burdensome, and she disliked me. \n\n But Reed left children? you must have cousins? Sir George Lynn was\ntalking of a Reed of Gateshead yesterday, who, he said, was one of the\nveriest rascals on town; and Ingram was mentioning a Georgiana Reed of\nthe same place, who was much admired for her beauty a season or two ago\nin London. \n\n John Reed is dead, too, sir: he ruined himself and half-ruined his\nfamily, and is supposed to have committed suicide. The news so shocked\nhis mother that it brought on an apoplectic attack. \n\n And what good can you do her? Nonsense, Jane! I would never think of\nrunning a hundred miles to see an old lady who will, perhaps, be dead\nbefore you reach her: besides, you say she cast you off. \n\n Yes, sir, but that is long ago; and when her circumstances were very\ndifferent: I could not be easy to neglect her wishes now. \n\n How long will you stay? \n\n As short a time as possible, sir. \n\n Promise me only to stay a week \n\n I had better not pass my word: I might be obliged to break it. \n\n At all events you _will_ come back: you will not be induced under any\npretext to take up a permanent residence with her? \n\n Oh, no! I shall certainly return if all be well. \n\n And who goes with you? You don t travel a hundred miles alone. \n\n No, sir, she has sent her coachman. \n\n A person to be trusted? \n\n Yes, sir, he has lived ten years in the family. \n\nMr. Rochester meditated.  When do you wish to go? \n\n Early to-morrow morning, sir. \n\n Well, you must have some money; you can t travel without money, and I\ndaresay you have not much: I have given you no salary yet. How much\nhave you in the world, Jane?  he asked, smiling.\n\nI drew out my purse; a meagre thing it was.  Five shillings, sir.  He\ntook the purse, poured the hoard into his palm, and chuckled over it as\nif its scantiness amused him. Soon he produced his pocket-book:  Here, \nsaid he, offering me a note; it was fifty pounds, and he owed me but\nfifteen. I told him I had no change.\n\n I don t want change; you know that. Take your wages. \n\nI declined accepting more than was my due. He scowled at first; then,\nas if recollecting something, he said \n\n Right, right! Better not give you all now: you would, perhaps, stay\naway three months if you had fifty pounds. There are ten; is it not\nplenty? \n\n Yes, sir, but now you owe me five. \n\n Come back for it, then; I am your banker for forty pounds. \n\n Mr. Rochester, I may as well mention another matter of business to you\nwhile I have the opportunity. \n\n Matter of business? I am curious to hear it. \n\n You have as good as informed me, sir, that you are going shortly to be\nmarried? \n\n Yes; what then? \n\n In that case, sir, Ad le ought to go to school: I am sure you will\nperceive the necessity of it. \n\n To get her out of my bride s way, who might otherwise walk over her\nrather too emphatically? There s sense in the suggestion; not a doubt\nof it. Ad le, as you say, must go to school; and you, of course, must\nmarch straight to the devil? \n\n I hope not, sir; but I must seek another situation somewhere. \n\n In course!  he exclaimed, with a twang of voice and a distortion of\nfeatures equally fantastic and ludicrous. He looked at me some minutes.\n\n And old Madam Reed, or the Misses, her daughters, will be solicited by\nyou to seek a place, I suppose? \n\n No, sir; I am not on such terms with my relatives as would justify me\nin asking favours of them but I shall advertise. \n\n You shall walk up the pyramids of Egypt!  he growled.  At your peril\nyou advertise! I wish I had only offered you a sovereign instead of ten\npounds. Give me back nine pounds, Jane; I ve a use for it. \n\n And so have I, sir,  I returned, putting my hands and my purse behind\nme.  I could not spare the money on any account. \n\n Little niggard!  said he,  refusing me a pecuniary request! Give me\nfive pounds, Jane. \n\n Not five shillings, sir; nor five pence. \n\n Just let me look at the cash. \n\n No, sir; you are not to be trusted. \n\n Jane! \n\n Sir? \n\n Promise me one thing. \n\n I ll promise you anything, sir, that I think I am likely to perform. \n\n Not to advertise: and to trust this quest of a situation to me. I ll\nfind you one in time. \n\n I shall be glad so to do, sir, if you, in your turn, will promise that\nI and Ad le shall be both safe out of the house before your bride\nenters it. \n\n Very well! very well! I ll pledge my word on it. You go to-morrow,\nthen? \n\n Yes, sir; early. \n\n Shall you come down to the drawing-room after dinner? \n\n No, sir, I must prepare for the journey. \n\n Then you and I must bid good-bye for a little while? \n\n I suppose so, sir. \n\n And how do people perform that ceremony of parting, Jane? Teach me;\nI m not quite up to it. \n\n They say, Farewell, or any other form they prefer. \n\n Then say it. \n\n Farewell, Mr. Rochester, for the present. \n\n What must I say? \n\n The same, if you like, sir. \n\n Farewell, Miss Eyre, for the present; is that all? \n\n Yes. \n\n It seems stingy, to my notions, and dry, and unfriendly. I should like\nsomething else: a little addition to the rite. If one shook hands, for\ninstance; but no that would not content me either. So you ll do no more\nthan say Farewell, Jane? \n\n It is enough, sir: as much good-will may be conveyed in one hearty\nword as in many. \n\n Very likely; but it is blank and cool Farewell. \n\n How long is he going to stand with his back against that door?  I\nasked myself;  I want to commence my packing.  The dinner-bell rang,\nand suddenly away he bolted, without another syllable: I saw him no\nmore during the day, and was off before he had risen in the morning.\n\nI reached the lodge at Gateshead about five o clock in the afternoon of\nthe first of May: I stepped in there before going up to the hall. It\nwas very clean and neat: the ornamental windows were hung with little\nwhite curtains; the floor was spotless; the grate and fire-irons were\nburnished bright, and the fire burnt clear. Bessie sat on the hearth,\nnursing her last-born, and Robert and his sister played quietly in a\ncorner.\n\n Bless you! I knew you would come!  exclaimed Mrs. Leaven, as I\nentered.\n\n Yes, Bessie,  said I, after I had kissed her;  and I trust I am not\ntoo late. How is Mrs. Reed? Alive still, I hope. \n\n Yes, she is alive; and more sensible and collected than she was. The\ndoctor says she may linger a week or two yet; but he hardly thinks she\nwill finally recover. \n\n Has she mentioned me lately? \n\n She was talking of you only this morning, and wishing you would come,\nbut she is sleeping now, or was ten minutes ago, when I was up at the\nhouse. She generally lies in a kind of lethargy all the afternoon, and\nwakes up about six or seven. Will you rest yourself here an hour, Miss,\nand then I will go up with you? \n\nRobert here entered, and Bessie laid her sleeping child in the cradle\nand went to welcome him: afterwards she insisted on my taking off my\nbonnet and having some tea; for she said I looked pale and tired. I was\nglad to accept her hospitality; and I submitted to be relieved of my\ntravelling garb just as passively as I used to let her undress me when\na child.\n\nOld times crowded fast back on me as I watched her bustling\nabout setting out the tea-tray with her best china, cutting bread and\nbutter, toasting a tea-cake, and, between whiles, giving little Robert\nor Jane an occasional tap or push, just as she used to give me in\nformer days. Bessie had retained her quick temper as well as her light\nfoot and good looks.\n\nTea ready, I was going to approach the table; but she desired me to sit\nstill, quite in her old peremptory tones. I must be served at the\nfireside, she said; and she placed before me a little round stand with\nmy cup and a plate of toast, absolutely as she used to accommodate me\nwith some privately purloined dainty on a nursery chair: and I smiled\nand obeyed her as in bygone days.\n\nShe wanted to know if I was happy at Thornfield Hall, and what sort of\na person the mistress was; and when I told her there was only a master,\nwhether he was a nice gentleman, and if I liked him. I told her he was\nrather an ugly man, but quite a gentleman; and that he treated me\nkindly, and I was content. Then I went on to describe to her the gay\ncompany that had lately been staying at the house; and to these details\nBessie listened with interest: they were precisely of the kind she\nrelished.\n\nIn such conversation an hour was soon gone: Bessie restored to me my\nbonnet, &c., and, accompanied by her, I quitted the lodge for the hall.\nIt was also accompanied by her that I had, nearly nine years ago,\nwalked down the path I was now ascending. On a dark, misty, raw morning\nin January, I had left a hostile roof with a desperate and embittered\nheart a sense of outlawry and almost of reprobation to seek the chilly\nharbourage of Lowood: that bourne so far away and unexplored. The same\nhostile roof now again rose before me: my prospects were doubtful yet;\nand I had yet an aching heart. I still felt as a wanderer on the face\nof the earth; but I experienced firmer trust in myself and my own\npowers, and less withering dread of oppression. The gaping wound of my\nwrongs, too, was now quite healed; and the flame of resentment\nextinguished.\n\n You shall go into the breakfast-room first,  said Bessie, as she\npreceded me through the hall;  the young ladies will be there. \n\nIn another moment I was within that apartment. There was every article\nof furniture looking just as it did on the morning I was first\nintroduced to Mr. Brocklehurst: the very rug he had stood upon still\ncovered the hearth. Glancing at the bookcases, I thought I could\ndistinguish the two volumes of Bewick s British Birds occupying their\nold place on the third shelf, and Gulliver s Travels and the Arabian\nNights ranged just above. The inanimate objects were not changed; but\nthe living things had altered past recognition.\n\nTwo young ladies appeared before me; one very tall, almost as tall as\nMiss Ingram very thin too, with a sallow face and severe mien. There\nwas something ascetic in her look, which was augmented by the extreme\nplainness of a straight-skirted, black, stuff dress, a starched linen\ncollar, hair combed away from the temples, and the nun-like ornament of\na string of ebony beads and a crucifix. This I felt sure was Eliza,\nthough I could trace little resemblance to her former self in that\nelongated and colourless visage.\n\nThe other was as certainly Georgiana: but not the Georgiana I\nremembered the slim and fairy-like girl of eleven. This was a\nfull-blown, very plump damsel, fair as waxwork, with handsome and\nregular features, languishing blue eyes, and ringleted yellow hair. The\nhue of her dress was black too; but its fashion was so different from\nher sister s so much more flowing and becoming it looked as stylish as\nthe other s looked puritanical.\n\nIn each of the sisters there was one trait of the mother and only one;\nthe thin and pallid elder daughter had her parent s Cairngorm eye: the\nblooming and luxuriant younger girl had her contour of jaw and\nchin perhaps a little softened, but still imparting an indescribable\nhardness to the countenance otherwise so voluptuous and buxom.\n\nBoth ladies, as I advanced, rose to welcome me, and both addressed me\nby the name of  Miss Eyre.  Eliza s greeting was delivered in a short,\nabrupt voice, without a smile; and then she sat down again, fixed her\neyes on the fire, and seemed to forget me. Georgiana added to her  How\nd ye do?  several commonplaces about my journey, the weather, and so\non, uttered in rather a drawling tone: and accompanied by sundry\nside-glances that measured me from head to foot now traversing the\nfolds of my drab merino pelisse, and now lingering on the plain\ntrimming of my cottage bonnet. Young ladies have a remarkable way of\nletting you know that they think you a  quiz  without actually saying\nthe words. A certain superciliousness of look, coolness of manner,\nnonchalance of tone, express fully their sentiments on the point,\nwithout committing them by any positive rudeness in word or deed.\n\nA sneer, however, whether covert or open, had now no longer that power\nover me it once possessed: as I sat between my cousins, I was surprised\nto find how easy I felt under the total neglect of the one and the\nsemi-sarcastic attentions of the other Eliza did not mortify, nor\nGeorgiana ruffle me. The fact was, I had other things to think about;\nwithin the last few months feelings had been stirred in me so much more\npotent than any they could raise pains and pleasures so much more acute\nand exquisite had been excited than any it was in their power to\ninflict or bestow that their airs gave me no concern either for good or\nbad.\n\n How is Mrs. Reed?  I asked soon, looking calmly at Georgiana, who\nthought fit to bridle at the direct address, as if it were an\nunexpected liberty.\n\n Mrs. Reed? Ah! mama, you mean; she is extremely poorly: I doubt if you\ncan see her to-night. \n\n If,  said I,  you would just step upstairs and tell her I am come, I\nshould be much obliged to you. \n\nGeorgiana almost started, and she opened her blue eyes wild and wide.\n I know she had a particular wish to see me,  I added,  and I would not\ndefer attending to her desire longer than is absolutely necessary. \n\n Mama dislikes being disturbed in an evening,  remarked Eliza. I soon\nrose, quietly took off my bonnet and gloves, uninvited, and said I\nwould just step out to Bessie who was, I dared say, in the kitchen and\nask her to ascertain whether Mrs. Reed was disposed to receive me or\nnot to-night. I went, and having found Bessie and despatched her on my\nerrand, I proceeded to take further measures. It had heretofore been my\nhabit always to shrink from arrogance: received as I had been to-day, I\nshould, a year ago, have resolved to quit Gateshead the very next\nmorning; now, it was disclosed to me all at once that that would be a\nfoolish plan. I had taken a journey of a hundred miles to see my aunt,\nand I must stay with her till she was better or dead: as to her\ndaughters  pride or folly, I must put it on one side, make myself\nindependent of it. So I addressed the housekeeper; asked her to show me\na room, told her I should probably be a visitor here for a week or two,\nhad my trunk conveyed to my chamber, and followed it thither myself: I\nmet Bessie on the landing.\n\n Missis is awake,  said she;  I have told her you are here: come and\nlet us see if she will know you. \n\nI did not need to be guided to the well-known room, to which I had so\noften been summoned for chastisement or reprimand in former days. I\nhastened before Bessie; I softly opened the door: a shaded light stood\non the table, for it was now getting dark. There was the great\nfour-post bed with amber hangings as of old; there the toilet-table,\nthe armchair, and the footstool, at which I had a hundred times been\nsentenced to kneel, to ask pardon for offences by me uncommitted. I\nlooked into a certain corner near, half-expecting to see the slim\noutline of a once dreaded switch which used to lurk there, waiting to\nleap out imp-like and lace my quivering palm or shrinking neck. I\napproached the bed; I opened the curtains and leant over the high-piled\npillows.\n\nWell did I remember Mrs. Reed s face, and I eagerly sought the familiar\nimage. It is a happy thing that time quells the longings of vengeance\nand hushes the promptings of rage and aversion. I had left this woman\nin bitterness and hate, and I came back to her now with no other\nemotion than a sort of ruth for her great sufferings, and a strong\nyearning to forget and forgive all injuries to be reconciled and clasp\nhands in amity.\n\nThe well-known face was there: stern, relentless as ever there was that\npeculiar eye which nothing could melt, and the somewhat raised,\nimperious, despotic eyebrow. How often had it lowered on me menace and\nhate! and how the recollection of childhood s terrors and sorrows\nrevived as I traced its harsh line now! And yet I stooped down and\nkissed her: she looked at me.\n\n Is this Jane Eyre?  she said.\n\n Yes, Aunt Reed. How are you, dear aunt? \n\nI had once vowed that I would never call her aunt again: I thought it\nno sin to forget and break that vow now. My fingers had fastened on her\nhand which lay outside the sheet: had she pressed mine kindly, I should\nat that moment have experienced true pleasure. But unimpressionable\nnatures are not so soon softened, nor are natural antipathies so\nreadily eradicated. Mrs. Reed took her hand away, and, turning her face\nrather from me, she remarked that the night was warm. Again she\nregarded me so icily, I felt at once that her opinion of me her feeling\ntowards me was unchanged and unchangeable. I knew by her stony\neye opaque to tenderness, indissoluble to tears that she was resolved\nto consider me bad to the last; because to believe me good would give\nher no generous pleasure: only a sense of mortification.\n\nI felt pain, and then I felt ire; and then I felt a determination to\nsubdue her to be her mistress in spite both of her nature and her will.\nMy tears had risen, just as in childhood: I ordered them back to their\nsource. I brought a chair to the bed-head: I sat down and leaned over\nthe pillow.\n\n You sent for me,  I said,  and I am here; and it is my intention to\nstay till I see how you get on. \n\n Oh, of course! You have seen my daughters? \n\n Yes. \n\n Well, you may tell them I wish you to stay till I can talk some things\nover with you I have on my mind: to-night it is too late, and I have a\ndifficulty in recalling them. But there was something I wished to\nsay let me see \n\nThe wandering look and changed utterance told what wreck had taken\nplace in her once vigorous frame. Turning restlessly, she drew the\nbedclothes round her; my elbow, resting on a corner of the quilt, fixed\nit down: she was at once irritated.\n\n Sit up!  said she;  don t annoy me with holding the clothes fast. Are\nyou Jane Eyre? \n\n I am Jane Eyre. \n\n I have had more trouble with that child than any one would believe.\nSuch a burden to be left on my hands and so much annoyance as she\ncaused me, daily and hourly, with her incomprehensible disposition, and\nher sudden starts of temper, and her continual, unnatural watchings of\none s movements! I declare she talked to me once like something mad, or\nlike a fiend no child ever spoke or looked as she did; I was glad to\nget her away from the house. What did they do with her at Lowood? The\nfever broke out there, and many of the pupils died. She, however, did\nnot die: but I said she did I wish she had died! \n\n A strange wish, Mrs. Reed; why do you hate her so? \n\n I had a dislike to her mother always; for she was my husband s only\nsister, and a great favourite with him: he opposed the family s\ndisowning her when she made her low marriage; and when news came of her\ndeath, he wept like a simpleton. He would send for the baby; though I\nentreated him rather to put it out to nurse and pay for its\nmaintenance. I hated it the first time I set my eyes on it a sickly,\nwhining, pining thing! It would wail in its cradle all night long not\nscreaming heartily like any other child, but whimpering and moaning.\nReed pitied it; and he used to nurse it and notice it as if it had been\nhis own: more, indeed, than he ever noticed his own at that age. He\nwould try to make my children friendly to the little beggar: the\ndarlings could not bear it, and he was angry with them when they showed\ntheir dislike. In his last illness, he had it brought continually to\nhis bedside; and but an hour before he died, he bound me by vow to keep\nthe creature. I would as soon have been charged with a pauper brat out\nof a workhouse: but he was weak, naturally weak. John does not at all\nresemble his father, and I am glad of it: John is like me and like my\nbrothers he is quite a Gibson. Oh, I wish he would cease tormenting me\nwith letters for money! I have no more money to give him: we are\ngetting poor. I must send away half the servants and shut up part of\nthe house; or let it off. I can never submit to do that yet how are we\nto get on? Two-thirds of my income goes in paying the interest of\nmortgages. John gambles dreadfully, and always loses poor boy! He is\nbeset by sharpers: John is sunk and degraded his look is frightful I\nfeel ashamed for him when I see him. \n\nShe was getting much excited.  I think I had better leave her now, \nsaid I to Bessie, who stood on the other side of the bed.\n\n Perhaps you had, Miss: but she often talks in this way towards\nnight in the morning she is calmer. \n\nI rose.  Stop!  exclaimed Mrs. Reed,  there is another thing I wished\nto say. He threatens me he continually threatens me with his own death,\nor mine: and I dream sometimes that I see him laid out with a great\nwound in his throat, or with a swollen and blackened face. I am come to\na strange pass: I have heavy troubles. What is to be done? How is the\nmoney to be had? \n\nBessie now endeavoured to persuade her to take a sedative draught: she\nsucceeded with difficulty. Soon after, Mrs. Reed grew more composed,\nand sank into a dozing state. I then left her.\n\nMore than ten days elapsed before I had again any conversation with\nher. She continued either delirious or lethargic; and the doctor\nforbade everything which could painfully excite her. Meantime, I got on\nas well as I could with Georgiana and Eliza. They were very cold,\nindeed, at first. Eliza would sit half the day sewing, reading, or\nwriting, and scarcely utter a word either to me or her sister.\nGeorgiana would chatter nonsense to her canary bird by the hour, and\ntake no notice of me. But I was determined not to seem at a loss for\noccupation or amusement: I had brought my drawing materials with me,\nand they served me for both.\n\nProvided with a case of pencils, and some sheets of paper, I used to\ntake a seat apart from them, near the window, and busy myself in\nsketching fancy vignettes, representing any scene that happened\nmomentarily to shape itself in the ever-shifting kaleidoscope of\nimagination: a glimpse of sea between two rocks; the rising moon, and a\nship crossing its disk; a group of reeds and water-flags, and a naiad s\nhead, crowned with lotus-flowers, rising out of them; an elf sitting in\na hedge-sparrow s nest, under a wreath of hawthorn-bloom.\n\nOne morning I fell to sketching a face: what sort of a face it was to\nbe, I did not care or know. I took a soft black pencil, gave it a broad\npoint, and worked away. Soon I had traced on the paper a broad and\nprominent forehead and a square lower outline of visage: that contour\ngave me pleasure; my fingers proceeded actively to fill it with\nfeatures. Strongly-marked horizontal eyebrows must be traced under that\nbrow; then followed, naturally, a well-defined nose, with a straight\nridge and full nostrils; then a flexible-looking mouth, by no means\nnarrow; then a firm chin, with a decided cleft down the middle of it:\nof course, some black whiskers were wanted, and some jetty hair, tufted\non the temples, and waved above the forehead. Now for the eyes: I had\nleft them to the last, because they required the most careful working.\nI drew them large; I shaped them well: the eyelashes I traced long and\nsombre; the irids lustrous and large.  Good! but not quite the thing, \nI thought, as I surveyed the effect:  they want more force and spirit; \nand I wrought the shades blacker, that the lights might flash more\nbrilliantly a happy touch or two secured success. There, I had a\nfriend s face under my gaze; and what did it signify that those young\nladies turned their backs on me? I looked at it; I smiled at the\nspeaking likeness: I was absorbed and content.\n\n Is that a portrait of some one you know?  asked Eliza, who had\napproached me unnoticed. I responded that it was merely a fancy head,\nand hurried it beneath the other sheets. Of course, I lied: it was, in\nfact, a very faithful representation of Mr. Rochester. But what was\nthat to her, or to any one but myself? Georgiana also advanced to look.\nThe other drawings pleased her much, but she called that  an ugly man. \nThey both seemed surprised at my skill. I offered to sketch their\nportraits; and each, in turn, sat for a pencil outline. Then Georgiana\nproduced her album. I promised to contribute a water-colour drawing:\nthis put her at once into good humour. She proposed a walk in the\ngrounds. Before we had been out two hours, we were deep in a\nconfidential conversation: she had favoured me with a description of\nthe brilliant winter she had spent in London two seasons ago of the\nadmiration she had there excited the attention she had received; and I\neven got hints of the titled conquest she had made. In the course of\nthe afternoon and evening these hints were enlarged on: various soft\nconversations were reported, and sentimental scenes represented; and,\nin short, a volume of a novel of fashionable life was that day\nimprovised by her for my benefit. The communications were renewed from\nday to day: they always ran on the same theme herself, her loves, and\nwoes. It was strange she never once adverted either to her mother s\nillness, or her brother s death, or the present gloomy state of the\nfamily prospects. Her mind seemed wholly taken up with reminiscences of\npast gaiety, and aspirations after dissipations to come. She passed\nabout five minutes each day in her mother s sick-room, and no more.\n\nEliza still spoke little: she had evidently no time to talk. I never\nsaw a busier person than she seemed to be; yet it was difficult to say\nwhat she did: or rather, to discover any result of her diligence. She\nhad an alarm to call her up early. I know not how she occupied herself\nbefore breakfast, but after that meal she divided her time into regular\nportions, and each hour had its allotted task. Three times a day she\nstudied a little book, which I found, on inspection, was a Common\nPrayer Book. I asked her once what was the great attraction of that\nvolume, and she said,  the Rubric.  Three hours she gave to stitching,\nwith gold thread, the border of a square crimson cloth, almost large\nenough for a carpet. In answer to my inquiries after the use of this\narticle, she informed me it was a covering for the altar of a new\nchurch lately erected near Gateshead. Two hours she devoted to her\ndiary; two to working by herself in the kitchen-garden; and one to the\nregulation of her accounts. She seemed to want no company; no\nconversation. I believe she was happy in her way: this routine sufficed\nfor her; and nothing annoyed her so much as the occurrence of any\nincident which forced her to vary its clockwork regularity.\n\nShe told me one evening, when more disposed to be communicative than\nusual, that John s conduct, and the threatened ruin of the family, had\nbeen a source of profound affliction to her: but she had now, she said,\nsettled her mind, and formed her resolution. Her own fortune she had\ntaken care to secure; and when her mother died and it was wholly\nimprobable, she tranquilly remarked, that she should either recover or\nlinger long she would execute a long-cherished project: seek a\nretirement where punctual habits would be permanently secured from\ndisturbance, and place safe barriers between herself and a frivolous\nworld. I asked if Georgiana would accompany her.\n\n Of course not. Georgiana and she had nothing in common: they never had\nhad. She would not be burdened with her society for any consideration.\nGeorgiana should take her own course; and she, Eliza, would take hers. \n\nGeorgiana, when not unburdening her heart to me, spent most of her time\nin lying on the sofa, fretting about the dulness of the house, and\nwishing over and over again that her aunt Gibson would send her an\ninvitation up to town.  It would be so much better,  she said,  if she\ncould only get out of the way for a month or two, till all was over.  I\ndid not ask what she meant by  all being over,  but I suppose she\nreferred to the expected decease of her mother and the gloomy sequel of\nfuneral rites. Eliza generally took no more notice of her sister s\nindolence and complaints than if no such murmuring, lounging object had\nbeen before her. One day, however, as she put away her account-book and\nunfolded her embroidery, she suddenly took her up thus \n\n Georgiana, a more vain and absurd animal than you was certainly never\nallowed to cumber the earth. You had no right to be born, for you make\nno use of life. Instead of living for, in, and with yourself, as a\nreasonable being ought, you seek only to fasten your feebleness on some\nother person s strength: if no one can be found willing to burden her\nor himself with such a fat, weak, puffy, useless thing, you cry out\nthat you are ill-treated, neglected, miserable. Then, too, existence\nfor you must be a scene of continual change and excitement, or else the\nworld is a dungeon: you must be admired, you must be courted, you must\nbe flattered you must have music, dancing, and society or you languish,\nyou die away. Have you no sense to devise a system which will make you\nindependent of all efforts, and all wills, but your own? Take one day;\nshare it into sections; to each section apportion its task: leave no\nstray unemployed quarters of an hour, ten minutes, five minutes include\nall; do each piece of business in its turn with method, with rigid\nregularity. The day will close almost before you are aware it has\nbegun; and you are indebted to no one for helping you to get rid of one\nvacant moment: you have had to seek no one s company, conversation,\nsympathy, forbearance; you have lived, in short, as an independent\nbeing ought to do. Take this advice: the first and last I shall offer\nyou; then you will not want me or any one else, happen what may.\nNeglect it go on as heretofore, craving, whining, and idling and suffer\nthe results of your idiocy, however bad and insufferable they may be. I\ntell you this plainly; and listen: for though I shall no more repeat\nwhat I am now about to say, I shall steadily act on it. After my\nmother s death, I wash my hands of you: from the day her coffin is\ncarried to the vault in Gateshead Church, you and I will be as separate\nas if we had never known each other. You need not think that because we\nchanced to be born of the same parents, I shall suffer you to fasten me\ndown by even the feeblest claim: I can tell you this if the whole human\nrace, ourselves excepted, were swept away, and we two stood alone on\nthe earth, I would leave you in the old world, and betake myself to the\nnew. \n\nShe closed her lips.\n\n You might have spared yourself the trouble of delivering that tirade, \nanswered Georgiana.  Everybody knows you are the most selfish,\nheartless creature in existence: and _I_ know your spiteful hatred\ntowards me: I have had a specimen of it before in the trick you played\nme about Lord Edwin Vere: you could not bear me to be raised above you,\nto have a title, to be received into circles where you dare not show\nyour face, and so you acted the spy and informer, and ruined my\nprospects for ever.  Georgiana took out her handkerchief and blew her\nnose for an hour afterwards; Eliza sat cold, impassable, and\nassiduously industrious.\n\nTrue, generous feeling is made small account of by some, but here were\ntwo natures rendered, the one intolerably acrid, the other despicably\nsavourless for the want of it. Feeling without judgment is a washy\ndraught indeed; but judgment untempered by feeling is too bitter and\nhusky a morsel for human deglutition.\n\nIt was a wet and windy afternoon: Georgiana had fallen asleep on the\nsofa over the perusal of a novel; Eliza was gone to attend a\nsaint s-day service at the new church for in matters of religion she\nwas a rigid formalist: no weather ever prevented the punctual discharge\nof what she considered her devotional duties; fair or foul, she went to\nchurch thrice every Sunday, and as often on week-days as there were\nprayers.\n\nI bethought myself to go upstairs and see how the dying woman sped, who\nlay there almost unheeded: the very servants paid her but a remittent\nattention: the hired nurse, being little looked after, would slip out\nof the room whenever she could. Bessie was faithful; but she had her\nown family to mind, and could only come occasionally to the hall. I\nfound the sick-room unwatched, as I had expected: no nurse was there;\nthe patient lay still, and seemingly lethargic; her livid face sunk in\nthe pillows: the fire was dying in the grate. I renewed the fuel,\nre-arranged the bedclothes, gazed awhile on her who could not now gaze\non me, and then I moved away to the window.\n\nThe rain beat strongly against the panes, the wind blew tempestuously:\n One lies there,  I thought,  who will soon be beyond the war of\nearthly elements. Whither will that spirit now struggling to quit its\nmaterial tenement flit when at length released? \n\nIn pondering the great mystery, I thought of Helen Burns, recalled her\ndying words her faith her doctrine of the equality of disembodied\nsouls. I was still listening in thought to her well-remembered\ntones still picturing her pale and spiritual aspect, her wasted face\nand sublime gaze, as she lay on her placid deathbed, and whispered her\nlonging to be restored to her divine Father s bosom when a feeble voice\nmurmured from the couch behind:  Who is that? \n\nI knew Mrs. Reed had not spoken for days: was she reviving? I went up\nto her.\n\n It is I, Aunt Reed. \n\n Who I?  was her answer.  Who are you?  looking at me with surprise and\na sort of alarm, but still not wildly.  You are quite a stranger to\nme where is Bessie? \n\n She is at the lodge, aunt. \n\n Aunt,  she repeated.  Who calls me aunt? You are not one of the\nGibsons; and yet I know you that face, and the eyes and forehead, are\nquiet familiar to me: you are like why, you are like Jane Eyre! \n\nI said nothing: I was afraid of occasioning some shock by declaring my\nidentity.\n\n Yet,  said she,  I am afraid it is a mistake: my thoughts deceive me.\nI wished to see Jane Eyre, and I fancy a likeness where none exists:\nbesides, in eight years she must be so changed.  I now gently assured\nher that I was the person she supposed and desired me to be: and seeing\nthat I was understood, and that her senses were quite collected, I\nexplained how Bessie had sent her husband to fetch me from Thornfield.\n\n I am very ill, I know,  she said ere long.  I was trying to turn\nmyself a few minutes since, and find I cannot move a limb. It is as\nwell I should ease my mind before I die: what we think little of in\nhealth, burdens us at such an hour as the present is to me. Is the\nnurse here? or is there no one in the room but you? \n\nI assured her we were alone.\n\n Well, I have twice done you a wrong which I regret now. One was in\nbreaking the promise which I gave my husband to bring you up as my own\nchild; the other  she stopped.  After all, it is of no great\nimportance, perhaps,  she murmured to herself:  and then I may get\nbetter; and to humble myself so to her is painful. \n\nShe made an effort to alter her position, but failed: her face changed;\nshe seemed to experience some inward sensation the precursor, perhaps,\nof the last pang.\n\n Well, I must get it over. Eternity is before me: I had better tell\nher. Go to my dressing-case, open it, and take out a letter you will\nsee there. \n\nI obeyed her directions.  Read the letter,  she said.\n\nIt was short, and thus conceived: \n\n MADAM, \n Will you have the goodness to send me the address of my niece, Jane\nEyre, and to tell me how she is? It is my intention to write shortly\nand desire her to come to me at Madeira. Providence has blessed my\nendeavours to secure a competency; and as I am unmarried and childless,\nI wish to adopt her during my life, and bequeath her at my death\nwhatever I may have to leave.\n\n\nI am, Madam, &c., &c.,\n JOHN EYRE, Madeira. \n\n\nIt was dated three years back.\n\n Why did I never hear of this?  I asked.\n\n Because I disliked you too fixedly and thoroughly ever to lend a hand\nin lifting you to prosperity. I could not forget your conduct to me,\nJane the fury with which you once turned on me; the tone in which you\ndeclared you abhorred me the worst of anybody in the world; the\nunchildlike look and voice with which you affirmed that the very\nthought of me made you sick, and asserted that I had treated you with\nmiserable cruelty. I could not forget my own sensations when you thus\nstarted up and poured out the venom of your mind: I felt fear as if an\nanimal that I had struck or pushed had looked up at me with human eyes\nand cursed me in a man s voice. Bring me some water! Oh, make haste! \n\n Dear Mrs. Reed,  said I, as I offered her the draught she required,\n think no more of all this, let it pass away from your mind. Forgive me\nfor my passionate language: I was a child then; eight, nine years have\npassed since that day. \n\nShe heeded nothing of what I said; but when she had tasted the water\nand drawn breath, she went on thus \n\n I tell you I could not forget it; and I took my revenge: for you to be\nadopted by your uncle, and placed in a state of ease and comfort, was\nwhat I could not endure. I wrote to him; I said I was sorry for his\ndisappointment, but Jane Eyre was dead: she had died of typhus fever at\nLowood. Now act as you please: write and contradict my assertion expose\nmy falsehood as soon as you like. You were born, I think, to be my\ntorment: my last hour is racked by the recollection of a deed which,\nbut for you, I should never have been tempted to commit. \n\n If you could but be persuaded to think no more of it, aunt, and to\nregard me with kindness and forgiveness \n\n You have a very bad disposition,  said she,  and one to this day I\nfeel it impossible to understand: how for nine years you could be\npatient and quiescent under any treatment, and in the tenth break out\nall fire and violence, I can never comprehend. \n\n My disposition is not so bad as you think: I am passionate, but not\nvindictive. Many a time, as a little child, I should have been glad to\nlove you if you would have let me; and I long earnestly to be\nreconciled to you now: kiss me, aunt. \n\nI approached my cheek to her lips: she would not touch it. She said I\noppressed her by leaning over the bed, and again demanded water. As I\nlaid her down for I raised her and supported her on my arm while she\ndrank I covered her ice-cold and clammy hand with mine: the feeble\nfingers shrank from my touch the glazing eyes shunned my gaze.\n\n Love me, then, or hate me, as you will,  I said at last,  you have my\nfull and free forgiveness: ask now for God s, and be at peace. \n\nPoor, suffering woman! it was too late for her to make now the effort\nto change her habitual frame of mind: living, she had ever hated\nme dying, she must hate me still.\n\nThe nurse now entered, and Bessie followed. I yet lingered half-an-hour\nlonger, hoping to see some sign of amity: but she gave none. She was\nfast relapsing into stupor; nor did her mind again rally: at twelve\no clock that night she died. I was not present to close her eyes, nor\nwere either of her daughters. They came to tell us the next morning\nthat all was over. She was by that time laid out. Eliza and I went to\nlook at her: Georgiana, who had burst out into loud weeping, said she\ndared not go. There was stretched Sarah Reed s once robust and active\nframe, rigid and still: her eye of flint was covered with its cold lid;\nher brow and strong traits wore yet the impress of her inexorable soul.\nA strange and solemn object was that corpse to me. I gazed on it with\ngloom and pain: nothing soft, nothing sweet, nothing pitying, or\nhopeful, or subduing did it inspire; only a grating anguish for _her_\nwoes not _my_ loss and a sombre tearless dismay at the fearfulness of\ndeath in such a form.\n\nEliza surveyed her parent calmly. After a silence of some minutes she\nobserved \n\n With her constitution she should have lived to a good old age: her\nlife was shortened by trouble.  And then a spasm constricted her mouth\nfor an instant: as it passed away she turned and left the room, and so\ndid I. Neither of us had dropt a tear.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\n\nMr. Rochester had given me but one week s leave of absence: yet a month\nelapsed before I quitted Gateshead. I wished to leave immediately after\nthe funeral, but Georgiana entreated me to stay till she could get off\nto London, whither she was now at last invited by her uncle, Mr.\nGibson, who had come down to direct his sister s interment and settle\nthe family affairs. Georgiana said she dreaded being left alone with\nEliza; from her she got neither sympathy in her dejection, support in\nher fears, nor aid in her preparations; so I bore with her\nfeeble-minded wailings and selfish lamentations as well as I could, and\ndid my best in sewing for her and packing her dresses. It is true, that\nwhile I worked, she would idle; and I thought to myself,  If you and I\nwere destined to live always together, cousin, we would commence\nmatters on a different footing. I should not settle tamely down into\nbeing the forbearing party; I should assign you your share of labour,\nand compel you to accomplish it, or else it should be left undone: I\nshould insist, also, on your keeping some of those drawling,\nhalf-insincere complaints hushed in your own breast. It is only because\nour connection happens to be very transitory, and comes at a peculiarly\nmournful season, that I consent thus to render it so patient and\ncompliant on my part. \n\nAt last I saw Georgiana off; but now it was Eliza s turn to request me\nto stay another week. Her plans required all her time and attention,\nshe said; she was about to depart for some unknown bourne; and all day\nlong she stayed in her own room, her door bolted within, filling\ntrunks, emptying drawers, burning papers, and holding no communication\nwith any one. She wished me to look after the house, to see callers,\nand answer notes of condolence.\n\nOne morning she told me I was at liberty.  And,  she added,  I am\nobliged to you for your valuable services and discreet conduct! There\nis some difference between living with such an one as you and with\nGeorgiana: you perform your own part in life and burden no one.\nTo-morrow,  she continued,  I set out for the Continent. I shall take\nup my abode in a religious house near Lisle a nunnery you would call\nit; there I shall be quiet and unmolested. I shall devote myself for a\ntime to the examination of the Roman Catholic dogmas, and to a careful\nstudy of the workings of their system: if I find it to be, as I half\nsuspect it is, the one best calculated to ensure the doing of all\nthings decently and in order, I shall embrace the tenets of Rome and\nprobably take the veil. \n\nI neither expressed surprise at this resolution nor attempted to\ndissuade her from it.  The vocation will fit you to a hair,  I thought:\n much good may it do you! \n\nWhen we parted, she said:  Good-bye, cousin Jane Eyre; I wish you well:\nyou have some sense. \n\nI then returned:  You are not without sense, cousin Eliza; but what you\nhave, I suppose, in another year will be walled up alive in a French\nconvent. However, it is not my business, and so it suits you, I don t\nmuch care. \n\n You are in the right,  said she; and with these words we each went our\nseparate way. As I shall not have occasion to refer either to her or\nher sister again, I may as well mention here, that Georgiana made an\nadvantageous match with a wealthy worn-out man of fashion, and that\nEliza actually took the veil, and is at this day superior of the\nconvent where she passed the period of her novitiate, and which she\nendowed with her fortune.\n\nHow people feel when they are returning home from an absence, long or\nshort, I did not know: I had never experienced the sensation. I had\nknown what it was to come back to Gateshead when a child after a long\nwalk, to be scolded for looking cold or gloomy; and later, what it was\nto come back from church to Lowood, to long for a plenteous meal and a\ngood fire, and to be unable to get either. Neither of these returnings\nwas very pleasant or desirable: no magnet drew me to a given point,\nincreasing in its strength of attraction the nearer I came. The return\nto Thornfield was yet to be tried.\n\nMy journey seemed tedious very tedious: fifty miles one day, a night\nspent at an inn; fifty miles the next day. During the first twelve\nhours I thought of Mrs. Reed in her last moments; I saw her disfigured\nand discoloured face, and heard her strangely altered voice. I mused on\nthe funeral day, the coffin, the hearse, the black train of tenants and\nservants few was the number of relatives the gaping vault, the silent\nchurch, the solemn service. Then I thought of Eliza and Georgiana; I\nbeheld one the cynosure of a ball-room, the other the inmate of a\nconvent cell; and I dwelt on and analysed their separate peculiarities\nof person and character. The evening arrival at the great town of  \nscattered these thoughts; night gave them quite another turn: laid down\non my traveller s bed, I left reminiscence for anticipation.\n\nI was going back to Thornfield: but how long was I to stay there? Not\nlong; of that I was sure. I had heard from Mrs. Fairfax in the interim\nof my absence: the party at the hall was dispersed; Mr. Rochester had\nleft for London three weeks ago, but he was then expected to return in\na fortnight. Mrs. Fairfax surmised that he was gone to make\narrangements for his wedding, as he had talked of purchasing a new\ncarriage: she said the idea of his marrying Miss Ingram still seemed\nstrange to her; but from what everybody said, and from what she had\nherself seen, she could no longer doubt that the event would shortly\ntake place.  You would be strangely incredulous if you did doubt it, \nwas my mental comment.  I don t doubt it. \n\nThe question followed,  Where was I to go?  I dreamt of Miss Ingram all\nthe night: in a vivid morning dream I saw her closing the gates of\nThornfield against me and pointing me out another road; and Mr.\nRochester looked on with his arms folded smiling sardonically, as it\nseemed, at both her and me.\n\nI had not notified to Mrs. Fairfax the exact day of my return; for I\ndid not wish either car or carriage to meet me at Millcote. I proposed\nto walk the distance quietly by myself; and very quietly, after leaving\nmy box in the ostler s care, did I slip away from the George Inn, about\nsix o clock of a June evening, and take the old road to Thornfield: a\nroad which lay chiefly through fields, and was now little frequented.\n\nIt was not a bright or splendid summer evening, though fair and soft:\nthe haymakers were at work all along the road; and the sky, though far\nfrom cloudless, was such as promised well for the future: its\nblue where blue was visible was mild and settled, and its cloud strata\nhigh and thin. The west, too, was warm: no watery gleam chilled it it\nseemed as if there was a fire lit, an altar burning behind its screen\nof marbled vapour, and out of apertures shone a golden redness.\n\nI felt glad as the road shortened before me: so glad that I stopped\nonce to ask myself what that joy meant: and to remind reason that it\nwas not to my home I was going, or to a permanent resting-place, or to\na place where fond friends looked out for me and waited my arrival.\n Mrs. Fairfax will smile you a calm welcome, to be sure,  said I;  and\nlittle Ad le will clap her hands and jump to see you: but you know very\nwell you are thinking of another than they, and that he is not thinking\nof you. \n\nBut what is so headstrong as youth? What so blind as inexperience?\nThese affirmed that it was pleasure enough to have the privilege of\nagain looking on Mr. Rochester, whether he looked on me or not; and\nthey added Hasten! hasten! be with him while you may: but a few more\ndays or weeks, at most, and you are parted from him for ever!  And then\nI strangled a new-born agony a deformed thing which I could not\npersuade myself to own and rear and ran on.\n\nThey are making hay, too, in Thornfield meadows: or rather, the\nlabourers are just quitting their work, and returning home with their\nrakes on their shoulders, now, at the hour I arrive. I have but a field\nor two to traverse, and then I shall cross the road and reach the\ngates. How full the hedges are of roses! But I have no time to gather\nany; I want to be at the house. I passed a tall briar, shooting leafy\nand flowery branches across the path; I see the narrow stile with stone\nsteps; and I see Mr. Rochester sitting there, a book and a pencil in\nhis hand; he is writing.\n\nWell, he is not a ghost; yet every nerve I have is unstrung: for a\nmoment I am beyond my own mastery. What does it mean? I did not think I\nshould tremble in this way when I saw him, or lose my voice or the\npower of motion in his presence. I will go back as soon as I can stir:\nI need not make an absolute fool of myself. I know another way to the\nhouse. It does not signify if I knew twenty ways; for he has seen me.\n\n Hillo!  he cries; and he puts up his book and his pencil.  There you\nare! Come on, if you please. \n\nI suppose I do come on; though in what fashion I know not; being\nscarcely cognisant of my movements, and solicitous only to appear calm;\nand, above all, to control the working muscles of my face which I feel\nrebel insolently against my will, and struggle to express what I had\nresolved to conceal. But I have a veil it is down: I may make shift yet\nto behave with decent composure.\n\n And this is Jane Eyre? Are you coming from Millcote, and on foot?\nYes just one of your tricks: not to send for a carriage, and come\nclattering over street and road like a common mortal, but to steal into\nthe vicinage of your home along with twilight, just as if you were a\ndream or a shade. What the deuce have you done with yourself this last\nmonth? \n\n I have been with my aunt, sir, who is dead. \n\n A true Janian reply! Good angels be my guard! She comes from the other\nworld from the abode of people who are dead; and tells me so when she\nmeets me alone here in the gloaming! If I dared, I d touch you, to see\nif you are substance or shadow, you elf! but I d as soon offer to take\nhold of a blue _ignis fatuus_ light in a marsh. Truant! truant!  he\nadded, when he had paused an instant.  Absent from me a whole month,\nand forgetting me quite, I ll be sworn! \n\nI knew there would be pleasure in meeting my master again, even though\nbroken by the fear that he was so soon to cease to be my master, and by\nthe knowledge that I was nothing to him: but there was ever in Mr.\nRochester (so at least I thought) such a wealth of the power of\ncommunicating happiness, that to taste but of the crumbs he scattered\nto stray and stranger birds like me, was to feast genially. His last\nwords were balm: they seemed to imply that it imported something to him\nwhether I forgot him or not. And he had spoken of Thornfield as my\nhome would that it were my home!\n\nHe did not leave the stile, and I hardly liked to ask to go by. I\ninquired soon if he had not been to London.\n\n Yes; I suppose you found that out by second-sight. \n\n Mrs. Fairfax told me in a letter. \n\n And did she inform you what I went to do? \n\n Oh, yes, sir! Everybody knew your errand. \n\n You must see the carriage, Jane, and tell me if you don t think it\nwill suit Mrs. Rochester exactly; and whether she won t look like Queen\nBoadicea, leaning back against those purple cushions. I wish, Jane, I\nwere a trifle better adapted to match with her externally. Tell me now,\nfairy as you are can t you give me a charm, or a philter, or something\nof that sort, to make me a handsome man? \n\n It would be past the power of magic, sir;  and, in thought, I added,\n A loving eye is all the charm needed: to such you are handsome enough;\nor rather your sternness has a power beyond beauty. \n\nMr. Rochester had sometimes read my unspoken thoughts with an acumen to\nme incomprehensible: in the present instance he took no notice of my\nabrupt vocal response; but he smiled at me with a certain smile he had\nof his own, and which he used but on rare occasions. He seemed to think\nit too good for common purposes: it was the real sunshine of feeling he\nshed it over me now.\n\n Pass, Janet,  said he, making room for me to cross the stile:  go up\nhome, and stay your weary little wandering feet at a friend s\nthreshold. \n\nAll I had now to do was to obey him in silence: no need for me to\ncolloquise further. I got over the stile without a word, and meant to\nleave him calmly. An impulse held me fast a force turned me round. I\nsaid or something in me said for me, and in spite of me \n\n Thank you, Mr. Rochester, for your great kindness. I am strangely glad\nto get back again to you: and wherever you are is my home my only\nhome. \n\nI walked on so fast that even he could hardly have overtaken me had he\ntried. Little Ad le was half wild with delight when she saw me. Mrs.\nFairfax received me with her usual plain friendliness. Leah smiled, and\neven Sophie bid me  bon soir  with glee. This was very pleasant; there\nis no happiness like that of being loved by your fellow-creatures, and\nfeeling that your presence is an addition to their comfort.\n\nI that evening shut my eyes resolutely against the future: I stopped my\nears against the voice that kept warning me of near separation and\ncoming grief. When tea was over and Mrs. Fairfax had taken her\nknitting, and I had assumed a low seat near her, and Ad le, kneeling on\nthe carpet, had nestled close up to me, and a sense of mutual affection\nseemed to surround us with a ring of golden peace, I uttered a silent\nprayer that we might not be parted far or soon; but when, as we thus\nsat, Mr. Rochester entered, unannounced, and looking at us, seemed to\ntake pleasure in the spectacle of a group so amicable when he said he\nsupposed the old lady was all right now that she had got her adopted\ndaughter back again, and added that he saw Ad le was  pr te   croquer\nsa petite maman Anglaise I half ventured to hope that he would, even\nafter his marriage, keep us together somewhere under the shelter of his\nprotection, and not quite exiled from the sunshine of his presence.\n\nA fortnight of dubious calm succeeded my return to Thornfield Hall.\nNothing was said of the master s marriage, and I saw no preparation\ngoing on for such an event. Almost every day I asked Mrs. Fairfax if\nshe had yet heard anything decided: her answer was always in the\nnegative. Once she said she had actually put the question to Mr.\nRochester as to when he was going to bring his bride home; but he had\nanswered her only by a joke and one of his queer looks, and she could\nnot tell what to make of him.\n\nOne thing specially surprised me, and that was, there were no\njourneyings backward and forward, no visits to Ingram Park: to be sure\nit was twenty miles off, on the borders of another county; but what was\nthat distance to an ardent lover? To so practised and indefatigable a\nhorseman as Mr. Rochester, it would be but a morning s ride. I began to\ncherish hopes I had no right to conceive: that the match was broken\noff; that rumour had been mistaken; that one or both parties had\nchanged their minds. I used to look at my master s face to see if it\nwere sad or fierce; but I could not remember the time when it had been\nso uniformly clear of clouds or evil feelings. If, in the moments I and\nmy pupil spent with him, I lacked spirits and sank into inevitable\ndejection, he became even gay. Never had he called me more frequently\nto his presence; never been kinder to me when there and, alas! never\nhad I loved him so well.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\n\nA splendid Midsummer shone over England: skies so pure, suns so radiant\nas were then seen in long succession, seldom favour even singly, our\nwave-girt land. It was as if a band of Italian days had come from the\nSouth, like a flock of glorious passenger birds, and lighted to rest\nthem on the cliffs of Albion. The hay was all got in; the fields round\nThornfield were green and shorn; the roads white and baked; the trees\nwere in their dark prime; hedge and wood, full-leaved and deeply\ntinted, contrasted well with the sunny hue of the cleared meadows\nbetween.\n\nOn Midsummer-eve, Ad le, weary with gathering wild strawberries in Hay\nLane half the day, had gone to bed with the sun. I watched her drop\nasleep, and when I left her, I sought the garden.\n\nIt was now the sweetest hour of the twenty-four: Day its fervid fires\nhad wasted,  and dew fell cool on panting plain and scorched summit.\nWhere the sun had gone down in simple state pure of the pomp of\nclouds spread a solemn purple, burning with the light of red jewel and\nfurnace flame at one point, on one hill-peak, and extending high and\nwide, soft and still softer, over half heaven. The east had its own\ncharm or fine deep blue, and its own modest gem, a rising and solitary\nstar: soon it would boast the moon; but she was yet beneath the\nhorizon.\n\nI walked a while on the pavement; but a subtle, well-known scent that\nof a cigar stole from some window; I saw the library casement open a\nhandbreadth; I knew I might be watched thence; so I went apart into the\norchard. No nook in the grounds more sheltered and more Eden-like; it\nwas full of trees, it bloomed with flowers: a very high wall shut it\nout from the court, on one side; on the other, a beech avenue screened\nit from the lawn. At the bottom was a sunk fence; its sole separation\nfrom lonely fields: a winding walk, bordered with laurels and\nterminating in a giant horse-chestnut, circled at the base by a seat,\nled down to the fence. Here one could wander unseen. While such\nhoney-dew fell, such silence reigned, such gloaming gathered, I felt as\nif I could haunt such shade for ever; but in threading the flower and\nfruit parterres at the upper part of the enclosure, enticed there by\nthe light the now rising moon cast on this more open quarter, my step\nis stayed not by sound, not by sight, but once more by a warning\nfragrance.\n\nSweet-briar and southernwood, jasmine, pink, and rose have long been\nyielding their evening sacrifice of incense: this new scent is neither\nof shrub nor flower; it is I know it well it is Mr. Rochester s cigar.\nI look round and I listen. I see trees laden with ripening fruit. I\nhear a nightingale warbling in a wood half a mile off; no moving form\nis visible, no coming step audible; but that perfume increases: I must\nflee. I make for the wicket leading to the shrubbery, and I see Mr.\nRochester entering. I step aside into the ivy recess; he will not stay\nlong: he will soon return whence he came, and if I sit still he will\nnever see me.\n\nBut no eventide is as pleasant to him as to me, and this antique garden\nas attractive; and he strolls on, now lifting the gooseberry-tree\nbranches to look at the fruit, large as plums, with which they are\nladen; now taking a ripe cherry from the wall; now stooping towards a\nknot of flowers, either to inhale their fragrance or to admire the\ndew-beads on their petals. A great moth goes humming by me; it alights\non a plant at Mr. Rochester s foot: he sees it, and bends to examine\nit.\n\n Now, he has his back towards me,  thought I,  and he is occupied too;\nperhaps, if I walk softly, I can slip away unnoticed. \n\nI trode on an edging of turf that the crackle of the pebbly gravel\nmight not betray me: he was standing among the beds at a yard or two\ndistant from where I had to pass; the moth apparently engaged him.  I\nshall get by very well,  I meditated. As I crossed his shadow, thrown\nlong over the garden by the moon, not yet risen high, he said quietly,\nwithout turning \n\n Jane, come and look at this fellow. \n\nI had made no noise: he had not eyes behind could his shadow feel? I\nstarted at first, and then I approached him.\n\n Look at his wings,  said he,  he reminds me rather of a West Indian\ninsect; one does not often see so large and gay a night-rover in\nEngland; there! he is flown. \n\nThe moth roamed away. I was sheepishly retreating also; but Mr.\nRochester followed me, and when we reached the wicket, he said \n\n Turn back: on so lovely a night it is a shame to sit in the house; and\nsurely no one can wish to go to bed while sunset is thus at meeting\nwith moonrise. \n\nIt is one of my faults, that though my tongue is sometimes prompt\nenough at an answer, there are times when it sadly fails me in framing\nan excuse; and always the lapse occurs at some crisis, when a facile\nword or plausible pretext is specially wanted to get me out of painful\nembarrassment. I did not like to walk at this hour alone with Mr.\nRochester in the shadowy orchard; but I could not find a reason to\nallege for leaving him. I followed with lagging step, and thoughts\nbusily bent on discovering a means of extrication; but he himself\nlooked so composed and so grave also, I became ashamed of feeling any\nconfusion: the evil if evil existent or prospective there was seemed to\nlie with me only; his mind was unconscious and quiet.\n\n Jane,  he recommenced, as we entered the laurel walk, and slowly\nstrayed down in the direction of the sunk fence and the horse-chestnut,\n Thornfield is a pleasant place in summer, is it not? \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n You must have become in some degree attached to the house, you, who\nhave an eye for natural beauties, and a good deal of the organ of\nAdhesiveness? \n\n I am attached to it, indeed. \n\n And though I don t comprehend how it is, I perceive you have acquired\na degree of regard for that foolish little child Ad le, too; and even\nfor simple dame Fairfax? \n\n Yes, sir; in different ways, I have an affection for both. \n\n And would be sorry to part with them? \n\n Yes. \n\n Pity!  he said, and sighed and paused.  It is always the way of events\nin this life,  he continued presently:  no sooner have you got settled\nin a pleasant resting-place, than a voice calls out to you to rise and\nmove on, for the hour of repose is expired. \n\n Must I move on, sir?  I asked.  Must I leave Thornfield? \n\n I believe you must, Jane. I am sorry, Janet, but I believe indeed you\nmust. \n\nThis was a blow: but I did not let it prostrate me.\n\n Well, sir, I shall be ready when the order to march comes. \n\n It is come now I must give it to-night. \n\n Then you _are_ going to be married, sir? \n\n Ex-act-ly pre-cise-ly: with your usual acuteness, you have hit the\nnail straight on the head. \n\n Soon, sir? \n\n Very soon, my that is, Miss Eyre: and you ll remember, Jane, the first\ntime I, or Rumour, plainly intimated to you that it was my intention to\nput my old bachelor s neck into the sacred noose, to enter into the\nholy estate of matrimony to take Miss Ingram to my bosom, in short\n(she s an extensive armful: but that s not to the point one can t have\ntoo much of such a very excellent thing as my beautiful Blanche): well,\nas I was saying listen to me, Jane! You re not turning your head to\nlook after more moths, are you? That was only a lady-clock, child,\n flying away home.  I wish to remind you that it was you who first said\nto me, with that discretion I respect in you with that foresight,\nprudence, and humility which befit your responsible and dependent\nposition that in case I married Miss Ingram, both you and little Ad le\nhad better trot forthwith. I pass over the sort of slur conveyed in\nthis suggestion on the character of my beloved; indeed, when you are\nfar away, Janet, I ll try to forget it: I shall notice only its wisdom;\nwhich is such that I have made it my law of action. Ad le must go to\nschool; and you, Miss Eyre, must get a new situation. \n\n Yes, sir, I will advertise immediately: and meantime, I suppose  I\nwas going to say,  I suppose I may stay here, till I find another\nshelter to betake myself to:  but I stopped, feeling it would not do to\nrisk a long sentence, for my voice was not quite under command.\n\n In about a month I hope to be a bridegroom,  continued Mr. Rochester;\n and in the interim, I shall myself look out for employment and an\nasylum for you. \n\n Thank you, sir; I am sorry to give \n\n Oh, no need to apologise! I consider that when a dependent does her\nduty as well as you have done yours, she has a sort of claim upon her\nemployer for any little assistance he can conveniently render her;\nindeed I have already, through my future mother-in-law, heard of a\nplace that I think will suit: it is to undertake the education of the\nfive daughters of Mrs. Dionysius O Gall of Bitternutt Lodge, Connaught,\nIreland. You ll like Ireland, I think: they re such warm-hearted people\nthere, they say. \n\n It is a long way off, sir. \n\n No matter a girl of your sense will not object to the voyage or the\ndistance. \n\n Not the voyage, but the distance: and then the sea is a barrier \n\n From what, Jane? \n\n From England and from Thornfield: and \n\n Well? \n\n From _you_, sir. \n\nI said this almost involuntarily, and, with as little sanction of free\nwill, my tears gushed out. I did not cry so as to be heard, however; I\navoided sobbing. The thought of Mrs. O Gall and Bitternutt Lodge struck\ncold to my heart; and colder the thought of all the brine and foam,\ndestined, as it seemed, to rush between me and the master at whose side\nI now walked, and coldest the remembrance of the wider ocean wealth,\ncaste, custom intervened between me and what I naturally and inevitably\nloved.\n\n It is a long way,  I again said.\n\n It is, to be sure; and when you get to Bitternutt Lodge, Connaught,\nIreland, I shall never see you again, Jane: that s morally certain. I\nnever go over to Ireland, not having myself much of a fancy for the\ncountry. We have been good friends, Jane; have we not? \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n And when friends are on the eve of separation, they like to spend the\nlittle time that remains to them close to each other. Come! we ll talk\nover the voyage and the parting quietly half-an-hour or so, while the\nstars enter into their shining life up in heaven yonder: here is the\nchestnut tree: here is the bench at its old roots. Come, we will sit\nthere in peace to-night, though we should never more be destined to sit\nthere together.  He seated me and himself.\n\n It is a long way to Ireland, Janet, and I am sorry to send my little\nfriend on such weary travels: but if I can t do better, how is it to be\nhelped? Are you anything akin to me, do you think, Jane? \n\nI could risk no sort of answer by this time: my heart was still.\n\n Because,  he said,  I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to\nyou especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string\nsomewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a\nsimilar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little\nframe. And if that boisterous Channel, and two hundred miles or so of\nland come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be\nsnapt; and then I ve a nervous notion I should take to bleeding\ninwardly. As for you, you d forget me. \n\n That I _never_ should, sir: you know  Impossible to proceed.\n\n Jane, do you hear that nightingale singing in the wood? Listen! \n\nIn listening, I sobbed convulsively; for I could repress what I endured\nno longer; I was obliged to yield, and I was shaken from head to foot\nwith acute distress. When I did speak, it was only to express an\nimpetuous wish that I had never been born, or never come to Thornfield.\n\n Because you are sorry to leave it? \n\nThe vehemence of emotion, stirred by grief and love within me, was\nclaiming mastery, and struggling for full sway, and asserting a right\nto predominate, to overcome, to live, rise, and reign at last: yes, and\nto speak.\n\n I grieve to leave Thornfield: I love Thornfield: I love it, because I\nhave lived in it a full and delightful life, momentarily at least. I\nhave not been trampled on. I have not been petrified. I have not been\nburied with inferior minds, and excluded from every glimpse of\ncommunion with what is bright and energetic and high. I have talked,\nface to face, with what I reverence, with what I delight in, with an\noriginal, a vigorous, an expanded mind. I have known you, Mr.\nRochester; and it strikes me with terror and anguish to feel I\nabsolutely must be torn from you for ever. I see the necessity of\ndeparture; and it is like looking on the necessity of death. \n\n Where do you see the necessity?  he asked suddenly.\n\n Where? You, sir, have placed it before me. \n\n In what shape? \n\n In the shape of Miss Ingram; a noble and beautiful woman, your bride. \n\n My bride! What bride? I have no bride! \n\n But you will have. \n\n Yes; I will! I will!  He set his teeth.\n\n Then I must go: you have said it yourself. \n\n No: you must stay! I swear it and the oath shall be kept. \n\n I tell you I must go!  I retorted, roused to something like passion.\n Do you think I can stay to become nothing to you? Do you think I am an\nautomaton? a machine without feelings? and can bear to have my morsel\nof bread snatched from my lips, and my drop of living water dashed from\nmy cup? Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I\nam soulless and heartless? You think wrong! I have as much soul as\nyou, and full as much heart! And if God had gifted me with some beauty\nand much wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me, as\nit is now for me to leave you. I am not talking to you now through the\nmedium of custom, conventionalities, nor even of mortal flesh; it is my\nspirit that addresses your spirit; just as if both had passed through\nthe grave, and we stood at God s feet, equal, as we are! \n\n As we are!  repeated Mr. Rochester so,  he added, enclosing me in his\narms, gathering me to his breast, pressing his lips on my lips:  so,\nJane! \n\n Yes, so, sir,  I rejoined:  and yet not so; for you are a married\nman or as good as a married man, and wed to one inferior to you to one\nwith whom you have no sympathy whom I do not believe you truly love;\nfor I have seen and heard you sneer at her. I would scorn such a union:\ntherefore I am better than you let me go! \n\n Where, Jane? To Ireland? \n\n Yes to Ireland. I have spoken my mind, and can go anywhere now. \n\n Jane, be still; don t struggle so, like a wild frantic bird that is\nrending its own plumage in its desperation. \n\n I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with an\nindependent will, which I now exert to leave you. \n\nAnother effort set me at liberty, and I stood erect before him.\n\n And your will shall decide your destiny,  he said:  I offer you my\nhand, my heart, and a share of all my possessions. \n\n You play a farce, which I merely laugh at. \n\n I ask you to pass through life at my side to be my second self, and\nbest earthly companion. \n\n For that fate you have already made your choice, and must abide by\nit. \n\n Jane, be still a few moments: you are over-excited: I will be still\ntoo. \n\nA waft of wind came sweeping down the laurel-walk, and trembled through\nthe boughs of the chestnut: it wandered away away to an indefinite\ndistance it died. The nightingale s song was then the only voice of the\nhour: in listening to it, I again wept. Mr. Rochester sat quiet,\nlooking at me gently and seriously. Some time passed before he spoke;\nhe at last said \n\n Come to my side, Jane, and let us explain and understand one another. \n\n I will never again come to your side: I am torn away now, and cannot\nreturn. \n\n But, Jane, I summon you as my wife: it is you only I intend to marry. \n\nI was silent: I thought he mocked me.\n\n Come, Jane come hither. \n\n Your bride stands between us. \n\nHe rose, and with a stride reached me.\n\n My bride is here,  he said, again drawing me to him,  because my equal\nis here, and my likeness. Jane, will you marry me? \n\nStill I did not answer, and still I writhed myself from his grasp: for\nI was still incredulous.\n\n Do you doubt me, Jane? \n\n Entirely. \n\n You have no faith in me? \n\n Not a whit. \n\n Am I a liar in your eyes?  he asked passionately.  Little sceptic, you\n_shall_ be convinced. What love have I for Miss Ingram? None: and that\nyou know. What love has she for me? None: as I have taken pains to\nprove: I caused a rumour to reach her that my fortune was not a third\nof what was supposed, and after that I presented myself to see the\nresult; it was coldness both from her and her mother. I would not I\ncould not marry Miss Ingram. You you strange, you almost unearthly\nthing! I love as my own flesh. You poor and obscure, and small and\nplain as you are I entreat to accept me as a husband. \n\n What, me!  I ejaculated, beginning in his earnestness and especially\nin his incivility to credit his sincerity:  me who have not a friend in\nthe world but you if you are my friend: not a shilling but what you\nhave given me? \n\n You, Jane, I must have you for my own entirely my own. Will you be\nmine? Say yes, quickly. \n\n Mr. Rochester, let me look at your face: turn to the moonlight. \n\n Why? \n\n Because I want to read your countenance turn! \n\n There! you will find it scarcely more legible than a crumpled,\nscratched page. Read on: only make haste, for I suffer. \n\nHis face was very much agitated and very much flushed, and there were\nstrong workings in the features, and strange gleams in the eyes.\n\n Oh, Jane, you torture me!  he exclaimed.  With that searching and yet\nfaithful and generous look, you torture me! \n\n How can I do that? If you are true, and your offer real, my only\nfeelings to you must be gratitude and devotion they cannot torture. \n\n Gratitude!  he ejaculated; and added wildly Jane accept me quickly.\nSay, Edward give me my name Edward I will marry you. \n\n Are you in earnest? Do you truly love me? Do you sincerely wish me to\nbe your wife? \n\n I do; and if an oath is necessary to satisfy you, I swear it. \n\n Then, sir, I will marry you. \n\n Edward my little wife! \n\n Dear Edward! \n\n Come to me come to me entirely now,  said he; and added, in his\ndeepest tone, speaking in my ear as his cheek was laid on mine,  Make\nmy happiness I will make yours. \n\n God pardon me!  he subjoined ere long;  and man meddle not with me: I\nhave her, and will hold her. \n\n There is no one to meddle, sir. I have no kindred to interfere. \n\n No that is the best of it,  he said. And if I had loved him less I\nshould have thought his accent and look of exultation savage; but,\nsitting by him, roused from the nightmare of parting called to the\nparadise of union I thought only of the bliss given me to drink in so\nabundant a flow. Again and again he said,  Are you happy, Jane?  And\nagain and again I answered,  Yes.  After which he murmured,  It will\natone it will atone. Have I not found her friendless, and cold, and\ncomfortless? Will I not guard, and cherish, and solace her? Is there\nnot love in my heart, and constancy in my resolves? It will expiate at\nGod s tribunal. I know my Maker sanctions what I do. For the world s\njudgment I wash my hands thereof. For man s opinion I defy it. \n\nBut what had befallen the night? The moon was not yet set, and we were\nall in shadow: I could scarcely see my master s face, near as I was.\nAnd what ailed the chestnut tree? it writhed and groaned; while wind\nroared in the laurel walk, and came sweeping over us.\n\n We must go in,  said Mr. Rochester:  the weather changes. I could have\nsat with thee till morning, Jane. \n\n And so,  thought I,  could I with you.  I should have said so,\nperhaps, but a livid, vivid spark leapt out of a cloud at which I was\nlooking, and there was a crack, a crash, and a close rattling peal; and\nI thought only of hiding my dazzled eyes against Mr. Rochester s\nshoulder.\n\nThe rain rushed down. He hurried me up the walk, through the grounds,\nand into the house; but we were quite wet before we could pass the\nthreshold. He was taking off my shawl in the hall, and shaking the\nwater out of my loosened hair, when Mrs. Fairfax emerged from her room.\nI did not observe her at first, nor did Mr. Rochester. The lamp was\nlit. The clock was on the stroke of twelve.\n\n Hasten to take off your wet things,  said he;  and before you go,\ngood-night good-night, my darling! \n\nHe kissed me repeatedly. When I looked up, on leaving his arms, there\nstood the widow, pale, grave, and amazed. I only smiled at her, and ran\nupstairs.  Explanation will do for another time,  thought I. Still,\nwhen I reached my chamber, I felt a pang at the idea she should even\ntemporarily misconstrue what she had seen. But joy soon effaced every\nother feeling; and loud as the wind blew, near and deep as the thunder\ncrashed, fierce and frequent as the lightning gleamed, cataract-like as\nthe rain fell during a storm of two hours  duration, I experienced no\nfear and little awe. Mr. Rochester came thrice to my door in the course\nof it, to ask if I was safe and tranquil: and that was comfort, that\nwas strength for anything.\n\nBefore I left my bed in the morning, little Ad le came running in to\ntell me that the great horse-chestnut at the bottom of the orchard had\nbeen struck by lightning in the night, and half of it split away.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\n\nAs I rose and dressed, I thought over what had happened, and wondered\nif it were a dream. I could not be certain of the reality till I had\nseen Mr. Rochester again, and heard him renew his words of love and\npromise.\n\nWhile arranging my hair, I looked at my face in the glass, and felt it\nwas no longer plain: there was hope in its aspect and life in its\ncolour; and my eyes seemed as if they had beheld the fount of fruition,\nand borrowed beams from the lustrous ripple. I had often been unwilling\nto look at my master, because I feared he could not be pleased at my\nlook; but I was sure I might lift my face to his now, and not cool his\naffection by its expression. I took a plain but clean and light summer\ndress from my drawer and put it on: it seemed no attire had ever so\nwell become me, because none had I ever worn in so blissful a mood.\n\nI was not surprised, when I ran down into the hall, to see that a\nbrilliant June morning had succeeded to the tempest of the night; and\nto feel, through the open glass door, the breathing of a fresh and\nfragrant breeze. Nature must be gladsome when I was so happy. A\nbeggar-woman and her little boy pale, ragged objects both were coming\nup the walk, and I ran down and gave them all the money I happened to\nhave in my purse some three or four shillings: good or bad, they must\npartake of my jubilee. The rooks cawed, and blither birds sang; but\nnothing was so merry or so musical as my own rejoicing heart.\n\nMrs. Fairfax surprised me by looking out of the window with a sad\ncountenance, and saying gravely Miss Eyre, will you come to\nbreakfast?  During the meal she was quiet and cool: but I could not\nundeceive her then. I must wait for my master to give explanations; and\nso must she. I ate what I could, and then I hastened upstairs. I met\nAd le leaving the schoolroom.\n\n Where are you going? It is time for lessons. \n\n Mr. Rochester has sent me away to the nursery. \n\n Where is he? \n\n In there,  pointing to the apartment she had left; and I went in, and\nthere he stood.\n\n Come and bid me good-morning,  said he. I gladly advanced; and it was\nnot merely a cold word now, or even a shake of the hand that I\nreceived, but an embrace and a kiss. It seemed natural: it seemed\ngenial to be so well loved, so caressed by him.\n\n Jane, you look blooming, and smiling, and pretty,  said he:  truly\npretty this morning. Is this my pale, little elf? Is this my\nmustard-seed? This little sunny-faced girl with the dimpled cheek and\nrosy lips; the satin-smooth hazel hair, and the radiant hazel eyes?  (I\nhad green eyes, reader; but you must excuse the mistake: for him they\nwere new-dyed, I suppose.)\n\n It is Jane Eyre, sir. \n\n Soon to be Jane Rochester,  he added:  in four weeks, Janet; not a day\nmore. Do you hear that? \n\nI did, and I could not quite comprehend it: it made me giddy. The\nfeeling, the announcement sent through me, was something stronger than\nwas consistent with joy something that smote and stunned: it was, I\nthink, almost fear.\n\n You blushed, and now you are white, Jane: what is that for? \n\n Because you gave me a new name Jane Rochester; and it seems so\nstrange. \n\n Yes, Mrs. Rochester,  said he;  young Mrs. Rochester Fairfax\nRochester s girl-bride. \n\n It can never be, sir; it does not sound likely. Human beings never\nenjoy complete happiness in this world. I was not born for a different\ndestiny to the rest of my species: to imagine such a lot befalling me\nis a fairy tale a day-dream. \n\n Which I can and will realise. I shall begin to-day. This morning I\nwrote to my banker in London to send me certain jewels he has in his\nkeeping, heirlooms for the ladies of Thornfield. In a day or two I hope\nto pour them into your lap: for every privilege, every attention shall\nbe yours that I would accord a peer s daughter, if about to marry her. \n\n Oh, sir! never rain jewels! I don t like to hear them spoken of.\nJewels for Jane Eyre sounds unnatural and strange: I would rather not\nhave them. \n\n I will myself put the diamond chain round your neck, and the circlet\non your forehead, which it will become: for nature, at least, has\nstamped her patent of nobility on this brow, Jane; and I will clasp the\nbracelets on these fine wrists, and load these fairy-like fingers with\nrings. \n\n No, no, sir! think of other subjects, and speak of other things, and\nin another strain. Don t address me as if I were a beauty; I am your\nplain, Quakerish governess. \n\n You are a beauty in my eyes, and a beauty just after the desire of my\nheart, delicate and a rial. \n\n Puny and insignificant, you mean. You are dreaming, sir, or you are\nsneering. For God s sake, don t be ironical! \n\n I will make the world acknowledge you a beauty, too,  he went on,\nwhile I really became uneasy at the strain he had adopted, because I\nfelt he was either deluding himself or trying to delude me.  I will\nattire my Jane in satin and lace, and she shall have roses in her hair;\nand I will cover the head I love best with a priceless veil. \n\n And then you won t know me, sir; and I shall not be your Jane Eyre any\nlonger, but an ape in a harlequin s jacket a jay in borrowed plumes. I\nwould as soon see you, Mr. Rochester, tricked out in stage-trappings,\nas myself clad in a court-lady s robe; and I don t call you handsome,\nsir, though I love you most dearly: far too dearly to flatter you.\nDon t flatter me. \n\nHe pursued his theme, however, without noticing my deprecation.  This\nvery day I shall take you in the carriage to Millcote, and you must\nchoose some dresses for yourself. I told you we shall be married in\nfour weeks. The wedding is to take place quietly, in the church down\nbelow yonder; and then I shall waft you away at once to town. After a\nbrief stay there, I shall bear my treasure to regions nearer the sun:\nto French vineyards and Italian plains; and she shall see whatever is\nfamous in old story and in modern record: she shall taste, too, of the\nlife of cities; and she shall learn to value herself by just comparison\nwith others. \n\n Shall I travel? and with you, sir? \n\n You shall sojourn at Paris, Rome, and Naples: at Florence, Venice, and\nVienna: all the ground I have wandered over shall be re-trodden by you:\nwherever I stamped my hoof, your sylph s foot shall step also. Ten\nyears since, I flew through Europe half mad; with disgust, hate, and\nrage as my companions: now I shall revisit it healed and cleansed, with\na very angel as my comforter. \n\nI laughed at him as he said this.  I am not an angel,  I asserted;  and\nI will not be one till I die: I will be myself. Mr. Rochester, you must\nneither expect nor exact anything celestial of me for you will not get\nit, any more than I shall get it of you: which I do not at all\nanticipate. \n\n What do you anticipate of me? \n\n For a little while you will perhaps be as you are now, a very little\nwhile; and then you will turn cool; and then you will be capricious;\nand then you will be stern, and I shall have much ado to please you:\nbut when you get well used to me, you will perhaps like me\nagain, _like_ me, I say, not _love_ me. I suppose your love will\neffervesce in six months, or less. I have observed in books written by\nmen, that period assigned as the farthest to which a husband s ardour\nextends. Yet, after all, as a friend and companion, I hope never to\nbecome quite distasteful to my dear master. \n\n Distasteful! and like you again! I think I shall like you again, and\nyet again: and I will make you confess I do not only _like_, but _love_\nyou with truth, fervour, constancy. \n\n Yet are you not capricious, sir? \n\n To women who please me only by their faces, I am the very devil when I\nfind out they have neither souls nor hearts when they open to me a\nperspective of flatness, triviality, and perhaps imbecility,\ncoarseness, and ill-temper: but to the clear eye and eloquent tongue,\nto the soul made of fire, and the character that bends but does not\nbreak at once supple and stable, tractable and consistent I am ever\ntender and true. \n\n Had you ever experience of such a character, sir? Did you ever love\nsuch an one? \n\n I love it now. \n\n But before me: if I, indeed, in any respect come up to your difficult\nstandard? \n\n I never met your likeness. Jane, you please me, and you master me you\nseem to submit, and I like the sense of pliancy you impart; and while I\nam twining the soft, silken skein round my finger, it sends a thrill up\nmy arm to my heart. I am influenced conquered; and the influence is\nsweeter than I can express; and the conquest I undergo has a witchery\nbeyond any triumph I can win. Why do you smile, Jane? What does that\ninexplicable, that uncanny turn of countenance mean? \n\n I was thinking, sir (you will excuse the idea; it was involuntary), I\nwas thinking of Hercules and Samson with their charmers \n\n You were, you little elfish \n\n Hush, sir! You don t talk very wisely just now; any more than those\ngentlemen acted very wisely. However, had they been married, they would\nno doubt by their severity as husbands have made up for their softness\nas suitors; and so will you, I fear. I wonder how you will answer me a\nyear hence, should I ask a favour it does not suit your convenience or\npleasure to grant. \n\n Ask me something now, Janet, the least thing: I desire to be\nentreated \n\n Indeed I will, sir; I have my petition all ready. \n\n Speak! But if you look up and smile with that countenance, I shall\nswear concession before I know to what, and that will make a fool of\nme. \n\n Not at all, sir; I ask only this: don t send for the jewels, and don t\ncrown me with roses: you might as well put a border of gold lace round\nthat plain pocket handkerchief you have there. \n\n I might as well  gild refined gold.  I know it: your request is\ngranted then for the time. I will remand the order I despatched to my\nbanker. But you have not yet asked for anything; you have prayed a gift\nto be withdrawn: try again. \n\n Well then, sir, have the goodness to gratify my curiosity, which is\nmuch piqued on one point. \n\nHe looked disturbed.  What? what?  he said hastily.  Curiosity is a\ndangerous petition: it is well I have not taken a vow to accord every\nrequest \n\n But there can be no danger in complying with this, sir. \n\n Utter it, Jane: but I wish that instead of a mere inquiry into,\nperhaps, a secret, it was a wish for half my estate. \n\n Now, King Ahasuerus! What do I want with half your estate? Do you\nthink I am a Jew-usurer, seeking good investment in land? I would much\nrather have all your confidence. You will not exclude me from your\nconfidence if you admit me to your heart? \n\n You are welcome to all my confidence that is worth having, Jane; but\nfor God s sake, don t desire a useless burden! Don t long for\npoison don t turn out a downright Eve on my hands! \n\n Why not, sir? You have just been telling me how much you liked to be\nconquered, and how pleasant over-persuasion is to you. Don t you think\nI had better take advantage of the confession, and begin and coax and\nentreat even cry and be sulky if necessary for the sake of a mere essay\nof my power? \n\n I dare you to any such experiment. Encroach, presume, and the game is\nup. \n\n Is it, sir? You soon give in. How stern you look now! Your eyebrows\nhave become as thick as my finger, and your forehead resembles what, in\nsome very astonishing poetry, I once saw styled,  a blue-piled\nthunderloft.  That will be your married look, sir, I suppose? \n\n If that will be _your_ married look, I, as a Christian, will soon give\nup the notion of consorting with a mere sprite or salamander. But what\nhad you to ask, thing, out with it? \n\n There, you are less than civil now; and I like rudeness a great deal\nbetter than flattery. I had rather be a _thing_ than an angel. This is\nwhat I have to ask, Why did you take such pains to make me believe you\nwished to marry Miss Ingram? \n\n Is that all? Thank God it is no worse!  And now he unknit his black\nbrows; looked down, smiling at me, and stroked my hair, as if well\npleased at seeing a danger averted.  I think I may confess,  he\ncontinued,  even although I should make you a little indignant,\nJane and I have seen what a fire-spirit you can be when you are\nindignant. You glowed in the cool moonlight last night, when you\nmutinied against fate, and claimed your rank as my equal. Janet,\nby-the-bye, it was you who made me the offer. \n\n Of course I did. But to the point if you please, sir Miss Ingram? \n\n Well, I feigned courtship of Miss Ingram, because I wished to render\nyou as madly in love with me as I was with you; and I knew jealousy\nwould be the best ally I could call in for the furtherance of that\nend. \n\n Excellent! Now you are small not one whit bigger than the end of my\nlittle finger. It was a burning shame and a scandalous disgrace to act\nin that way. Did you think nothing of Miss Ingram s feelings, sir? \n\n Her feelings are concentrated in one pride; and that needs humbling.\nWere you jealous, Jane? \n\n Never mind, Mr. Rochester: it is in no way interesting to you to know\nthat. Answer me truly once more. Do you think Miss Ingram will not\nsuffer from your dishonest coquetry? Won t she feel forsaken and\ndeserted? \n\n Impossible! when I told you how she, on the contrary, deserted me: the\nidea of my insolvency cooled, or rather extinguished, her flame in a\nmoment. \n\n You have a curious, designing mind, Mr. Rochester. I am afraid your\nprinciples on some points are eccentric. \n\n My principles were never trained, Jane: they may have grown a little\nawry for want of attention. \n\n Once again, seriously; may I enjoy the great good that has been\nvouchsafed to me, without fearing that any one else is suffering the\nbitter pain I myself felt a while ago? \n\n That you may, my good little girl: there is not another being in the\nworld has the same pure love for me as yourself for I lay that pleasant\nunction to my soul, Jane, a belief in your affection. \n\nI turned my lips to the hand that lay on my shoulder. I loved him very\nmuch more than I could trust myself to say more than words had power to\nexpress.\n\n Ask something more,  he said presently;  it is my delight to be\nentreated, and to yield. \n\nI was again ready with my request.  Communicate your intentions to Mrs.\nFairfax, sir: she saw me with you last night in the hall, and she was\nshocked. Give her some explanation before I see her again. It pains me\nto be misjudged by so good a woman. \n\n Go to your room, and put on your bonnet,  he replied.  I mean you to\naccompany me to Millcote this morning; and while you prepare for the\ndrive, I will enlighten the old lady s understanding. Did she think,\nJanet, you had given the world for love, and considered it well lost? \n\n I believe she thought I had forgotten my station, and yours, sir. \n\n Station! station! your station is in my heart, and on the necks of\nthose who would insult you, now or hereafter. Go. \n\nI was soon dressed; and when I heard Mr. Rochester quit Mrs. Fairfax s\nparlour, I hurried down to it. The old lady had been reading her\nmorning portion of Scripture the Lesson for the day; her Bible lay open\nbefore her, and her spectacles were upon it. Her occupation, suspended\nby Mr. Rochester s announcement, seemed now forgotten: her eyes, fixed\non the blank wall opposite, expressed the surprise of a quiet mind\nstirred by unwonted tidings. Seeing me, she roused herself: she made a\nsort of effort to smile, and framed a few words of congratulation; but\nthe smile expired, and the sentence was abandoned unfinished. She put\nup her spectacles, shut the Bible, and pushed her chair back from the\ntable.\n\n I feel so astonished,  she began,  I hardly know what to say to you,\nMiss Eyre. I have surely not been dreaming, have I? Sometimes I half\nfall asleep when I am sitting alone and fancy things that have never\nhappened. It has seemed to me more than once when I have been in a\ndoze, that my dear husband, who died fifteen years since, has come in\nand sat down beside me; and that I have even heard him call me by my\nname, Alice, as he used to do. Now, can you tell me whether it is\nactually true that Mr. Rochester has asked you to marry him? Don t\nlaugh at me. But I really thought he came in here five minutes ago, and\nsaid that in a month you would be his wife. \n\n He has said the same thing to me,  I replied.\n\n He has! Do you believe him? Have you accepted him? \n\n Yes. \n\nShe looked at me bewildered.\n\n I could never have thought it. He is a proud man: all the Rochesters\nwere proud: and his father, at least, liked money. He, too, has always\nbeen called careful. He means to marry you? \n\n He tells me so. \n\nShe surveyed my whole person: in her eyes I read that they had there\nfound no charm powerful enough to solve the enigma.\n\n It passes me!  she continued;  but no doubt it is true since you say\nso. How it will answer, I cannot tell: I really don t know. Equality of\nposition and fortune is often advisable in such cases; and there are\ntwenty years of difference in your ages. He might almost be your\nfather. \n\n No, indeed, Mrs. Fairfax!  exclaimed I, nettled;  he is nothing like\nmy father! No one, who saw us together, would suppose it for an\ninstant. Mr. Rochester looks as young, and is as young, as some men at\nfive-and-twenty. \n\n Is it really for love he is going to marry you?  she asked.\n\nI was so hurt by her coldness and scepticism, that the tears rose to my\neyes.\n\n I am sorry to grieve you,  pursued the widow;  but you are so young,\nand so little acquainted with men, I wished to put you on your guard.\nIt is an old saying that  all is not gold that glitters;  and in this\ncase I do fear there will be something found to be different to what\neither you or I expect. \n\n Why? am I a monster?  I said:  is it impossible that Mr. Rochester\nshould have a sincere affection for me? \n\n No: you are very well; and much improved of late; and Mr. Rochester, I\ndaresay, is fond of you. I have always noticed that you were a sort of\npet of his. There are times when, for your sake, I have been a little\nuneasy at his marked preference, and have wished to put you on your\nguard: but I did not like to suggest even the possibility of wrong. I\nknew such an idea would shock, perhaps offend you; and you were so\ndiscreet, and so thoroughly modest and sensible, I hoped you might be\ntrusted to protect yourself. Last night I cannot tell you what I\nsuffered when I sought all over the house, and could find you nowhere,\nnor the master either; and then, at twelve o clock, saw you come in\nwith him. \n\n Well, never mind that now,  I interrupted impatiently;  it is enough\nthat all was right. \n\n I hope all will be right in the end,  she said:  but believe me, you\ncannot be too careful. Try and keep Mr. Rochester at a distance:\ndistrust yourself as well as him. Gentlemen in his station are not\naccustomed to marry their governesses. \n\nI was growing truly irritated: happily, Ad le ran in.\n\n Let me go, let me go to Millcote too!  she cried.  Mr. Rochester\nwon t: though there is so much room in the new carriage. Beg him to let\nme go, mademoiselle. \n\n That I will, Ad le;  and I hastened away with her, glad to quit my\ngloomy monitress. The carriage was ready: they were bringing it round\nto the front, and my master was pacing the pavement, Pilot following\nhim backwards and forwards.\n\n Ad le may accompany us, may she not, sir? \n\n I told her no. I ll have no brats! I ll have only you. \n\n Do let her go, Mr. Rochester, if you please: it would be better. \n\n Not it: she will be a restraint. \n\nHe was quite peremptory, both in look and voice. The chill of Mrs.\nFairfax s warnings, and the damp of her doubts were upon me: something\nof unsubstantiality and uncertainty had beset my hopes. I half lost the\nsense of power over him. I was about mechanically to obey him, without\nfurther remonstrance; but as he helped me into the carriage, he looked\nat my face.\n\n What is the matter?  he asked;  all the sunshine is gone. Do you\nreally wish the bairn to go? Will it annoy you if she is left behind? \n\n I would far rather she went, sir. \n\n Then off for your bonnet, and back like a flash of lightning!  cried\nhe to Ad le.\n\nShe obeyed him with what speed she might.\n\n After all, a single morning s interruption will not matter much,  said\nhe,  when I mean shortly to claim you your thoughts, conversation, and\ncompany for life. \n\nAd le, when lifted in, commenced kissing me, by way of expressing her\ngratitude for my intercession: she was instantly stowed away into a\ncorner on the other side of him. She then peeped round to where I sat;\nso stern a neighbour was too restrictive: to him, in his present\nfractious mood, she dared whisper no observations, nor ask of him any\ninformation.\n\n Let her come to me,  I entreated:  she will, perhaps, trouble you,\nsir: there is plenty of room on this side. \n\nHe handed her over as if she had been a lapdog.  I ll send her to\nschool yet,  he said, but now he was smiling.\n\nAd le heard him, and asked if she was to go to school  sans\nmademoiselle? \n\n Yes,  he replied,  absolutely sans mademoiselle; for I am to take\nmademoiselle to the moon, and there I shall seek a cave in one of the\nwhite valleys among the volcano-tops, and mademoiselle shall live with\nme there, and only me. \n\n She will have nothing to eat: you will starve her,  observed Ad le.\n\n I shall gather manna for her morning and night: the plains and\nhillsides in the moon are bleached with manna, Ad le. \n\n She will want to warm herself: what will she do for a fire? \n\n Fire rises out of the lunar mountains: when she is cold, I ll carry\nher up to a peak, and lay her down on the edge of a crater. \n\n Oh, qu elle y sera mal peu comfortable! And her clothes, they will\nwear out: how can she get new ones? \n\nMr. Rochester professed to be puzzled.  Hem!  said he.  What would you\ndo, Ad le? Cudgel your brains for an expedient. How would a white or a\npink cloud answer for a gown, do you think? And one could cut a pretty\nenough scarf out of a rainbow. \n\n She is far better as she is,  concluded Ad le, after musing some time:\n besides, she would get tired of living with only you in the moon. If I\nwere mademoiselle, I would never consent to go with you. \n\n She has consented: she has pledged her word. \n\n But you can t get her there; there is no road to the moon: it is all\nair; and neither you nor she can fly. \n\n Ad le, look at that field.  We were now outside Thornfield gates, and\nbowling lightly along the smooth road to Millcote, where the dust was\nwell laid by the thunderstorm, and, where the low hedges and lofty\ntimber trees on each side glistened green and rain-refreshed.\n\n In that field, Ad le, I was walking late one evening about a fortnight\nsince the evening of the day you helped me to make hay in the orchard\nmeadows; and, as I was tired with raking swaths, I sat down to rest me\non a stile; and there I took out a little book and a pencil, and began\nto write about a misfortune that befell me long ago, and a wish I had\nfor happy days to come: I was writing away very fast, though daylight\nwas fading from the leaf, when something came up the path and stopped\ntwo yards off me. I looked at it. It was a little thing with a veil of\ngossamer on its head. I beckoned it to come near me; it stood soon at\nmy knee. I never spoke to it, and it never spoke to me, in words; but I\nread its eyes, and it read mine; and our speechless colloquy was to\nthis effect \n\n It was a fairy, and come from Elf-land, it said; and its errand was to\nmake me happy: I must go with it out of the common world to a lonely\nplace such as the moon, for instance and it nodded its head towards her\nhorn, rising over Hay-hill: it told me of the alabaster cave and silver\nvale where we might live. I said I should like to go; but reminded it,\nas you did me, that I had no wings to fly.\n\n Oh,  returned the fairy,  that does not signify! Here is a talisman\nwill remove all difficulties;  and she held out a pretty gold ring.\n Put it,  she said,  on the fourth finger of my left hand, and I am\nyours, and you are mine; and we shall leave earth, and make our own\nheaven yonder.  She nodded again at the moon. The ring, Ad le, is in my\nbreeches-pocket, under the disguise of a sovereign: but I mean soon to\nchange it to a ring again. \n\n But what has mademoiselle to do with it? I don t care for the fairy:\nyou said it was mademoiselle you would take to the moon? \n\n Mademoiselle is a fairy,  he said, whispering mysteriously. Whereupon\nI told her not to mind his badinage; and she, on her part, evinced a\nfund of genuine French scepticism: denominating Mr. Rochester  un vrai\nmenteur,  and assuring him that she made no account whatever of his\n contes de f e,  and that  du reste, il n y avait pas de f es, et quand\nm me il y en avait:  she was sure they would never appear to him, nor\never give him rings, or offer to live with him in the moon.\n\nThe hour spent at Millcote was a somewhat harassing one to me. Mr.\nRochester obliged me to go to a certain silk warehouse: there I was\nordered to choose half-a-dozen dresses. I hated the business, I begged\nleave to defer it: no it should be gone through with now. By dint of\nentreaties expressed in energetic whispers, I reduced the half-dozen to\ntwo: these however, he vowed he would select himself. With anxiety I\nwatched his eye rove over the gay stores: he fixed on a rich silk of\nthe most brilliant amethyst dye, and a superb pink satin. I told him in\na new series of whispers, that he might as well buy me a gold gown and\na silver bonnet at once: I should certainly never venture to wear his\nchoice. With infinite difficulty, for he was stubborn as a stone, I\npersuaded him to make an exchange in favour of a sober black satin and\npearl-grey silk.  It might pass for the present,  he said;  but he\nwould yet see me glittering like a parterre. \n\nGlad was I to get him out of the silk warehouse, and then out of a\njeweller s shop: the more he bought me, the more my cheek burned with a\nsense of annoyance and degradation. As we re-entered the carriage, and\nI sat back feverish and fagged, I remembered what, in the hurry of\nevents, dark and bright, I had wholly forgotten the letter of my uncle,\nJohn Eyre, to Mrs. Reed: his intention to adopt me and make me his\nlegatee.  It would, indeed, be a relief,  I thought,  if I had ever so\nsmall an independency; I never can bear being dressed like a doll by\nMr. Rochester, or sitting like a second Danae with the golden shower\nfalling daily round me. I will write to Madeira the moment I get home,\nand tell my uncle John I am going to be married, and to whom: if I had\nbut a prospect of one day bringing Mr. Rochester an accession of\nfortune, I could better endure to be kept by him now.  And somewhat\nrelieved by this idea (which I failed not to execute that day), I\nventured once more to meet my master s and lover s eye, which most\npertinaciously sought mine, though I averted both face and gaze. He\nsmiled; and I thought his smile was such as a sultan might, in a\nblissful and fond moment, bestow on a slave his gold and gems had\nenriched: I crushed his hand, which was ever hunting mine, vigorously,\nand thrust it back to him red with the passionate pressure.\n\n You need not look in that way,  I said;  if you do, I ll wear nothing\nbut my old Lowood frocks to the end of the chapter. I ll be married in\nthis lilac gingham: you may make a dressing-gown for yourself out of\nthe pearl-grey silk, and an infinite series of waistcoats out of the\nblack satin. \n\nHe chuckled; he rubbed his hands.  Oh, it is rich to see and hear her! \nhe exclaimed.  Is she original? Is she piquant? I would not exchange\nthis one little English girl for the Grand Turk s whole seraglio,\ngazelle-eyes, houri forms, and all! \n\nThe Eastern allusion bit me again.  I ll not stand you an inch in the\nstead of a seraglio,  I said;  so don t consider me an equivalent for\none. If you have a fancy for anything in that line, away with you, sir,\nto the bazaars of Stamboul without delay, and lay out in extensive\nslave-purchases some of that spare cash you seem at a loss to spend\nsatisfactorily here. \n\n And what will you do, Janet, while I am bargaining for so many tons of\nflesh and such an assortment of black eyes? \n\n I ll be preparing myself to go out as a missionary to preach liberty\nto them that are enslaved your harem inmates amongst the rest. I ll get\nadmitted there, and I ll stir up mutiny; and you, three-tailed bashaw\nas you are, sir, shall in a trice find yourself fettered amongst our\nhands: nor will I, for one, consent to cut your bonds till you have\nsigned a charter, the most liberal that despot ever yet conferred. \n\n I would consent to be at your mercy, Jane. \n\n I would have no mercy, Mr. Rochester, if you supplicated for it with\nan eye like that. While you looked so, I should be certain that\nwhatever charter you might grant under coercion, your first act, when\nreleased, would be to violate its conditions. \n\n Why, Jane, what would you have? I fear you will compel me to go\nthrough a private marriage ceremony, besides that performed at the\naltar. You will stipulate, I see, for peculiar terms what will they\nbe? \n\n I only want an easy mind, sir; not crushed by crowded obligations. Do\nyou remember what you said of C line Varens? of the diamonds, the\ncashmeres you gave her? I will not be your English C line Varens. I\nshall continue to act as Ad le s governess; by that I shall earn my\nboard and lodging, and thirty pounds a year besides. I ll furnish my\nown wardrobe out of that money, and you shall give me nothing but \n\n Well, but what? \n\n Your regard; and if I give you mine in return, that debt will be\nquit. \n\n Well, for cool native impudence and pure innate pride, you haven t\nyour equal,  said he. We were now approaching Thornfield.  Will it\nplease you to dine with me to-day?  he asked, as we re-entered the\ngates.\n\n No, thank you, sir. \n\n And what for,  no, thank you?  if one may inquire. \n\n I never have dined with you, sir: and I see no reason why I should\nnow: till \n\n Till what? You delight in half-phrases. \n\n Till I can t help it. \n\n Do you suppose I eat like an ogre or a ghoul, that you dread being the\ncompanion of my repast? \n\n I have formed no supposition on the subject, sir; but I want to go on\nas usual for another month. \n\n You will give up your governessing slavery at once. \n\n Indeed, begging your pardon, sir, I shall not. I shall just go on with\nit as usual. I shall keep out of your way all day, as I have been\naccustomed to do: you may send for me in the evening, when you feel\ndisposed to see me, and I ll come then; but at no other time. \n\n I want a smoke, Jane, or a pinch of snuff, to comfort me under all\nthis,  pour me donner une contenance,  as Ad le would say; and\nunfortunately I have neither my cigar-case, nor my snuff-box. But\nlisten whisper. It is your time now, little tyrant, but it will be mine\npresently; and when once I have fairly seized you, to have and to hold,\nI ll just figuratively speaking attach you to a chain like this \n(touching his watch-guard).  Yes, bonny wee thing, I ll wear you in my\nbosom, lest my jewel I should tyne. \n\nHe said this as he helped me to alight from the carriage, and while he\nafterwards lifted out Ad le, I entered the house, and made good my\nretreat upstairs.\n\nHe duly summoned me to his presence in the evening. I had prepared an\noccupation for him; for I was determined not to spend the whole time in\na _t te- -t te_ conversation. I remembered his fine voice; I knew he\nliked to sing good singers generally do. I was no vocalist myself, and,\nin his fastidious judgment, no musician, either; but I delighted in\nlistening when the performance was good. No sooner had twilight, that\nhour of romance, began to lower her blue and starry banner over the\nlattice, than I rose, opened the piano, and entreated him, for the love\nof heaven, to give me a song. He said I was a capricious witch, and\nthat he would rather sing another time; but I averred that no time was\nlike the present.\n\n Did I like his voice?  he asked.\n\n Very much.  I was not fond of pampering that susceptible vanity of\nhis; but for once, and from motives of expediency, I would e en soothe\nand stimulate it.\n\n Then, Jane, you must play the accompaniment. \n\n Very well, sir, I will try. \n\nI did try, but was presently swept off the stool and denominated  a\nlittle bungler.  Being pushed unceremoniously to one side which was\nprecisely what I wished he usurped my place, and proceeded to accompany\nhimself: for he could play as well as sing. I hied me to the\nwindow-recess. And while I sat there and looked out on the still trees\nand dim lawn, to a sweet air was sung in mellow tones the following\nstrain: \n\n The truest love that ever heart\nFelt at its kindled core,\nDid through each vein, in quickened start,\nThe tide of being pour.\n\nHer coming was my hope each day,\nHer parting was my pain;\nThe chance that did her steps delay\nWas ice in every vein.\n\nI dreamed it would be nameless bliss,\nAs I loved, loved to be;\nAnd to this object did I press\nAs blind as eagerly.\n\nBut wide as pathless was the space\nThat lay our lives between,\nAnd dangerous as the foamy race\nOf ocean-surges green.\n\nAnd haunted as a robber-path\nThrough wilderness or wood;\nFor Might and Right, and Woe and Wrath,\nBetween our spirits stood.\n\nI dangers dared; I hindrance scorned;\nI omens did defy:\nWhatever menaced, harassed, warned,\nI passed impetuous by.\n\nOn sped my rainbow, fast as light;\nI flew as in a dream;\nFor glorious rose upon my sight\nThat child of Shower and Gleam.\n\nStill bright on clouds of suffering dim\nShines that soft, solemn joy;\nNor care I now, how dense and grim\nDisasters gather nigh.\n\nI care not in this moment sweet,\nThough all I have rushed o er\nShould come on pinion, strong and fleet,\nProclaiming vengeance sore:\n\nThough haughty Hate should strike me down,\nRight, bar approach to me,\nAnd grinding Might, with furious frown,\nSwear endless enmity.\n\nMy love has placed her little hand\nWith noble faith in mine,\nAnd vowed that wedlock s sacred band\nOur nature shall entwine.\n\nMy love has sworn, with sealing kiss,\nWith me to live to die;\nI have at last my nameless bliss.\nAs I love loved am I! \n\n\nHe rose and came towards me, and I saw his face all kindled, and his\nfull falcon-eye flashing, and tenderness and passion in every\nlineament. I quailed momentarily then I rallied. Soft scene, daring\ndemonstration, I would not have; and I stood in peril of both: a weapon\nof defence must be prepared I whetted my tongue: as he reached me, I\nasked with asperity,  whom he was going to marry now? \n\n That was a strange question to be put by his darling Jane. \n\n Indeed! I considered it a very natural and necessary one: he had\ntalked of his future wife dying with him. What did he mean by such a\npagan idea? _I_ had no intention of dying with him he might depend on\nthat. \n\n Oh, all he longed, all he prayed for, was that I might live with him!\nDeath was not for such as I. \n\n Indeed it was: I had as good a right to die when my time came as he\nhad: but I should bide that time, and not be hurried away in a suttee. \n\n Would I forgive him for the selfish idea, and prove my pardon by a\nreconciling kiss? \n\n No: I would rather be excused. \n\nHere I heard myself apostrophised as a  hard little thing;  and it was\nadded,  any other woman would have been melted to marrow at hearing\nsuch stanzas crooned in her praise. \n\nI assured him I was naturally hard very flinty, and that he would often\nfind me so; and that, moreover, I was determined to show him divers\nrugged points in my character before the ensuing four weeks elapsed: he\nshould know fully what sort of a bargain he had made, while there was\nyet time to rescind it.\n\n Would I be quiet and talk rationally? \n\n I would be quiet if he liked, and as to talking rationally, I\nflattered myself I was doing that now. \n\nHe fretted, pished, and pshawed.  Very good,  I thought;  you may fume\nand fidget as you please: but this is the best plan to pursue with you,\nI am certain. I like you more than I can say; but I ll not sink into a\nbathos of sentiment: and with this needle of repartee I ll keep you\nfrom the edge of the gulf too; and, moreover, maintain by its pungent\naid that distance between you and myself most conducive to our real\nmutual advantage. \n\nFrom less to more, I worked him up to considerable irritation; then,\nafter he had retired, in dudgeon, quite to the other end of the room, I\ngot up, and saying,  I wish you good-night, sir,  in my natural and\nwonted respectful manner, I slipped out by the side-door and got away.\n\nThe system thus entered on, I pursued during the whole season of\nprobation; and with the best success. He was kept, to be sure, rather\ncross and crusty; but on the whole I could see he was excellently\nentertained, and that a lamb-like submission and turtle-dove\nsensibility, while fostering his despotism more, would have pleased his\njudgment, satisfied his common-sense, and even suited his taste less.\n\nIn other people s presence I was, as formerly, deferential and quiet;\nany other line of conduct being uncalled for: it was only in the\nevening conferences I thus thwarted and afflicted him. He continued to\nsend for me punctually the moment the clock struck seven; though when I\nappeared before him now, he had no such honeyed terms as  love  and\n darling  on his lips: the best words at my service were  provoking\npuppet,   malicious elf,   sprite,   changeling,  &c. For caresses,\ntoo, I now got grimaces; for a pressure of the hand, a pinch on the\narm; for a kiss on the cheek, a severe tweak of the ear. It was all\nright: at present I decidedly preferred these fierce favours to\nanything more tender. Mrs. Fairfax, I saw, approved me: her anxiety on\nmy account vanished; therefore I was certain I did well. Meantime, Mr.\nRochester affirmed I was wearing him to skin and bone, and threatened\nawful vengeance for my present conduct at some period fast coming. I\nlaughed in my sleeve at his menaces.  I can keep you in reasonable\ncheck now,  I reflected;  and I don t doubt to be able to do it\nhereafter: if one expedient loses its virtue, another must be devised. \n\nYet after all my task was not an easy one; often I would rather have\npleased than teased him. My future husband was becoming to me my whole\nworld; and more than the world: almost my hope of heaven. He stood\nbetween me and every thought of religion, as an eclipse intervenes\nbetween man and the broad sun. I could not, in those days, see God for\nHis creature: of whom I had made an idol.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\n\nThe month of courtship had wasted: its very last hours were being\nnumbered. There was no putting off the day that advanced the bridal\nday; and all preparations for its arrival were complete. _I_, at least,\nhad nothing more to do: there were my trunks, packed, locked, corded,\nranged in a row along the wall of my little chamber; to-morrow, at this\ntime, they would be far on their road to London: and so should I\n(D.V.), or rather, not I, but one Jane Rochester, a person whom as yet\nI knew not. The cards of address alone remained to nail on: they lay,\nfour little squares, in the drawer. Mr. Rochester had himself written\nthe direction,  Mrs. Rochester,   Hotel, London,  on each: I could not\npersuade myself to affix them, or to have them affixed. Mrs. Rochester!\nShe did not exist: she would not be born till to-morrow, some time\nafter eight o clock A.M.; and I would wait to be assured she had come\ninto the world alive before I assigned to her all that property. It was\nenough that in yonder closet, opposite my dressing-table, garments said\nto be hers had already displaced my black stuff Lowood frock and straw\nbonnet: for not to me appertained that suit of wedding raiment; the\npearl-coloured robe, the vapoury veil pendent from the usurped\nportmanteau. I shut the closet to conceal the strange, wraith-like\napparel it contained; which, at this evening hour nine o clock gave out\ncertainly a most ghostly shimmer through the shadow of my apartment.  I\nwill leave you by yourself, white dream,  I said.  I am feverish: I\nhear the wind blowing: I will go out of doors and feel it. \n\nIt was not only the hurry of preparation that made me feverish; not\nonly the anticipation of the great change the new life which was to\ncommence to-morrow: both these circumstances had their share,\ndoubtless, in producing that restless, excited mood which hurried me\nforth at this late hour into the darkening grounds: but a third cause\ninfluenced my mind more than they.\n\nI had at heart a strange and anxious thought. Something had happened\nwhich I could not comprehend; no one knew of or had seen the event but\nmyself: it had taken place the preceding night. Mr. Rochester that\nnight was absent from home; nor was he yet returned: business had\ncalled him to a small estate of two or three farms he possessed thirty\nmiles off business it was requisite he should settle in person,\nprevious to his meditated departure from England. I waited now his\nreturn; eager to disburthen my mind, and to seek of him the solution of\nthe enigma that perplexed me. Stay till he comes, reader; and, when I\ndisclose my secret to him, you shall share the confidence.\n\nI sought the orchard, driven to its shelter by the wind, which all day\nhad blown strong and full from the south, without, however, bringing a\nspeck of rain. Instead of subsiding as night drew on, it seemed to\naugment its rush and deepen its roar: the trees blew steadfastly one\nway, never writhing round, and scarcely tossing back their boughs once\nin an hour; so continuous was the strain bending their branchy heads\nnorthward the clouds drifted from pole to pole, fast following, mass on\nmass: no glimpse of blue sky had been visible that July day.\n\nIt was not without a certain wild pleasure I ran before the wind,\ndelivering my trouble of mind to the measureless air-torrent thundering\nthrough space. Descending the laurel walk, I faced the wreck of the\nchestnut-tree; it stood up black and riven: the trunk, split down the\ncentre, gasped ghastly. The cloven halves were not broken from each\nother, for the firm base and strong roots kept them unsundered below;\nthough community of vitality was destroyed the sap could flow no more:\ntheir great boughs on each side were dead, and next winter s tempests\nwould be sure to fell one or both to earth: as yet, however, they might\nbe said to form one tree a ruin, but an entire ruin.\n\n You did right to hold fast to each other,  I said: as if the\nmonster-splinters were living things, and could hear me.  I think,\nscathed as you look, and charred and scorched, there must be a little\nsense of life in you yet, rising out of that adhesion at the faithful,\nhonest roots: you will never have green leaves more never more see\nbirds making nests and singing idyls in your boughs; the time of\npleasure and love is over with you: but you are not desolate: each of\nyou has a comrade to sympathise with him in his decay.  As I looked up\nat them, the moon appeared momentarily in that part of the sky which\nfilled their fissure; her disk was blood-red and half overcast; she\nseemed to throw on me one bewildered, dreary glance, and buried herself\nagain instantly in the deep drift of cloud. The wind fell, for a\nsecond, round Thornfield; but far away over wood and water, poured a\nwild, melancholy wail: it was sad to listen to, and I ran off again.\n\nHere and there I strayed through the orchard, gathered up the apples\nwith which the grass round the tree roots was thickly strewn; then I\nemployed myself in dividing the ripe from the unripe; I carried them\ninto the house and put them away in the store-room. Then I repaired to\nthe library to ascertain whether the fire was lit, for, though summer,\nI knew on such a gloomy evening Mr. Rochester would like to see a\ncheerful hearth when he came in: yes, the fire had been kindled some\ntime, and burnt well. I placed his arm-chair by the chimney-corner: I\nwheeled the table near it: I let down the curtain, and had the candles\nbrought in ready for lighting. More restless than ever, when I had\ncompleted these arrangements I could not sit still, nor even remain in\nthe house: a little time-piece in the room and the old clock in the\nhall simultaneously struck ten.\n\n How late it grows!  I said.  I will run down to the gates: it is\nmoonlight at intervals; I can see a good way on the road. He may be\ncoming now, and to meet him will save some minutes of suspense. \n\nThe wind roared high in the great trees which embowered the gates; but\nthe road as far as I could see, to the right hand and the left, was all\nstill and solitary: save for the shadows of clouds crossing it at\nintervals as the moon looked out, it was but a long pale line, unvaried\nby one moving speck.\n\nA puerile tear dimmed my eye while I looked a tear of disappointment\nand impatience; ashamed of it, I wiped it away. I lingered; the moon\nshut herself wholly within her chamber, and drew close her curtain of\ndense cloud: the night grew dark; rain came driving fast on the gale.\n\n I wish he would come! I wish he would come!  I exclaimed, seized with\nhypochondriac foreboding. I had expected his arrival before tea; now it\nwas dark: what could keep him? Had an accident happened? The event of\nlast night again recurred to me. I interpreted it as a warning of\ndisaster. I feared my hopes were too bright to be realised; and I had\nenjoyed so much bliss lately that I imagined my fortune had passed its\nmeridian, and must now decline.\n\n Well, I cannot return to the house,  I thought;  I cannot sit by the\nfireside, while he is abroad in inclement weather: better tire my limbs\nthan strain my heart; I will go forward and meet him. \n\nI set out; I walked fast, but not far: ere I had measured a quarter of\na mile, I heard the tramp of hoofs; a horseman came on, full gallop; a\ndog ran by his side. Away with evil presentiment! It was he: here he\nwas, mounted on Mesrour, followed by Pilot. He saw me; for the moon had\nopened a blue field in the sky, and rode in it watery bright: he took\nhis hat off, and waved it round his head. I now ran to meet him.\n\n There!  he exclaimed, as he stretched out his hand and bent from the\nsaddle:  You can t do without me, that is evident. Step on my boot-toe;\ngive me both hands: mount! \n\nI obeyed: joy made me agile: I sprang up before him. A hearty kissing I\ngot for a welcome, and some boastful triumph, which I swallowed as well\nas I could. He checked himself in his exultation to demand,  But is\nthere anything the matter, Janet, that you come to meet me at such an\nhour? Is there anything wrong? \n\n No, but I thought you would never come. I could not bear to wait in\nthe house for you, especially with this rain and wind. \n\n Rain and wind, indeed! Yes, you are dripping like a mermaid; pull my\ncloak round you: but I think you are feverish, Jane: both your cheek\nand hand are burning hot. I ask again, is there anything the matter? \n\n Nothing now; I am neither afraid nor unhappy. \n\n Then you have been both? \n\n Rather: but I ll tell you all about it by-and-by, sir; and I daresay\nyou will only laugh at me for my pains. \n\n I ll laugh at you heartily when to-morrow is past; till then I dare\nnot: my prize is not certain. This is you, who have been as slippery as\nan eel this last month, and as thorny as a briar-rose? I could not lay\na finger anywhere but I was pricked; and now I seem to have gathered up\na stray lamb in my arms. You wandered out of the fold to seek your\nshepherd, did you, Jane? \n\n I wanted you: but don t boast. Here we are at Thornfield: now let me\nget down. \n\nHe landed me on the pavement. As John took his horse, and he followed\nme into the hall, he told me to make haste and put something dry on,\nand then return to him in the library; and he stopped me, as I made for\nthe staircase, to extort a promise that I would not be long: nor was I\nlong; in five minutes I rejoined him. I found him at supper.\n\n Take a seat and bear me company, Jane: please God, it is the last meal\nbut one you will eat at Thornfield Hall for a long time. \n\nI sat down near him, but told him I could not eat.\n\n Is it because you have the prospect of a journey before you, Jane? Is\nit the thoughts of going to London that takes away your appetite? \n\n I cannot see my prospects clearly to-night, sir; and I hardly know\nwhat thoughts I have in my head. Everything in life seems unreal. \n\n Except me: I am substantial enough touch me. \n\n You, sir, are the most phantom-like of all: you are a mere dream. \n\nHe held out his hand, laughing.  Is that a dream?  said he, placing it\nclose to my eyes. He had a rounded, muscular, and vigorous hand, as\nwell as a long, strong arm.\n\n Yes; though I touch it, it is a dream,  said I, as I put it down from\nbefore my face.  Sir, have you finished supper? \n\n Yes, Jane. \n\nI rang the bell and ordered away the tray. When we were again alone, I\nstirred the fire, and then took a low seat at my master s knee.\n\n It is near midnight,  I said.\n\n Yes: but remember, Jane, you promised to wake with me the night before\nmy wedding. \n\n I did; and I will keep my promise, for an hour or two at least: I have\nno wish to go to bed. \n\n Are all your arrangements complete? \n\n All, sir. \n\n And on my part likewise,  he returned,  I have settled everything; and\nwe shall leave Thornfield to-morrow, within half-an-hour after our\nreturn from church. \n\n Very well, sir. \n\n With what an extraordinary smile you uttered that word very well, \nJane! What a bright spot of colour you have on each cheek! and how\nstrangely your eyes glitter! Are you well? \n\n I believe I am. \n\n Believe! What is the matter? Tell me what you feel. \n\n I could not, sir: no words could tell you what I feel. I wish this\npresent hour would never end: who knows with what fate the next may\ncome charged? \n\n This is hypochondria, Jane. You have been over-excited, or\nover-fatigued. \n\n Do you, sir, feel calm and happy? \n\n Calm? no: but happy to the heart s core. \n\nI looked up at him to read the signs of bliss in his face: it was\nardent and flushed.\n\n Give me your confidence, Jane,  he said:  relieve your mind of any\nweight that oppresses it, by imparting it to me. What do you fear? that\nI shall not prove a good husband? \n\n It is the idea farthest from my thoughts. \n\n Are you apprehensive of the new sphere you are about to enter? of the\nnew life into which you are passing? \n\n No. \n\n You puzzle me, Jane: your look and tone of sorrowful audacity perplex\nand pain me. I want an explanation. \n\n Then, sir, listen. You were from home last night? \n\n I was: I know that; and you hinted a while ago at something which had\nhappened in my absence: nothing, probably, of consequence; but, in\nshort, it has disturbed you. Let me hear it. Mrs. Fairfax has said\nsomething, perhaps? or you have overheard the servants talk? your\nsensitive self-respect has been wounded? \n\n No, sir.  It struck twelve I waited till the time-piece had concluded\nits silver chime, and the clock its hoarse, vibrating stroke, and then\nI proceeded.\n\n All day yesterday I was very busy, and very happy in my ceaseless\nbustle; for I am not, as you seem to think, troubled by any haunting\nfears about the new sphere, et cetera: I think it a glorious thing to\nhave the hope of living with you, because I love you. No, sir, don t\ncaress me now let me talk undisturbed. Yesterday I trusted well in\nProvidence, and believed that events were working together for your\ngood and mine: it was a fine day, if you recollect the calmness of the\nair and sky forbade apprehensions respecting your safety or comfort on\nyour journey. I walked a little while on the pavement after tea,\nthinking of you; and I beheld you in imagination so near me, I scarcely\nmissed your actual presence. I thought of the life that lay before\nme _your_ life, sir an existence more expansive and stirring than my\nown: as much more so as the depths of the sea to which the brook runs\nare than the shallows of its own strait channel. I wondered why\nmoralists call this world a dreary wilderness: for me it blossomed like\na rose. Just at sunset, the air turned cold and the sky cloudy: I went\nin, Sophie called me upstairs to look at my wedding-dress, which they\nhad just brought; and under it in the box I found your present the veil\nwhich, in your princely extravagance, you sent for from London:\nresolved, I suppose, since I would not have jewels, to cheat me into\naccepting something as costly. I smiled as I unfolded it, and devised\nhow I would tease you about your aristocratic tastes, and your efforts\nto masque your plebeian bride in the attributes of a peeress. I thought\nhow I would carry down to you the square of unembroidered blond I had\nmyself prepared as a covering for my low-born head, and ask if that was\nnot good enough for a woman who could bring her husband neither\nfortune, beauty, nor connections. I saw plainly how you would look; and\nheard your impetuous republican answers, and your haughty disavowal of\nany necessity on your part to augment your wealth, or elevate your\nstanding, by marrying either a purse or a coronet. \n\n How well you read me, you witch!  interposed Mr. Rochester:  but what\ndid you find in the veil besides its embroidery? Did you find poison,\nor a dagger, that you look so mournful now? \n\n No, no, sir; besides the delicacy and richness of the fabric, I found\nnothing save Fairfax Rochester s pride; and that did not scare me,\nbecause I am used to the sight of the demon. But, sir, as it grew dark,\nthe wind rose: it blew yesterday evening, not as it blows now wild and\nhigh but  with a sullen, moaning sound  far more eerie. I wished you\nwere at home. I came into this room, and the sight of the empty chair\nand fireless hearth chilled me. For some time after I went to bed, I\ncould not sleep a sense of anxious excitement distressed me. The gale\nstill rising seemed to my ear to muffle a mournful under-sound;\nwhether in the house or abroad I could not at first tell, but it\nrecurred, doubtful yet doleful at every lull; at last I made out it\nmust be some dog howling at a distance. I was glad when it ceased. On\nsleeping, I continued in dreams the idea of a dark and gusty night. I\ncontinued also the wish to be with you, and experienced a strange,\nregretful consciousness of some barrier dividing us. During all my\nfirst sleep, I was following the windings of an unknown road; total\nobscurity environed me; rain pelted me; I was burdened with the charge\nof a little child: a very small creature, too young and feeble to walk,\nand which shivered in my cold arms, and wailed piteously in my ear. I\nthought, sir, that you were on the road a long way before me; and I\nstrained every nerve to overtake you, and made effort on effort to\nutter your name and entreat you to stop but my movements were fettered,\nand my voice still died away inarticulate; while you, I felt, withdrew\nfarther and farther every moment. \n\n And these dreams weigh on your spirits now, Jane, when I am close to\nyou? Little nervous subject! Forget visionary woe, and think only of\nreal happiness! You say you love me, Janet: yes I will not forget that;\nand you cannot deny it. _Those_ words did not die inarticulate on your\nlips. I heard them clear and soft: a thought too solemn perhaps, but\nsweet as music I think it is a glorious thing to have the hope of\nliving with you, Edward, because I love you.  Do you love me,\nJane? repeat it. \n\n I do, sir I do, with my whole heart. \n\n Well,  he said, after some minutes  silence,  it is strange; but that\nsentence has penetrated my breast painfully. Why? I think because you\nsaid it with such an earnest, religious energy, and because your upward\ngaze at me now is the very sublime of faith, truth, and devotion: it is\ntoo much as if some spirit were near me. Look wicked, Jane: as you know\nwell how to look: coin one of your wild, shy, provoking smiles; tell me\nyou hate me tease me, vex me; do anything but move me: I would rather\nbe incensed than saddened. \n\n I will tease you and vex you to your heart s content, when I have\nfinished my tale: but hear me to the end. \n\n I thought, Jane, you had told me all. I thought I had found the source\nof your melancholy in a dream. \n\nI shook my head.  What! is there more? But I will not believe it to be\nanything important. I warn you of incredulity beforehand. Go on. \n\nThe disquietude of his air, the somewhat apprehensive impatience of his\nmanner, surprised me: but I proceeded.\n\n I dreamt another dream, sir: that Thornfield Hall was a dreary ruin,\nthe retreat of bats and owls. I thought that of all the stately front\nnothing remained but a shell-like wall, very high and very\nfragile-looking. I wandered, on a moonlight night, through the\ngrass-grown enclosure within: here I stumbled over a marble hearth, and\nthere over a fallen fragment of cornice. Wrapped up in a shawl, I still\ncarried the unknown little child: I might not lay it down anywhere,\nhowever tired were my arms however much its weight impeded my progress,\nI must retain it. I heard the gallop of a horse at a distance on the\nroad; I was sure it was you; and you were departing for many years and\nfor a distant country. I climbed the thin wall with frantic perilous\nhaste, eager to catch one glimpse of you from the top: the stones\nrolled from under my feet, the ivy branches I grasped gave way, the\nchild clung round my neck in terror, and almost strangled me; at last I\ngained the summit. I saw you like a speck on a white track, lessening\nevery moment. The blast blew so strong I could not stand. I sat down on\nthe narrow ledge; I hushed the scared infant in my lap: you turned an\nangle of the road: I bent forward to take a last look; the wall\ncrumbled; I was shaken; the child rolled from my knee, I lost my\nbalance, fell, and woke. \n\n Now, Jane, that is all. \n\n All the preface, sir; the tale is yet to come. On waking, a gleam\ndazzled my eyes; I thought Oh, it is daylight! But I was mistaken; it\nwas only candlelight. Sophie, I supposed, had come in. There was a\nlight in the dressing-table, and the door of the closet, where, before\ngoing to bed, I had hung my wedding-dress and veil, stood open; I heard\na rustling there. I asked,  Sophie, what are you doing?  No one\nanswered; but a form emerged from the closet; it took the light, held\nit aloft, and surveyed the garments pendent from the portmanteau.\n Sophie! Sophie!  I again cried: and still it was silent. I had risen\nup in bed, I bent forward: first surprise, then bewilderment, came over\nme; and then my blood crept cold through my veins. Mr. Rochester, this\nwas not Sophie, it was not Leah, it was not Mrs. Fairfax: it was\nnot no, I was sure of it, and am still it was not even that strange\nwoman, Grace Poole. \n\n It must have been one of them,  interrupted my master.\n\n No, sir, I solemnly assure you to the contrary. The shape standing\nbefore me had never crossed my eyes within the precincts of Thornfield\nHall before; the height, the contour were new to me. \n\n Describe it, Jane. \n\n It seemed, sir, a woman, tall and large, with thick and dark hair\nhanging long down her back. I know not what dress she had on: it was\nwhite and straight; but whether gown, sheet, or shroud, I cannot tell. \n\n Did you see her face? \n\n Not at first. But presently she took my veil from its place; she held\nit up, gazed at it long, and then she threw it over her own head, and\nturned to the mirror. At that moment I saw the reflection of the visage\nand features quite distinctly in the dark oblong glass. \n\n And how were they? \n\n Fearful and ghastly to me oh, sir, I never saw a face like it! It was\na discoloured face it was a savage face. I wish I could forget the roll\nof the red eyes and the fearful blackened inflation of the lineaments! \n\n Ghosts are usually pale, Jane. \n\n This, sir, was purple: the lips were swelled and dark; the brow\nfurrowed: the black eyebrows widely raised over the bloodshot eyes.\nShall I tell you of what it reminded me? \n\n You may. \n\n Of the foul German spectre the Vampyre. \n\n Ah! what did it do? \n\n Sir, it removed my veil from its gaunt head, rent it in two parts, and\nflinging both on the floor, trampled on them. \n\n\nIt removed my veil from its gaunt head, rent it in two parts, and\nflinging both on the floor, trampled on them\n\n Afterwards? \n\n It drew aside the window-curtain and looked out; perhaps it saw dawn\napproaching, for, taking the candle, it retreated to the door. Just at\nmy bedside, the figure stopped: the fiery eyes glared upon me she\nthrust up her candle close to my face, and extinguished it under my\neyes. I was aware her lurid visage flamed over mine, and I lost\nconsciousness: for the second time in my life only the second time I\nbecame insensible from terror. \n\n Who was with you when you revived? \n\n No one, sir, but the broad day. I rose, bathed my head and face in\nwater, drank a long draught; felt that though enfeebled I was not ill,\nand determined that to none but you would I impart this vision. Now,\nsir, tell me who and what that woman was? \n\n The creature of an over-stimulated brain; that is certain. I must be\ncareful of you, my treasure: nerves like yours were not made for rough\nhandling. \n\n Sir, depend on it, my nerves were not in fault; the thing was real:\nthe transaction actually took place. \n\n And your previous dreams, were they real too? Is Thornfield Hall a\nruin? Am I severed from you by insuperable obstacles? Am I leaving you\nwithout a tear without a kiss without a word? \n\n Not yet. \n\n Am I about to do it? Why, the day is already commenced which is to\nbind us indissolubly; and when we are once united, there shall be no\nrecurrence of these mental terrors: I guarantee that. \n\n Mental terrors, sir! I wish I could believe them to be only such: I\nwish it more now than ever; since even you cannot explain to me the\nmystery of that awful visitant. \n\n And since I cannot do it, Jane, it must have been unreal. \n\n But, sir, when I said so to myself on rising this morning, and when I\nlooked round the room to gather courage and comfort from the cheerful\naspect of each familiar object in full daylight, there on the carpet I\nsaw what gave the distinct lie to my hypothesis, the veil, torn from\ntop to bottom in two halves! \n\nI felt Mr. Rochester start and shudder; he hastily flung his arms round\nme.  Thank God!  he exclaimed,  that if anything malignant did come\nnear you last night, it was only the veil that was harmed. Oh, to think\nwhat might have happened! \n\nHe drew his breath short, and strained me so close to him, I could\nscarcely pant. After some minutes  silence, he continued, cheerily \n\n Now, Janet, I ll explain to you all about it. It was half dream, half\nreality. A woman did, I doubt not, enter your room: and that woman\nwas must have been Grace Poole. You call her a strange being yourself:\nfrom all you know, you have reason so to call her what did she do to\nme? what to Mason? In a state between sleeping and waking, you noticed\nher entrance and her actions; but feverish, almost delirious as you\nwere, you ascribed to her a goblin appearance different from her own:\nthe long dishevelled hair, the swelled black face, the exaggerated\nstature, were figments of imagination; results of nightmare: the\nspiteful tearing of the veil was real: and it is like her. I see you\nwould ask why I keep such a woman in my house: when we have been\nmarried a year and a day, I will tell you; but not now. Are you\nsatisfied, Jane? Do you accept my solution of the mystery? \n\nI reflected, and in truth it appeared to me the only possible one:\nsatisfied I was not, but to please him I endeavoured to appear\nso relieved, I certainly did feel; so I answered him with a contented\nsmile. And now, as it was long past one, I prepared to leave him.\n\n Does not Sophie sleep with Ad le in the nursery?  he asked, as I lit\nmy candle.\n\n Yes, sir. \n\n And there is room enough in Ad le s little bed for you. You must share\nit with her to-night, Jane: it is no wonder that the incident you have\nrelated should make you nervous, and I would rather you did not sleep\nalone: promise me to go to the nursery. \n\n I shall be very glad to do so, sir. \n\n And fasten the door securely on the inside. Wake Sophie when you go\nupstairs, under pretence of requesting her to rouse you in good time\nto-morrow; for you must be dressed and have finished breakfast before\neight. And now, no more sombre thoughts: chase dull care away, Janet.\nDon t you hear to what soft whispers the wind has fallen? and there is\nno more beating of rain against the window-panes: look here  (he lifted\nup the curtain) it is a lovely night! \n\nIt was. Half heaven was pure and stainless: the clouds, now trooping\nbefore the wind, which had shifted to the west, were filing off\neastward in long, silvered columns. The moon shone peacefully.\n\n Well,  said Mr. Rochester, gazing inquiringly into my eyes,  how is my\nJanet now? \n\n The night is serene, sir; and so am I. \n\n And you will not dream of separation and sorrow to-night; but of happy\nlove and blissful union. \n\nThis prediction was but half fulfilled: I did not indeed dream of\nsorrow, but as little did I dream of joy; for I never slept at all.\nWith little Ad le in my arms, I watched the slumber of childhood so\ntranquil, so passionless, so innocent and waited for the coming day:\nall my life was awake and astir in my frame: and as soon as the sun\nrose I rose too. I remember Ad le clung to me as I left her: I remember\nI kissed her as I loosened her little hands from my neck; and I cried\nover her with strange emotion, and quitted her because I feared my sobs\nwould break her still sound repose. She seemed the emblem of my past\nlife; and he, I was now to array myself to meet, the dread, but adored,\ntype of my unknown future day.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\n\nSophie came at seven to dress me: she was very long indeed in\naccomplishing her task; so long that Mr. Rochester, grown, I suppose,\nimpatient of my delay, sent up to ask why I did not come. She was just\nfastening my veil (the plain square of blond after all) to my hair with\na brooch; I hurried from under her hands as soon as I could.\n\n Stop!  she cried in French.  Look at yourself in the mirror: you have\nnot taken one peep. \n\nSo I turned at the door: I saw a robed and veiled figure, so unlike my\nusual self that it seemed almost the image of a stranger.  Jane! \ncalled a voice, and I hastened down. I was received at the foot of the\nstairs by Mr. Rochester.\n\n Lingerer!  he said,  my brain is on fire with impatience, and you\ntarry so long! \n\nHe took me into the dining-room, surveyed me keenly all over,\npronounced me  fair as a lily, and not only the pride of his life, but\nthe desire of his eyes,  and then telling me he would give me but ten\nminutes to eat some breakfast, he rang the bell. One of his lately\nhired servants, a footman, answered it.\n\n Is John getting the carriage ready? \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n Is the luggage brought down? \n\n They are bringing it down, sir. \n\n Go you to the church: see if Mr. Wood (the clergyman) and the clerk\nare there: return and tell me. \n\nThe church, as the reader knows, was but just beyond the gates; the\nfootman soon returned.\n\n Mr. Wood is in the vestry, sir, putting on his surplice. \n\n And the carriage? \n\n The horses are harnessing. \n\n We shall not want it to go to church; but it must be ready the moment\nwe return: all the boxes and luggage arranged and strapped on, and the\ncoachman in his seat. \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n Jane, are you ready? \n\nI rose. There were no groomsmen, no bridesmaids, no relatives to wait\nfor or marshal: none but Mr. Rochester and I. Mrs. Fairfax stood in the\nhall as we passed. I would fain have spoken to her, but my hand was\nheld by a grasp of iron: I was hurried along by a stride I could hardly\nfollow; and to look at Mr. Rochester s face was to feel that not a\nsecond of delay would be tolerated for any purpose. I wonder what other\nbridegroom ever looked as he did so bent up to a purpose, so grimly\nresolute: or who, under such steadfast brows, ever revealed such\nflaming and flashing eyes.\n\nI know not whether the day was fair or foul; in descending the drive, I\ngazed neither on sky nor earth: my heart was with my eyes; and both\nseemed migrated into Mr. Rochester s frame. I wanted to see the\ninvisible thing on which, as we went along, he appeared to fasten a\nglance fierce and fell. I wanted to feel the thoughts whose force he\nseemed breasting and resisting.\n\nAt the churchyard wicket he stopped: he discovered I was quite out of\nbreath.  Am I cruel in my love?  he said.  Delay an instant: lean on\nme, Jane. \n\nAnd now I can recall the picture of the grey old house of God rising\ncalm before me, of a rook wheeling round the steeple, of a ruddy\nmorning sky beyond. I remember something, too, of the green\ngrave-mounds; and I have not forgotten, either, two figures of\nstrangers straying amongst the low hillocks and reading the mementoes\ngraven on the few mossy head-stones. I noticed them, because, as they\nsaw us, they passed round to the back of the church; and I doubted not\nthey were going to enter by the side-aisle door and witness the\nceremony. By Mr. Rochester they were not observed; he was earnestly\nlooking at my face, from which the blood had, I daresay, momentarily\nfled: for I felt my forehead dewy, and my cheeks and lips cold. When I\nrallied, which I soon did, he walked gently with me up the path to the\nporch.\n\nWe entered the quiet and humble temple; the priest waited in his white\nsurplice at the lowly altar, the clerk beside him. All was still: two\nshadows only moved in a remote corner. My conjecture had been correct:\nthe strangers had slipped in before us, and they now stood by the vault\nof the Rochesters, their backs towards us, viewing through the rails\nthe old time-stained marble tomb, where a kneeling angel guarded the\nremains of Damer de Rochester, slain at Marston Moor in the time of the\ncivil wars, and of Elizabeth, his wife.\n\nOur place was taken at the communion rails. Hearing a cautious step\nbehind me, I glanced over my shoulder: one of the strangers a\ngentleman, evidently was advancing up the chancel. The service began.\nThe explanation of the intent of matrimony was gone through; and then\nthe clergyman came a step further forward, and, bending slightly\ntowards Mr. Rochester, went on.\n\n I require and charge you both (as ye will answer at the dreadful day\nof judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed), that\nif either of you know any impediment why ye may not lawfully be joined\ntogether in matrimony, ye do now confess it; for be ye well assured\nthat so many as are coupled together otherwise than God s Word doth\nallow, are not joined together by God, neither is their matrimony\nlawful. \n\nHe paused, as the custom is. When is the pause after that sentence ever\nbroken by reply? Not, perhaps, once in a hundred years. And the\nclergyman, who had not lifted his eyes from his book, and had held his\nbreath but for a moment, was proceeding: his hand was already stretched\ntowards Mr. Rochester, as his lips unclosed to ask,  Wilt thou have\nthis woman for thy wedded wife? when a distinct and near voice said \n\n The marriage cannot go on: I declare the existence of an impediment. \n\nThe clergyman looked up at the speaker and stood mute; the clerk did\nthe same; Mr. Rochester moved slightly, as if an earthquake had rolled\nunder his feet: taking a firmer footing, and not turning his head or\neyes, he said,  Proceed. \n\nProfound silence fell when he had uttered that word, with deep but low\nintonation. Presently Mr. Wood said \n\n I cannot proceed without some investigation into what has been\nasserted, and evidence of its truth or falsehood. \n\n The ceremony is quite broken off,  subjoined the voice behind us.  I\nam in a condition to prove my allegation: an insuperable impediment to\nthis marriage exists. \n\nMr. Rochester heard, but heeded not: he stood stubborn and rigid,\nmaking no movement but to possess himself of my hand. What a hot and\nstrong grasp he had! and how like quarried marble was his pale, firm,\nmassive front at this moment! How his eye shone, still watchful, and\nyet wild beneath!\n\nMr. Wood seemed at a loss.  What is the nature of the impediment?  he\nasked.  Perhaps it may be got over explained away? \n\n Hardly,  was the answer.  I have called it insuperable, and I speak\nadvisedly. \n\nThe speaker came forward and leaned on the rails. He continued,\nuttering each word distinctly, calmly, steadily, but not loudly \n\n It simply consists in the existence of a previous marriage. Mr.\nRochester has a wife now living. \n\nMy nerves vibrated to those low-spoken words as they had never vibrated\nto thunder my blood felt their subtle violence as it had never felt\nfrost or fire; but I was collected, and in no danger of swooning. I\nlooked at Mr. Rochester: I made him look at me. His whole face was\ncolourless rock: his eye was both spark and flint. He disavowed\nnothing: he seemed as if he would defy all things. Without speaking,\nwithout smiling, without seeming to recognise in me a human being, he\nonly twined my waist with his arm and riveted me to his side.\n\n Who are you?  he asked of the intruder.\n\n My name is Briggs, a solicitor of   Street, London. \n\n And you would thrust on me a wife? \n\n I would remind you of your lady s existence, sir, which the law\nrecognises, if you do not. \n\n Favour me with an account of her with her name, her parentage, her\nplace of abode. \n\n Certainly.  Mr. Briggs calmly took a paper from his pocket, and read\nout in a sort of official, nasal voice: \n\n I affirm and can prove that on the 20th of October A.D.   (a date of\nfifteen years back), Edward Fairfax Rochester, of Thornfield Hall, in\nthe county of  , and of Ferndean Manor, in  shire, England, was\nmarried to my sister, Bertha Antoinetta Mason, daughter of Jonas Mason,\nmerchant, and of Antoinetta his wife, a Creole, at   church, Spanish\nTown, Jamaica. The record of the marriage will be found in the register\nof that church a copy of it is now in my possession. Signed, Richard\nMason. \n\n That if a genuine document may prove I have been married, but it does\nnot prove that the woman mentioned therein as my wife is still living. \n\n She was living three months ago,  returned the lawyer.\n\n How do you know? \n\n I have a witness to the fact, whose testimony even you, sir, will\nscarcely controvert. \n\n Produce him or go to hell. \n\n I will produce him first he is on the spot. Mr. Mason, have the\ngoodness to step forward. \n\nMr. Rochester, on hearing the name, set his teeth; he experienced, too,\na sort of strong convulsive quiver; near to him as I was, I felt the\nspasmodic movement of fury or despair run through his frame. The second\nstranger, who had hitherto lingered in the background, now drew near; a\npale face looked over the solicitor s shoulder yes, it was Mason\nhimself. Mr. Rochester turned and glared at him. His eye, as I have\noften said, was a black eye: it had now a tawny, nay, a bloody light in\nits gloom; and his face flushed olive cheek and hueless forehead\nreceived a glow as from spreading, ascending heart-fire: and he\nstirred, lifted his strong arm he could have struck Mason, dashed him\non the church-floor, shocked by ruthless blow the breath from his\nbody but Mason shrank away, and cried faintly,  Good God!  Contempt\nfell cool on Mr. Rochester his passion died as if a blight had\nshrivelled it up: he only asked What have _you_ to say? \n\nAn inaudible reply escaped Mason s white lips.\n\n The devil is in it if you cannot answer distinctly. I again demand,\nwhat have _you_ to say? \n\n Sir sir,  interrupted the clergyman,  do not forget you are in a\nsacred place.  Then addressing Mason, he inquired gently,  Are you\naware, sir, whether or not this gentleman s wife is still living? \n\n Courage,  urged the lawyer, speak out. \n\n She is now living at Thornfield Hall,  said Mason, in more articulate\ntones:  I saw her there last April. I am her brother. \n\n At Thornfield Hall!  ejaculated the clergyman.  Impossible! I am an\nold resident in this neighbourhood, sir, and I never heard of a Mrs.\nRochester at Thornfield Hall. \n\nI saw a grim smile contort Mr. Rochester s lips, and he muttered \n\n No, by God! I took care that none should hear of it or of her under\nthat name.  He mused for ten minutes he held counsel with himself: he\nformed his resolve, and announced it \n\n Enough! all shall bolt out at once, like the bullet from the barrel.\nWood, close your book and take off your surplice; John Green (to the\nclerk), leave the church: there will be no wedding to-day.  The man\nobeyed.\n\nMr. Rochester continued, hardily and recklessly:  Bigamy is an ugly\nword! I meant, however, to be a bigamist; but fate has out-manoeuvred\nme, or Providence has checked me, perhaps the last. I am little better\nthan a devil at this moment; and, as my pastor there would tell me,\ndeserve no doubt the sternest judgments of God, even to the quenchless\nfire and deathless worm. Gentlemen, my plan is broken up: what this\nlawyer and his client say is true: I have been married, and the woman\nto whom I was married lives! You say you never heard of a Mrs.\nRochester at the house up yonder, Wood; but I daresay you have many a\ntime inclined your ear to gossip about the mysterious lunatic kept\nthere under watch and ward. Some have whispered to you that she is my\nbastard half-sister: some, my cast-off mistress. I now inform you that\nshe is my wife, whom I married fifteen years ago, Bertha Mason by name;\nsister of this resolute personage, who is now, with his quivering limbs\nand white cheeks, showing you what a stout heart men may bear. Cheer\nup, Dick! never fear me! I d almost as soon strike a woman as you.\nBertha Mason is mad; and she came of a mad family; idiots and maniacs\nthrough three generations! Her mother, the Creole, was both a madwoman\nand a drunkard! as I found out after I had wed the daughter: for they\nwere silent on family secrets before. Bertha, like a dutiful child,\ncopied her parent in both points. I had a charming partner pure, wise,\nmodest: you can fancy I was a happy man. I went through rich scenes!\nOh! my experience has been heavenly, if you only knew it! But I owe you\nno further explanation. Briggs, Wood, Mason, I invite you all to come\nup to the house and visit Mrs. Poole s patient, and _my wife_! You\nshall see what sort of a being I was cheated into espousing, and judge\nwhether or not I had a right to break the compact, and seek sympathy\nwith something at least human. This girl,  he continued, looking at me,\n knew no more than you, Wood, of the disgusting secret: she thought all\nwas fair and legal; and never dreamt she was going to be entrapped into\na feigned union with a defrauded wretch, already bound to a bad, mad,\nand embruted partner! Come all of you follow! \n\nStill holding me fast, he left the church: the three gentlemen came\nafter. At the front door of the hall we found the carriage.\n\n Take it back to the coach-house, John,  said Mr. Rochester coolly;  it\nwill not be wanted to-day. \n\nAt our entrance, Mrs. Fairfax, Ad le, Sophie, Leah, advanced to meet\nand greet us.\n\n To the right-about every soul!  cried the master;  away with your\ncongratulations! Who wants them? Not I! they are fifteen years too\nlate! \n\nHe passed on and ascended the stairs, still holding my hand, and still\nbeckoning the gentlemen to follow him, which they did. We mounted the\nfirst staircase, passed up the gallery, proceeded to the third storey:\nthe low, black door, opened by Mr. Rochester s master-key, admitted us\nto the tapestried room, with its great bed and its pictorial cabinet.\n\n You know this place, Mason,  said our guide;  she bit and stabbed you\nhere. \n\nHe lifted the hangings from the wall, uncovering the second door: this,\ntoo, he opened. In a room without a window, there burnt a fire guarded\nby a high and strong fender, and a lamp suspended from the ceiling by a\nchain. Grace Poole bent over the fire, apparently cooking something in\na saucepan. In the deep shade, at the farther end of the room, a figure\nran backwards and forwards. What it was, whether beast or human being,\none could not, at first sight, tell: it grovelled, seemingly, on all\nfours; it snatched and growled like some strange wild animal: but it\nwas covered with clothing, and a quantity of dark, grizzled hair, wild\nas a mane, hid its head and face.\n\n Good-morrow, Mrs. Poole!  said Mr. Rochester.  How are you? and how is\nyour charge to-day? \n\n We re tolerable, sir, I thank you,  replied Grace, lifting the boiling\nmess carefully on to the hob:  rather snappish, but not  rageous. \n\nA fierce cry seemed to give the lie to her favourable report: the\nclothed hyena rose up, and stood tall on its hind-feet.\n\n Ah! sir, she sees you!  exclaimed Grace:  you d better not stay. \n\n Only a few moments, Grace: you must allow me a few moments. \n\n Take care then, sir! for God s sake, take care! \n\nThe maniac bellowed: she parted her shaggy locks from her visage, and\ngazed wildly at her visitors. I recognised well that purple face, those\nbloated features. Mrs. Poole advanced.\n\n Keep out of the way,  said Mr. Rochester, thrusting her aside:  she\nhas no knife now, I suppose, and I m on my guard. \n\n One never knows what she has, sir: she is so cunning: it is not in\nmortal discretion to fathom her craft. \n\n We had better leave her,  whispered Mason.\n\n Go to the devil!  was his brother-in-law s recommendation.\n\n Ware!  cried Grace. The three gentlemen retreated simultaneously. Mr.\nRochester flung me behind him: the lunatic sprang and grappled his\nthroat viciously, and laid her teeth to his cheek: they struggled. She\nwas a big woman, in stature almost equalling her husband, and corpulent\nbesides: she showed virile force in the contest more than once she\nalmost throttled him, athletic as he was. He could have settled her\nwith a well-planted blow; but he would not strike: he would only\nwrestle. At last he mastered her arms; Grace Poole gave him a cord, and\nhe pinioned them behind her: with more rope, which was at hand, he\nbound her to a chair. The operation was performed amidst the fiercest\nyells and the most convulsive plunges. Mr. Rochester then turned to the\nspectators: he looked at them with a smile both acrid and desolate.\n\n That is _my wife_,  said he.  Such is the sole conjugal embrace I am\never to know such are the endearments which are to solace my leisure\nhours! And _this_ is what I wished to have  (laying his hand on my\nshoulder):  this young girl, who stands so grave and quiet at the mouth\nof hell, looking collectedly at the gambols of a demon, I wanted her\njust as a change after that fierce ragout. Wood and Briggs, look at the\ndifference! Compare these clear eyes with the red balls yonder this\nface with that mask this form with that bulk; then judge me, priest of\nthe gospel and man of the law, and remember with what judgment ye judge\nye shall be judged! Off with you now. I must shut up my prize. \n\nWe all withdrew. Mr. Rochester stayed a moment behind us, to give some\nfurther order to Grace Poole. The solicitor addressed me as he\ndescended the stair.\n\n You, madam,  said he,  are cleared from all blame: your uncle will be\nglad to hear it if, indeed, he should be still living when Mr. Mason\nreturns to Madeira. \n\n My uncle! What of him? Do you know him? \n\n Mr. Mason does. Mr. Eyre has been the Funchal correspondent of his\nhouse for some years. When your uncle received your letter intimating\nthe contemplated union between yourself and Mr. Rochester, Mr. Mason,\nwho was staying at Madeira to recruit his health, on his way back to\nJamaica, happened to be with him. Mr. Eyre mentioned the intelligence;\nfor he knew that my client here was acquainted with a gentleman of the\nname of Rochester. Mr. Mason, astonished and distressed as you may\nsuppose, revealed the real state of matters. Your uncle, I am sorry to\nsay, is now on a sick bed; from which, considering the nature of his\ndisease decline and the stage it has reached, it is unlikely he will\never rise. He could not then hasten to England himself, to extricate\nyou from the snare into which you had fallen, but he implored Mr. Mason\nto lose no time in taking steps to prevent the false marriage. He\nreferred him to me for assistance. I used all despatch, and am thankful\nI was not too late: as you, doubtless, must be also. Were I not morally\ncertain that your uncle will be dead ere you reach Madeira, I would\nadvise you to accompany Mr. Mason back; but as it is, I think you had\nbetter remain in England till you can hear further, either from or of\nMr. Eyre. Have we anything else to stay for?  he inquired of Mr. Mason.\n\n No, no let us be gone,  was the anxious reply; and without waiting to\ntake leave of Mr. Rochester, they made their exit at the hall door. The\nclergyman stayed to exchange a few sentences, either of admonition or\nreproof, with his haughty parishioner; this duty done, he too departed.\n\nI heard him go as I stood at the half-open door of my own room, to\nwhich I had now withdrawn. The house cleared, I shut myself in,\nfastened the bolt that none might intrude, and proceeded not to weep,\nnot to mourn, I was yet too calm for that, but mechanically to take off\nthe wedding dress, and replace it by the stuff gown I had worn\nyesterday, as I thought, for the last time. I then sat down: I felt\nweak and tired. I leaned my arms on a table, and my head dropped on\nthem. And now I thought: till now I had only heard, seen,\nmoved followed up and down where I was led or dragged watched event\nrush on event, disclosure open beyond disclosure: but _now_, _I\nthought_.\n\nThe morning had been a quiet morning enough all except the brief scene\nwith the lunatic: the transaction in the church had not been noisy;\nthere was no explosion of passion, no loud altercation, no dispute, no\ndefiance or challenge, no tears, no sobs: a few words had been spoken,\na calmly pronounced objection to the marriage made; some stern, short\nquestions put by Mr. Rochester; answers, explanations given, evidence\nadduced; an open admission of the truth had been uttered by my master;\nthen the living proof had been seen; the intruders were gone, and all\nwas over.\n\nI was in my own room as usual just myself, without obvious change:\nnothing had smitten me, or scathed me, or maimed me. And yet where was\nthe Jane Eyre of yesterday? where was her life? where were her\nprospects?\n\nJane Eyre, who had been an ardent, expectant woman almost a bride, was\na cold, solitary girl again: her life was pale; her prospects were\ndesolate. A Christmas frost had come at midsummer; a white December\nstorm had whirled over June; ice glazed the ripe apples, drifts crushed\nthe blowing roses; on hayfield and cornfield lay a frozen shroud: lanes\nwhich last night blushed full of flowers, to-day were pathless with\nuntrodden snow; and the woods, which twelve hours since waved leafy and\nfragrant as groves between the tropics, now spread, waste, wild, and\nwhite as pine-forests in wintry Norway. My hopes were all dead struck\nwith a subtle doom, such as, in one night, fell on all the first-born\nin the land of Egypt. I looked on my cherished wishes, yesterday so\nblooming and glowing; they lay stark, chill, livid corpses that could\nnever revive. I looked at my love: that feeling which was my\nmaster s which he had created; it shivered in my heart, like a\nsuffering child in a cold cradle; sickness and anguish had seized it;\nit could not seek Mr. Rochester s arms it could not derive warmth from\nhis breast. Oh, never more could it turn to him; for faith was\nblighted confidence destroyed! Mr. Rochester was not to me what he had\nbeen; for he was not what I had thought him. I would not ascribe vice\nto him; I would not say he had betrayed me; but the attribute of\nstainless truth was gone from his idea, and from his presence I must\ngo: _that_ I perceived well. When how whither, I could not yet discern;\nbut he himself, I doubted not, would hurry me from Thornfield. Real\naffection, it seemed, he could not have for me; it had been only fitful\npassion: that was balked; he would want me no more. I should fear even\nto cross his path now: my view must be hateful to him. Oh, how blind\nhad been my eyes! How weak my conduct!\n\nMy eyes were covered and closed: eddying darkness seemed to swim round\nme, and reflection came in as black and confused a flow.\nSelf-abandoned, relaxed, and effortless, I seemed to have laid me down\nin the dried-up bed of a great river; I heard a flood loosened in\nremote mountains, and felt the torrent come: to rise I had no will, to\nflee I had no strength. I lay faint, longing to be dead. One idea only\nstill throbbed life-like within me a remembrance of God: it begot an\nunuttered prayer: these words went wandering up and down in my rayless\nmind, as something that should be whispered, but no energy was found to\nexpress them \n\n Be not far from me, for trouble is near: there is none to help. \n\nIt was near: and as I had lifted no petition to Heaven to avert it as I\nhad neither joined my hands, nor bent my knees, nor moved my lips it\ncame: in full heavy swing the torrent poured over me. The whole\nconsciousness of my life lorn, my love lost, my hope quenched, my faith\ndeath-struck, swayed full and mighty above me in one sullen mass. That\nbitter hour cannot be described: in truth,  the waters came into my\nsoul; I sank in deep mire: I felt no standing; I came into deep waters;\nthe floods overflowed me. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\n\n\nSome time in the afternoon I raised my head, and looking round and\nseeing the western sun gilding the sign of its decline on the wall, I\nasked,  What am I to do? \n\nBut the answer my mind gave Leave Thornfield at once was so prompt,\nso dread, that I stopped my ears. I said I could not bear such words\nnow.  That I am not Edward Rochester s bride is the least part of my\nwoe,  I alleged:  that I have wakened out of most glorious dreams, and\nfound them all void and vain, is a horror I could bear and master; but\nthat I must leave him decidedly, instantly, entirely, is intolerable. I\ncannot do it. \n\nBut, then, a voice within me averred that I could do it and foretold\nthat I should do it. I wrestled with my own resolution: I wanted to be\nweak that I might avoid the awful passage of further suffering I saw\nlaid out for me; and Conscience, turned tyrant, held Passion by the\nthroat, told her tauntingly, she had yet but dipped her dainty foot in\nthe slough, and swore that with that arm of iron he would thrust her\ndown to unsounded depths of agony.\n\n Let me be torn away, then  I cried.  Let another help me! \n\n No; you shall tear yourself away, none shall help you: you shall\nyourself pluck out your right eye; yourself cut off your right hand:\nyour heart shall be the victim, and you the priest to transfix it. \n\nI rose up suddenly, terror-struck at the solitude which so ruthless a\njudge haunted, at the silence which so awful a voice filled. My head\nswam as I stood erect. I perceived that I was sickening from excitement\nand inanition; neither meat nor drink had passed my lips that day, for\nI had taken no breakfast. And, with a strange pang, I now reflected\nthat, long as I had been shut up here, no message had been sent to ask\nhow I was, or to invite me to come down: not even little Ad le had\ntapped at the door; not even Mrs. Fairfax had sought me.  Friends\nalways forget those whom fortune forsakes,  I murmured, as I undrew the\nbolt and passed out. I stumbled over an obstacle: my head was still\ndizzy, my sight was dim, and my limbs were feeble. I could not soon\nrecover myself. I fell, but not on to the ground: an outstretched arm\ncaught me. I looked up I was supported by Mr. Rochester, who sat in a\nchair across my chamber threshold.\n\n You come out at last,  he said.  Well, I have been waiting for you\nlong, and listening: yet not one movement have I heard, nor one sob:\nfive minutes more of that death-like hush, and I should have forced the\nlock like a burglar. So you shun me? you shut yourself up and grieve\nalone! I would rather you had come and upbraided me with vehemence. You\nare passionate: I expected a scene of some kind. I was prepared for the\nhot rain of tears; only I wanted them to be shed on my breast: now a\nsenseless floor has received them, or your drenched handkerchief. But I\nerr: you have not wept at all! I see a white cheek and a faded eye, but\nno trace of tears. I suppose, then, your heart has been weeping blood?\n\n Well, Jane! not a word of reproach? Nothing bitter nothing poignant?\nNothing to cut a feeling or sting a passion? You sit quietly where I\nhave placed you, and regard me with a weary, passive look.\n\n Jane, I never meant to wound you thus. If the man who had but one\nlittle ewe lamb that was dear to him as a daughter, that ate of his\nbread and drank of his cup, and lay in his bosom, had by some mistake\nslaughtered it at the shambles, he would not have rued his bloody\nblunder more than I now rue mine. Will you ever forgive me? \n\nReader, I forgave him at the moment and on the spot. There was such\ndeep remorse in his eye, such true pity in his tone, such manly energy\nin his manner; and besides, there was such unchanged love in his whole\nlook and mien I forgave him all: yet not in words, not outwardly; only\nat my heart s core.\n\n You know I am a scoundrel, Jane?  ere long he inquired\nwistfully wondering, I suppose, at my continued silence and tameness,\nthe result rather of weakness than of will.\n\n Yes, sir. \n\n Then tell me so roundly and sharply don t spare me. \n\n I cannot: I am tired and sick. I want some water.  He heaved a sort of\nshuddering sigh, and taking me in his arms, carried me downstairs. At\nfirst I did not know to what room he had borne me; all was cloudy to my\nglazed sight: presently I felt the reviving warmth of a fire; for,\nsummer as it was, I had become icy cold in my chamber. He put wine to\nmy lips; I tasted it and revived; then I ate something he offered me,\nand was soon myself. I was in the library sitting in his chair he was\nquite near.  If I could go out of life now, without too sharp a pang,\nit would be well for me,  I thought;  then I should not have to make\nthe effort of cracking my heart-strings in rending them from among Mr.\nRochester s. I must leave him, it appears. I do not want to leave him I\ncannot leave him. \n\n How are you now, Jane? \n\n Much better, sir; I shall be well soon. \n\n Taste the wine again, Jane. \n\nI obeyed him; then he put the glass on the table, stood before me, and\nlooked at me attentively. Suddenly he turned away, with an inarticulate\nexclamation, full of passionate emotion of some kind; he walked fast\nthrough the room and came back; he stooped towards me as if to kiss me;\nbut I remembered caresses were now forbidden. I turned my face away and\nput his aside.\n\n What! How is this?  he exclaimed hastily.  Oh, I know! you won t kiss\nthe husband of Bertha Mason? You consider my arms filled and my\nembraces appropriated? \n\n At any rate, there is neither room nor claim for me, sir. \n\n Why, Jane? I will spare you the trouble of much talking; I will answer\nfor you Because I have a wife already, you would reply. I guess\nrightly? \n\n Yes. \n\n If you think so, you must have a strange opinion of me; you must\nregard me as a plotting profligate a base and low rake who has been\nsimulating disinterested love in order to draw you into a snare\ndeliberately laid, and strip you of honour and rob you of self-respect.\nWhat do you say to that? I see you can say nothing: in the first place,\nyou are faint still, and have enough to do to draw your breath; in the\nsecond place, you cannot yet accustom yourself to accuse and revile me,\nand besides, the flood-gates of tears are opened, and they would rush\nout if you spoke much; and you have no desire to expostulate, to\nupbraid, to make a scene: you are thinking how _to act_ _talking_ you\nconsider is of no use. I know you I am on my guard. \n\n Sir, I do not wish to act against you,  I said; and my unsteady voice\nwarned me to curtail my sentence.\n\n Not in _your_ sense of the word, but in _mine_ you are scheming to\ndestroy me. You have as good as said that I am a married man as a\nmarried man you will shun me, keep out of my way: just now you have\nrefused to kiss me. You intend to make yourself a complete stranger to\nme: to live under this roof only as Ad le s governess; if ever I say a\nfriendly word to you, if ever a friendly feeling inclines you again to\nme, you will say, That man had nearly made me his mistress: I must be\nice and rock to him;  and ice and rock you will accordingly become. \n\nI cleared and steadied my voice to reply:  All is changed about me,\nsir; I must change too there is no doubt of that; and to avoid\nfluctuations of feeling, and continual combats with recollections and\nassociations, there is only one way Ad le must have a new governess,\nsir. \n\n Oh, Ad le will go to school I have settled that already; nor do I mean\nto torment you with the hideous associations and recollections of\nThornfield Hall this accursed place this tent of Achan this insolent\nvault, offering the ghastliness of living death to the light of the\nopen sky this narrow stone hell, with its one real fiend, worse than a\nlegion of such as we imagine. Jane, you shall not stay here, nor will\nI. I was wrong ever to bring you to Thornfield Hall, knowing as I did\nhow it was haunted. I charged them to conceal from you, before I ever\nsaw you, all knowledge of the curse of the place; merely because I\nfeared Ad le never would have a governess to stay if she knew with what\ninmate she was housed, and my plans would not permit me to remove the\nmaniac elsewhere though I possess an old house, Ferndean Manor, even\nmore retired and hidden than this, where I could have lodged her safely\nenough, had not a scruple about the unhealthiness of the situation, in\nthe heart of a wood, made my conscience recoil from the arrangement.\nProbably those damp walls would soon have eased me of her charge: but\nto each villain his own vice; and mine is not a tendency to indirect\nassassination, even of what I most hate.\n\n Concealing the mad-woman s neighbourhood from you, however, was\nsomething like covering a child with a cloak and laying it down near a\nupas-tree: that demon s vicinage is poisoned, and always was. But I ll\nshut up Thornfield Hall: I ll nail up the front door and board the\nlower windows: I ll give Mrs. Poole two hundred a year to live here\nwith _my wife_, as you term that fearful hag: Grace will do much for\nmoney, and she shall have her son, the keeper at Grimsby Retreat, to\nbear her company and be at hand to give her aid in the paroxysms, when\n_my wife_ is prompted by her familiar to burn people in their beds at\nnight, to stab them, to bite their flesh from their bones, and so on \n\n Sir,  I interrupted him,  you are inexorable for that unfortunate\nlady: you speak of her with hate with vindictive antipathy. It is\ncruel she cannot help being mad. \n\n Jane, my little darling (so I will call you, for so you are), you\ndon t know what you are talking about; you misjudge me again: it is not\nbecause she is mad I hate her. If you were mad, do you think I should\nhate you? \n\n I do indeed, sir. \n\n Then you are mistaken, and you know nothing about me, and nothing\nabout the sort of love of which I am capable. Every atom of your flesh\nis as dear to me as my own: in pain and sickness it would still be\ndear. Your mind is my treasure, and if it were broken, it would be my\ntreasure still: if you raved, my arms should confine you, and not a\nstrait waistcoat your grasp, even in fury, would have a charm for me:\nif you flew at me as wildly as that woman did this morning, I should\nreceive you in an embrace, at least as fond as it would be restrictive.\nI should not shrink from you with disgust as I did from her: in your\nquiet moments you should have no watcher and no nurse but me; and I\ncould hang over you with untiring tenderness, though you gave me no\nsmile in return; and never weary of gazing into your eyes, though they\nhad no longer a ray of recognition for me. But why do I follow that\ntrain of ideas? I was talking of removing you from Thornfield. All, you\nknow, is prepared for prompt departure: to-morrow you shall go. I only\nask you to endure one more night under this roof, Jane; and then,\nfarewell to its miseries and terrors for ever! I have a place to repair\nto, which will be a secure sanctuary from hateful reminiscences, from\nunwelcome intrusion even from falsehood and slander. \n\n And take Ad le with you, sir,  I interrupted;  she will be a companion\nfor you. \n\n What do you mean, Jane? I told you I would send Ad le to school; and\nwhat do I want with a child for a companion, and not my own child, a\nFrench dancer s bastard? Why do you importune me about her! I say, why\ndo you assign Ad le to me for a companion? \n\n You spoke of a retirement, sir; and retirement and solitude are dull:\ntoo dull for you. \n\n Solitude! solitude!  he reiterated with irritation.  I see I must come\nto an explanation. I don t know what sphynx-like expression is forming\nin your countenance. _You_ are to share my solitude. Do you\nunderstand? \n\nI shook my head: it required a degree of courage, excited as he was\nbecoming, even to risk that mute sign of dissent. He had been walking\nfast about the room, and he stopped, as if suddenly rooted to one spot.\nHe looked at me long and hard: I turned my eyes from him, fixed them on\nthe fire, and tried to assume and maintain a quiet, collected aspect.\n\n Now for the hitch in Jane s character,  he said at last, speaking more\ncalmly than from his look I had expected him to speak.  The reel of\nsilk has run smoothly enough so far; but I always knew there would come\na knot and a puzzle: here it is. Now for vexation, and exasperation,\nand endless trouble! By God! I long to exert a fraction of Samson s\nstrength, and break the entanglement like tow! \n\nHe recommenced his walk, but soon again stopped, and this time just\nbefore me.\n\n Jane! will you hear reason?  (he stooped and approached his lips to my\near);  because, if you won t, I ll try violence.  His voice was hoarse;\nhis look that of a man who is just about to burst an insufferable bond\nand plunge headlong into wild license. I saw that in another moment,\nand with one impetus of frenzy more, I should be able to do nothing\nwith him. The present the passing second of time was all I had in which\nto control and restrain him: a movement of repulsion, flight, fear\nwould have sealed my doom, and his. But I was not afraid: not in the\nleast. I felt an inward power; a sense of influence, which supported\nme. The crisis was perilous; but not without its charm: such as the\nIndian, perhaps, feels when he slips over the rapid in his canoe. I\ntook hold of his clenched hand, loosened the contorted fingers, and\nsaid to him, soothingly \n\n Sit down; I ll talk to you as long as you like, and hear all you have\nto say, whether reasonable or unreasonable. \n\nHe sat down: but he did not get leave to speak directly. I had been\nstruggling with tears for some time: I had taken great pains to repress\nthem, because I knew he would not like to see me weep. Now, however, I\nconsidered it well to let them flow as freely and as long as they\nliked. If the flood annoyed him, so much the better. So I gave way and\ncried heartily.\n\nSoon I heard him earnestly entreating me to be composed. I said I could\nnot while he was in such a passion.\n\n But I am not angry, Jane: I only love you too well; and you had\nsteeled your little pale face with such a resolute, frozen look, I\ncould not endure it. Hush, now, and wipe your eyes. \n\nHis softened voice announced that he was subdued; so I, in my turn,\nbecame calm. Now he made an effort to rest his head on my shoulder, but\nI would not permit it. Then he would draw me to him: no.\n\n Jane! Jane!  he said, in such an accent of bitter sadness it thrilled\nalong every nerve I had;  you don t love me, then? It was only my\nstation, and the rank of my wife, that you valued? Now that you think\nme disqualified to become your husband, you recoil from my touch as if\nI were some toad or ape. \n\nThese words cut me: yet what could I do or I say? I ought probably to\nhave done or said nothing; but I was so tortured by a sense of remorse\nat thus hurting his feelings, I could not control the wish to drop balm\nwhere I had wounded.\n\n I _do_ love you,  I said,  more than ever: but I must not show or\nindulge the feeling: and this is the last time I must express it. \n\n The last time, Jane! What! do you think you can live with me, and see\nme daily, and yet, if you still love me, be always cold and distant? \n\n No, sir; that I am certain I could not; and therefore I see there is\nbut one way: but you will be furious if I mention it. \n\n Oh, mention it! If I storm, you have the art of weeping. \n\n Mr. Rochester, I must leave you. \n\n For how long, Jane? For a few minutes, while you smooth your\nhair which is somewhat dishevelled; and bathe your face which looks\nfeverish? \n\n I must leave Ad le and Thornfield. I must part with you for my whole\nlife: I must begin a new existence among strange faces and strange\nscenes. \n\n Of course: I told you you should. I pass over the madness about\nparting from me. You mean you must become a part of me. As to the new\nexistence, it is all right: you shall yet be my wife: I am not married.\nYou shall be Mrs. Rochester both virtually and nominally. I shall keep\nonly to you so long as you and I live. You shall go to a place I have\nin the south of France: a whitewashed villa on the shores of the\nMediterranean. There you shall live a happy, and guarded, and most\ninnocent life. Never fear that I wish to lure you into error to make\nyou my mistress. Why did you shake your head? Jane, you must be\nreasonable, or in truth I shall again become frantic. \n\nHis voice and hand quivered: his large nostrils dilated; his eye\nblazed: still I dared to speak.\n\n Sir, your wife is living: that is a fact acknowledged this morning by\nyourself. If I lived with you as you desire, I should then be your\nmistress: to say otherwise is sophistical is false. \n\n Jane, I am not a gentle-tempered man you forget that: I am not\nlong-enduring; I am not cool and dispassionate. Out of pity to me and\nyourself, put your finger on my pulse, feel how it throbs, and beware! \n\nHe bared his wrist, and offered it to me: the blood was forsaking his\ncheek and lips, they were growing livid; I was distressed on all hands.\nTo agitate him thus deeply, by a resistance he so abhorred, was cruel:\nto yield was out of the question. I did what human beings do\ninstinctively when they are driven to utter extremity looked for aid to\none higher than man: the words  God help me!  burst involuntarily from\nmy lips.\n\n I am a fool!  cried Mr. Rochester suddenly.  I keep telling her I am\nnot married, and do not explain to her why. I forget she knows nothing\nof the character of that woman, or of the circumstances attending my\ninfernal union with her. Oh, I am certain Jane will agree with me in\nopinion, when she knows all that I know! Just put your hand in mine,\nJanet that I may have the evidence of touch as well as sight, to prove\nyou are near me and I will in a few words show you the real state of\nthe case. Can you listen to me? \n\n Yes, sir; for hours if you will. \n\n I ask only minutes. Jane, did you ever hear or know that I was not the\neldest son of my house: that I had once a brother older than I? \n\n I remember Mrs. Fairfax told me so once. \n\n And did you ever hear that my father was an avaricious, grasping man? \n\n I have understood something to that effect. \n\n Well, Jane, being so, it was his resolution to keep the property\ntogether; he could not bear the idea of dividing his estate and leaving\nme a fair portion: all, he resolved, should go to my brother, Rowland.\nYet as little could he endure that a son of his should be a poor man. I\nmust be provided for by a wealthy marriage. He sought me a partner\nbetimes. Mr. Mason, a West India planter and merchant, was his old\nacquaintance. He was certain his possessions were real and vast: he\nmade inquiries. Mr. Mason, he found, had a son and daughter; and he\nlearned from him that he could and would give the latter a fortune of\nthirty thousand pounds: that sufficed. When I left college, I was sent\nout to Jamaica, to espouse a bride already courted for me. My father\nsaid nothing about her money; but he told me Miss Mason was the boast\nof Spanish Town for her beauty: and this was no lie. I found her a fine\nwoman, in the style of Blanche Ingram: tall, dark, and majestic. Her\nfamily wished to secure me because I was of a good race; and so did\nshe. They showed her to me in parties, splendidly dressed. I seldom saw\nher alone, and had very little private conversation with her. She\nflattered me, and lavishly displayed for my pleasure her charms and\naccomplishments. All the men in her circle seemed to admire her and\nenvy me. I was dazzled, stimulated: my senses were excited; and being\nignorant, raw, and inexperienced, I thought I loved her. There is no\nfolly so besotted that the idiotic rivalries of society, the prurience,\nthe rashness, the blindness of youth, will not hurry a man to its\ncommission. Her relatives encouraged me; competitors piqued me; she\nallured me: a marriage was achieved almost before I knew where I was.\nOh, I have no respect for myself when I think of that act! an agony of\ninward contempt masters me. I never loved, I never esteemed, I did not\neven know her. I was not sure of the existence of one virtue in her\nnature: I had marked neither modesty, nor benevolence, nor candour, nor\nrefinement in her mind or manners and, I married her: gross,\ngrovelling, mole-eyed blockhead that I was! With less sin I might\nhave But let me remember to whom I am speaking.\n\n My bride s mother I had never seen: I understood she was dead. The\nhoneymoon over, I learned my mistake; she was only mad, and shut up in\na lunatic asylum. There was a younger brother, too a complete dumb\nidiot. The elder one, whom you have seen (and whom I cannot hate,\nwhilst I abhor all his kindred, because he has some grains of affection\nin his feeble mind, shown in the continued interest he takes in his\nwretched sister, and also in a dog-like attachment he once bore me),\nwill probably be in the same state one day. My father and my brother\nRowland knew all this; but they thought only of the thirty thousand\npounds, and joined in the plot against me.\n\n These were vile discoveries; but except for the treachery of\nconcealment, I should have made them no subject of reproach to my wife,\neven when I found her nature wholly alien to mine, her tastes obnoxious\nto me, her cast of mind common, low, narrow, and singularly incapable\nof being led to anything higher, expanded to anything larger when I\nfound that I could not pass a single evening, nor even a single hour of\nthe day with her in comfort; that kindly conversation could not be\nsustained between us, because whatever topic I started, immediately\nreceived from her a turn at once coarse and trite, perverse and\nimbecile when I perceived that I should never have a quiet or settled\nhousehold, because no servant would bear the continued outbreaks of her\nviolent and unreasonable temper, or the vexations of her absurd,\ncontradictory, exacting orders even then I restrained myself: I\neschewed upbraiding, I curtailed remonstrance; I tried to devour my\nrepentance and disgust in secret; I repressed the deep antipathy I\nfelt.\n\n Jane, I will not trouble you with abominable details: some strong\nwords shall express what I have to say. I lived with that woman\nupstairs four years, and before that time she had tried me indeed: her\ncharacter ripened and developed with frightful rapidity; her vices\nsprang up fast and rank: they were so strong, only cruelty could check\nthem, and I would not use cruelty. What a pigmy intellect she had, and\nwhat giant propensities! How fearful were the curses those propensities\nentailed on me! Bertha Mason, the true daughter of an infamous mother,\ndragged me through all the hideous and degrading agonies which must\nattend a man bound to a wife at once intemperate and unchaste.\n\n My brother in the interval was dead, and at the end of the four years\nmy father died too. I was rich enough now yet poor to hideous\nindigence: a nature the most gross, impure, depraved I ever saw, was\nassociated with mine, and called by the law and by society a part of\nme. And I could not rid myself of it by any legal proceedings: for the\ndoctors now discovered that _my wife_ was mad her excesses had\nprematurely developed the germs of insanity. Jane, you don t like my\nnarrative; you look almost sick shall I defer the rest to another day? \n\n No, sir, finish it now; I pity you I do earnestly pity you. \n\n Pity, Jane, from some people is a noxious and insulting sort of\ntribute, which one is justified in hurling back in the teeth of those\nwho offer it; but that is the sort of pity native to callous, selfish\nhearts; it is a hybrid, egotistical pain at hearing of woes, crossed\nwith ignorant contempt for those who have endured them. But that is not\nyour pity, Jane; it is not the feeling of which your whole face is full\nat this moment with which your eyes are now almost overflowing with\nwhich your heart is heaving with which your hand is trembling in mine.\nYour pity, my darling, is the suffering mother of love: its anguish is\nthe very natal pang of the divine passion. I accept it, Jane; let the\ndaughter have free advent my arms wait to receive her. \n\n Now, sir, proceed; what did you do when you found she was mad? \n\n Jane, I approached the verge of despair; a remnant of self-respect was\nall that intervened between me and the gulf. In the eyes of the world,\nI was doubtless covered with grimy dishonour; but I resolved to be\nclean in my own sight and to the last I repudiated the contamination of\nher crimes, and wrenched myself from connection with her mental\ndefects. Still, society associated my name and person with hers; I yet\nsaw her and heard her daily: something of her breath (faugh!) mixed\nwith the air I breathed; and besides, I remembered I had once been her\nhusband that recollection was then, and is now, inexpressibly odious to\nme; moreover, I knew that while she lived I could never be the husband\nof another and better wife; and, though five years my senior (her\nfamily and her father had lied to me even in the particular of her\nage), she was likely to live as long as I, being as robust in frame as\nshe was infirm in mind. Thus, at the age of twenty-six, I was hopeless.\n\n One night I had been awakened by her yells (since the medical men had\npronounced her mad, she had, of course, been shut up) it was a fiery\nWest Indian night; one of the description that frequently precede the\nhurricanes of those climates. Being unable to sleep in bed, I got up\nand opened the window. The air was like sulphur-steams I could find no\nrefreshment anywhere. Mosquitoes came buzzing in and hummed sullenly\nround the room; the sea, which I could hear from thence, rumbled dull\nlike an earthquake black clouds were casting up over it; the moon was\nsetting in the waves, broad and red, like a hot cannon-ball she threw\nher last bloody glance over a world quivering with the ferment of\ntempest. I was physically influenced by the atmosphere and scene, and\nmy ears were filled with the curses the maniac still shrieked out;\nwherein she momentarily mingled my name with such a tone of demon-hate,\nwith such language! no professed harlot ever had a fouler vocabulary\nthan she: though two rooms off, I heard every word the thin partitions\nof the West India house opposing but slight obstruction to her wolfish\ncries.\n\n This life,  said I at last,  is hell: this is the air those are the\nsounds of the bottomless pit! I have a right to deliver myself from it\nif I can. The sufferings of this mortal state will leave me with the\nheavy flesh that now cumbers my soul. Of the fanatic s burning eternity\nI have no fear: there is not a future state worse than this present\none let me break away, and go home to God! \n\n I said this whilst I knelt down at and unlocked a trunk which\ncontained a brace of loaded pistols: I meant to shoot myself. I only\nentertained the intention for a moment; for, not being insane, the\ncrisis of exquisite and unalloyed despair, which had originated the\nwish and design of self-destruction, was past in a second.\n\n A wind fresh from Europe blew over the ocean and rushed through the\nopen casement: the storm broke, streamed, thundered, blazed, and the\nair grew pure. I then framed and fixed a resolution. While I walked\nunder the dripping orange-trees of my wet garden, and amongst its\ndrenched pomegranates and pine-apples, and while the refulgent dawn of\nthe tropics kindled round me I reasoned thus, Jane and now listen; for\nit was true Wisdom that consoled me in that hour, and showed me the\nright path to follow.\n\n The sweet wind from Europe was still whispering in the refreshed\nleaves, and the Atlantic was thundering in glorious liberty; my heart,\ndried up and scorched for a long time, swelled to the tone, and filled\nwith living blood my being longed for renewal my soul thirsted for a\npure draught. I saw hope revive and felt regeneration possible. From a\nflowery arch at the bottom of my garden I gazed over the sea bluer than\nthe sky: the old world was beyond; clear prospects opened thus: \n\n Go,  said Hope,  and live again in Europe: there it is not known what\na sullied name you bear, nor what a filthy burden is bound to you. You\nmay take the maniac with you to England; confine her with due\nattendance and precautions at Thornfield: then travel yourself to what\nclime you will, and form what new tie you like. That woman, who has so\nabused your long-suffering, so sullied your name, so outraged your\nhonour, so blighted your youth, is not your wife, nor are you her\nhusband. See that she is cared for as her condition demands, and you\nhave done all that God and humanity require of you. Let her identity,\nher connection with yourself, be buried in oblivion: you are bound to\nimpart them to no living being. Place her in safety and comfort:\nshelter her degradation with secrecy, and leave her. \n\n I acted precisely on this suggestion. My father and brother had not\nmade my marriage known to their acquaintance; because, in the very\nfirst letter I wrote to apprise them of the union having already begun\nto experience extreme disgust of its consequences, and, from the family\ncharacter and constitution, seeing a hideous future opening to me I\nadded an urgent charge to keep it secret: and very soon the infamous\nconduct of the wife my father had selected for me was such as to make\nhim blush to own her as his daughter-in-law. Far from desiring to\npublish the connection, he became as anxious to conceal it as myself.\n\n To England, then, I conveyed her; a fearful voyage I had with such a\nmonster in the vessel. Glad was I when I at last got her to Thornfield,\nand saw her safely lodged in that third-storey room, of whose secret\ninner cabinet she has now for ten years made a wild beast s den a\ngoblin s cell. I had some trouble in finding an attendant for her, as\nit was necessary to select one on whose fidelity dependence could be\nplaced; for her ravings would inevitably betray my secret: besides, she\nhad lucid intervals of days sometimes weeks which she filled up with\nabuse of me. At last I hired Grace Poole from the Grimbsy Retreat. She\nand the surgeon, Carter (who dressed Mason s wounds that night he was\nstabbed and worried), are the only two I have ever admitted to my\nconfidence. Mrs. Fairfax may indeed have suspected something, but she\ncould have gained no precise knowledge as to facts. Grace has, on the\nwhole, proved a good keeper; though, owing partly to a fault of her\nown, of which it appears nothing can cure her, and which is incident to\nher harassing profession, her vigilance has been more than once lulled\nand baffled. The lunatic is both cunning and malignant; she has never\nfailed to take advantage of her guardian s temporary lapses; once to\nsecrete the knife with which she stabbed her brother, and twice to\npossess herself of the key of her cell, and issue therefrom in the\nnight-time. On the first of these occasions, she perpetrated the\nattempt to burn me in my bed; on the second, she paid that ghastly\nvisit to you. I thank Providence, who watched over you, that she then\nspent her fury on your wedding apparel, which perhaps brought back\nvague reminiscences of her own bridal days: but on what might have\nhappened, I cannot endure to reflect. When I think of the thing which\nflew at my throat this morning, hanging its black and scarlet visage\nover the nest of my dove, my blood curdles \n\n And what, sir,  I asked, while he paused,  did you do when you had\nsettled her here? Where did you go? \n\n What did I do, Jane? I transformed myself into a will-o -the-wisp.\nWhere did I go? I pursued wanderings as wild as those of the\nMarch-spirit. I sought the Continent, and went devious through all its\nlands. My fixed desire was to seek and find a good and intelligent\nwoman, whom I could love: a contrast to the fury I left at Thornfield \n\n But you could not marry, sir. \n\n I had determined and was convinced that I could and ought. It was not\nmy original intention to deceive, as I have deceived you. I meant to\ntell my tale plainly, and make my proposals openly: and it appeared to\nme so absolutely rational that I should be considered free to love and\nbe loved, I never doubted some woman might be found willing and able to\nunderstand my case and accept me, in spite of the curse with which I\nwas burdened. \n\n Well, sir? \n\n When you are inquisitive, Jane, you always make me smile. You open\nyour eyes like an eager bird, and make every now and then a restless\nmovement, as if answers in speech did not flow fast enough for you, and\nyou wanted to read the tablet of one s heart. But before I go on, tell\nme what you mean by your  Well, sir?  It is a small phrase very\nfrequent with you; and which many a time has drawn me on and on through\ninterminable talk: I don t very well know why. \n\n I mean, What next? How did you proceed? What came of such an event? \n\n Precisely! and what do you wish to know now? \n\n Whether you found any one you liked: whether you asked her to marry\nyou; and what she said. \n\n I can tell you whether I found any one I liked, and whether I asked\nher to marry me: but what she said is yet to be recorded in the book of\nFate. For ten long years I roved about, living first in one capital,\nthen another: sometimes in St. Petersburg; oftener in Paris;\noccasionally in Rome, Naples, and Florence. Provided with plenty of\nmoney and the passport of an old name, I could choose my own society:\nno circles were closed against me. I sought my ideal of a woman amongst\nEnglish ladies, French countesses, Italian signoras, and German\ngr finnen. I could not find her. Sometimes, for a fleeting moment, I\nthought I caught a glance, heard a tone, beheld a form, which announced\nthe realisation of my dream: but I was presently undeceived. You are\nnot to suppose that I desired perfection, either of mind or person. I\nlonged only for what suited me for the antipodes of the Creole: and I\nlonged vainly. Amongst them all I found not one whom, had I been ever\nso free, I warned as I was of the risks, the horrors, the loathings of\nincongruous unions would have asked to marry me. Disappointment made me\nreckless. I tried dissipation never debauchery: that I hated, and hate.\nThat was my Indian Messalina s attribute: rooted disgust at it and her\nrestrained me much, even in pleasure. Any enjoyment that bordered on\nriot seemed to approach me to her and her vices, and I eschewed it.\n\n Yet I could not live alone; so I tried the companionship of\nmistresses. The first I chose was C line Varens another of those steps\nwhich make a man spurn himself when he recalls them. You already know\nwhat she was, and how my liaison with her terminated. She had two\nsuccessors: an Italian, Giacinta, and a German, Clara; both considered\nsingularly handsome. What was their beauty to me in a few weeks?\nGiacinta was unprincipled and violent: I tired of her in three months.\nClara was honest and quiet; but heavy, mindless, and unimpressible: not\none whit to my taste. I was glad to give her a sufficient sum to set\nher up in a good line of business, and so get decently rid of her. But,\nJane, I see by your face you are not forming a very favourable opinion\nof me just now. You think me an unfeeling, loose-principled rake: don t\nyou? \n\n I don t like you so well as I have done sometimes, indeed, sir. Did it\nnot seem to you in the least wrong to live in that way, first with one\nmistress and then another? You talk of it as a mere matter of course. \n\n It was with me; and I did not like it. It was a grovelling fashion of\nexistence: I should never like to return to it. Hiring a mistress is\nthe next worse thing to buying a slave: both are often by nature, and\nalways by position, inferior: and to live familiarly with inferiors is\ndegrading. I now hate the recollection of the time I passed with\nC line, Giacinta, and Clara. \n\nI felt the truth of these words; and I drew from them the certain\ninference, that if I were so far to forget myself and all the teaching\nthat had ever been instilled into me, as under any pretext with any\njustification through any temptation to become the successor of these\npoor girls, he would one day regard me with the same feeling which now\nin his mind desecrated their memory. I did not give utterance to this\nconviction: it was enough to feel it. I impressed it on my heart, that\nit might remain there to serve me as aid in the time of trial.\n\n Now, Jane, why don t you say  Well, sir?  I have not done. You are\nlooking grave. You disapprove of me still, I see. But let me come to\nthe point. Last January, rid of all mistresses in a harsh, bitter frame\nof mind, the result of a useless, roving, lonely life corroded with\ndisappointment, sourly disposed against all men, and especially against\nall _woman_kind (for I began to regard the notion of an intellectual,\nfaithful, loving woman as a mere dream), recalled by business, I came\nback to England.\n\n On a frosty winter afternoon, I rode in sight of Thornfield Hall.\nAbhorred spot! I expected no peace no pleasure there. On a stile in Hay\nLane I saw a quiet little figure sitting by itself. I passed it as\nnegligently as I did the pollard willow opposite to it: I had no\npresentiment of what it would be to me; no inward warning that the\narbitress of my life my genius for good or evil waited there in humble\nguise. I did not know it, even when, on the occasion of Mesrour s\naccident, it came up and gravely offered me help. Childish and slender\ncreature! It seemed as if a linnet had hopped to my foot and proposed\nto bear me on its tiny wing. I was surly; but the thing would not go:\nit stood by me with strange perseverance, and looked and spoke with a\nsort of authority. I must be aided, and by that hand: and aided I was.\n\n When once I had pressed the frail shoulder, something new a fresh sap\nand sense stole into my frame. It was well I had learnt that this elf\nmust return to me that it belonged to my house down below or I could\nnot have felt it pass away from under my hand, and seen it vanish\nbehind the dim hedge, without singular regret. I heard you come home\nthat night, Jane, though probably you were not aware that I thought of\nyou or watched for you. The next day I observed you myself unseen for\nhalf-an-hour, while you played with Ad le in the gallery. It was a\nsnowy day, I recollect, and you could not go out of doors. I was in my\nroom; the door was ajar: I could both listen and watch. Ad le claimed\nyour outward attention for a while; yet I fancied your thoughts were\nelsewhere: but you were very patient with her, my little Jane; you\ntalked to her and amused her a long time. When at last she left you,\nyou lapsed at once into deep reverie: you betook yourself slowly to\npace the gallery. Now and then, in passing a casement, you glanced out\nat the thick-falling snow; you listened to the sobbing wind, and again\nyou paced gently on and dreamed. I think those day visions were not\ndark: there was a pleasurable illumination in your eye occasionally, a\nsoft excitement in your aspect, which told of no bitter, bilious,\nhypochondriac brooding: your look revealed rather the sweet musings of\nyouth when its spirit follows on willing wings the flight of Hope up\nand on to an ideal heaven. The voice of Mrs. Fairfax, speaking to a\nservant in the hall, wakened you: and how curiously you smiled to and\nat yourself, Janet! There was much sense in your smile: it was very\nshrewd, and seemed to make light of your own abstraction. It seemed to\nsay My fine visions are all very well, but I must not forget they are\nabsolutely unreal. I have a rosy sky and a green flowery Eden in my\nbrain; but without, I am perfectly aware, lies at my feet a rough tract\nto travel, and around me gather black tempests to encounter.  You ran\ndownstairs and demanded of Mrs. Fairfax some occupation: the weekly\nhouse accounts to make up, or something of that sort, I think it was. I\nwas vexed with you for getting out of my sight.\n\n Impatiently I waited for evening, when I might summon you to my\npresence. An unusual to me a perfectly new character I suspected was\nyours: I desired to search it deeper and know it better. You entered\nthe room with a look and air at once shy and independent: you were\nquaintly dressed much as you are now. I made you talk: ere long I found\nyou full of strange contrasts. Your garb and manner were restricted by\nrule; your air was often diffident, and altogether that of one refined\nby nature, but absolutely unused to society, and a good deal afraid of\nmaking herself disadvantageously conspicuous by some solecism or\nblunder; yet when addressed, you lifted a keen, a daring, and a glowing\neye to your interlocutor s face: there was penetration and power in\neach glance you gave; when plied by close questions, you found ready\nand round answers. Very soon you seemed to get used to me: I believe\nyou felt the existence of sympathy between you and your grim and cross\nmaster, Jane; for it was astonishing to see how quickly a certain\npleasant ease tranquillised your manner: snarl as I would, you showed\nno surprise, fear, annoyance, or displeasure at my moroseness; you\nwatched me, and now and then smiled at me with a simple yet sagacious\ngrace I cannot describe. I was at once content and stimulated with what\nI saw: I liked what I had seen, and wished to see more. Yet, for a long\ntime, I treated you distantly, and sought your company rarely. I was an\nintellectual epicure, and wished to prolong the gratification of making\nthis novel and piquant acquaintance: besides, I was for a while\ntroubled with a haunting fear that if I handled the flower freely its\nbloom would fade the sweet charm of freshness would leave it. I did not\nthen know that it was no transitory blossom, but rather the radiant\nresemblance of one, cut in an indestructible gem. Moreover, I wished to\nsee whether you would seek me if I shunned you but you did not; you\nkept in the schoolroom as still as your own desk and easel; if by\nchance I met you, you passed me as soon, and with as little token of\nrecognition, as was consistent with respect. Your habitual expression\nin those days, Jane, was a thoughtful look; not despondent, for you\nwere not sickly; but not buoyant, for you had little hope, and no\nactual pleasure. I wondered what you thought of me, or if you ever\nthought of me, and resolved to find this out.\n\n I resumed my notice of you. There was something glad in your glance,\nand genial in your manner, when you conversed: I saw you had a social\nheart; it was the silent schoolroom it was the tedium of your life that\nmade you mournful. I permitted myself the delight of being kind to you;\nkindness stirred emotion soon: your face became soft in expression,\nyour tones gentle; I liked my name pronounced by your lips in a\ngrateful happy accent. I used to enjoy a chance meeting with you, Jane,\nat this time: there was a curious hesitation in your manner: you\nglanced at me with a slight trouble a hovering doubt: you did not know\nwhat my caprice might be whether I was going to play the master and be\nstern, or the friend and be benignant. I was now too fond of you often\nto simulate the first whim; and, when I stretched my hand out\ncordially, such bloom and light and bliss rose to your young, wistful\nfeatures, I had much ado often to avoid straining you then and there to\nmy heart. \n\n Don t talk any more of those days, sir,  I interrupted, furtively\ndashing away some tears from my eyes; his language was torture to me;\nfor I knew what I must do and do soon and all these reminiscences, and\nthese revelations of his feelings only made my work more difficult.\n\n No, Jane,  he returned:  what necessity is there to dwell on the Past,\nwhen the Present is so much surer the Future so much brighter? \n\nI shuddered to hear the infatuated assertion.\n\n You see now how the case stands do you not?  he continued.  After a\nyouth and manhood passed half in unutterable misery and half in dreary\nsolitude, I have for the first time found what I can truly love I have\nfound _you_. You are my sympathy my better self my good angel. I am\nbound to you with a strong attachment. I think you good, gifted,\nlovely: a fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my heart; it leans\nto you, draws you to my centre and spring of life, wraps my existence\nabout you, and, kindling in pure, powerful flame, fuses you and me in\none.\n\n It was because I felt and knew this, that I resolved to marry you. To\ntell me that I had already a wife is empty mockery: you know now that I\nhad but a hideous demon. I was wrong to attempt to deceive you; but I\nfeared a stubbornness that exists in your character. I feared early\ninstilled prejudice: I wanted to have you safe before hazarding\nconfidences. This was cowardly: I should have appealed to your\nnobleness and magnanimity at first, as I do now opened to you plainly\nmy life of agony described to you my hunger and thirst after a higher\nand worthier existence shown to you, not my _resolution_ (that word is\nweak), but my resistless _bent_ to love faithfully and well, where I am\nfaithfully and well loved in return. Then I should have asked you to\naccept my pledge of fidelity and to give me yours. Jane give it me\nnow. \n\nA pause.\n\n Why are you silent, Jane? \n\nI was experiencing an ordeal: a hand of fiery iron grasped my vitals.\nTerrible moment: full of struggle, blackness, burning! Not a human\nbeing that ever lived could wish to be loved better than I was loved;\nand him who thus loved me I absolutely worshipped: and I must renounce\nlove and idol. One drear word comprised my intolerable duty Depart! \n\n Jane, you understand what I want of you? Just this promise I will be\nyours, Mr. Rochester. \n\n Mr. Rochester, I will _not_ be yours. \n\nAnother long silence.\n\n Jane!  recommenced he, with a gentleness that broke me down with\ngrief, and turned me stone-cold with ominous terror for this still\nvoice was the pant of a lion rising Jane, do you mean to go one way in\nthe world, and to let me go another? \n\n I do. \n\n Jane  (bending towards and embracing me),  do you mean it now? \n\n I do. \n\n And now?  softly kissing my forehead and cheek.\n\n I do,  extricating myself from restraint rapidly and completely.\n\n Oh, Jane, this is bitter! This this is wicked. It would not be wicked\nto love me. \n\n It would to obey you. \n\nA wild look raised his brows crossed his features: he rose; but he\nforebore yet. I laid my hand on the back of a chair for support: I\nshook, I feared but I resolved.\n\n One instant, Jane. Give one glance to my horrible life when you are\ngone. All happiness will be torn away with you. What then is left? For\na wife I have but the maniac upstairs: as well might you refer me to\nsome corpse in yonder churchyard. What shall I do, Jane? Where turn for\na companion and for some hope? \n\n Do as I do: trust in God and yourself. Believe in heaven. Hope to meet\nagain there. \n\n Then you will not yield? \n\n No. \n\n Then you condemn me to live wretched and to die accursed?  His voice\nrose.\n\n I advise you to live sinless, and I wish you to die tranquil. \n\n Then you snatch love and innocence from me? You fling me back on lust\nfor a passion vice for an occupation? \n\n Mr. Rochester, I no more assign this fate to you than I grasp at it\nfor myself. We were born to strive and endure you as well as I: do so.\nYou will forget me before I forget you. \n\n You make me a liar by such language: you sully my honour. I declared I\ncould not change: you tell me to my face I shall change soon. And what\na distortion in your judgment, what a perversity in your ideas, is\nproved by your conduct! Is it better to drive a fellow-creature to\ndespair than to transgress a mere human law, no man being injured by\nthe breach? for you have neither relatives nor acquaintances whom you\nneed fear to offend by living with me? \n\nThis was true: and while he spoke my very conscience and reason turned\ntraitors against me, and charged me with crime in resisting him. They\nspoke almost as loud as Feeling: and that clamoured wildly.  Oh,\ncomply!  it said.  Think of his misery; think of his danger look at his\nstate when left alone; remember his headlong nature; consider the\nrecklessness following on despair soothe him; save him; love him; tell\nhim you love him and will be his. Who in the world cares for _you_? or\nwho will be injured by what you do? \n\nStill indomitable was the reply _I_ care for myself. The more\nsolitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I\nwill respect myself. I will keep the law given by God; sanctioned by\nman. I will hold to the principles received by me when I was sane, and\nnot mad as I am now. Laws and principles are not for the times when\nthere is no temptation: they are for such moments as this, when body\nand soul rise in mutiny against their rigour; stringent are they;\ninviolate they shall be. If at my individual convenience I might break\nthem, what would be their worth? They have a worth so I have always\nbelieved; and if I cannot believe it now, it is because I am\ninsane quite insane: with my veins running fire, and my heart beating\nfaster than I can count its throbs. Preconceived opinions, foregone\ndeterminations, are all I have at this hour to stand by: there I plant\nmy foot. \n\nI did. Mr. Rochester, reading my countenance, saw I had done so. His\nfury was wrought to the highest: he must yield to it for a moment,\nwhatever followed; he crossed the floor and seized my arm and grasped\nmy waist. He seemed to devour me with his flaming glance: physically, I\nfelt, at the moment, powerless as stubble exposed to the draught and\nglow of a furnace: mentally, I still possessed my soul, and with it the\ncertainty of ultimate safety. The soul, fortunately, has an\ninterpreter often an unconscious, but still a truthful interpreter in\nthe eye. My eye rose to his; and while I looked in his fierce face I\ngave an involuntary sigh; his gripe was painful, and my over-taxed\nstrength almost exhausted.\n\n Never,  said he, as he ground his teeth,  never was anything at once\nso frail and so indomitable. A mere reed she feels in my hand!  (And he\nshook me with the force of his hold.)  I could bend her with my finger\nand thumb: and what good would it do if I bent, if I uptore, if I\ncrushed her? Consider that eye: consider the resolute, wild, free thing\nlooking out of it, defying me, with more than courage with a stern\ntriumph. Whatever I do with its cage, I cannot get at it the savage,\nbeautiful creature! If I tear, if I rend the slight prison, my outrage\nwill only let the captive loose. Conqueror I might be of the house; but\nthe inmate would escape to heaven before I could call myself possessor\nof its clay dwelling-place. And it is you, spirit with will and energy,\nand virtue and purity that I want: not alone your brittle frame. Of\nyourself you could come with soft flight and nestle against my heart,\nif you would: seized against your will, you will elude the grasp like\nan essence you will vanish ere I inhale your fragrance. Oh! come, Jane,\ncome! \n\nAs he said this, he released me from his clutch, and only looked at me.\nThe look was far worse to resist than the frantic strain: only an\nidiot, however, would have succumbed now. I had dared and baffled his\nfury; I must elude his sorrow: I retired to the door.\n\n You are going, Jane? \n\n I am going, sir. \n\n You are leaving me? \n\n Yes. \n\n You will not come? You will not be my comforter, my rescuer? My deep\nlove, my wild woe, my frantic prayer, are all nothing to you? \n\nWhat unutterable pathos was in his voice! How hard it was to reiterate\nfirmly,  I am going. \n\n Jane! \n\n Mr. Rochester! \n\n Withdraw, then, I consent; but remember, you leave me here in anguish.\nGo up to your own room; think over all I have said, and, Jane, cast a\nglance on my sufferings think of me. \n\nHe turned away; he threw himself on his face on the sofa.  Oh, Jane! my\nhope my love my life!  broke in anguish from his lips. Then came a\ndeep, strong sob.\n\nI had already gained the door; but, reader, I walked back walked back\nas determinedly as I had retreated. I knelt down by him; I turned his\nface from the cushion to me; I kissed his cheek; I smoothed his hair\nwith my hand.\n\n God bless you, my dear master!  I said.  God keep you from harm and\nwrong direct you, solace you reward you well for your past kindness to\nme. \n\n Little Jane s love would have been my best reward,  he answered;\n without it, my heart is broken. But Jane will give me her love:\nyes nobly, generously. \n\nUp the blood rushed to his face; forth flashed the fire from his eyes;\nerect he sprang; he held his arms out; but I evaded the embrace, and at\nonce quitted the room.\n\n Farewell!  was the cry of my heart as I left him. Despair added,\n Farewell for ever! \n\n\nThat night I never thought to sleep; but a slumber fell on me as soon\nas I lay down in bed. I was transported in thought to the scenes of\nchildhood: I dreamt I lay in the red-room at Gateshead; that the night\nwas dark, and my mind impressed with strange fears. The light that long\nago had struck me into syncope, recalled in this vision, seemed\nglidingly to mount the wall, and tremblingly to pause in the centre of\nthe obscured ceiling. I lifted up my head to look: the roof resolved to\nclouds, high and dim; the gleam was such as the moon imparts to vapours\nshe is about to sever. I watched her come watched with the strangest\nanticipation; as though some word of doom were to be written on her\ndisk. She broke forth as never moon yet burst from cloud: a hand first\npenetrated the sable folds and waved them away; then, not a moon, but a\nwhite human form shone in the azure, inclining a glorious brow\nearthward. It gazed and gazed on me. It spoke to my spirit:\nimmeasurably distant was the tone, yet so near, it whispered in my\nheart \n\n My daughter, flee temptation. \n\n Mother, I will. \n\nSo I answered after I had waked from the trance-like dream. It was yet\nnight, but July nights are short: soon after midnight, dawn comes.  It\ncannot be too early to commence the task I have to fulfil,  thought I.\nI rose: I was dressed; for I had taken off nothing but my shoes. I knew\nwhere to find in my drawers some linen, a locket, a ring. In seeking\nthese articles, I encountered the beads of a pearl necklace Mr.\nRochester had forced me to accept a few days ago. I left that; it was\nnot mine: it was the visionary bride s who had melted in air. The other\narticles I made up in a parcel; my purse, containing twenty shillings\n(it was all I had), I put in my pocket: I tied on my straw bonnet,\npinned my shawl, took the parcel and my slippers, which I would not put\non yet, and stole from my room.\n\n Farewell, kind Mrs. Fairfax!  I whispered, as I glided past her door.\n Farewell, my darling Ad le!  I said, as I glanced towards the nursery.\nNo thought could be admitted of entering to embrace her. I had to\ndeceive a fine ear: for aught I knew it might now be listening.\n\nI would have got past Mr. Rochester s chamber without a pause; but my\nheart momentarily stopping its beat at that threshold, my foot was\nforced to stop also. No sleep was there: the inmate was walking\nrestlessly from wall to wall; and again and again he sighed while I\nlistened. There was a heaven a temporary heaven in this room for me, if\nI chose: I had but to go in and to say \n\n Mr. Rochester, I will love you and live with you through life till\ndeath,  and a fount of rapture would spring to my lips. I thought of\nthis.\n\nThat kind master, who could not sleep now, was waiting with impatience\nfor day. He would send for me in the morning; I should be gone. He\nwould have me sought for: vainly. He would feel himself forsaken; his\nlove rejected: he would suffer; perhaps grow desperate. I thought of\nthis too. My hand moved towards the lock: I caught it back, and glided\non.\n\nDrearily I wound my way downstairs: I knew what I had to do, and I did\nit mechanically. I sought the key of the side-door in the kitchen; I\nsought, too, a phial of oil and a feather; I oiled the key and the\nlock. I got some water, I got some bread: for perhaps I should have to\nwalk far; and my strength, sorely shaken of late, must not break down.\nAll this I did without one sound. I opened the door, passed out, shut\nit softly. Dim dawn glimmered in the yard. The great gates were closed\nand locked; but a wicket in one of them was only latched. Through that\nI departed: it, too, I shut; and now I was out of Thornfield.\n\nA mile off, beyond the fields, lay a road which stretched in the\ncontrary direction to Millcote; a road I had never travelled, but often\nnoticed, and wondered where it led: thither I bent my steps. No\nreflection was to be allowed now: not one glance was to be cast back;\nnot even one forward. Not one thought was to be given either to the\npast or the future. The first was a page so heavenly sweet so deadly\nsad that to read one line of it would dissolve my courage and break\ndown my energy. The last was an awful blank: something like the world\nwhen the deluge was gone by.\n\nI skirted fields, and hedges, and lanes till after sunrise. I believe\nit was a lovely summer morning: I know my shoes, which I had put on\nwhen I left the house, were soon wet with dew. But I looked neither to\nrising sun, nor smiling sky, nor wakening nature. He who is taken out\nto pass through a fair scene to the scaffold, thinks not of the flowers\nthat smile on his road, but of the block and axe-edge; of the\ndisseverment of bone and vein; of the grave gaping at the end: and I\nthought of drear flight and homeless wandering and oh! with agony I\nthought of what I left. I could not help it. I thought of him now in\nhis room watching the sunrise; hoping I should soon come to say I would\nstay with him and be his. I longed to be his; I panted to return: it\nwas not too late; I could yet spare him the bitter pang of bereavement.\nAs yet my flight, I was sure, was undiscovered. I could go back and be\nhis comforter his pride; his redeemer from misery, perhaps from ruin.\nOh, that fear of his self-abandonment far worse than my abandonment how\nit goaded me! It was a barbed arrow-head in my breast; it tore me when\nI tried to extract it; it sickened me when remembrance thrust it\nfarther in. Birds began singing in brake and copse: birds were faithful\nto their mates; birds were emblems of love. What was I? In the midst of\nmy pain of heart and frantic effort of principle, I abhorred myself. I\nhad no solace from self-approbation: none even from self-respect. I had\ninjured wounded left my master. I was hateful in my own eyes. Still I\ncould not turn, nor retrace one step. God must have led me on. As to my\nown will or conscience, impassioned grief had trampled one and stifled\nthe other. I was weeping wildly as I walked along my solitary way:\nfast, fast I went like one delirious. A weakness, beginning inwardly,\nextending to the limbs, seized me, and I fell: I lay on the ground some\nminutes, pressing my face to the wet turf. I had some fear or hope that\nhere I should die: but I was soon up; crawling forwards on my hands and\nknees, and then again raised to my feet as eager and as determined as\never to reach the road.\n\nWhen I got there, I was forced to sit to rest me under the hedge; and\nwhile I sat, I heard wheels, and saw a coach come on. I stood up and\nlifted my hand; it stopped. I asked where it was going: the driver\nnamed a place a long way off, and where I was sure Mr. Rochester had no\nconnections. I asked for what sum he would take me there; he said\nthirty shillings; I answered I had but twenty; well, he would try to\nmake it do. He further gave me leave to get into the inside, as the\nvehicle was empty: I entered, was shut in, and it rolled on its way.\n\nGentle reader, may you never feel what I then felt! May your eyes never\nshed such stormy, scalding, heart-wrung tears as poured from mine. May\nyou never appeal to Heaven in prayers so hopeless and so agonised as in\nthat hour left my lips; for never may you, like me, dread to be the\ninstrument of evil to what you wholly love.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII\n\n\nTwo days are passed. It is a summer evening; the coachman has set me\ndown at a place called Whitcross; he could take me no farther for the\nsum I had given, and I was not possessed of another shilling in the\nworld. The coach is a mile off by this time; I am alone. At this moment\nI discover that I forgot to take my parcel out of the pocket of the\ncoach, where I had placed it for safety; there it remains, there it\nmust remain; and now, I am absolutely destitute.\n\nWhitcross is no town, nor even a hamlet; it is but a stone pillar set\nup where four roads meet: whitewashed, I suppose, to be more obvious at\na distance and in darkness. Four arms spring from its summit: the\nnearest town to which these point is, according to the inscription,\ndistant ten miles; the farthest, above twenty. From the well-known\nnames of these towns I learn in what county I have lighted; a\nnorth-midland shire, dusk with moorland, ridged with mountain: this I\nsee. There are great moors behind and on each hand of me; there are\nwaves of mountains far beyond that deep valley at my feet. The\npopulation here must be thin, and I see no passengers on these roads:\nthey stretch out east, west, north, and south white, broad, lonely;\nthey are all cut in the moor, and the heather grows deep and wild to\ntheir very verge. Yet a chance traveller might pass by; and I wish no\neye to see me now: strangers would wonder what I am doing, lingering\nhere at the sign-post, evidently objectless and lost. I might be\nquestioned: I could give no answer but what would sound incredible and\nexcite suspicion. Not a tie holds me to human society at this\nmoment not a charm or hope calls me where my fellow-creatures are none\nthat saw me would have a kind thought or a good wish for me. I have no\nrelative but the universal mother, Nature: I will seek her breast and\nask repose.\n\nI struck straight into the heath; I held on to a hollow I saw deeply\nfurrowing the brown moorside; I waded knee-deep in its dark growth; I\nturned with its turnings, and finding a moss-blackened granite crag in\na hidden angle, I sat down under it. High banks of moor were about me;\nthe crag protected my head: the sky was over that.\n\nSome time passed before I felt tranquil even here: I had a vague dread\nthat wild cattle might be near, or that some sportsman or poacher might\ndiscover me. If a gust of wind swept the waste, I looked up, fearing it\nwas the rush of a bull; if a plover whistled, I imagined it a man.\nFinding my apprehensions unfounded, however, and calmed by the deep\nsilence that reigned as evening declined at nightfall, I took\nconfidence. As yet I had not thought; I had only listened, watched,\ndreaded; now I regained the faculty of reflection.\n\nWhat was I to do? Where to go? Oh, intolerable questions, when I could\ndo nothing and go nowhere! when a long way must yet be measured by my\nweary, trembling limbs before I could reach human habitation when cold\ncharity must be entreated before I could get a lodging: reluctant\nsympathy importuned, almost certain repulse incurred, before my tale\ncould be listened to, or one of my wants relieved!\n\nI touched the heath: it was dry, and yet warm with the heat of the\nsummer day. I looked at the sky; it was pure: a kindly star twinkled\njust above the chasm ridge. The dew fell, but with propitious softness;\nno breeze whispered. Nature seemed to me benign and good; I thought she\nloved me, outcast as I was; and I, who from man could anticipate only\nmistrust, rejection, insult, clung to her with filial fondness.\nTo-night, at least, I would be her guest, as I was her child: my mother\nwould lodge me without money and without price. I had one morsel of\nbread yet: the remnant of a roll I had bought in a town we passed\nthrough at noon with a stray penny my last coin. I saw ripe bilberries\ngleaming here and there, like jet beads in the heath: I gathered a\nhandful and ate them with the bread. My hunger, sharp before, was, if\nnot satisfied, appeased by this hermit s meal. I said my evening\nprayers at its conclusion, and then chose my couch.\n\n\nI said my evening prayers\n\nBeside the crag the heath was very deep: when I lay down my feet were\nburied in it; rising high on each side, it left only a narrow space for\nthe night-air to invade. I folded my shawl double, and spread it over\nme for a coverlet; a low, mossy swell was my pillow. Thus lodged, I was\nnot, at least at the commencement of the night, cold.\n\nMy rest might have been blissful enough, only a sad heart broke it. It\nplained of its gaping wounds, its inward bleeding, its riven chords. It\ntrembled for Mr. Rochester and his doom; it bemoaned him with bitter\npity; it demanded him with ceaseless longing; and, impotent as a bird\nwith both wings broken, it still quivered its shattered pinions in vain\nattempts to seek him.\n\nWorn out with this torture of thought, I rose to my knees. Night was\ncome, and her planets were risen: a safe, still night: too serene for\nthe companionship of fear. We know that God is everywhere; but\ncertainly we feel His presence most when His works are on the grandest\nscale spread before us; and it is in the unclouded night-sky, where His\nworlds wheel their silent course, that we read clearest His infinitude,\nHis omnipotence, His omnipresence. I had risen to my knees to pray for\nMr. Rochester. Looking up, I, with tear-dimmed eyes, saw the mighty\nMilky-way. Remembering what it was what countless systems there swept\nspace like a soft trace of light I felt the might and strength of God.\nSure was I of His efficiency to save what He had made: convinced I grew\nthat neither earth should perish, nor one of the souls it treasured. I\nturned my prayer to thanksgiving: the Source of Life was also the\nSaviour of spirits. Mr. Rochester was safe: he was God s, and by God\nwould he be guarded. I again nestled to the breast of the hill; and ere\nlong in sleep forgot sorrow.\n\nBut next day, Want came to me pale and bare. Long after the little\nbirds had left their nests; long after bees had come in the sweet prime\nof day to gather the heath honey before the dew was dried when the long\nmorning shadows were curtailed, and the sun filled earth and sky I got\nup, and I looked round me.\n\nWhat a still, hot, perfect day! What a golden desert this spreading\nmoor! Everywhere sunshine. I wished I could live in it and on it. I saw\na lizard run over the crag; I saw a bee busy among the sweet\nbilberries. I would fain at the moment have become bee or lizard, that\nI might have found fitting nutriment, permanent shelter here. But I was\na human being, and had a human being s wants: I must not linger where\nthere was nothing to supply them. I rose; I looked back at the bed I\nhad left. Hopeless of the future, I wished but this that my Maker had\nthat night thought good to require my soul of me while I slept; and\nthat this weary frame, absolved by death from further conflict with\nfate, had now but to decay quietly, and mingle in peace with the soil\nof this wilderness. Life, however, was yet in my possession, with all\nits requirements, and pains, and responsibilities. The burden must be\ncarried; the want provided for; the suffering endured; the\nresponsibility fulfilled. I set out.\n\nWhitcross regained, I followed a road which led from the sun, now\nfervent and high. By no other circumstance had I will to decide my\nchoice. I walked a long time, and when I thought I had nearly done\nenough, and might conscientiously yield to the fatigue that almost\noverpowered me might relax this forced action, and, sitting down on a\nstone I saw near, submit resistlessly to the apathy that clogged heart\nand limb I heard a bell chime a church bell.\n\nI turned in the direction of the sound, and there, amongst the romantic\nhills, whose changes and aspect I had ceased to note an hour ago, I saw\na hamlet and a spire. All the valley at my right hand was full of\npasture-fields, and cornfields, and wood; and a glittering stream ran\nzig-zag through the varied shades of green, the mellowing grain, the\nsombre woodland, the clear and sunny lea. Recalled by the rumbling of\nwheels to the road before me, I saw a heavily-laden waggon labouring up\nthe hill, and not far beyond were two cows and their drover. Human life\nand human labour were near. I must struggle on: strive to live and bend\nto toil like the rest.\n\nAbout two o clock P.M. I entered the village. At the bottom of its one\nstreet there was a little shop with some cakes of bread in the window.\nI coveted a cake of bread. With that refreshment I could perhaps regain\na degree of energy: without it, it would be difficult to proceed. The\nwish to have some strength and some vigour returned to me as soon as I\nwas amongst my fellow-beings. I felt it would be degrading to faint\nwith hunger on the causeway of a hamlet. Had I nothing about me I could\noffer in exchange for one of these rolls? I considered. I had a small\nsilk handkerchief tied round my throat; I had my gloves. I could hardly\ntell how men and women in extremities of destitution proceeded. I did\nnot know whether either of these articles would be accepted: probably\nthey would not; but I must try.\n\nI entered the shop: a woman was there. Seeing a respectably-dressed\nperson, a lady as she supposed, she came forward with civility. How\ncould she serve me? I was seized with shame: my tongue would not utter\nthe request I had prepared. I dared not offer her the half-worn gloves,\nthe creased handkerchief: besides, I felt it would be absurd. I only\nbegged permission to sit down a moment, as I was tired. Disappointed in\nthe expectation of a customer, she coolly acceded to my request. She\npointed to a seat; I sank into it. I felt sorely urged to weep; but\nconscious how unseasonable such a manifestation would be, I restrained\nit. Soon I asked her  if there were any dressmaker or plain-workwoman\nin the village? \n\n Yes; two or three. Quite as many as there was employment for. \n\nI reflected. I was driven to the point now. I was brought face to face\nwith Necessity. I stood in the position of one without a resource,\nwithout a friend, without a coin. I must do something. What? I must\napply somewhere. Where?\n\n Did she know of any place in the neighbourhood where a servant was\nwanted? \n\n Nay; she couldn t say. \n\n What was the chief trade in this place? What did most of the people\ndo? \n\n Some were farm labourers; a good deal worked at Mr. Oliver s\nneedle-factory, and at the foundry. \n\n Did Mr. Oliver employ women? \n\n Nay; it was men s work. \n\n And what do the women do? \n\n I knawn t,  was the answer.  Some does one thing, and some another.\nPoor folk mun get on as they can. \n\nShe seemed to be tired of my questions: and, indeed, what claim had I\nto importune her? A neighbour or two came in; my chair was evidently\nwanted. I took leave.\n\nI passed up the street, looking as I went at all the houses to the\nright hand and to the left; but I could discover no pretext, nor see an\ninducement to enter any. I rambled round the hamlet, going sometimes to\na little distance and returning again, for an hour or more. Much\nexhausted, and suffering greatly now for want of food, I turned aside\ninto a lane and sat down under the hedge. Ere many minutes had elapsed,\nI was again on my feet, however, and again searching something a\nresource, or at least an informant. A pretty little house stood at the\ntop of the lane, with a garden before it, exquisitely neat and\nbrilliantly blooming. I stopped at it. What business had I to approach\nthe white door or touch the glittering knocker? In what way could it\npossibly be the interest of the inhabitants of that dwelling to serve\nme? Yet I drew near and knocked. A mild-looking, cleanly-attired young\nwoman opened the door. In such a voice as might be expected from a\nhopeless heart and fainting frame a voice wretchedly low and\nfaltering I asked if a servant was wanted here?\n\n No,  said she;  we do not keep a servant. \n\n Can you tell me where I could get employment of any kind?  I\ncontinued.  I am a stranger, without acquaintance in this place. I want\nsome work: no matter what. \n\nBut it was not her business to think for me, or to seek a place for me:\nbesides, in her eyes, how doubtful must have appeared my character,\nposition, tale. She shook her head, she  was sorry she could give me no\ninformation,  and the white door closed, quite gently and civilly: but\nit shut me out. If she had held it open a little longer, I believe I\nshould have begged a piece of bread; for I was now brought low.\n\nI could not bear to return to the sordid village, where, besides, no\nprospect of aid was visible. I should have longed rather to deviate to\na wood I saw not far off, which appeared in its thick shade to offer\ninviting shelter; but I was so sick, so weak, so gnawed with nature s\ncravings, instinct kept me roaming round abodes where there was a\nchance of food. Solitude would be no solitude rest no rest while the\nvulture, hunger, thus sank beak and talons in my side.\n\nI drew near houses; I left them, and came back again, and again I\nwandered away: always repelled by the consciousness of having no claim\nto ask no right to expect interest in my isolated lot. Meantime, the\nafternoon advanced, while I thus wandered about like a lost and\nstarving dog. In crossing a field, I saw the church spire before me: I\nhastened towards it. Near the churchyard, and in the middle of a\ngarden, stood a well-built though small house, which I had no doubt was\nthe parsonage. I remembered that strangers who arrive at a place where\nthey have no friends, and who want employment, sometimes apply to the\nclergyman for introduction and aid. It is the clergyman s function to\nhelp at least with advice those who wished to help themselves. I seemed\nto have something like a right to seek counsel here. Renewing then my\ncourage, and gathering my feeble remains of strength, I pushed on. I\nreached the house, and knocked at the kitchen-door. An old woman\nopened: I asked was this the parsonage?\n\n Yes. \n\n Was the clergyman in? \n\n No. \n\n Would he be in soon? \n\n No, he was gone from home. \n\n To a distance? \n\n Not so far happen three mile. He had been called away by the sudden\ndeath of his father: he was at Marsh End now, and would very likely\nstay there a fortnight longer. \n\n Was there any lady of the house? \n\n Nay, there was naught but her, and she was housekeeper;  and of her,\nreader, I could not bear to ask the relief for want of which I was\nsinking; I could not yet beg; and again I crawled away.\n\nOnce more I took off my handkerchief once more I thought of the cakes\nof bread in the little shop. Oh, for but a crust! for but one mouthful\nto allay the pang of famine! Instinctively I turned my face again to\nthe village; I found the shop again, and I went in; and though others\nwere there besides the woman I ventured the request Would she give me\na roll for this handkerchief? \n\nShe looked at me with evident suspicion:  Nay, she never sold stuff i \nthat way. \n\nAlmost desperate, I asked for half a cake; she again refused.  How\ncould she tell where I had got the handkerchief?  she said.\n\n Would she take my gloves? \n\n No! what could she do with them? \n\nReader, it is not pleasant to dwell on these details. Some say there is\nenjoyment in looking back to painful experience past; but at this day I\ncan scarcely bear to review the times to which I allude: the moral\ndegradation, blent with the physical suffering, form too distressing a\nrecollection ever to be willingly dwelt on. I blamed none of those who\nrepulsed me. I felt it was what was to be expected, and what could not\nbe helped: an ordinary beggar is frequently an object of suspicion; a\nwell-dressed beggar inevitably so. To be sure, what I begged was\nemployment; but whose business was it to provide me with employment?\nNot, certainly, that of persons who saw me then for the first time, and\nwho knew nothing about my character. And as to the woman who would not\ntake my handkerchief in exchange for her bread, why, she was right, if\nthe offer appeared to her sinister or the exchange unprofitable. Let me\ncondense now. I am sick of the subject.\n\nA little before dark I passed a farm-house, at the open door of which\nthe farmer was sitting, eating his supper of bread and cheese. I\nstopped and said \n\n Will you give me a piece of bread? for I am very hungry.  He cast on\nme a glance of surprise; but without answering, he cut a thick slice\nfrom his loaf, and gave it to me. I imagine he did not think I was a\nbeggar, but only an eccentric sort of lady, who had taken a fancy to\nhis brown loaf. As soon as I was out of sight of his house, I sat down\nand ate it.\n\nI could not hope to get a lodging under a roof, and sought it in the\nwood I have before alluded to. But my night was wretched, my rest\nbroken: the ground was damp, the air cold: besides, intruders passed\nnear me more than once, and I had again and again to change my\nquarters: no sense of safety or tranquillity befriended me. Towards\nmorning it rained; the whole of the following day was wet. Do not ask\nme, reader, to give a minute account of that day; as before, I sought\nwork; as before, I was repulsed; as before, I starved; but once did\nfood pass my lips. At the door of a cottage I saw a little girl about\nto throw a mess of cold porridge into a pig trough.  Will you give me\nthat?  I asked.\n\n\n Will you give me that?  I asked\n\nShe stared at me.  Mother!  she exclaimed,  there is a woman wants me\nto give her these porridge. \n\n Well lass,  replied a voice within,  give it her if she s a beggar. T \npig doesn t want it. \n\nThe girl emptied the stiffened mould into my hand, and I devoured it\nravenously.\n\nAs the wet twilight deepened, I stopped in a solitary bridle-path,\nwhich I had been pursuing an hour or more.\n\n My strength is quite failing me,  I said in a soliloquy.  I feel I\ncannot go much farther. Shall I be an outcast again this night? While\nthe rain descends so, must I lay my head on the cold, drenched ground?\nI fear I cannot do otherwise: for who will receive me? But it will be\nvery dreadful, with this feeling of hunger, faintness, chill, and this\nsense of desolation this total prostration of hope. In all likelihood,\nthough, I should die before morning. And why cannot I reconcile myself\nto the prospect of death? Why do I struggle to retain a valueless life?\nBecause I know, or believe, Mr. Rochester is living: and then, to die\nof want and cold is a fate to which nature cannot submit passively. Oh,\nProvidence! sustain me a little longer! Aid! direct me! \n\nMy glazed eye wandered over the dim and misty landscape. I saw I had\nstrayed far from the village: it was quite out of sight. The very\ncultivation surrounding it had disappeared. I had, by cross-ways and\nby-paths, once more drawn near the tract of moorland; and now, only a\nfew fields, almost as wild and unproductive as the heath from which\nthey were scarcely reclaimed, lay between me and the dusky hill.\n\n Well, I would rather die yonder than in a street or on a frequented\nroad,  I reflected.  And far better that crows and ravens if any ravens\nthere be in these regions should pick my flesh from my bones, than that\nthey should be prisoned in a workhouse coffin and moulder in a pauper s\ngrave. \n\nTo the hill, then, I turned. I reached it. It remained now only to find\na hollow where I could lie down, and feel at least hidden, if not\nsecure. But all the surface of the waste looked level. It showed no\nvariation but of tint: green, where rush and moss overgrew the marshes;\nblack, where the dry soil bore only heath. Dark as it was getting, I\ncould still see these changes, though but as mere alternations of light\nand shade; for colour had faded with the daylight.\n\nMy eye still roved over the sullen swell and along the moor-edge,\nvanishing amidst the wildest scenery, when at one dim point, far in\namong the marshes and the ridges, a light sprang up.  That is an _ignis\nfatuus_,  was my first thought; and I expected it would soon vanish. It\nburnt on, however, quite steadily, neither receding nor advancing.  Is\nit, then, a bonfire just kindled?  I questioned. I watched to see\nwhether it would spread: but no; as it did not diminish, so it did not\nenlarge.  It may be a candle in a house,  I then conjectured;  but if\nso, I can never reach it. It is much too far away: and were it within a\nyard of me, what would it avail? I should but knock at the door to have\nit shut in my face. \n\nAnd I sank down where I stood, and hid my face against the ground. I\nlay still a while: the night-wind swept over the hill and over me, and\ndied moaning in the distance; the rain fell fast, wetting me afresh to\nthe skin. Could I but have stiffened to the still frost the friendly\nnumbness of death it might have pelted on; I should not have felt it;\nbut my yet living flesh shuddered at its chilling influence. I rose ere\nlong.\n\nThe light was yet there, shining dim but constant through the rain. I\ntried to walk again: I dragged my exhausted limbs slowly towards it. It\nled me aslant over the hill, through a wide bog, which would have been\nimpassable in winter, and was splashy and shaking even now, in the\nheight of summer. Here I fell twice; but as often I rose and rallied my\nfaculties. This light was my forlorn hope: I must gain it.\n\nHaving crossed the marsh, I saw a trace of white over the moor. I\napproached it; it was a road or a track: it led straight up to the\nlight, which now beamed from a sort of knoll, amidst a clump of\ntrees firs, apparently, from what I could distinguish of the character\nof their forms and foliage through the gloom. My star vanished as I\ndrew near: some obstacle had intervened between me and it. I put out my\nhand to feel the dark mass before me: I discriminated the rough stones\nof a low wall above it, something like palisades, and within, a high\nand prickly hedge. I groped on. Again a whitish object gleamed before\nme: it was a gate a wicket; it moved on its hinges as I touched it. On\neach side stood a sable bush holly or yew.\n\nEntering the gate and passing the shrubs, the silhouette of a house\nrose to view, black, low, and rather long; but the guiding light shone\nnowhere. All was obscurity. Were the inmates retired to rest? I feared\nit must be so. In seeking the door, I turned an angle: there shot out\nthe friendly gleam again, from the lozenged panes of a very small\nlatticed window, within a foot of the ground, made still smaller by the\ngrowth of ivy or some other creeping plant, whose leaves clustered\nthick over the portion of the house wall in which it was set. The\naperture was so screened and narrow, that curtain or shutter had been\ndeemed unnecessary; and when I stooped down and put aside the spray of\nfoliage shooting over it, I could see all within. I could see clearly a\nroom with a sanded floor, clean scoured; a dresser of walnut, with\npewter plates ranged in rows, reflecting the redness and radiance of a\nglowing peat-fire. I could see a clock, a white deal table, some\nchairs. The candle, whose ray had been my beacon, burnt on the table;\nand by its light an elderly woman, somewhat rough-looking, but\nscrupulously clean, like all about her, was knitting a stocking.\n\nI noticed these objects cursorily only in them there was nothing\nextraordinary. A group of more interest appeared near the hearth,\nsitting still amidst the rosy peace and warmth suffusing it. Two young,\ngraceful women ladies in every point sat, one in a low rocking-chair,\nthe other on a lower stool; both wore deep mourning of crape and\nbombazeen, which sombre garb singularly set off very fair necks and\nfaces: a large old pointer dog rested its massive head on the knee of\none girl in the lap of the other was cushioned a black cat.\n\nA strange place was this humble kitchen for such occupants! Who were\nthey? They could not be the daughters of the elderly person at the\ntable; for she looked like a rustic, and they were all delicacy and\ncultivation. I had nowhere seen such faces as theirs: and yet, as I\ngazed on them, I seemed intimate with every lineament. I cannot call\nthem handsome they were too pale and grave for the word: as they each\nbent over a book, they looked thoughtful almost to severity. A stand\nbetween them supported a second candle and two great volumes, to which\nthey frequently referred, comparing them, seemingly, with the smaller\nbooks they held in their hands, like people consulting a dictionary to\naid them in the task of translation. This scene was as silent as if all\nthe figures had been shadows and the firelit apartment a picture: so\nhushed was it, I could hear the cinders fall from the grate, the clock\ntick in its obscure corner; and I even fancied I could distinguish the\nclick-click of the woman s knitting-needles. When, therefore, a voice\nbroke the strange stillness at last, it was audible enough to me.\n\n Listen, Diana,  said one of the absorbed students;  Franz and old\nDaniel are together in the night-time, and Franz is telling a dream\nfrom which he has awakened in terror listen!  And in a low voice she\nread something, of which not one word was intelligible to me; for it\nwas in an unknown tongue neither French nor Latin. Whether it were\nGreek or German I could not tell.\n\n That is strong,  she said, when she had finished:  I relish it.  The\nother girl, who had lifted her head to listen to her sister, repeated,\nwhile she gazed at the fire, a line of what had been read. At a later\nday, I knew the language and the book; therefore, I will here quote the\nline: though, when I first heard it, it was only like a stroke on\nsounding brass to me conveying no meaning: \n\n Da trat hervor Einer, anzusehen wie die Sternen Nacht.  Good! good! \nshe exclaimed, while her dark and deep eye sparkled.  There you have a\ndim and mighty archangel fitly set before you! The line is worth a\nhundred pages of fustian.  Ich w ge die Gedanken in der Schale meines\nZornes und die Werke mit dem Gewichte meines Grimms.  I like it! \n\nBoth were again silent.\n\n Is there ony country where they talk i  that way?  asked the old\nwoman, looking up from her knitting.\n\n Yes, Hannah a far larger country than England, where they talk in no\nother way. \n\n Well, for sure case, I knawn t how they can understand t  one t other:\nand if either o  ye went there, ye could tell what they said, I guess? \n\n We could probably tell something of what they said, but not all for we\nare not as clever as you think us, Hannah. We don t speak German, and\nwe cannot read it without a dictionary to help us. \n\n And what good does it do you? \n\n We mean to teach it some time or at least the elements, as they say;\nand then we shall get more money than we do now. \n\n Varry like: but give ower studying; ye ve done enough for to-night. \n\n I think we have: at least I m tired. Mary, are you? \n\n Mortally: after all, it s tough work fagging away at a language with\nno master but a lexicon. \n\n It is, especially such a language as this crabbed but glorious\nDeutsch. I wonder when St. John will come home. \n\n Surely he will not be long now: it is just ten (looking at a little\ngold watch she drew from her girdle). It rains fast, Hannah: will you\nhave the goodness to look at the fire in the parlour? \n\nThe woman rose: she opened a door, through which I dimly saw a passage:\nsoon I heard her stir a fire in an inner room; she presently came back.\n\n Ah, childer!  said she,  it fair troubles me to go into yond  room\nnow: it looks so lonesome wi  the chair empty and set back in a\ncorner. \n\nShe wiped her eyes with her apron: the two girls, grave before, looked\nsad now.\n\n But he is in a better place,  continued Hannah:  we shouldn t wish him\nhere again. And then, nobody need to have a quieter death nor he had. \n\n You say he never mentioned us?  inquired one of the ladies.\n\n He hadn t time, bairn: he was gone in a minute, was your father. He\nhad been a bit ailing like the day before, but naught to signify; and\nwhen Mr. St. John asked if he would like either o  ye to be sent for,\nhe fair laughed at him. He began again with a bit of a heaviness in his\nhead the next day that is, a fortnight sin and he went to sleep and\nniver wakened: he wor a most stark when your brother went into t \nchamber and fand him. Ah, childer! that s t  last o  t  old stock for\nye and Mr. St. John is like of different soart to them  at s gone; for\nall your mother wor mich i  your way, and a most as book-learned. She\nwor the pictur  o  ye, Mary: Diana is more like your father. \n\nI thought them so similar I could not tell where the old servant (for\nsuch I now concluded her to be) saw the difference. Both were fair\ncomplexioned and slenderly made; both possessed faces full of\ndistinction and intelligence. One, to be sure, had hair a shade darker\nthan the other, and there was a difference in their style of wearing\nit; Mary s pale brown locks were parted and braided smooth: Diana s\nduskier tresses covered her neck with thick curls. The clock struck\nten.\n\n Ye ll want your supper, I am sure,  observed Hannah;  and so will Mr.\nSt. John when he comes in. \n\nAnd she proceeded to prepare the meal. The ladies rose; they seemed\nabout to withdraw to the parlour. Till this moment, I had been so\nintent on watching them, their appearance and conversation had excited\nin me so keen an interest, I had half-forgotten my own wretched\nposition: now it recurred to me. More desolate, more desperate than\never, it seemed from contrast. And how impossible did it appear to\ntouch the inmates of this house with concern on my behalf; to make them\nbelieve in the truth of my wants and woes to induce them to vouchsafe a\nrest for my wanderings! As I groped out the door, and knocked at it\nhesitatingly, I felt that last idea to be a mere chimera. Hannah\nopened.\n\n What do you want?  she inquired, in a voice of surprise, as she\nsurveyed me by the light of the candle she held.\n\n May I speak to your mistresses?  I said.\n\n You had better tell me what you have to say to them. Where do you come\nfrom? \n\n I am a stranger. \n\n What is your business here at this hour? \n\n I want a night s shelter in an out-house or anywhere, and a morsel of\nbread to eat. \n\nDistrust, the very feeling I dreaded, appeared in Hannah s face.  I ll\ngive you a piece of bread,  she said, after a pause;  but we can t take\nin a vagrant to lodge. It isn t likely. \n\n Do let me speak to your mistresses. \n\n No, not I. What can they do for you? You should not be roving about\nnow; it looks very ill. \n\n But where shall I go if you drive me away? What shall I do? \n\n Oh, I ll warrant you know where to go and what to do. Mind you don t\ndo wrong, that s all. Here is a penny; now go \n\n A penny cannot feed me, and I have no strength to go farther. Don t\nshut the door: oh, don t, for God s sake! \n\n I must; the rain is driving in \n\n Tell the young ladies. Let me see them \n\n Indeed, I will not. You are not what you ought to be, or you wouldn t\nmake such a noise. Move off. \n\n But I must die if I am turned away. \n\n Not you. I m fear d you have some ill plans agate, that bring you\nabout folk s houses at this time o  night. If you ve any\nfollowers housebreakers or such like anywhere near, you may tell them\nwe are not by ourselves in the house; we have a gentleman, and dogs,\nand guns.  Here the honest but inflexible servant clapped the door to\nand bolted it within.\n\nThis was the climax. A pang of exquisite suffering a throe of true\ndespair rent and heaved my heart. Worn out, indeed, I was; not another\nstep could I stir. I sank on the wet doorstep: I groaned I wrung my\nhands I wept in utter anguish. Oh, this spectre of death! Oh, this last\nhour, approaching in such horror! Alas, this isolation this banishment\nfrom my kind! Not only the anchor of hope, but the footing of fortitude\nwas gone at least for a moment; but the last I soon endeavoured to\nregain.\n\n I can but die,  I said,  and I believe in God. Let me try to wait His\nwill in silence. \n\nThese words I not only thought, but uttered; and thrusting back all my\nmisery into my heart, I made an effort to compel it to remain\nthere dumb and still.\n\n All men must die,  said a voice quite close at hand;  but all are not\ncondemned to meet a lingering and premature doom, such as yours would\nbe if you perished here of want. \n\n Who or what speaks?  I asked, terrified at the unexpected sound, and\nincapable now of deriving from any occurrence a hope of aid. A form was\nnear what form, the pitch-dark night and my enfeebled vision prevented\nme from distinguishing. With a loud long knock, the new-comer appealed\nto the door.\n\n Is it you, Mr. St. John?  cried Hannah.\n\n Yes yes; open quickly. \n\n Well, how wet and cold you must be, such a wild night as it is! Come\nin your sisters are quite uneasy about you, and I believe there are bad\nfolks about. There has been a beggar-woman I declare she is not gone\nyet! laid down there. Get up! for shame! Move off, I say! \n\n Hush, Hannah! I have a word to say to the woman. You have done your\nduty in excluding, now let me do mine in admitting her. I was near, and\nlistened to both you and her. I think this is a peculiar case I must at\nleast examine into it. Young woman, rise, and pass before me into the\nhouse. \n\n\nHush, Hannah; I have a word to say to the woman\n\nWith difficulty I obeyed him. Presently I stood within that clean,\nbright kitchen on the very hearth trembling, sickening; conscious of an\naspect in the last degree ghastly, wild, and weather-beaten. The two\nladies, their brother, Mr. St. John, the old servant, were all gazing\nat me.\n\n St. John, who is it?  I heard one ask.\n\n I cannot tell: I found her at the door,  was the reply.\n\n She does look white,  said Hannah.\n\n As white as clay or death,  was responded.  She will fall: let her\nsit. \n\nAnd indeed my head swam: I dropped, but a chair received me. I still\npossessed my senses, though just now I could not speak.\n\n Perhaps a little water would restore her. Hannah, fetch some. But she\nis worn to nothing. How very thin, and how very bloodless! \n\n A mere spectre! \n\n Is she ill, or only famished? \n\n Famished, I think. Hannah, is that milk? Give it me, and a piece of\nbread. \n\nDiana (I knew her by the long curls which I saw drooping between me and\nthe fire as she bent over me) broke some bread, dipped it in milk, and\nput it to my lips. Her face was near mine: I saw there was pity in it,\nand I felt sympathy in her hurried breathing. In her simple words, too,\nthe same balm-like emotion spoke:  Try to eat. \n\n Yes try,  repeated Mary gently; and Mary s hand removed my sodden\nbonnet and lifted my head. I tasted what they offered me: feebly at\nfirst, eagerly soon.\n\n Not too much at first restrain her,  said the brother;  she has had\nenough.  And he withdrew the cup of milk and the plate of bread.\n\n A little more, St. John look at the avidity in her eyes. \n\n No more at present, sister. Try if she can speak now ask her her\nname. \n\nI felt I could speak, and I answered My name is Jane Elliott.  Anxious\nas ever to avoid discovery, I had before resolved to assume an _alias_.\n\n And where do you live? Where are your friends? \n\nI was silent.\n\n Can we send for any one you know? \n\nI shook my head.\n\n What account can you give of yourself? \n\nSomehow, now that I had once crossed the threshold of this house, and\nonce was brought face to face with its owners, I felt no longer\noutcast, vagrant, and disowned by the wide world. I dared to put off\nthe mendicant to resume my natural manner and character. I began once\nmore to know myself; and when Mr. St. John demanded an account which at\npresent I was far too weak to render I said after a brief pause \n\n Sir, I can give you no details to-night. \n\n But what, then,  said he,  do you expect me to do for you? \n\n Nothing,  I replied. My strength sufficed for but short answers. Diana\ntook the word \n\n Do you mean,  she asked,  that we have now given you what aid you\nrequire? and that we may dismiss you to the moor and the rainy night? \n\nI looked at her. She had, I thought, a remarkable countenance, instinct\nboth with power and goodness. I took sudden courage. Answering her\ncompassionate gaze with a smile, I said I will trust you. If I were a\nmasterless and stray dog, I know that you would not turn me from your\nhearth to-night: as it is, I really have no fear. Do with me and for me\nas you like; but excuse me from much discourse my breath is short I\nfeel a spasm when I speak.  All three surveyed me, and all three were\nsilent.\n\n Hannah,  said Mr. St. John, at last,  let her sit there at present,\nand ask her no questions; in ten minutes more, give her the remainder\nof that milk and bread. Mary and Diana, let us go into the parlour and\ntalk the matter over. \n\nThey withdrew. Very soon one of the ladies returned I could not tell\nwhich. A kind of pleasant stupor was stealing over me as I sat by the\ngenial fire. In an undertone she gave some directions to Hannah. Ere\nlong, with the servant s aid, I contrived to mount a staircase; my\ndripping clothes were removed; soon a warm, dry bed received me. I\nthanked God experienced amidst unutterable exhaustion a glow of\ngrateful joy and slept.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX\n\n\nThe recollection of about three days and nights succeeding this is very\ndim in my mind. I can recall some sensations felt in that interval; but\nfew thoughts framed, and no actions performed. I knew I was in a small\nroom and in a narrow bed. To that bed I seemed to have grown; I lay on\nit motionless as a stone; and to have torn me from it would have been\nalmost to kill me. I took no note of the lapse of time of the change\nfrom morning to noon, from noon to evening. I observed when any one\nentered or left the apartment: I could even tell who they were; I could\nunderstand what was said when the speaker stood near to me; but I could\nnot answer; to open my lips or move my limbs was equally impossible.\nHannah, the servant, was my most frequent visitor. Her coming disturbed\nme. I had a feeling that she wished me away: that she did not\nunderstand me or my circumstances; that she was prejudiced against me.\nDiana and Mary appeared in the chamber once or twice a day. They would\nwhisper sentences of this sort at my bedside \n\n It is very well we took her in. \n\n Yes; she would certainly have been found dead at the door in the\nmorning had she been left out all night. I wonder what she has gone\nthrough? \n\n Strange hardships, I imagine poor, emaciated, pallid wanderer! \n\n She is not an uneducated person, I should think, by her manner of\nspeaking; her accent was quite pure; and the clothes she took off,\nthough splashed and wet, were little worn and fine. \n\n She has a peculiar face; fleshless and haggard as it is, I rather like\nit; and when in good health and animated, I can fancy her physiognomy\nwould be agreeable. \n\nNever once in their dialogues did I hear a syllable of regret at the\nhospitality they had extended to me, or of suspicion of, or aversion\nto, myself. I was comforted.\n\nMr. St. John came but once: he looked at me, and said my state of\nlethargy was the result of reaction from excessive and protracted\nfatigue. He pronounced it needless to send for a doctor: nature, he was\nsure, would manage best, left to herself. He said every nerve had been\noverstrained in some way, and the whole system must sleep torpid a\nwhile. There was no disease. He imagined my recovery would be rapid\nenough when once commenced. These opinions he delivered in a few words,\nin a quiet, low voice; and added, after a pause, in the tone of a man\nlittle accustomed to expansive comment,  Rather an unusual physiognomy;\ncertainly, not indicative of vulgarity or degradation. \n\n Far otherwise,  responded Diana.  To speak truth, St. John, my heart\nrather warms to the poor little soul. I wish we may be able to benefit\nher permanently. \n\n That is hardly likely,  was the reply.  You will find she is some\nyoung lady who has had a misunderstanding with her friends, and has\nprobably injudiciously left them. We may, perhaps, succeed in restoring\nher to them, if she is not obstinate: but I trace lines of force in her\nface which make me sceptical of her tractability.  He stood considering\nme some minutes; then added,  She looks sensible, but not at all\nhandsome. \n\n She is so ill, St. John. \n\n Ill or well, she would always be plain. The grace and harmony of\nbeauty are quite wanting in those features. \n\nOn the third day I was better; on the fourth, I could speak, move, rise\nin bed, and turn. Hannah had brought me some gruel and dry toast,\nabout, as I supposed, the dinner-hour. I had eaten with relish: the\nfood was good void of the feverish flavour which had hitherto poisoned\nwhat I had swallowed. When she left me, I felt comparatively strong and\nrevived: ere long satiety of repose and desire for action stirred me. I\nwished to rise; but what could I put on? Only my damp and bemired\napparel; in which I had slept on the ground and fallen in the marsh. I\nfelt ashamed to appear before my benefactors so clad. I was spared the\nhumiliation.\n\nOn a chair by the bedside were all my own things, clean and dry. My\nblack silk frock hung against the wall. The traces of the bog were\nremoved from it; the creases left by the wet smoothed out: it was quite\ndecent. My very shoes and stockings were purified and rendered\npresentable. There were the means of washing in the room, and a comb\nand brush to smooth my hair. After a weary process, and resting every\nfive minutes, I succeeded in dressing myself. My clothes hung loose on\nme; for I was much wasted, but I covered deficiencies with a shawl, and\nonce more, clean and respectable looking no speck of the dirt, no trace\nof the disorder I so hated, and which seemed so to degrade me, left I\ncrept down a stone staircase with the aid of the banisters, to a narrow\nlow passage, and found my way presently to the kitchen.\n\nIt was full of the fragrance of new bread and the warmth of a generous\nfire. Hannah was baking. Prejudices, it is well known, are most\ndifficult to eradicate from the heart whose soil has never been\nloosened or fertilised by education: they grow there, firm as weeds\namong stones. Hannah had been cold and stiff, indeed, at the first:\nlatterly she had begun to relent a little; and when she saw me come in\ntidy and well-dressed, she even smiled.\n\n What, you have got up!  she said.  You are better, then. You may sit\nyou down in my chair on the hearthstone, if you will. \n\nShe pointed to the rocking-chair: I took it. She bustled about,\nexamining me every now and then with the corner of her eye. Turning to\nme, as she took some loaves from the oven, she asked bluntly \n\n Did you ever go a-begging afore you came here? \n\nI was indignant for a moment; but remembering that anger was out of the\nquestion, and that I had indeed appeared as a beggar to her, I answered\nquietly, but still not without a certain marked firmness \n\n You are mistaken in supposing me a beggar. I am no beggar; any more\nthan yourself or your young ladies. \n\nAfter a pause she said,  I dunnut understand that: you ve like no\nhouse, nor no brass, I guess? \n\n The want of house or brass (by which I suppose you mean money) does\nnot make a beggar in your sense of the word. \n\n Are you book-learned?  she inquired presently.\n\n Yes, very. \n\n But you ve never been to a boarding-school? \n\n I was at a boarding-school eight years. \n\nShe opened her eyes wide.  Whatever cannot ye keep yourself for, then? \n\n I have kept myself; and, I trust, shall keep myself again. What are\nyou going to do with these gooseberries?  I inquired, as she brought\nout a basket of the fruit.\n\n Mak   em into pies. \n\n Give them to me and I ll pick them. \n\n Nay; I dunnut want ye to do nought. \n\n But I must do something. Let me have them. \n\nShe consented; and she even brought me a clean towel to spread over my\ndress,  lest,  as she said,  I should mucky it. \n\n Ye ve not been used to sarvant s wark, I see by your hands,  she\nremarked.  Happen ye ve been a dressmaker? \n\n No, you are wrong. And now, never mind what I have been: don t trouble\nyour head further about me; but tell me the name of the house where we\nare. \n\n Some calls it Marsh End, and some calls it Moor House. \n\n And the gentleman who lives here is called Mr. St. John? \n\n Nay; he doesn t live here: he is only staying a while. When he is at\nhome, he is in his own parish at Morton. \n\n That village a few miles off?\n\n Aye. \n\n And what is he? \n\n He is a parson. \n\nI remembered the answer of the old housekeeper at the parsonage, when I\nhad asked to see the clergyman.  This, then, was his father s\nresidence? \n\n Aye; old Mr. Rivers lived here, and his father, and grandfather, and\ngurt (great) grandfather afore him. \n\n The name, then, of that gentleman, is Mr. St. John Rivers? \n\n Aye; St. John is like his kirstened name. \n\n And his sisters are called Diana and Mary Rivers? \n\n Yes. \n\n Their father is dead? \n\n Dead three weeks sin  of a stroke. \n\n They have no mother? \n\n The mistress has been dead this mony a year. \n\n Have you lived with the family long? \n\n I ve lived here thirty year. I nursed them all three. \n\n That proves you must have been an honest and faithful servant. I will\nsay so much for you, though you have had the incivility to call me a\nbeggar. \n\nShe again regarded me with a surprised stare.  I believe,  she said,  I\nwas quite mista en in my thoughts of you: but there is so mony cheats\ngoes about, you mun forgie me. \n\n And though,  I continued, rather severely,  you wished to turn me from\nthe door, on a night when you should not have shut out a dog. \n\n Well, it was hard: but what can a body do? I thought more o  th \nchilder nor of mysel: poor things! They ve like nobody to tak  care on\n em but me. I m like to look sharpish. \n\nI maintained a grave silence for some minutes.\n\n You munnut think too hardly of me,  she again remarked.\n\n But I do think hardly of you,  I said;  and I ll tell you why not so\nmuch because you refused to give me shelter, or regarded me as an\nimpostor, as because you just now made it a species of reproach that I\nhad no  brass  and no house. Some of the best people that ever lived\nhave been as destitute as I am; and if you are a Christian, you ought\nnot to consider poverty a crime. \n\n No more I ought,  said she:  Mr. St. John tells me so too; and I see I\nwor wrang but I ve clear a different notion on you now to what I had.\nYou look a raight down dacent little crater. \n\n That will do I forgive you now. Shake hands. \n\nShe put her floury and horny hand into mine; another and heartier smile\nillumined her rough face, and from that moment we were friends.\n\nHannah was evidently fond of talking. While I picked the fruit, and she\nmade the paste for the pies, she proceeded to give me sundry details\nabout her deceased master and mistress, and  the childer,  as she\ncalled the young people.\n\nOld Mr. Rivers, she said, was a plain man enough, but a gentleman, and\nof as ancient a family as could be found. Marsh End had belonged to the\nRivers ever since it was a house: and it was, she affirmed,  aboon two\nhundred year old for all it looked but a small, humble place, naught to\ncompare wi  Mr. Oliver s grand hall down i  Morton Vale. But she could\nremember Bill Oliver s father a journeyman needlemaker; and th  Rivers\nwor gentry i  th  owd days o  th  Henrys, as onybody might see by\nlooking into th  registers i  Morton Church vestry.  Still, she\nallowed,  the owd maister was like other folk naught mich out o  t \ncommon way: stark mad o  shooting, and farming, and sich like.  The\nmistress was different. She was a great reader, and studied a deal; and\nthe  bairns  had taken after her. There was nothing like them in these\nparts, nor ever had been; they had liked learning, all three, almost\nfrom the time they could speak; and they had always been  of a mak  of\ntheir own.  Mr. St. John, when he grew up, would go to college and be a\nparson; and the girls, as soon as they left school, would seek places\nas governesses: for they had told her their father had some years ago\nlost a great deal of money by a man he had trusted turning bankrupt;\nand as he was now not rich enough to give them fortunes, they must\nprovide for themselves. They had lived very little at home for a long\nwhile, and were only come now to stay a few weeks on account of their\nfather s death; but they did so like Marsh End and Morton, and all\nthese moors and hills about. They had been in London, and many other\ngrand towns; but they always said there was no place like home; and\nthen they were so agreeable with each other never fell out nor\n threaped.  She did not know where there was such a family for being\nunited.\n\nHaving finished my task of gooseberry picking, I asked where the two\nladies and their brother were now.\n\n Gone over to Morton for a walk; but they would be back in half-an-hour\nto tea. \n\nThey returned within the time Hannah had allotted them: they entered by\nthe kitchen door. Mr. St. John, when he saw me, merely bowed and passed\nthrough; the two ladies stopped: Mary, in a few words, kindly and\ncalmly expressed the pleasure she felt in seeing me well enough to be\nable to come down; Diana took my hand: she shook her head at me.\n\n You should have waited for my leave to descend,  she said.  You still\nlook very pale and so thin! Poor child! poor girl! \n\nDiana had a voice toned, to my ear, like the cooing of a dove. She\npossessed eyes whose gaze I delighted to encounter. Her whole face\nseemed to me full of charm. Mary s countenance was equally\nintelligent her features equally pretty; but her expression was more\nreserved, and her manners, though gentle, more distant. Diana looked\nand spoke with a certain authority: she had a will, evidently. It was\nmy nature to feel pleasure in yielding to an authority supported like\nhers, and to bend, where my conscience and self-respect permitted, to\nan active will.\n\n And what business have you here?  she continued.  It is not your\nplace. Mary and I sit in the kitchen sometimes, because at home we like\nto be free, even to license but you are a visitor, and must go into the\nparlour. \n\n I am very well here. \n\n Not at all, with Hannah bustling about and covering you with flour. \n\n Besides, the fire is too hot for you,  interposed Mary.\n\n To be sure,  added her sister.  Come, you must be obedient.  And still\nholding my hand she made me rise, and led me into the inner room.\n\n Sit there,  she said, placing me on the sofa,  while we take our\nthings off and get the tea ready; it is another privilege we exercise\nin our little moorland home to prepare our own meals when we are so\ninclined, or when Hannah is baking, brewing, washing, or ironing. \n\nShe closed the door, leaving me solus with Mr. St. John, who sat\nopposite, a book or newspaper in his hand. I examined, first, the\nparlour, and then its occupant.\n\nThe parlour was rather a small room, very plainly furnished, yet\ncomfortable, because clean and neat. The old-fashioned chairs were very\nbright, and the walnut-wood table was like a looking-glass. A few\nstrange, antique portraits of the men and women of other days decorated\nthe stained walls; a cupboard with glass doors contained some books and\nan ancient set of china. There was no superfluous ornament in the\nroom not one modern piece of furniture, save a brace of workboxes and a\nlady s desk in rosewood, which stood on a side-table:\neverything including the carpet and curtains looked at once well worn\nand well saved.\n\nMr. St. John sitting as still as one of the dusty pictures on the\nwalls, keeping his eyes fixed on the page he perused, and his lips\nmutely sealed was easy enough to examine. Had he been a statue instead\nof a man, he could not have been easier. He was young perhaps from\ntwenty-eight to thirty tall, slender; his face riveted the eye; it was\nlike a Greek face, very pure in outline: quite a straight, classic\nnose; quite an Athenian mouth and chin. It is seldom, indeed, an\nEnglish face comes so near the antique models as did his. He might well\nbe a little shocked at the irregularity of my lineaments, his own being\nso harmonious. His eyes were large and blue, with brown lashes; his\nhigh forehead, colourless as ivory, was partially streaked over by\ncareless locks of fair hair.\n\nThis is a gentle delineation, is it not, reader? Yet he whom it\ndescribes scarcely impressed one with the idea of a gentle, a yielding,\nan impressible, or even of a placid nature. Quiescent as he now sat,\nthere was something about his nostril, his mouth, his brow, which, to\nmy perceptions, indicated elements within either restless, or hard, or\neager. He did not speak to me one word, nor even direct to me one\nglance, till his sisters returned. Diana, as she passed in and out, in\nthe course of preparing tea, brought me a little cake, baked on the top\nof the oven.\n\n Eat that now,  she said:  you must be hungry. Hannah says you have had\nnothing but some gruel since breakfast. \n\nI did not refuse it, for my appetite was awakened and keen. Mr. Rivers\nnow closed his book, approached the table, and, as he took a seat,\nfixed his blue pictorial-looking eyes full on me. There was an\nunceremonious directness, a searching, decided steadfastness in his\ngaze now, which told that intention, and not diffidence, had hitherto\nkept it averted from the stranger.\n\n You are very hungry,  he said.\n\n I am, sir.  It is my way it always was my way, by instinct ever to\nmeet the brief with brevity, the direct with plainness.\n\n It is well for you that a low fever has forced you to abstain for the\nlast three days: there would have been danger in yielding to the\ncravings of your appetite at first. Now you may eat, though still not\nimmoderately. \n\n I trust I shall not eat long at your expense, sir,  was my very\nclumsily-contrived, unpolished answer.\n\n No,  he said coolly:  when you have indicated to us the residence of\nyour friends, we can write to them, and you may be restored to home. \n\n That, I must plainly tell you, is out of my power to do; being\nabsolutely without home and friends. \n\nThe three looked at me, but not distrustfully; I felt there was no\nsuspicion in their glances: there was more of curiosity. I speak\nparticularly of the young ladies. St. John s eyes, though clear enough\nin a literal sense, in a figurative one were difficult to fathom. He\nseemed to use them rather as instruments to search other people s\nthoughts, than as agents to reveal his own: the which combination of\nkeenness and reserve was considerably more calculated to embarrass than\nto encourage.\n\n Do you mean to say,  he asked,  that you are completely isolated from\nevery connection? \n\n I do. Not a tie links me to any living thing: not a claim do I possess\nto admittance under any roof in England. \n\n A most singular position at your age! \n\nHere I saw his glance directed to my hands, which were folded on the\ntable before me. I wondered what he sought there: his words soon\nexplained the quest.\n\n You have never been married? You are a spinster? \n\nDiana laughed.  Why, she can t be above seventeen or eighteen years\nold, St. John,  said she.\n\n I am near nineteen: but I am not married. No. \n\nI felt a burning glow mount to my face; for bitter and agitating\nrecollections were awakened by the allusion to marriage. They all saw\nthe embarrassment and the emotion. Diana and Mary relieved me by\nturning their eyes elsewhere than to my crimsoned visage; but the\ncolder and sterner brother continued to gaze, till the trouble he had\nexcited forced out tears as well as colour.\n\n Where did you last reside?  he now asked.\n\n You are too inquisitive, St. John,  murmured Mary in a low voice; but\nhe leaned over the table and required an answer by a second firm and\npiercing look.\n\n The name of the place where, and of the person with whom I lived, is\nmy secret,  I replied concisely.\n\n Which, if you like, you have, in my opinion, a right to keep, both\nfrom St. John and every other questioner,  remarked Diana.\n\n Yet if I know nothing about you or your history, I cannot help you, \nhe said.  And you need help, do you not? \n\n I need it, and I seek it so far, sir, that some true philanthropist\nwill put me in the way of getting work which I can do, and the\nremuneration for which will keep me, if but in the barest necessaries\nof life. \n\n I know not whether I am a true philanthropist; yet I am willing to aid\nyou to the utmost of my power in a purpose so honest. First, then, tell\nme what you have been accustomed to do, and what you _can_ do. \n\nI had now swallowed my tea. I was mightily refreshed by the beverage;\nas much so as a giant with wine: it gave new tone to my unstrung\nnerves, and enabled me to address this penetrating young judge\nsteadily.\n\n Mr. Rivers,  I said, turning to him, and looking at him, as he looked\nat me, openly and without diffidence,  you and your sisters have done\nme a great service the greatest man can do his fellow-being; you have\nrescued me, by your noble hospitality, from death. This benefit\nconferred gives you an unlimited claim on my gratitude, and a claim, to\na certain extent, on my confidence. I will tell you as much of the\nhistory of the wanderer you have harboured, as I can tell without\ncompromising my own peace of mind my own security, moral and physical,\nand that of others.\n\n I am an orphan, the daughter of a clergyman. My parents died before I\ncould know them. I was brought up a dependent; educated in a charitable\ninstitution. I will even tell you the name of the establishment, where\nI passed six years as a pupil, and two as a teacher Lowood Orphan\nAsylum,  shire: you will have heard of it, Mr. Rivers? the Rev. Robert\nBrocklehurst is the treasurer. \n\n I have heard of Mr. Brocklehurst, and I have seen the school. \n\n I left Lowood nearly a year since to become a private governess. I\nobtained a good situation, and was happy. This place I was obliged to\nleave four days before I came here. The reason of my departure I cannot\nand ought not to explain: it would be useless, dangerous, and would\nsound incredible. No blame attached to me: I am as free from\nculpability as any one of you three. Miserable I am, and must be for a\ntime; for the catastrophe which drove me from a house I had found a\nparadise was of a strange and direful nature. I observed but two points\nin planning my departure speed, secrecy: to secure these, I had to\nleave behind me everything I possessed except a small parcel; which, in\nmy hurry and trouble of mind, I forgot to take out of the coach that\nbrought me to Whitcross. To this neighbourhood, then, I came, quite\ndestitute. I slept two nights in the open air, and wandered about two\ndays without crossing a threshold: but twice in that space of time did\nI taste food; and it was when brought by hunger, exhaustion, and\ndespair almost to the last gasp, that you, Mr. Rivers, forbade me to\nperish of want at your door, and took me under the shelter of your\nroof. I know all your sisters have done for me since for I have not\nbeen insensible during my seeming torpor and I owe to their\nspontaneous, genuine, genial compassion as large a debt as to your\nevangelical charity. \n\n Don t make her talk any more now, St. John,  said Diana, as I paused;\n she is evidently not yet fit for excitement. Come to the sofa and sit\ndown now, Miss Elliott. \n\nI gave an involuntary half start at hearing the _alias_: I had\nforgotten my new name. Mr. Rivers, whom nothing seemed to escape,\nnoticed it at once.\n\n You said your name was Jane Elliott?  he observed.\n\n I did say so; and it is the name by which I think it expedient to be\ncalled at present, but it is not my real name, and when I hear it, it\nsounds strange to me. \n\n Your real name you will not give? \n\n No: I fear discovery above all things; and whatever disclosure would\nlead to it, I avoid. \n\n You are quite right, I am sure,  said Diana.  Now do, brother, let her\nbe at peace a while. \n\nBut when St. John had mused a few moments he recommenced as\nimperturbably and with as much acumen as ever.\n\n You would not like to be long dependent on our hospitality you would\nwish, I see, to dispense as soon as may be with my sisters  compassion,\nand, above all, with my _charity_ (I am quite sensible of the\ndistinction drawn, nor do I resent it it is just): you desire to be\nindependent of us? \n\n I do: I have already said so. Show me how to work, or how to seek\nwork: that is all I now ask; then let me go, if it be but to the\nmeanest cottage; but till then, allow me to stay here: I dread another\nessay of the horrors of homeless destitution. \n\n Indeed you _shall_ stay here,  said Diana, putting her white hand on\nmy head.  You _shall_,  repeated Mary, in the tone of undemonstrative\nsincerity which seemed natural to her.\n\n My sisters, you see, have a pleasure in keeping you,  said Mr. St.\nJohn,  as they would have a pleasure in keeping and cherishing a\nhalf-frozen bird some wintry wind might have driven through their\ncasement. _I_ feel more inclination to put you in the way of keeping\nyourself, and shall endeavour to do so; but observe, my sphere is\nnarrow. I am but the incumbent of a poor country parish: my aid must be\nof the humblest sort. And if you are inclined to despise the day of\nsmall things, seek some more efficient succour than such as I can\noffer. \n\n She has already said that she is willing to do anything honest she\n_can_ do,  answered Diana for me;  and you know, St. John, she has no\nchoice of helpers: she is forced to put up with such crusty people as\nyou. \n\n I will be a dressmaker; I will be a plain-workwoman; I will be a\nservant, a nurse-girl, if I can be no better,  I answered.\n\n Right,  said Mr. St. John, quite coolly.  If such is your spirit, I\npromise to aid you, in my own time and way. \n\nHe now resumed the book with which he had been occupied before tea. I\nsoon withdrew, for I had talked as much, and sat up as long, as my\npresent strength would permit.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX\n\n\nThe more I knew of the inmates of Moor House, the better I liked them.\nIn a few days I had so far recovered my health that I could sit up all\nday, and walk out sometimes. I could join with Diana and Mary in all\ntheir occupations; converse with them as much as they wished, and aid\nthem when and where they would allow me. There was a reviving pleasure\nin this intercourse, of a kind now tasted by me for the first time the\npleasure arising from perfect congeniality of tastes, sentiments, and\nprinciples.\n\nI liked to read what they liked to read: what they enjoyed, delighted\nme; what they approved, I reverenced. They loved their sequestered\nhome. I, too, in the grey, small, antique structure, with its low roof,\nits latticed casements, its mouldering walls, its avenue of aged\nfirs all grown aslant under the stress of mountain winds; its garden,\ndark with yew and holly and where no flowers but of the hardiest\nspecies would bloom found a charm both potent and permanent. They clung\nto the purple moors behind and around their dwelling to the hollow vale\ninto which the pebbly bridle-path leading from their gate descended,\nand which wound between fern-banks first, and then amongst a few of the\nwildest little pasture-fields that ever bordered a wilderness of heath,\nor gave sustenance to a flock of grey moorland sheep, with their little\nmossy-faced lambs: they clung to this scene, I say, with a perfect\nenthusiasm of attachment. I could comprehend the feeling, and share\nboth its strength and truth. I saw the fascination of the locality. I\nfelt the consecration of its loneliness: my eye feasted on the outline\nof swell and sweep on the wild colouring communicated to ridge and dell\nby moss, by heath-bell, by flower-sprinkled turf, by brilliant bracken,\nand mellow granite crag. These details were just to me what they were\nto them so many pure and sweet sources of pleasure. The strong blast\nand the soft breeze; the rough and the halcyon day; the hours of\nsunrise and sunset; the moonlight and the clouded night, developed for\nme, in these regions, the same attraction as for them wound round my\nfaculties the same spell that entranced theirs.\n\nIndoors we agreed equally well. They were both more accomplished and\nbetter read than I was; but with eagerness I followed in the path of\nknowledge they had trodden before me. I devoured the books they lent\nme: then it was full satisfaction to discuss with them in the evening\nwhat I had perused during the day. Thought fitted thought; opinion met\nopinion: we coincided, in short, perfectly.\n\nIf in our trio there was a superior and a leader, it was Diana.\nPhysically, she far excelled me: she was handsome; she was vigorous. In\nher animal spirits there was an affluence of life and certainty of\nflow, such as excited my wonder, while it baffled my comprehension. I\ncould talk a while when the evening commenced, but the first gush of\nvivacity and fluency gone, I was fain to sit on a stool at Diana s\nfeet, to rest my head on her knee, and listen alternately to her and\nMary, while they sounded thoroughly the topic on which I had but\ntouched. Diana offered to teach me German. I liked to learn of her: I\nsaw the part of instructress pleased and suited her; that of scholar\npleased and suited me no less. Our natures dovetailed: mutual\naffection of the strongest kind was the result. They discovered I could\ndraw: their pencils and colour-boxes were immediately at my service. My\nskill, greater in this one point than theirs, surprised and charmed\nthem. Mary would sit and watch me by the hour together: then she would\ntake lessons; and a docile, intelligent, assiduous pupil she made. Thus\noccupied, and mutually entertained, days passed like hours, and weeks\nlike days.\n\nAs to Mr. St John, the intimacy which had arisen so naturally and\nrapidly between me and his sisters did not extend to him. One reason of\nthe distance yet observed between us was, that he was comparatively\nseldom at home: a large proportion of his time appeared devoted to\nvisiting the sick and poor among the scattered population of his\nparish.\n\nNo weather seemed to hinder him in these pastoral excursions: rain or\nfair, he would, when his hours of morning study were over, take his\nhat, and, followed by his father s old pointer, Carlo, go out on his\nmission of love or duty I scarcely know in which light he regarded it.\nSometimes, when the day was very unfavourable, his sisters would\nexpostulate. He would then say, with a peculiar smile, more solemn than\ncheerful \n\n And if I let a gust of wind or a sprinkling of rain turn me aside from\nthese easy tasks, what preparation would such sloth be for the future I\npropose to myself? \n\nDiana and Mary s general answer to this question was a sigh, and some\nminutes of apparently mournful meditation.\n\nBut besides his frequent absences, there was another barrier to\nfriendship with him: he seemed of a reserved, an abstracted, and even\nof a brooding nature. Zealous in his ministerial labours, blameless in\nhis life and habits, he yet did not appear to enjoy that mental\nserenity, that inward content, which should be the reward of every\nsincere Christian and practical philanthropist. Often, of an evening,\nwhen he sat at the window, his desk and papers before him, he would\ncease reading or writing, rest his chin on his hand, and deliver\nhimself up to I know not what course of thought; but that it was\nperturbed and exciting might be seen in the frequent flash and\nchangeful dilation of his eye.\n\nI think, moreover, that Nature was not to him that treasury of delight\nit was to his sisters. He expressed once, and but once in my hearing, a\nstrong sense of the rugged charm of the hills, and an inborn affection\nfor the dark roof and hoary walls he called his home; but there was\nmore of gloom than pleasure in the tone and words in which the\nsentiment was manifested; and never did he seem to roam the moors for\nthe sake of their soothing silence never seek out or dwell upon the\nthousand peaceful delights they could yield.\n\nIncommunicative as he was, some time elapsed before I had an\nopportunity of gauging his mind. I first got an idea of its calibre\nwhen I heard him preach in his own church at Morton. I wish I could\ndescribe that sermon: but it is past my power. I cannot even render\nfaithfully the effect it produced on me.\n\nIt began calm and indeed, as far as delivery and pitch of voice went,\nit was calm to the end: an earnestly felt, yet strictly restrained zeal\nbreathed soon in the distinct accents, and prompted the nervous\nlanguage. This grew to force compressed, condensed, controlled. The\nheart was thrilled, the mind astonished, by the power of the preacher:\nneither were softened. Throughout there was a strange bitterness; an\nabsence of consolatory gentleness; stern allusions to Calvinistic\ndoctrines election, predestination, reprobation were frequent; and each\nreference to these points sounded like a sentence pronounced for doom.\nWhen he had done, instead of feeling better, calmer, more enlightened\nby his discourse, I experienced an inexpressible sadness; for it seemed\nto me I know not whether equally so to others that the eloquence to\nwhich I had been listening had sprung from a depth where lay turbid\ndregs of disappointment where moved troubling impulses of insatiate\nyearnings and disquieting aspirations. I was sure St. John\nRivers pure-lived, conscientious, zealous as he was had not yet found\nthat peace of God which passeth all understanding: he had no more found\nit, I thought, than had I with my concealed and racking regrets for my\nbroken idol and lost elysium regrets to which I have latterly avoided\nreferring, but which possessed me and tyrannised over me ruthlessly.\n\nMeantime a month was gone. Diana and Mary were soon to leave Moor\nHouse, and return to the far different life and scene which awaited\nthem, as governesses in a large, fashionable, south-of-England city,\nwhere each held a situation in families by whose wealthy and haughty\nmembers they were regarded only as humble dependents, and who neither\nknew nor sought out their innate excellences, and appreciated only\ntheir acquired accomplishments as they appreciated the skill of their\ncook or the taste of their waiting-woman. Mr. St. John had said nothing\nto me yet about the employment he had promised to obtain for me; yet it\nbecame urgent that I should have a vocation of some kind. One morning,\nbeing left alone with him a few minutes in the parlour, I ventured to\napproach the window-recess which his table, chair, and desk consecrated\nas a kind of study and I was going to speak, though not very well\nknowing in what words to frame my inquiry for it is at all times\ndifficult to break the ice of reserve glassing over such natures as\nhis when he saved me the trouble by being the first to commence a\ndialogue.\n\nLooking up as I drew near You have a question to ask of me?  he said.\n\n Yes; I wish to know whether you have heard of any service I can offer\nmyself to undertake? \n\n I found or devised something for you three weeks ago; but as you\nseemed both useful and happy here as my sisters had evidently become\nattached to you, and your society gave them unusual pleasure I deemed\nit inexpedient to break in on your mutual comfort till their\napproaching departure from Marsh End should render yours necessary. \n\n And they will go in three days now?  I said.\n\n Yes; and when they go, I shall return to the parsonage at Morton:\nHannah will accompany me; and this old house will be shut up. \n\nI waited a few moments, expecting he would go on with the subject first\nbroached: but he seemed to have entered another train of reflection:\nhis look denoted abstraction from me and my business. I was obliged to\nrecall him to a theme which was of necessity one of close and anxious\ninterest to me.\n\n What is the employment you had in view, Mr. Rivers? I hope this delay\nwill not have increased the difficulty of securing it. \n\n Oh, no; since it is an employment which depends only on me to give,\nand you to accept. \n\nHe again paused: there seemed a reluctance to continue. I grew\nimpatient: a restless movement or two, and an eager and exacting glance\nfastened on his face, conveyed the feeling to him as effectually as\nwords could have done, and with less trouble.\n\n You need be in no hurry to hear,  he said:  let me frankly tell you, I\nhave nothing eligible or profitable to suggest. Before I explain,\nrecall, if you please, my notice, clearly given, that if I helped you,\nit must be as the blind man would help the lame. I am poor; for I find\nthat, when I have paid my father s debts, all the patrimony remaining\nto me will be this crumbling grange, the row of scathed firs behind,\nand the patch of moorish soil, with the yew-trees and holly-bushes in\nfront. I am obscure: Rivers is an old name; but of the three sole\ndescendants of the race, two earn the dependent s crust among\nstrangers, and the third considers himself an alien from his native\ncountry not only for life, but in death. Yes, and deems, and is bound\nto deem, himself honoured by the lot, and aspires but after the day\nwhen the cross of separation from fleshly ties shall be laid on his\nshoulders, and when the Head of that church-militant of whose humblest\nmembers he is one, shall give the word,  Rise, follow Me! \n\nSt. John said these words as he pronounced his sermons, with a quiet,\ndeep voice; with an unflushed cheek, and a coruscating radiance of\nglance. He resumed \n\n And since I am myself poor and obscure, I can offer you but a service\nof poverty and obscurity. _You_ may even think it degrading for I see\nnow your habits have been what the world calls refined: your tastes\nlean to the ideal, and your society has at least been amongst the\neducated; but _I_ consider that no service degrades which can better\nour race. I hold that the more arid and unreclaimed the soil where the\nChristian labourer s task of tillage is appointed him the scantier the\nmeed his toil brings the higher the honour. His, under such\ncircumstances, is the destiny of the pioneer; and the first pioneers of\nthe Gospel were the Apostles their captain was Jesus, the Redeemer,\nHimself. \n\n Well?  I said, as he again paused proceed. \n\nHe looked at me before he proceeded: indeed, he seemed leisurely to\nread my face, as if its features and lines were characters on a page.\nThe conclusions drawn from this scrutiny he partially expressed in his\nsucceeding observations.\n\n I believe you will accept the post I offer you,  said he,  and hold it\nfor a while: not permanently, though: any more than I could permanently\nkeep the narrow and narrowing the tranquil, hidden office of English\ncountry incumbent; for in your nature is an alloy as detrimental to\nrepose as that in mine, though of a different kind. \n\n Do explain,  I urged, when he halted once more.\n\n I will; and you shall hear how poor the proposal is, how trivial how\ncramping. I shall not stay long at Morton, now that my father is dead,\nand that I am my own master. I shall leave the place probably in the\ncourse of a twelve-month; but while I do stay, I will exert myself to\nthe utmost for its improvement. Morton, when I came to it two years\nago, had no school: the children of the poor were excluded from every\nhope of progress. I established one for boys: I mean now to open a\nsecond school for girls. I have hired a building for the purpose, with\na cottage of two rooms attached to it for the mistress s house. Her\nsalary will be thirty pounds a year: her house is already furnished,\nvery simply, but sufficiently, by the kindness of a lady, Miss Oliver;\nthe only daughter of the sole rich man in my parish Mr. Oliver, the\nproprietor of a needle-factory and iron-foundry in the valley. The same\nlady pays for the education and clothing of an orphan from the\nworkhouse, on condition that she shall aid the mistress in such menial\noffices connected with her own house and the school as her occupation\nof teaching will prevent her having time to discharge in person. Will\nyou be this mistress? \n\nHe put the question rather hurriedly; he seemed half to expect an\nindignant, or at least a disdainful rejection of the offer: not knowing\nall my thoughts and feelings, though guessing some, he could not tell\nin what light the lot would appear to me. In truth it was humble but\nthen it was sheltered, and I wanted a safe asylum: it was plodding but\nthen, compared with that of a governess in a rich house, it was\nindependent; and the fear of servitude with strangers entered my soul\nlike iron: it was not ignoble not unworthy not mentally degrading, I\nmade my decision.\n\n I thank you for the proposal, Mr. Rivers, and I accept it with all my\nheart. \n\n But you comprehend me?  he said.  It is a village school: your\nscholars will be only poor girls cottagers  children at the best,\nfarmers  daughters. Knitting, sewing, reading, writing, ciphering, will\nbe all you will have to teach. What will you do with your\naccomplishments? What, with the largest portion of your\nmind sentiments tastes? \n\n Save them till they are wanted. They will keep. \n\n You know what you undertake, then? \n\n I do. \n\nHe now smiled: and not a bitter or a sad smile, but one well pleased\nand deeply gratified.\n\n And when will you commence the exercise of your function? \n\n I will go to my house to-morrow, and open the school, if you like,\nnext week. \n\n Very well: so be it. \n\nHe rose and walked through the room. Standing still, he again looked at\nme. He shook his head.\n\n What do you disapprove of, Mr. Rivers?  I asked.\n\n You will not stay at Morton long: no, no! \n\n Why? What is your reason for saying so? \n\n I read it in your eye; it is not of that description which promises\nthe maintenance of an even tenor in life. \n\n I am not ambitious. \n\nHe started at the word  ambitious.  He repeated,  No. What made you\nthink of ambition? Who is ambitious? I know I am: but how did you find\nit out? \n\n I was speaking of myself. \n\n Well, if you are not ambitious, you are  He paused.\n\n What? \n\n I was going to say, impassioned: but perhaps you would have\nmisunderstood the word, and been displeased. I mean, that human\naffections and sympathies have a most powerful hold on you. I am sure\nyou cannot long be content to pass your leisure in solitude, and to\ndevote your working hours to a monotonous labour wholly void of\nstimulus: any more than I can be content,  he added, with emphasis,  to\nlive here buried in morass, pent in with mountains my nature, that God\ngave me, contravened; my faculties, heaven-bestowed, paralysed made\nuseless. You hear now how I contradict myself. I, who preached\ncontentment with a humble lot, and justified the vocation even of\nhewers of wood and drawers of water in God s service I, His ordained\nminister, almost rave in my restlessness. Well, propensities and\nprinciples must be reconciled by some means. \n\nHe left the room. In this brief hour I had learnt more of him than in\nthe whole previous month: yet still he puzzled me.\n\nDiana and Mary Rivers became more sad and silent as the day approached\nfor leaving their brother and their home. They both tried to appear as\nusual; but the sorrow they had to struggle against was one that could\nnot be entirely conquered or concealed. Diana intimated that this would\nbe a different parting from any they had ever yet known. It would\nprobably, as far as St. John was concerned, be a parting for years: it\nmight be a parting for life.\n\n He will sacrifice all to his long-framed resolves,  she said:  natural\naffection and feelings more potent still. St. John looks quiet, Jane;\nbut he hides a fever in his vitals. You would think him gentle, yet in\nsome things he is inexorable as death; and the worst of it is, my\nconscience will hardly permit me to dissuade him from his severe\ndecision: certainly, I cannot for a moment blame him for it. It is\nright, noble, Christian: yet it breaks my heart!  And the tears gushed\nto her fine eyes. Mary bent her head low over her work.\n\n We are now without father: we shall soon be without home and brother, \nshe murmured.\n\nAt that moment a little accident supervened, which seemed decreed by\nfate purposely to prove the truth of the adage, that  misfortunes never\ncome singly,  and to add to their distresses the vexing one of the slip\nbetween the cup and the lip. St. John passed the window reading a\nletter. He entered.\n\n Our uncle John is dead,  said he.\n\nBoth the sisters seemed struck: not shocked or appalled; the tidings\nappeared in their eyes rather momentous than afflicting.\n\n Dead?  repeated Diana.\n\n Yes. \n\nShe riveted a searching gaze on her brother s face.  And what then? \nshe demanded, in a low voice.\n\n What then, Die?  he replied, maintaining a marble immobility of\nfeature.  What then? Why nothing. Read. \n\nHe threw the letter into her lap. She glanced over it, and handed it to\nMary. Mary perused it in silence, and returned it to her brother. All\nthree looked at each other, and all three smiled a dreary, pensive\nsmile enough.\n\n Amen! We can yet live,  said Diana at last.\n\n At any rate, it makes us no worse off than we were before,  remarked\nMary.\n\n Only it forces rather strongly on the mind the picture of what _might\nhave been_,  said Mr. Rivers,  and contrasts it somewhat too vividly\nwith what _is_. \n\nHe folded the letter, locked it in his desk, and again went out.\n\nFor some minutes no one spoke. Diana then turned to me.\n\n Jane, you will wonder at us and our mysteries,  she said,  and think\nus hard-hearted beings not to be more moved at the death of so near a\nrelation as an uncle; but we have never seen him or known him. He was\nmy mother s brother. My father and he quarrelled long ago. It was by\nhis advice that my father risked most of his property in the\nspeculation that ruined him. Mutual recrimination passed between them:\nthey parted in anger, and were never reconciled. My uncle engaged\nafterwards in more prosperous undertakings: it appears he realised a\nfortune of twenty thousand pounds. He was never married, and had no\nnear kindred but ourselves and one other person, not more closely\nrelated than we. My father always cherished the idea that he would\natone for his error by leaving his possessions to us; that letter\ninforms us that he has bequeathed every penny to the other relation,\nwith the exception of thirty guineas, to be divided between St. John,\nDiana, and Mary Rivers, for the purchase of three mourning rings. He\nhad a right, of course, to do as he pleased: and yet a momentary damp\nis cast on the spirits by the receipt of such news. Mary and I would\nhave esteemed ourselves rich with a thousand pounds each; and to St.\nJohn such a sum would have been valuable, for the good it would have\nenabled him to do. \n\nThis explanation given, the subject was dropped, and no further\nreference made to it by either Mr. Rivers or his sisters. The next day\nI left Marsh End for Morton. The day after, Diana and Mary quitted it\nfor distant B . In a week, Mr. Rivers and Hannah repaired to the\nparsonage: and so the old grange was abandoned.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI\n\n\nMy home, then, when I at last find a home, is a cottage; a little room\nwith whitewashed walls and a sanded floor, containing four painted\nchairs and a table, a clock, a cupboard, with two or three plates and\ndishes, and a set of tea-things in delf. Above, a chamber of the same\ndimensions as the kitchen, with a deal bedstead and chest of drawers;\nsmall, yet too large to be filled with my scanty wardrobe: though the\nkindness of my gentle and generous friends has increased that, by a\nmodest stock of such things as are necessary.\n\nIt is evening. I have dismissed, with the fee of an orange, the little\norphan who serves me as a handmaid. I am sitting alone on the hearth.\nThis morning, the village school opened. I had twenty scholars. But\nthree of the number can read: none write or cipher. Several knit, and a\nfew sew a little. They speak with the broadest accent of the district.\nAt present, they and I have a difficulty in understanding each other s\nlanguage. Some of them are unmannered, rough, intractable, as well as\nignorant; but others are docile, have a wish to learn, and evince a\ndisposition that pleases me. I must not forget that these coarsely-clad\nlittle peasants are of flesh and blood as good as the scions of\ngentlest genealogy; and that the germs of native excellence,\nrefinement, intelligence, kind feeling, are as likely to exist in their\nhearts as in those of the best-born. My duty will be to develop these\ngerms: surely I shall find some happiness in discharging that office.\nMuch enjoyment I do not expect in the life opening before me: yet it\nwill, doubtless, if I regulate my mind, and exert my powers as I ought,\nyield me enough to live on from day to day.\n\nWas I very gleeful, settled, content, during the hours I passed in\nyonder bare, humble schoolroom this morning and afternoon? Not to\ndeceive myself, I must reply No: I felt desolate to a degree. I\nfelt yes, idiot that I am I felt degraded. I doubted I had taken a step\nwhich sank instead of raising me in the scale of social existence. I\nwas weakly dismayed at the ignorance, the poverty, the coarseness of\nall I heard and saw round me. But let me not hate and despise myself\ntoo much for these feelings; I know them to be wrong that is a great\nstep gained; I shall strive to overcome them. To-morrow, I trust, I\nshall get the better of them partially; and in a few weeks, perhaps,\nthey will be quite subdued. In a few months, it is possible, the\nhappiness of seeing progress, and a change for the better in my\nscholars may substitute gratification for disgust.\n\nMeantime, let me ask myself one question Which is better? To have\nsurrendered to temptation; listened to passion; made no painful\neffort no struggle; but to have sunk down in the silken snare; fallen\nasleep on the flowers covering it; wakened in a southern clime, amongst\nthe luxuries of a pleasure villa: to have been now living in France,\nMr. Rochester s mistress; delirious with his love half my time for he\nwould oh, yes, he would have loved me well for a while. He _did_ love\nme no one will ever love me so again. I shall never more know the sweet\nhomage given to beauty, youth, and grace for never to any one else\nshall I seem to possess these charms. He was fond and proud of me it is\nwhat no man besides will ever be. But where am I wandering, and what am\nI saying, and above all, feeling? Whether is it better, I ask, to be a\nslave in a fool s paradise at Marseilles fevered with delusive bliss\none hour suffocating with the bitterest tears of remorse and shame the\nnext or to be a village-schoolmistress, free and honest, in a breezy\nmountain nook in the healthy heart of England?\n\nYes; I feel now that I was right when I adhered to principle and law,\nand scorned and crushed the insane promptings of a frenzied moment. God\ndirected me to a correct choice: I thank His providence for the\nguidance!\n\nHaving brought my eventide musings to this point, I rose, went to my\ndoor, and looked at the sunset of the harvest-day, and at the quiet\nfields before my cottage, which, with the school, was distant half a\nmile from the village. The birds were singing their last strains \n\n The air was mild, the dew was balm. \n\n\nWhile I looked, I thought myself happy, and was surprised to find\nmyself ere long weeping and why? For the doom which had reft me from\nadhesion to my master: for him I was no more to see; for the desperate\ngrief and fatal fury consequences of my departure which might now,\nperhaps, be dragging him from the path of right, too far to leave hope\nof ultimate restoration thither. At this thought, I turned my face\naside from the lovely sky of eve and lonely vale of Morton I say\n_lonely_, for in that bend of it visible to me there was no building\napparent save the church and the parsonage, half-hid in trees, and,\nquite at the extremity, the roof of Vale Hall, where the rich Mr.\nOliver and his daughter lived. I hid my eyes, and leant my head against\nthe stone frame of my door; but soon a slight noise near the wicket\nwhich shut in my tiny garden from the meadow beyond it made me look up.\nA dog old Carlo, Mr. Rivers  pointer, as I saw in a moment was pushing\nthe gate with his nose, and St. John himself leant upon it with folded\narms; his brow knit, his gaze, grave almost to displeasure, fixed on\nme. I asked him to come in.\n\n No, I cannot stay; I have only brought you a little parcel my sisters\nleft for you. I think it contains a colour-box, pencils, and paper. \n\nI approached to take it: a welcome gift it was. He examined my face, I\nthought, with austerity, as I came near: the traces of tears were\ndoubtless very visible upon it.\n\n Have you found your first day s work harder than you expected?  he\nasked.\n\n Oh, no! On the contrary, I think in time I shall get on with my\nscholars very well. \n\n But perhaps your accommodations your cottage your furniture have\ndisappointed your expectations? They are, in truth, scanty enough;\nbut  I interrupted \n\n My cottage is clean and weather-proof; my furniture sufficient and\ncommodious. All I see has made me thankful, not despondent. I am not\nabsolutely such a fool and sensualist as to regret the absence of a\ncarpet, a sofa, and silver plate; besides, five weeks ago I had\nnothing I was an outcast, a beggar, a vagrant; now I have acquaintance,\na home, a business. I wonder at the goodness of God; the generosity of\nmy friends; the bounty of my lot. I do not repine. \n\n But you feel solitude an oppression? The little house there behind you\nis dark and empty. \n\n I have hardly had time yet to enjoy a sense of tranquillity, much less\nto grow impatient under one of loneliness. \n\n Very well; I hope you feel the content you express: at any rate, your\ngood sense will tell you that it is too soon yet to yield to the\nvacillating fears of Lot s wife. What you had left before I saw you, of\ncourse I do not know; but I counsel you to resist firmly every\ntemptation which would incline you to look back: pursue your present\ncareer steadily, for some months at least. \n\n It is what I mean to do,  I answered. St. John continued \n\n It is hard work to control the workings of inclination and turn the\nbent of nature; but that it may be done, I know from experience. God\nhas given us, in a measure, the power to make our own fate; and when\nour energies seem to demand a sustenance they cannot get when our will\nstrains after a path we may not follow we need neither starve from\ninanition, nor stand still in despair: we have but to seek another\nnourishment for the mind, as strong as the forbidden food it longed to\ntaste and perhaps purer; and to hew out for the adventurous foot a road\nas direct and broad as the one Fortune has blocked up against us, if\nrougher than it.\n\n A year ago I was myself intensely miserable, because I thought I had\nmade a mistake in entering the ministry: its uniform duties wearied me\nto death. I burnt for the more active life of the world for the more\nexciting toils of a literary career for the destiny of an artist,\nauthor, orator; anything rather than that of a priest: yes, the heart\nof a politician, of a soldier, of a votary of glory, a lover of renown,\na luster after power, beat under my curate s surplice. I considered; my\nlife was so wretched, it must be changed, or I must die. After a season\nof darkness and struggling, light broke and relief fell: my cramped\nexistence all at once spread out to a plain without bounds my powers\nheard a call from heaven to rise, gather their full strength, spread\ntheir wings, and mount beyond ken. God had an errand for me; to bear\nwhich afar, to deliver it well, skill and strength, courage and\neloquence, the best qualifications of soldier, statesman, and orator,\nwere all needed: for these all centre in the good missionary.\n\n A missionary I resolved to be. From that moment my state of mind\nchanged; the fetters dissolved and dropped from every faculty, leaving\nnothing of bondage but its galling soreness which time only can heal.\nMy father, indeed, imposed the determination, but since his death, I\nhave not a legitimate obstacle to contend with; some affairs settled, a\nsuccessor for Morton provided, an entanglement or two of the feelings\nbroken through or cut asunder a last conflict with human weakness, in\nwhich I know I shall overcome, because I have vowed that I _will_\novercome and I leave Europe for the East. \n\nHe said this, in his peculiar, subdued, yet emphatic voice; looking,\nwhen he had ceased speaking, not at me, but at the setting sun, at\nwhich I looked too. Both he and I had our backs towards the path\nleading up the field to the wicket. We had heard no step on that\ngrass-grown track; the water running in the vale was the one lulling\nsound of the hour and scene; we might well then start when a gay voice,\nsweet as a silver bell, exclaimed \n\n Good evening, Mr. Rivers. And good evening, old Carlo. Your dog is\nquicker to recognise his friends than you are, sir; he pricked his ears\nand wagged his tail when I was at the bottom of the field, and you have\nyour back towards me now. \n\nIt was true. Though Mr. Rivers had started at the first of those\nmusical accents, as if a thunderbolt had split a cloud over his head,\nhe stood yet, at the close of the sentence, in the same attitude in\nwhich the speaker had surprised him his arm resting on the gate, his\nface directed towards the west. He turned at last, with measured\ndeliberation. A vision, as it seemed to me, had risen at his side.\nThere appeared, within three feet of him, a form clad in pure white a\nyouthful, graceful form: full, yet fine in contour; and when, after\nbending to caress Carlo, it lifted up its head, and threw back a long\nveil, there bloomed under his glance a face of perfect beauty. Perfect\nbeauty is a strong expression; but I do not retrace or qualify it: as\nsweet features as ever the temperate clime of Albion moulded; as pure\nhues of rose and lily as ever her humid gales and vapoury skies\ngenerated and screened, justified, in this instance, the term. No charm\nwas wanting, no defect was perceptible; the young girl had regular and\ndelicate lineaments; eyes shaped and coloured as we see them in lovely\npictures, large, and dark, and full; the long and shadowy eyelash which\nencircles a fine eye with so soft a fascination; the pencilled brow\nwhich gives such clearness; the white smooth forehead, which adds such\nrepose to the livelier beauties of tint and ray; the cheek oval, fresh,\nand smooth; the lips, fresh too, ruddy, healthy, sweetly formed; the\neven and gleaming teeth without flaw; the small dimpled chin; the\nornament of rich, plenteous tresses all advantages, in short, which,\ncombined, realise the ideal of beauty, were fully hers. I wondered, as\nI looked at this fair creature: I admired her with my whole heart.\nNature had surely formed her in a partial mood; and, forgetting her\nusual stinted step-mother dole of gifts, had endowed this, her darling,\nwith a grand-dame s bounty.\n\nWhat did St. John Rivers think of this earthly angel? I naturally asked\nmyself that question as I saw him turn to her and look at her; and, as\nnaturally, I sought the answer to the inquiry in his countenance. He\nhad already withdrawn his eye from the Peri, and was looking at a\nhumble tuft of daisies which grew by the wicket.\n\n A lovely evening, but late for you to be out alone,  he said, as he\ncrushed the snowy heads of the closed flowers with his foot.\n\n Oh, I only came home from S  (she mentioned the name of a large town\nsome twenty miles distant)  this afternoon. Papa told me you had opened\nyour school, and that the new mistress was come; and so I put on my\nbonnet after tea, and ran up the valley to see her: this is she? \npointing to me.\n\n It is,  said St. John.\n\n Do you think you shall like Morton?  she asked of me, with a direct\nand na ve simplicity of tone and manner, pleasing, if child-like.\n\n I hope I shall. I have many inducements to do so. \n\n Did you find your scholars as attentive as you expected? \n\n Quite. \n\n Do you like your house? \n\n Very much. \n\n Have I furnished it nicely? \n\n Very nicely, indeed. \n\n And made a good choice of an attendant for you in Alice Wood? \n\n You have indeed. She is teachable and handy.  (This then, I thought,\nis Miss Oliver, the heiress; favoured, it seems, in the gifts of\nfortune, as well as in those of nature! What happy combination of the\nplanets presided over her birth, I wonder?)\n\n I shall come up and help you to teach sometimes,  she added.  It will\nbe a change for me to visit you now and then; and I like a change. Mr.\nRivers, I have been _so_ gay during my stay at S . Last night, or\nrather this morning, I was dancing till two o clock. The  th regiment\nare stationed there since the riots; and the officers are the most\nagreeable men in the world: they put all our young knife-grinders and\nscissor merchants to shame. \n\nIt seemed to me that Mr. St. John s under lip protruded, and his upper\nlip curled a moment. His mouth certainly looked a good deal compressed,\nand the lower part of his face unusually stern and square, as the\nlaughing girl gave him this information. He lifted his gaze, too, from\nthe daisies, and turned it on her. An unsmiling, a searching, a meaning\ngaze it was. She answered it with a second laugh, and laughter well\nbecame her youth, her roses, her dimples, her bright eyes.\n\nAs he stood, mute and grave, she again fell to caressing Carlo.  Poor\nCarlo loves me,  said she.  _He_ is not stern and distant to his\nfriends; and if he could speak, he would not be silent. \n\nAs she patted the dog s head, bending with native grace before his\nyoung and austere master, I saw a glow rise to that master s face. I\nsaw his solemn eye melt with sudden fire, and flicker with resistless\nemotion. Flushed and kindled thus, he looked nearly as beautiful for a\nman as she for a woman. His chest heaved once, as if his large heart,\nweary of despotic constriction, had expanded, despite the will, and\nmade a vigorous bound for the attainment of liberty. But he curbed it,\nI think, as a resolute rider would curb a rearing steed. He responded\nneither by word nor movement to the gentle advances made him.\n\n Papa says you never come to see us now,  continued Miss Oliver,\nlooking up.  You are quite a stranger at Vale Hall. He is alone this\nevening, and not very well: will you return with me and visit him? \n\n It is not a seasonable hour to intrude on Mr. Oliver,  answered St.\nJohn.\n\n Not a seasonable hour! But I declare it is. It is just the hour when\npapa most wants company: when the works are closed and he has no\nbusiness to occupy him. Now, Mr. Rivers, _do_ come. Why are you so very\nshy, and so very sombre?  She filled up the hiatus his silence left by\na reply of her own.\n\n I forgot!  she exclaimed, shaking her beautiful curled head, as if\nshocked at herself.  I am so giddy and thoughtless! _Do_ excuse me. It\nhad slipped my memory that you have good reasons to be indisposed for\njoining in my chatter. Diana and Mary have left you, and Moor House is\nshut up, and you are so lonely. I am sure I pity you. Do come and see\npapa. \n\n Not to-night, Miss Rosamond, not to-night. \n\nMr. St. John spoke almost like an automaton: himself only knew the\neffort it cost him thus to refuse.\n\n Well, if you are so obstinate, I will leave you; for I dare not stay\nany longer: the dew begins to fall. Good evening! \n\nShe held out her hand. He just touched it.  Good evening!  he repeated,\nin a voice low and hollow as an echo. She turned, but in a moment\nreturned.\n\n Are you well?  she asked. Well might she put the question: his face\nwas blanched as her gown.\n\n Quite well,  he enunciated; and, with a bow, he left the gate. She\nwent one way; he another. She turned twice to gaze after him as she\ntripped fairy-like down the field; he, as he strode firmly across,\nnever turned at all.\n\nThis spectacle of another s suffering and sacrifice rapt my thoughts\nfrom exclusive meditation on my own. Diana Rivers had designated her\nbrother  inexorable as death.  She had not exaggerated.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII\n\n\nI continued the labours of the village-school as actively and\nfaithfully as I could. It was truly hard work at first. Some time\nelapsed before, with all my efforts, I could comprehend my scholars and\ntheir nature. Wholly untaught, with faculties quite torpid, they seemed\nto me hopelessly dull; and, at first sight, all dull alike: but I soon\nfound I was mistaken. There was a difference amongst them as amongst\nthe educated; and when I got to know them, and they me, this difference\nrapidly developed itself. Their amazement at me, my language, my rules,\nand ways, once subsided, I found some of these heavy-looking, gaping\nrustics wake up into sharp-witted girls enough. Many showed themselves\nobliging, and amiable too; and I discovered amongst them not a few\nexamples of natural politeness, and innate self-respect, as well as of\nexcellent capacity, that won both my goodwill and my admiration. These\nsoon took a pleasure in doing their work well, in keeping their persons\nneat, in learning their tasks regularly, in acquiring quiet and orderly\nmanners. The rapidity of their progress, in some instances, was even\nsurprising; and an honest and happy pride I took in it: besides, I\nbegan personally to like some of the best girls; and they liked me. I\nhad amongst my scholars several farmers  daughters: young women grown,\nalmost. These could already read, write, and sew; and to them I taught\nthe elements of grammar, geography, history, and the finer kinds of\nneedlework. I found estimable characters amongst them characters\ndesirous of information and disposed for improvement with whom I passed\nmany a pleasant evening hour in their own homes. Their parents then\n(the farmer and his wife) loaded me with attentions. There was an\nenjoyment in accepting their simple kindness, and in repaying it by a\nconsideration a scrupulous regard to their feelings to which they were\nnot, perhaps, at all times accustomed, and which both charmed and\nbenefited them; because, while it elevated them in their own eyes, it\nmade them emulous to merit the deferential treatment they received.\n\nI felt I became a favourite in the neighbourhood. Whenever I went out,\nI heard on all sides cordial salutations, and was welcomed with\nfriendly smiles. To live amidst general regard, though it be but the\nregard of working people, is like  sitting in sunshine, calm and\nsweet;  serene inward feelings bud and bloom under the ray. At this\nperiod of my life, my heart far oftener swelled with thankfulness than\nsank with dejection: and yet, reader, to tell you all, in the midst of\nthis calm, this useful existence after a day passed in honourable\nexertion amongst my scholars, an evening spent in drawing or reading\ncontentedly alone I used to rush into strange dreams at night: dreams\nmany-coloured, agitated, full of the ideal, the stirring, the\nstormy dreams where, amidst unusual scenes, charged with adventure,\nwith agitating risk and romantic chance, I still again and again met\nMr. Rochester, always at some exciting crisis; and then the sense of\nbeing in his arms, hearing his voice, meeting his eye, touching his\nhand and cheek, loving him, being loved by him the hope of passing a\nlifetime at his side, would be renewed, with all its first force and\nfire. Then I awoke. Then I recalled where I was, and how situated. Then\nI rose up on my curtainless bed, trembling and quivering; and then the\nstill, dark night witnessed the convulsion of despair, and heard the\nburst of passion. By nine o clock the next morning I was punctually\nopening the school; tranquil, settled, prepared for the steady duties\nof the day.\n\nRosamond Oliver kept her word in coming to visit me. Her call at the\nschool was generally made in the course of her morning ride. She would\ncanter up to the door on her pony, followed by a mounted livery\nservant. Anything more exquisite than her appearance, in her purple\nhabit, with her Amazon s cap of black velvet placed gracefully above\nthe long curls that kissed her cheek and floated to her shoulders, can\nscarcely be imagined: and it was thus she would enter the rustic\nbuilding, and glide through the dazzled ranks of the village children.\nShe generally came at the hour when Mr. Rivers was engaged in giving\nhis daily catechising lesson. Keenly, I fear, did the eye of the\nvisitress pierce the young pastor s heart. A sort of instinct seemed to\nwarn him of her entrance, even when he did not see it; and when he was\nlooking quite away from the door, if she appeared at it, his cheek\nwould glow, and his marble-seeming features, though they refused to\nrelax, changed indescribably, and in their very quiescence became\nexpressive of a repressed fervour, stronger than working muscle or\ndarting glance could indicate.\n\nOf course, she knew her power: indeed, he did not, because he could\nnot, conceal it from her. In spite of his Christian stoicism, when she\nwent up and addressed him, and smiled gaily, encouragingly, even fondly\nin his face, his hand would tremble and his eye burn. He seemed to say,\nwith his sad and resolute look, if he did not say it with his lips,  I\nlove you, and I know you prefer me. It is not despair of success that\nkeeps me dumb. If I offered my heart, I believe you would accept it.\nBut that heart is already laid on a sacred altar: the fire is arranged\nround it. It will soon be no more than a sacrifice consumed. \n\nAnd then she would pout like a disappointed child; a pensive cloud\nwould soften her radiant vivacity; she would withdraw her hand hastily\nfrom his, and turn in transient petulance from his aspect, at once so\nheroic and so martyr-like. St. John, no doubt, would have given the\nworld to follow, recall, retain her, when she thus left him; but he\nwould not give one chance of heaven, nor relinquish, for the elysium of\nher love, one hope of the true, eternal Paradise. Besides, he could not\nbind all that he had in his nature the rover, the aspirant, the poet,\nthe priest in the limits of a single passion. He could not he would\nnot renounce his wild field of mission warfare for the parlours and the\npeace of Vale Hall. I learnt so much from himself in an inroad I once,\ndespite his reserve, had the daring to make on his confidence.\n\nMiss Oliver already honoured me with frequent visits to my cottage. I\nhad learnt her whole character, which was without mystery or disguise:\nshe was coquettish but not heartless; exacting, but not worthlessly\nselfish. She had been indulged from her birth, but was not absolutely\nspoilt. She was hasty, but good-humoured; vain (she could not help it,\nwhen every glance in the glass showed her such a flush of loveliness),\nbut not affected; liberal-handed; innocent of the pride of wealth;\ningenuous; sufficiently intelligent; gay, lively, and unthinking: she\nwas very charming, in short, even to a cool observer of her own sex\nlike me; but she was not profoundly interesting or thoroughly\nimpressive. A very different sort of mind was hers from that, for\ninstance, of the sisters of St. John. Still, I liked her almost as I\nliked my pupil Ad le; except that, for a child whom we have watched\nover and taught, a closer affection is engendered than we can give an\nequally attractive adult acquaintance.\n\nShe had taken an amiable caprice to me. She said I was like Mr. Rivers,\nonly, certainly, she allowed,  not one-tenth so handsome, though I was\na nice neat little soul enough, but he was an angel.  I was, however,\ngood, clever, composed, and firm, like him. I was a _lusus natur _, she\naffirmed, as a village schoolmistress: she was sure my previous\nhistory, if known, would make a delightful romance.\n\nOne evening, while, with her usual child-like activity, and thoughtless\nyet not offensive inquisitiveness, she was rummaging the cupboard and\nthe table-drawer of my little kitchen, she discovered first two French\nbooks, a volume of Schiller, a German grammar and dictionary, and then\nmy drawing-materials and some sketches, including a pencil-head of a\npretty little cherub-like girl, one of my scholars, and sundry views\nfrom nature, taken in the Vale of Morton and on the surrounding moors.\nShe was first transfixed with surprise, and then electrified with\ndelight.\n\n Had I done these pictures? Did I know French and German? What a\nlove what a miracle I was! I drew better than her master in the first\nschool in S . Would I sketch a portrait of her, to show to papa? \n\n With pleasure,  I replied; and I felt a thrill of artist-delight at\nthe idea of copying from so perfect and radiant a model. She had then\non a dark-blue silk dress; her arms and her neck were bare; her only\nornament was her chestnut tresses, which waved over her shoulders with\nall the wild grace of natural curls. I took a sheet of fine card-board,\nand drew a careful outline. I promised myself the pleasure of colouring\nit; and, as it was getting late then, I told her she must come and sit\nanother day.\n\nShe made such a report of me to her father, that Mr. Oliver himself\naccompanied her next evening a tall, massive-featured, middle-aged, and\ngrey-headed man, at whose side his lovely daughter looked like a bright\nflower near a hoary turret. He appeared a taciturn, and perhaps a proud\npersonage; but he was very kind to me. The sketch of Rosamond s\nportrait pleased him highly: he said I must make a finished picture of\nit. He insisted, too, on my coming the next day to spend the evening at\nVale Hall.\n\nI went. I found it a large, handsome residence, showing abundant\nevidences of wealth in the proprietor. Rosamond was full of glee and\npleasure all the time I stayed. Her father was affable; and when he\nentered into conversation with me after tea, he expressed in strong\nterms his approbation of what I had done in Morton school, and said he\nonly feared, from what he saw and heard, I was too good for the place,\nand would soon quit it for one more suitable.\n\n Indeed,  cried Rosamond,  she is clever enough to be a governess in a\nhigh family, papa. \n\nI thought I would far rather be where I am than in any high family in\nthe land. Mr. Oliver spoke of Mr. Rivers of the Rivers family with\ngreat respect. He said it was a very old name in that neighbourhood;\nthat the ancestors of the house were wealthy; that all Morton had once\nbelonged to them; that even now he considered the representative of\nthat house might, if he liked, make an alliance with the best. He\naccounted it a pity that so fine and talented a young man should have\nformed the design of going out as a missionary; it was quite throwing a\nvaluable life away. It appeared, then, that her father would throw no\nobstacle in the way of Rosamond s union with St. John. Mr. Oliver\nevidently regarded the young clergyman s good birth, old name, and\nsacred profession as sufficient compensation for the want of fortune.\n\nIt was the 5th of November, and a holiday. My little servant, after\nhelping me to clean my house, was gone, well satisfied with the fee of\na penny for her aid. All about me was spotless and bright scoured\nfloor, polished grate, and well-rubbed chairs. I had also made myself\nneat, and had now the afternoon before me to spend as I would.\n\nThe translation of a few pages of German occupied an hour; then I got\nmy palette and pencils, and fell to the more soothing, because easier\noccupation, of completing Rosamond Oliver s miniature. The head was\nfinished already: there was but the background to tint and the drapery\nto shade off; a touch of carmine, too, to add to the ripe lips a soft\ncurl here and there to the tresses a deeper tinge to the shadow of the\nlash under the azured eyelid. I was absorbed in the execution of these\nnice details, when, after one rapid tap, my door unclosed, admitting\nSt. John Rivers.\n\n I am come to see how you are spending your holiday,  he said.  Not, I\nhope, in thought? No, that is well: while you draw you will not feel\nlonely. You see, I mistrust you still, though you have borne up\nwonderfully so far. I have brought you a book for evening solace,  and\nhe laid on the table a new publication a poem: one of those genuine\nproductions so often vouchsafed to the fortunate public of those\ndays the golden age of modern literature. Alas! the readers of our era\nare less favoured. But courage! I will not pause either to accuse or\nrepine. I know poetry is not dead, nor genius lost; nor has Mammon\ngained power over either, to bind or slay: they will both assert their\nexistence, their presence, their liberty and strength again one day.\nPowerful angels, safe in heaven! they smile when sordid souls triumph,\nand feeble ones weep over their destruction. Poetry destroyed? Genius\nbanished? No! Mediocrity, no: do not let envy prompt you to the\nthought. No; they not only live, but reign and redeem: and without\ntheir divine influence spread everywhere, you would be in hell the hell\nof your own meanness.\n\nWhile I was eagerly glancing at the bright pages of  Marmion  (for\n Marmion  it was), St. John stooped to examine my drawing. His tall\nfigure sprang erect again with a start: he said nothing. I looked up at\nhim: he shunned my eye. I knew his thoughts well, and could read his\nheart plainly; at the moment I felt calmer and cooler than he: I had\nthen temporarily the advantage of him, and I conceived an inclination\nto do him some good, if I could.\n\n With all his firmness and self-control,  thought I,  he tasks himself\ntoo far: locks every feeling and pang within expresses, confesses,\nimparts nothing. I am sure it would benefit him to talk a little about\nthis sweet Rosamond, whom he thinks he ought not to marry: I will make\nhim talk. \n\nI said first,  Take a chair, Mr. Rivers.  But he answered, as he always\ndid, that he could not stay.  Very well,  I responded, mentally,  stand\nif you like; but you shall not go just yet, I am determined: solitude\nis at least as bad for you as it is for me. I ll try if I cannot\ndiscover the secret spring of your confidence, and find an aperture in\nthat marble breast through which I can shed one drop of the balm of\nsympathy. \n\n Is this portrait like?  I asked bluntly.\n\n Like! Like whom? I did not observe it closely. \n\n You did, Mr. Rivers. \n\nHe almost started at my sudden and strange abruptness: he looked at me\nastonished.  Oh, that is nothing yet,  I muttered within.  I don t mean\nto be baffled by a little stiffness on your part; I m prepared to go to\nconsiderable lengths.  I continued,  You observed it closely and\ndistinctly; but I have no objection to your looking at it again,  and I\nrose and placed it in his hand.\n\n A well-executed picture,  he said;  very soft, clear colouring; very\ngraceful and correct drawing. \n\n Yes, yes; I know all that. But what of the resemblance? Who is it\nlike? \n\nMastering some hesitation, he answered,  Miss Oliver, I presume. \n\n Of course. And now, sir, to reward you for the accurate guess, I will\npromise to paint you a careful and faithful duplicate of this very\npicture, provided you admit that the gift would be acceptable to you. I\ndon t wish to throw away my time and trouble on an offering you would\ndeem worthless. \n\nHe continued to gaze at the picture: the longer he looked, the firmer\nhe held it, the more he seemed to covet it.  It is like!  he murmured;\n the eye is well managed: the colour, light, expression, are perfect.\nIt smiles! \n\n Would it comfort, or would it wound you to have a similar painting?\nTell me that. When you are at Madagascar, or at the Cape, or in India,\nwould it be a consolation to have that memento in your possession? or\nwould the sight of it bring recollections calculated to enervate and\ndistress? \n\nHe now furtively raised his eyes: he glanced at me, irresolute,\ndisturbed: he again surveyed the picture.\n\n That I should like to have it is certain: whether it would be\njudicious or wise is another question. \n\nSince I had ascertained that Rosamond really preferred him, and that\nher father was not likely to oppose the match, I less exalted in my\nviews than St. John had been strongly disposed in my own heart to\nadvocate their union. It seemed to me that, should he become the\npossessor of Mr. Oliver s large fortune, he might do as much good with\nit as if he went and laid his genius out to wither, and his strength to\nwaste, under a tropical sun. With this persuasion I now answered \n\n As far as I can see, it would be wiser and more judicious if you were\nto take to yourself the original at once. \n\nBy this time he had sat down: he had laid the picture on the table\nbefore him, and with his brow supported on both hands, hung fondly over\nit. I discerned he was now neither angry nor shocked at my audacity. I\nsaw even that to be thus frankly addressed on a subject he had deemed\nunapproachable to hear it thus freely handled was beginning to be felt\nby him as a new pleasure an unhoped-for relief. Reserved people often\nreally need the frank discussion of their sentiments and griefs more\nthan the expansive. The sternest-seeming stoic is human after all; and\nto  burst  with boldness and good-will into  the silent sea  of their\nsouls is often to confer on them the first of obligations.\n\n She likes you, I am sure,  said I, as I stood behind his chair,  and\nher father respects you. Moreover, she is a sweet girl rather\nthoughtless; but you would have sufficient thought for both yourself\nand her. You ought to marry her. \n\n _Does_ she like me?  he asked.\n\n Certainly; better than she likes any one else. She talks of you\ncontinually: there is no subject she enjoys so much or touches upon so\noften. \n\n It is very pleasant to hear this,  he said very: go on for another\nquarter of an hour.  And he actually took out his watch and laid it\nupon the table to measure the time.\n\n But where is the use of going on,  I asked,  when you are probably\npreparing some iron blow of contradiction, or forging a fresh chain to\nfetter your heart? \n\n Don t imagine such hard things. Fancy me yielding and melting, as I am\ndoing: human love rising like a freshly opened fountain in my mind and\noverflowing with sweet inundation all the field I have so carefully and\nwith such labour prepared so assiduously sown with the seeds of good\nintentions, of self-denying plans. And now it is deluged with a\nnectarous flood the young germs swamped delicious poison cankering\nthem: now I see myself stretched on an ottoman in the drawing-room at\nVale Hall at my bride Rosamond Oliver s feet: she is talking to me with\nher sweet voice gazing down on me with those eyes your skilful hand has\ncopied so well smiling at me with these coral lips. She is mine I am\nhers this present life and passing world suffice to me. Hush! say\nnothing my heart is full of delight my senses are entranced let the\ntime I marked pass in peace. \n\nI humoured him: the watch ticked on: he breathed fast and low: I stood\nsilent. Amidst this hush the quartet sped; he replaced the watch, laid\nthe picture down, rose, and stood on the hearth.\n\n Now,  said he,  that little space was given to delirium and delusion.\nI rested my temples on the breast of temptation, and put my neck\nvoluntarily under her yoke of flowers; I tasted her cup. The pillow was\nburning: there is an asp in the garland: the wine has a bitter taste:\nher promises are hollow her offers false: I see and know all this. \n\nI gazed at him in wonder.\n\n It is strange,  pursued he,  that while I love Rosamond Oliver so\nwildly with all the intensity, indeed, of a first passion, the object\nof which is exquisitely beautiful, graceful, fascinating I experience\nat the same time a calm, unwarped consciousness that she would not make\nme a good wife; that she is not the partner suited to me; that I should\ndiscover this within a year after marriage; and that to twelve months \nrapture would succeed a lifetime of regret. This I know. \n\n Strange indeed!  I could not help ejaculating.\n\n While something in me,  he went on,  is acutely sensible to her\ncharms, something else is as deeply impressed with her defects: they\nare such that she could sympathise in nothing I aspired to co-operate\nin nothing I undertook. Rosamond a sufferer, a labourer, a female\napostle? Rosamond a missionary s wife? No! \n\n But you need not be a missionary. You might relinquish that scheme. \n\n Relinquish! What! my vocation? My great work? My foundation laid on\nearth for a mansion in heaven? My hopes of being numbered in the band\nwho have merged all ambitions in the glorious one of bettering their\nrace of carrying knowledge into the realms of ignorance of substituting\npeace for war freedom for bondage religion for superstition the hope of\nheaven for the fear of hell? Must I relinquish that? It is dearer than\nthe blood in my veins. It is what I have to look forward to, and to\nlive for. \n\nAfter a considerable pause, I said And Miss Oliver? Are her\ndisappointment and sorrow of no interest to you? \n\n Miss Oliver is ever surrounded by suitors and flatterers: in less than\na month, my image will be effaced from her heart. She will forget me;\nand will marry, probably, some one who will make her far happier than I\nshould do. \n\n You speak coolly enough; but you suffer in the conflict. You are\nwasting away. \n\n No. If I get a little thin, it is with anxiety about my prospects, yet\nunsettled my departure, continually procrastinated. Only this morning,\nI received intelligence that the successor, whose arrival I have been\nso long expecting, cannot be ready to replace me for three months to\ncome yet; and perhaps the three months may extend to six. \n\n You tremble and become flushed whenever Miss Oliver enters the\nschoolroom. \n\nAgain the surprised expression crossed his face. He had not imagined\nthat a woman would dare to speak so to a man. For me, I felt at home in\nthis sort of discourse. I could never rest in communication with\nstrong, discreet, and refined minds, whether male or female, till I had\npassed the outworks of conventional reserve, and crossed the threshold\nof confidence, and won a place by their heart s very hearthstone.\n\n You _are_ original,  said he,  and not timid. There is something brave\nin your spirit, as well as penetrating in your eye; but allow me to\nassure you that you partially misinterpret my emotions. You think them\nmore profound and potent than they are. You give me a larger allowance\nof sympathy than I have a just claim to. When I colour, and when I\nshake before Miss Oliver, I do not pity myself. I scorn the weakness. I\nknow it is ignoble: a mere fever of the flesh: not, I declare, the\nconvulsion of the soul. _That_ is just as fixed as a rock, firm set in\nthe depths of a restless sea. Know me to be what I am a cold hard man. \n\nI smiled incredulously.\n\n You have taken my confidence by storm,  he continued,  and now it is\nmuch at your service. I am simply, in my original state stripped of\nthat blood-bleached robe with which Christianity covers human\ndeformity a cold, hard, ambitious man. Natural affection only, of all\nthe sentiments, has permanent power over me. Reason, and not feeling,\nis my guide; my ambition is unlimited: my desire to rise higher, to do\nmore than others, insatiable. I honour endurance, perseverance,\nindustry, talent; because these are the means by which men achieve\ngreat ends and mount to lofty eminence. I watch your career with\ninterest, because I consider you a specimen of a diligent, orderly,\nenergetic woman: not because I deeply compassionate what you have gone\nthrough, or what you still suffer. \n\n You would describe yourself as a mere pagan philosopher,  I said.\n\n No. There is this difference between me and deistic philosophers: I\nbelieve; and I believe the Gospel. You missed your epithet. I am not a\npagan, but a Christian philosopher a follower of the sect of Jesus. As\nHis disciple I adopt His pure, His merciful, His benignant doctrines. I\nadvocate them: I am sworn to spread them. Won in youth to religion, she\nhas cultivated my original qualities thus: From the minute germ,\nnatural affection, she has developed the overshadowing tree,\nphilanthropy. From the wild stringy root of human uprightness, she has\nreared a due sense of the Divine justice. Of the ambition to win power\nand renown for my wretched self, she has formed the ambition to spread\nmy Master s kingdom; to achieve victories for the standard of the\ncross. So much has religion done for me; turning the original materials\nto the best account; pruning and training nature. But she could not\neradicate nature: nor will it be eradicated  till this mortal shall put\non immortality. \n\nHaving said this, he took his hat, which lay on the table beside my\npalette. Once more he looked at the portrait.\n\n She _is_ lovely,  he murmured.  She is well named the Rose of the\nWorld, indeed! \n\n And may I not paint one like it for you? \n\n _Cui bono_? No. \n\nHe drew over the picture the sheet of thin paper on which I was\naccustomed to rest my hand in painting, to prevent the cardboard from\nbeing sullied. What he suddenly saw on this blank paper, it was\nimpossible for me to tell; but something had caught his eye. He took it\nup with a snatch; he looked at the edge; then shot a glance at me,\ninexpressibly peculiar, and quite incomprehensible: a glance that\nseemed to take and make note of every point in my shape, face, and\ndress; for it traversed all, quick, keen as lightning. His lips parted,\nas if to speak: but he checked the coming sentence, whatever it was.\n\n What is the matter?  I asked.\n\n Nothing in the world,  was the reply; and, replacing the paper, I saw\nhim dexterously tear a narrow slip from the margin. It disappeared in\nhis glove; and, with one hasty nod and  good-afternoon,  he vanished.\n\n Well!  I exclaimed, using an expression of the district,  that caps\nthe globe, however! \n\nI, in my turn, scrutinised the paper; but saw nothing on it save a few\ndingy stains of paint where I had tried the tint in my pencil. I\npondered the mystery a minute or two; but finding it insolvable, and\nbeing certain it could not be of much moment, I dismissed, and soon\nforgot it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII\n\n\nWhen Mr. St. John went, it was beginning to snow; the whirling storm\ncontinued all night. The next day a keen wind brought fresh and\nblinding falls; by twilight the valley was drifted up and almost\nimpassable. I had closed my shutter, laid a mat to the door to prevent\nthe snow from blowing in under it, trimmed my fire, and after sitting\nnearly an hour on the hearth listening to the muffled fury of the\ntempest, I lit a candle, took down  Marmion,  and beginning \n\n Day set on Norham s castled steep,\nAnd Tweed s fair river broad and deep,\n    And Cheviot s mountains lone;\nThe massive towers, the donjon keep,\nThe flanking walls that round them sweep,\n    In yellow lustre shone \n\n\nI soon forgot storm in music.\n\nI heard a noise: the wind, I thought, shook the door. No; it was St.\nJohn Rivers, who, lifting the latch, came in out of the frozen\nhurricane the howling darkness and stood before me: the cloak that\ncovered his tall figure all white as a glacier. I was almost in\nconsternation, so little had I expected any guest from the blocked-up\nvale that night.\n\n Any ill news?  I demanded.  Has anything happened? \n\n No. How very easily alarmed you are!  he answered, removing his cloak\nand hanging it up against the door, towards which he again coolly\npushed the mat which his entrance had deranged. He stamped the snow\nfrom his boots.\n\n I shall sully the purity of your floor,  said he,  but you must excuse\nme for once.  Then he approached the fire.  I have had hard work to get\nhere, I assure you,  he observed, as he warmed his hands over the\nflame.  One drift took me up to the waist; happily the snow is quite\nsoft yet. \n\n But why are you come?  I could not forbear saying.\n\n Rather an inhospitable question to put to a visitor; but since you ask\nit, I answer simply to have a little talk with you; I got tired of my\nmute books and empty rooms. Besides, since yesterday I have experienced\nthe excitement of a person to whom a tale has been half-told, and who\nis impatient to hear the sequel. \n\nHe sat down. I recalled his singular conduct of yesterday, and really I\nbegan to fear his wits were touched. If he were insane, however, his\nwas a very cool and collected insanity: I had never seen that\nhandsome-featured face of his look more like chiselled marble than it\ndid just now, as he put aside his snow-wet hair from his forehead and\nlet the firelight shine free on his pale brow and cheek as pale, where\nit grieved me to discover the hollow trace of care or sorrow now so\nplainly graved. I waited, expecting he would say something I could at\nleast comprehend; but his hand was now at his chin, his finger on his\nlip: he was thinking. It struck me that his hand looked wasted like his\nface. A perhaps uncalled-for gush of pity came over my heart: I was\nmoved to say \n\n I wish Diana or Mary would come and live with you: it is too bad that\nyou should be quite alone; and you are recklessly rash about your own\nhealth. \n\n Not at all,  said he:  I care for myself when necessary. I am well\nnow. What do you see amiss in me? \n\nThis was said with a careless, abstracted indifference, which showed\nthat my solicitude was, at least in his opinion, wholly superfluous. I\nwas silenced.\n\nHe still slowly moved his finger over his upper lip, and still his eye\ndwelt dreamily on the glowing grate; thinking it urgent to say\nsomething, I asked him presently if he felt any cold draught from the\ndoor, which was behind him.\n\n No, no!  he responded shortly and somewhat testily.\n\n Well,  I reflected,  if you won t talk, you may be still; I ll let you\nalone now, and return to my book. \n\nSo I snuffed the candle and resumed the perusal of  Marmion.  He soon\nstirred; my eye was instantly drawn to his movements; he only took out\na morocco pocket-book, thence produced a letter, which he read in\nsilence, folded it, put it back, relapsed into meditation. It was vain\nto try to read with such an inscrutable fixture before me; nor could I,\nin impatience, consent to be dumb; he might rebuff me if he liked, but\ntalk I would.\n\n Have you heard from Diana and Mary lately? \n\n Not since the letter I showed you a week ago. \n\n There has not been any change made about your own arrangements? You\nwill not be summoned to leave England sooner than you expected? \n\n I fear not, indeed: such chance is too good to befall me.  Baffled so\nfar, I changed my ground. I bethought myself to talk about the school\nand my scholars.\n\n Mary Garrett s mother is better, and Mary came back to the school this\nmorning, and I shall have four new girls next week from the Foundry\nClose they would have come to-day but for the snow. \n\n Indeed! \n\n Mr. Oliver pays for two. \n\n Does he? \n\n He means to give the whole school a treat at Christmas. \n\n I know. \n\n Was it your suggestion? \n\n No. \n\n Whose, then? \n\n His daughter s, I think. \n\n It is like her: she is so good-natured. \n\n Yes. \n\nAgain came the blank of a pause: the clock struck eight strokes. It\naroused him; he uncrossed his legs, sat erect, turned to me.\n\n Leave your book a moment, and come a little nearer the fire,  he said.\n\nWondering, and of my wonder finding no end, I complied.\n\n Half-an-hour ago,  he pursued,  I spoke of my impatience to hear the\nsequel of a tale: on reflection, I find the matter will be better\nmanaged by my assuming the narrator s part, and converting you into a\nlistener. Before commencing, it is but fair to warn you that the story\nwill sound somewhat hackneyed in your ears; but stale details often\nregain a degree of freshness when they pass through new lips. For the\nrest, whether trite or novel, it is short.\n\n Twenty years ago, a poor curate never mind his name at this\nmoment fell in love with a rich man s daughter; she fell in love with\nhim, and married him, against the advice of all her friends, who\nconsequently disowned her immediately after the wedding. Before two\nyears passed, the rash pair were both dead, and laid quietly side by\nside under one slab. (I have seen their grave; it formed part of the\npavement of a huge churchyard surrounding the grim, soot-black old\ncathedral of an overgrown manufacturing town in  shire.) They left a\ndaughter, which, at its very birth, Charity received in her lap cold as\nthat of the snow-drift I almost stuck fast in to-night. Charity carried\nthe friendless thing to the house of its rich maternal relations; it\nwas reared by an aunt-in-law, called (I come to names now) Mrs. Reed of\nGateshead. You start did you hear a noise? I daresay it is only a rat\nscrambling along the rafters of the adjoining schoolroom: it was a barn\nbefore I had it repaired and altered, and barns are generally haunted\nby rats. To proceed. Mrs. Reed kept the orphan ten years: whether it\nwas happy or not with her, I cannot say, never having been told; but at\nthe end of that time she transferred it to a place you know being no\nother than Lowood School, where you so long resided yourself. It seems\nher career there was very honourable: from a pupil, she became a\nteacher, like yourself really it strikes me there are parallel points\nin her history and yours she left it to be a governess: there, again,\nyour fates were analogous; she undertook the education of the ward of a\ncertain Mr. Rochester. \n\n Mr. Rivers!  I interrupted.\n\n I can guess your feelings,  he said,  but restrain them for a while: I\nhave nearly finished; hear me to the end. Of Mr. Rochester s character\nI know nothing, but the one fact that he professed to offer honourable\nmarriage to this young girl, and that at the very altar she discovered\nhe had a wife yet alive, though a lunatic. What his subsequent conduct\nand proposals were is a matter of pure conjecture; but when an event\ntranspired which rendered inquiry after the governess necessary, it was\ndiscovered she was gone no one could tell when, where, or how. She had\nleft Thornfield Hall in the night; every research after her course had\nbeen vain: the country had been scoured far and wide; no vestige of\ninformation could be gathered respecting her. Yet that she should be\nfound is become a matter of serious urgency: advertisements have been\nput in all the papers; I myself have received a letter from one Mr.\nBriggs, a solicitor, communicating the details I have just imparted. Is\nit not an odd tale? \n\n Just tell me this,  said I,  and since you know so much, you surely\n_can_ tell it me what of Mr. Rochester? How and where is he? What is he\ndoing? Is he well? \n\n I am ignorant of all concerning Mr. Rochester: the letter never\nmentions him but to narrate the fraudulent and illegal attempt I have\nadverted to. You should rather ask the name of the governess the nature\nof the event which requires her appearance. \n\n Did no one go to Thornfield Hall, then? Did no one see Mr. Rochester? \n\n I suppose not. \n\n But they wrote to him? \n\n Of course. \n\n And what did he say? Who has his letters? \n\n Mr. Briggs intimates that the answer to his application was not from\nMr. Rochester, but from a lady: it is signed  Alice Fairfax. \n\nI felt cold and dismayed: my worst fears then were probably true: he\nhad in all probability left England and rushed in reckless desperation\nto some former haunt on the Continent. And what opiate for his severe\nsufferings what object for his strong passions had he sought there? I\ndared not answer the question. Oh, my poor master once almost my\nhusband whom I had often called  my dear Edward! \n\n He must have been a bad man,  observed Mr. Rivers.\n\n You don t know him don t pronounce an opinion upon him,  I said, with\nwarmth.\n\n Very well,  he answered quietly:  and indeed my head is otherwise\noccupied than with him: I have my tale to finish. Since you won t ask\nthe governess s name, I must tell it of my own accord. Stay! I have it\nhere it is always more satisfactory to see important points written\ndown, fairly committed to black and white. \n\nAnd the pocket-book was again deliberately produced, opened, sought\nthrough; from one of its compartments was extracted a shabby slip of\npaper, hastily torn off: I recognised in its texture and its stains of\nultra-marine, and lake, and vermillion, the ravished margin of the\nportrait-cover. He got up, held it close to my eyes: and I read, traced\nin Indian ink, in my own handwriting, the words  JANE EYRE the work\ndoubtless of some moment of abstraction.\n\n Briggs wrote to me of a Jane Eyre:  he said,  the advertisements\ndemanded a Jane Eyre: I knew a Jane Elliott. I confess I had my\nsuspicions, but it was only yesterday afternoon they were at once\nresolved into certainty. You own the name and renounce the _alias_? \n\n Yes yes; but where is Mr. Briggs? He perhaps knows more of Mr.\nRochester than you do. \n\n Briggs is in London. I should doubt his knowing anything at all about\nMr. Rochester; it is not in Mr. Rochester he is interested. Meantime,\nyou forget essential points in pursuing trifles: you do not inquire why\nMr. Briggs sought after you what he wanted with you. \n\n Well, what did he want? \n\n Merely to tell you that your uncle, Mr. Eyre of Madeira, is dead; that\nhe has left you all his property, and that you are now rich merely\nthat nothing more. \n\n I! rich? \n\n Yes, you, rich quite an heiress. \n\nSilence succeeded.\n\n You must prove your identity of course,  resumed St. John presently:\n a step which will offer no difficulties; you can then enter on\nimmediate possession. Your fortune is vested in the English funds;\nBriggs has the will and the necessary documents. \n\nHere was a new card turned up! It is a fine thing, reader, to be lifted\nin a moment from indigence to wealth a very fine thing; but not a\nmatter one can comprehend, or consequently enjoy, all at once. And then\nthere are other chances in life far more thrilling and rapture-giving:\n_this_ is solid, an affair of the actual world, nothing ideal about it:\nall its associations are solid and sober, and its manifestations are\nthe same. One does not jump, and spring, and shout hurrah! at hearing\none has got a fortune; one begins to consider responsibilities, and to\nponder business; on a base of steady satisfaction rise certain grave\ncares, and we contain ourselves, and brood over our bliss with a solemn\nbrow.\n\nBesides, the words Legacy, Bequest, go side by side with the words,\nDeath, Funeral. My uncle I had heard was dead my only relative; ever\nsince being made aware of his existence, I had cherished the hope of\none day seeing him: now, I never should. And then this money came only\nto me: not to me and a rejoicing family, but to my isolated self. It\nwas a grand boon doubtless; and independence would be glorious yes, I\nfelt that _that_ thought swelled my heart.\n\n You unbend your forehead at last,  said Mr. Rivers.  I thought Medusa\nhad looked at you, and that you were turning to stone. Perhaps now you\nwill ask how much you are worth? \n\n How much am I worth? \n\n Oh, a trifle! Nothing of course to speak of twenty thousand pounds, I\nthink they say but what is that? \n\n Twenty thousand pounds? \n\nHere was a new stunner I had been calculating on four or five thousand.\nThis news actually took my breath for a moment: Mr. St. John, whom I\nhad never heard laugh before, laughed now.\n\n Well,  said he,  if you had committed a murder, and I had told you\nyour crime was discovered, you could scarcely look more aghast. \n\n It is a large sum don t you think there is a mistake? \n\n No mistake at all. \n\n Perhaps you have read the figures wrong it may be two thousand! \n\n It is written in letters, not figures, twenty thousand. \n\nI again felt rather like an individual of but average gastronomical\npowers sitting down to feast alone at a table spread with provisions\nfor a hundred. Mr. Rivers rose now and put his cloak on.\n\n If it were not such a very wild night,  he said,  I would send Hannah\ndown to keep you company: you look too desperately miserable to be left\nalone. But Hannah, poor woman! could not stride the drifts so well as\nI: her legs are not quite so long: so I must e en leave you to your\nsorrows. Good-night. \n\nHe was lifting the latch: a sudden thought occurred to me.\n\n Stop one minute!  I cried.\n\n Well? \n\n It puzzles me to know why Mr. Briggs wrote to you about me; or how he\nknew you, or could fancy that you, living in such an out-of-the-way\nplace, had the power to aid in my discovery. \n\n Oh! I am a clergyman,  he said;  and the clergy are often appealed to\nabout odd matters.  Again the latch rattled.\n\n No; that does not satisfy me!  I exclaimed: and indeed there was\nsomething in the hasty and unexplanatory reply which, instead of\nallaying, piqued my curiosity more than ever.\n\n It is a very strange piece of business,  I added;  I must know more\nabout it. \n\n Another time. \n\n No; to-night! to-night!  and as he turned from the door, I placed\nmyself between it and him. He looked rather embarrassed.\n\n You certainly shall not go till you have told me all,  I said.\n\n I would rather not just now. \n\n You shall! you must! \n\n I would rather Diana or Mary informed you. \n\nOf course these objections wrought my eagerness to a climax: gratified\nit must be, and that without delay; and I told him so.\n\n But I apprised you that I was a hard man,  said he,  difficult to\npersuade. \n\n And I am a hard woman, impossible to put off. \n\n\nAnd I am a hard woman, impossible to put off\n\n And then,  he pursued,  I am cold: no fervour infects me. \n\n Whereas I am hot, and fire dissolves ice. The blaze there has thawed\nall the snow from your cloak; by the same token, it has streamed on to\nmy floor, and made it like a trampled street. As you hope ever to be\nforgiven, Mr. Rivers, the high crime and misdemeanour of spoiling a\nsanded kitchen, tell me what I wish to know. \n\n Well, then,  he said,  I yield; if not to your earnestness, to your\nperseverance: as stone is worn by continual dropping. Besides, you must\nknow some day, as well now as later. Your name is Jane Eyre? \n\n Of course: that was all settled before. \n\n You are not, perhaps, aware that I am your namesake? that I was\nchristened St. John Eyre Rivers? \n\n No, indeed! I remember now seeing the letter E. comprised in your\ninitials written in books you have at different times lent me; but I\nnever asked for what name it stood. But what then? Surely \n\nI stopped: I could not trust myself to entertain, much less to express,\nthe thought that rushed upon me that embodied itself, that, in a\nsecond, stood out a strong, solid probability. Circumstances knit\nthemselves, fitted themselves, shot into order: the chain that had been\nlying hitherto a formless lump of links was drawn out straight, every\nring was perfect, the connection complete. I knew, by instinct, how the\nmatter stood, before St. John had said another word; but I cannot\nexpect the reader to have the same intuitive perception, so I must\nrepeat his explanation.\n\n My mother s name was Eyre; she had two brothers; one a clergyman, who\nmarried Miss Jane Reed, of Gateshead; the other, John Eyre, Esq.,\nmerchant, late of Funchal, Madeira. Mr. Briggs, being Mr. Eyre s\nsolicitor, wrote to us last August to inform us of our uncle s death,\nand to say that he had left his property to his brother the clergyman s\norphan daughter, overlooking us, in consequence of a quarrel, never\nforgiven, between him and my father. He wrote again a few weeks since,\nto intimate that the heiress was lost, and asking if we knew anything\nof her. A name casually written on a slip of paper has enabled me to\nfind her out. You know the rest.  Again he was going, but I set my back\nagainst the door.\n\n Do let me speak,  I said;  let me have one moment to draw breath and\nreflect.  I paused he stood before me, hat in hand, looking composed\nenough. I resumed \n\n Your mother was my father s sister? \n\n Yes. \n\n My aunt, consequently? \n\nHe bowed.\n\n My uncle John was your uncle John? You, Diana, and Mary are his\nsister s children, as I am his brother s child? \n\n Undeniably. \n\n You three, then, are my cousins; half our blood on each side flows\nfrom the same source? \n\n We are cousins; yes. \n\nI surveyed him. It seemed I had found a brother: one I could be proud\nof, one I could love; and two sisters, whose qualities were such, that,\nwhen I knew them but as mere strangers, they had inspired me with\ngenuine affection and admiration. The two girls, on whom, kneeling down\non the wet ground, and looking through the low, latticed window of Moor\nHouse kitchen, I had gazed with so bitter a mixture of interest and\ndespair, were my near kinswomen; and the young and stately gentleman\nwho had found me almost dying at his threshold was my blood relation.\nGlorious discovery to a lonely wretch! This was wealth indeed! wealth\nto the heart! a mine of pure, genial affections. This was a blessing,\nbright, vivid, and exhilarating; not like the ponderous gift of gold:\nrich and welcome enough in its way, but sobering from its weight. I now\nclapped my hands in sudden joy my pulse bounded, my veins thrilled.\n\n Oh, I am glad! I am glad!  I exclaimed.\n\nSt. John smiled.  Did I not say you neglected essential points to\npursue trifles?  he asked.  You were serious when I told you you had\ngot a fortune; and now, for a matter of no moment, you are excited. \n\n What _can_ you mean? It may be of no moment to you; you have sisters\nand don t care for a cousin; but I had nobody; and now three\nrelations, or two, if you don t choose to be counted, are born into my\nworld full-grown. I say again, I am glad! \n\nI walked fast through the room: I stopped, half suffocated with the\nthoughts that rose faster than I could receive, comprehend, settle\nthem: thoughts of what might, could, would, and should be, and that ere\nlong. I looked at the blank wall: it seemed a sky thick with ascending\nstars, every one lit me to a purpose or delight. Those who had saved my\nlife, whom, till this hour, I had loved barrenly, I could now benefit.\nThey were under a yoke, I could free them: they were scattered, I could\nreunite them: the independence, the affluence which was mine, might be\ntheirs too. Were we not four? Twenty thousand pounds shared equally\nwould be five thousand each, justice enough and to spare: justice would\nbe done, mutual happiness secured. Now the wealth did not weigh on me:\nnow it was not a mere bequest of coin, it was a legacy of life, hope,\nenjoyment.\n\nHow I looked while these ideas were taking my spirit by storm, I cannot\ntell; but I perceived soon that Mr. Rivers had placed a chair behind\nme, and was gently attempting to make me sit down on it. He also\nadvised me to be composed; I scorned the insinuation of helplessness\nand distraction, shook off his hand, and began to walk about again.\n\n Write to Diana and Mary to-morrow,  I said,  and tell them to come\nhome directly. Diana said they would both consider themselves rich with\na thousand pounds, so with five thousand they will do very well. \n\n Tell me where I can get you a glass of water,  said St. John;  you\nmust really make an effort to tranquillise your feelings. \n\n Nonsense! and what sort of an effect will the bequest have on you?\nWill it keep you in England, induce you to marry Miss Oliver, and\nsettle down like an ordinary mortal? \n\n You wander: your head becomes confused. I have been too abrupt in\ncommunicating the news; it has excited you beyond your strength. \n\n Mr. Rivers! you quite put me out of patience: I am rational enough; it\nis you who misunderstand, or rather who affect to misunderstand. \n\n Perhaps, if you explained yourself a little more fully, I should\ncomprehend better. \n\n Explain! What is there to explain? You cannot fail to see that twenty\nthousand pounds, the sum in question, divided equally between the\nnephew and three nieces of our uncle, will give five thousand to each?\nWhat I want is, that you should write to your sisters and tell them of\nthe fortune that has accrued to them. \n\n To you, you mean. \n\n I have intimated my view of the case: I am incapable of taking any\nother. I am not brutally selfish, blindly unjust, or fiendishly\nungrateful. Besides, I am resolved I will have a home and connections.\nI like Moor House, and I will live at Moor House; I like Diana and\nMary, and I will attach myself for life to Diana and Mary. It would\nplease and benefit me to have five thousand pounds; it would torment\nand oppress me to have twenty thousand; which, moreover, could never be\nmine in justice, though it might in law. I abandon to you, then, what\nis absolutely superfluous to me. Let there be no opposition, and no\ndiscussion about it; let us agree amongst each other, and decide the\npoint at once. \n\n This is acting on first impulses; you must take days to consider such\na matter, ere your word can be regarded as valid. \n\n Oh! if all you doubt is my sincerity, I am easy: you see the justice\nof the case? \n\n I _do_ see a certain justice; but it is contrary to all custom.\nBesides, the entire fortune is your right: my uncle gained it by his\nown efforts; he was free to leave it to whom he would: he left it to\nyou. After all, justice permits you to keep it: you may, with a clear\nconscience, consider it absolutely your own. \n\n With me,  said I,  it is fully as much a matter of feeling as of\nconscience: I must indulge my feelings; I so seldom have had an\nopportunity of doing so. Were you to argue, object, and annoy me for a\nyear, I could not forego the delicious pleasure of which I have caught\na glimpse that of repaying, in part, a mighty obligation, and winning\nto myself lifelong friends. \n\n You think so now,  rejoined St. John,  because you do not know what it\nis to possess, nor consequently to enjoy wealth: you cannot form a\nnotion of the importance twenty thousand pounds would give you; of the\nplace it would enable you to take in society; of the prospects it would\nopen to you: you cannot \n\n And you,  I interrupted,  cannot at all imagine the craving I have for\nfraternal and sisterly love. I never had a home, I never had brothers\nor sisters; I must and will have them now: you are not reluctant to\nadmit me and own me, are you? \n\n Jane, I will be your brother my sisters will be your sisters without\nstipulating for this sacrifice of your just rights. \n\n Brother? Yes; at the distance of a thousand leagues! Sisters? Yes;\nslaving amongst strangers! I, wealthy gorged with gold I never earned\nand do not merit! You, penniless! Famous equality and fraternisation!\nClose union! Intimate attachment! \n\n But, Jane, your aspirations after family ties and domestic happiness\nmay be realised otherwise than by the means you contemplate: you may\nmarry. \n\n Nonsense, again! Marry! I don t want to marry, and never shall marry. \n\n That is saying too much: such hazardous affirmations are a proof of\nthe excitement under which you labour. \n\n It is not saying too much: I know what I feel, and how averse are my\ninclinations to the bare thought of marriage. No one would take me for\nlove; and I will not be regarded in the light of a mere money\nspeculation. And I do not want a stranger unsympathising, alien,\ndifferent from me; I want my kindred: those with whom I have full\nfellow-feeling. Say again you will be my brother: when you uttered the\nwords I was satisfied, happy; repeat them, if you can, repeat them\nsincerely. \n\n I think I can. I know I have always loved my own sisters; and I know\non what my affection for them is grounded, respect for their worth and\nadmiration of their talents. You too have principle and mind: your\ntastes and habits resemble Diana s and Mary s; your presence is always\nagreeable to me; in your conversation I have already for some time\nfound a salutary solace. I feel I can easily and naturally make room in\nmy heart for you, as my third and youngest sister. \n\n Thank you: that contents me for to-night. Now you had better go; for\nif you stay longer, you will perhaps irritate me afresh by some\nmistrustful scruple. \n\n And the school, Miss Eyre? It must now be shut up, I suppose? \n\n No. I will retain my post of mistress till you get a substitute. \n\nHe smiled approbation: we shook hands, and he took leave.\n\nI need not narrate in detail the further struggles I had, and arguments\nI used, to get matters regarding the legacy settled as I wished. My\ntask was a very hard one; but, as I was absolutely resolved as my\ncousins saw at length that my mind was really and immutably fixed on\nmaking a just division of the property as they must in their own hearts\nhave felt the equity of the intention; and must, besides, have been\ninnately conscious that in my place they would have done precisely what\nI wished to do they yielded at length so far as to consent to put the\naffair to arbitration. The judges chosen were Mr. Oliver and an able\nlawyer: both coincided in my opinion: I carried my point. The\ninstruments of transfer were drawn out: St. John, Diana, Mary, and I,\neach became possessed of a competency.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV\n\n\nIt was near Christmas by the time all was settled: the season of\ngeneral holiday approached. I now closed Morton school, taking care\nthat the parting should not be barren on my side. Good fortune opens\nthe hand as well as the heart wonderfully; and to give somewhat when we\nhave largely received, is but to afford a vent to the unusual\nebullition of the sensations. I had long felt with pleasure that many\nof my rustic scholars liked me, and when we parted, that consciousness\nwas confirmed: they manifested their affection plainly and strongly.\nDeep was my gratification to find I had really a place in their\nunsophisticated hearts: I promised them that never a week should pass\nin future that I did not visit them, and give them an hour s teaching\nin their school.\n\nMr. Rivers came up as, having seen the classes, now numbering sixty\ngirls, file out before me, and locked the door, I stood with the key in\nmy hand, exchanging a few words of special farewell with some\nhalf-dozen of my best scholars: as decent, respectable, modest, and\nwell-informed young women as could be found in the ranks of the British\npeasantry. And that is saying a great deal; for after all, the British\npeasantry are the best taught, best mannered, most self-respecting of\nany in Europe: since those days I have seen paysannes and B uerinnen;\nand the best of them seemed to me ignorant, coarse, and besotted,\ncompared with my Morton girls.\n\n Do you consider you have got your reward for a season of exertion? \nasked Mr. Rivers, when they were gone.  Does not the consciousness of\nhaving done some real good in your day and generation give pleasure? \n\n Doubtless. \n\n And you have only toiled a few months! Would not a life devoted to the\ntask of regenerating your race be well spent? \n\n Yes,  I said;  but I could not go on for ever so: I want to enjoy my\nown faculties as well as to cultivate those of other people. I must\nenjoy them now; don t recall either my mind or body to the school; I am\nout of it and disposed for full holiday. \n\nHe looked grave.  What now? What sudden eagerness is this you evince?\nWhat are you going to do? \n\n To be active: as active as I can. And first I must beg you to set\nHannah at liberty, and get somebody else to wait on you. \n\n Do you want her? \n\n Yes, to go with me to Moor House. Diana and Mary will be at home in a\nweek, and I want to have everything in order against their arrival. \n\n I understand. I thought you were for flying off on some excursion. It\nis better so: Hannah shall go with you. \n\n Tell her to be ready by to-morrow then; and here is the schoolroom\nkey: I will give you the key of my cottage in the morning. \n\nHe took it.  You give it up very gleefully,  said he;  I don t quite\nunderstand your light-heartedness, because I cannot tell what\nemployment you propose to yourself as a substitute for the one you are\nrelinquishing. What aim, what purpose, what ambition in life have you\nnow? \n\n My first aim will be to _clean down_ (do you comprehend the full force\nof the expression?) to _clean down_ Moor House from chamber to cellar;\nmy next to rub it up with bees-wax, oil, and an indefinite number of\ncloths, till it glitters again; my third, to arrange every chair,\ntable, bed, carpet, with mathematical precision; afterwards I shall go\nnear to ruin you in coals and peat to keep up good fires in every room;\nand lastly, the two days preceding that on which your sisters are\nexpected will be devoted by Hannah and me to such a beating of eggs,\nsorting of currants, grating of spices, compounding of Christmas cakes,\nchopping up of materials for mince-pies, and solemnising of other\nculinary rites, as words can convey but an inadequate notion of to the\nuninitiated like you. My purpose, in short, is to have all things in an\nabsolutely perfect state of readiness for Diana and Mary before next\nThursday; and my ambition is to give them a beau-ideal of a welcome\nwhen they come. \n\nSt. John smiled slightly: still he was dissatisfied.\n\n It is all very well for the present,  said he;  but seriously, I trust\nthat when the first flush of vivacity is over, you will look a little\nhigher than domestic endearments and household joys. \n\n The best things the world has!  I interrupted.\n\n No, Jane, no: this world is not the scene of fruition; do not attempt\nto make it so: nor of rest; do not turn slothful. \n\n I mean, on the contrary, to be busy. \n\n Jane, I excuse you for the present: two months  grace I allow you for\nthe full enjoyment of your new position, and for pleasing yourself with\nthis late-found charm of relationship; but _then_, I hope you will\nbegin to look beyond Moor House and Morton, and sisterly society, and\nthe selfish calm and sensual comfort of civilised affluence. I hope\nyour energies will then once more trouble you with their strength. \n\nI looked at him with surprise.  St. John,  I said,  I think you are\nalmost wicked to talk so. I am disposed to be as content as a queen,\nand you try to stir me up to restlessness! To what end? \n\n To the end of turning to profit the talents which God has committed to\nyour keeping; and of which He will surely one day demand a strict\naccount. Jane, I shall watch you closely and anxiously I warn you of\nthat. And try to restrain the disproportionate fervour with which you\nthrow yourself into commonplace home pleasures. Don t cling so\ntenaciously to ties of the flesh; save your constancy and ardour for an\nadequate cause; forbear to waste them on trite transient objects. Do\nyou hear, Jane? \n\n Yes; just as if you were speaking Greek. I feel I have adequate cause\nto be happy, and I _will_ be happy. Goodbye! \n\nHappy at Moor House I was, and hard I worked; and so did Hannah: she\nwas charmed to see how jovial I could be amidst the bustle of a house\nturned topsy-turvy how I could brush, and dust, and clean, and cook.\nAnd really, after a day or two of confusion worse confounded, it was\ndelightful by degrees to invoke order from the chaos ourselves had\nmade. I had previously taken a journey to S  to purchase some new\nfurniture: my cousins having given me _carte blanche_ to effect what\nalterations I pleased, and a sum having been set aside for that\npurpose. The ordinary sitting-room and bedrooms I left much as they\nwere: for I knew Diana and Mary would derive more pleasure from seeing\nagain the old homely tables, and chairs, and beds, than from the\nspectacle of the smartest innovations. Still some novelty was\nnecessary, to give to their return the piquancy with which I wished it\nto be invested. Dark handsome new carpets and curtains, an arrangement\nof some carefully selected antique ornaments in porcelain and bronze,\nnew coverings, and mirrors, and dressing-cases, for the toilet tables,\nanswered the end: they looked fresh without being glaring. A spare\nparlour and bedroom I refurnished entirely, with old mahogany and\ncrimson upholstery: I laid canvas on the passage, and carpets on the\nstairs. When all was finished, I thought Moor House as complete a model\nof bright modest snugness within, as it was, at this season, a specimen\nof wintry waste and desert dreariness without.\n\nThe eventful Thursday at length came. They were expected about dark,\nand ere dusk fires were lit upstairs and below; the kitchen was in\nperfect trim; Hannah and I were dressed, and all was in readiness.\n\nSt. John arrived first. I had entreated him to keep quite clear of the\nhouse till everything was arranged: and, indeed, the bare idea of the\ncommotion, at once sordid and trivial, going on within its walls\nsufficed to scare him to estrangement. He found me in the kitchen,\nwatching the progress of certain cakes for tea, then baking.\nApproaching the hearth, he asked,  If I was at last satisfied with\nhousemaid s work?  I answered by inviting him to accompany me on a\ngeneral inspection of the result of my labours. With some difficulty, I\ngot him to make the tour of the house. He just looked in at the doors I\nopened; and when he had wandered upstairs and downstairs, he said I\nmust have gone through a great deal of fatigue and trouble to have\neffected such considerable changes in so short a time: but not a\nsyllable did he utter indicating pleasure in the improved aspect of his\nabode.\n\nThis silence damped me. I thought perhaps the alterations had disturbed\nsome old associations he valued. I inquired whether this was the case:\nno doubt in a somewhat crest-fallen tone.\n\n Not at all; he had, on the contrary, remarked that I had scrupulously\nrespected every association: he feared, indeed, I must have bestowed\nmore thought on the matter than it was worth. How many minutes, for\ninstance, had I devoted to studying the arrangement of this very\nroom? By-the-bye, could I tell him where such a book was? \n\nI showed him the volume on the shelf: he took it down, and withdrawing\nto his accustomed window recess, he began to read it.\n\nNow, I did not like this, reader. St. John was a good man; but I began\nto feel he had spoken truth of himself when he said he was hard and\ncold. The humanities and amenities of life had no attraction for\nhim its peaceful enjoyments no charm. Literally, he lived only to\naspire after what was good and great, certainly; but still he would\nnever rest, nor approve of others resting round him. As I looked at his\nlofty forehead, still and pale as a white stone at his fine lineaments\nfixed in study I comprehended all at once that he would hardly make a\ngood husband: that it would be a trying thing to be his wife. I\nunderstood, as by inspiration, the nature of his love for Miss Oliver;\nI agreed with him that it was but a love of the senses. I comprehended\nhow he should despise himself for the feverish influence it exercised\nover him; how he should wish to stifle and destroy it; how he should\nmistrust its ever conducting permanently to his happiness or hers. I\nsaw he was of the material from which nature hews her heroes Christian\nand Pagan her lawgivers, her statesmen, her conquerors: a steadfast\nbulwark for great interests to rest upon; but, at the fireside, too\noften a cold cumbrous column, gloomy and out of place.\n\n This parlour is not his sphere,  I reflected:  the Himalayan ridge or\nCaffre bush, even the plague-cursed Guinea Coast swamp would suit him\nbetter. Well may he eschew the calm of domestic life; it is not his\nelement: there his faculties stagnate they cannot develop or appear to\nadvantage. It is in scenes of strife and danger where courage is\nproved, and energy exercised, and fortitude tasked that he will speak\nand move, the leader and superior. A merry child would have the\nadvantage of him on this hearth. He is right to choose a missionary s\ncareer I see it now. \n\n They are coming! they are coming!  cried Hannah, throwing open the\nparlour door. At the same moment old Carlo barked joyfully. Out I ran.\nIt was now dark; but a rumbling of wheels was audible. Hannah soon had\na lantern lit. The vehicle had stopped at the wicket; the driver opened\nthe door: first one well-known form, then another, stepped out. In a\nminute I had my face under their bonnets, in contact first with Mary s\nsoft cheek, then with Diana s flowing curls. They laughed kissed\nme then Hannah: patted Carlo, who was half wild with delight; asked\neagerly if all was well; and being assured in the affirmative, hastened\ninto the house.\n\nThey were stiff with their long and jolting drive from Whitcross, and\nchilled with the frosty night air; but their pleasant countenances\nexpanded to the cheerful firelight. While the driver and Hannah brought\nin the boxes, they demanded St. John. At this moment he advanced from\nthe parlour. They both threw their arms round his neck at once. He gave\neach one quiet kiss, said in a low tone a few words of welcome, stood a\nwhile to be talked to, and then, intimating that he supposed they would\nsoon rejoin him in the parlour, withdrew there as to a place of refuge.\n\nI had lit their candles to go upstairs, but Diana had first to give\nhospitable orders respecting the driver; this done, both followed me.\nThey were delighted with the renovation and decorations of their rooms;\nwith the new drapery, and fresh carpets, and rich tinted china vases:\nthey expressed their gratification ungrudgingly. I had the pleasure of\nfeeling that my arrangements met their wishes exactly, and that what I\nhad done added a vivid charm to their joyous return home.\n\nSweet was that evening. My cousins, full of exhilaration, were so\neloquent in narrative and comment, that their fluency covered St.\nJohn s taciturnity: he was sincerely glad to see his sisters; but in\ntheir glow of fervour and flow of joy he could not sympathise. The\nevent of the day that is, the return of Diana and Mary pleased him; but\nthe accompaniments of that event, the glad tumult, the garrulous glee\nof reception irked him: I saw he wished the calmer morrow was come. In\nthe very meridian of the night s enjoyment, about an hour after tea, a\nrap was heard at the door. Hannah entered with the intimation that  a\npoor lad was come, at that unlikely time, to fetch Mr. Rivers to see\nhis mother, who was drawing away. \n\n Where does she live, Hannah? \n\n Clear up at Whitcross Brow, almost four miles off, and moor and moss\nall the way. \n\n Tell him I will go. \n\n I m sure, sir, you had better not. It s the worst road to travel after\ndark that can be: there s no track at all over the bog. And then it is\nsuch a bitter night the keenest wind you ever felt. You had better send\nword, sir, that you will be there in the morning. \n\nBut he was already in the passage, putting on his cloak; and without\none objection, one murmur, he departed. It was then nine o clock: he\ndid not return till midnight. Starved and tired enough he was: but he\nlooked happier than when he set out. He had performed an act of duty;\nmade an exertion; felt his own strength to do and deny, and was on\nbetter terms with himself.\n\nI am afraid the whole of the ensuing week tried his patience. It was\nChristmas week: we took to no settled employment, but spent it in a\nsort of merry domestic dissipation. The air of the moors, the freedom\nof home, the dawn of prosperity, acted on Diana and Mary s spirits like\nsome life-giving elixir: they were gay from morning till noon, and from\nnoon till night. They could always talk; and their discourse, witty,\npithy, original, had such charms for me, that I preferred listening to,\nand sharing in it, to doing anything else. St. John did not rebuke our\nvivacity; but he escaped from it: he was seldom in the house; his\nparish was large, the population scattered, and he found daily business\nin visiting the sick and poor in its different districts.\n\nOne morning at breakfast, Diana, after looking a little pensive for\nsome minutes, asked him,  If his plans were yet unchanged. \n\n Unchanged and unchangeable,  was the reply. And he proceeded to inform\nus that his departure from England was now definitively fixed for the\nensuing year.\n\n And Rosamond Oliver?  suggested Mary, the words seeming to escape her\nlips involuntarily: for no sooner had she uttered them, than she made a\ngesture as if wishing to recall them. St. John had a book in his\nhand it was his unsocial custom to read at meals he closed it, and\nlooked up.\n\n Rosamond Oliver,  said he,  is about to be married to Mr. Granby, one\nof the best connected and most estimable residents in S , grandson and\nheir to Sir Frederic Granby: I had the intelligence from her father\nyesterday. \n\nHis sisters looked at each other and at me; we all three looked at him:\nhe was serene as glass.\n\n The match must have been got up hastily,  said Diana:  they cannot\nhave known each other long. \n\n But two months: they met in October at the county ball at S . But\nwhere there are no obstacles to a union, as in the present case, where\nthe connection is in every point desirable, delays are unnecessary:\nthey will be married as soon as S  Place, which Sir Frederic gives up\nto them, can be refitted for their reception. \n\nThe first time I found St. John alone after this communication, I felt\ntempted to inquire if the event distressed him: but he seemed so little\nto need sympathy, that, so far from venturing to offer him more, I\nexperienced some shame at the recollection of what I had already\nhazarded. Besides, I was out of practice in talking to him: his reserve\nwas again frozen over, and my frankness was congealed beneath it. He\nhad not kept his promise of treating me like his sisters; he\ncontinually made little chilling differences between us, which did not\nat all tend to the development of cordiality: in short, now that I was\nacknowledged his kinswoman, and lived under the same roof with him, I\nfelt the distance between us to be far greater than when he had known\nme only as the village schoolmistress. When I remembered how far I had\nonce been admitted to his confidence, I could hardly comprehend his\npresent frigidity.\n\nSuch being the case, I felt not a little surprised when he raised his\nhead suddenly from the desk over which he was stooping, and said \n\n You see, Jane, the battle is fought and the victory won. \n\nStartled at being thus addressed, I did not immediately reply: after a\nmoment s hesitation I answered \n\n But are you sure you are not in the position of those conquerors whose\ntriumphs have cost them too dear? Would not such another ruin you? \n\n I think not; and if I were, it does not much signify; I shall never be\ncalled upon to contend for such another. The event of the conflict is\ndecisive: my way is now clear; I thank God for it!  So saying, he\nreturned to his papers and his silence.\n\nAs our mutual happiness (_i.e._, Diana s, Mary s, and mine) settled\ninto a quieter character, and we resumed our usual habits and regular\nstudies, St. John stayed more at home: he sat with us in the same room,\nsometimes for hours together. While Mary drew, Diana pursued a course\nof encyclop dic reading she had (to my awe and amazement) undertaken,\nand I fagged away at German, he pondered a mystic lore of his own: that\nof some Eastern tongue, the acquisition of which he thought necessary\nto his plans.\n\nThus engaged, he appeared, sitting in his own recess, quiet and\nabsorbed enough; but that blue eye of his had a habit of leaving the\noutlandish-looking grammar, and wandering over, and sometimes fixing\nupon us, his fellow-students, with a curious intensity of observation:\nif caught, it would be instantly withdrawn; yet ever and anon, it\nreturned searchingly to our table. I wondered what it meant: I\nwondered, too, at the punctual satisfaction he never failed to exhibit\non an occasion that seemed to me of small moment, namely, my weekly\nvisit to Morton school; and still more was I puzzled when, if the day\nwas unfavourable, if there was snow, or rain, or high wind, and his\nsisters urged me not to go, he would invariably make light of their\nsolicitude, and encourage me to accomplish the task without regard to\nthe elements.\n\n Jane is not such a weakling as you would make her,  he would say:  she\ncan bear a mountain blast, or a shower, or a few flakes of snow, as\nwell as any of us. Her constitution is both sound and elastic; better\ncalculated to endure variations of climate than many more robust. \n\nAnd when I returned, sometimes a good deal tired, and not a little\nweather-beaten, I never dared complain, because I saw that to murmur\nwould be to vex him: on all occasions fortitude pleased him; the\nreverse was a special annoyance.\n\nOne afternoon, however, I got leave to stay at home, because I really\nhad a cold. His sisters were gone to Morton in my stead: I sat reading\nSchiller; he, deciphering his crabbed Oriental scrolls. As I exchanged\na translation for an exercise, I happened to look his way: there I\nfound myself under the influence of the ever-watchful blue eye. How\nlong it had been searching me through and through, and over and over, I\ncannot tell: so keen was it, and yet so cold, I felt for the moment\nsuperstitious as if I were sitting in the room with something uncanny.\n\n Jane, what are you doing? \n\n Learning German. \n\n I want you to give up German and learn Hindostanee. \n\n You are not in earnest? \n\n In such earnest that I must have it so: and I will tell you why. \n\nHe then went on to explain that Hindostanee was the language he was\nhimself at present studying; that, as he advanced, he was apt to forget\nthe commencement; that it would assist him greatly to have a pupil with\nwhom he might again and again go over the elements, and so fix them\nthoroughly in his mind; that his choice had hovered for some time\nbetween me and his sisters; but that he had fixed on me because he saw\nI could sit at a task the longest of the three. Would I do him this\nfavour? I should not, perhaps, have to make the sacrifice long, as it\nwanted now barely three months to his departure.\n\nSt. John was not a man to be lightly refused: you felt that every\nimpression made on him, either for pain or pleasure, was deep-graved\nand permanent. I consented. When Diana and Mary returned, the former\nfound her scholar transferred from her to her brother: she laughed, and\nboth she and Mary agreed that St. John should never have persuaded them\nto such a step. He answered quietly \n\n I know it. \n\nI found him a very patient, very forbearing, and yet an exacting\nmaster: he expected me to do a great deal; and when I fulfilled his\nexpectations, he, in his own way, fully testified his approbation. By\ndegrees, he acquired a certain influence over me that took away my\nliberty of mind: his praise and notice were more restraining than his\nindifference. I could no longer talk or laugh freely when he was by,\nbecause a tiresomely importunate instinct reminded me that vivacity (at\nleast in me) was distasteful to him. I was so fully aware that only\nserious moods and occupations were acceptable, that in his presence\nevery effort to sustain or follow any other became vain: I fell under a\nfreezing spell. When he said  go,  I went;  come,  I came;  do this,  I\ndid it. But I did not love my servitude: I wished, many a time, he had\ncontinued to neglect me.\n\nOne evening when, at bedtime, his sisters and I stood round him,\nbidding him good-night, he kissed each of them, as was his custom; and,\nas was equally his custom, he gave me his hand. Diana, who chanced to\nbe in a frolicsome humour (_she_ was not painfully controlled by his\nwill; for hers, in another way, was as strong), exclaimed \n\n St. John! you used to call Jane your third sister, but you don t treat\nher as such: you should kiss her too. \n\nShe pushed me towards him. I thought Diana very provoking, and felt\nuncomfortably confused; and while I was thus thinking and feeling, St.\nJohn bent his head; his Greek face was brought to a level with mine,\nhis eyes questioned my eyes piercingly he kissed me. There are no such\nthings as marble kisses or ice kisses, or I should say my\necclesiastical cousin s salute belonged to one of these classes; but\nthere may be experiment kisses, and his was an experiment kiss. When\ngiven, he viewed me to learn the result; it was not striking: I am sure\nI did not blush; perhaps I might have turned a little pale, for I felt\nas if this kiss were a seal affixed to my fetters. He never omitted the\nceremony afterwards, and the gravity and quiescence with which I\nunderwent it, seemed to invest it for him with a certain charm.\n\nAs for me, I daily wished more to please him; but to do so, I felt\ndaily more and more that I must disown half my nature, stifle half my\nfaculties, wrest my tastes from their original bent, force myself to\nthe adoption of pursuits for which I had no natural vocation. He wanted\nto train me to an elevation I could never reach; it racked me hourly to\naspire to the standard he uplifted. The thing was as impossible as to\nmould my irregular features to his correct and classic pattern, to give\nto my changeable green eyes the sea-blue tint and solemn lustre of his\nown.\n\nNot his ascendancy alone, however, held me in thrall at present. Of\nlate it had been easy enough for me to look sad: a cankering evil sat\nat my heart and drained my happiness at its source the evil of\nsuspense.\n\nPerhaps you think I had forgotten Mr. Rochester, reader, amidst these\nchanges of place and fortune. Not for a moment. His idea was still with\nme, because it was not a vapour sunshine could disperse, nor a\nsand-traced effigy storms could wash away; it was a name graven on a\ntablet, fated to last as long as the marble it inscribed. The craving\nto know what had become of him followed me everywhere; when I was at\nMorton, I re-entered my cottage every evening to think of that; and now\nat Moor House, I sought my bedroom each night to brood over it.\n\nIn the course of my necessary correspondence with Mr. Briggs about the\nwill, I had inquired if he knew anything of Mr. Rochester s present\nresidence and state of health; but, as St. John had conjectured, he was\nquite ignorant of all concerning him. I then wrote to Mrs. Fairfax,\nentreating information on the subject. I had calculated with certainty\non this step answering my end: I felt sure it would elicit an early\nanswer. I was astonished when a fortnight passed without reply; but\nwhen two months wore away, and day after day the post arrived and\nbrought nothing for me, I fell a prey to the keenest anxiety.\n\nI wrote again: there was a chance of my first letter having missed.\nRenewed hope followed renewed effort: it shone like the former for some\nweeks, then, like it, it faded, flickered: not a line, not a word\nreached me. When half a year wasted in vain expectancy, my hope died\nout, and then I felt dark indeed.\n\nA fine spring shone round me, which I could not enjoy. Summer\napproached; Diana tried to cheer me: she said I looked ill, and wished\nto accompany me to the sea-side. This St. John opposed; he said I did\nnot want dissipation, I wanted employment; my present life was too\npurposeless, I required an aim; and, I suppose, by way of supplying\ndeficiencies, he prolonged still further my lessons in Hindostanee, and\ngrew more urgent in requiring their accomplishment: and I, like a fool,\nnever thought of resisting him I could not resist him.\n\nOne day I had come to my studies in lower spirits than usual; the ebb\nwas occasioned by a poignantly felt disappointment. Hannah had told me\nin the morning there was a letter for me, and when I went down to take\nit, almost certain that the long-looked for tidings were vouchsafed me\nat last, I found only an unimportant note from Mr. Briggs on business.\nThe bitter check had wrung from me some tears; and now, as I sat poring\nover the crabbed characters and flourishing tropes of an Indian scribe,\nmy eyes filled again.\n\nSt. John called me to his side to read; in attempting to do this my\nvoice failed me: words were lost in sobs. He and I were the only\noccupants of the parlour: Diana was practising her music in the\ndrawing-room, Mary was gardening it was a very fine May day, clear,\nsunny, and breezy. My companion expressed no surprise at this emotion,\nnor did he question me as to its cause; he only said \n\n We will wait a few minutes, Jane, till you are more composed.  And\nwhile I smothered the paroxysm with all haste, he sat calm and patient,\nleaning on his desk, and looking like a physician watching with the eye\nof science an expected and fully understood crisis in a patient s\nmalady. Having stifled my sobs, wiped my eyes, and muttered something\nabout not being very well that morning, I resumed my task, and\nsucceeded in completing it. St. John put away my books and his, locked\nhis desk, and said \n\n Now, Jane, you shall take a walk; and with me. \n\n I will call Diana and Mary. \n\n No; I want only one companion this morning, and that must be you. Put\non your things; go out by the kitchen-door: take the road towards the\nhead of Marsh Glen: I will join you in a moment. \n\nI know no medium: I never in my life have known any medium in my\ndealings with positive, hard characters, antagonistic to my own,\nbetween absolute submission and determined revolt. I have always\nfaithfully observed the one, up to the very moment of bursting,\nsometimes with volcanic vehemence, into the other; and as neither\npresent circumstances warranted, nor my present mood inclined me to\nmutiny, I observed careful obedience to St. John s directions; and in\nten minutes I was treading the wild track of the glen, side by side\nwith him.\n\nThe breeze was from the west: it came over the hills, sweet with scents\nof heath and rush; the sky was of stainless blue; the stream descending\nthe ravine, swelled with past spring rains, poured along plentiful and\nclear, catching golden gleams from the sun, and sapphire tints from the\nfirmament. As we advanced and left the track, we trod a soft turf,\nmossy fine and emerald green, minutely enamelled with a tiny white\nflower, and spangled with a star-like yellow blossom: the hills,\nmeantime, shut us quite in; for the glen, towards its head, wound to\ntheir very core.\n\n Let us rest here,  said St. John, as we reached the first stragglers\nof a battalion of rocks, guarding a sort of pass, beyond which the beck\nrushed down a waterfall; and where, still a little farther, the\nmountain shook off turf and flower, had only heath for raiment and crag\nfor gem where it exaggerated the wild to the savage, and exchanged the\nfresh for the frowning where it guarded the forlorn hope of solitude,\nand a last refuge for silence.\n\nI took a seat: St. John stood near me. He looked up the pass and down\nthe hollow; his glance wandered away with the stream, and returned to\ntraverse the unclouded heaven which coloured it: he removed his hat,\nlet the breeze stir his hair and kiss his brow. He seemed in communion\nwith the genius of the haunt: with his eye he bade farewell to\nsomething.\n\n And I shall see it again,  he said aloud,  in dreams when I sleep by\nthe Ganges: and again in a more remote hour when another slumber\novercomes me on the shore of a darker stream! \n\nStrange words of a strange love! An austere patriot s passion for his\nfatherland! He sat down; for half-an-hour we never spoke; neither he to\nme nor I to him: that interval past, he recommenced \n\n Jane, I go in six weeks; I have taken my berth in an East Indiaman\nwhich sails on the 20th of June. \n\n God will protect you; for you have undertaken His work,  I answered.\n\n Yes,  said he,  there is my glory and joy. I am the servant of an\ninfallible Master. I am not going out under human guidance, subject to\nthe defective laws and erring control of my feeble fellow-worms: my\nking, my lawgiver, my captain, is the All-perfect. It seems strange to\nme that all round me do not burn to enlist under the same banner, to\njoin in the same enterprise. \n\n All have not your powers, and it would be folly for the feeble to wish\nto march with the strong. \n\n I do not speak to the feeble, or think of them: I address only such as\nare worthy of the work, and competent to accomplish it. \n\n Those are few in number, and difficult to discover. \n\n You say truly; but when found, it is right to stir them up to urge and\nexhort them to the effort to show them what their gifts are, and why\nthey were given to speak Heaven s message in their ear, to offer them,\ndirect from God, a place in the ranks of His chosen. \n\n If they are really qualified for the task, will not their own hearts\nbe the first to inform them of it? \n\nI felt as if an awful charm was framing round and gathering over me: I\ntrembled to hear some fatal word spoken which would at once declare and\nrivet the spell.\n\n And what does _your_ heart say?  demanded St. John.\n\n My heart is mute, my heart is mute,  I answered, struck and thrilled.\n\n Then I must speak for it,  continued the deep, relentless voice.\n Jane, come with me to India: come as my helpmeet and fellow-labourer. \n\nThe glen and sky spun round: the hills heaved! It was as if I had heard\na summons from Heaven as if a visionary messenger, like him of\nMacedonia, had enounced,  Come over and help us!  But I was no\napostle, I could not behold the herald, I could not receive his call.\n\n Oh, St. John!  I cried,  have some mercy! \n\nI appealed to one who, in the discharge of what he believed his duty,\nknew neither mercy nor remorse. He continued \n\n God and nature intended you for a missionary s wife. It is not\npersonal, but mental endowments they have given you: you are formed for\nlabour, not for love. A missionary s wife you must shall be. You shall\nbe mine: I claim you not for my pleasure, but for my Sovereign s\nservice. \n\n I am not fit for it: I have no vocation,  I said.\n\nHe had calculated on these first objections: he was not irritated by\nthem. Indeed, as he leaned back against the crag behind him, folded his\narms on his chest, and fixed his countenance, I saw he was prepared for\na long and trying opposition, and had taken in a stock of patience to\nlast him to its close resolved, however, that that close should be\nconquest for him.\n\n Humility, Jane,  said he,  is the groundwork of Christian virtues: you\nsay right that you are not fit for the work. Who is fit for it? Or who,\nthat ever was truly called, believed himself worthy of the summons? I,\nfor instance, am but dust and ashes. With St. Paul, I acknowledge\nmyself the chiefest of sinners; but I do not suffer this sense of my\npersonal vileness to daunt me. I know my Leader: that He is just as\nwell as mighty; and while He has chosen a feeble instrument to perform\na great task, He will, from the boundless stores of His providence,\nsupply the inadequacy of the means to the end. Think like me,\nJane trust like me. It is the Rock of Ages I ask you to lean on: do not\ndoubt but it will bear the weight of your human weakness. \n\n I do not understand a missionary life: I have never studied missionary\nlabours. \n\n There I, humble as I am, can give you the aid you want: I can set you\nyour task from hour to hour; stand by you always; help you from moment\nto moment. This I could do in the beginning: soon (for I know your\npowers) you would be as strong and apt as myself, and would not require\nmy help. \n\n But my powers where are they for this undertaking? I do not feel them.\nNothing speaks or stirs in me while you talk. I am sensible of no light\nkindling no life quickening no voice counselling or cheering. Oh, I\nwish I could make you see how much my mind is at this moment like a\nrayless dungeon, with one shrinking fear fettered in its depths the\nfear of being persuaded by you to attempt what I cannot accomplish! \n\n I have an answer for you hear it. I have watched you ever since we\nfirst met: I have made you my study for ten months. I have proved you\nin that time by sundry tests: and what have I seen and elicited? In the\nvillage school I found you could perform well, punctually, uprightly,\nlabour uncongenial to your habits and inclinations; I saw you could\nperform it with capacity and tact: you could win while you controlled.\nIn the calm with which you learnt you had become suddenly rich, I read\na mind clear of the vice of Demas: lucre had no undue power over you.\nIn the resolute readiness with which you cut your wealth into four\nshares, keeping but one to yourself, and relinquishing the three others\nto the claim of abstract justice, I recognised a soul that revelled in\nthe flame and excitement of sacrifice. In the tractability with which,\nat my wish, you forsook a study in which you were interested, and\nadopted another because it interested me; in the untiring assiduity\nwith which you have since persevered in it in the unflagging energy and\nunshaken temper with which you have met its difficulties I acknowledge\nthe complement of the qualities I seek. Jane, you are docile, diligent,\ndisinterested, faithful, constant, and courageous; very gentle, and\nvery heroic: cease to mistrust yourself I can trust you unreservedly.\nAs a conductress of Indian schools, and a helper amongst Indian women,\nyour assistance will be to me invaluable. \n\nMy iron shroud contracted round me; persuasion advanced with slow sure\nstep. Shut my eyes as I would, these last words of his succeeded in\nmaking the way, which had seemed blocked up, comparatively clear. My\nwork, which had appeared so vague, so hopelessly diffuse, condensed\nitself as he proceeded, and assumed a definite form under his shaping\nhand. He waited for an answer. I demanded a quarter of an hour to\nthink, before I again hazarded a reply.\n\n Very willingly,  he rejoined; and rising, he strode a little distance\nup the pass, threw himself down on a swell of heath, and there lay\nstill.\n\n\nHe threw himself down on a swell of heath, and there lay still\n\n I _can_ do what he wants me to do: I am forced to see and acknowledge\nthat,  I meditated, that is, if life be spared me. But I feel mine is\nnot the existence to be long protracted under an Indian sun. What then?\nHe does not care for that: when my time came to die, he would resign\nme, in all serenity and sanctity, to the God who gave me. The case is\nvery plain before me. In leaving England, I should leave a loved but\nempty land Mr. Rochester is not there; and if he were, what is, what\ncan that ever be to me? My business is to live without him now: nothing\nso absurd, so weak as to drag on from day to day, as if I were waiting\nsome impossible change in circumstances, which might reunite me to him.\nOf course (as St. John once said) I must seek another interest in life\nto replace the one lost: is not the occupation he now offers me truly\nthe most glorious man can adopt or God assign? Is it not, by its noble\ncares and sublime results, the one best calculated to fill the void\nleft by uptorn affections and demolished hopes? I believe I must say,\nYes and yet I shudder. Alas! If I join St. John, I abandon half myself:\nif I go to India, I go to premature death. And how will the interval\nbetween leaving England for India, and India for the grave, be filled?\nOh, I know well! That, too, is very clear to my vision. By straining to\nsatisfy St. John till my sinews ache, I _shall_ satisfy him to the\nfinest central point and farthest outward circle of his expectations.\nIf I _do_ go with him if I _do_ make the sacrifice he urges, I will\nmake it absolutely: I will throw all on the altar heart, vitals, the\nentire victim. He will never love me; but he shall approve me; I will\nshow him energies he has not yet seen, resources he has never\nsuspected. Yes, I can work as hard as he can, and with as little\ngrudging.\n\n Consent, then, to his demand is possible: but for one item one\ndreadful item. It is that he asks me to be his wife, and has no more of\na husband s heart for me than that frowning giant of a rock, down which\nthe stream is foaming in yonder gorge. He prizes me as a soldier would\na good weapon; and that is all. Unmarried to him, this would never\ngrieve me; but can I let him complete his calculations coolly put into\npractice his plans go through the wedding ceremony? Can I receive from\nhim the bridal ring, endure all the forms of love (which I doubt not he\nwould scrupulously observe) and know that the spirit was quite absent?\nCan I bear the consciousness that every endearment he bestows is a\nsacrifice made on principle? No: such a martyrdom would be monstrous. I\nwill never undergo it. As his sister, I might accompany him not as his\nwife: I will tell him so. \n\nI looked towards the knoll: there he lay, still as a prostrate column;\nhis face turned to me: his eye beaming watchful and keen. He started to\nhis feet and approached me.\n\n I am ready to go to India, if I may go free. \n\n Your answer requires a commentary,  he said;  it is not clear. \n\n You have hitherto been my adopted brother I, your adopted sister: let\nus continue as such: you and I had better not marry. \n\nHe shook his head.  Adopted fraternity will not do in this case. If you\nwere my real sister it would be different: I should take you, and seek\nno wife. But as it is, either our union must be consecrated and sealed\nby marriage, or it cannot exist: practical obstacles oppose themselves\nto any other plan. Do you not see it, Jane? Consider a moment your\nstrong sense will guide you. \n\nI did consider; and still my sense, such as it was, directed me only to\nthe fact that we did not love each other as man and wife should: and\ntherefore it inferred we ought not to marry. I said so.  St. John,  I\nreturned,  I regard you as a brother you, me as a sister: so let us\ncontinue. \n\n We cannot we cannot,  he answered, with short, sharp determination:\n it would not do. You have said you will go with me to India:\nremember you have said that. \n\n Conditionally. \n\n Well well. To the main point the departure with me from England, the\nco-operation with me in my future labours you do not object. You have\nalready as good as put your hand to the plough: you are too consistent\nto withdraw it. You have but one end to keep in view how the work you\nhave undertaken can best be done. Simplify your complicated interests,\nfeelings, thoughts, wishes, aims; merge all considerations in one\npurpose: that of fulfilling with effect with power the mission of your\ngreat Master. To do so, you must have a coadjutor: not a brother that\nis a loose tie but a husband. I, too, do not want a sister: a sister\nmight any day be taken from me. I want a wife: the sole helpmeet I can\ninfluence efficiently in life, and retain absolutely till death. \n\nI shuddered as he spoke: I felt his influence in my marrow his hold on\nmy limbs.\n\n Seek one elsewhere than in me, St. John: seek one fitted to you. \n\n One fitted to my purpose, you mean fitted to my vocation. Again I tell\nyou it is not the insignificant private individual the mere man, with\nthe man s selfish senses I wish to mate: it is the missionary. \n\n And I will give the missionary my energies it is all he wants but not\nmyself: that would be only adding the husk and shell to the kernel. For\nthem he has no use: I retain them. \n\n You cannot you ought not. Do you think God will be satisfied with half\nan oblation? Will He accept a mutilated sacrifice? It is the cause of\nGod I advocate: it is under His standard I enlist you. I cannot accept\non His behalf a divided allegiance: it must be entire. \n\n Oh! I will give my heart to God,  I said.  _You_ do not want it. \n\nI will not swear, reader, that there was not something of repressed\nsarcasm both in the tone in which I uttered this sentence, and in the\nfeeling that accompanied it. I had silently feared St. John till now,\nbecause I had not understood him. He had held me in awe, because he had\nheld me in doubt. How much of him was saint, how much mortal, I could\nnot heretofore tell: but revelations were being made in this\nconference: the analysis of his nature was proceeding before my eyes. I\nsaw his fallibilities: I comprehended them. I understood that, sitting\nthere where I did, on the bank of heath, and with that handsome form\nbefore me, I sat at the feet of a man, erring as I. The veil fell from\nhis hardness and despotism. Having felt in him the presence of these\nqualities, I felt his imperfection and took courage. I was with an\nequal one with whom I might argue one whom, if I saw good, I might\nresist.\n\nHe was silent after I had uttered the last sentence, and I presently\nrisked an upward glance at his countenance. His eye, bent on me,\nexpressed at once stern surprise and keen inquiry.  Is she sarcastic,\nand sarcastic to _me!_  it seemed to say.  What does this signify? \n\n Do not let us forget that this is a solemn matter,  he said ere long;\n one of which we may neither think nor talk lightly without sin. I\ntrust, Jane, you are in earnest when you say you will serve your heart\nto God: it is all I want. Once wrench your heart from man, and fix it\non your Maker, the advancement of that Maker s spiritual kingdom on\nearth will be your chief delight and endeavour; you will be ready to do\nat once whatever furthers that end. You will see what impetus would be\ngiven to your efforts and mine by our physical and mental union in\nmarriage: the only union that gives a character of permanent conformity\nto the destinies and designs of human beings; and, passing over all\nminor caprices all trivial difficulties and delicacies of feeling all\nscruple about the degree, kind, strength or tenderness of mere personal\ninclination you will hasten to enter into that union at once. \n\n Shall I?  I said briefly; and I looked at his features, beautiful in\ntheir harmony, but strangely formidable in their still severity; at his\nbrow, commanding but not open; at his eyes, bright and deep and\nsearching, but never soft; at his tall imposing figure; and fancied\nmyself in idea _his wife_. Oh! it would never do! As his curate, his\ncomrade, all would be right: I would cross oceans with him in that\ncapacity; toil under Eastern suns, in Asian deserts with him in that\noffice; admire and emulate his courage and devotion and vigour;\naccommodate quietly to his masterhood; smile undisturbed at his\nineradicable ambition; discriminate the Christian from the man:\nprofoundly esteem the one, and freely forgive the other. I should\nsuffer often, no doubt, attached to him only in this capacity: my body\nwould be under rather a stringent yoke, but my heart and mind would be\nfree. I should still have my unblighted self to turn to: my natural\nunenslaved feelings with which to communicate in moments of loneliness.\nThere would be recesses in my mind which would be only mine, to which\nhe never came, and sentiments growing there fresh and sheltered which\nhis austerity could never blight, nor his measured warrior-march\ntrample down: but as his wife at his side always, and always\nrestrained, and always checked forced to keep the fire of my nature\ncontinually low, to compel it to burn inwardly and never utter a cry,\nthough the imprisoned flame consumed vital after vital _this_ would be\nunendurable.\n\n St. John!  I exclaimed, when I had got so far in my meditation.\n\n Well?  he answered icily.\n\n I repeat I freely consent to go with you as your fellow-missionary,\nbut not as your wife; I cannot marry you and become part of you. \n\n A part of me you must become,  he answered steadily;  otherwise the\nwhole bargain is void. How can I, a man not yet thirty, take out with\nme to India a girl of nineteen, unless she be married to me? How can we\nbe for ever together sometimes in solitudes, sometimes amidst savage\ntribes and unwed? \n\n Very well,  I said shortly;  under the circumstances, quite as well as\nif I were either your real sister, or a man and a clergyman like\nyourself. \n\n It is known that you are not my sister; I cannot introduce you as\nsuch: to attempt it would be to fasten injurious suspicions on us both.\nAnd for the rest, though you have a man s vigorous brain, you have a\nwoman s heart and it would not do. \n\n It would do,  I affirmed with some disdain,  perfectly well. I have a\nwoman s heart, but not where you are concerned; for you I have only a\ncomrade s constancy; a fellow-soldier s frankness, fidelity,\nfraternity, if you like; a neophyte s respect and submission to his\nhierophant: nothing more don t fear. \n\n It is what I want,  he said, speaking to himself;  it is just what I\nwant. And there are obstacles in the way: they must be hewn down. Jane,\nyou would not repent marrying me be certain of that; we _must_ be\nmarried. I repeat it: there is no other way; and undoubtedly enough of\nlove would follow upon marriage to render the union right even in your\neyes. \n\n I scorn your idea of love,  I could not help saying, as I rose up and\nstood before him, leaning my back against the rock.  I scorn the\ncounterfeit sentiment you offer: yes, St. John, and I scorn you when\nyou offer it. \n\nHe looked at me fixedly, compressing his well-cut lips while he did so.\nWhether he was incensed or surprised, or what, it was not easy to tell:\nhe could command his countenance thoroughly.\n\n I scarcely expected to hear that expression from you,  he said:  I\nthink I have done and uttered nothing to deserve scorn. \n\nI was touched by his gentle tone, and overawed by his high, calm mien.\n\n Forgive me the words, St. John; but it is your own fault that I have\nbeen roused to speak so unguardedly. You have introduced a topic on\nwhich our natures are at variance a topic we should never discuss: the\nvery name of love is an apple of discord between us. If the reality\nwere required, what should we do? How should we feel? My dear cousin,\nabandon your scheme of marriage forget it. \n\n No,  said he;  it is a long-cherished scheme, and the only one which\ncan secure my great end: but I shall urge you no further at present.\nTo-morrow, I leave home for Cambridge: I have many friends there to\nwhom I should wish to say farewell. I shall be absent a fortnight take\nthat space of time to consider my offer: and do not forget that if you\nreject it, it is not me you deny, but God. Through my means, He opens\nto you a noble career; as my wife only can you enter upon it. Refuse to\nbe my wife, and you limit yourself for ever to a track of selfish ease\nand barren obscurity. Tremble lest in that case you should be numbered\nwith those who have denied the faith, and are worse than infidels! \n\nHe had done. Turning from me, he once more\n\n Looked to river, looked to hill. \n\n\nBut this time his feelings were all pent in his heart: I was not worthy\nto hear them uttered. As I walked by his side homeward, I read well in\nhis iron silence all he felt towards me: the disappointment of an\naustere and despotic nature, which has met resistance where it expected\nsubmission the disapprobation of a cool, inflexible judgment, which has\ndetected in another feelings and views in which it has no power to\nsympathise: in short, as a man, he would have wished to coerce me into\nobedience: it was only as a sincere Christian he bore so patiently with\nmy perversity, and allowed so long a space for reflection and\nrepentance.\n\nThat night, after he had kissed his sisters, he thought proper to\nforget even to shake hands with me, but left the room in silence.\nI who, though I had no love, had much friendship for him was hurt by\nthe marked omission: so much hurt that tears started to my eyes.\n\n I see you and St. John have been quarrelling, Jane,  said Diana,\n during your walk on the moor. But go after him; he is now lingering in\nthe passage expecting you he will make it up. \n\nI have not much pride under such circumstances: I would always rather\nbe happy than dignified; and I ran after him he stood at the foot of\nthe stairs.\n\n Good-night, St. John,  said I.\n\n Good-night, Jane,  he replied calmly.\n\n Then shake hands,  I added.\n\nWhat a cold, loose touch, he impressed on my fingers! He was deeply\ndispleased by what had occurred that day; cordiality would not warm,\nnor tears move him. No happy reconciliation was to be had with him no\ncheering smile or generous word: but still the Christian was patient\nand placid; and when I asked him if he forgave me, he answered that he\nwas not in the habit of cherishing the remembrance of vexation; that he\nhad nothing to forgive, not having been offended.\n\nAnd with that answer he left me. I would much rather he had knocked me\ndown.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV\n\n\nHe did not leave for Cambridge the next day, as he had said he would.\nHe deferred his departure a whole week, and during that time he made me\nfeel what severe punishment a good yet stern, a conscientious yet\nimplacable man can inflict on one who has offended him. Without one\novert act of hostility, one upbraiding word, he contrived to impress me\nmomently with the conviction that I was put beyond the pale of his\nfavour.\n\nNot that St. John harboured a spirit of unchristian vindictiveness not\nthat he would have injured a hair of my head, if it had been fully in\nhis power to do so. Both by nature and principle, he was superior to\nthe mean gratification of vengeance: he had forgiven me for saying I\nscorned him and his love, but he had not forgotten the words; and as\nlong as he and I lived he never would forget them. I saw by his look,\nwhen he turned to me, that they were always written on the air between\nme and him; whenever I spoke, they sounded in my voice to his ear, and\ntheir echo toned every answer he gave me.\n\nHe did not abstain from conversing with me: he even called me as usual\neach morning to join him at his desk; and I fear the corrupt man within\nhim had a pleasure unimparted to, and unshared by, the pure Christian,\nin evincing with what skill he could, while acting and speaking\napparently just as usual, extract from every deed and every phrase the\nspirit of interest and approval which had formerly communicated a\ncertain austere charm to his language and manner. To me, he was in\nreality become no longer flesh, but marble; his eye was a cold, bright,\nblue gem; his tongue a speaking instrument nothing more.\n\nAll this was torture to me refined, lingering torture. It kept up a\nslow fire of indignation and a trembling trouble of grief, which\nharassed and crushed me altogether. I felt how if I were his wife, this\ngood man, pure as the deep sunless source, could soon kill me, without\ndrawing from my veins a single drop of blood, or receiving on his own\ncrystal conscience the faintest stain of crime. Especially I felt this\nwhen I made any attempt to propitiate him. No ruth met my ruth. _He_\nexperienced no suffering from estrangement no yearning after\nreconciliation; and though, more than once, my fast falling tears\nblistered the page over which we both bent, they produced no more\neffect on him than if his heart had been really a matter of stone or\nmetal. To his sisters, meantime, he was somewhat kinder than usual: as\nif afraid that mere coldness would not sufficiently convince me how\ncompletely I was banished and banned, he added the force of contrast;\nand this I am sure he did not by malice, but on principle.\n\nThe night before he left home, happening to see him walking in the\ngarden about sunset, and remembering, as I looked at him, that this\nman, alienated as he now was, had once saved my life, and that we were\nnear relations, I was moved to make a last attempt to regain his\nfriendship. I went out and approached him as he stood leaning over the\nlittle gate; I spoke to the point at once.\n\n St. John, I am unhappy because you are still angry with me. Let us be\nfriends. \n\n I hope we are friends,  was the unmoved reply; while he still watched\nthe rising of the moon, which he had been contemplating as I\napproached.\n\n No, St. John, we are not friends as we were. You know that. \n\n Are we not? That is wrong. For my part, I wish you no ill and all\ngood. \n\n I believe you, St. John; for I am sure you are incapable of wishing\nany one ill; but, as I am your kinswoman, I should desire somewhat more\nof affection than that sort of general philanthropy you extend to mere\nstrangers. \n\n Of course,  he said.  Your wish is reasonable, and I am far from\nregarding you as a stranger. \n\nThis, spoken in a cool, tranquil tone, was mortifying and baffling\nenough. Had I attended to the suggestions of pride and ire, I should\nimmediately have left him; but something worked within me more strongly\nthan those feelings could. I deeply venerated my cousin s talent and\nprinciple. His friendship was of value to me: to lose it tried me\nseverely. I would not so soon relinquish the attempt to reconquer it.\n\n Must we part in this way, St. John? And when you go to India, will you\nleave me so, without a kinder word than you have yet spoken? \n\nHe now turned quite from the moon and faced me.\n\n When I go to India, Jane, will I leave you! What! do you not go to\nIndia? \n\n You said I could not unless I married you. \n\n And you will not marry me! You adhere to that resolution? \n\nReader, do you know, as I do, what terror those cold people can put\ninto the ice of their questions? How much of the fall of the avalanche\nis in their anger? of the breaking up of the frozen sea in their\ndispleasure?\n\n No. St. John, I will not marry you. I adhere to my resolution. \n\nThe avalanche had shaken and slid a little forward, but it did not yet\ncrash down.\n\n Once more, why this refusal?  he asked.\n\n Formerly,  I answered,  because you did not love me; now, I reply,\nbecause you almost hate me. If I were to marry you, you would kill me.\nYou are killing me now. \n\nHis lips and cheeks turned white quite white.\n\n _I should kill you_ _I am killing you_? Your words are such as ought\nnot to be used: violent, unfeminine, and untrue. They betray an\nunfortunate state of mind: they merit severe reproof: they would seem\ninexcusable, but that it is the duty of man to forgive his fellow even\nuntil seventy-and-seven times. \n\nI had finished the business now. While earnestly wishing to erase from\nhis mind the trace of my former offence, I had stamped on that\ntenacious surface another and far deeper impression: I had burnt it in.\n\n Now you will indeed hate me,  I said.  It is useless to attempt to\nconciliate you: I see I have made an eternal enemy of you. \n\nA fresh wrong did these words inflict: the worse, because they touched\non the truth. That bloodless lip quivered to a temporary spasm. I knew\nthe steely ire I had whetted. I was heart-wrung.\n\n You utterly misinterpret my words,  I said, at once seizing his hand:\n I have no intention to grieve or pain you indeed, I have not. \n\nMost bitterly he smiled most decidedly he withdrew his hand from mine.\n And now you recall your promise, and will not go to India at all, I\npresume?  said he, after a considerable pause.\n\n Yes, I will, as your assistant,  I answered.\n\nA very long silence succeeded. What struggle there was in him between\nNature and Grace in this interval, I cannot tell: only singular gleams\nscintillated in his eyes, and strange shadows passed over his face. He\nspoke at last.\n\n I before proved to you the absurdity of a single woman of your age\nproposing to accompany abroad a single man of mine. I proved it to you\nin such terms as, I should have thought, would have prevented your ever\nagain alluding to the plan. That you have done so, I regret for your\nsake. \n\nI interrupted him. Anything like a tangible reproach gave me courage at\nonce.  Keep to common sense, St. John: you are verging on nonsense. You\npretend to be shocked by what I have said. You are not really shocked:\nfor, with your superior mind, you cannot be either so dull or so\nconceited as to misunderstand my meaning. I say again, I will be your\ncurate, if you like, but never your wife. \n\nAgain he turned lividly pale; but, as before, controlled his passion\nperfectly. He answered emphatically but calmly \n\n A female curate, who is not my wife, would never suit me. With me,\nthen, it seems, you cannot go: but if you are sincere in your offer, I\nwill, while in town, speak to a married missionary, whose wife needs a\ncoadjutor. Your own fortune will make you independent of the Society s\naid; and thus you may still be spared the dishonour of breaking your\npromise and deserting the band you engaged to join. \n\nNow I never had, as the reader knows, either given any formal promise\nor entered into any engagement; and this language was all much too hard\nand much too despotic for the occasion. I replied \n\n There is no dishonour, no breach of promise, no desertion in the case.\nI am not under the slightest obligation to go to India, especially with\nstrangers. With you I would have ventured much, because I admire,\nconfide in, and, as a sister, I love you; but I am convinced that, go\nwhen and with whom I would, I should not live long in that climate. \n\n Ah! you are afraid of yourself,  he said, curling his lip.\n\n I am. God did not give me my life to throw away; and to do as you wish\nme would, I begin to think, be almost equivalent to committing suicide.\nMoreover, before I definitively resolve on quitting England, I will\nknow for certain whether I cannot be of greater use by remaining in it\nthan by leaving it. \n\n What do you mean? \n\n It would be fruitless to attempt to explain; but there is a point on\nwhich I have long endured painful doubt, and I can go nowhere till by\nsome means that doubt is removed. \n\n I know where your heart turns and to what it clings. The interest you\ncherish is lawless and unconsecrated. Long since you ought to have\ncrushed it: now you should blush to allude to it. You think of Mr.\nRochester? \n\nIt was true. I confessed it by silence.\n\n Are you going to seek Mr. Rochester? \n\n I must find out what is become of him. \n\n It remains for me, then,  he said,  to remember you in my prayers, and\nto entreat God for you, in all earnestness, that you may not indeed\nbecome a castaway. I had thought I recognised in you one of the chosen.\nBut God sees not as man sees: _His_ will be done \n\nHe opened the gate, passed through it, and strayed away down the glen.\nHe was soon out of sight.\n\nOn re-entering the parlour, I found Diana standing at the window,\nlooking very thoughtful. Diana was a great deal taller than I: she put\nher hand on my shoulder, and, stooping, examined my face.\n\n Jane,  she said,  you are always agitated and pale now. I am sure\nthere is something the matter. Tell me what business St. John and you\nhave on hands. I have watched you this half hour from the window; you\nmust forgive my being such a spy, but for a long time I have fancied I\nhardly know what. St. John is a strange being \n\nShe paused I did not speak: soon she resumed \n\n That brother of mine cherishes peculiar views of some sort respecting\nyou, I am sure: he has long distinguished you by a notice and interest\nhe never showed to any one else to what end? I wish he loved you does\nhe, Jane? \n\nI put her cool hand to my hot forehead;  No, Die, not one whit. \n\n Then why does he follow you so with his eyes, and get you so\nfrequently alone with him, and keep you so continually at his side?\nMary and I had both concluded he wished you to marry him. \n\n He does he has asked me to be his wife. \n\nDiana clapped her hands.  That is just what we hoped and thought! And\nyou will marry him, Jane, won t you? And then he will stay in England. \n\n Far from that, Diana; his sole idea in proposing to me is to procure a\nfitting fellow-labourer in his Indian toils. \n\n What! He wishes you to go to India? \n\n Yes. \n\n Madness!  she exclaimed.  You would not live three months there, I am\ncertain. You never shall go: you have not consented, have you, Jane? \n\n I have refused to marry him \n\n And have consequently displeased him?  she suggested.\n\n Deeply: he will never forgive me, I fear: yet I offered to accompany\nhim as his sister. \n\n It was frantic folly to do so, Jane. Think of the task you\nundertook one of incessant fatigue, where fatigue kills even the\nstrong, and you are weak. St. John you know him would urge you to\nimpossibilities: with him there would be no permission to rest during\nthe hot hours; and unfortunately, I have noticed, whatever he exacts,\nyou force yourself to perform. I am astonished you found courage to\nrefuse his hand. You do not love him then, Jane? \n\n Not as a husband. \n\n Yet he is a handsome fellow. \n\n And I am so plain, you see, Die. We should never suit. \n\n Plain! You? Not at all. You are much too pretty, as well as too good,\nto be grilled alive in Calcutta.  And again she earnestly conjured me\nto give up all thoughts of going out with her brother.\n\n I must indeed,  I said;  for when just now I repeated the offer of\nserving him for a deacon, he expressed himself shocked at my want of\ndecency. He seemed to think I had committed an impropriety in proposing\nto accompany him unmarried: as if I had not from the first hoped to\nfind in him a brother, and habitually regarded him as such. \n\n What makes you say he does not love you, Jane? \n\n You should hear himself on the subject. He has again and again\nexplained that it is not himself, but his office he wishes to mate. He\nhas told me I am formed for labour not for love: which is true, no\ndoubt. But, in my opinion, if I am not formed for love, it follows that\nI am not formed for marriage. Would it not be strange, Die, to be\nchained for life to a man who regarded one but as a useful tool? \n\n Insupportable unnatural out of the question! \n\n And then,  I continued,  though I have only sisterly affection for him\nnow, yet, if forced to be his wife, I can imagine the possibility of\nconceiving an inevitable, strange, torturing kind of love for him,\nbecause he is so talented; and there is often a certain heroic grandeur\nin his look, manner, and conversation. In that case, my lot would\nbecome unspeakably wretched. He would not want me to love him; and if I\nshowed the feeling, he would make me sensible that it was a\nsuperfluity, unrequired by him, unbecoming in me. I know he would. \n\n And yet St. John is a good man,  said Diana.\n\n He is a good and a great man; but he forgets, pitilessly, the feelings\nand claims of little people, in pursuing his own large views. It is\nbetter, therefore, for the insignificant to keep out of his way, lest,\nin his progress, he should trample them down. Here he comes! I will\nleave you, Diana.  And I hastened upstairs as I saw him entering the\ngarden.\n\nBut I was forced to meet him again at supper. During that meal he\nappeared just as composed as usual. I had thought he would hardly speak\nto me, and I was certain he had given up the pursuit of his matrimonial\nscheme: the sequel showed I was mistaken on both points. He addressed\nme precisely in his ordinary manner, or what had, of late, been his\nordinary manner one scrupulously polite. No doubt he had invoked the\nhelp of the Holy Spirit to subdue the anger I had roused in him, and\nnow believed he had forgiven me once more.\n\nFor the evening reading before prayers, he selected the twenty-first\nchapter of Revelation. It was at all times pleasant to listen while\nfrom his lips fell the words of the Bible: never did his fine voice\nsound at once so sweet and full never did his manner become so\nimpressive in its noble simplicity, as when he delivered the oracles of\nGod: and to-night that voice took a more solemn tone that manner a more\nthrilling meaning as he sat in the midst of his household circle (the\nMay moon shining in through the uncurtained window, and rendering\nalmost unnecessary the light of the candle on the table): as he sat\nthere, bending over the great old Bible, and described from its page\nthe vision of the new heaven and the new earth told how God would come\nto dwell with men, how He would wipe away all tears from their eyes,\nand promised that there should be no more death, neither sorrow nor\ncrying, nor any more pain, because the former things were passed away.\n\nThe succeeding words thrilled me strangely as he spoke them: especially\nas I felt, by the slight, indescribable alteration in sound, that in\nuttering them, his eye had turned on me.\n\n He that overcometh shall inherit all things; and I will be his God,\nand he shall be my son. But,  was slowly, distinctly read,  the\nfearful, the unbelieving, &c., shall have their part in the lake which\nburneth with fire and brimstone, which is the second death. \n\nHenceforward, I knew what fate St. John feared for me.\n\nA calm, subdued triumph, blent with a longing earnestness, marked his\nenunciation of the last glorious verses of that chapter. The reader\nbelieved his name was already written in the Lamb s book of life, and\nhe yearned after the hour which should admit him to the city to which\nthe kings of the earth bring their glory and honour; which has no need\nof sun or moon to shine in it, because the glory of God lightens it,\nand the Lamb is the light thereof.\n\nIn the prayer following the chapter, all his energy gathered all his\nstern zeal woke: he was in deep earnest, wrestling with God, and\nresolved on a conquest. He supplicated strength for the weak-hearted;\nguidance for wanderers from the fold: a return, even at the eleventh\nhour, for those whom the temptations of the world and the flesh were\nluring from the narrow path. He asked, he urged, he claimed the boon of\na brand snatched from the burning. Earnestness is ever deeply solemn:\nfirst, as I listened to that prayer, I wondered at his; then, when it\ncontinued and rose, I was touched by it, and at last awed. He felt the\ngreatness and goodness of his purpose so sincerely: others who heard\nhim plead for it, could not but feel it too.\n\nThe prayer over, we took leave of him: he was to go at a very early\nhour in the morning. Diana and Mary having kissed him, left the room in\ncompliance, I think, with a whispered hint from him: I tendered my\nhand, and wished him a pleasant journey.\n\n Thank you, Jane. As I said, I shall return from Cambridge in a\nfortnight: that space, then, is yet left you for reflection. If I\nlistened to human pride, I should say no more to you of marriage with\nme; but I listen to my duty, and keep steadily in view my first aim to\ndo all things to the glory of God. My Master was long-suffering: so\nwill I be. I cannot give you up to perdition as a vessel of wrath:\nrepent resolve, while there is yet time. Remember, we are bid to work\nwhile it is day warned that  the night cometh when no man shall work. \nRemember the fate of Dives, who had his good things in this life. God\ngive you strength to choose that better part which shall not be taken\nfrom you! \n\nHe laid his hand on my head as he uttered the last words. He had spoken\nearnestly, mildly: his look was not, indeed, that of a lover beholding\nhis mistress, but it was that of a pastor recalling his wandering\nsheep or better, of a guardian angel watching the soul for which he is\nresponsible. All men of talent, whether they be men of feeling or not;\nwhether they be zealots, or aspirants, or despots provided only they be\nsincere have their sublime moments, when they subdue and rule. I felt\nveneration for St. John veneration so strong that its impetus thrust me\nat once to the point I had so long shunned. I was tempted to cease\nstruggling with him to rush down the torrent of his will into the gulf\nof his existence, and there lose my own. I was almost as hard beset by\nhim now as I had been once before, in a different way, by another. I\nwas a fool both times. To have yielded then would have been an error of\nprinciple; to have yielded now would have been an error of judgment. So\nI think at this hour, when I look back to the crisis through the quiet\nmedium of time: I was unconscious of folly at the instant.\n\nI stood motionless under my hierophant s touch. My refusals were\nforgotten my fears overcome my wrestlings paralysed. The\nImpossible _i.e._, my marriage with St. John was fast becoming the\nPossible. All was changing utterly with a sudden sweep. Religion\ncalled Angels beckoned God commanded life rolled together like a\nscroll death s gates opening, showed eternity beyond: it seemed, that\nfor safety and bliss there, all here might be sacrificed in a second.\nThe dim room was full of visions.\n\n Could you decide now?  asked the missionary. The inquiry was put in\ngentle tones: he drew me to him as gently. Oh, that gentleness! how far\nmore potent is it than force! I could resist St. John s wrath: I grew\npliant as a reed under his kindness. Yet I knew all the time, if I\nyielded now, I should not the less be made to repent, some day, of my\nformer rebellion. His nature was not changed by one hour of solemn\nprayer: it was only elevated.\n\n I could decide if I were but certain,  I answered:  were I but\nconvinced that it is God s will I should marry you, I could vow to\nmarry you here and now come afterwards what would! \n\n My prayers are heard!  ejaculated St. John. He pressed his hand firmer\non my head, as if he claimed me: he surrounded me with his arm,\n_almost_ as if he loved me (I say _almost_ I knew the difference for I\nhad felt what it was to be loved; but, like him, I had now put love out\nof the question, and thought only of duty). I contended with my inward\ndimness of vision, before which clouds yet rolled. I sincerely, deeply,\nfervently longed to do what was right; and only that.  Show me, show me\nthe path!  I entreated of Heaven. I was excited more than I had ever\nbeen; and whether what followed was the effect of excitement the reader\nshall judge.\n\nAll the house was still; for I believe all, except St. John and myself,\nwere now retired to rest. The one candle was dying out: the room was\nfull of moonlight. My heart beat fast and thick: I heard its throb.\nSuddenly it stood still to an inexpressible feeling that thrilled it\nthrough, and passed at once to my head and extremities. The feeling was\nnot like an electric shock, but it was quite as sharp, as strange, as\nstartling: it acted on my senses as if their utmost activity hitherto\nhad been but torpor, from which they were now summoned and forced to\nwake. They rose expectant: eye and ear waited while the flesh quivered\non my bones.\n\n What have you heard? What do you see?  asked St. John. I saw nothing,\nbut I heard a voice somewhere cry \n\n Jane! Jane! Jane! nothing more.\n\n O God! what is it?  I gasped.\n\nI might have said,  Where is it?  for it did not seem in the room nor\nin the house nor in the garden; it did not come out of the air nor from\nunder the earth nor from overhead. I had heard it where, or whence, for\never impossible to know! And it was the voice of a human being a known,\nloved, well-remembered voice that of Edward Fairfax Rochester; and it\nspoke in pain and woe, wildly, eerily, urgently.\n\n I am coming!  I cried.  Wait for me! Oh, I will come!  I flew to the\ndoor and looked into the passage: it was dark. I ran out into the\ngarden: it was void.\n\n Where are you?  I exclaimed.\n\nThe hills beyond Marsh Glen sent the answer faintly back Where are\nyou?  I listened. The wind sighed low in the firs: all was moorland\nloneliness and midnight hush.\n\n Down superstition!  I commented, as that spectre rose up black by the\nblack yew at the gate.  This is not thy deception, nor thy witchcraft:\nit is the work of nature. She was roused, and did no miracle but her\nbest. \n\nI broke from St. John, who had followed, and would have detained me. It\nwas _my_ time to assume ascendency. _My_ powers were in play and in\nforce. I told him to forbear question or remark; I desired him to leave\nme: I must and would be alone. He obeyed at once. Where there is energy\nto command well enough, obedience never fails. I mounted to my chamber;\nlocked myself in; fell on my knees; and prayed in my way a different\nway to St. John s, but effective in its own fashion. I seemed to\npenetrate very near a Mighty Spirit; and my soul rushed out in\ngratitude at His feet. I rose from the thanksgiving took a resolve and\nlay down, unscared, enlightened eager but for the daylight.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI\n\n\nThe daylight came. I rose at dawn. I busied myself for an hour or two\nwith arranging my things in my chamber, drawers, and wardrobe, in the\norder wherein I should wish to leave them during a brief absence.\nMeantime, I heard St. John quit his room. He stopped at my door: I\nfeared he would knock no, but a slip of paper was passed under the\ndoor. I took it up. It bore these words \n\n You left me too suddenly last night. Had you stayed but a little\nlonger, you would have laid your hand on the Christian s cross and the\nangel s crown. I shall expect your clear decision when I return this\nday fortnight. Meantime, watch and pray that you enter not into\ntemptation: the spirit, I trust, is willing, but the flesh, I see, is\nweak. I shall pray for you hourly. Yours, ST. JOHN. \n\n My spirit,  I answered mentally,  is willing to do what is right; and\nmy flesh, I hope, is strong enough to accomplish the will of Heaven,\nwhen once that will is distinctly known to me. At any rate, it shall be\nstrong enough to search inquire to grope an outlet from this cloud of\ndoubt, and find the open day of certainty. \n\nIt was the first of June; yet the morning was overcast and chilly: rain\nbeat fast on my casement. I heard the front-door open, and St. John\npass out. Looking through the window, I saw him traverse the garden. He\ntook the way over the misty moors in the direction of Whitcross there\nhe would meet the coach.\n\n In a few more hours I shall succeed you in that track, cousin, \nthought I:  I too have a coach to meet at Whitcross. I too have some to\nsee and ask after in England, before I depart for ever. \n\nIt wanted yet two hours of breakfast-time. I filled the interval in\nwalking softly about my room, and pondering the visitation which had\ngiven my plans their present bent. I recalled that inward sensation I\nhad experienced: for I could recall it, with all its unspeakable\nstrangeness. I recalled the voice I had heard; again I questioned\nwhence it came, as vainly as before: it seemed in _me_ not in the\nexternal world. I asked was it a mere nervous impression a delusion? I\ncould not conceive or believe: it was more like an inspiration. The\nwondrous shock of feeling had come like the earthquake which shook the\nfoundations of Paul and Silas s prison; it had opened the doors of the\nsoul s cell and loosed its bands it had wakened it out of its sleep,\nwhence it sprang trembling, listening, aghast; then vibrated thrice a\ncry on my startled ear, and in my quaking heart and through my spirit,\nwhich neither feared nor shook, but exulted as if in joy over the\nsuccess of one effort it had been privileged to make, independent of\nthe cumbrous body.\n\n Ere many days,  I said, as I terminated my musings,  I will know\nsomething of him whose voice seemed last night to summon me. Letters\nhave proved of no avail personal inquiry shall replace them. \n\nAt breakfast I announced to Diana and Mary that I was going a journey,\nand should be absent at least four days.\n\n Alone, Jane?  they asked.\n\n Yes; it was to see or hear news of a friend about whom I had for some\ntime been uneasy. \n\nThey might have said, as I have no doubt they thought, that they had\nbelieved me to be without any friends save them: for, indeed, I had\noften said so; but, with their true natural delicacy, they abstained\nfrom comment, except that Diana asked me if I was sure I was well\nenough to travel. I looked very pale, she observed. I replied, that\nnothing ailed me save anxiety of mind, which I hoped soon to alleviate.\n\nIt was easy to make my further arrangements; for I was troubled with no\ninquiries no surmises. Having once explained to them that I could not\nnow be explicit about my plans, they kindly and wisely acquiesced in\nthe silence with which I pursued them, according to me the privilege of\nfree action I should under similar circumstances have accorded them.\n\nI left Moor House at three o clock P.M., and soon after four I stood at\nthe foot of the sign-post of Whitcross, waiting the arrival of the\ncoach which was to take me to distant Thornfield. Amidst the silence of\nthose solitary roads and desert hills, I heard it approach from a great\ndistance. It was the same vehicle whence, a year ago, I had alighted\none summer evening on this very spot how desolate, and hopeless, and\nobjectless! It stopped as I beckoned. I entered not now obliged to part\nwith my whole fortune as the price of its accommodation. Once more on\nthe road to Thornfield, I felt like the messenger-pigeon flying home.\n\nIt was a journey of six-and-thirty hours. I had set out from Whitcross\non a Tuesday afternoon, and early on the succeeding Thursday morning\nthe coach stopped to water the horses at a wayside inn, situated in the\nmidst of scenery whose green hedges and large fields and low pastoral\nhills (how mild of feature and verdant of hue compared with the stern\nNorth-Midland moors of Morton!) met my eye like the lineaments of a\nonce familiar face. Yes, I knew the character of this landscape: I was\nsure we were near my bourne.\n\n How far is Thornfield Hall from here?  I asked of the ostler.\n\n Just two miles, ma am, across the fields. \n\n My journey is closed,  I thought to myself. I got out of the coach,\ngave a box I had into the ostler s charge, to be kept till I called for\nit; paid my fare; satisfied the coachman, and was going: the\nbrightening day gleamed on the sign of the inn, and I read in gilt\nletters,  The Rochester Arms.  My heart leapt up: I was already on my\nmaster s very lands. It fell again: the thought struck it: \n\n Your master himself may be beyond the British Channel, for aught you\nknow: and then, if he is at Thornfield Hall, towards which you hasten,\nwho besides him is there? His lunatic wife: and you have nothing to do\nwith him: you dare not speak to him or seek his presence. You have lost\nyour labour you had better go no farther,  urged the monitor.  Ask\ninformation of the people at the inn; they can give you all you seek:\nthey can solve your doubts at once. Go up to that man, and inquire if\nMr. Rochester be at home. \n\nThe suggestion was sensible, and yet I could not force myself to act on\nit. I so dreaded a reply that would crush me with despair. To prolong\ndoubt was to prolong hope. I might yet once more see the Hall under the\nray of her star. There was the stile before me the very fields through\nwhich I had hurried, blind, deaf, distracted with a revengeful fury\ntracking and scourging me, on the morning I fled from Thornfield: ere I\nwell knew what course I had resolved to take, I was in the midst of\nthem. How fast I walked! How I ran sometimes! How I looked forward to\ncatch the first view of the well-known woods! With what feelings I\nwelcomed single trees I knew, and familiar glimpses of meadow and hill\nbetween them!\n\nAt last the woods rose; the rookery clustered dark; a loud cawing broke\nthe morning stillness. Strange delight inspired me: on I hastened.\nAnother field crossed a lane threaded and there were the courtyard\nwalls the back offices: the house itself, the rookery still hid.  My\nfirst view of it shall be in front,  I determined,  where its bold\nbattlements will strike the eye nobly at once, and where I can single\nout my master s very window: perhaps he will be standing at it he rises\nearly: perhaps he is now walking in the orchard, or on the pavement in\nfront. Could I but see him! but a moment! Surely, in that case, I\nshould not be so mad as to run to him? I cannot tell I am not certain.\nAnd if I did what then? God bless him! What then? Who would be hurt by\nmy once more tasting the life his glance can give me? I rave: perhaps\nat this moment he is watching the sun rise over the Pyrenees, or on the\ntideless sea of the south. \n\nI had coasted along the lower wall of the orchard turned its angle:\nthere was a gate just there, opening into the meadow, between two stone\npillars crowned by stone balls. From behind one pillar I could peep\nround quietly at the full front of the mansion. I advanced my head with\nprecaution, desirous to ascertain if any bedroom window-blinds were yet\ndrawn up: battlements, windows, long front all from this sheltered\nstation were at my command.\n\nThe crows sailing overhead perhaps watched me while I took this survey.\nI wonder what they thought. They must have considered I was very\ncareful and timid at first, and that gradually I grew very bold and\nreckless. A peep, and then a long stare; and then a departure from my\nniche and a straying out into the meadow; and a sudden stop full in\nfront of the great mansion, and a protracted, hardy gaze towards it.\n What affectation of diffidence was this at first?  they might have\ndemanded;  what stupid regardlessness now? \n\nHear an illustration, reader.\n\nA lover finds his mistress asleep on a mossy bank; he wishes to catch a\nglimpse of her fair face without waking her. He steals softly over the\ngrass, careful to make no sound; he pauses fancying she has stirred: he\nwithdraws: not for worlds would he be seen. All is still: he again\nadvances: he bends above her; a light veil rests on her features: he\nlifts it, bends lower; now his eyes anticipate the vision of\nbeauty warm, and blooming, and lovely, in rest. How hurried was their\nfirst glance! But how they fix! How he starts! How he suddenly and\nvehemently clasps in both arms the form he dared not, a moment since,\ntouch with his finger! How he calls aloud a name, and drops his burden,\nand gazes on it wildly! He thus grasps and cries, and gazes, because he\nno longer fears to waken by any sound he can utter by any movement he\ncan make. He thought his love slept sweetly: he finds she is stone\ndead.\n\nI looked with timorous joy towards a stately house: I saw a blackened\nruin.\n\nNo need to cower behind a gate-post, indeed! to peep up at chamber\nlattices, fearing life was astir behind them! No need to listen for\ndoors opening to fancy steps on the pavement or the gravel-walk! The\nlawn, the grounds were trodden and waste: the portal yawned void. The\nfront was, as I had once seen it in a dream, but a shell-like wall,\nvery high and very fragile-looking, perforated with paneless windows:\nno roof, no battlements, no chimneys all had crashed in.\n\nAnd there was the silence of death about it: the solitude of a lonesome\nwild. No wonder that letters addressed to people here had never\nreceived an answer: as well despatch epistles to a vault in a church\naisle. The grim blackness of the stones told by what fate the Hall had\nfallen by conflagration: but how kindled? What story belonged to this\ndisaster? What loss, besides mortar and marble and wood-work had\nfollowed upon it? Had life been wrecked as well as property? If so,\nwhose? Dreadful question: there was no one here to answer it not even\ndumb sign, mute token.\n\nIn wandering round the shattered walls and through the devastated\ninterior, I gathered evidence that the calamity was not of late\noccurrence. Winter snows, I thought, had drifted through that void\narch, winter rains beaten in at those hollow casements; for, amidst the\ndrenched piles of rubbish, spring had cherished vegetation: grass and\nweed grew here and there between the stones and fallen rafters. And oh!\nwhere meantime was the hapless owner of this wreck? In what land? Under\nwhat auspices? My eye involuntarily wandered to the grey church tower\nnear the gates, and I asked,  Is he with Damer de Rochester, sharing\nthe shelter of his narrow marble house? \n\nSome answer must be had to these questions. I could find it nowhere but\nat the inn, and thither, ere long, I returned. The host himself brought\nmy breakfast into the parlour. I requested him to shut the door and sit\ndown: I had some questions to ask him. But when he complied, I scarcely\nknew how to begin; such horror had I of the possible answers. And yet\nthe spectacle of desolation I had just left prepared me in a measure\nfor a tale of misery. The host was a respectable-looking, middle-aged\nman.\n\n You know Thornfield Hall, of course?  I managed to say at last.\n\n Yes, ma am; I lived there once. \n\n Did you?  Not in my time, I thought: you are a stranger to me.\n\n I was the late Mr. Rochester s butler,  he added.\n\nThe late! I seem to have received, with full force, the blow I had been\ntrying to evade.\n\n The late!  I gasped.  Is he dead? \n\n I mean the present gentleman, Mr. Edward s father,  he explained. I\nbreathed again: my blood resumed its flow. Fully assured by these words\nthat Mr. Edward _my_ Mr. Rochester (God bless him, wherever he\nwas!) was at least alive: was, in short,  the present gentleman. \nGladdening words! It seemed I could hear all that was to come whatever\nthe disclosures might be with comparative tranquillity. Since he was\nnot in the grave, I could bear, I thought, to learn that he was at the\nAntipodes.\n\n Is Mr. Rochester living at Thornfield Hall now?  I asked, knowing, of\ncourse, what the answer would be, but yet desirous of deferring the\ndirect question as to where he really was.\n\n No, ma am oh, no! No one is living there. I suppose you are a stranger\nin these parts, or you would have heard what happened last\nautumn, Thornfield Hall is quite a ruin: it was burnt down just about\nharvest-time. A dreadful calamity! such an immense quantity of valuable\nproperty destroyed: hardly any of the furniture could be saved. The\nfire broke out at dead of night, and before the engines arrived from\nMillcote, the building was one mass of flame. It was a terrible\nspectacle: I witnessed it myself. \n\n At dead of night!  I muttered. Yes, that was ever the hour of fatality\nat Thornfield.  Was it known how it originated?  I demanded.\n\n They guessed, ma am: they guessed. Indeed, I should say it was\nascertained beyond a doubt. You are not perhaps aware,  he continued,\nedging his chair a little nearer the table, and speaking low,  that\nthere was a lady a a lunatic, kept in the house? \n\n I have heard something of it. \n\n She was kept in very close confinement, ma am; people even for some\nyears was not absolutely certain of her existence. No one saw her: they\nonly knew by rumour that such a person was at the Hall; and who or what\nshe was it was difficult to conjecture. They said Mr. Edward had\nbrought her from abroad, and some believed she had been his mistress.\nBut a queer thing happened a year since a very queer thing. \n\nI feared now to hear my own story. I endeavoured to recall him to the\nmain fact.\n\n And this lady? \n\n This lady, ma am,  he answered,  turned out to be Mr. Rochester s\nwife! The discovery was brought about in the strangest way. There was a\nyoung lady, a governess at the Hall, that Mr. Rochester fell in \n\n But the fire,  I suggested.\n\n I m coming to that, ma am that Mr. Edward fell in love with. The\nservants say they never saw anybody so much in love as he was: he was\nafter her continually. They used to watch him servants will, you know,\nma am and he set store on her past everything: for all, nobody but him\nthought her so very handsome. She was a little small thing, they say,\nalmost like a child. I never saw her myself; but I ve heard Leah, the\nhouse-maid, tell of her. Leah liked her well enough. Mr. Rochester was\nabout forty, and this governess not twenty; and you see, when gentlemen\nof his age fall in love with girls, they are often like as if they were\nbewitched. Well, he would marry her. \n\n You shall tell me this part of the story another time,  I said;  but\nnow I have a particular reason for wishing to hear all about the fire.\nWas it suspected that this lunatic, Mrs. Rochester, had any hand in\nit? \n\n You ve hit it, ma am: it s quite certain that it was her, and nobody\nbut her, that set it going. She had a woman to take care of her called\nMrs. Poole an able woman in her line, and very trustworthy, but for one\nfault a fault common to a deal of them nurses and matrons _she kept a\nprivate bottle of gin by her_, and now and then took a drop over-much.\nIt is excusable, for she had a hard life of it: but still it was\ndangerous; for when Mrs. Poole was fast asleep after the gin and water,\nthe mad lady, who was as cunning as a witch, would take the keys out of\nher pocket, let herself out of her chamber, and go roaming about the\nhouse, doing any wild mischief that came into her head. They say she\nhad nearly burnt her husband in his bed once: but I don t know about\nthat. However, on this night, she set fire first to the hangings of the\nroom next her own, and then she got down to a lower storey, and made\nher way to the chamber that had been the governess s (she was like as\nif she knew somehow how matters had gone on, and had a spite at\nher) and she kindled the bed there; but there was nobody sleeping in\nit, fortunately. The governess had run away two months before; and for\nall Mr. Rochester sought her as if she had been the most precious thing\nhe had in the world, he never could hear a word of her; and he grew\nsavage quite savage on his disappointment: he never was a wild man, but\nhe got dangerous after he lost her. He would be alone, too. He sent\nMrs. Fairfax, the housekeeper, away to her friends at a distance; but\nhe did it handsomely, for he settled an annuity on her for life: and\nshe deserved it she was a very good woman. Miss Ad le, a ward he had,\nwas put to school. He broke off acquaintance with all the gentry, and\nshut himself up like a hermit at the Hall. \n\n What! did he not leave England? \n\n Leave England? Bless you, no! He would not cross the door-stones of\nthe house, except at night, when he walked just like a ghost about the\ngrounds and in the orchard as if he had lost his senses which it is my\nopinion he had; for a more spirited, bolder, keener gentleman than he\nwas before that midge of a governess crossed him, you never saw, ma am.\nHe was not a man given to wine, or cards, or racing, as some are, and\nhe was not so very handsome; but he had a courage and a will of his\nown, if ever man had. I knew him from a boy, you see: and for my part,\nI have often wished that Miss Eyre had been sunk in the sea before she\ncame to Thornfield Hall. \n\n Then Mr. Rochester was at home when the fire broke out? \n\n Yes, indeed was he; and he went up to the attics when all was burning\nabove and below, and got the servants out of their beds and helped them\ndown himself, and went back to get his mad wife out of her cell. And\nthen they called out to him that she was on the roof, where she was\nstanding, waving her arms, above the battlements, and shouting out till\nthey could hear her a mile off: I saw her and heard her with my own\neyes. She was a big woman, and had long black hair: we could see it\nstreaming against the flames as she stood. I witnessed, and several\nmore witnessed, Mr. Rochester ascend through the sky-light on to the\nroof; we heard him call  Bertha!  We saw him approach her; and then,\nma am, she yelled and gave a spring, and the next minute she lay\nsmashed on the pavement. \n\n\nThe next minute she lay smashed on the pavement\n\n Dead? \n\n Dead! Ay, dead as the stones on which her brains and blood were\nscattered. \n\n Good God! \n\n You may well say so, ma am: it was frightful! \n\nHe shuddered.\n\n And afterwards?  I urged.\n\n Well, ma am, afterwards the house was burnt to the ground: there are\nonly some bits of walls standing now. \n\n Were any other lives lost? \n\n No perhaps it would have been better if there had. \n\n What do you mean? \n\n Poor Mr. Edward!  he ejaculated,  I little thought ever to have seen\nit! Some say it was a just judgment on him for keeping his first\nmarriage secret, and wanting to take another wife while he had one\nliving: but I pity him, for my part. \n\n You said he was alive?  I exclaimed.\n\n Yes, yes: he is alive; but many think he had better be dead. \n\n Why? How?  My blood was again running cold.  Where is he?  I demanded.\n Is he in England? \n\n Ay ay he s in England; he can t get out of England, I fancy he s a\nfixture now. \n\nWhat agony was this! And the man seemed resolved to protract it.\n\n He is stone-blind,  he said at last.  Yes, he is stone-blind, is Mr.\nEdward. \n\nI had dreaded worse. I had dreaded he was mad. I summoned strength to\nask what had caused this calamity.\n\n It was all his own courage, and a body may say, his kindness, in a\nway, ma am: he wouldn t leave the house till every one else was out\nbefore him. As he came down the great staircase at last, after Mrs.\nRochester had flung herself from the battlements, there was a great\ncrash all fell. He was taken out from under the ruins, alive, but sadly\nhurt: a beam had fallen in such a way as to protect him partly; but one\neye was knocked out, and one hand so crushed that Mr. Carter, the\nsurgeon, had to amputate it directly. The other eye inflamed: he lost\nthe sight of that also. He is now helpless, indeed blind and a\ncripple. \n\n Where is he? Where does he now live? \n\n At Ferndean, a manor-house on a farm he has, about thirty miles off:\nquite a desolate spot. \n\n Who is with him? \n\n Old John and his wife: he would have none else. He is quite broken\ndown, they say. \n\n Have you any sort of conveyance? \n\n We have a chaise, ma am, a very handsome chaise. \n\n Let it be got ready instantly; and if your post-boy can drive me to\nFerndean before dark this day, I ll pay both you and him twice the hire\nyou usually demand. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII\n\n\nThe manor-house of Ferndean was a building of considerable antiquity,\nmoderate size, and no architectural pretensions, deep buried in a wood.\nI had heard of it before. Mr. Rochester often spoke of it, and\nsometimes went there. His father had purchased the estate for the sake\nof the game covers. He would have let the house, but could find no\ntenant, in consequence of its ineligible and insalubrious site.\nFerndean then remained uninhabited and unfurnished, with the exception\nof some two or three rooms fitted up for the accommodation of the\nsquire when he went there in the season to shoot.\n\nTo this house I came just ere dark on an evening marked by the\ncharacteristics of sad sky, cold gale, and continued small penetrating\nrain. The last mile I performed on foot, having dismissed the chaise\nand driver with the double remuneration I had promised. Even when\nwithin a very short distance of the manor-house, you could see nothing\nof it, so thick and dark grew the timber of the gloomy wood about it.\nIron gates between granite pillars showed me where to enter, and\npassing through them, I found myself at once in the twilight of\nclose-ranked trees. There was a grass-grown track descending the forest\naisle between hoar and knotty shafts and under branched arches. I\nfollowed it, expecting soon to reach the dwelling; but it stretched on\nand on, it wound far and farther: no sign of habitation or grounds was\nvisible.\n\nI thought I had taken a wrong direction and lost my way. The darkness\nof natural as well as of sylvan dusk gathered over me. I looked round\nin search of another road. There was none: all was interwoven stem,\ncolumnar trunk, dense summer foliage no opening anywhere.\n\nI proceeded: at last my way opened, the trees thinned a little;\npresently I beheld a railing, then the house scarce, by this dim light,\ndistinguishable from the trees; so dank and green were its decaying\nwalls. Entering a portal, fastened only by a latch, I stood amidst a\nspace of enclosed ground, from which the wood swept away in a\nsemicircle. There were no flowers, no garden-beds; only a broad\ngravel-walk girdling a grass-plat, and this set in the heavy frame of\nthe forest. The house presented two pointed gables in its front; the\nwindows were latticed and narrow: the front door was narrow too, one\nstep led up to it. The whole looked, as the host of the Rochester Arms\nhad said,  quite a desolate spot.  It was as still as a church on a\nweek-day: the pattering rain on the forest leaves was the only sound\naudible in its vicinage.\n\n Can there be life here?  I asked.\n\nYes, life of some kind there was; for I heard a movement that narrow\nfront-door was unclosing, and some shape was about to issue from the\ngrange.\n\nIt opened slowly: a figure came out into the twilight and stood on the\nstep; a man without a hat: he stretched forth his hand as if to feel\nwhether it rained. Dusk as it was, I had recognised him it was my\nmaster, Edward Fairfax Rochester, and no other.\n\nI stayed my step, almost my breath, and stood to watch him to examine\nhim, myself unseen, and alas! to him invisible. It was a sudden\nmeeting, and one in which rapture was kept well in check by pain. I had\nno difficulty in restraining my voice from exclamation, my step from\nhasty advance.\n\nHis form was of the same strong and stalwart contour as ever: his port\nwas still erect, his hair was still raven black; nor were his features\naltered or sunk: not in one year s space, by any sorrow, could his\nathletic strength be quelled or his vigorous prime blighted. But in his\ncountenance I saw a change: that looked desperate and brooding that\nreminded me of some wronged and fettered wild beast or bird, dangerous\nto approach in his sullen woe. The caged eagle, whose gold-ringed eyes\ncruelty has extinguished, might look as looked that sightless Samson.\n\nAnd, reader, do you think I feared him in his blind ferocity? if you\ndo, you little know me. A soft hope blent with my sorrow that soon I\nshould dare to drop a kiss on that brow of rock, and on those lips so\nsternly sealed beneath it: but not yet. I would not accost him yet.\n\nHe descended the one step, and advanced slowly and gropingly towards\nthe grass-plat. Where was his daring stride now? Then he paused, as if\nhe knew not which way to turn. He lifted his hand and opened his\neyelids; gazed blank, and with a straining effort, on the sky, and\ntoward the amphitheatre of trees: one saw that all to him was void\ndarkness. He stretched his right hand (the left arm, the mutilated one,\nhe kept hidden in his bosom); he seemed to wish by touch to gain an\nidea of what lay around him: he met but vacancy still; for the trees\nwere some yards off where he stood. He relinquished the endeavour,\nfolded his arms, and stood quiet and mute in the rain, now falling fast\non his uncovered head. At this moment John approached him from some\nquarter.\n\n Will you take my arm, sir?  he said;  there is a heavy shower coming\non: had you not better go in? \n\n Let me alone,  was the answer.\n\nJohn withdrew without having observed me. Mr. Rochester now tried to\nwalk about: vainly, all was too uncertain. He groped his way back to\nthe house, and, re-entering it, closed the door.\n\nI now drew near and knocked: John s wife opened for me.  Mary,  I said,\n how are you? \n\nShe started as if she had seen a ghost: I calmed her. To her hurried\n Is it really you, miss, come at this late hour to this lonely place? \nI answered by taking her hand; and then I followed her into the\nkitchen, where John now sat by a good fire. I explained to them, in few\nwords, that I had heard all which had happened since I left Thornfield,\nand that I was come to see Mr. Rochester. I asked John to go down to\nthe turn-pike-house, where I had dismissed the chaise, and bring my\ntrunk, which I had left there: and then, while I removed my bonnet and\nshawl, I questioned Mary as to whether I could be accommodated at the\nManor House for the night; and finding that arrangements to that\neffect, though difficult, would not be impossible, I informed her I\nshould stay. Just at this moment the parlour-bell rang.\n\n When you go in,  said I,  tell your master that a person wishes to\nspeak to him, but do not give my name. \n\n I don t think he will see you,  she answered;  he refuses everybody. \n\nWhen she returned, I inquired what he had said.\n\n You are to send in your name and your business,  she replied. She then\nproceeded to fill a glass with water, and place it on a tray, together\nwith candles.\n\n Is that what he rang for?  I asked.\n\n Yes: he always has candles brought in at dark, though he is blind. \n\n Give the tray to me; I will carry it in. \n\nI took it from her hand: she pointed me out the parlour door. The tray\nshook as I held it; the water spilt from the glass; my heart struck my\nribs loud and fast. Mary opened the door for me, and shut it behind me.\n\nThis parlour looked gloomy: a neglected handful of fire burnt low in\nthe grate; and, leaning over it, with his head supported against the\nhigh, old-fashioned mantelpiece, appeared the blind tenant of the room.\nHis old dog, Pilot, lay on one side, removed out of the way, and coiled\nup as if afraid of being inadvertently trodden upon. Pilot pricked up\nhis ears when I came in: then he jumped up with a yelp and a whine, and\nbounded towards me: he almost knocked the tray from my hands. I set it\non the table; then patted him, and said softly,  Lie down!  Mr.\nRochester turned mechanically to _see_ what the commotion was: but as\nhe _saw_ nothing, he returned and sighed.\n\n Give me the water, Mary,  he said.\n\nI approached him with the now only half-filled glass; Pilot followed\nme, still excited.\n\n What is the matter?  he inquired.\n\n Down, Pilot!  I again said. He checked the water on its way to his\nlips, and seemed to listen: he drank, and put the glass down.  This is\nyou, Mary, is it not? \n\n Mary is in the kitchen,  I answered.\n\nHe put out his hand with a quick gesture, but not seeing where I stood,\nhe did not touch me.  Who is this? Who is this?  he demanded, trying,\nas it seemed, to _see_ with those sightless eyes unavailing and\ndistressing attempt!  Answer me speak again!  he ordered, imperiously\nand aloud.\n\n Will you have a little more water, sir? I spilt half of what was in\nthe glass,  I said.\n\n _Who_ is it? _What_ is it? Who speaks? \n\n Pilot knows me, and John and Mary know I am here. I came only this\nevening,  I answered.\n\n Great God! what delusion has come over me? What sweet madness has\nseized me? \n\n No delusion no madness: your mind, sir, is too strong for delusion,\nyour health too sound for frenzy. \n\n And where is the speaker? Is it only a voice? Oh! I _cannot_ see, but\nI must feel, or my heart will stop and my brain burst. Whatever whoever\nyou are be perceptible to the touch or I cannot live! \n\nHe groped; I arrested his wandering hand, and prisoned it in both mine.\n\n Her very fingers!  he cried;  her small, slight fingers! If so there\nmust be more of her. \n\nThe muscular hand broke from my custody; my arm was seized, my\nshoulder neck waist I was entwined and gathered to him.\n\n Is it Jane? _What_ is it? This is her shape this is her size \n\n And this her voice,  I added.  She is all here: her heart, too. God\nbless you, sir! I am glad to be so near you again. \n\n Jane Eyre! Jane Eyre,  was all he said.\n\n My dear master,  I answered,  I am Jane Eyre: I have found you out I\nam come back to you. \n\n In truth? in the flesh? My living Jane? \n\n You touch me, sir, you hold me, and fast enough: I am not cold like a\ncorpse, nor vacant like air, am I? \n\n My living darling! These are certainly her limbs, and these her\nfeatures; but I cannot be so blest, after all my misery. It is a dream;\nsuch dreams as I have had at night when I have clasped her once more to\nmy heart, as I do now; and kissed her, as thus and felt that she loved\nme, and trusted that she would not leave me. \n\n Which I never will, sir, from this day. \n\n Never will, says the vision? But I always woke and found it an empty\nmockery; and I was desolate and abandoned my life dark, lonely,\nhopeless my soul athirst and forbidden to drink my heart famished and\nnever to be fed. Gentle, soft dream, nestling in my arms now, you will\nfly, too, as your sisters have all fled before you: but kiss me before\nyou go embrace me, Jane. \n\n There, sir and there! \n\nI pressed my lips to his once brilliant and now rayless eyes I swept\nhis hair from his brow, and kissed that too. He suddenly seemed to\narouse himself: the conviction of the reality of all this seized him.\n\n It is you is it, Jane? You are come back to me then? \n\n I am. \n\n And you do not lie dead in some ditch under some stream? And you are\nnot a pining outcast amongst strangers? \n\n No, sir! I am an independent woman now. \n\n Independent! What do you mean, Jane? \n\n My uncle in Madeira is dead, and he left me five thousand pounds. \n\n Ah! this is practical this is real!  he cried:  I should never dream\nthat. Besides, there is that peculiar voice of hers, so animating and\npiquant, as well as soft: it cheers my withered heart; it puts life\ninto it. What, Janet! Are you an independent woman? A rich woman? \n\n Quite rich, sir. If you won t let me live with you, I can build a\nhouse of my own close up to your door, and you may come and sit in my\nparlour when you want company of an evening. \n\n But as you are rich, Jane, you have now, no doubt, friends who will\nlook after you, and not suffer you to devote yourself to a blind\nlameter like me? \n\n I told you I am independent, sir, as well as rich: I am my own\nmistress. \n\n And you will stay with me? \n\n Certainly unless you object. I will be your neighbour, your nurse,\nyour housekeeper. I find you lonely: I will be your companion to read\nto you, to walk with you, to sit with you, to wait on you, to be eyes\nand hands to you. Cease to look so melancholy, my dear master; you\nshall not be left desolate, so long as I live. \n\nHe replied not: he seemed serious abstracted; he sighed; he half-opened\nhis lips as if to speak: he closed them again. I felt a little\nembarrassed. Perhaps I had too rashly over-leaped conventionalities;\nand he, like St. John, saw impropriety in my inconsiderateness. I had\nindeed made my proposal from the idea that he wished and would ask me\nto be his wife: an expectation, not the less certain because\nunexpressed, had buoyed me up, that he would claim me at once as his\nown. But no hint to that effect escaping him and his countenance\nbecoming more overcast, I suddenly remembered that I might have been\nall wrong, and was perhaps playing the fool unwittingly; and I began\ngently to withdraw myself from his arms but he eagerly snatched me\ncloser.\n\n No no Jane; you must not go. No I have touched you, heard you, felt\nthe comfort of your presence the sweetness of your consolation: I\ncannot give up these joys. I have little left in myself I must have\nyou. The world may laugh may call me absurd, selfish but it does not\nsignify. My very soul demands you: it will be satisfied, or it will\ntake deadly vengeance on its frame. \n\n Well, sir, I will stay with you: I have said so. \n\n Yes but you understand one thing by staying with me; and I understand\nanother. You, perhaps, could make up your mind to be about my hand and\nchair to wait on me as a kind little nurse (for you have an\naffectionate heart and a generous spirit, which prompt you to make\nsacrifices for those you pity), and that ought to suffice for me no\ndoubt. I suppose I should now entertain none but fatherly feelings for\nyou: do you think so? Come tell me. \n\n I will think what you like, sir: I am content to be only your nurse,\nif you think it better. \n\n But you cannot always be my nurse, Janet: you are young you must marry\none day. \n\n I don t care about being married. \n\n You should care, Janet: if I were what I once was, I would try to make\nyou care but a sightless block! \n\nHe relapsed again into gloom. I, on the contrary, became more cheerful,\nand took fresh courage: these last words gave me an insight as to where\nthe difficulty lay; and as it was no difficulty with me, I felt quite\nrelieved from my previous embarrassment. I resumed a livelier vein of\nconversation.\n\n It is time some one undertook to rehumanise you,  said I, parting his\nthick and long uncut locks;  for I see you are being metamorphosed into\na lion, or something of that sort. You have a  faux air  of\nNebuchadnezzar in the fields about you, that is certain: your hair\nreminds me of eagles  feathers; whether your nails are grown like\nbirds  claws or not, I have not yet noticed. \n\n On this arm, I have neither hand nor nails,  he said, drawing the\nmutilated limb from his breast, and showing it to me.  It is a mere\nstump a ghastly sight! Don t you think so, Jane? \n\n It is a pity to see it; and a pity to see your eyes and the scar of\nfire on your forehead: and the worst of it is, one is in danger of\nloving you too well for all this; and making too much of you. \n\n I thought you would be revolted, Jane, when you saw my arm, and my\ncicatrised visage. \n\n Did you? Don t tell me so lest I should say something disparaging to\nyour judgment. Now, let me leave you an instant, to make a better fire,\nand have the hearth swept up. Can you tell when there is a good fire? \n\n Yes; with the right eye I see a glow a ruddy haze. \n\n And you see the candles? \n\n Very dimly each is a luminous cloud. \n\n Can you see me? \n\n No, my fairy: but I am only too thankful to hear and feel you. \n\n When do you take supper? \n\n I never take supper. \n\n But you shall have some to-night. I am hungry: so are you, I daresay,\nonly you forget. \n\nSummoning Mary, I soon had the room in more cheerful order: I prepared\nhim, likewise, a comfortable repast. My spirits were excited, and with\npleasure and ease I talked to him during supper, and for a long time\nafter. There was no harassing restraint, no repressing of glee and\nvivacity with him; for with him I was at perfect ease, because I knew I\nsuited him; all I said or did seemed either to console or revive him.\nDelightful consciousness! It brought to life and light my whole nature:\nin his presence I thoroughly lived; and he lived in mine. Blind as he\nwas, smiles played over his face, joy dawned on his forehead: his\nlineaments softened and warmed.\n\nAfter supper, he began to ask me many questions, of where I had been,\nwhat I had been doing, how I had found him out; but I gave him only\nvery partial replies: it was too late to enter into particulars that\nnight. Besides, I wished to touch no deep-thrilling chord to open no\nfresh well of emotion in his heart: my sole present aim was to cheer\nhim. Cheered, as I have said, he was: and yet but by fits. If a\nmoment s silence broke the conversation, he would turn restless, touch\nme, then say,  Jane. \n\n You are altogether a human being, Jane? You are certain of that? \n\n\nYou are altogether a human being, Jane? You are certain of that?\n\n I conscientiously believe so, Mr. Rochester. \n\n Yet how, on this dark and doleful evening, could you so suddenly rise\non my lone hearth? I stretched my hand to take a glass of water from a\nhireling, and it was given me by you: I asked a question, expecting\nJohn s wife to answer me, and your voice spoke at my ear. \n\n Because I had come in, in Mary s stead, with the tray. \n\n And there is enchantment in the very hour I am now spending with you.\nWho can tell what a dark, dreary, hopeless life I have dragged on for\nmonths past? Doing nothing, expecting nothing; merging night in day;\nfeeling but the sensation of cold when I let the fire go out, of hunger\nwhen I forgot to eat: and then a ceaseless sorrow, and, at times, a\nvery delirium of desire to behold my Jane again. Yes: for her\nrestoration I longed, far more than for that of my lost sight. How can\nit be that Jane is with me, and says she loves me? Will she not depart\nas suddenly as she came? To-morrow, I fear I shall find her no more. \n\nA commonplace, practical reply, out of the train of his own disturbed\nideas, was, I was sure, the best and most reassuring for him in this\nframe of mind. I passed my finger over his eyebrows, and remarked that\nthey were scorched, and that I would apply something which would make\nthem grow as broad and black as ever.\n\n Where is the use of doing me good in any way, beneficent spirit, when,\nat some fatal moment, you will again desert me passing like a shadow,\nwhither and how to me unknown, and for me remaining afterwards\nundiscoverable? \n\n Have you a pocket-comb about you, sir? \n\n What for, Jane? \n\n Just to comb out this shaggy black mane. I find you rather alarming,\nwhen I examine you close at hand: you talk of my being a fairy, but I\nam sure, you are more like a brownie. \n\n Am I hideous, Jane? \n\n Very, sir: you always were, you know. \n\n Humph! The wickedness has not been taken out of you, wherever you have\nsojourned. \n\n Yet I have been with good people; far better than you: a hundred times\nbetter people; possessed of ideas and views you never entertained in\nyour life: quite more refined and exalted. \n\n Who the deuce have you been with? \n\n If you twist in that way you will make me pull the hair out of your\nhead; and then I think you will cease to entertain doubts of my\nsubstantiality. \n\n Who have you been with, Jane? \n\n You shall not get it out of me to-night, sir; you must wait till\nto-morrow; to leave my tale half told, will, you know, be a sort of\nsecurity that I shall appear at your breakfast table to finish it. By\nthe bye, I must mind not to rise on your hearth with only a glass of\nwater then: I must bring an egg at the least, to say nothing of fried\nham. \n\n You mocking changeling fairy-born and human-bred! You make me feel as\nI have not felt these twelve months. If Saul could have had you for his\nDavid, the evil spirit would have been exorcised without the aid of the\nharp. \n\n There, sir, you are redd up and made decent. Now I ll leave you: I\nhave been travelling these last three days, and I believe I am tired.\nGood night. \n\n Just one word, Jane: were there only ladies in the house where you\nhave been? \n\nI laughed and made my escape, still laughing as I ran upstairs.  A good\nidea!  I thought with glee.  I see I have the means of fretting him out\nof his melancholy for some time to come. \n\nVery early the next morning I heard him up and astir, wandering from\none room to another. As soon as Mary came down I heard the question:\n Is Miss Eyre here?  Then:  Which room did you put her into? Was it\ndry? Is she up? Go and ask if she wants anything; and when she will\ncome down. \n\nI came down as soon as I thought there was a prospect of breakfast.\nEntering the room very softly, I had a view of him before he discovered\nmy presence. It was mournful, indeed, to witness the subjugation of\nthat vigorous spirit to a corporeal infirmity. He sat in his\nchair still, but not at rest: expectant evidently; the lines of now\nhabitual sadness marking his strong features. His countenance reminded\none of a lamp quenched, waiting to be re-lit and alas! it was not\nhimself that could now kindle the lustre of animated expression: he was\ndependent on another for that office! I had meant to be gay and\ncareless, but the powerlessness of the strong man touched my heart to\nthe quick: still I accosted him with what vivacity I could.\n\n It is a bright, sunny morning, sir,  I said.  The rain is over and\ngone, and there is a tender shining after it: you shall have a walk\nsoon. \n\nI had wakened the glow: his features beamed.\n\n Oh, you are indeed there, my skylark! Come to me. You are not gone:\nnot vanished? I heard one of your kind an hour ago, singing high over\nthe wood: but its song had no music for me, any more than the rising\nsun had rays. All the melody on earth is concentrated in my Jane s\ntongue to my ear (I am glad it is not naturally a silent one): all the\nsunshine I can feel is in her presence. \n\nThe water stood in my eyes to hear this avowal of his dependence; just\nas if a royal eagle, chained to a perch, should be forced to entreat a\nsparrow to become its purveyor. But I would not be lachrymose: I dashed\noff the salt drops, and busied myself with preparing breakfast.\n\nMost of the morning was spent in the open air. I led him out of the wet\nand wild wood into some cheerful fields: I described to him how\nbrilliantly green they were; how the flowers and hedges looked\nrefreshed; how sparklingly blue was the sky. I sought a seat for him in\na hidden and lovely spot, a dry stump of a tree; nor did I refuse to\nlet him, when seated, place me on his knee. Why should I, when both he\nand I were happier near than apart? Pilot lay beside us: all was quiet.\nHe broke out suddenly while clasping me in his arms \n\n Cruel, cruel deserter! Oh, Jane, what did I feel when I discovered you\nhad fled from Thornfield, and when I could nowhere find you; and, after\nexamining your apartment, ascertained that you had taken no money, nor\nanything which could serve as an equivalent! A pearl necklace I had\ngiven you lay untouched in its little casket; your trunks were left\ncorded and locked as they had been prepared for the bridal tour. What\ncould my darling do, I asked, left destitute and penniless? And what\ndid she do? Let me hear now. \n\nThus urged, I began the narrative of my experience for the last year. I\nsoftened considerably what related to the three days of wandering and\nstarvation, because to have told him all would have been to inflict\nunnecessary pain: the little I did say lacerated his faithful heart\ndeeper than I wished.\n\nI should not have left him thus, he said, without any means of making\nmy way: I should have told him my intention. I should have confided in\nhim: he would never have forced me to be his mistress. Violent as he\nhad seemed in his despair, he, in truth, loved me far too well and too\ntenderly to constitute himself my tyrant: he would have given me half\nhis fortune, without demanding so much as a kiss in return, rather than\nI should have flung myself friendless on the wide world. I had endured,\nhe was certain, more than I had confessed to him.\n\n Well, whatever my sufferings had been, they were very short,  I\nanswered: and then I proceeded to tell him how I had been received at\nMoor House; how I had obtained the office of schoolmistress, &c. The\naccession of fortune, the discovery of my relations, followed in due\norder. Of course, St. John Rivers  name came in frequently in the\nprogress of my tale. When I had done, that name was immediately taken\nup.\n\n This St. John, then, is your cousin? \n\n Yes. \n\n You have spoken of him often: do you like him? \n\n He was a very good man, sir; I could not help liking him. \n\n A good man. Does that mean a respectable well-conducted man of fifty?\nOr what does it mean? \n\n St John was only twenty-nine, sir. \n\n _Jeune encore_,  as the French say. Is he a person of low stature,\nphlegmatic, and plain? A person whose goodness consists rather in his\nguiltlessness of vice, than in his prowess in virtue. \n\n He is untiringly active. Great and exalted deeds are what he lives to\nperform. \n\n But his brain? That is probably rather soft? He means well: but you\nshrug your shoulders to hear him talk? \n\n He talks little, sir: what he does say is ever to the point. His brain\nis first-rate, I should think not impressible, but vigorous. \n\n Is he an able man, then? \n\n Truly able. \n\n A thoroughly educated man? \n\n St. John is an accomplished and profound scholar. \n\n His manners, I think, you said are not to your taste? priggish and\nparsonic? \n\n I never mentioned his manners; but, unless I had a very bad taste,\nthey must suit it; they are polished, calm, and gentlemanlike. \n\n His appearance, I forget what description you gave of his\nappearance; a sort of raw curate, half strangled with his white\nneckcloth, and stilted up on his thick-soled high-lows, eh? \n\n St. John dresses well. He is a handsome man: tall, fair, with blue\neyes, and a Grecian profile. \n\n(Aside.)  Damn him! (To me.)  Did you like him, Jane? \n\n Yes, Mr. Rochester, I liked him: but you asked me that before. \n\nI perceived, of course, the drift of my interlocutor. Jealousy had got\nhold of him: she stung him; but the sting was salutary: it gave him\nrespite from the gnawing fang of melancholy. I would not, therefore,\nimmediately charm the snake.\n\n Perhaps you would rather not sit any longer on my knee, Miss Eyre? \nwas the next somewhat unexpected observation.\n\n Why not, Mr. Rochester? \n\n The picture you have just drawn is suggestive of a rather too\noverwhelming contrast. Your words have delineated very prettily a\ngraceful Apollo: he is present to your imagination, tall, fair,\nblue-eyed, and with a Grecian profile. Your eyes dwell on a Vulcan, a\nreal blacksmith, brown, broad-shouldered: and blind and lame into the\nbargain. \n\n I never thought of it, before; but you certainly are rather like\nVulcan, sir. \n\n Well, you can leave me, ma am: but before you go  (and he retained me\nby a firmer grasp than ever),  you will be pleased just to answer me a\nquestion or two.  He paused.\n\n What questions, Mr. Rochester? \n\nThen followed this cross-examination.\n\n St. John made you schoolmistress of Morton before he knew you were his\ncousin? \n\n Yes. \n\n You would often see him? He would visit the school sometimes? \n\n Daily. \n\n He would approve of your plans, Jane? I know they would be clever, for\nyou are a talented creature! \n\n He approved of them yes. \n\n He would discover many things in you he could not have expected to\nfind? Some of your accomplishments are not ordinary. \n\n I don t know about that. \n\n You had a little cottage near the school, you say: did he ever come\nthere to see you? \n\n Now and then. \n\n Of an evening? \n\n Once or twice. \n\nA pause.\n\n How long did you reside with him and his sisters after the cousinship\nwas discovered? \n\n Five months. \n\n Did Rivers spend much time with the ladies of his family? \n\n Yes; the back parlour was both his study and ours: he sat near the\nwindow, and we by the table. \n\n Did he study much? \n\n A good deal. \n\n What? \n\n Hindostanee. \n\n And what did you do meantime? \n\n I learnt German, at first. \n\n Did he teach you? \n\n He did not understand German. \n\n Did he teach you nothing? \n\n A little Hindostanee. \n\n Rivers taught you Hindostanee? \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n And his sisters also? \n\n No. \n\n Only you? \n\n Only me. \n\n Did you ask to learn? \n\n No. \n\n He wished to teach you? \n\n Yes. \n\nA second pause.\n\n Why did he wish it? Of what use could Hindostanee be to you? \n\n He intended me to go with him to India. \n\n Ah! here I reach the root of the matter. He wanted you to marry him? \n\n He asked me to marry him. \n\n That is a fiction an impudent invention to vex me. \n\n I beg your pardon, it is the literal truth: he asked me more than\nonce, and was as stiff about urging his point as ever you could be. \n\n Miss Eyre, I repeat it, you can leave me. How often am I to say the\nsame thing? Why do you remain pertinaciously perched on my knee, when I\nhave given you notice to quit? \n\n Because I am comfortable there. \n\n No, Jane, you are not comfortable there, because your heart is not\nwith me: it is with this cousin this St. John. Oh, till this moment, I\nthought my little Jane was all mine! I had a belief she loved me even\nwhen she left me: that was an atom of sweet in much bitter. Long as we\nhave been parted, hot tears as I have wept over our separation, I never\nthought that while I was mourning her, she was loving another! But it\nis useless grieving. Jane, leave me: go and marry Rivers. \n\n Shake me off, then, sir, push me away, for I ll not leave you of my\nown accord. \n\n Jane, I ever like your tone of voice: it still renews hope, it sounds\nso truthful. When I hear it, it carries me back a year. I forget that\nyou have formed a new tie. But I am not a fool go \n\n Where must I go, sir? \n\n Your own way with the husband you have chosen. \n\n Who is that? \n\n You know this St. John Rivers. \n\n He is not my husband, nor ever will be. He does not love me: I do not\nlove him. He loves (as he _can_ love, and that is not as you love) a\nbeautiful young lady called Rosamond. He wanted to marry me only\nbecause he thought I should make a suitable missionary s wife, which\nshe would not have done. He is good and great, but severe; and, for me,\ncold as an iceberg. He is not like you, sir: I am not happy at his\nside, nor near him, nor with him. He has no indulgence for me no\nfondness. He sees nothing attractive in me; not even youth only a few\nuseful mental points. Then I must leave you, sir, to go to him? \n\nI shuddered involuntarily, and clung instinctively closer to my blind\nbut beloved master. He smiled.\n\n What, Jane! Is this true? Is such really the state of matters between\nyou and Rivers? \n\n Absolutely, sir! Oh, you need not be jealous! I wanted to tease you a\nlittle to make you less sad: I thought anger would be better than\ngrief. But if you wish me to love you, could you but see how much I\n_do_ love you, you would be proud and content. All my heart is yours,\nsir: it belongs to you; and with you it would remain, were fate to\nexile the rest of me from your presence for ever. \n\nAgain, as he kissed me, painful thoughts darkened his aspect.\n\n My seared vision! My crippled strength!  he murmured regretfully.\n\nI caressed, in order to soothe him. I knew of what he was thinking, and\nwanted to speak for him, but dared not. As he turned aside his face a\nminute, I saw a tear slide from under the sealed eyelid, and trickle\ndown the manly cheek. My heart swelled.\n\n I am no better than the old lightning-struck chestnut-tree in\nThornfield orchard,  he remarked ere long.  And what right would that\nruin have to bid a budding woodbine cover its decay with freshness? \n\n You are no ruin, sir no lightning-struck tree: you are green and\nvigorous. Plants will grow about your roots, whether you ask them or\nnot, because they take delight in your bountiful shadow; and as they\ngrow they will lean towards you, and wind round you, because your\nstrength offers them so safe a prop. \n\nAgain he smiled: I gave him comfort.\n\n You speak of friends, Jane?  he asked.\n\n Yes, of friends,  I answered rather hesitatingly: for I knew I meant\nmore than friends, but could not tell what other word to employ. He\nhelped me.\n\n Ah! Jane. But I want a wife. \n\n Do you, sir? \n\n Yes: is it news to you? \n\n Of course: you said nothing about it before. \n\n Is it unwelcome news? \n\n That depends on circumstances, sir on your choice. \n\n Which you shall make for me, Jane. I will abide by your decision. \n\n Choose then, sir _her who loves you best_. \n\n I will at least choose _her I love best_. Jane, will you marry me? \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n A poor blind man, whom you will have to lead about by the hand? \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n A crippled man, twenty years older than you, whom you will have to\nwait on? \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n Truly, Jane? \n\n Most truly, sir. \n\n Oh! my darling! God bless you and reward you! \n\n Mr. Rochester, if ever I did a good deed in my life if ever I thought\na good thought if ever I prayed a sincere and blameless prayer if ever\nI wished a righteous wish, I am rewarded now. To be your wife is, for\nme, to be as happy as I can be on earth. \n\n Because you delight in sacrifice. \n\n Sacrifice! What do I sacrifice? Famine for food, expectation for\ncontent. To be privileged to put my arms round what I value to press my\nlips to what I love to repose on what I trust: is that to make a\nsacrifice? If so, then certainly I delight in sacrifice. \n\n And to bear with my infirmities, Jane: to overlook my deficiencies. \n\n Which are none, sir, to me. I love you better now, when I can really\nbe useful to you, than I did in your state of proud independence, when\nyou disdained every part but that of the giver and protector. \n\n Hitherto I have hated to be helped to be led: henceforth, I feel I\nshall hate it no more. I did not like to put my hand into a hireling s,\nbut it is pleasant to feel it circled by Jane s little fingers. I\npreferred utter loneliness to the constant attendance of servants; but\nJane s soft ministry will be a perpetual joy. Jane suits me: do I suit\nher? \n\n To the finest fibre of my nature, sir. \n\n The case being so, we have nothing in the world to wait for: we must\nbe married instantly. \n\nHe looked and spoke with eagerness: his old impetuosity was rising.\n\n We must become one flesh without any delay, Jane: there is but the\nlicence to get then we marry. \n\n Mr. Rochester, I have just discovered the sun is far declined from its\nmeridian, and Pilot is actually gone home to his dinner. Let me look at\nyour watch. \n\n Fasten it into your girdle, Janet, and keep it henceforward: I have no\nuse for it. \n\n It is nearly four o clock in the afternoon, sir. Don t you feel\nhungry? \n\n The third day from this must be our wedding-day, Jane. Never mind fine\nclothes and jewels, now: all that is not worth a fillip. \n\n The sun has dried up all the rain-drops, sir. The breeze is still: it\nis quite hot. \n\n Do you know, Jane, I have your little pearl necklace at this moment\nfastened round my bronze scrag under my cravat? I have worn it since\nthe day I lost my only treasure, as a memento of her. \n\n We will go home through the wood: that will be the shadiest way. \n\nHe pursued his own thoughts without heeding me.\n\n Jane! you think me, I daresay, an irreligious dog: but my heart swells\nwith gratitude to the beneficent God of this earth just now. He sees\nnot as man sees, but far clearer: judges not as man judges, but far\nmore wisely. I did wrong: I would have sullied my innocent\nflower breathed guilt on its purity: the Omnipotent snatched it from\nme. I, in my stiff-necked rebellion, almost cursed the dispensation:\ninstead of bending to the decree, I defied it. Divine justice pursued\nits course; disasters came thick on me: I was forced to pass through\nthe valley of the shadow of death. _His_ chastisements are mighty; and\none smote me which has humbled me for ever. You know I was proud of my\nstrength: but what is it now, when I must give it over to foreign\nguidance, as a child does its weakness? Of late, Jane only only of\nlate I began to see and acknowledge the hand of God in my doom. I began\nto experience remorse, repentance; the wish for reconcilement to my\nMaker. I began sometimes to pray: very brief prayers they were, but\nvery sincere.\n\n Some days since: nay, I can number them four; it was last Monday\nnight, a singular mood came over me: one in which grief replaced\nfrenzy sorrow, sullenness. I had long had the impression that since I\ncould nowhere find you, you must be dead. Late that night perhaps it\nmight be between eleven and twelve o clock ere I retired to my dreary\nrest, I supplicated God, that, if it seemed good to Him, I might soon\nbe taken from this life, and admitted to that world to come, where\nthere was still hope of rejoining Jane.\n\n I was in my own room, and sitting by the window, which was open: it\nsoothed me to feel the balmy night-air; though I could see no stars and\nonly by a vague, luminous haze, knew the presence of a moon. I longed\nfor thee, Janet! Oh, I longed for thee both with soul and flesh! I\nasked of God, at once in anguish and humility, if I had not been long\nenough desolate, afflicted, tormented; and might not soon taste bliss\nand peace once more. That I merited all I endured, I acknowledged that\nI could scarcely endure more, I pleaded; and the alpha and omega of my\nheart s wishes broke involuntarily from my lips in the words Jane!\nJane! Jane! \n\n Did you speak these words aloud? \n\n I did, Jane. If any listener had heard me, he would have thought me\nmad: I pronounced them with such frantic energy. \n\n And it was last Monday night, somewhere near midnight? \n\n Yes; but the time is of no consequence: what followed is the strange\npoint. You will think me superstitious, some superstition I have in my\nblood, and always had: nevertheless, this is true true at least it is\nthat I heard what I now relate.\n\n As I exclaimed  Jane! Jane! Jane!  a voice I cannot tell whence the\nvoice came, but I know whose voice it was replied,  I am coming: wait\nfor me;  and a moment after, went whispering on the wind the\nwords Where are you? \n\n I ll tell you, if I can, the idea, the picture these words opened to\nmy mind: yet it is difficult to express what I want to express.\nFerndean is buried, as you see, in a heavy wood, where sound falls\ndull, and dies unreverberating.  Where are you?  seemed spoken amongst\nmountains; for I heard a hill-sent echo repeat the words. Cooler and\nfresher at the moment the gale seemed to visit my brow: I could have\ndeemed that in some wild, lone scene, I and Jane were meeting. In\nspirit, I believe we must have met. You no doubt were, at that hour, in\nunconscious sleep, Jane: perhaps your soul wandered from its cell to\ncomfort mine; for those were your accents as certain as I live they\nwere yours! \n\nReader, it was on Monday night near midnight that I too had received\nthe mysterious summons: those were the very words by which I replied to\nit. I listened to Mr. Rochester s narrative, but made no disclosure in\nreturn. The coincidence struck me as too awful and inexplicable to be\ncommunicated or discussed. If I told anything, my tale would be such as\nmust necessarily make a profound impression on the mind of my hearer:\nand that mind, yet from its sufferings too prone to gloom, needed not\nthe deeper shade of the supernatural. I kept these things then, and\npondered them in my heart.\n\n You cannot now wonder,  continued my master,  that when you rose upon\nme so unexpectedly last night, I had difficulty in believing you any\nother than a mere voice and vision, something that would melt to\nsilence and annihilation, as the midnight whisper and mountain echo had\nmelted before. Now, I thank God! I know it to be otherwise. Yes, I\nthank God! \n\nHe put me off his knee, rose, and reverently lifting his hat from his\nbrow, and bending his sightless eyes to the earth, he stood in mute\ndevotion. Only the last words of the worship were audible.\n\n I thank my Maker, that, in the midst of judgment, he has remembered\nmercy. I humbly entreat my Redeemer to give me strength to lead\nhenceforth a purer life than I have done hitherto! \n\nThen he stretched his hand out to be led. I took that dear hand, held\nit a moment to my lips, then let it pass round my shoulder: being so\nmuch lower of stature than he, I served both for his prop and guide. We\nentered the wood, and wended homeward.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVIII CONCLUSION\n\n\nReader, I married him. A quiet wedding we had: he and I, the parson and\nclerk, were alone present. When we got back from church, I went into\nthe kitchen of the manor-house, where Mary was cooking the dinner and\nJohn cleaning the knives, and I said \n\n Mary, I have been married to Mr. Rochester this morning.  The\nhousekeeper and her husband were both of that decent phlegmatic order\nof people, to whom one may at any time safely communicate a remarkable\npiece of news without incurring the danger of having one s ears pierced\nby some shrill ejaculation, and subsequently stunned by a torrent of\nwordy wonderment. Mary did look up, and she did stare at me: the ladle\nwith which she was basting a pair of chickens roasting at the fire, did\nfor some three minutes hang suspended in air; and for the same space of\ntime John s knives also had rest from the polishing process: but Mary,\nbending again over the roast, said only \n\n Have you, Miss? Well, for sure! \n\nA short time after she pursued I seed you go out with the master, but\nI didn t know you were gone to church to be wed;  and she basted away.\nJohn, when I turned to him, was grinning from ear to ear.\n\n I telled Mary how it would be,  he said:  I knew what Mr. Edward \n(John was an old servant, and had known his master when he was the\ncadet of the house, therefore, he often gave him his Christian name) I\nknew what Mr. Edward would do; and I was certain he would not wait long\nneither: and he s done right, for aught I know. I wish you joy, Miss! \nand he politely pulled his forelock.\n\n Thank you, John. Mr. Rochester told me to give you and Mary this.  I\nput into his hand a five-pound note. Without waiting to hear more, I\nleft the kitchen. In passing the door of that sanctum some time after,\nI caught the words \n\n She ll happen do better for him nor ony o  t  grand ladies.  And\nagain,  If she ben t one o  th  handsomest, she s noan fa l and varry\ngood-natured; and i  his een she s fair beautiful, onybody may see\nthat. \n\nI wrote to Moor House and to Cambridge immediately, to say what I had\ndone: fully explaining also why I had thus acted. Diana and Mary\napproved the step unreservedly. Diana announced that she would just\ngive me time to get over the honeymoon, and then she would come and see\nme.\n\n She had better not wait till then, Jane,  said Mr. Rochester, when I\nread her letter to him;  if she does, she will be too late, for our\nhoneymoon will shine our life long: its beams will only fade over your\ngrave or mine. \n\nHow St. John received the news, I don t know: he never answered the\nletter in which I communicated it: yet six months after he wrote to me,\nwithout, however, mentioning Mr. Rochester s name or alluding to my\nmarriage. His letter was then calm, and, though very serious, kind. He\nhas maintained a regular, though not frequent, correspondence ever\nsince: he hopes I am happy, and trusts I am not of those who live\nwithout God in the world, and only mind earthly things.\n\nYou have not quite forgotten little Ad le, have you, reader? I had not;\nI soon asked and obtained leave of Mr. Rochester, to go and see her at\nthe school where he had placed her. Her frantic joy at beholding me\nagain moved me much. She looked pale and thin: she said she was not\nhappy. I found the rules of the establishment were too strict, its\ncourse of study too severe for a child of her age: I took her home with\nme. I meant to become her governess once more, but I soon found this\nimpracticable; my time and cares were now required by another my\nhusband needed them all. So I sought out a school conducted on a more\nindulgent system, and near enough to permit of my visiting her often,\nand bringing her home sometimes. I took care she should never want for\nanything that could contribute to her comfort: she soon settled in her\nnew abode, became very happy there, and made fair progress in her\nstudies. As she grew up, a sound English education corrected in a great\nmeasure her French defects; and when she left school, I found in her a\npleasing and obliging companion: docile, good-tempered, and\nwell-principled. By her grateful attention to me and mine, she has long\nsince well repaid any little kindness I ever had it in my power to\noffer her.\n\nMy tale draws to its close: one word respecting my experience of\nmarried life, and one brief glance at the fortunes of those whose names\nhave most frequently recurred in this narrative, and I have done.\n\nI have now been married ten years. I know what it is to live entirely\nfor and with what I love best on earth. I hold myself supremely\nblest blest beyond what language can express; because I am my husband s\nlife as fully as he is mine. No woman was ever nearer to her mate than\nI am: ever more absolutely bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh. I\nknow no weariness of my Edward s society: he knows none of mine, any\nmore than we each do of the pulsation of the heart that beats in our\nseparate bosoms; consequently, we are ever together. To be together is\nfor us to be at once as free as in solitude, as gay as in company. We\ntalk, I believe, all day long: to talk to each other is but a more\nanimated and an audible thinking. All my confidence is bestowed on him,\nall his confidence is devoted to me; we are precisely suited in\ncharacter perfect concord is the result.\n\nMr. Rochester continued blind the first two years of our union; perhaps\nit was that circumstance that drew us so very near that knit us so very\nclose: for I was then his vision, as I am still his right hand.\nLiterally, I was (what he often called me) the apple of his eye. He saw\nnature he saw books through me; and never did I weary of gazing for his\nbehalf, and of putting into words the effect of field, tree, town,\nriver, cloud, sunbeam of the landscape before us; of the weather round\nus and impressing by sound on his ear what light could no longer stamp\non his eye. Never did I weary of reading to him; never did I weary of\nconducting him where he wished to go: of doing for him what he wished\nto be done. And there was a pleasure in my services, most full, most\nexquisite, even though sad because he claimed these services without\npainful shame or damping humiliation. He loved me so truly, that he\nknew no reluctance in profiting by my attendance: he felt I loved him\nso fondly, that to yield that attendance was to indulge my sweetest\nwishes.\n\nOne morning at the end of the two years, as I was writing a letter to\nhis dictation, he came and bent over me, and said Jane, have you a\nglittering ornament round your neck? \n\nI had a gold watch-chain: I answered  Yes. \n\n And have you a pale blue dress on? \n\n\nAnd have you a pale blue dress on?\n\nI had. He informed me then, that for some time he had fancied the\nobscurity clouding one eye was becoming less dense; and that now he was\nsure of it.\n\nHe and I went up to London. He had the advice of an eminent oculist;\nand he eventually recovered the sight of that one eye. He cannot now\nsee very distinctly: he cannot read or write much; but he can find his\nway without being led by the hand: the sky is no longer a blank to\nhim the earth no longer a void. When his first-born was put into his\narms, he could see that the boy had inherited his own eyes, as they\nonce were large, brilliant, and black. On that occasion, he again, with\na full heart, acknowledged that God had tempered judgment with mercy.\n\nMy Edward and I, then, are happy: and the more so, because those we\nmost love are happy likewise. Diana and Mary Rivers are both married:\nalternately, once every year, they come to see us, and we go to see\nthem. Diana s husband is a captain in the navy, a gallant officer and a\ngood man. Mary s is a clergyman, a college friend of her brother s,\nand, from his attainments and principles, worthy of the connection.\nBoth Captain Fitzjames and Mr. Wharton love their wives, and are loved\nby them.\n\nAs to St. John Rivers, he left England: he went to India. He entered on\nthe path he had marked for himself; he pursues it still. A more\nresolute, indefatigable pioneer never wrought amidst rocks and dangers.\nFirm, faithful, and devoted, full of energy, and zeal, and truth, he\nlabours for his race; he clears their painful way to improvement; he\nhews down like a giant the prejudices of creed and caste that encumber\nit. He may be stern; he may be exacting; he may be ambitious yet; but\nhis is the sternness of the warrior Greatheart, who guards his pilgrim\nconvoy from the onslaught of Apollyon. His is the exaction of the\napostle, who speaks but for Christ, when he says Whosoever will come\nafter me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross and follow me. \nHis is the ambition of the high master-spirit, which aims to fill a\nplace in the first rank of those who are redeemed from the earth who\nstand without fault before the throne of God, who share the last mighty\nvictories of the Lamb, who are called, and chosen, and faithful.\n\nSt. John is unmarried: he never will marry now. Himself has hitherto\nsufficed to the toil, and the toil draws near its close: his glorious\nsun hastens to its setting. The last letter I received from him drew\nfrom my eyes human tears, and yet filled my heart with divine joy: he\nanticipated his sure reward, his incorruptible crown. I know that a\nstranger s hand will write to me next, to say that the good and\nfaithful servant has been called at length into the joy of his Lord.\nAnd why weep for this? No fear of death will darken St. John s last\nhour: his mind will be unclouded, his heart will be undaunted, his hope\nwill be sure, his faith steadfast. His own words are a pledge of this \n\n My Master,  he says,  has forewarned me. Daily He announces more\ndistinctly, Surely I come quickly!  and hourly I more eagerly\nrespond, Amen; even so come, Lord Jesus! "
    },
    {
        "title": "The Fellowship of the Ring",
        "author": "J.R.R. Tolkien",
        "category": "Fantasy",
        "EN": "CHAPTER I.\nTHERE IS NO ONE LEFT\n\n\nWhen Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle\neverybody said she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever seen.\nIt was true, too. She had a little thin face and a little thin body,\nthin light hair and a sour expression. Her hair was yellow, and her\nface was yellow because she had been born in India and had always been\nill in one way or another. Her father had held a position under the\nEnglish Government and had always been busy and ill himself, and her\nmother had been a great beauty who cared only to go to parties and\namuse herself with gay people. She had not wanted a little girl at all,\nand when Mary was born she handed her over to the care of an Ayah, who\nwas made to understand that if she wished to please the Mem Sahib she\nmust keep the child out of sight as much as possible. So when she was a\nsickly, fretful, ugly little baby she was kept out of the way, and when\nshe became a sickly, fretful, toddling thing she was kept out of the\nway also. She never remembered seeing familiarly anything but the dark\nfaces of her Ayah and the other native servants, and as they always\nobeyed her and gave her her own way in everything, because the Mem\nSahib would be angry if she was disturbed by her crying, by the time\nshe was six years old she was as tyrannical and selfish a little pig as\never lived. The young English governess who came to teach her to read\nand write disliked her so much that she gave up her place in three\nmonths, and when other governesses came to try to fill it they always\nwent away in a shorter time than the first one. So if Mary had not\nchosen to really want to know how to read books she would never have\nlearned her letters at all.\n\nOne frightfully hot morning, when she was about nine years old, she\nawakened feeling very cross, and she became crosser still when she saw\nthat the servant who stood by her bedside was not her Ayah.\n\n Why did you come?  she said to the strange woman.  I will not let you\nstay. Send my Ayah to me. \n\nThe woman looked frightened, but she only stammered that the Ayah could\nnot come and when Mary threw herself into a passion and beat and kicked\nher, she looked only more frightened and repeated that it was not\npossible for the Ayah to come to Missie Sahib.\n\nThere was something mysterious in the air that morning. Nothing was\ndone in its regular order and several of the native servants seemed\nmissing, while those whom Mary saw slunk or hurried about with ashy and\nscared faces. But no one would tell her anything and her Ayah did not\ncome. She was actually left alone as the morning went on, and at last\nshe wandered out into the garden and began to play by herself under a\ntree near the veranda. She pretended that she was making a flower-bed,\nand she stuck big scarlet hibiscus blossoms into little heaps of earth,\nall the time growing more and more angry and muttering to herself the\nthings she would say and the names she would call Saidie when she\nreturned.\n\n Pig! Pig! Daughter of Pigs!  she said, because to call a native a pig\nis the worst insult of all.\n\nShe was grinding her teeth and saying this over and over again when she\nheard her mother come out on the veranda with someone. She was with a\nfair young man and they stood talking together in low strange voices.\nMary knew the fair young man who looked like a boy. She had heard that\nhe was a very young officer who had just come from England. The child\nstared at him, but she stared most at her mother. She always did this\nwhen she had a chance to see her, because the Mem Sahib Mary used to\ncall her that oftener than anything else was such a tall, slim, pretty\nperson and wore such lovely clothes. Her hair was like curly silk and\nshe had a delicate little nose which seemed to be disdaining things,\nand she had large laughing eyes. All her clothes were thin and\nfloating, and Mary said they were  full of lace.  They looked fuller of\nlace than ever this morning, but her eyes were not laughing at all.\nThey were large and scared and lifted imploringly to the fair boy\nofficer s face.\n\n Is it so very bad? Oh, is it?  Mary heard her say.\n\n Awfully,  the young man answered in a trembling voice.  Awfully, Mrs.\nLennox. You ought to have gone to the hills two weeks ago. \n\nThe Mem Sahib wrung her hands.\n\n Oh, I know I ought!  she cried.  I only stayed to go to that silly\ndinner party. What a fool I was! \n\nAt that very moment such a loud sound of wailing broke out from the\nservants  quarters that she clutched the young man s arm, and Mary\nstood shivering from head to foot. The wailing grew wilder and wilder.\n What is it? What is it?  Mrs. Lennox gasped.\n\n Someone has died,  answered the boy officer.  You did not say it had\nbroken out among your servants. \n\n I did not know!  the Mem Sahib cried.  Come with me! Come with me! \nand she turned and ran into the house.\n\nAfter that appalling things happened, and the mysteriousness of the\nmorning was explained to Mary. The cholera had broken out in its most\nfatal form and people were dying like flies. The Ayah had been taken\nill in the night, and it was because she had just died that the\nservants had wailed in the huts. Before the next day three other\nservants were dead and others had run away in terror. There was panic\non every side, and dying people in all the bungalows.\n\nDuring the confusion and bewilderment of the second day Mary hid\nherself in the nursery and was forgotten by everyone. Nobody thought of\nher, nobody wanted her, and strange things happened of which she knew\nnothing. Mary alternately cried and slept through the hours. She only\nknew that people were ill and that she heard mysterious and frightening\nsounds. Once she crept into the dining-room and found it empty, though\na partly finished meal was on the table and chairs and plates looked as\nif they had been hastily pushed back when the diners rose suddenly for\nsome reason. The child ate some fruit and biscuits, and being thirsty\nshe drank a glass of wine which stood nearly filled. It was sweet, and\nshe did not know how strong it was. Very soon it made her intensely\ndrowsy, and she went back to her nursery and shut herself in again,\nfrightened by cries she heard in the huts and by the hurrying sound of\nfeet. The wine made her so sleepy that she could scarcely keep her eyes\nopen and she lay down on her bed and knew nothing more for a long time.\n\nMany things happened during the hours in which she slept so heavily,\nbut she was not disturbed by the wails and the sound of things being\ncarried in and out of the bungalow.\n\nWhen she awakened she lay and stared at the wall. The house was\nperfectly still. She had never known it to be so silent before. She\nheard neither voices nor footsteps, and wondered if everybody had got\nwell of the cholera and all the trouble was over. She wondered also who\nwould take care of her now her Ayah was dead. There would be a new\nAyah, and perhaps she would know some new stories. Mary had been rather\ntired of the old ones. She did not cry because her nurse had died. She\nwas not an affectionate child and had never cared much for anyone. The\nnoise and hurrying about and wailing over the cholera had frightened\nher, and she had been angry because no one seemed to remember that she\nwas alive. Everyone was too panic-stricken to think of a little girl no\none was fond of. When people had the cholera it seemed that they\nremembered nothing but themselves. But if everyone had got well again,\nsurely someone would remember and come to look for her.\n\nBut no one came, and as she lay waiting the house seemed to grow more\nand more silent. She heard something rustling on the matting and when\nshe looked down she saw a little snake gliding along and watching her\nwith eyes like jewels. She was not frightened, because he was a\nharmless little thing who would not hurt her and he seemed in a hurry\nto get out of the room. He slipped under the door as she watched him.\n\n How queer and quiet it is,  she said.  It sounds as if there were no\none in the bungalow but me and the snake. \n\nAlmost the next minute she heard footsteps in the compound, and then on\nthe veranda. They were men s footsteps, and the men entered the\nbungalow and talked in low voices. No one went to meet or speak to them\nand they seemed to open doors and look into rooms.\n\n What desolation!  she heard one voice say.  That pretty, pretty woman!\nI suppose the child, too. I heard there was a child, though no one ever\nsaw her. \n\nMary was standing in the middle of the nursery when they opened the\ndoor a few minutes later. She looked an ugly, cross little thing and\nwas frowning because she was beginning to be hungry and feel\ndisgracefully neglected. The first man who came in was a large officer\nshe had once seen talking to her father. He looked tired and troubled,\nbut when he saw her he was so startled that he almost jumped back.\n\n Barney!  he cried out.  There is a child here! A child alone! In a\nplace like this! Mercy on us, who is she! \n\n I am Mary Lennox,  the little girl said, drawing herself up stiffly.\nShe thought the man was very rude to call her father s bungalow  A\nplace like this!   I fell asleep when everyone had the cholera and I\nhave only just wakened up. Why does nobody come? \n\n It is the child no one ever saw!  exclaimed the man, turning to his\ncompanions.  She has actually been forgotten! \n\n Why was I forgotten?  Mary said, stamping her foot.  Why does nobody\ncome? \n\nThe young man whose name was Barney looked at her very sadly. Mary even\nthought she saw him wink his eyes as if to wink tears away.\n\n Poor little kid!  he said.  There is nobody left to come. \n\nIt was in that strange and sudden way that Mary found out that she had\nneither father nor mother left; that they had died and been carried\naway in the night, and that the few native servants who had not died\nalso had left the house as quickly as they could get out of it, none of\nthem even remembering that there was a Missie Sahib. That was why the\nplace was so quiet. It was true that there was no one in the bungalow\nbut herself and the little rustling snake.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\nMISTRESS MARY QUITE CONTRARY\n\n\nMary had liked to look at her mother from a distance and she had\nthought her very pretty, but as she knew very little of her she could\nscarcely have been expected to love her or to miss her very much when\nshe was gone. She did not miss her at all, in fact, and as she was a\nself-absorbed child she gave her entire thought to herself, as she had\nalways done. If she had been older she would no doubt have been very\nanxious at being left alone in the world, but she was very young, and\nas she had always been taken care of, she supposed she always would be.\nWhat she thought was that she would like to know if she was going to\nnice people, who would be polite to her and give her her own way as her\nAyah and the other native servants had done.\n\nShe knew that she was not going to stay at the English clergyman s\nhouse where she was taken at first. She did not want to stay. The\nEnglish clergyman was poor and he had five children nearly all the same\nage and they wore shabby clothes and were always quarreling and\nsnatching toys from each other. Mary hated their untidy bungalow and\nwas so disagreeable to them that after the first day or two nobody\nwould play with her. By the second day they had given her a nickname\nwhich made her furious.\n\nIt was Basil who thought of it first. Basil was a little boy with\nimpudent blue eyes and a turned-up nose, and Mary hated him. She was\nplaying by herself under a tree, just as she had been playing the day\nthe cholera broke out. She was making heaps of earth and paths for a\ngarden and Basil came and stood near to watch her. Presently he got\nrather interested and suddenly made a suggestion.\n\n Why don t you put a heap of stones there and pretend it is a rockery? \nhe said.  There in the middle,  and he leaned over her to point.\n\n Go away!  cried Mary.  I don t want boys. Go away! \n\nFor a moment Basil looked angry, and then he began to tease. He was\nalways teasing his sisters. He danced round and round her and made\nfaces and sang and laughed.\n\n Mistress Mary, quite contrary,\n    How does your garden grow?\nWith silver bells, and cockle shells,\n    And marigolds all in a row. \n\nHe sang it until the other children heard and laughed, too; and the\ncrosser Mary got, the more they sang  Mistress Mary, quite contrary ;\nand after that as long as she stayed with them they called her\n Mistress Mary Quite Contrary  when they spoke of her to each other,\nand often when they spoke to her.\n\n You are going to be sent home,  Basil said to her,  at the end of the\nweek. And we re glad of it. \n\n I am glad of it, too,  answered Mary.  Where is home? \n\n She doesn t know where home is!  said Basil, with seven-year-old\nscorn.  It s England, of course. Our grandmama lives there and our\nsister Mabel was sent to her last year. You are not going to your\ngrandmama. You have none. You are going to your uncle. His name is Mr.\nArchibald Craven. \n\n I don t know anything about him,  snapped Mary.\n\n I know you don t,  Basil answered.  You don t know anything. Girls\nnever do. I heard father and mother talking about him. He lives in a\ngreat, big, desolate old house in the country and no one goes near him.\nHe s so cross he won t let them, and they wouldn t come if he would let\nthem. He s a hunchback, and he s horrid. \n\n I don t believe you,  said Mary; and she turned her back and stuck her\nfingers in her ears, because she would not listen any more.\n\nBut she thought over it a great deal afterward; and when Mrs. Crawford\ntold her that night that she was going to sail away to England in a few\ndays and go to her uncle, Mr. Archibald Craven, who lived at\nMisselthwaite Manor, she looked so stony and stubbornly uninterested\nthat they did not know what to think about her. They tried to be kind\nto her, but she only turned her face away when Mrs. Crawford attempted\nto kiss her, and held herself stiffly when Mr. Crawford patted her\nshoulder.\n\n She is such a plain child,  Mrs. Crawford said pityingly, afterward.\n And her mother was such a pretty creature. She had a very pretty\nmanner, too, and Mary has the most unattractive ways I ever saw in a\nchild. The children call her  Mistress Mary Quite Contrary,  and though\nit s naughty of them, one can t help understanding it. \n\n Perhaps if her mother had carried her pretty face and her pretty\nmanners oftener into the nursery Mary might have learned some pretty\nways too. It is very sad, now the poor beautiful thing is gone, to\nremember that many people never even knew that she had a child at all. \n\n I believe she scarcely ever looked at her,  sighed Mrs. Crawford.\n When her Ayah was dead there was no one to give a thought to the\nlittle thing. Think of the servants running away and leaving her all\nalone in that deserted bungalow. Colonel McGrew said he nearly jumped\nout of his skin when he opened the door and found her standing by\nherself in the middle of the room. \n\nMary made the long voyage to England under the care of an officer s\nwife, who was taking her children to leave them in a boarding-school.\nShe was very much absorbed in her own little boy and girl, and was\nrather glad to hand the child over to the woman Mr. Archibald Craven\nsent to meet her, in London. The woman was his housekeeper at\nMisselthwaite Manor, and her name was Mrs. Medlock. She was a stout\nwoman, with very red cheeks and sharp black eyes. She wore a very\npurple dress, a black silk mantle with jet fringe on it and a black\nbonnet with purple velvet flowers which stuck up and trembled when she\nmoved her head. Mary did not like her at all, but as she very seldom\nliked people there was nothing remarkable in that; besides which it was\nvery evident Mrs. Medlock did not think much of her.\n\n My word! she s a plain little piece of goods!  she said.  And we d\nheard that her mother was a beauty. She hasn t handed much of it down,\nhas she, ma am? \n\n Perhaps she will improve as she grows older,  the officer s wife said\ngood-naturedly.  If she were not so sallow and had a nicer expression,\nher features are rather good. Children alter so much. \n\n She ll have to alter a good deal,  answered Mrs. Medlock.  And,\nthere s nothing likely to improve children at Misselthwaite if you ask\nme! \n\nThey thought Mary was not listening because she was standing a little\napart from them at the window of the private hotel they had gone to.\nShe was watching the passing buses and cabs and people, but she heard\nquite well and was made very curious about her uncle and the place he\nlived in. What sort of a place was it, and what would he be like? What\nwas a hunchback? She had never seen one. Perhaps there were none in\nIndia.\n\nSince she had been living in other people s houses and had had no Ayah,\nshe had begun to feel lonely and to think queer thoughts which were new\nto her. She had begun to wonder why she had never seemed to belong to\nanyone even when her father and mother had been alive. Other children\nseemed to belong to their fathers and mothers, but she had never seemed\nto really be anyone s little girl. She had had servants, and food and\nclothes, but no one had taken any notice of her. She did not know that\nthis was because she was a disagreeable child; but then, of course, she\ndid not know she was disagreeable. She often thought that other people\nwere, but she did not know that she was so herself.\n\nShe thought Mrs. Medlock the most disagreeable person she had ever\nseen, with her common, highly colored face and her common fine bonnet.\nWhen the next day they set out on their journey to Yorkshire, she\nwalked through the station to the railway carriage with her head up and\ntrying to keep as far away from her as she could, because she did not\nwant to seem to belong to her. It would have made her angry to think\npeople imagined she was her little girl.\n\nBut Mrs. Medlock was not in the least disturbed by her and her\nthoughts. She was the kind of woman who would  stand no nonsense from\nyoung ones.  At least, that is what she would have said if she had been\nasked. She had not wanted to go to London just when her sister Maria s\ndaughter was going to be married, but she had a comfortable, well paid\nplace as housekeeper at Misselthwaite Manor and the only way in which\nshe could keep it was to do at once what Mr. Archibald Craven told her\nto do. She never dared even to ask a question.\n\n Captain Lennox and his wife died of the cholera,  Mr. Craven had said\nin his short, cold way.  Captain Lennox was my wife s brother and I am\ntheir daughter s guardian. The child is to be brought here. You must go\nto London and bring her yourself. \n\nSo she packed her small trunk and made the journey.\n\nMary sat in her corner of the railway carriage and looked plain and\nfretful. She had nothing to read or to look at, and she had folded her\nthin little black-gloved hands in her lap. Her black dress made her\nlook yellower than ever, and her limp light hair straggled from under\nher black cr pe hat.\n\n A more marred-looking young one I never saw in my life,  Mrs. Medlock\nthought. (Marred is a Yorkshire word and means spoiled and pettish.)\nShe had never seen a child who sat so still without doing anything; and\nat last she got tired of watching her and began to talk in a brisk,\nhard voice.\n\n I suppose I may as well tell you something about where you are going\nto,  she said.  Do you know anything about your uncle? \n\n No,  said Mary.\n\n Never heard your father and mother talk about him? \n\n No,  said Mary frowning. She frowned because she remembered that her\nfather and mother had never talked to her about anything in particular.\nCertainly they had never told her things.\n\n Humph,  muttered Mrs. Medlock, staring at her queer, unresponsive\nlittle face. She did not say any more for a few moments and then she\nbegan again.\n\n I suppose you might as well be told something to prepare you. You are\ngoing to a queer place. \n\nMary said nothing at all, and Mrs. Medlock looked rather discomfited by\nher apparent indifference, but, after taking a breath, she went on.\n\n Not but that it s a grand big place in a gloomy way, and Mr. Craven s\nproud of it in his way and that s gloomy enough, too. The house is six\nhundred years old and it s on the edge of the moor, and there s near a\nhundred rooms in it, though most of them s shut up and locked. And\nthere s pictures and fine old furniture and things that s been there\nfor ages, and there s a big park round it and gardens and trees with\nbranches trailing to the ground some of them.  She paused and took\nanother breath.  But there s nothing else,  she ended suddenly.\n\nMary had begun to listen in spite of herself. It all sounded so unlike\nIndia, and anything new rather attracted her. But she did not intend to\nlook as if she were interested. That was one of her unhappy,\ndisagreeable ways. So she sat still.\n\n Well,  said Mrs. Medlock.  What do you think of it? \n\n Nothing,  she answered.  I know nothing about such places. \n\nThat made Mrs. Medlock laugh a short sort of laugh.\n\n Eh!  she said,  but you are like an old woman. Don t you care? \n\n It doesn t matter  said Mary,  whether I care or not. \n\n You are right enough there,  said Mrs. Medlock.  It doesn t. What\nyou re to be kept at Misselthwaite Manor for I don t know, unless\nbecause it s the easiest way. _He s_ not going to trouble himself about\nyou, that s sure and certain. He never troubles himself about no one. \n\nShe stopped herself as if she had just remembered something in time.\n\n He s got a crooked back,  she said.  That set him wrong. He was a sour\nyoung man and got no good of all his money and big place till he was\nmarried. \n\nMary s eyes turned toward her in spite of her intention not to seem to\ncare. She had never thought of the hunchback s being married and she\nwas a trifle surprised. Mrs. Medlock saw this, and as she was a\ntalkative woman she continued with more interest. This was one way of\npassing some of the time, at any rate.\n\n She was a sweet, pretty thing and he d have walked the world over to\nget her a blade o  grass she wanted. Nobody thought she d marry him,\nbut she did, and people said she married him for his money. But she\ndidn t she didn t,  positively.  When she died \n\nMary gave a little involuntary jump.\n\n Oh! did she die!  she exclaimed, quite without meaning to. She had\njust remembered a French fairy story she had once read called  Riquet  \nla Houppe.  It had been about a poor hunchback and a beautiful princess\nand it had made her suddenly sorry for Mr. Archibald Craven.\n\n Yes, she died,  Mrs. Medlock answered.  And it made him queerer than\never. He cares about nobody. He won t see people. Most of the time he\ngoes away, and when he is at Misselthwaite he shuts himself up in the\nWest Wing and won t let anyone but Pitcher see him. Pitcher s an old\nfellow, but he took care of him when he was a child and he knows his\nways. \n\nIt sounded like something in a book and it did not make Mary feel\ncheerful. A house with a hundred rooms, nearly all shut up and with\ntheir doors locked a house on the edge of a moor whatsoever a moor\nwas sounded dreary. A man with a crooked back who shut himself up also!\nShe stared out of the window with her lips pinched together, and it\nseemed quite natural that the rain should have begun to pour down in\ngray slanting lines and splash and stream down the window-panes. If the\npretty wife had been alive she might have made things cheerful by being\nsomething like her own mother and by running in and out and going to\nparties as she had done in frocks  full of lace.  But she was not there\nany more.\n\n You needn t expect to see him, because ten to one you won t,  said\nMrs. Medlock.  And you mustn t expect that there will be people to talk\nto you. You ll have to play about and look after yourself. You ll be\ntold what rooms you can go into and what rooms you re to keep out of.\nThere s gardens enough. But when you re in the house don t go wandering\nand poking about. Mr. Craven won t have it. \n\n I shall not want to go poking about,  said sour little Mary and just\nas suddenly as she had begun to be rather sorry for Mr. Archibald\nCraven she began to cease to be sorry and to think he was unpleasant\nenough to deserve all that had happened to him.\n\nAnd she turned her face toward the streaming panes of the window of the\nrailway carriage and gazed out at the gray rain-storm which looked as\nif it would go on forever and ever. She watched it so long and steadily\nthat the grayness grew heavier and heavier before her eyes and she fell\nasleep.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\nACROSS THE MOOR\n\n\nShe slept a long time, and when she awakened Mrs. Medlock had bought a\nlunchbasket at one of the stations and they had some chicken and cold\nbeef and bread and butter and some hot tea. The rain seemed to be\nstreaming down more heavily than ever and everybody in the station wore\nwet and glistening waterproofs. The guard lighted the lamps in the\ncarriage, and Mrs. Medlock cheered up very much over her tea and\nchicken and beef. She ate a great deal and afterward fell asleep\nherself, and Mary sat and stared at her and watched her fine bonnet\nslip on one side until she herself fell asleep once more in the corner\nof the carriage, lulled by the splashing of the rain against the\nwindows. It was quite dark when she awakened again. The train had\nstopped at a station and Mrs. Medlock was shaking her.\n\n You have had a sleep!  she said.  It s time to open your eyes! We re\nat Thwaite Station and we ve got a long drive before us. \n\nMary stood up and tried to keep her eyes open while Mrs. Medlock\ncollected her parcels. The little girl did not offer to help her,\nbecause in India native servants always picked up or carried things and\nit seemed quite proper that other people should wait on one.\n\nThe station was a small one and nobody but themselves seemed to be\ngetting out of the train. The station-master spoke to Mrs. Medlock in a\nrough, good-natured way, pronouncing his words in a queer broad fashion\nwhich Mary found out afterward was Yorkshire.\n\n I see tha s got back,  he said.  An  tha s browt th  young  un with\nthee. \n\n Aye, that s her,  answered Mrs. Medlock, speaking with a Yorkshire\naccent herself and jerking her head over her shoulder toward Mary.\n How s thy Missus? \n\n Well enow. Th  carriage is waitin  outside for thee. \n\nA brougham stood on the road before the little outside platform. Mary\nsaw that it was a smart carriage and that it was a smart footman who\nhelped her in. His long waterproof coat and the waterproof covering of\nhis hat were shining and dripping with rain as everything was, the\nburly station-master included.\n\nWhen he shut the door, mounted the box with the coachman, and they\ndrove off, the little girl found herself seated in a comfortably\ncushioned corner, but she was not inclined to go to sleep again. She\nsat and looked out of the window, curious to see something of the road\nover which she was being driven to the queer place Mrs. Medlock had\nspoken of. She was not at all a timid child and she was not exactly\nfrightened, but she felt that there was no knowing what might happen in\na house with a hundred rooms nearly all shut up a house standing on the\nedge of a moor.\n\n What is a moor?  she said suddenly to Mrs. Medlock.\n\n Look out of the window in about ten minutes and you ll see,  the woman\nanswered.  We ve got to drive five miles across Missel Moor before we\nget to the Manor. You won t see much because it s a dark night, but you\ncan see something. \n\nMary asked no more questions but waited in the darkness of her corner,\nkeeping her eyes on the window. The carriage lamps cast rays of light a\nlittle distance ahead of them and she caught glimpses of the things\nthey passed. After they had left the station they had driven through a\ntiny village and she had seen whitewashed cottages and the lights of a\npublic house. Then they had passed a church and a vicarage and a little\nshop-window or so in a cottage with toys and sweets and odd things set\nout for sale. Then they were on the highroad and she saw hedges and\ntrees. After that there seemed nothing different for a long time or at\nleast it seemed a long time to her.\n\nAt last the horses began to go more slowly, as if they were climbing\nup-hill, and presently there seemed to be no more hedges and no more\ntrees. She could see nothing, in fact, but a dense darkness on either\nside. She leaned forward and pressed her face against the window just\nas the carriage gave a big jolt.\n\n Eh! We re on the moor now sure enough,  said Mrs. Medlock.\n\nThe carriage lamps shed a yellow light on a rough-looking road which\nseemed to be cut through bushes and low-growing things which ended in\nthe great expanse of dark apparently spread out before and around them.\nA wind was rising and making a singular, wild, low, rushing sound.\n\n It s it s not the sea, is it?  said Mary, looking round at her\ncompanion.\n\n No, not it,  answered Mrs. Medlock.  Nor it isn t fields nor\nmountains, it s just miles and miles and miles of wild land that\nnothing grows on but heather and gorse and broom, and nothing lives on\nbut wild ponies and sheep. \n\n I feel as if it might be the sea, if there were water on it,  said\nMary.  It sounds like the sea just now. \n\n That s the wind blowing through the bushes,  Mrs. Medlock said.  It s\na wild, dreary enough place to my mind, though there s plenty that\nlikes it particularly when the heather s in bloom. \n\nOn and on they drove through the darkness, and though the rain stopped,\nthe wind rushed by and whistled and made strange sounds. The road went\nup and down, and several times the carriage passed over a little bridge\nbeneath which water rushed very fast with a great deal of noise. Mary\nfelt as if the drive would never come to an end and that the wide,\nbleak moor was a wide expanse of black ocean through which she was\npassing on a strip of dry land.\n\n I don t like it,  she said to herself.  I don t like it,  and she\npinched her thin lips more tightly together.\n\nThe horses were climbing up a hilly piece of road when she first caught\nsight of a light. Mrs. Medlock saw it as soon as she did and drew a\nlong sigh of relief.\n\n Eh, I am glad to see that bit o  light twinkling,  she exclaimed.\n It s the light in the lodge window. We shall get a good cup of tea\nafter a bit, at all events. \n\nIt was  after a bit,  as she said, for when the carriage passed through\nthe park gates there was still two miles of avenue to drive through and\nthe trees (which nearly met overhead) made it seem as if they were\ndriving through a long dark vault.\n\nThey drove out of the vault into a clear space and stopped before an\nimmensely long but low-built house which seemed to ramble round a stone\ncourt. At first Mary thought that there were no lights at all in the\nwindows, but as she got out of the carriage she saw that one room in a\ncorner upstairs showed a dull glow.\n\nThe entrance door was a huge one made of massive, curiously shaped\npanels of oak studded with big iron nails and bound with great iron\nbars. It opened into an enormous hall, which was so dimly lighted that\nthe faces in the portraits on the walls and the figures in the suits of\narmor made Mary feel that she did not want to look at them. As she\nstood on the stone floor she looked a very small, odd little black\nfigure, and she felt as small and lost and odd as she looked.\n\nA neat, thin old man stood near the manservant who opened the door for\nthem.\n\n You are to take her to her room,  he said in a husky voice.  He\ndoesn t want to see her. He s going to London in the morning. \n\n Very well, Mr. Pitcher,  Mrs. Medlock answered.  So long as I know\nwhat s expected of me, I can manage. \n\n What s expected of you, Mrs. Medlock,  Mr. Pitcher said,  is that you\nmake sure that he s not disturbed and that he doesn t see what he\ndoesn t want to see. \n\nAnd then Mary Lennox was led up a broad staircase and down a long\ncorridor and up a short flight of steps and through another corridor\nand another, until a door opened in a wall and she found herself in a\nroom with a fire in it and a supper on a table.\n\nMrs. Medlock said unceremoniously:\n\n Well, here you are! This room and the next are where you ll live and\nyou must keep to them. Don t you forget that! \n\nIt was in this way Mistress Mary arrived at Misselthwaite Manor and she\nhad perhaps never felt quite so contrary in all her life.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\nMARTHA\n\n\nWhen she opened her eyes in the morning it was because a young\nhousemaid had come into her room to light the fire and was kneeling on\nthe hearth-rug raking out the cinders noisily. Mary lay and watched her\nfor a few moments and then began to look about the room. She had never\nseen a room at all like it and thought it curious and gloomy. The walls\nwere covered with tapestry with a forest scene embroidered on it. There\nwere fantastically dressed people under the trees and in the distance\nthere was a glimpse of the turrets of a castle. There were hunters and\nhorses and dogs and ladies. Mary felt as if she were in the forest with\nthem. Out of a deep window she could see a great climbing stretch of\nland which seemed to have no trees on it, and to look rather like an\nendless, dull, purplish sea.\n\n What is that?  she said, pointing out of the window.\n\nMartha, the young housemaid, who had just risen to her feet, looked and\npointed also.\n\n That there?  she said.\n\n Yes. \n\n That s th  moor,  with a good-natured grin.  Does tha  like it? \n\n No,  answered Mary.  I hate it. \n\n That s because tha rt not used to it,  Martha said, going back to her\nhearth.  Tha  thinks it s too big an  bare now. But tha  will like it. \n\n Do you?  inquired Mary.\n\n Aye, that I do,  answered Martha, cheerfully polishing away at the\ngrate.  I just love it. It s none bare. It s covered wi  growin  things\nas smells sweet. It s fair lovely in spring an  summer when th  gorse\nan  broom an  heather s in flower. It smells o  honey an  there s such\na lot o  fresh air an  th  sky looks so high an  th  bees an  skylarks\nmakes such a nice noise hummin  an  singin . Eh! I wouldn t live away\nfrom th  moor for anythin . \n\nMary listened to her with a grave, puzzled expression. The native\nservants she had been used to in India were not in the least like this.\nThey were obsequious and servile and did not presume to talk to their\nmasters as if they were their equals. They made salaams and called them\n protector of the poor  and names of that sort. Indian servants were\ncommanded to do things, not asked. It was not the custom to say\n please  and  thank you  and Mary had always slapped her Ayah in the\nface when she was angry. She wondered a little what this girl would do\nif one slapped her in the face. She was a round, rosy, good-natured\nlooking creature, but she had a sturdy way which made Mistress Mary\nwonder if she might not even slap back if the person who slapped her\nwas only a little girl.\n\n You are a strange servant,  she said from her pillows, rather\nhaughtily.\n\nMartha sat up on her heels, with her blacking-brush in her hand, and\nlaughed, without seeming the least out of temper.\n\n Eh! I know that,  she said.  If there was a grand Missus at\nMisselthwaite I should never have been even one of th  under\nhousemaids. I might have been let to be scullerymaid but I d never have\nbeen let upstairs. I m too common an  I talk too much Yorkshire. But\nthis is a funny house for all it s so grand. Seems like there s neither\nMaster nor Mistress except Mr. Pitcher an  Mrs. Medlock. Mr. Craven, he\nwon t be troubled about anythin  when he s here, an  he s nearly always\naway. Mrs. Medlock gave me th  place out o  kindness. She told me she\ncould never have done it if Misselthwaite had been like other big\nhouses. \n\n Are you going to be my servant?  Mary asked, still in her imperious\nlittle Indian way.\n\nMartha began to rub her grate again.\n\n I m Mrs. Medlock s servant,  she said stoutly.  An  she s Mr.\nCraven s but I m to do the housemaid s work up here an  wait on you a\nbit. But you won t need much waitin  on. \n\n Who is going to dress me?  demanded Mary.\n\nMartha sat up on her heels again and stared. She spoke in broad\nYorkshire in her amazement.\n\n Canna  tha  dress thysen!  she said.\n\n What do you mean? I don t understand your language,  said Mary.\n\n Eh! I forgot,  Martha said.  Mrs. Medlock told me I d have to be\ncareful or you wouldn t know what I was sayin . I mean can t you put on\nyour own clothes? \n\n No,  answered Mary, quite indignantly.  I never did in my life. My\nAyah dressed me, of course. \n\n Well,  said Martha, evidently not in the least aware that she was\nimpudent,  it s time tha  should learn. Tha  cannot begin younger.\nIt ll do thee good to wait on thysen a bit. My mother always said she\ncouldn t see why grand people s children didn t turn out fair\nfools what with nurses an  bein  washed an  dressed an  took out to\nwalk as if they was puppies! \n\n It is different in India,  said Mistress Mary disdainfully. She could\nscarcely stand this.\n\nBut Martha was not at all crushed.\n\n Eh! I can see it s different,  she answered almost sympathetically.  I\ndare say it s because there s such a lot o  blacks there instead o \nrespectable white people. When I heard you was comin  from India I\nthought you was a black too. \n\nMary sat up in bed furious.\n\n What!  she said.  What! You thought I was a native. You you daughter\nof a pig! \n\nMartha stared and looked hot.\n\n Who are you callin  names?  she said.  You needn t be so vexed. That s\nnot th  way for a young lady to talk. I ve nothin  against th  blacks.\nWhen you read about  em in tracts they re always very religious. You\nalways read as a black s a man an  a brother. I ve never seen a black\nan  I was fair pleased to think I was goin  to see one close. When I\ncome in to light your fire this mornin  I crep  up to your bed an \npulled th  cover back careful to look at you. An  there you was, \ndisappointedly,  no more black than me for all you re so yeller. \n\nMary did not even try to control her rage and humiliation.\n\n You thought I was a native! You dared! You don t know anything about\nnatives! They are not people they re servants who must salaam to you.\nYou know nothing about India. You know nothing about anything! \n\nShe was in such a rage and felt so helpless before the girl s simple\nstare, and somehow she suddenly felt so horribly lonely and far away\nfrom everything she understood and which understood her, that she threw\nherself face downward on the pillows and burst into passionate sobbing.\nShe sobbed so unrestrainedly that good-natured Yorkshire Martha was a\nlittle frightened and quite sorry for her. She went to the bed and bent\nover her.\n\n Eh! you mustn t cry like that there!  she begged.  You mustn t for\nsure. I didn t know you d be vexed. I don t know anythin  about\nanythin just like you said. I beg your pardon, Miss. Do stop cryin . \n\nThere was something comforting and really friendly in her queer\nYorkshire speech and sturdy way which had a good effect on Mary. She\ngradually ceased crying and became quiet. Martha looked relieved.\n\n It s time for thee to get up now,  she said.  Mrs. Medlock said I was\nto carry tha  breakfast an  tea an  dinner into th  room next to this.\nIt s been made into a nursery for thee. I ll help thee on with thy\nclothes if tha ll get out o  bed. If th  buttons are at th  back tha \ncannot button them up tha self. \n\nWhen Mary at last decided to get up, the clothes Martha took from the\nwardrobe were not the ones she had worn when she arrived the night\nbefore with Mrs. Medlock.\n\n Those are not mine,  she said.  Mine are black. \n\nShe looked the thick white wool coat and dress over, and added with\ncool approval:\n\n Those are nicer than mine. \n\n These are th  ones tha  must put on,  Martha answered.  Mr. Craven\nordered Mrs. Medlock to get  em in London. He said  I won t have a\nchild dressed in black wanderin  about like a lost soul,  he said.\n It d make the place sadder than it is. Put color on her.  Mother she\nsaid she knew what he meant. Mother always knows what a body means. She\ndoesn t hold with black hersel . \n\n I hate black things,  said Mary.\n\nThe dressing process was one which taught them both something. Martha\nhad  buttoned up  her little sisters and brothers but she had never\nseen a child who stood still and waited for another person to do things\nfor her as if she had neither hands nor feet of her own.\n\n Why doesn t tha  put on tha  own shoes?  she said when Mary quietly\nheld out her foot.\n\n My Ayah did it,  answered Mary, staring.  It was the custom. \n\nShe said that very often It was the custom.  The native servants were\nalways saying it. If one told them to do a thing their ancestors had\nnot done for a thousand years they gazed at one mildly and said,  It is\nnot the custom  and one knew that was the end of the matter.\n\nIt had not been the custom that Mistress Mary should do anything but\nstand and allow herself to be dressed like a doll, but before she was\nready for breakfast she began to suspect that her life at Misselthwaite\nManor would end by teaching her a number of things quite new to\nher things such as putting on her own shoes and stockings, and picking\nup things she let fall. If Martha had been a well-trained fine young\nlady s maid she would have been more subservient and respectful and\nwould have known that it was her business to brush hair, and button\nboots, and pick things up and lay them away. She was, however, only an\nuntrained Yorkshire rustic who had been brought up in a moorland\ncottage with a swarm of little brothers and sisters who had never\ndreamed of doing anything but waiting on themselves and on the younger\nones who were either babies in arms or just learning to totter about\nand tumble over things.\n\nIf Mary Lennox had been a child who was ready to be amused she would\nperhaps have laughed at Martha s readiness to talk, but Mary only\nlistened to her coldly and wondered at her freedom of manner. At first\nshe was not at all interested, but gradually, as the girl rattled on in\nher good-tempered, homely way, Mary began to notice what she was\nsaying.\n\n Eh! you should see  em all,  she said.  There s twelve of us an  my\nfather only gets sixteen shilling a week. I can tell you my mother s\nput to it to get porridge for  em all. They tumble about on th  moor\nan  play there all day an  mother says th  air of th  moor fattens  em.\nShe says she believes they eat th  grass same as th  wild ponies do.\nOur Dickon, he s twelve years old and he s got a young pony he calls\nhis own. \n\n Where did he get it?  asked Mary.\n\n He found it on th  moor with its mother when it was a little one an \nhe began to make friends with it an  give it bits o  bread an  pluck\nyoung grass for it. And it got to like him so it follows him about an \nit lets him get on its back. Dickon s a kind lad an  animals likes\nhim. \n\nMary had never possessed an animal pet of her own and had always\nthought she should like one. So she began to feel a slight interest in\nDickon, and as she had never before been interested in anyone but\nherself, it was the dawning of a healthy sentiment. When she went into\nthe room which had been made into a nursery for her, she found that it\nwas rather like the one she had slept in. It was not a child s room,\nbut a grown-up person s room, with gloomy old pictures on the walls and\nheavy old oak chairs. A table in the center was set with a good\nsubstantial breakfast. But she had always had a very small appetite,\nand she looked with something more than indifference at the first plate\nMartha set before her.\n\n I don t want it,  she said.\n\n Tha  doesn t want thy porridge!  Martha exclaimed incredulously.\n\n No. \n\n Tha  doesn t know how good it is. Put a bit o  treacle on it or a bit\no  sugar. \n\n I don t want it,  repeated Mary.\n\n Eh!  said Martha.  I can t abide to see good victuals go to waste. If\nour children was at this table they d clean it bare in five minutes. \n\n Why?  said Mary coldly.\n\n Why!  echoed Martha.  Because they scarce ever had their stomachs full\nin their lives. They re as hungry as young hawks an  foxes. \n\n I don t know what it is to be hungry,  said Mary, with the\nindifference of ignorance.\n\nMartha looked indignant.\n\n Well, it would do thee good to try it. I can see that plain enough, \nshe said outspokenly.  I ve no patience with folk as sits an  just\nstares at good bread an  meat. My word! don t I wish Dickon and Phil\nan  Jane an  th  rest of  em had what s here under their pinafores. \n\n Why don t you take it to them?  suggested Mary.\n\n It s not mine,  answered Martha stoutly.  An  this isn t my day out. I\nget my day out once a month same as th  rest. Then I go home an  clean\nup for mother an  give her a day s rest. \n\nMary drank some tea and ate a little toast and some marmalade.\n\n You wrap up warm an  run out an  play you,  said Martha.  It ll do you\ngood and give you some stomach for your meat. \n\nMary went to the window. There were gardens and paths and big trees,\nbut everything looked dull and wintry.\n\n Out? Why should I go out on a day like this? \n\n Well, if tha  doesn t go out tha lt have to stay in, an  what has tha \ngot to do? \n\nMary glanced about her. There was nothing to do. When Mrs. Medlock had\nprepared the nursery she had not thought of amusement. Perhaps it would\nbe better to go and see what the gardens were like.\n\n Who will go with me?  she inquired.\n\nMartha stared.\n\n You ll go by yourself,  she answered.  You ll have to learn to play\nlike other children does when they haven t got sisters and brothers.\nOur Dickon goes off on th  moor by himself an  plays for hours. That s\nhow he made friends with th  pony. He s got sheep on th  moor that\nknows him, an  birds as comes an  eats out of his hand. However little\nthere is to eat, he always saves a bit o  his bread to coax his pets. \n\nIt was really this mention of Dickon which made Mary decide to go out,\nthough she was not aware of it. There would be, birds outside though\nthere would not be ponies or sheep. They would be different from the\nbirds in India and it might amuse her to look at them.\n\nMartha found her coat and hat for her and a pair of stout little boots\nand she showed her her way downstairs.\n\n If tha  goes round that way tha ll come to th  gardens,  she said,\npointing to a gate in a wall of shrubbery.  There s lots o  flowers in\nsummer-time, but there s nothin  bloomin  now.  She seemed to hesitate\na second before she added,  One of th  gardens is locked up. No one has\nbeen in it for ten years. \n\n Why?  asked Mary in spite of herself. Here was another locked door\nadded to the hundred in the strange house.\n\n Mr. Craven had it shut when his wife died so sudden. He won t let no\none go inside. It was her garden. He locked th  door an  dug a hole and\nburied th  key. There s Mrs. Medlock s bell ringing I must run. \n\nAfter she was gone Mary turned down the walk which led to the door in\nthe shrubbery. She could not help thinking about the garden which no\none had been into for ten years. She wondered what it would look like\nand whether there were any flowers still alive in it. When she had\npassed through the shrubbery gate she found herself in great gardens,\nwith wide lawns and winding walks with clipped borders. There were\ntrees, and flower-beds, and evergreens clipped into strange shapes, and\na large pool with an old gray fountain in its midst. But the\nflower-beds were bare and wintry and the fountain was not playing. This\nwas not the garden which was shut up. How could a garden be shut up?\nYou could always walk into a garden.\n\nShe was just thinking this when she saw that, at the end of the path\nshe was following, there seemed to be a long wall, with ivy growing\nover it. She was not familiar enough with England to know that she was\ncoming upon the kitchen-gardens where the vegetables and fruit were\ngrowing. She went toward the wall and found that there was a green door\nin the ivy, and that it stood open. This was not the closed garden,\nevidently, and she could go into it.\n\nShe went through the door and found that it was a garden with walls all\nround it and that it was only one of several walled gardens which\nseemed to open into one another. She saw another open green door,\nrevealing bushes and pathways between beds containing winter\nvegetables. Fruit-trees were trained flat against the wall, and over\nsome of the beds there were glass frames. The place was bare and ugly\nenough, Mary thought, as she stood and stared about her. It might be\nnicer in summer when things were green, but there was nothing pretty\nabout it now.\n\nPresently an old man with a spade over his shoulder walked through the\ndoor leading from the second garden. He looked startled when he saw\nMary, and then touched his cap. He had a surly old face, and did not\nseem at all pleased to see her but then she was displeased with his\ngarden and wore her  quite contrary  expression, and certainly did not\nseem at all pleased to see him.\n\n What is this place?  she asked.\n\n One o  th  kitchen-gardens,  he answered.\n\n What is that?  said Mary, pointing through the other green door.\n\n Another of  em,  shortly.  There s another on t other side o  th  wall\nan  there s th  orchard t other side o  that. \n\n Can I go in them?  asked Mary.\n\n If tha  likes. But there s nowt to see. \n\nMary made no response. She went down the path and through the second\ngreen door. There, she found more walls and winter vegetables and glass\nframes, but in the second wall there was another green door and it was\nnot open. Perhaps it led into the garden which no one had seen for ten\nyears. As she was not at all a timid child and always did what she\nwanted to do, Mary went to the green door and turned the handle. She\nhoped the door would not open because she wanted to be sure she had\nfound the mysterious garden but it did open quite easily and she walked\nthrough it and found herself in an orchard. There were walls all round\nit also and trees trained against them, and there were bare fruit-trees\ngrowing in the winter-browned grass but there was no green door to be\nseen anywhere. Mary looked for it, and yet when she had entered the\nupper end of the garden she had noticed that the wall did not seem to\nend with the orchard but to extend beyond it as if it enclosed a place\nat the other side. She could see the tops of trees above the wall, and\nwhen she stood still she saw a bird with a bright red breast sitting on\nthe topmost branch of one of them, and suddenly he burst into his\nwinter song almost as if he had caught sight of her and was calling to\nher.\n\nShe stopped and listened to him and somehow his cheerful, friendly\nlittle whistle gave her a pleased feeling even a disagreeable little\ngirl may be lonely, and the big closed house and big bare moor and big\nbare gardens had made this one feel as if there was no one left in the\nworld but herself. If she had been an affectionate child, who had been\nused to being loved, she would have broken her heart, but even though\nshe was  Mistress Mary Quite Contrary  she was desolate, and the\nbright-breasted little bird brought a look into her sour little face\nwhich was almost a smile. She listened to him until he flew away. He\nwas not like an Indian bird and she liked him and wondered if she\nshould ever see him again. Perhaps he lived in the mysterious garden\nand knew all about it.\n\nPerhaps it was because she had nothing whatever to do that she thought\nso much of the deserted garden. She was curious about it and wanted to\nsee what it was like. Why had Mr. Archibald Craven buried the key? If\nhe had liked his wife so much why did he hate her garden? She wondered\nif she should ever see him, but she knew that if she did she should not\nlike him, and he would not like her, and that she should only stand and\nstare at him and say nothing, though she should be wanting dreadfully\nto ask him why he had done such a queer thing.\n\n People never like me and I never like people,  she thought.  And I\nnever can talk as the Crawford children could. They were always talking\nand laughing and making noises. \n\nShe thought of the robin and of the way he seemed to sing his song at\nher, and as she remembered the tree-top he perched on she stopped\nrather suddenly on the path.\n\n I believe that tree was in the secret garden I feel sure it was,  she\nsaid.  There was a wall round the place and there was no door. \n\nShe walked back into the first kitchen-garden she had entered and found\nthe old man digging there. She went and stood beside him and watched\nhim a few moments in her cold little way. He took no notice of her and\nso at last she spoke to him.\n\n I have been into the other gardens,  she said.\n\n There was nothin  to prevent thee,  he answered crustily.\n\n I went into the orchard. \n\n There was no dog at th  door to bite thee,  he answered.\n\n There was no door there into the other garden,  said Mary.\n\n What garden?  he said in a rough voice, stopping his digging for a\nmoment.\n\n The one on the other side of the wall,  answered Mistress Mary.  There\nare trees there I saw the tops of them. A bird with a red breast was\nsitting on one of them and he sang. \n\nTo her surprise the surly old weather-beaten face actually changed its\nexpression. A slow smile spread over it and the gardener looked quite\ndifferent. It made her think that it was curious how much nicer a\nperson looked when he smiled. She had not thought of it before.\n\nHe turned about to the orchard side of his garden and began to\nwhistle a low soft whistle. She could not understand how such a surly\nman could make such a coaxing sound.\n\nAlmost the next moment a wonderful thing happened. She heard a soft\nlittle rushing flight through the air and it was the bird with the red\nbreast flying to them, and he actually alighted on the big clod of\nearth quite near to the gardener s foot.\n\n Here he is,  chuckled the old man, and then he spoke to the bird as if\nhe were speaking to a child.\n\n Where has tha  been, tha  cheeky little beggar?  he said.  I ve not\nseen thee before today. Has tha begun tha  courtin  this early in th \nseason? Tha rt too forrad. \n\nThe bird put his tiny head on one side and looked up at him with his\nsoft bright eye which was like a black dewdrop. He seemed quite\nfamiliar and not the least afraid. He hopped about and pecked the earth\nbriskly, looking for seeds and insects. It actually gave Mary a queer\nfeeling in her heart, because he was so pretty and cheerful and seemed\nso like a person. He had a tiny plump body and a delicate beak, and\nslender delicate legs.\n\n Will he always come when you call him?  she asked almost in a whisper.\n\n Aye, that he will. I ve knowed him ever since he was a fledgling. He\ncome out of th  nest in th  other garden an  when first he flew over\nth  wall he was too weak to fly back for a few days an  we got\nfriendly. When he went over th  wall again th  rest of th  brood was\ngone an  he was lonely an  he come back to me. \n\n What kind of a bird is he?  Mary asked.\n\n Doesn t tha  know? He s a robin redbreast an  they re th  friendliest,\ncuriousest birds alive. They re almost as friendly as dogs if you know\nhow to get on with  em. Watch him peckin  about there an  lookin  round\nat us now an  again. He knows we re talkin  about him. \n\nIt was the queerest thing in the world to see the old fellow. He looked\nat the plump little scarlet-waistcoated bird as if he were both proud\nand fond of him.\n\n He s a conceited one,  he chuckled.  He likes to hear folk talk about\nhim. An  curious bless me, there never was his like for curiosity an \nmeddlin . He s always comin  to see what I m plantin . He knows all th \nthings Mester Craven never troubles hissel  to find out. He s th  head\ngardener, he is. \n\nThe robin hopped about busily pecking the soil and now and then stopped\nand looked at them a little. Mary thought his black dewdrop eyes gazed\nat her with great curiosity. It really seemed as if he were finding out\nall about her. The queer feeling in her heart increased.\n\n Where did the rest of the brood fly to?  she asked.\n\n There s no knowin . The old ones turn  em out o  their nest an  make\n em fly an  they re scattered before you know it. This one was a\nknowin  one an  he knew he was lonely. \n\nMistress Mary went a step nearer to the robin and looked at him very\nhard.\n\n I m lonely,  she said.\n\nShe had not known before that this was one of the things which made her\nfeel sour and cross. She seemed to find it out when the robin looked at\nher and she looked at the robin.\n\nThe old gardener pushed his cap back on his bald head and stared at her\na minute.\n\n Art tha  th  little wench from India?  he asked.\n\nMary nodded.\n\n Then no wonder tha rt lonely. Tha lt be lonlier before tha s done,  he\nsaid.\n\nHe began to dig again, driving his spade deep into the rich black\ngarden soil while the robin hopped about very busily employed.\n\n What is your name?  Mary inquired.\n\nHe stood up to answer her.\n\n Ben Weatherstaff,  he answered, and then he added with a surly\nchuckle,  I m lonely mysel  except when he s with me,  and he jerked\nhis thumb toward the robin.  He s th  only friend I ve got. \n\n I have no friends at all,  said Mary.  I never had. My Ayah didn t\nlike me and I never played with anyone. \n\nIt is a Yorkshire habit to say what you think with blunt frankness, and\nold Ben Weatherstaff was a Yorkshire moor man.\n\n Tha  an  me are a good bit alike,  he said.  We was wove out of th \nsame cloth. We re neither of us good lookin  an  we re both of us as\nsour as we look. We ve got the same nasty tempers, both of us, I ll\nwarrant. \n\nThis was plain speaking, and Mary Lennox had never heard the truth\nabout herself in her life. Native servants always salaamed and\nsubmitted to you, whatever you did. She had never thought much about\nher looks, but she wondered if she was as unattractive as Ben\nWeatherstaff and she also wondered if she looked as sour as he had\nlooked before the robin came. She actually began to wonder also if she\nwas  nasty tempered.  She felt uncomfortable.\n\nSuddenly a clear rippling little sound broke out near her and she\nturned round. She was standing a few feet from a young apple-tree and\nthe robin had flown on to one of its branches and had burst out into a\nscrap of a song. Ben Weatherstaff laughed outright.\n\n What did he do that for?  asked Mary.\n\n He s made up his mind to make friends with thee,  replied Ben.  Dang\nme if he hasn t took a fancy to thee. \n\n To me?  said Mary, and she moved toward the little tree softly and\nlooked up.\n\n Would you make friends with me?  she said to the robin just as if she\nwas speaking to a person.  Would you?  And she did not say it either in\nher hard little voice or in her imperious Indian voice, but in a tone\nso soft and eager and coaxing that Ben Weatherstaff was as surprised as\nshe had been when she heard him whistle.\n\n Why,  he cried out,  tha  said that as nice an  human as if tha  was a\nreal child instead of a sharp old woman. Tha  said it almost like\nDickon talks to his wild things on th  moor. \n\n Do you know Dickon?  Mary asked, turning round rather in a hurry.\n\n Everybody knows him. Dickon s wanderin  about everywhere. Th  very\nblackberries an  heather-bells knows him. I warrant th  foxes shows him\nwhere their cubs lies an  th  skylarks doesn t hide their nests from\nhim. \n\nMary would have liked to ask some more questions. She was almost as\ncurious about Dickon as she was about the deserted garden. But just\nthat moment the robin, who had ended his song, gave a little shake of\nhis wings, spread them and flew away. He had made his visit and had\nother things to do.\n\n He has flown over the wall!  Mary cried out, watching him.  He has\nflown into the orchard he has flown across the other wall into the\ngarden where there is no door! \n\n He lives there,  said old Ben.  He came out o  th  egg there. If he s\ncourtin , he s makin  up to some young madam of a robin that lives\namong th  old rose-trees there. \n\n Rose-trees,  said Mary.  Are there rose-trees? \n\nBen Weatherstaff took up his spade again and began to dig.\n\n There was ten year  ago,  he mumbled.\n\n I should like to see them,  said Mary.  Where is the green door? There\nmust be a door somewhere. \n\nBen drove his spade deep and looked as uncompanionable as he had looked\nwhen she first saw him.\n\n There was ten year  ago, but there isn t now,  he said.\n\n No door!  cried Mary.  There must be. \n\n None as anyone can find, an  none as is anyone s business. Don t you\nbe a meddlesome wench an  poke your nose where it s no cause to go.\nHere, I must go on with my work. Get you gone an  play you. I ve no\nmore time. \n\nAnd he actually stopped digging, threw his spade over his shoulder and\nwalked off, without even glancing at her or saying good-by.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\nTHE CRY IN THE CORRIDOR\n\n\nAt first each day which passed by for Mary Lennox was exactly like the\nothers. Every morning she awoke in her tapestried room and found Martha\nkneeling upon the hearth building her fire; every morning she ate her\nbreakfast in the nursery which had nothing amusing in it; and after\neach breakfast she gazed out of the window across to the huge moor\nwhich seemed to spread out on all sides and climb up to the sky, and\nafter she had stared for a while she realized that if she did not go\nout she would have to stay in and do nothing and so she went out. She\ndid not know that this was the best thing she could have done, and she\ndid not know that, when she began to walk quickly or even run along the\npaths and down the avenue, she was stirring her slow blood and making\nherself stronger by fighting with the wind which swept down from the\nmoor. She ran only to make herself warm, and she hated the wind which\nrushed at her face and roared and held her back as if it were some\ngiant she could not see. But the big breaths of rough fresh air blown\nover the heather filled her lungs with something which was good for her\nwhole thin body and whipped some red color into her cheeks and\nbrightened her dull eyes when she did not know anything about it.\n\nBut after a few days spent almost entirely out of doors she wakened one\nmorning knowing what it was to be hungry, and when she sat down to her\nbreakfast she did not glance disdainfully at her porridge and push it\naway, but took up her spoon and began to eat it and went on eating it\nuntil her bowl was empty.\n\n Tha  got on well enough with that this mornin , didn t tha ?  said\nMartha.\n\n It tastes nice today,  said Mary, feeling a little surprised herself.\n\n It s th  air of th  moor that s givin  thee stomach for tha \nvictuals,  answered Martha.  It s lucky for thee that tha s got\nvictuals as well as appetite. There s been twelve in our cottage as had\nth  stomach an  nothin  to put in it. You go on playin  you out o \ndoors every day an  you ll get some flesh on your bones an  you won t\nbe so yeller. \n\n I don t play,  said Mary.  I have nothing to play with. \n\n Nothin  to play with!  exclaimed Martha.  Our children plays with\nsticks and stones. They just runs about an  shouts an  looks at\nthings.  Mary did not shout, but she looked at things. There was\nnothing else to do. She walked round and round the gardens and wandered\nabout the paths in the park. Sometimes she looked for Ben Weatherstaff,\nbut though several times she saw him at work he was too busy to look at\nher or was too surly. Once when she was walking toward him he picked up\nhis spade and turned away as if he did it on purpose.\n\nOne place she went to oftener than to any other. It was the long walk\noutside the gardens with the walls round them. There were bare\nflower-beds on either side of it and against the walls ivy grew\nthickly. There was one part of the wall where the creeping dark green\nleaves were more bushy than elsewhere. It seemed as if for a long time\nthat part had been neglected. The rest of it had been clipped and made\nto look neat, but at this lower end of the walk it had not been trimmed\nat all.\n\nA few days after she had talked to Ben Weatherstaff, Mary stopped to\nnotice this and wondered why it was so. She had just paused and was\nlooking up at a long spray of ivy swinging in the wind when she saw a\ngleam of scarlet and heard a brilliant chirp, and there, on the top of\nthe wall, perched Ben Weatherstaff s robin redbreast, tilting forward\nto look at her with his small head on one side.\n\n Oh!  she cried out,  is it you is it you?  And it did not seem at all\nqueer to her that she spoke to him as if she were sure that he would\nunderstand and answer her.\n\nHe did answer. He twittered and chirped and hopped along the wall as if\nhe were telling her all sorts of things. It seemed to Mistress Mary as\nif she understood him, too, though he was not speaking in words. It was\nas if he said:\n\n Good morning! Isn t the wind nice? Isn t the sun nice? Isn t\neverything nice? Let us both chirp and hop and twitter. Come on! Come\non! \n\nMary began to laugh, and as he hopped and took little flights along the\nwall she ran after him. Poor little thin, sallow, ugly Mary she\nactually looked almost pretty for a moment.\n\n I like you! I like you!  she cried out, pattering down the walk; and\nshe chirped and tried to whistle, which last she did not know how to do\nin the least. But the robin seemed to be quite satisfied and chirped\nand whistled back at her. At last he spread his wings and made a\ndarting flight to the top of a tree, where he perched and sang loudly.\n\nThat reminded Mary of the first time she had seen him. He had been\nswinging on a tree-top then and she had been standing in the orchard.\nNow she was on the other side of the orchard and standing in the path\noutside a wall much lower down and there was the same tree inside.\n\n It s in the garden no one can go into,  she said to herself.  It s the\ngarden without a door. He lives in there. How I wish I could see what\nit is like! \n\nShe ran up the walk to the green door she had entered the first\nmorning. Then she ran down the path through the other door and then\ninto the orchard, and when she stood and looked up there was the tree\non the other side of the wall, and there was the robin just finishing\nhis song and beginning to preen his feathers with his beak.\n\n It is the garden,  she said.  I am sure it is. \n\nShe walked round and looked closely at that side of the orchard wall,\nbut she only found what she had found before that there was no door in\nit. Then she ran through the kitchen-gardens again and out into the\nwalk outside the long ivy-covered wall, and she walked to the end of it\nand looked at it, but there was no door; and then she walked to the\nother end, looking again, but there was no door.\n\n It s very queer,  she said.  Ben Weatherstaff said there was no door\nand there is no door. But there must have been one ten years ago,\nbecause Mr. Craven buried the key. \n\nThis gave her so much to think of that she began to be quite interested\nand feel that she was not sorry that she had come to Misselthwaite\nManor. In India she had always felt hot and too languid to care much\nabout anything. The fact was that the fresh wind from the moor had\nbegun to blow the cobwebs out of her young brain and to waken her up a\nlittle.\n\nShe stayed out of doors nearly all day, and when she sat down to her\nsupper at night she felt hungry and drowsy and comfortable. She did not\nfeel cross when Martha chattered away. She felt as if she rather liked\nto hear her, and at last she thought she would ask her a question. She\nasked it after she had finished her supper and had sat down on the\nhearth-rug before the fire.\n\n Why did Mr. Craven hate the garden?  she said.\n\nShe had made Martha stay with her and Martha had not objected at all.\nShe was very young, and used to a crowded cottage full of brothers and\nsisters, and she found it dull in the great servants  hall downstairs\nwhere the footman and upper-housemaids made fun of her Yorkshire speech\nand looked upon her as a common little thing, and sat and whispered\namong themselves. Martha liked to talk, and the strange child who had\nlived in India, and been waited upon by  blacks,  was novelty enough to\nattract her.\n\nShe sat down on the hearth herself without waiting to be asked.\n\n Art tha  thinkin  about that garden yet?  she said.  I knew tha \nwould. That was just the way with me when I first heard about it. \n\n Why did he hate it?  Mary persisted.\n\nMartha tucked her feet under her and made herself quite comfortable.\n\n Listen to th  wind wutherin  round the house,  she said.  You could\nbare stand up on the moor if you was out on it tonight. \n\nMary did not know what  wutherin  meant until she listened, and then\nshe understood. It must mean that hollow shuddering sort of roar which\nrushed round and round the house as if the giant no one could see were\nbuffeting it and beating at the walls and windows to try to break in.\nBut one knew he could not get in, and somehow it made one feel very\nsafe and warm inside a room with a red coal fire.\n\n But why did he hate it so?  she asked, after she had listened. She\nintended to know if Martha did.\n\nThen Martha gave up her store of knowledge.\n\n Mind,  she said,  Mrs. Medlock said it s not to be talked about.\nThere s lots o  things in this place that s not to be talked over.\nThat s Mr. Craven s orders. His troubles are none servants  business,\nhe says. But for th  garden he wouldn t be like he is. It was Mrs.\nCraven s garden that she had made when first they were married an  she\njust loved it, an  they used to  tend the flowers themselves. An  none\no  th  gardeners was ever let to go in. Him an  her used to go in an \nshut th  door an  stay there hours an  hours, readin  and talkin . An \nshe was just a bit of a girl an  there was an old tree with a branch\nbent like a seat on it. An  she made roses grow over it an  she used to\nsit there. But one day when she was sittin  there th  branch broke an \nshe fell on th  ground an  was hurt so bad that next day she died. Th \ndoctors thought he d go out o  his mind an  die, too. That s why he\nhates it. No one s never gone in since, an  he won t let anyone talk\nabout it. \n\nMary did not ask any more questions. She looked at the red fire and\nlistened to the wind  wutherin .  It seemed to be  wutherin  louder\nthan ever.\n\nAt that moment a very good thing was happening to her. Four good things\nhad happened to her, in fact, since she came to Misselthwaite Manor.\nShe had felt as if she had understood a robin and that he had\nunderstood her; she had run in the wind until her blood had grown warm;\nshe had been healthily hungry for the first time in her life; and she\nhad found out what it was to be sorry for someone.\n\nBut as she was listening to the wind she began to listen to something\nelse. She did not know what it was, because at first she could scarcely\ndistinguish it from the wind itself. It was a curious sound it seemed\nalmost as if a child were crying somewhere. Sometimes the wind sounded\nrather like a child crying, but presently Mistress Mary felt quite sure\nthis sound was inside the house, not outside it. It was far away, but\nit was inside. She turned round and looked at Martha.\n\n Do you hear anyone crying?  she said.\n\nMartha suddenly looked confused.\n\n No,  she answered.  It s th  wind. Sometimes it sounds like as if\nsomeone was lost on th  moor an  wailin . It s got all sorts o \nsounds. \n\n But listen,  said Mary.  It s in the house down one of those long\ncorridors. \n\nAnd at that very moment a door must have been opened somewhere\ndownstairs; for a great rushing draft blew along the passage and the\ndoor of the room they sat in was blown open with a crash, and as they\nboth jumped to their feet the light was blown out and the crying sound\nwas swept down the far corridor so that it was to be heard more plainly\nthan ever.\n\n There!  said Mary.  I told you so! It is someone crying and it isn t a\ngrown-up person. \n\nMartha ran and shut the door and turned the key, but before she did it\nthey both heard the sound of a door in some far passage shutting with a\nbang, and then everything was quiet, for even the wind ceased\n wutherin  for a few moments.\n\n It was th  wind,  said Martha stubbornly.  An  if it wasn t, it was\nlittle Betty Butterworth, th  scullery-maid. She s had th  toothache\nall day. \n\nBut something troubled and awkward in her manner made Mistress Mary\nstare very hard at her. She did not believe she was speaking the truth.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n THERE WAS SOMEONE CRYING THERE WAS! \n\n\nThe next day the rain poured down in torrents again, and when Mary\nlooked out of her window the moor was almost hidden by gray mist and\ncloud. There could be no going out today.\n\n What do you do in your cottage when it rains like this?  she asked\nMartha.\n\n Try to keep from under each other s feet mostly,  Martha answered.\n Eh! there does seem a lot of us then. Mother s a good-tempered woman\nbut she gets fair moithered. The biggest ones goes out in th  cow-shed\nand plays there. Dickon he doesn t mind th  wet. He goes out just th \nsame as if th  sun was shinin . He says he sees things on rainy days as\ndoesn t show when it s fair weather. He once found a little fox cub\nhalf drowned in its hole and he brought it home in th  bosom of his\nshirt to keep it warm. Its mother had been killed nearby an  th  hole\nwas swum out an  th  rest o  th  litter was dead. He s got it at home\nnow. He found a half-drowned young crow another time an  he brought it\nhome, too, an  tamed it. It s named Soot because it s so black, an  it\nhops an  flies about with him everywhere. \n\nThe time had come when Mary had forgotten to resent Martha s familiar\ntalk. She had even begun to find it interesting and to be sorry when\nshe stopped or went away. The stories she had been told by her Ayah\nwhen she lived in India had been quite unlike those Martha had to tell\nabout the moorland cottage which held fourteen people who lived in four\nlittle rooms and never had quite enough to eat. The children seemed to\ntumble about and amuse themselves like a litter of rough, good-natured\ncollie puppies. Mary was most attracted by the mother and Dickon. When\nMartha told stories of what  mother  said or did they always sounded\ncomfortable.\n\n If I had a raven or a fox cub I could play with it,  said Mary.  But I\nhave nothing. \n\nMartha looked perplexed.\n\n Can tha  knit?  she asked.\n\n No,  answered Mary.\n\n Can tha  sew? \n\n No. \n\n Can tha  read? \n\n Yes. \n\n Then why doesn t tha read somethin , or learn a bit o  spellin ?\nTha st old enough to be learnin  thy book a good bit now. \n\n I haven t any books,  said Mary.  Those I had were left in India. \n\n That s a pity,  said Martha.  If Mrs. Medlock d let thee go into th \nlibrary, there s thousands o  books there. \n\nMary did not ask where the library was, because she was suddenly\ninspired by a new idea. She made up her mind to go and find it herself.\nShe was not troubled about Mrs. Medlock. Mrs. Medlock seemed always to\nbe in her comfortable housekeeper s sitting-room downstairs. In this\nqueer place one scarcely ever saw anyone at all. In fact, there was no\none to see but the servants, and when their master was away they lived\na luxurious life below stairs, where there was a huge kitchen hung\nabout with shining brass and pewter, and a large servants  hall where\nthere were four or five abundant meals eaten every day, and where a\ngreat deal of lively romping went on when Mrs. Medlock was out of the\nway.\n\nMary s meals were served regularly, and Martha waited on her, but no\none troubled themselves about her in the least. Mrs. Medlock came and\nlooked at her every day or two, but no one inquired what she did or\ntold her what to do. She supposed that perhaps this was the English way\nof treating children. In India she had always been attended by her\nAyah, who had followed her about and waited on her, hand and foot. She\nhad often been tired of her company. Now she was followed by nobody and\nwas learning to dress herself because Martha looked as though she\nthought she was silly and stupid when she wanted to have things handed\nto her and put on.\n\n Hasn t tha  got good sense?  she said once, when Mary had stood\nwaiting for her to put on her gloves for her.  Our Susan Ann is twice\nas sharp as thee an  she s only four year  old. Sometimes tha  looks\nfair soft in th  head. \n\nMary had worn her contrary scowl for an hour after that, but it made\nher think several entirely new things.\n\nShe stood at the window for about ten minutes this morning after Martha\nhad swept up the hearth for the last time and gone downstairs. She was\nthinking over the new idea which had come to her when she heard of the\nlibrary. She did not care very much about the library itself, because\nshe had read very few books; but to hear of it brought back to her mind\nthe hundred rooms with closed doors. She wondered if they were all\nreally locked and what she would find if she could get into any of\nthem. Were there a hundred really? Why shouldn t she go and see how\nmany doors she could count? It would be something to do on this morning\nwhen she could not go out. She had never been taught to ask permission\nto do things, and she knew nothing at all about authority, so she would\nnot have thought it necessary to ask Mrs. Medlock if she might walk\nabout the house, even if she had seen her.\n\nShe opened the door of the room and went into the corridor, and then\nshe began her wanderings. It was a long corridor and it branched into\nother corridors and it led her up short flights of steps which mounted\nto others again. There were doors and doors, and there were pictures on\nthe walls. Sometimes they were pictures of dark, curious landscapes,\nbut oftenest they were portraits of men and women in queer, grand\ncostumes made of satin and velvet. She found herself in one long\ngallery whose walls were covered with these portraits. She had never\nthought there could be so many in any house. She walked slowly down\nthis place and stared at the faces which also seemed to stare at her.\nShe felt as if they were wondering what a little girl from India was\ndoing in their house. Some were pictures of children little girls in\nthick satin frocks which reached to their feet and stood out about\nthem, and boys with puffed sleeves and lace collars and long hair, or\nwith big ruffs around their necks. She always stopped to look at the\nchildren, and wonder what their names were, and where they had gone,\nand why they wore such odd clothes. There was a stiff, plain little\ngirl rather like herself. She wore a green brocade dress and held a\ngreen parrot on her finger. Her eyes had a sharp, curious look.\n\n Where do you live now?  said Mary aloud to her.  I wish you were\nhere. \n\nSurely no other little girl ever spent such a queer morning. It seemed\nas if there was no one in all the huge rambling house but her own small\nself, wandering about upstairs and down, through narrow passages and\nwide ones, where it seemed to her that no one but herself had ever\nwalked. Since so many rooms had been built, people must have lived in\nthem, but it all seemed so empty that she could not quite believe it\ntrue.\n\nIt was not until she climbed to the second floor that she thought of\nturning the handle of a door. All the doors were shut, as Mrs. Medlock\nhad said they were, but at last she put her hand on the handle of one\nof them and turned it. She was almost frightened for a moment when she\nfelt that it turned without difficulty and that when she pushed upon\nthe door itself it slowly and heavily opened. It was a massive door and\nopened into a big bedroom. There were embroidered hangings on the wall,\nand inlaid furniture such as she had seen in India stood about the\nroom. A broad window with leaded panes looked out upon the moor; and\nover the mantel was another portrait of the stiff, plain little girl\nwho seemed to stare at her more curiously than ever.\n\n Perhaps she slept here once,  said Mary.  She stares at me so that she\nmakes me feel queer. \n\nAfter that she opened more doors and more. She saw so many rooms that\nshe became quite tired and began to think that there must be a hundred,\nthough she had not counted them. In all of them there were old pictures\nor old tapestries with strange scenes worked on them. There were\ncurious pieces of furniture and curious ornaments in nearly all of\nthem.\n\nIn one room, which looked like a lady s sitting-room, the hangings were\nall embroidered velvet, and in a cabinet were about a hundred little\nelephants made of ivory. They were of different sizes, and some had\ntheir mahouts or palanquins on their backs. Some were much bigger than\nthe others and some were so tiny that they seemed only babies. Mary had\nseen carved ivory in India and she knew all about elephants. She opened\nthe door of the cabinet and stood on a footstool and played with these\nfor quite a long time. When she got tired she set the elephants in\norder and shut the door of the cabinet.\n\nIn all her wanderings through the long corridors and the empty rooms,\nshe had seen nothing alive; but in this room she saw something. Just\nafter she had closed the cabinet door she heard a tiny rustling sound.\nIt made her jump and look around at the sofa by the fireplace, from\nwhich it seemed to come. In the corner of the sofa there was a cushion,\nand in the velvet which covered it there was a hole, and out of the\nhole peeped a tiny head with a pair of frightened eyes in it.\n\nMary crept softly across the room to look. The bright eyes belonged to\na little gray mouse, and the mouse had eaten a hole into the cushion\nand made a comfortable nest there. Six baby mice were cuddled up asleep\nnear her. If there was no one else alive in the hundred rooms there\nwere seven mice who did not look lonely at all.\n\n If they wouldn t be so frightened I would take them back with me, \nsaid Mary.\n\nShe had wandered about long enough to feel too tired to wander any\nfarther, and she turned back. Two or three times she lost her way by\nturning down the wrong corridor and was obliged to ramble up and down\nuntil she found the right one; but at last she reached her own floor\nagain, though she was some distance from her own room and did not know\nexactly where she was.\n\n I believe I have taken a wrong turning again,  she said, standing\nstill at what seemed the end of a short passage with tapestry on the\nwall.  I don t know which way to go. How still everything is! \n\nIt was while she was standing here and just after she had said this\nthat the stillness was broken by a sound. It was another cry, but not\nquite like the one she had heard last night; it was only a short one, a\nfretful childish whine muffled by passing through walls.\n\n It s nearer than it was,  said Mary, her heart beating rather faster.\n And it _is_ crying. \n\nShe put her hand accidentally upon the tapestry near her, and then\nsprang back, feeling quite startled. The tapestry was the covering of a\ndoor which fell open and showed her that there was another part of the\ncorridor behind it, and Mrs. Medlock was coming up it with her bunch of\nkeys in her hand and a very cross look on her face.\n\n What are you doing here?  she said, and she took Mary by the arm and\npulled her away.  What did I tell you? \n\n I turned round the wrong corner,  explained Mary.  I didn t know which\nway to go and I heard someone crying.  She quite hated Mrs. Medlock at\nthe moment, but she hated her more the next.\n\n You didn t hear anything of the sort,  said the housekeeper.  You come\nalong back to your own nursery or I ll box your ears. \n\nAnd she took her by the arm and half pushed, half pulled her up one\npassage and down another until she pushed her in at the door of her own\nroom.\n\n Now,  she said,  you stay where you re told to stay or you ll find\nyourself locked up. The master had better get you a governess, same as\nhe said he would. You re one that needs someone to look sharp after\nyou. I ve got enough to do. \n\nShe went out of the room and slammed the door after her, and Mary went\nand sat on the hearth-rug, pale with rage. She did not cry, but ground\nher teeth.\n\n There _was_ someone crying there _was_ there _was!_  she said to\nherself.\n\nShe had heard it twice now, and sometime she would find out. She had\nfound out a great deal this morning. She felt as if she had been on a\nlong journey, and at any rate she had had something to amuse her all\nthe time, and she had played with the ivory elephants and had seen the\ngray mouse and its babies in their nest in the velvet cushion.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\nTHE KEY TO THE GARDEN\n\n\nTwo days after this, when Mary opened her eyes she sat upright in bed\nimmediately, and called to Martha.\n\n Look at the moor! Look at the moor! \n\nThe rainstorm had ended and the gray mist and clouds had been swept\naway in the night by the wind. The wind itself had ceased and a\nbrilliant, deep blue sky arched high over the moorland. Never, never\nhad Mary dreamed of a sky so blue. In India skies were hot and blazing;\nthis was of a deep cool blue which almost seemed to sparkle like the\nwaters of some lovely bottomless lake, and here and there, high, high\nin the arched blueness floated small clouds of snow-white fleece. The\nfar-reaching world of the moor itself looked softly blue instead of\ngloomy purple-black or awful dreary gray.\n\n Aye,  said Martha with a cheerful grin.  Th  storm s over for a bit.\nIt does like this at this time o  th  year. It goes off in a night like\nit was pretendin  it had never been here an  never meant to come again.\nThat s because th  springtime s on its way. It s a long way off yet,\nbut it s comin . \n\n I thought perhaps it always rained or looked dark in England,  Mary\nsaid.\n\n Eh! no!  said Martha, sitting up on her heels among her black lead\nbrushes.  Nowt o  th  soart! \n\n What does that mean?  asked Mary seriously. In India the natives spoke\ndifferent dialects which only a few people understood, so she was not\nsurprised when Martha used words she did not know.\n\nMartha laughed as she had done the first morning.\n\n There now,  she said.  I ve talked broad Yorkshire again like Mrs.\nMedlock said I mustn t.  Nowt o  th  soart  means\n nothin -of-the-sort,  slowly and carefully,  but it takes so long to\nsay it. Yorkshire s th  sunniest place on earth when it is sunny. I\ntold thee tha d like th  moor after a bit. Just you wait till you see\nth  gold-colored gorse blossoms an  th  blossoms o  th  broom, an  th \nheather flowerin , all purple bells, an  hundreds o  butterflies\nflutterin  an  bees hummin  an  skylarks soarin  up an  singin . You ll\nwant to get out on it at sunrise an  live out on it all day like Dickon\ndoes. \n\n Could I ever get there?  asked Mary wistfully, looking through her\nwindow at the far-off blue. It was so new and big and wonderful and\nsuch a heavenly color.\n\n I don t know,  answered Martha.  Tha s never used tha  legs since tha \nwas born, it seems to me. Tha  couldn t walk five mile. It s five mile\nto our cottage. \n\n I should like to see your cottage. \n\nMartha stared at her a moment curiously before she took up her\npolishing brush and began to rub the grate again. She was thinking that\nthe small plain face did not look quite as sour at this moment as it\nhad done the first morning she saw it. It looked just a trifle like\nlittle Susan Ann s when she wanted something very much.\n\n I ll ask my mother about it,  she said.  She s one o  them that nearly\nalways sees a way to do things. It s my day out today an  I m goin \nhome. Eh! I am glad. Mrs. Medlock thinks a lot o  mother. Perhaps she\ncould talk to her. \n\n I like your mother,  said Mary.\n\n I should think tha  did,  agreed Martha, polishing away.\n\n I ve never seen her,  said Mary.\n\n No, tha  hasn t,  replied Martha.\n\nShe sat up on her heels again and rubbed the end of her nose with the\nback of her hand as if puzzled for a moment, but she ended quite\npositively.\n\n Well, she s that sensible an  hard workin  an  good-natured an  clean\nthat no one could help likin  her whether they d seen her or not. When\nI m goin  home to her on my day out I just jump for joy when I m\ncrossin  the moor. \n\n I like Dickon,  added Mary.  And I ve never seen him. \n\n Well,  said Martha stoutly,  I ve told thee that th  very birds likes\nhim an  th  rabbits an  wild sheep an  ponies, an  th  foxes\nthemselves. I wonder,  staring at her reflectively,  what Dickon would\nthink of thee? \n\n He wouldn t like me,  said Mary in her stiff, cold little way.  No one\ndoes. \n\nMartha looked reflective again.\n\n How does tha  like thysel ?  she inquired, really quite as if she were\ncurious to know.\n\nMary hesitated a moment and thought it over.\n\n Not at all really,  she answered.  But I never thought of that\nbefore. \n\nMartha grinned a little as if at some homely recollection.\n\n Mother said that to me once,  she said.  She was at her wash-tub an  I\nwas in a bad temper an  talkin  ill of folk, an  she turns round on me\nan  says:  Tha  young vixen, tha ! There tha  stands sayin  tha \ndoesn t like this one an  tha  doesn t like that one. How does tha \nlike thysel ?  It made me laugh an  it brought me to my senses in a\nminute. \n\nShe went away in high spirits as soon as she had given Mary her\nbreakfast. She was going to walk five miles across the moor to the\ncottage, and she was going to help her mother with the washing and do\nthe week s baking and enjoy herself thoroughly.\n\nMary felt lonelier than ever when she knew she was no longer in the\nhouse. She went out into the garden as quickly as possible, and the\nfirst thing she did was to run round and round the fountain flower\ngarden ten times. She counted the times carefully and when she had\nfinished she felt in better spirits. The sunshine made the whole place\nlook different. The high, deep, blue sky arched over Misselthwaite as\nwell as over the moor, and she kept lifting her face and looking up\ninto it, trying to imagine what it would be like to lie down on one of\nthe little snow-white clouds and float about. She went into the first\nkitchen-garden and found Ben Weatherstaff working there with two other\ngardeners. The change in the weather seemed to have done him good. He\nspoke to her of his own accord.\n\n Springtime s comin,  he said.  Cannot tha  smell it? \n\nMary sniffed and thought she could.\n\n I smell something nice and fresh and damp,  she said.\n\n That s th  good rich earth,  he answered, digging away.  It s in a\ngood humor makin  ready to grow things. It s glad when plantin  time\ncomes. It s dull in th  winter when it s got nowt to do. In th  flower\ngardens out there things will be stirrin  down below in th  dark. Th \nsun s warmin   em. You ll see bits o  green spikes stickin  out o  th \nblack earth after a bit. \n\n What will they be?  asked Mary.\n\n Crocuses an  snowdrops an  daffydowndillys. Has tha  never seen them? \n\n No. Everything is hot, and wet, and green after the rains in India, \nsaid Mary.  And I think things grow up in a night. \n\n These won t grow up in a night,  said Weatherstaff.  Tha ll have to\nwait for  em. They ll poke up a bit higher here, an  push out a spike\nmore there, an  uncurl a leaf this day an  another that. You watch\n em. \n\n I am going to,  answered Mary.\n\nVery soon she heard the soft rustling flight of wings again and she\nknew at once that the robin had come again. He was very pert and\nlively, and hopped about so close to her feet, and put his head on one\nside and looked at her so slyly that she asked Ben Weatherstaff a\nquestion.\n\n Do you think he remembers me?  she said.\n\n Remembers thee!  said Weatherstaff indignantly.  He knows every\ncabbage stump in th  gardens, let alone th  people. He s never seen a\nlittle wench here before, an  he s bent on findin  out all about thee.\nTha s no need to try to hide anything from _him_. \n\n Are things stirring down below in the dark in that garden where he\nlives?  Mary inquired.\n\n What garden?  grunted Weatherstaff, becoming surly again.\n\n The one where the old rose-trees are.  She could not help asking,\nbecause she wanted so much to know.  Are all the flowers dead, or do\nsome of them come again in the summer? Are there ever any roses? \n\n Ask him,  said Ben Weatherstaff, hunching his shoulders toward the\nrobin.  He s the only one as knows. No one else has seen inside it for\nten year . \n\nTen years was a long time, Mary thought. She had been born ten years\nago.\n\nShe walked away, slowly thinking. She had begun to like the garden just\nas she had begun to like the robin and Dickon and Martha s mother. She\nwas beginning to like Martha, too. That seemed a good many people to\nlike when you were not used to liking. She thought of the robin as one\nof the people. She went to her walk outside the long, ivy-covered wall\nover which she could see the tree-tops; and the second time she walked\nup and down the most interesting and exciting thing happened to her,\nand it was all through Ben Weatherstaff s robin.\n\nShe heard a chirp and a twitter, and when she looked at the bare\nflower-bed at her left side there he was hopping about and pretending\nto peck things out of the earth to persuade her that he had not\nfollowed her. But she knew he had followed her and the surprise so\nfilled her with delight that she almost trembled a little.\n\n You do remember me!  she cried out.  You do! You are prettier than\nanything else in the world! \n\nShe chirped, and talked, and coaxed and he hopped, and flirted his tail\nand twittered. It was as if he were talking. His red waistcoat was like\nsatin and he puffed his tiny breast out and was so fine and so grand\nand so pretty that it was really as if he were showing her how\nimportant and like a human person a robin could be. Mistress Mary\nforgot that she had ever been contrary in her life when he allowed her\nto draw closer and closer to him, and bend down and talk and try to\nmake something like robin sounds.\n\nOh! to think that he should actually let her come as near to him as\nthat! He knew nothing in the world would make her put out her hand\ntoward him or startle him in the least tiniest way. He knew it because\nhe was a real person only nicer than any other person in the world. She\nwas so happy that she scarcely dared to breathe.\n\nThe flower-bed was not quite bare. It was bare of flowers because the\nperennial plants had been cut down for their winter rest, but there\nwere tall shrubs and low ones which grew together at the back of the\nbed, and as the robin hopped about under them she saw him hop over a\nsmall pile of freshly turned up earth. He stopped on it to look for a\nworm. The earth had been turned up because a dog had been trying to dig\nup a mole and he had scratched quite a deep hole.\n\nMary looked at it, not really knowing why the hole was there, and as\nshe looked she saw something almost buried in the newly-turned soil. It\nwas something like a ring of rusty iron or brass and when the robin\nflew up into a tree nearby she put out her hand and picked the ring up.\nIt was more than a ring, however; it was an old key which looked as if\nit had been buried a long time.\n\nMistress Mary stood up and looked at it with an almost frightened face\nas it hung from her finger.\n\n Perhaps it has been buried for ten years,  she said in a whisper.\n Perhaps it is the key to the garden! \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\nTHE ROBIN WHO SHOWED THE WAY\n\n\nShe looked at the key quite a long time. She turned it over and over,\nand thought about it. As I have said before, she was not a child who\nhad been trained to ask permission or consult her elders about things.\nAll she thought about the key was that if it was the key to the closed\ngarden, and she could find out where the door was, she could perhaps\nopen it and see what was inside the walls, and what had happened to the\nold rose-trees. It was because it had been shut up so long that she\nwanted to see it. It seemed as if it must be different from other\nplaces and that something strange must have happened to it during ten\nyears. Besides that, if she liked it she could go into it every day and\nshut the door behind her, and she could make up some play of her own\nand play it quite alone, because nobody would ever know where she was,\nbut would think the door was still locked and the key buried in the\nearth. The thought of that pleased her very much.\n\nLiving as it were, all by herself in a house with a hundred\nmysteriously closed rooms and having nothing whatever to do to amuse\nherself, had set her inactive brain to working and was actually\nawakening her imagination. There is no doubt that the fresh, strong,\npure air from the moor had a great deal to do with it. Just as it had\ngiven her an appetite, and fighting with the wind had stirred her\nblood, so the same things had stirred her mind. In India she had always\nbeen too hot and languid and weak to care much about anything, but in\nthis place she was beginning to care and to want to do new things.\nAlready she felt less  contrary,  though she did not know why.\n\nShe put the key in her pocket and walked up and down her walk. No one\nbut herself ever seemed to come there, so she could walk slowly and\nlook at the wall, or, rather, at the ivy growing on it. The ivy was the\nbaffling thing. Howsoever carefully she looked she could see nothing\nbut thickly growing, glossy, dark green leaves. She was very much\ndisappointed. Something of her contrariness came back to her as she\npaced the walk and looked over it at the tree-tops inside. It seemed so\nsilly, she said to herself, to be near it and not be able to get in.\nShe took the key in her pocket when she went back to the house, and she\nmade up her mind that she would always carry it with her when she went\nout, so that if she ever should find the hidden door she would be\nready.\n\nMrs. Medlock had allowed Martha to sleep all night at the cottage, but\nshe was back at her work in the morning with cheeks redder than ever\nand in the best of spirits.\n\n I got up at four o clock,  she said.  Eh! it was pretty on th  moor\nwith th  birds gettin  up an  th  rabbits scamperin  about an  th  sun\nrisin . I didn t walk all th  way. A man gave me a ride in his cart an \nI did enjoy myself. \n\nShe was full of stories of the delights of her day out. Her mother had\nbeen glad to see her and they had got the baking and washing all out of\nthe way. She had even made each of the children a doughcake with a bit\nof brown sugar in it.\n\n I had  em all pipin  hot when they came in from playin  on th  moor.\nAn  th  cottage all smelt o  nice, clean hot bakin  an  there was a\ngood fire, an  they just shouted for joy. Our Dickon he said our\ncottage was good enough for a king to live in. \n\nIn the evening they had all sat round the fire, and Martha and her\nmother had sewed patches on torn clothes and mended stockings and\nMartha had told them about the little girl who had come from India and\nwho had been waited on all her life by what Martha called  blacks \nuntil she didn t know how to put on her own stockings.\n\n Eh! they did like to hear about you,  said Martha.  They wanted to\nknow all about th  blacks an  about th  ship you came in. I couldn t\ntell  em enough. \n\nMary reflected a little.\n\n I ll tell you a great deal more before your next day out,  she said,\n so that you will have more to talk about. I dare say they would like\nto hear about riding on elephants and camels, and about the officers\ngoing to hunt tigers. \n\n My word!  cried delighted Martha.  It would set  em clean off their\nheads. Would tha  really do that, Miss? It would be same as a wild\nbeast show like we heard they had in York once. \n\n India is quite different from Yorkshire,  Mary said slowly, as she\nthought the matter over.  I never thought of that. Did Dickon and your\nmother like to hear you talk about me? \n\n Why, our Dickon s eyes nearly started out o  his head, they got that\nround,  answered Martha.  But mother, she was put out about your\nseemin  to be all by yourself like. She said,  Hasn t Mr. Craven got no\ngoverness for her, nor no nurse?  and I said,  No, he hasn t, though\nMrs. Medlock says he will when he thinks of it, but she says he mayn t\nthink of it for two or three years. \n\n I don t want a governess,  said Mary sharply.\n\n But mother says you ought to be learnin  your book by this time an \nyou ought to have a woman to look after you, an  she says:  Now,\nMartha, you just think how you d feel yourself, in a big place like\nthat, wanderin  about all alone, an  no mother. You do your best to\ncheer her up,  she says, an  I said I would. \n\nMary gave her a long, steady look.\n\n You do cheer me up,  she said.  I like to hear you talk. \n\nPresently Martha went out of the room and came back with something held\nin her hands under her apron.\n\n What does tha  think,  she said, with a cheerful grin.  I ve brought\nthee a present. \n\n A present!  exclaimed Mistress Mary. How could a cottage full of\nfourteen hungry people give anyone a present!\n\n A man was drivin  across the moor peddlin ,  Martha explained.  An  he\nstopped his cart at our door. He had pots an  pans an  odds an  ends,\nbut mother had no money to buy anythin . Just as he was goin  away our\n Lizabeth Ellen called out,  Mother, he s got skippin -ropes with red\nan  blue handles.  An  mother she calls out quite sudden,  Here, stop,\nmister! How much are they?  An  he says  Tuppence , an  mother she\nbegan fumblin  in her pocket an  she says to me,  Martha, tha s brought\nme thy wages like a good lass, an  I ve got four places to put every\npenny, but I m just goin  to take tuppence out of it to buy that child\na skippin -rope,  an  she bought one an  here it is. \n\nShe brought it out from under her apron and exhibited it quite proudly.\nIt was a strong, slender rope with a striped red and blue handle at\neach end, but Mary Lennox had never seen a skipping-rope before. She\ngazed at it with a mystified expression.\n\n What is it for?  she asked curiously.\n\n For!  cried out Martha.  Does tha  mean that they ve not got\nskippin -ropes in India, for all they ve got elephants and tigers and\ncamels! No wonder most of  em s black. This is what it s for; just\nwatch me. \n\nAnd she ran into the middle of the room and, taking a handle in each\nhand, began to skip, and skip, and skip, while Mary turned in her chair\nto stare at her, and the queer faces in the old portraits seemed to\nstare at her, too, and wonder what on earth this common little cottager\nhad the impudence to be doing under their very noses. But Martha did\nnot even see them. The interest and curiosity in Mistress Mary s face\ndelighted her, and she went on skipping and counted as she skipped\nuntil she had reached a hundred.\n\n I could skip longer than that,  she said when she stopped.  I ve\nskipped as much as five hundred when I was twelve, but I wasn t as fat\nthen as I am now, an  I was in practice. \n\nMary got up from her chair beginning to feel excited herself.\n\n It looks nice,  she said.  Your mother is a kind woman. Do you think I\ncould ever skip like that? \n\n You just try it,  urged Martha, handing her the skipping-rope.  You\ncan t skip a hundred at first, but if you practice you ll mount up.\nThat s what mother said. She says,  Nothin  will do her more good than\nskippin  rope. It s th  sensiblest toy a child can have. Let her play\nout in th  fresh air skippin  an  it ll stretch her legs an  arms an \ngive her some strength in  em. \n\nIt was plain that there was not a great deal of strength in Mistress\nMary s arms and legs when she first began to skip. She was not very\nclever at it, but she liked it so much that she did not want to stop.\n\n Put on tha  things and run an  skip out o  doors,  said Martha.\n Mother said I must tell you to keep out o  doors as much as you could,\neven when it rains a bit, so as tha  wrap up warm. \n\nMary put on her coat and hat and took her skipping-rope over her arm.\nShe opened the door to go out, and then suddenly thought of something\nand turned back rather slowly.\n\n Martha,  she said,  they were your wages. It was your two-pence\nreally. Thank you.  She said it stiffly because she was not used to\nthanking people or noticing that they did things for her.  Thank you, \nshe said, and held out her hand because she did not know what else to\ndo.\n\nMartha gave her hand a clumsy little shake, as if she was not\naccustomed to this sort of thing either. Then she laughed.\n\n Eh! th  art a queer, old-womanish thing,  she said.  If tha d been our\n Lizabeth Ellen tha d have given me a kiss. \n\nMary looked stiffer than ever.\n\n Do you want me to kiss you? \n\nMartha laughed again.\n\n Nay, not me,  she answered.  If tha  was different, p raps tha d want\nto thysel . But tha  isn t. Run off outside an  play with thy rope. \n\nMistress Mary felt a little awkward as she went out of the room.\nYorkshire people seemed strange, and Martha was always rather a puzzle\nto her. At first she had disliked her very much, but now she did not.\nThe skipping-rope was a wonderful thing. She counted and skipped, and\nskipped and counted, until her cheeks were quite red, and she was more\ninterested than she had ever been since she was born. The sun was\nshining and a little wind was blowing not a rough wind, but one which\ncame in delightful little gusts and brought a fresh scent of newly\nturned earth with it. She skipped round the fountain garden, and up one\nwalk and down another. She skipped at last into the kitchen-garden and\nsaw Ben Weatherstaff digging and talking to his robin, which was\nhopping about him. She skipped down the walk toward him and he lifted\nhis head and looked at her with a curious expression. She had wondered\nif he would notice her. She wanted him to see her skip.\n\n Well!  he exclaimed.  Upon my word. P raps tha  art a young  un, after\nall, an  p raps tha s got child s blood in thy veins instead of sour\nbuttermilk. Tha s skipped red into thy cheeks as sure as my name s Ben\nWeatherstaff. I wouldn t have believed tha  could do it. \n\n I never skipped before,  Mary said.  I m just beginning. I can only go\nup to twenty. \n\n Tha  keep on,  said Ben.  Tha  shapes well enough at it for a young\n un that s lived with heathen. Just see how he s watchin  thee, \njerking his head toward the robin.  He followed after thee yesterday.\nHe ll be at it again today. He ll be bound to find out what th \nskippin -rope is. He s never seen one. Eh!  shaking his head at the\nbird,  tha  curiosity will be th  death of thee sometime if tha \ndoesn t look sharp. \n\nMary skipped round all the gardens and round the orchard, resting every\nfew minutes. At length she went to her own special walk and made up her\nmind to try if she could skip the whole length of it. It was a good\nlong skip and she began slowly, but before she had gone half-way down\nthe path she was so hot and breathless that she was obliged to stop.\nShe did not mind much, because she had already counted up to thirty.\nShe stopped with a little laugh of pleasure, and there, lo and behold,\nwas the robin swaying on a long branch of ivy. He had followed her and\nhe greeted her with a chirp. As Mary had skipped toward him she felt\nsomething heavy in her pocket strike against her at each jump, and when\nshe saw the robin she laughed again.\n\n You showed me where the key was yesterday,  she said.  You ought to\nshow me the door today; but I don t believe you know! \n\nThe robin flew from his swinging spray of ivy on to the top of the wall\nand he opened his beak and sang a loud, lovely trill, merely to show\noff. Nothing in the world is quite as adorably lovely as a robin when\nhe shows off and they are nearly always doing it.\n\nMary Lennox had heard a great deal about Magic in her Ayah s stories,\nand she always said that what happened almost at that moment was Magic.\n\nOne of the nice little gusts of wind rushed down the walk, and it was a\nstronger one than the rest. It was strong enough to wave the branches\nof the trees, and it was more than strong enough to sway the trailing\nsprays of untrimmed ivy hanging from the wall. Mary had stepped close\nto the robin, and suddenly the gust of wind swung aside some loose ivy\ntrails, and more suddenly still she jumped toward it and caught it in\nher hand. This she did because she had seen something under it a round\nknob which had been covered by the leaves hanging over it. It was the\nknob of a door.\n\nShe put her hands under the leaves and began to pull and push them\naside. Thick as the ivy hung, it nearly all was a loose and swinging\ncurtain, though some had crept over wood and iron. Mary s heart began\nto thump and her hands to shake a little in her delight and excitement.\nThe robin kept singing and twittering away and tilting his head on one\nside, as if he were as excited as she was. What was this under her\nhands which was square and made of iron and which her fingers found a\nhole in?\n\nIt was the lock of the door which had been closed ten years and she put\nher hand in her pocket, drew out the key and found it fitted the\nkeyhole. She put the key in and turned it. It took two hands to do it,\nbut it did turn.\n\nAnd then she took a long breath and looked behind her up the long walk\nto see if anyone was coming. No one was coming. No one ever did come,\nit seemed, and she took another long breath, because she could not help\nit, and she held back the swinging curtain of ivy and pushed back the\ndoor which opened slowly slowly.\n\nThen she slipped through it, and shut it behind her, and stood with her\nback against it, looking about her and breathing quite fast with\nexcitement, and wonder, and delight.\n\nShe was standing _inside_ the secret garden.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\nTHE STRANGEST HOUSE ANYONE EVER LIVED IN\n\n\nIt was the sweetest, most mysterious-looking place anyone could\nimagine. The high walls which shut it in were covered with the leafless\nstems of climbing roses which were so thick that they were matted\ntogether. Mary Lennox knew they were roses because she had seen a great\nmany roses in India. All the ground was covered with grass of a wintry\nbrown and out of it grew clumps of bushes which were surely rosebushes\nif they were alive. There were numbers of standard roses which had so\nspread their branches that they were like little trees. There were\nother trees in the garden, and one of the things which made the place\nlook strangest and loveliest was that climbing roses had run all over\nthem and swung down long tendrils which made light swaying curtains,\nand here and there they had caught at each other or at a far-reaching\nbranch and had crept from one tree to another and made lovely bridges\nof themselves. There were neither leaves nor roses on them now and Mary\ndid not know whether they were dead or alive, but their thin gray or\nbrown branches and sprays looked like a sort of hazy mantle spreading\nover everything, walls, and trees, and even brown grass, where they had\nfallen from their fastenings and run along the ground. It was this hazy\ntangle from tree to tree which made it all look so mysterious. Mary had\nthought it must be different from other gardens which had not been left\nall by themselves so long; and indeed it was different from any other\nplace she had ever seen in her life.\n\n How still it is!  she whispered.  How still! \n\nThen she waited a moment and listened at the stillness. The robin, who\nhad flown to his treetop, was still as all the rest. He did not even\nflutter his wings; he sat without stirring, and looked at Mary.\n\n No wonder it is still,  she whispered again.  I am the first person\nwho has spoken in here for ten years. \n\nShe moved away from the door, stepping as softly as if she were afraid\nof awakening someone. She was glad that there was grass under her feet\nand that her steps made no sounds. She walked under one of the\nfairy-like gray arches between the trees and looked up at the sprays\nand tendrils which formed them.\n\n I wonder if they are all quite dead,  she said.  Is it all a quite\ndead garden? I wish it wasn t. \n\nIf she had been Ben Weatherstaff she could have told whether the wood\nwas alive by looking at it, but she could only see that there were only\ngray or brown sprays and branches and none showed any signs of even a\ntiny leaf-bud anywhere.\n\nBut she was _inside_ the wonderful garden and she could come through\nthe door under the ivy any time and she felt as if she had found a\nworld all her own.\n\nThe sun was shining inside the four walls and the high arch of blue sky\nover this particular piece of Misselthwaite seemed even more brilliant\nand soft than it was over the moor. The robin flew down from his\ntree-top and hopped about or flew after her from one bush to another.\nHe chirped a good deal and had a very busy air, as if he were showing\nher things. Everything was strange and silent and she seemed to be\nhundreds of miles away from anyone, but somehow she did not feel lonely\nat all. All that troubled her was her wish that she knew whether all\nthe roses were dead, or if perhaps some of them had lived and might put\nout leaves and buds as the weather got warmer. She did not want it to\nbe a quite dead garden. If it were a quite alive garden, how wonderful\nit would be, and what thousands of roses would grow on every side!\n\nHer skipping-rope had hung over her arm when she came in and after she\nhad walked about for a while she thought she would skip round the whole\ngarden, stopping when she wanted to look at things. There seemed to\nhave been grass paths here and there, and in one or two corners there\nwere alcoves of evergreen with stone seats or tall moss-covered flower\nurns in them.\n\nAs she came near the second of these alcoves she stopped skipping.\nThere had once been a flowerbed in it, and she thought she saw\nsomething sticking out of the black earth some sharp little pale green\npoints. She remembered what Ben Weatherstaff had said and she knelt\ndown to look at them.\n\n Yes, they are tiny growing things and they _might_ be crocuses or\nsnowdrops or daffodils,  she whispered.\n\nShe bent very close to them and sniffed the fresh scent of the damp\nearth. She liked it very much.\n\n Perhaps there are some other ones coming up in other places,  she\nsaid.  I will go all over the garden and look. \n\nShe did not skip, but walked. She went slowly and kept her eyes on the\nground. She looked in the old border beds and among the grass, and\nafter she had gone round, trying to miss nothing, she had found ever so\nmany more sharp, pale green points, and she had become quite excited\nagain.\n\n It isn t a quite dead garden,  she cried out softly to herself.  Even\nif the roses are dead, there are other things alive. \n\nShe did not know anything about gardening, but the grass seemed so\nthick in some of the places where the green points were pushing their\nway through that she thought they did not seem to have room enough to\ngrow. She searched about until she found a rather sharp piece of wood\nand knelt down and dug and weeded out the weeds and grass until she\nmade nice little clear places around them.\n\n Now they look as if they could breathe,  she said, after she had\nfinished with the first ones.  I am going to do ever so many more. I ll\ndo all I can see. If I haven t time today I can come tomorrow. \n\nShe went from place to place, and dug and weeded, and enjoyed herself\nso immensely that she was led on from bed to bed and into the grass\nunder the trees. The exercise made her so warm that she first threw her\ncoat off, and then her hat, and without knowing it she was smiling down\non to the grass and the pale green points all the time.\n\nThe robin was tremendously busy. He was very much pleased to see\ngardening begun on his own estate. He had often wondered at Ben\nWeatherstaff. Where gardening is done all sorts of delightful things to\neat are turned up with the soil. Now here was this new kind of creature\nwho was not half Ben s size and yet had had the sense to come into his\ngarden and begin at once.\n\nMistress Mary worked in her garden until it was time to go to her\nmidday dinner. In fact, she was rather late in remembering, and when\nshe put on her coat and hat, and picked up her skipping-rope, she could\nnot believe that she had been working two or three hours. She had been\nactually happy all the time; and dozens and dozens of the tiny, pale\ngreen points were to be seen in cleared places, looking twice as\ncheerful as they had looked before when the grass and weeds had been\nsmothering them.\n\n I shall come back this afternoon,  she said, looking all round at her\nnew kingdom, and speaking to the trees and the rose-bushes as if they\nheard her.\n\nThen she ran lightly across the grass, pushed open the slow old door\nand slipped through it under the ivy. She had such red cheeks and such\nbright eyes and ate such a dinner that Martha was delighted.\n\n Two pieces o  meat an  two helps o  rice puddin !  she said.  Eh!\nmother will be pleased when I tell her what th  skippin -rope s done\nfor thee. \n\nIn the course of her digging with her pointed stick Mistress Mary had\nfound herself digging up a sort of white root rather like an onion. She\nhad put it back in its place and patted the earth carefully down on it\nand just now she wondered if Martha could tell her what it was.\n\n Martha,  she said,  what are those white roots that look like onions? \n\n They re bulbs,  answered Martha.  Lots o  spring flowers grow from\n em. Th  very little ones are snowdrops an  crocuses an  th  big ones\nare narcissuses an  jonquils and daffydowndillys. Th  biggest of all is\nlilies an  purple flags. Eh! they are nice. Dickon s got a whole lot of\n em planted in our bit o  garden. \n\n Does Dickon know all about them?  asked Mary, a new idea taking\npossession of her.\n\n Our Dickon can make a flower grow out of a brick walk. Mother says he\njust whispers things out o  th  ground. \n\n Do bulbs live a long time? Would they live years and years if no one\nhelped them?  inquired Mary anxiously.\n\n They re things as helps themselves,  said Martha.  That s why poor\nfolk can afford to have  em. If you don t trouble  em, most of  em ll\nwork away underground for a lifetime an  spread out an  have little\n uns. There s a place in th  park woods here where there s snowdrops by\nthousands. They re the prettiest sight in Yorkshire when th  spring\ncomes. No one knows when they was first planted. \n\n I wish the spring was here now,  said Mary.  I want to see all the\nthings that grow in England. \n\nShe had finished her dinner and gone to her favorite seat on the\nhearth-rug.\n\n I wish I wish I had a little spade,  she said.\n\n Whatever does tha  want a spade for?  asked Martha, laughing.  Art\ntha  goin  to take to diggin ? I must tell mother that, too. \n\nMary looked at the fire and pondered a little. She must be careful if\nshe meant to keep her secret kingdom. She wasn t doing any harm, but if\nMr. Craven found out about the open door he would be fearfully angry\nand get a new key and lock it up forevermore. She really could not bear\nthat.\n\n This is such a big lonely place,  she said slowly, as if she were\nturning matters over in her mind.  The house is lonely, and the park is\nlonely, and the gardens are lonely. So many places seem shut up. I\nnever did many things in India, but there were more people to look\nat natives and soldiers marching by and sometimes bands playing, and my\nAyah told me stories. There is no one to talk to here except you and\nBen Weatherstaff. And you have to do your work and Ben Weatherstaff\nwon t speak to me often. I thought if I had a little spade I could dig\nsomewhere as he does, and I might make a little garden if he would give\nme some seeds. \n\nMartha s face quite lighted up.\n\n There now!  she exclaimed,  if that wasn t one of th  things mother\nsaid. She says,  There s such a lot o  room in that big place, why\ndon t they give her a bit for herself, even if she doesn t plant\nnothin  but parsley an  radishes? She d dig an  rake away an  be right\ndown happy over it.  Them was the very words she said. \n\n Were they?  said Mary.  How many things she knows, doesn t she? \n\n Eh!  said Martha.  It s like she says:  A woman as brings up twelve\nchildren learns something besides her A B C. Children s as good as\n rithmetic to set you findin  out things. \n\n How much would a spade cost a little one?  Mary asked.\n\n Well,  was Martha s reflective answer,  at Thwaite village there s a\nshop or so an  I saw little garden sets with a spade an  a rake an  a\nfork all tied together for two shillings. An  they was stout enough to\nwork with, too. \n\n I ve got more than that in my purse,  said Mary.  Mrs. Morrison gave\nme five shillings and Mrs. Medlock gave me some money from Mr. Craven. \n\n Did he remember thee that much?  exclaimed Martha.\n\n Mrs. Medlock said I was to have a shilling a week to spend. She gives\nme one every Saturday. I didn t know what to spend it on. \n\n My word! that s riches,  said Martha.  Tha  can buy anything in th \nworld tha  wants. Th  rent of our cottage is only one an  threepence\nan  it s like pullin  eye-teeth to get it. Now I ve just thought of\nsomethin ,  putting her hands on her hips.\n\n What?  said Mary eagerly.\n\n In the shop at Thwaite they sell packages o  flower-seeds for a penny\neach, and our Dickon he knows which is th  prettiest ones an  how to\nmake  em grow. He walks over to Thwaite many a day just for th  fun of\nit. Does tha  know how to print letters?  suddenly.\n\n I know how to write,  Mary answered.\n\nMartha shook her head.\n\n Our Dickon can only read printin . If tha  could print we could write\na letter to him an  ask him to go an  buy th  garden tools an  th \nseeds at th  same time. \n\n Oh! you re a good girl!  Mary cried.  You are, really! I didn t know\nyou were so nice. I know I can print letters if I try. Let s ask Mrs.\nMedlock for a pen and ink and some paper. \n\n I ve got some of my own,  said Martha.  I bought  em so I could print\na bit of a letter to mother of a Sunday. I ll go and get it. \n\nShe ran out of the room, and Mary stood by the fire and twisted her\nthin little hands together with sheer pleasure.\n\n If I have a spade,  she whispered,  I can make the earth nice and soft\nand dig up weeds. If I have seeds and can make flowers grow the garden\nwon t be dead at all it will come alive. \n\nShe did not go out again that afternoon because when Martha returned\nwith her pen and ink and paper she was obliged to clear the table and\ncarry the plates and dishes downstairs and when she got into the\nkitchen Mrs. Medlock was there and told her to do something, so Mary\nwaited for what seemed to her a long time before she came back. Then it\nwas a serious piece of work to write to Dickon. Mary had been taught\nvery little because her governesses had disliked her too much to stay\nwith her. She could not spell particularly well but she found that she\ncould print letters when she tried. This was the letter Martha dictated\nto her:\n\n\n _My Dear Dickon:_\n\nThis comes hoping to find you well as it leaves me at present. Miss\nMary has plenty of money and will you go to Thwaite and buy her some\nflower seeds and a set of garden tools to make a flower-bed. Pick the\nprettiest ones and easy to grow because she has never done it before\nand lived in India which is different. Give my love to mother and\neveryone of you. Miss Mary is going to tell me a lot more so that on my\nnext day out you can hear about elephants and camels and gentlemen\ngoing hunting lions and tigers.\n\n     Your loving sister,\n\n                 Martha Ph be Sowerby. \n\n We ll put the money in th  envelope an  I ll get th  butcher boy to\ntake it in his cart. He s a great friend o  Dickon s,  said Martha.\n\n How shall I get the things when Dickon buys them? \n\n He ll bring  em to you himself. He ll like to walk over this way. \n\n Oh!  exclaimed Mary,  then I shall see him! I never thought I should\nsee Dickon. \n\n Does tha  want to see him?  asked Martha suddenly, for Mary had looked\nso pleased.\n\n Yes, I do. I never saw a boy foxes and crows loved. I want to see him\nvery much. \n\nMartha gave a little start, as if she remembered something.\n\n Now to think,  she broke out,  to think o  me forgettin  that there;\nan  I thought I was goin  to tell you first thing this mornin . I asked\nmother and she said she d ask Mrs. Medlock her own self. \n\n Do you mean  Mary began.\n\n What I said Tuesday. Ask her if you might be driven over to our\ncottage some day and have a bit o  mother s hot oat cake, an  butter,\nan  a glass o  milk. \n\nIt seemed as if all the interesting things were happening in one day.\nTo think of going over the moor in the daylight and when the sky was\nblue! To think of going into the cottage which held twelve children!\n\n Does she think Mrs. Medlock would let me go?  she asked, quite\nanxiously.\n\n Aye, she thinks she would. She knows what a tidy woman mother is and\nhow clean she keeps the cottage. \n\n If I went I should see your mother as well as Dickon,  said Mary,\nthinking it over and liking the idea very much.  She doesn t seem to be\nlike the mothers in India. \n\nHer work in the garden and the excitement of the afternoon ended by\nmaking her feel quiet and thoughtful. Martha stayed with her until\ntea-time, but they sat in comfortable quiet and talked very little. But\njust before Martha went downstairs for the tea-tray, Mary asked a\nquestion.\n\n Martha,  she said,  has the scullery-maid had the toothache again\ntoday? \n\nMartha certainly started slightly.\n\n What makes thee ask that?  she said.\n\n Because when I waited so long for you to come back I opened the door\nand walked down the corridor to see if you were coming. And I heard\nthat far-off crying again, just as we heard it the other night. There\nisn t a wind today, so you see it couldn t have been the wind. \n\n Eh!  said Martha restlessly.  Tha  mustn t go walkin  about in\ncorridors an  listenin . Mr. Craven would be that there angry there s\nno knowin  what he d do. \n\n I wasn t listening,  said Mary.  I was just waiting for you and I\nheard it. That s three times. \n\n My word! There s Mrs. Medlock s bell,  said Martha, and she almost ran\nout of the room.\n\n It s the strangest house anyone ever lived in,  said Mary drowsily, as\nshe dropped her head on the cushioned seat of the armchair near her.\nFresh air, and digging, and skipping-rope had made her feel so\ncomfortably tired that she fell asleep.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\nDICKON\n\n\nThe sun shone down for nearly a week on the secret garden. The Secret\nGarden was what Mary called it when she was thinking of it. She liked\nthe name, and she liked still more the feeling that when its beautiful\nold walls shut her in no one knew where she was. It seemed almost like\nbeing shut out of the world in some fairy place. The few books she had\nread and liked had been fairy-story books, and she had read of secret\ngardens in some of the stories. Sometimes people went to sleep in them\nfor a hundred years, which she had thought must be rather stupid. She\nhad no intention of going to sleep, and, in fact, she was becoming\nwider awake every day which passed at Misselthwaite. She was beginning\nto like to be out of doors; she no longer hated the wind, but enjoyed\nit. She could run faster, and longer, and she could skip up to a\nhundred. The bulbs in the secret garden must have been much astonished.\nSuch nice clear places were made round them that they had all the\nbreathing space they wanted, and really, if Mistress Mary had known it,\nthey began to cheer up under the dark earth and work tremendously. The\nsun could get at them and warm them, and when the rain came down it\ncould reach them at once, so they began to feel very much alive.\n\nMary was an odd, determined little person, and now she had something\ninteresting to be determined about, she was very much absorbed, indeed.\nShe worked and dug and pulled up weeds steadily, only becoming more\npleased with her work every hour instead of tiring of it. It seemed to\nher like a fascinating sort of play. She found many more of the\nsprouting pale green points than she had ever hoped to find. They\nseemed to be starting up everywhere and each day she was sure she found\ntiny new ones, some so tiny that they barely peeped above the earth.\nThere were so many that she remembered what Martha had said about the\n snowdrops by the thousands,  and about bulbs spreading and making new\nones. These had been left to themselves for ten years and perhaps they\nhad spread, like the snowdrops, into thousands. She wondered how long\nit would be before they showed that they were flowers. Sometimes she\nstopped digging to look at the garden and try to imagine what it would\nbe like when it was covered with thousands of lovely things in bloom.\n\nDuring that week of sunshine, she became more intimate with Ben\nWeatherstaff. She surprised him several times by seeming to start up\nbeside him as if she sprang out of the earth. The truth was that she\nwas afraid that he would pick up his tools and go away if he saw her\ncoming, so she always walked toward him as silently as possible. But,\nin fact, he did not object to her as strongly as he had at first.\nPerhaps he was secretly rather flattered by her evident desire for his\nelderly company. Then, also, she was more civil than she had been. He\ndid not know that when she first saw him she spoke to him as she would\nhave spoken to a native, and had not known that a cross, sturdy old\nYorkshire man was not accustomed to salaam to his masters, and be\nmerely commanded by them to do things.\n\n Tha rt like th  robin,  he said to her one morning when he lifted his\nhead and saw her standing by him.  I never knows when I shall see thee\nor which side tha ll come from. \n\n He s friends with me now,  said Mary.\n\n That s like him,  snapped Ben Weatherstaff.  Makin  up to th  women\nfolk just for vanity an  flightiness. There s nothin  he wouldn t do\nfor th  sake o  showin  off an  flirtin  his tail-feathers. He s as\nfull o  pride as an egg s full o  meat. \n\nHe very seldom talked much and sometimes did not even answer Mary s\nquestions except by a grunt, but this morning he said more than usual.\nHe stood up and rested one hobnailed boot on the top of his spade while\nhe looked her over.\n\n How long has tha  been here?  he jerked out.\n\n I think it s about a month,  she answered.\n\n Tha s beginnin  to do Misselthwaite credit,  he said.  Tha s a bit\nfatter than tha  was an  tha s not quite so yeller. Tha  looked like a\nyoung plucked crow when tha  first came into this garden. Thinks I to\nmyself I never set eyes on an uglier, sourer faced young  un. \n\nMary was not vain and as she had never thought much of her looks she\nwas not greatly disturbed.\n\n I know I m fatter,  she said.  My stockings are getting tighter. They\nused to make wrinkles. There s the robin, Ben Weatherstaff. \n\nThere, indeed, was the robin, and she thought he looked nicer than\never. His red waistcoat was as glossy as satin and he flirted his wings\nand tail and tilted his head and hopped about with all sorts of lively\ngraces. He seemed determined to make Ben Weatherstaff admire him. But\nBen was sarcastic.\n\n Aye, there tha  art!  he said.  Tha  can put up with me for a bit\nsometimes when tha s got no one better. Tha s been reddenin  up thy\nwaistcoat an  polishin  thy feathers this two weeks. I know what tha s\nup to. Tha s courtin  some bold young madam somewhere tellin  thy lies\nto her about bein  th  finest cock robin on Missel Moor an  ready to\nfight all th  rest of  em. \n\n Oh! look at him!  exclaimed Mary.\n\nThe robin was evidently in a fascinating, bold mood. He hopped closer\nand closer and looked at Ben Weatherstaff more and more engagingly. He\nflew on to the nearest currant bush and tilted his head and sang a\nlittle song right at him.\n\n Tha  thinks tha ll get over me by doin  that,  said Ben, wrinkling his\nface up in such a way that Mary felt sure he was trying not to look\npleased.  Tha  thinks no one can stand out against thee that s what\ntha  thinks. \n\nThe robin spread his wings Mary could scarcely believe her eyes. He\nflew right up to the handle of Ben Weatherstaff s spade and alighted on\nthe top of it. Then the old man s face wrinkled itself slowly into a\nnew expression. He stood still as if he were afraid to breathe as if he\nwould not have stirred for the world, lest his robin should start away.\nHe spoke quite in a whisper.\n\n Well, I m danged!  he said as softly as if he were saying something\nquite different.  Tha  does know how to get at a chap tha  does! Tha s\nfair unearthly, tha s so knowin . \n\nAnd he stood without stirring almost without drawing his breath until\nthe robin gave another flirt to his wings and flew away. Then he stood\nlooking at the handle of the spade as if there might be Magic in it,\nand then he began to dig again and said nothing for several minutes.\n\nBut because he kept breaking into a slow grin now and then, Mary was\nnot afraid to talk to him.\n\n Have you a garden of your own?  she asked.\n\n No. I m bachelder an  lodge with Martin at th  gate. \n\n If you had one,  said Mary,  what would you plant? \n\n Cabbages an   taters an  onions. \n\n But if you wanted to make a flower garden,  persisted Mary,  what\nwould you plant? \n\n Bulbs an  sweet-smellin  things but mostly roses. \n\nMary s face lighted up.\n\n Do you like roses?  she said.\n\nBen Weatherstaff rooted up a weed and threw it aside before he\nanswered.\n\n Well, yes, I do. I was learned that by a young lady I was gardener to.\nShe had a lot in a place she was fond of, an  she loved  em like they\nwas children or robins. I ve seen her bend over an  kiss  em.  He\ndragged out another weed and scowled at it.  That were as much as ten\nyear  ago. \n\n Where is she now?  asked Mary, much interested.\n\n Heaven,  he answered, and drove his spade deep into the soil,\n cording to what parson says. \n\n What happened to the roses?  Mary asked again, more interested than\never.\n\n They was left to themselves. \n\nMary was becoming quite excited.\n\n Did they quite die? Do roses quite die when they are left to\nthemselves?  she ventured.\n\n Well, I d got to like  em an  I liked her an  she liked  em,  Ben\nWeatherstaff admitted reluctantly.  Once or twice a year I d go an \nwork at  em a bit prune  em an  dig about th  roots. They run wild, but\nthey was in rich soil, so some of  em lived. \n\n When they have no leaves and look gray and brown and dry, how can you\ntell whether they are dead or alive?  inquired Mary.\n\n Wait till th  spring gets at  em wait till th  sun shines on th  rain\nand th  rain falls on th  sunshine an  then tha ll find out. \n\n How how?  cried Mary, forgetting to be careful.\n\n Look along th  twigs an  branches an  if tha  see a bit of a brown\nlump swelling here an  there, watch it after th  warm rain an  see what\nhappens.  He stopped suddenly and looked curiously at her eager face.\n Why does tha  care so much about roses an  such, all of a sudden?  he\ndemanded.\n\nMistress Mary felt her face grow red. She was almost afraid to answer.\n\n I I want to play that that I have a garden of my own,  she stammered.\n I there is nothing for me to do. I have nothing and no one. \n\n Well,  said Ben Weatherstaff slowly, as he watched her,  that s true.\nTha  hasn t. \n\nHe said it in such an odd way that Mary wondered if he was actually a\nlittle sorry for her. She had never felt sorry for herself; she had\nonly felt tired and cross, because she disliked people and things so\nmuch. But now the world seemed to be changing and getting nicer. If no\none found out about the secret garden, she should enjoy herself always.\n\nShe stayed with him for ten or fifteen minutes longer and asked him as\nmany questions as she dared. He answered everyone of them in his queer\ngrunting way and he did not seem really cross and did not pick up his\nspade and leave her. He said something about roses just as she was\ngoing away and it reminded her of the ones he had said he had been fond\nof.\n\n Do you go and see those other roses now?  she asked.\n\n Not been this year. My rheumatics has made me too stiff in th \njoints. \n\nHe said it in his grumbling voice, and then quite suddenly he seemed to\nget angry with her, though she did not see why he should.\n\n Now look here!  he said sharply.  Don t tha  ask so many questions.\nTha rt th  worst wench for askin  questions I ve ever come across. Get\nthee gone an  play thee. I ve done talkin  for today. \n\nAnd he said it so crossly that she knew there was not the least use in\nstaying another minute. She went skipping slowly down the outside walk,\nthinking him over and saying to herself that, queer as it was, here was\nanother person whom she liked in spite of his crossness. She liked old\nBen Weatherstaff. Yes, she did like him. She always wanted to try to\nmake him talk to her. Also she began to believe that he knew everything\nin the world about flowers.\n\nThere was a laurel-hedged walk which curved round the secret garden and\nended at a gate which opened into a wood, in the park. She thought she\nwould slip round this walk and look into the wood and see if there were\nany rabbits hopping about. She enjoyed the skipping very much and when\nshe reached the little gate she opened it and went through because she\nheard a low, peculiar whistling sound and wanted to find out what it\nwas.\n\nIt was a very strange thing indeed. She quite caught her breath as she\nstopped to look at it. A boy was sitting under a tree, with his back\nagainst it, playing on a rough wooden pipe. He was a funny looking boy\nabout twelve. He looked very clean and his nose turned up and his\ncheeks were as red as poppies and never had Mistress Mary seen such\nround and such blue eyes in any boy s face. And on the trunk of the\ntree he leaned against, a brown squirrel was clinging and watching him,\nand from behind a bush nearby a cock pheasant was delicately stretching\nhis neck to peep out, and quite near him were two rabbits sitting up\nand sniffing with tremulous noses and actually it appeared as if they\nwere all drawing near to watch him and listen to the strange low little\ncall his pipe seemed to make.\n\nWhen he saw Mary he held up his hand and spoke to her in a voice almost\nas low as and rather like his piping.\n\n Don t tha  move,  he said.  It d flight  em. \n\nMary remained motionless. He stopped playing his pipe and began to rise\nfrom the ground. He moved so slowly that it scarcely seemed as though\nhe were moving at all, but at last he stood on his feet and then the\nsquirrel scampered back up into the branches of his tree, the pheasant\nwithdrew his head and the rabbits dropped on all fours and began to hop\naway, though not at all as if they were frightened.\n\n I m Dickon,  the boy said.  I know tha rt Miss Mary. \n\nThen Mary realized that somehow she had known at first that he was\nDickon. Who else could have been charming rabbits and pheasants as the\nnatives charm snakes in India? He had a wide, red, curving mouth and\nhis smile spread all over his face.\n\n I got up slow,  he explained,  because if tha  makes a quick move it\nstartles  em. A body  as to move gentle an  speak low when wild things\nis about. \n\nHe did not speak to her as if they had never seen each other before but\nas if he knew her quite well. Mary knew nothing about boys and she\nspoke to him a little stiffly because she felt rather shy.\n\n Did you get Martha s letter?  she asked.\n\nHe nodded his curly, rust-colored head.\n\n That s why I come. \n\nHe stooped to pick up something which had been lying on the ground\nbeside him when he piped.\n\n I ve got th  garden tools. There s a little spade an  rake an  a fork\nan  hoe. Eh! they are good  uns. There s a trowel, too. An  th  woman\nin th  shop threw in a packet o  white poppy an  one o  blue larkspur\nwhen I bought th  other seeds. \n\n Will you show the seeds to me?  Mary said.\n\nShe wished she could talk as he did. His speech was so quick and easy.\nIt sounded as if he liked her and was not the least afraid she would\nnot like him, though he was only a common moor boy, in patched clothes\nand with a funny face and a rough, rusty-red head. As she came closer\nto him she noticed that there was a clean fresh scent of heather and\ngrass and leaves about him, almost as if he were made of them. She\nliked it very much and when she looked into his funny face with the red\ncheeks and round blue eyes she forgot that she had felt shy.\n\n Let us sit down on this log and look at them,  she said.\n\nThey sat down and he took a clumsy little brown paper package out of\nhis coat pocket. He untied the string and inside there were ever so\nmany neater and smaller packages with a picture of a flower on each\none.\n\n There s a lot o  mignonette an  poppies,  he said.  Mignonette s th \nsweetest smellin  thing as grows, an  it ll grow wherever you cast it,\nsame as poppies will. Them as ll come up an  bloom if you just whistle\nto  em, them s th  nicest of all. \n\nHe stopped and turned his head quickly, his poppy-cheeked face lighting\nup.\n\n Where s that robin as is callin  us?  he said.\n\nThe chirp came from a thick holly bush, bright with scarlet berries,\nand Mary thought she knew whose it was.\n\n Is it really calling us?  she asked.\n\n Aye,  said Dickon, as if it was the most natural thing in the world,\n he s callin  someone he s friends with. That s same as sayin   Here I\nam. Look at me. I wants a bit of a chat.  There he is in the bush.\nWhose is he? \n\n He s Ben Weatherstaff s, but I think he knows me a little,  answered\nMary.\n\n Aye, he knows thee,  said Dickon in his low voice again.  An  he likes\nthee. He s took thee on. He ll tell me all about thee in a minute. \n\nHe moved quite close to the bush with the slow movement Mary had\nnoticed before, and then he made a sound almost like the robin s own\ntwitter. The robin listened a few seconds, intently, and then answered\nquite as if he were replying to a question.\n\n Aye, he s a friend o  yours,  chuckled Dickon.\n\n Do you think he is?  cried Mary eagerly. She did so want to know.  Do\nyou think he really likes me? \n\n He wouldn t come near thee if he didn t,  answered Dickon.  Birds is\nrare choosers an  a robin can flout a body worse than a man. See, he s\nmaking up to thee now.  Cannot tha  see a chap?  he s sayin . \n\nAnd it really seemed as if it must be true. He so sidled and twittered\nand tilted as he hopped on his bush.\n\n Do you understand everything birds say?  said Mary.\n\nDickon s grin spread until he seemed all wide, red, curving mouth, and\nhe rubbed his rough head.\n\n I think I do, and they think I do,  he said.  I ve lived on th  moor\nwith  em so long. I ve watched  em break shell an  come out an  fledge\nan  learn to fly an  begin to sing, till I think I m one of  em.\nSometimes I think p raps I m a bird, or a fox, or a rabbit, or a\nsquirrel, or even a beetle, an  I don t know it. \n\nHe laughed and came back to the log and began to talk about the flower\nseeds again. He told her what they looked like when they were flowers;\nhe told her how to plant them, and watch them, and feed and water them.\n\n See here,  he said suddenly, turning round to look at her.  I ll plant\nthem for thee myself. Where is tha  garden? \n\nMary s thin hands clutched each other as they lay on her lap. She did\nnot know what to say, so for a whole minute she said nothing. She had\nnever thought of this. She felt miserable. And she felt as if she went\nred and then pale.\n\n Tha s got a bit o  garden, hasn t tha ?  Dickon said.\n\nIt was true that she had turned red and then pale. Dickon saw her do\nit, and as she still said nothing, he began to be puzzled.\n\n Wouldn t they give thee a bit?  he asked.  Hasn t tha  got any yet? \n\nShe held her hands tighter and turned her eyes toward him.\n\n I don t know anything about boys,  she said slowly.  Could you keep a\nsecret, if I told you one? It s a great secret. I don t know what I\nshould do if anyone found it out. I believe I should die!  She said the\nlast sentence quite fiercely.\n\nDickon looked more puzzled than ever and even rubbed his hand over his\nrough head again, but he answered quite good-humoredly.\n\n I m keepin  secrets all th  time,  he said.  If I couldn t keep\nsecrets from th  other lads, secrets about foxes  cubs, an  birds \nnests, an  wild things  holes, there d be naught safe on th  moor. Aye,\nI can keep secrets. \n\nMistress Mary did not mean to put out her hand and clutch his sleeve\nbut she did it.\n\n I ve stolen a garden,  she said very fast.  It isn t mine. It isn t\nanybody s. Nobody wants it, nobody cares for it, nobody ever goes into\nit. Perhaps everything is dead in it already. I don t know. \n\nShe began to feel hot and as contrary as she had ever felt in her life.\n\n I don t care, I don t care! Nobody has any right to take it from me\nwhen I care about it and they don t. They re letting it die, all shut\nin by itself,  she ended passionately, and she threw her arms over her\nface and burst out crying poor little Mistress Mary.\n\nDickon s curious blue eyes grew rounder and rounder.\n\n Eh-h-h!  he said, drawing his exclamation out slowly, and the way he\ndid it meant both wonder and sympathy.\n\n I ve nothing to do,  said Mary.  Nothing belongs to me. I found it\nmyself and I got into it myself. I was only just like the robin, and\nthey wouldn t take it from the robin. \n\n Where is it?  asked Dickon in a dropped voice.\n\nMistress Mary got up from the log at once. She knew she felt contrary\nagain, and obstinate, and she did not care at all. She was imperious\nand Indian, and at the same time hot and sorrowful.\n\n Come with me and I ll show you,  she said.\n\nShe led him round the laurel path and to the walk where the ivy grew so\nthickly. Dickon followed her with a queer, almost pitying, look on his\nface. He felt as if he were being led to look at some strange bird s\nnest and must move softly. When she stepped to the wall and lifted the\nhanging ivy he started. There was a door and Mary pushed it slowly open\nand they passed in together, and then Mary stood and waved her hand\nround defiantly.\n\n It s this,  she said.  It s a secret garden, and I m the only one in\nthe world who wants it to be alive. \n\nDickon looked round and round about it, and round and round again.\n\n Eh!  he almost whispered,  it is a queer, pretty place! It s like as\nif a body was in a dream. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\nTHE NEST OF THE MISSEL THRUSH\n\n\nFor two or three minutes he stood looking round him, while Mary watched\nhim, and then he began to walk about softly, even more lightly than\nMary had walked the first time she had found herself inside the four\nwalls. His eyes seemed to be taking in everything the gray trees with\nthe gray creepers climbing over them and hanging from their branches,\nthe tangle on the walls and among the grass, the evergreen alcoves with\nthe stone seats and tall flower urns standing in them.\n\n I never thought I d see this place,  he said at last, in a whisper.\n\n Did you know about it?  asked Mary.\n\nShe had spoken aloud and he made a sign to her.\n\n We must talk low,  he said,  or someone ll hear us an  wonder what s\nto do in here. \n\n Oh! I forgot!  said Mary, feeling frightened and putting her hand\nquickly against her mouth.  Did you know about the garden?  she asked\nagain when she had recovered herself.\n\nDickon nodded.\n\n Martha told me there was one as no one ever went inside,  he answered.\n Us used to wonder what it was like. \n\nHe stopped and looked round at the lovely gray tangle about him, and\nhis round eyes looked queerly happy.\n\n Eh! the nests as ll be here come springtime,  he said.  It d be th \nsafest nestin  place in England. No one never comin  near an  tangles\no  trees an  roses to build in. I wonder all th  birds on th  moor\ndon t build here. \n\nMistress Mary put her hand on his arm again without knowing it.\n\n Will there be roses?  she whispered.  Can you tell? I thought perhaps\nthey were all dead. \n\n Eh! No! Not them not all of  em!  he answered.  Look here! \n\nHe stepped over to the nearest tree an old, old one with gray lichen\nall over its bark, but upholding a curtain of tangled sprays and\nbranches. He took a thick knife out of his pocket and opened one of its\nblades.\n\n There s lots o  dead wood as ought to be cut out,  he said.  An \nthere s a lot o  old wood, but it made some new last year. This here s\na new bit,  and he touched a shoot which looked brownish green instead\nof hard, dry gray.\n\nMary touched it herself in an eager, reverent way.\n\n That one?  she said.  Is that one quite alive quite? \n\nDickon curved his wide smiling mouth.\n\n It s as wick as you or me,  he said; and Mary remembered that Martha\nhad told her that  wick  meant  alive  or  lively. \n\n I m glad it s wick!  she cried out in her whisper.  I want them all to\nbe wick. Let us go round the garden and count how many wick ones there\nare. \n\nShe quite panted with eagerness, and Dickon was as eager as she was.\nThey went from tree to tree and from bush to bush. Dickon carried his\nknife in his hand and showed her things which she thought wonderful.\n\n They ve run wild,  he said,  but th  strongest ones has fair thrived\non it. The delicatest ones has died out, but th  others has growed an \ngrowed, an  spread an  spread, till they s a wonder. See here!  and he\npulled down a thick gray, dry-looking branch.  A body might think this\nwas dead wood, but I don t believe it is down to th  root. I ll cut it\nlow down an  see. \n\nHe knelt and with his knife cut the lifeless-looking branch through,\nnot far above the earth.\n\n There!  he said exultantly.  I told thee so. There s green in that\nwood yet. Look at it. \n\nMary was down on her knees before he spoke, gazing with all her might.\n\n When it looks a bit greenish an  juicy like that, it s wick,  he\nexplained.  When th  inside is dry an  breaks easy, like this here\npiece I ve cut off, it s done for. There s a big root here as all this\nlive wood sprung out of, an  if th  old wood s cut off an  it s dug\nround, and took care of there ll be  he stopped and lifted his face to\nlook up at the climbing and hanging sprays above him there ll be a\nfountain o  roses here this summer. \n\nThey went from bush to bush and from tree to tree. He was very strong\nand clever with his knife and knew how to cut the dry and dead wood\naway, and could tell when an unpromising bough or twig had still green\nlife in it. In the course of half an hour Mary thought she could tell\ntoo, and when he cut through a lifeless-looking branch she would cry\nout joyfully under her breath when she caught sight of the least shade\nof moist green. The spade, and hoe, and fork were very useful. He\nshowed her how to use the fork while he dug about roots with the spade\nand stirred the earth and let the air in.\n\nThey were working industriously round one of the biggest standard roses\nwhen he caught sight of something which made him utter an exclamation\nof surprise.\n\n Why!  he cried, pointing to the grass a few feet away.  Who did that\nthere? \n\nIt was one of Mary s own little clearings round the pale green points.\n\n I did it,  said Mary.\n\n Why, I thought tha  didn t know nothin  about gardenin ,  he\nexclaimed.\n\n I don t,  she answered,  but they were so little, and the grass was so\nthick and strong, and they looked as if they had no room to breathe. So\nI made a place for them. I don t even know what they are. \n\nDickon went and knelt down by them, smiling his wide smile.\n\n Tha  was right,  he said.  A gardener couldn t have told thee better.\nThey ll grow now like Jack s bean-stalk. They re crocuses an \nsnowdrops, an  these here is narcissuses,  turning to another patch,\n an here s daffydowndillys. Eh! they will be a sight. \n\nHe ran from one clearing to another.\n\n Tha  has done a lot o  work for such a little wench,  he said, looking\nher over.\n\n I m growing fatter,  said Mary,  and I m growing stronger. I used\nalways to be tired. When I dig I m not tired at all. I like to smell\nthe earth when it s turned up. \n\n It s rare good for thee,  he said, nodding his head wisely.  There s\nnaught as nice as th  smell o  good clean earth, except th  smell o \nfresh growin  things when th  rain falls on  em. I get out on th  moor\nmany a day when it s rainin  an  I lie under a bush an  listen to th \nsoft swish o  drops on th  heather an  I just sniff an  sniff. My nose\nend fair quivers like a rabbit s, mother says. \n\n Do you never catch cold?  inquired Mary, gazing at him wonderingly.\nShe had never seen such a funny boy, or such a nice one.\n\n Not me,  he said, grinning.  I never ketched cold since I was born. I\nwasn t brought up nesh enough. I ve chased about th  moor in all\nweathers same as th  rabbits does. Mother says I ve sniffed up too much\nfresh air for twelve year  to ever get to sniffin  with cold. I m as\ntough as a white-thorn knobstick. \n\nHe was working all the time he was talking and Mary was following him\nand helping him with her fork or the trowel.\n\n There s a lot of work to do here!  he said once, looking about quite\nexultantly.\n\n Will you come again and help me to do it?  Mary begged.  I m sure I\ncan help, too. I can dig and pull up weeds, and do whatever you tell\nme. Oh! do come, Dickon! \n\n I ll come every day if tha  wants me, rain or shine,  he answered\nstoutly.  It s the best fun I ever had in my life shut in here an \nwakenin  up a garden. \n\n If you will come,  said Mary,  if you will help me to make it alive\nI ll I don t know what I ll do,  she ended helplessly. What could you\ndo for a boy like that?\n\n I ll tell thee what tha ll do,  said Dickon, with his happy grin.\n Tha ll get fat an  tha ll get as hungry as a young fox an  tha ll\nlearn how to talk to th  robin same as I do. Eh! we ll have a lot o \nfun. \n\nHe began to walk about, looking up in the trees and at the walls and\nbushes with a thoughtful expression.\n\n I wouldn t want to make it look like a gardener s garden, all clipped\nan  spick an  span, would you?  he said.  It s nicer like this with\nthings runnin  wild, an  swingin  an  catchin  hold of each other. \n\n Don t let us make it tidy,  said Mary anxiously.  It wouldn t seem\nlike a secret garden if it was tidy. \n\nDickon stood rubbing his rusty-red head with a rather puzzled look.\n\n It s a secret garden sure enough,  he said,  but seems like someone\nbesides th  robin must have been in it since it was shut up ten year \nago. \n\n But the door was locked and the key was buried,  said Mary.  No one\ncould get in. \n\n That s true,  he answered.  It s a queer place. Seems to me as if\nthere d been a bit o  prunin  done here an  there, later than ten year \nago. \n\n But how could it have been done?  said Mary.\n\nHe was examining a branch of a standard rose and he shook his head.\n\n Aye! how could it!  he murmured.  With th  door locked an  th  key\nburied. \n\nMistress Mary always felt that however many years she lived she should\nnever forget that first morning when her garden began to grow. Of\ncourse, it did seem to begin to grow for her that morning. When Dickon\nbegan to clear places to plant seeds, she remembered what Basil had\nsung at her when he wanted to tease her.\n\n Are there any flowers that look like bells?  she inquired.\n\n Lilies o  th  valley does,  he answered, digging away with the trowel,\n an  there s Canterbury bells, an  campanulas. \n\n Let s plant some,  said Mary.\n\n There s lilies o  th, valley here already; I saw  em. They ll have\ngrowed too close an  we ll have to separate  em, but there s plenty.\nTh  other ones takes two years to bloom from seed, but I can bring you\nsome bits o  plants from our cottage garden. Why does tha  want  em? \n\nThen Mary told him about Basil and his brothers and sisters in India\nand of how she had hated them and of their calling her  Mistress Mary\nQuite Contrary. \n\n They used to dance round and sing at me. They sang \n\n Mistress Mary, quite contrary,\n    How does your garden grow?\nWith silver bells, and cockle shells,\n    And marigolds all in a row. \n\nI just remembered it and it made me wonder if there were really flowers\nlike silver bells. \n\nShe frowned a little and gave her trowel a rather spiteful dig into the\nearth.\n\n I wasn t as contrary as they were. \n\nBut Dickon laughed.\n\n Eh!  he said, and as he crumbled the rich black soil she saw he was\nsniffing up the scent of it.  There doesn t seem to be no need for no\none to be contrary when there s flowers an  such like, an  such lots o \nfriendly wild things runnin  about makin  homes for themselves, or\nbuildin  nests an  singin  an  whistlin , does there? \n\nMary, kneeling by him holding the seeds, looked at him and stopped\nfrowning.\n\n Dickon,  she said,  you are as nice as Martha said you were. I like\nyou, and you make the fifth person. I never thought I should like five\npeople. \n\nDickon sat up on his heels as Martha did when she was polishing the\ngrate. He did look funny and delightful, Mary thought, with his round\nblue eyes and red cheeks and happy looking turned-up nose.\n\n Only five folk as tha  likes?  he said.  Who is th  other four? \n\n Your mother and Martha,  Mary checked them off on her fingers,  and\nthe robin and Ben Weatherstaff. \n\nDickon laughed so that he was obliged to stifle the sound by putting\nhis arm over his mouth.\n\n I know tha  thinks I m a queer lad,  he said,  but I think tha  art\nth  queerest little lass I ever saw. \n\nThen Mary did a strange thing. She leaned forward and asked him a\nquestion she had never dreamed of asking anyone before. And she tried\nto ask it in Yorkshire because that was his language, and in India a\nnative was always pleased if you knew his speech.\n\n Does tha  like me?  she said.\n\n Eh!  he answered heartily,  that I does. I likes thee wonderful, an \nso does th  robin, I do believe! \n\n That s two, then,  said Mary.  That s two for me. \n\nAnd then they began to work harder than ever and more joyfully. Mary\nwas startled and sorry when she heard the big clock in the courtyard\nstrike the hour of her midday dinner.\n\n I shall have to go,  she said mournfully.  And you will have to go\ntoo, won t you? \n\nDickon grinned.\n\n My dinner s easy to carry about with me,  he said.  Mother always lets\nme put a bit o  somethin  in my pocket. \n\nHe picked up his coat from the grass and brought out of a pocket a\nlumpy little bundle tied up in a quite clean, coarse, blue and white\nhandkerchief. It held two thick pieces of bread with a slice of\nsomething laid between them.\n\n It s oftenest naught but bread,  he said,  but I ve got a fine slice\no  fat bacon with it today. \n\nMary thought it looked a queer dinner, but he seemed ready to enjoy it.\n\n Run on an  get thy victuals,  he said.  I ll be done with mine first.\nI ll get some more work done before I start back home. \n\nHe sat down with his back against a tree.\n\n I ll call th  robin up,  he said,  and give him th  rind o  th  bacon\nto peck at. They likes a bit o  fat wonderful. \n\nMary could scarcely bear to leave him. Suddenly it seemed as if he\nmight be a sort of wood fairy who might be gone when she came into the\ngarden again. He seemed too good to be true. She went slowly half-way\nto the door in the wall and then she stopped and went back.\n\n Whatever happens, you you never would tell?  she said.\n\nHis poppy-colored cheeks were distended with his first big bite of\nbread and bacon, but he managed to smile encouragingly.\n\n If tha  was a missel thrush an  showed me where thy nest was, does\ntha  think I d tell anyone? Not me,  he said.  Tha  art as safe as a\nmissel thrush. \n\nAnd she was quite sure she was.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n MIGHT I HAVE A BIT OF EARTH? \n\n\nMary ran so fast that she was rather out of breath when she reached her\nroom. Her hair was ruffled on her forehead and her cheeks were bright\npink. Her dinner was waiting on the table, and Martha was waiting near\nit.\n\n Tha s a bit late,  she said.  Where has tha  been? \n\n I ve seen Dickon!  said Mary.  I ve seen Dickon! \n\n I knew he d come,  said Martha exultantly.  How does tha  like him? \n\n I think I think he s beautiful!  said Mary in a determined voice.\n\nMartha looked rather taken aback but she looked pleased, too.\n\n Well,  she said,  he s th  best lad as ever was born, but us never\nthought he was handsome. His nose turns up too much. \n\n I like it to turn up,  said Mary.\n\n An  his eyes is so round,  said Martha, a trifle doubtful.  Though\nthey re a nice color. \n\n I like them round,  said Mary.  And they are exactly the color of the\nsky over the moor. \n\nMartha beamed with satisfaction.\n\n Mother says he made  em that color with always lookin  up at th  birds\nan  th  clouds. But he has got a big mouth, hasn t he, now? \n\n I love his big mouth,  said Mary obstinately.  I wish mine were just\nlike it. \n\nMartha chuckled delightedly.\n\n It d look rare an  funny in thy bit of a face,  she said.  But I\nknowed it would be that way when tha  saw him. How did tha  like th \nseeds an  th  garden tools? \n\n How did you know he brought them?  asked Mary.\n\n Eh! I never thought of him not bringin   em. He d be sure to bring  em\nif they was in Yorkshire. He s such a trusty lad. \n\nMary was afraid that she might begin to ask difficult questions, but\nshe did not. She was very much interested in the seeds and gardening\ntools, and there was only one moment when Mary was frightened. This was\nwhen she began to ask where the flowers were to be planted.\n\n Who did tha  ask about it?  she inquired.\n\n I haven t asked anybody yet,  said Mary, hesitating.\n\n Well, I wouldn t ask th  head gardener. He s too grand, Mr. Roach is. \n\n I ve never seen him,  said Mary.  I ve only seen undergardeners and\nBen Weatherstaff. \n\n If I was you, I d ask Ben Weatherstaff,  advised Martha.  He s not\nhalf as bad as he looks, for all he s so crabbed. Mr. Craven lets him\ndo what he likes because he was here when Mrs. Craven was alive, an  he\nused to make her laugh. She liked him. Perhaps he d find you a corner\nsomewhere out o  the way. \n\n If it was out of the way and no one wanted it, no one _could_ mind my\nhaving it, could they?  Mary said anxiously.\n\n There wouldn t be no reason,  answered Martha.  You wouldn t do no\nharm. \n\nMary ate her dinner as quickly as she could and when she rose from the\ntable she was going to run to her room to put on her hat again, but\nMartha stopped her.\n\n I ve got somethin  to tell you,  she said.  I thought I d let you eat\nyour dinner first. Mr. Craven came back this mornin  and I think he\nwants to see you. \n\nMary turned quite pale.\n\n Oh!  she said.  Why! Why! He didn t want to see me when I came. I\nheard Pitcher say he didn t. \n\n Well,  explained Martha,  Mrs. Medlock says it s because o  mother.\nShe was walkin  to Thwaite village an  she met him. She d never spoke\nto him before, but Mrs. Craven had been to our cottage two or three\ntimes. He d forgot, but mother hadn t an  she made bold to stop him. I\ndon t know what she said to him about you but she said somethin  as put\nhim in th  mind to see you before he goes away again, tomorrow. \n\n Oh!  cried Mary,  is he going away tomorrow? I am so glad! \n\n He s goin  for a long time. He mayn t come back till autumn or winter.\nHe s goin  to travel in foreign places. He s always doin  it. \n\n Oh! I m so glad so glad!  said Mary thankfully.\n\nIf he did not come back until winter, or even autumn, there would be\ntime to watch the secret garden come alive. Even if he found out then\nand took it away from her she would have had that much at least.\n\n When do you think he will want to see \n\nShe did not finish the sentence, because the door opened, and Mrs.\nMedlock walked in. She had on her best black dress and cap, and her\ncollar was fastened with a large brooch with a picture of a man s face\non it. It was a colored photograph of Mr. Medlock who had died years\nago, and she always wore it when she was dressed up. She looked nervous\nand excited.\n\n Your hair s rough,  she said quickly.  Go and brush it. Martha, help\nher to slip on her best dress. Mr. Craven sent me to bring her to him\nin his study. \n\nAll the pink left Mary s cheeks. Her heart began to thump and she felt\nherself changing into a stiff, plain, silent child again. She did not\neven answer Mrs. Medlock, but turned and walked into her bedroom,\nfollowed by Martha. She said nothing while her dress was changed, and\nher hair brushed, and after she was quite tidy she followed Mrs.\nMedlock down the corridors, in silence. What was there for her to say?\nShe was obliged to go and see Mr. Craven and he would not like her, and\nshe would not like him. She knew what he would think of her.\n\nShe was taken to a part of the house she had not been into before. At\nlast Mrs. Medlock knocked at a door, and when someone said,  Come in, \nthey entered the room together. A man was sitting in an armchair before\nthe fire, and Mrs. Medlock spoke to him.\n\n This is Miss Mary, sir,  she said.\n\n You can go and leave her here. I will ring for you when I want you to\ntake her away,  said Mr. Craven.\n\nWhen she went out and closed the door, Mary could only stand waiting, a\nplain little thing, twisting her thin hands together. She could see\nthat the man in the chair was not so much a hunchback as a man with\nhigh, rather crooked shoulders, and he had black hair streaked with\nwhite. He turned his head over his high shoulders and spoke to her.\n\n Come here!  he said.\n\nMary went to him.\n\nHe was not ugly. His face would have been handsome if it had not been\nso miserable. He looked as if the sight of her worried and fretted him\nand as if he did not know what in the world to do with her.\n\n Are you well?  he asked.\n\n Yes,  answered Mary.\n\n Do they take good care of you? \n\n Yes. \n\nHe rubbed his forehead fretfully as he looked her over.\n\n You are very thin,  he said.\n\n I am getting fatter,  Mary answered in what she knew was her stiffest\nway.\n\nWhat an unhappy face he had! His black eyes seemed as if they scarcely\nsaw her, as if they were seeing something else, and he could hardly\nkeep his thoughts upon her.\n\n I forgot you,  he said.  How could I remember you? I intended to send\nyou a governess or a nurse, or someone of that sort, but I forgot. \n\n Please,  began Mary.  Please  and then the lump in her throat choked\nher.\n\n What do you want to say?  he inquired.\n\n I am I am too big for a nurse,  said Mary.  And please please don t\nmake me have a governess yet. \n\nHe rubbed his forehead again and stared at her.\n\n That was what the Sowerby woman said,  he muttered absent-mindedly.\n\nThen Mary gathered a scrap of courage.\n\n Is she is she Martha s mother?  she stammered.\n\n Yes, I think so,  he replied.\n\n She knows about children,  said Mary.  She has twelve. She knows. \n\nHe seemed to rouse himself.\n\n What do you want to do? \n\n I want to play out of doors,  Mary answered, hoping that her voice did\nnot tremble.  I never liked it in India. It makes me hungry here, and I\nam getting fatter. \n\nHe was watching her.\n\n Mrs. Sowerby said it would do you good. Perhaps it will,  he said.\n She thought you had better get stronger before you had a governess. \n\n It makes me feel strong when I play and the wind comes over the moor, \nargued Mary.\n\n Where do you play?  he asked next.\n\n Everywhere,  gasped Mary.  Martha s mother sent me a skipping-rope. I\nskip and run and I look about to see if things are beginning to stick\nup out of the earth. I don t do any harm. \n\n Don t look so frightened,  he said in a worried voice.  You could not\ndo any harm, a child like you! You may do what you like. \n\nMary put her hand up to her throat because she was afraid he might see\nthe excited lump which she felt jump into it. She came a step nearer to\nhim.\n\n May I?  she said tremulously.\n\nHer anxious little face seemed to worry him more than ever.\n\n Don t look so frightened,  he exclaimed.  Of course you may. I am your\nguardian, though I am a poor one for any child. I cannot give you time\nor attention. I am too ill, and wretched and distracted; but I wish you\nto be happy and comfortable. I don t know anything about children, but\nMrs. Medlock is to see that you have all you need. I sent for you today\nbecause Mrs. Sowerby said I ought to see you. Her daughter had talked\nabout you. She thought you needed fresh air and freedom and running\nabout. \n\n She knows all about children,  Mary said again in spite of herself.\n\n She ought to,  said Mr. Craven.  I thought her rather bold to stop me\non the moor, but she said Mrs. Craven had been kind to her.  It seemed\nhard for him to speak his dead wife s name.  She is a respectable\nwoman. Now I have seen you I think she said sensible things. Play out\nof doors as much as you like. It s a big place and you may go where you\nlike and amuse yourself as you like. Is there anything you want?  as if\na sudden thought had struck him.  Do you want toys, books, dolls? \n\n Might I,  quavered Mary,  might I have a bit of earth? \n\nIn her eagerness she did not realize how queer the words would sound\nand that they were not the ones she had meant to say. Mr. Craven looked\nquite startled.\n\n Earth!  he repeated.  What do you mean? \n\n To plant seeds in to make things grow to see them come alive,  Mary\nfaltered.\n\nHe gazed at her a moment and then passed his hand quickly over his\neyes.\n\n Do you care about gardens so much,  he said slowly.\n\n I didn t know about them in India,  said Mary.  I was always ill and\ntired and it was too hot. I sometimes made little beds in the sand and\nstuck flowers in them. But here it is different. \n\nMr. Craven got up and began to walk slowly across the room.\n\n A bit of earth,  he said to himself, and Mary thought that somehow she\nmust have reminded him of something. When he stopped and spoke to her\nhis dark eyes looked almost soft and kind.\n\n You can have as much earth as you want,  he said.  You remind me of\nsomeone else who loved the earth and things that grow. When you see a\nbit of earth you want,  with something like a smile,  take it, child,\nand make it come alive. \n\n May I take it from anywhere if it s not wanted? \n\n Anywhere,  he answered.  There! You must go now, I am tired.  He\ntouched the bell to call Mrs. Medlock.  Good-by. I shall be away all\nsummer. \n\nMrs. Medlock came so quickly that Mary thought she must have been\nwaiting in the corridor.\n\n Mrs. Medlock,  Mr. Craven said to her,  now I have seen the child I\nunderstand what Mrs. Sowerby meant. She must be less delicate before\nshe begins lessons. Give her simple, healthy food. Let her run wild in\nthe garden. Don t look after her too much. She needs liberty and fresh\nair and romping about. Mrs. Sowerby is to come and see her now and then\nand she may sometimes go to the cottage. \n\nMrs. Medlock looked pleased. She was relieved to hear that she need not\n look after  Mary too much. She had felt her a tiresome charge and had\nindeed seen as little of her as she dared. In addition to this she was\nfond of Martha s mother.\n\n Thank you, sir,  she said.  Susan Sowerby and me went to school\ntogether and she s as sensible and good-hearted a woman as you d find\nin a day s walk. I never had any children myself and she s had twelve,\nand there never was healthier or better ones. Miss Mary can get no harm\nfrom them. I d always take Susan Sowerby s advice about children\nmyself. She s what you might call healthy-minded if you understand me. \n\n I understand,  Mr. Craven answered.  Take Miss Mary away now and send\nPitcher to me. \n\nWhen Mrs. Medlock left her at the end of her own corridor Mary flew\nback to her room. She found Martha waiting there. Martha had, in fact,\nhurried back after she had removed the dinner service.\n\n I can have my garden!  cried Mary.  I may have it where I like! I am\nnot going to have a governess for a long time! Your mother is coming to\nsee me and I may go to your cottage! He says a little girl like me\ncould not do any harm and I may do what I like anywhere! \n\n Eh!  said Martha delightedly,  that was nice of him wasn t it? \n\n Martha,  said Mary solemnly,  he is really a nice man, only his face\nis so miserable and his forehead is all drawn together. \n\nShe ran as quickly as she could to the garden. She had been away so\nmuch longer than she had thought she should and she knew Dickon would\nhave to set out early on his five-mile walk. When she slipped through\nthe door under the ivy, she saw he was not working where she had left\nhim. The gardening tools were laid together under a tree. She ran to\nthem, looking all round the place, but there was no Dickon to be seen.\nHe had gone away and the secret garden was empty except for the robin\nwho had just flown across the wall and sat on a standard rose-bush\nwatching her.\n\n He s gone,  she said woefully.  Oh! was he was he was he only a wood\nfairy? \n\nSomething white fastened to the standard rose-bush caught her eye. It\nwas a piece of paper, in fact, it was a piece of the letter she had\nprinted for Martha to send to Dickon. It was fastened on the bush with\na long thorn, and in a minute she knew Dickon had left it there. There\nwere some roughly printed letters on it and a sort of picture. At first\nshe could not tell what it was. Then she saw it was meant for a nest\nwith a bird sitting on it. Underneath were the printed letters and they\nsaid:\n\n I will cum bak. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n I AM COLIN \n\n\nMary took the picture back to the house when she went to her supper and\nshe showed it to Martha.\n\n Eh!  said Martha with great pride.  I never knew our Dickon was as\nclever as that. That there s a picture of a missel thrush on her nest,\nas large as life an  twice as natural. \n\nThen Mary knew Dickon had meant the picture to be a message. He had\nmeant that she might be sure he would keep her secret. Her garden was\nher nest and she was like a missel thrush. Oh, how she did like that\nqueer, common boy!\n\nShe hoped he would come back the very next day and she fell asleep\nlooking forward to the morning.\n\nBut you never know what the weather will do in Yorkshire, particularly\nin the springtime. She was awakened in the night by the sound of rain\nbeating with heavy drops against her window. It was pouring down in\ntorrents and the wind was  wuthering  round the corners and in the\nchimneys of the huge old house. Mary sat up in bed and felt miserable\nand angry.\n\n The rain is as contrary as I ever was,  she said.  It came because it\nknew I did not want it. \n\nShe threw herself back on her pillow and buried her face. She did not\ncry, but she lay and hated the sound of the heavily beating rain, she\nhated the wind and its  wuthering.  She could not go to sleep again.\nThe mournful sound kept her awake because she felt mournful herself. If\nshe had felt happy it would probably have lulled her to sleep. How it\n wuthered  and how the big raindrops poured down and beat against the\npane!\n\n It sounds just like a person lost on the moor and wandering on and on\ncrying,  she said.\n\nShe had been lying awake turning from side to side for about an hour,\nwhen suddenly something made her sit up in bed and turn her head toward\nthe door listening. She listened and she listened.\n\n It isn t the wind now,  she said in a loud whisper.  That isn t the\nwind. It is different. It is that crying I heard before. \n\nThe door of her room was ajar and the sound came down the corridor, a\nfar-off faint sound of fretful crying. She listened for a few minutes\nand each minute she became more and more sure. She felt as if she must\nfind out what it was. It seemed even stranger than the secret garden\nand the buried key. Perhaps the fact that she was in a rebellious mood\nmade her bold. She put her foot out of bed and stood on the floor.\n\n I am going to find out what it is,  she said.  Everybody is in bed and\nI don t care about Mrs. Medlock I don t care! \n\nThere was a candle by her bedside and she took it up and went softly\nout of the room. The corridor looked very long and dark, but she was\ntoo excited to mind that. She thought she remembered the corners she\nmust turn to find the short corridor with the door covered with\ntapestry the one Mrs. Medlock had come through the day she lost\nherself. The sound had come up that passage. So she went on with her\ndim light, almost feeling her way, her heart beating so loud that she\nfancied she could hear it. The far-off faint crying went on and led\nher. Sometimes it stopped for a moment or so and then began again. Was\nthis the right corner to turn? She stopped and thought. Yes it was.\nDown this passage and then to the left, and then up two broad steps,\nand then to the right again. Yes, there was the tapestry door.\n\nShe pushed it open very gently and closed it behind her, and she stood\nin the corridor and could hear the crying quite plainly, though it was\nnot loud. It was on the other side of the wall at her left and a few\nyards farther on there was a door. She could see a glimmer of light\ncoming from beneath it. The Someone was crying in that room, and it was\nquite a young Someone.\n\nSo she walked to the door and pushed it open, and there she was\nstanding in the room!\n\nIt was a big room with ancient, handsome furniture in it. There was a\nlow fire glowing faintly on the hearth and a night light burning by the\nside of a carved four-posted bed hung with brocade, and on the bed was\nlying a boy, crying fretfully.\n\nMary wondered if she was in a real place or if she had fallen asleep\nagain and was dreaming without knowing it.\n\nThe boy had a sharp, delicate face the color of ivory and he seemed to\nhave eyes too big for it. He had also a lot of hair which tumbled over\nhis forehead in heavy locks and made his thin face seem smaller. He\nlooked like a boy who had been ill, but he was crying more as if he\nwere tired and cross than as if he were in pain.\n\nMary stood near the door with her candle in her hand, holding her\nbreath. Then she crept across the room, and, as she drew nearer, the\nlight attracted the boy s attention and he turned his head on his\npillow and stared at her, his gray eyes opening so wide that they\nseemed immense.\n\n Who are you?  he said at last in a half-frightened whisper.  Are you a\nghost? \n\n No, I am not,  Mary answered, her own whisper sounding half\nfrightened.  Are you one? \n\nHe stared and stared and stared. Mary could not help noticing what\nstrange eyes he had. They were agate gray and they looked too big for\nhis face because they had black lashes all round them.\n\n No,  he replied after waiting a moment or so.  I am Colin. \n\n Who is Colin?  she faltered.\n\n I am Colin Craven. Who are you? \n\n I am Mary Lennox. Mr. Craven is my uncle. \n\n He is my father,  said the boy.\n\n Your father!  gasped Mary.  No one ever told me he had a boy! Why\ndidn t they? \n\n Come here,  he said, still keeping his strange eyes fixed on her with\nan anxious expression.\n\nShe came close to the bed and he put out his hand and touched her.\n\n You are real, aren t you?  he said.  I have such real dreams very\noften. You might be one of them. \n\nMary had slipped on a woolen wrapper before she left her room and she\nput a piece of it between his fingers.\n\n Rub that and see how thick and warm it is,  she said.  I will pinch\nyou a little if you like, to show you how real I am. For a minute I\nthought you might be a dream too. \n\n Where did you come from?  he asked.\n\n From my own room. The wind wuthered so I couldn t go to sleep and I\nheard someone crying and wanted to find out who it was. What were you\ncrying for? \n\n Because I couldn t go to sleep either and my head ached. Tell me your\nname again. \n\n Mary Lennox. Did no one ever tell you I had come to live here? \n\nHe was still fingering the fold of her wrapper, but he began to look a\nlittle more as if he believed in her reality.\n\n No,  he answered.  They daren t. \n\n Why?  asked Mary.\n\n Because I should have been afraid you would see me. I won t let people\nsee me and talk me over. \n\n Why?  Mary asked again, feeling more mystified every moment.\n\n Because I am like this always, ill and having to lie down. My father\nwon t let people talk me over either. The servants are not allowed to\nspeak about me. If I live I may be a hunchback, but I shan t live. My\nfather hates to think I may be like him. \n\n Oh, what a queer house this is!  Mary said.  What a queer house!\nEverything is a kind of secret. Rooms are locked up and gardens are\nlocked up and you! Have you been locked up? \n\n No. I stay in this room because I don t want to be moved out of it. It\ntires me too much. \n\n Does your father come and see you?  Mary ventured.\n\n Sometimes. Generally when I am asleep. He doesn t want to see me. \n\n Why?  Mary could not help asking again.\n\nA sort of angry shadow passed over the boy s face.\n\n My mother died when I was born and it makes him wretched to look at\nme. He thinks I don t know, but I ve heard people talking. He almost\nhates me. \n\n He hates the garden, because she died,  said Mary half speaking to\nherself.\n\n What garden?  the boy asked.\n\n Oh! just just a garden she used to like,  Mary stammered.  Have you\nbeen here always? \n\n Nearly always. Sometimes I have been taken to places at the seaside,\nbut I won t stay because people stare at me. I used to wear an iron\nthing to keep my back straight, but a grand doctor came from London to\nsee me and said it was stupid. He told them to take it off and keep me\nout in the fresh air. I hate fresh air and I don t want to go out. \n\n I didn t when first I came here,  said Mary.  Why do you keep looking\nat me like that? \n\n Because of the dreams that are so real,  he answered rather fretfully.\n Sometimes when I open my eyes I don t believe I m awake. \n\n We re both awake,  said Mary. She glanced round the room with its high\nceiling and shadowy corners and dim fire-light.  It looks quite like a\ndream, and it s the middle of the night, and everybody in the house is\nasleep everybody but us. We are wide awake. \n\n I don t want it to be a dream,  the boy said restlessly.\n\nMary thought of something all at once.\n\n If you don t like people to see you,  she began,  do you want me to go\naway? \n\nHe still held the fold of her wrapper and he gave it a little pull.\n\n No,  he said.  I should be sure you were a dream if you went. If you\nare real, sit down on that big footstool and talk. I want to hear about\nyou. \n\nMary put down her candle on the table near the bed and sat down on the\ncushioned stool. She did not want to go away at all. She wanted to stay\nin the mysterious hidden-away room and talk to the mysterious boy.\n\n What do you want me to tell you?  she said.\n\nHe wanted to know how long she had been at Misselthwaite; he wanted to\nknow which corridor her room was on; he wanted to know what she had\nbeen doing; if she disliked the moor as he disliked it; where she had\nlived before she came to Yorkshire. She answered all these questions\nand many more and he lay back on his pillow and listened. He made her\ntell him a great deal about India and about her voyage across the\nocean. She found out that because he had been an invalid he had not\nlearned things as other children had. One of his nurses had taught him\nto read when he was quite little and he was always reading and looking\nat pictures in splendid books.\n\nThough his father rarely saw him when he was awake, he was given all\nsorts of wonderful things to amuse himself with. He never seemed to\nhave been amused, however. He could have anything he asked for and was\nnever made to do anything he did not like to do.\n\n Everyone is obliged to do what pleases me,  he said indifferently.  It\nmakes me ill to be angry. No one believes I shall live to grow up. \n\nHe said it as if he was so accustomed to the idea that it had ceased to\nmatter to him at all. He seemed to like the sound of Mary s voice. As\nshe went on talking he listened in a drowsy, interested way. Once or\ntwice she wondered if he were not gradually falling into a doze. But at\nlast he asked a question which opened up a new subject.\n\n How old are you?  he asked.\n\n I am ten,  answered Mary, forgetting herself for the moment,  and so\nare you. \n\n How do you know that?  he demanded in a surprised voice.\n\n Because when you were born the garden door was locked and the key was\nburied. And it has been locked for ten years. \n\nColin half sat up, turning toward her, leaning on his elbows.\n\n What garden door was locked? Who did it? Where was the key buried?  he\nexclaimed as if he were suddenly very much interested.\n\n It it was the garden Mr. Craven hates,  said Mary nervously.  He\nlocked the door. No one no one knew where he buried the key. \n\n What sort of a garden is it?  Colin persisted eagerly.\n\n No one has been allowed to go into it for ten years,  was Mary s\ncareful answer.\n\nBut it was too late to be careful. He was too much like herself. He too\nhad had nothing to think about and the idea of a hidden garden\nattracted him as it had attracted her. He asked question after\nquestion. Where was it? Had she never looked for the door? Had she\nnever asked the gardeners?\n\n They won t talk about it,  said Mary.  I think they have been told not\nto answer questions. \n\n I would make them,  said Colin.\n\n Could you?  Mary faltered, beginning to feel frightened. If he could\nmake people answer questions, who knew what might happen!\n\n Everyone is obliged to please me. I told you that,  he said.  If I\nwere to live, this place would sometime belong to me. They all know\nthat. I would make them tell me. \n\nMary had not known that she herself had been spoiled, but she could see\nquite plainly that this mysterious boy had been. He thought that the\nwhole world belonged to him. How peculiar he was and how coolly he\nspoke of not living.\n\n Do you think you won t live?  she asked, partly because she was\ncurious and partly in hope of making him forget the garden.\n\n I don t suppose I shall,  he answered as indifferently as he had\nspoken before.  Ever since I remember anything I have heard people say\nI shan t. At first they thought I was too little to understand and now\nthey think I don t hear. But I do. My doctor is my father s cousin. He\nis quite poor and if I die he will have all Misselthwaite when my\nfather is dead. I should think he wouldn t want me to live. \n\n Do you want to live?  inquired Mary.\n\n No,  he answered, in a cross, tired fashion.  But I don t want to die.\nWhen I feel ill I lie here and think about it until I cry and cry. \n\n I have heard you crying three times,  Mary said,  but I did not know\nwho it was. Were you crying about that?  She did so want him to forget\nthe garden.\n\n I dare say,  he answered.  Let us talk about something else. Talk\nabout that garden. Don t you want to see it? \n\n Yes,  answered Mary, in quite a low voice.\n\n I do,  he went on persistently.  I don t think I ever really wanted to\nsee anything before, but I want to see that garden. I want the key dug\nup. I want the door unlocked. I would let them take me there in my\nchair. That would be getting fresh air. I am going to make them open\nthe door. \n\nHe had become quite excited and his strange eyes began to shine like\nstars and looked more immense than ever.\n\n They have to please me,  he said.  I will make them take me there and\nI will let you go, too. \n\nMary s hands clutched each other. Everything would be\nspoiled everything! Dickon would never come back. She would never again\nfeel like a missel thrush with a safe-hidden nest.\n\n Oh, don t don t don t don t do that!  she cried out.\n\nHe stared as if he thought she had gone crazy!\n\n Why?  he exclaimed.  You said you wanted to see it. \n\n I do,  she answered almost with a sob in her throat,  but if you make\nthem open the door and take you in like that it will never be a secret\nagain. \n\nHe leaned still farther forward.\n\n A secret,  he said.  What do you mean? Tell me. \n\nMary s words almost tumbled over one another.\n\n You see you see,  she panted,  if no one knows but ourselves if there\nwas a door, hidden somewhere under the ivy if there was and we could\nfind it; and if we could slip through it together and shut it behind\nus, and no one knew anyone was inside and we called it our garden and\npretended that that we were missel thrushes and it was our nest, and if\nwe played there almost every day and dug and planted seeds and made it\nall come alive \n\n Is it dead?  he interrupted her.\n\n It soon will be if no one cares for it,  she went on.  The bulbs will\nlive but the roses \n\nHe stopped her again as excited as she was herself.\n\n What are bulbs?  he put in quickly.\n\n They are daffodils and lilies and snowdrops. They are working in the\nearth now pushing up pale green points because the spring is coming. \n\n Is the spring coming?  he said.  What is it like? You don t see it in\nrooms if you are ill. \n\n It is the sun shining on the rain and the rain falling on the\nsunshine, and things pushing up and working under the earth,  said\nMary.  If the garden was a secret and we could get into it we could\nwatch the things grow bigger every day, and see how many roses are\nalive. Don t you see? Oh, don t you see how much nicer it would be if\nit was a secret? \n\nHe dropped back on his pillow and lay there with an odd expression on\nhis face.\n\n I never had a secret,  he said,  except that one about not living to\ngrow up. They don t know I know that, so it is a sort of secret. But I\nlike this kind better. \n\n If you won t make them take you to the garden,  pleaded Mary,\n perhaps I feel almost sure I can find out how to get in sometime. And\nthen if the doctor wants you to go out in your chair, and if you can\nalways do what you want to do, perhaps perhaps we might find some boy\nwho would push you, and we could go alone and it would always be a\nsecret garden. \n\n I should like that,  he said very slowly, his eyes looking dreamy.  I\nshould like that. I should not mind fresh air in a secret garden. \n\nMary began to recover her breath and feel safer because the idea of\nkeeping the secret seemed to please him. She felt almost sure that if\nshe kept on talking and could make him see the garden in his mind as\nshe had seen it he would like it so much that he could not bear to\nthink that everybody might tramp in to it when they chose.\n\n I ll tell you what I _think_ it would be like, if we could go into\nit,  she said.  It has been shut up so long things have grown into a\ntangle perhaps. \n\nHe lay quite still and listened while she went on talking about the\nroses which _might_ have clambered from tree to tree and hung\ndown about the many birds which _might_ have built their nests there\nbecause it was so safe. And then she told him about the robin and Ben\nWeatherstaff, and there was so much to tell about the robin and it was\nso easy and safe to talk about it that she ceased to be afraid. The\nrobin pleased him so much that he smiled until he looked almost\nbeautiful, and at first Mary had thought that he was even plainer than\nherself, with his big eyes and heavy locks of hair.\n\n I did not know birds could be like that,  he said.  But if you stay in\na room you never see things. What a lot of things you know. I feel as\nif you had been inside that garden. \n\nShe did not know what to say, so she did not say anything. He evidently\ndid not expect an answer and the next moment he gave her a surprise.\n\n I am going to let you look at something,  he said.  Do you see that\nrose-colored silk curtain hanging on the wall over the mantel-piece? \n\nMary had not noticed it before, but she looked up and saw it. It was a\ncurtain of soft silk hanging over what seemed to be some picture.\n\n Yes,  she answered.\n\n There is a cord hanging from it,  said Colin.  Go and pull it. \n\nMary got up, much mystified, and found the cord. When she pulled it the\nsilk curtain ran back on rings and when it ran back it uncovered a\npicture. It was the picture of a girl with a laughing face. She had\nbright hair tied up with a blue ribbon and her gay, lovely eyes were\nexactly like Colin s unhappy ones, agate gray and looking twice as big\nas they really were because of the black lashes all round them.\n\n She is my mother,  said Colin complainingly.  I don t see why she\ndied. Sometimes I hate her for doing it. \n\n How queer!  said Mary.\n\n If she had lived I believe I should not have been ill always,  he\ngrumbled.  I dare say I should have lived, too. And my father would not\nhave hated to look at me. I dare say I should have had a strong back.\nDraw the curtain again. \n\nMary did as she was told and returned to her footstool.\n\n She is much prettier than you,  she said,  but her eyes are just like\nyours at least they are the same shape and color. Why is the curtain\ndrawn over her? \n\nHe moved uncomfortably.\n\n I made them do it,  he said.  Sometimes I don t like to see her\nlooking at me. She smiles too much when I am ill and miserable.\nBesides, she is mine and I don t want everyone to see her. \n\nThere were a few moments of silence and then Mary spoke.\n\n What would Mrs. Medlock do if she found out that I had been here?  she\ninquired.\n\n She would do as I told her to do,  he answered.  And I should tell her\nthat I wanted you to come here and talk to me every day. I am glad you\ncame. \n\n So am I,  said Mary.  I will come as often as I can, but she\nhesitated I shall have to look every day for the garden door. \n\n Yes, you must,  said Colin,  and you can tell me about it afterward. \n\nHe lay thinking a few minutes, as he had done before, and then he spoke\nagain.\n\n I think you shall be a secret, too,  he said.  I will not tell them\nuntil they find out. I can always send the nurse out of the room and\nsay that I want to be by myself. Do you know Martha? \n\n Yes, I know her very well,  said Mary.  She waits on me. \n\nHe nodded his head toward the outer corridor.\n\n She is the one who is asleep in the other room. The nurse went away\nyesterday to stay all night with her sister and she always makes Martha\nattend to me when she wants to go out. Martha shall tell you when to\ncome here. \n\nThen Mary understood Martha s troubled look when she had asked\nquestions about the crying.\n\n Martha knew about you all the time?  she said.\n\n Yes; she often attends to me. The nurse likes to get away from me and\nthen Martha comes. \n\n I have been here a long time,  said Mary.  Shall I go away now? Your\neyes look sleepy. \n\n I wish I could go to sleep before you leave me,  he said rather shyly.\n\n Shut your eyes,  said Mary, drawing her footstool closer,  and I will\ndo what my Ayah used to do in India. I will pat your hand and stroke it\nand sing something quite low. \n\n I should like that perhaps,  he said drowsily.\n\nSomehow she was sorry for him and did not want him to lie awake, so she\nleaned against the bed and began to stroke and pat his hand and sing a\nvery low little chanting song in Hindustani.\n\n That is nice,  he said more drowsily still, and she went on chanting\nand stroking, but when she looked at him again his black lashes were\nlying close against his cheeks, for his eyes were shut and he was fast\nasleep. So she got up softly, took her candle and crept away without\nmaking a sound.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\nA YOUNG RAJAH\n\n\nThe moor was hidden in mist when the morning came, and the rain had not\nstopped pouring down. There could be no going out of doors. Martha was\nso busy that Mary had no opportunity of talking to her, but in the\nafternoon she asked her to come and sit with her in the nursery. She\ncame bringing the stocking she was always knitting when she was doing\nnothing else.\n\n What s the matter with thee?  she asked as soon as they sat down.\n Tha  looks as if tha d somethin  to say. \n\n I have. I have found out what the crying was,  said Mary.\n\nMartha let her knitting drop on her knee and gazed at her with startled\neyes.\n\n Tha  hasn t!  she exclaimed.  Never! \n\n I heard it in the night,  Mary went on.  And I got up and went to see\nwhere it came from. It was Colin. I found him. \n\nMartha s face became red with fright.\n\n Eh! Miss Mary!  she said half crying.  Tha  shouldn t have done\nit tha  shouldn t! Tha ll get me in trouble. I never told thee nothin \nabout him but tha ll get me in trouble. I shall lose my place and\nwhat ll mother do! \n\n You won t lose your place,  said Mary.  He was glad I came. We talked\nand talked and he said he was glad I came. \n\n Was he?  cried Martha.  Art tha  sure? Tha  doesn t know what he s\nlike when anything vexes him. He s a big lad to cry like a baby, but\nwhen he s in a passion he ll fair scream just to frighten us. He knows\nus daren t call our souls our own. \n\n He wasn t vexed,  said Mary.  I asked him if I should go away and he\nmade me stay. He asked me questions and I sat on a big footstool and\ntalked to him about India and about the robin and gardens. He wouldn t\nlet me go. He let me see his mother s picture. Before I left him I sang\nhim to sleep. \n\nMartha fairly gasped with amazement.\n\n I can scarcely believe thee!  she protested.  It s as if tha d walked\nstraight into a lion s den. If he d been like he is most times he d\nhave throwed himself into one of his tantrums and roused th  house. He\nwon t let strangers look at him. \n\n He let me look at him. I looked at him all the time and he looked at\nme. We stared!  said Mary.\n\n I don t know what to do!  cried agitated Martha.  If Mrs. Medlock\nfinds out, she ll think I broke orders and told thee and I shall be\npacked back to mother. \n\n He is not going to tell Mrs. Medlock anything about it yet. It s to be\na sort of secret just at first,  said Mary firmly.  And he says\neverybody is obliged to do as he pleases. \n\n Aye, that s true enough th  bad lad!  sighed Martha, wiping her\nforehead with her apron.\n\n He says Mrs. Medlock must. And he wants me to come and talk to him\nevery day. And you are to tell me when he wants me. \n\n Me!  said Martha;  I shall lose my place I shall for sure! \n\n You can t if you are doing what he wants you to do and everybody is\nordered to obey him,  Mary argued.\n\n Does tha  mean to say,  cried Martha with wide open eyes,  that he was\nnice to thee! \n\n I think he almost liked me,  Mary answered.\n\n Then tha  must have bewitched him!  decided Martha, drawing a long\nbreath.\n\n Do you mean Magic?  inquired Mary.  I ve heard about Magic in India,\nbut I can t make it. I just went into his room and I was so surprised\nto see him I stood and stared. And then he turned round and stared at\nme. And he thought I was a ghost or a dream and I thought perhaps he\nwas. And it was so queer being there alone together in the middle of\nthe night and not knowing about each other. And we began to ask each\nother questions. And when I asked him if I must go away he said I must\nnot. \n\n Th  world s comin  to a end!  gasped Martha.\n\n What is the matter with him?  asked Mary.\n\n Nobody knows for sure and certain,  said Martha.  Mr. Craven went off\nhis head like when he was born. Th  doctors thought he d have to be put\nin a  sylum. It was because Mrs. Craven died like I told you. He\nwouldn t set eyes on th  baby. He just raved and said it d be another\nhunchback like him and it d better die. \n\n Is Colin a hunchback?  Mary asked.  He didn t look like one. \n\n He isn t yet,  said Martha.  But he began all wrong. Mother said that\nthere was enough trouble and raging in th  house to set any child\nwrong. They was afraid his back was weak an  they ve always been takin \ncare of it keepin  him lyin  down and not lettin  him walk. Once they\nmade him wear a brace but he fretted so he was downright ill. Then a\nbig doctor came to see him an  made them take it off. He talked to th \nother doctor quite rough in a polite way. He said there d been too much\nmedicine and too much lettin  him have his own way. \n\n I think he s a very spoiled boy,  said Mary.\n\n He s th  worst young nowt as ever was!  said Martha.  I won t say as\nhe hasn t been ill a good bit. He s had coughs an  colds that s nearly\nkilled him two or three times. Once he had rheumatic fever an  once he\nhad typhoid. Eh! Mrs. Medlock did get a fright then. He d been out of\nhis head an  she was talkin  to th  nurse, thinkin  he didn t know\nnothin , an  she said,  He ll die this time sure enough, an  best thing\nfor him an  for everybody.  An  she looked at him an  there he was with\nhis big eyes open, starin  at her as sensible as she was herself. She\ndidn t know wha d happen but he just stared at her an  says,  You give\nme some water an  stop talkin . \n\n Do you think he will die?  asked Mary.\n\n Mother says there s no reason why any child should live that gets no\nfresh air an  doesn t do nothin  but lie on his back an  read\npicture-books an  take medicine. He s weak and hates th  trouble o \nbein  taken out o  doors, an  he gets cold so easy he says it makes him\nill. \n\nMary sat and looked at the fire.\n\n I wonder,  she said slowly,  if it would not do him good to go out\ninto a garden and watch things growing. It did me good. \n\n One of th  worst fits he ever had,  said Martha,  was one time they\ntook him out where the roses is by the fountain. He d been readin  in a\npaper about people gettin  somethin  he called  rose cold  an  he began\nto sneeze an  said he d got it an  then a new gardener as didn t know\nth  rules passed by an  looked at him curious. He threw himself into a\npassion an  he said he d looked at him because he was going to be a\nhunchback. He cried himself into a fever an  was ill all night. \n\n If he ever gets angry at me, I ll never go and see him again,  said\nMary.\n\n He ll have thee if he wants thee,  said Martha.  Tha  may as well know\nthat at th  start. \n\nVery soon afterward a bell rang and she rolled up her knitting.\n\n I dare say th  nurse wants me to stay with him a bit,  she said.  I\nhope he s in a good temper. \n\nShe was out of the room about ten minutes and then she came back with a\npuzzled expression.\n\n Well, tha  has bewitched him,  she said.  He s up on his sofa with his\npicture-books. He s told the nurse to stay away until six o clock. I m\nto wait in the next room. Th  minute she was gone he called me to him\nan  says,  I want Mary Lennox to come and talk to me, and remember\nyou re not to tell anyone.  You d better go as quick as you can. \n\nMary was quite willing to go quickly. She did not want to see Colin as\nmuch as she wanted to see Dickon; but she wanted to see him very much.\n\nThere was a bright fire on the hearth when she entered his room, and in\nthe daylight she saw it was a very beautiful room indeed. There were\nrich colors in the rugs and hangings and pictures and books on the\nwalls which made it look glowing and comfortable even in spite of the\ngray sky and falling rain. Colin looked rather like a picture himself.\nHe was wrapped in a velvet dressing-gown and sat against a big brocaded\ncushion. He had a red spot on each cheek.\n\n Come in,  he said.  I ve been thinking about you all morning. \n\n I ve been thinking about you, too,  answered Mary.  You don t know how\nfrightened Martha is. She says Mrs. Medlock will think she told me\nabout you and then she will be sent away. \n\nHe frowned.\n\n Go and tell her to come here,  he said.  She is in the next room. \n\nMary went and brought her back. Poor Martha was shaking in her shoes.\nColin was still frowning.\n\n Have you to do what I please or have you not?  he demanded.\n\n I have to do what you please, sir,  Martha faltered, turning quite\nred.\n\n Has Medlock to do what I please? \n\n Everybody has, sir,  said Martha.\n\n Well, then, if I order you to bring Miss Mary to me, how can Medlock\nsend you away if she finds it out? \n\n Please don t let her, sir,  pleaded Martha.\n\n I ll send _her_ away if she dares to say a word about such a thing, \nsaid Master Craven grandly.  She wouldn t like that, I can tell you. \n\n Thank you, sir,  bobbing a curtsy,  I want to do my duty, sir. \n\n What I want is your duty  said Colin more grandly still.  I ll take\ncare of you. Now go away. \n\nWhen the door closed behind Martha, Colin found Mistress Mary gazing at\nhim as if he had set her wondering.\n\n Why do you look at me like that?  he asked her.  What are you thinking\nabout? \n\n I am thinking about two things. \n\n What are they? Sit down and tell me. \n\n This is the first one,  said Mary, seating herself on the big stool.\n Once in India I saw a boy who was a Rajah. He had rubies and emeralds\nand diamonds stuck all over him. He spoke to his people just as you\nspoke to Martha. Everybody had to do everything he told them in a\nminute. I think they would have been killed if they hadn t. \n\n I shall make you tell me about Rajahs presently,  he said,  but first\ntell me what the second thing was. \n\n I was thinking,  said Mary,  how different you are from Dickon. \n\n Who is Dickon?  he said.  What a queer name! \n\nShe might as well tell him, she thought she could talk about Dickon\nwithout mentioning the secret garden. She had liked to hear Martha talk\nabout him. Besides, she longed to talk about him. It would seem to\nbring him nearer.\n\n He is Martha s brother. He is twelve years old,  she explained.  He is\nnot like anyone else in the world. He can charm foxes and squirrels and\nbirds just as the natives in India charm snakes. He plays a very soft\ntune on a pipe and they come and listen. \n\nThere were some big books on a table at his side and he dragged one\nsuddenly toward him.\n\n There is a picture of a snake-charmer in this,  he exclaimed.  Come\nand look at it. \n\nThe book was a beautiful one with superb colored illustrations and he\nturned to one of them.\n\n Can he do that?  he asked eagerly.\n\n He played on his pipe and they listened,  Mary explained.  But he\ndoesn t call it Magic. He says it s because he lives on the moor so\nmuch and he knows their ways. He says he feels sometimes as if he was a\nbird or a rabbit himself, he likes them so. I think he asked the robin\nquestions. It seemed as if they talked to each other in soft chirps. \n\nColin lay back on his cushion and his eyes grew larger and larger and\nthe spots on his cheeks burned.\n\n Tell me some more about him,  he said.\n\n He knows all about eggs and nests,  Mary went on.  And he knows where\nfoxes and badgers and otters live. He keeps them secret so that other\nboys won t find their holes and frighten them. He knows about\neverything that grows or lives on the moor. \n\n Does he like the moor?  said Colin.  How can he when it s such a\ngreat, bare, dreary place? \n\n It s the most beautiful place,  protested Mary.  Thousands of lovely\nthings grow on it and there are thousands of little creatures all busy\nbuilding nests and making holes and burrows and chippering or singing\nor squeaking to each other. They are so busy and having such fun under\nthe earth or in the trees or heather. It s their world. \n\n How do you know all that?  said Colin, turning on his elbow to look at\nher.\n\n I have never been there once, really,  said Mary suddenly remembering.\n I only drove over it in the dark. I thought it was hideous. Martha\ntold me about it first and then Dickon. When Dickon talks about it you\nfeel as if you saw things and heard them and as if you were standing in\nthe heather with the sun shining and the gorse smelling like honey and\nall full of bees and butterflies. \n\n You never see anything if you are ill,  said Colin restlessly. He\nlooked like a person listening to a new sound in the distance and\nwondering what it was.\n\n You can t if you stay in a room,  said Mary.\n\n I couldn t go on the moor,  he said in a resentful tone.\n\nMary was silent for a minute and then she said something bold.\n\n You might sometime. \n\nHe moved as if he were startled.\n\n Go on the moor! How could I? I am going to die. \n\n How do you know?  said Mary unsympathetically. She didn t like the way\nhe had of talking about dying. She did not feel very sympathetic. She\nfelt rather as if he almost boasted about it.\n\n Oh, I ve heard it ever since I remember,  he answered crossly.  They\nare always whispering about it and thinking I don t notice. They wish I\nwould, too. \n\nMistress Mary felt quite contrary. She pinched her lips together.\n\n If they wished I would,  she said,  I wouldn t. Who wishes you would? \n\n The servants and of course Dr. Craven because he would get\nMisselthwaite and be rich instead of poor. He daren t say so, but he\nalways looks cheerful when I am worse. When I had typhoid fever his\nface got quite fat. I think my father wishes it, too. \n\n I don t believe he does,  said Mary quite obstinately.\n\nThat made Colin turn and look at her again.\n\n Don t you?  he said.\n\nAnd then he lay back on his cushion and was still, as if he were\nthinking. And there was quite a long silence. Perhaps they were both of\nthem thinking strange things children do not usually think of.\n\n I like the grand doctor from London, because he made them take the\niron thing off,  said Mary at last  Did he say you were going to die? \n\n No. \n\n What did he say? \n\n He didn t whisper,  Colin answered.  Perhaps he knew I hated\nwhispering. I heard him say one thing quite aloud. He said,  The lad\nmight live if he would make up his mind to it. Put him in the humor. \nIt sounded as if he was in a temper. \n\n I ll tell you who would put you in the humor, perhaps,  said Mary\nreflecting. She felt as if she would like this thing to be settled one\nway or the other.  I believe Dickon would. He s always talking about\nlive things. He never talks about dead things or things that are ill.\nHe s always looking up in the sky to watch birds flying or looking down\nat the earth to see something growing. He has such round blue eyes and\nthey are so wide open with looking about. And he laughs such a big\nlaugh with his wide mouth and his cheeks are as red as red as\ncherries. \n\nShe pulled her stool nearer to the sofa and her expression quite\nchanged at the remembrance of the wide curving mouth and wide open\neyes.\n\n See here,  she said.  Don t let us talk about dying; I don t like it.\nLet us talk about living. Let us talk and talk about Dickon. And then\nwe will look at your pictures. \n\nIt was the best thing she could have said. To talk about Dickon meant\nto talk about the moor and about the cottage and the fourteen people\nwho lived in it on sixteen shillings a week and the children who got\nfat on the moor grass like the wild ponies. And about Dickon s\nmother and the skipping-rope and the moor with the sun on it and about\npale green points sticking up out of the black sod. And it was all so\nalive that Mary talked more than she had ever talked before and Colin\nboth talked and listened as he had never done either before. And they\nboth began to laugh over nothings as children will when they are happy\ntogether. And they laughed so that in the end they were making as much\nnoise as if they had been two ordinary healthy natural ten-year-old\ncreatures instead of a hard, little, unloving girl and a sickly boy who\nbelieved that he was going to die.\n\nThey enjoyed themselves so much that they forgot the pictures and they\nforgot about the time. They had been laughing quite loudly over Ben\nWeatherstaff and his robin, and Colin was actually sitting up as if he\nhad forgotten about his weak back, when he suddenly remembered\nsomething.\n\n Do you know there is one thing we have never once thought of,  he\nsaid.  We are cousins. \n\nIt seemed so queer that they had talked so much and never remembered\nthis simple thing that they laughed more than ever, because they had\ngot into the humor to laugh at anything. And in the midst of the fun\nthe door opened and in walked Dr. Craven and Mrs. Medlock.\n\nDr. Craven started in actual alarm and Mrs. Medlock almost fell back\nbecause he had accidentally bumped against her.\n\n Good Lord!  exclaimed poor Mrs. Medlock with her eyes almost starting\nout of her head.  Good Lord! \n\n What is this?  said Dr. Craven, coming forward.  What does it mean? \n\nThen Mary was reminded of the boy Rajah again. Colin answered as if\nneither the doctor s alarm nor Mrs. Medlock s terror were of the\nslightest consequence. He was as little disturbed or frightened as if\nan elderly cat and dog had walked into the room.\n\n This is my cousin, Mary Lennox,  he said.  I asked her to come and\ntalk to me. I like her. She must come and talk to me whenever I send\nfor her. \n\nDr. Craven turned reproachfully to Mrs. Medlock.\n\n Oh, sir  she panted.  I don t know how it s happened. There s not a\nservant on the place tha d dare to talk they all have their orders. \n\n Nobody told her anything,  said Colin.  She heard me crying and found\nme herself. I am glad she came. Don t be silly, Medlock. \n\nMary saw that Dr. Craven did not look pleased, but it was quite plain\nthat he dare not oppose his patient. He sat down by Colin and felt his\npulse.\n\n I am afraid there has been too much excitement. Excitement is not good\nfor you, my boy,  he said.\n\n I should be excited if she kept away,  answered Colin, his eyes\nbeginning to look dangerously sparkling.  I am better. She makes me\nbetter. The nurse must bring up her tea with mine. We will have tea\ntogether. \n\nMrs. Medlock and Dr. Craven looked at each other in a troubled way, but\nthere was evidently nothing to be done.\n\n He does look rather better, sir,  ventured Mrs. Medlock.\n But thinking the matter over he looked better this morning before\nshe came into the room. \n\n She came into the room last night. She stayed with me a long time. She\nsang a Hindustani song to me and it made me go to sleep,  said Colin.\n I was better when I wakened up. I wanted my breakfast. I want my tea\nnow. Tell nurse, Medlock. \n\nDr. Craven did not stay very long. He talked to the nurse for a few\nminutes when she came into the room and said a few words of warning to\nColin. He must not talk too much; he must not forget that he was ill;\nhe must not forget that he was very easily tired. Mary thought that\nthere seemed to be a number of uncomfortable things he was not to\nforget.\n\nColin looked fretful and kept his strange black-lashed eyes fixed on\nDr. Craven s face.\n\n I _want_ to forget it,  he said at last.  She makes me forget it. That\nis why I want her. \n\nDr. Craven did not look happy when he left the room. He gave a puzzled\nglance at the little girl sitting on the large stool. She had become a\nstiff, silent child again as soon as he entered and he could not see\nwhat the attraction was. The boy actually did look brighter,\nhowever and he sighed rather heavily as he went down the corridor.\n\n They are always wanting me to eat things when I don t want to,  said\nColin, as the nurse brought in the tea and put it on the table by the\nsofa.  Now, if you ll eat I will. Those muffins look so nice and hot.\nTell me about Rajahs. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\nNEST BUILDING\n\n\nAfter another week of rain the high arch of blue sky appeared again and\nthe sun which poured down was quite hot. Though there had been no\nchance to see either the secret garden or Dickon, Mistress Mary had\nenjoyed herself very much. The week had not seemed long. She had spent\nhours of every day with Colin in his room, talking about Rajahs or\ngardens or Dickon and the cottage on the moor. They had looked at the\nsplendid books and pictures and sometimes Mary had read things to\nColin, and sometimes he had read a little to her. When he was amused\nand interested she thought he scarcely looked like an invalid at all,\nexcept that his face was so colorless and he was always on the sofa.\n\n You are a sly young one to listen and get out of your bed to go\nfollowing things up like you did that night,  Mrs. Medlock said once.\n But there s no saying it s not been a sort of blessing to the lot of\nus. He s not had a tantrum or a whining fit since you made friends. The\nnurse was just going to give up the case because she was so sick of\nhim, but she says she doesn t mind staying now you ve gone on duty with\nher,  laughing a little.\n\nIn her talks with Colin, Mary had tried to be very cautious about the\nsecret garden. There were certain things she wanted to find out from\nhim, but she felt that she must find them out without asking him direct\nquestions. In the first place, as she began to like to be with him, she\nwanted to discover whether he was the kind of boy you could tell a\nsecret to. He was not in the least like Dickon, but he was evidently so\npleased with the idea of a garden no one knew anything about that she\nthought perhaps he could be trusted. But she had not known him long\nenough to be sure. The second thing she wanted to find out was this: If\nhe could be trusted if he really could wouldn t it be possible to take\nhim to the garden without having anyone find it out? The grand doctor\nhad said that he must have fresh air and Colin had said that he would\nnot mind fresh air in a secret garden. Perhaps if he had a great deal\nof fresh air and knew Dickon and the robin and saw things growing he\nmight not think so much about dying. Mary had seen herself in the glass\nsometimes lately when she had realized that she looked quite a\ndifferent creature from the child she had seen when she arrived from\nIndia. This child looked nicer. Even Martha had seen a change in her.\n\n Th  air from th  moor has done thee good already,  she had said.\n Tha rt not nigh so yeller and tha rt not nigh so scrawny. Even tha \nhair doesn t slamp down on tha  head so flat. It s got some life in it\nso as it sticks out a bit. \n\n It s like me,  said Mary.  It s growing stronger and fatter. I m sure\nthere s more of it. \n\n It looks it, for sure,  said Martha, ruffling it up a little round her\nface.  Tha rt not half so ugly when it s that way an  there s a bit o \nred in tha  cheeks. \n\nIf gardens and fresh air had been good for her perhaps they would be\ngood for Colin. But then, if he hated people to look at him, perhaps he\nwould not like to see Dickon.\n\n Why does it make you angry when you are looked at?  she inquired one\nday.\n\n I always hated it,  he answered,  even when I was very little. Then\nwhen they took me to the seaside and I used to lie in my carriage\neverybody used to stare and ladies would stop and talk to my nurse and\nthen they would begin to whisper and I knew then they were saying I\nshouldn t live to grow up. Then sometimes the ladies would pat my\ncheeks and say  Poor child!  Once when a lady did that I screamed out\nloud and bit her hand. She was so frightened she ran away. \n\n She thought you had gone mad like a dog,  said Mary, not at all\nadmiringly.\n\n I don t care what she thought,  said Colin, frowning.\n\n I wonder why you didn t scream and bite me when I came into your\nroom?  said Mary. Then she began to smile slowly.\n\n I thought you were a ghost or a dream,  he said.  You can t bite a\nghost or a dream, and if you scream they don t care. \n\n Would you hate it if if a boy looked at you?  Mary asked uncertainly.\n\nHe lay back on his cushion and paused thoughtfully.\n\n There s one boy,  he said quite slowly, as if he were thinking over\nevery word,  there s one boy I believe I shouldn t mind. It s that boy\nwho knows where the foxes live Dickon. \n\n I m sure you wouldn t mind him,  said Mary.\n\n The birds don t and other animals,  he said, still thinking it over,\n perhaps that s why I shouldn t. He s a sort of animal charmer and I am\na boy animal. \n\nThen he laughed and she laughed too; in fact it ended in their both\nlaughing a great deal and finding the idea of a boy animal hiding in\nhis hole very funny indeed.\n\nWhat Mary felt afterward was that she need not fear about Dickon.\n\nOn that first morning when the sky was blue again Mary wakened very\nearly. The sun was pouring in slanting rays through the blinds and\nthere was something so joyous in the sight of it that she jumped out of\nbed and ran to the window. She drew up the blinds and opened the window\nitself and a great waft of fresh, scented air blew in upon her. The\nmoor was blue and the whole world looked as if something Magic had\nhappened to it. There were tender little fluting sounds here and there\nand everywhere, as if scores of birds were beginning to tune up for a\nconcert. Mary put her hand out of the window and held it in the sun.\n\n It s warm warm!  she said.  It will make the green points push up and\nup and up, and it will make the bulbs and roots work and struggle with\nall their might under the earth. \n\nShe kneeled down and leaned out of the window as far as she could,\nbreathing big breaths and sniffing the air until she laughed because\nshe remembered what Dickon s mother had said about the end of his nose\nquivering like a rabbit s.\n\n It must be very early,  she said.  The little clouds are all pink and\nI ve never seen the sky look like this. No one is up. I don t even hear\nthe stable boys. \n\nA sudden thought made her scramble to her feet.\n\n I can t wait! I am going to see the garden! \n\nShe had learned to dress herself by this time and she put on her\nclothes in five minutes. She knew a small side door which she could\nunbolt herself and she flew downstairs in her stocking feet and put on\nher shoes in the hall. She unchained and unbolted and unlocked and when\nthe door was open she sprang across the step with one bound, and there\nshe was standing on the grass, which seemed to have turned green, and\nwith the sun pouring down on her and warm sweet wafts about her and the\nfluting and twittering and singing coming from every bush and tree. She\nclasped her hands for pure joy and looked up in the sky and it was so\nblue and pink and pearly and white and flooded with springtime light\nthat she felt as if she must flute and sing aloud herself and knew that\nthrushes and robins and skylarks could not possibly help it. She ran\naround the shrubs and paths towards the secret garden.\n\n It is all different already,  she said.  The grass is greener and\nthings are sticking up everywhere and things are uncurling and green\nbuds of leaves are showing. This afternoon I am sure Dickon will come. \n\nThe long warm rain had done strange things to the herbaceous beds which\nbordered the walk by the lower wall. There were things sprouting and\npushing out from the roots of clumps of plants and there were actually\nhere and there glimpses of royal purple and yellow unfurling among the\nstems of crocuses. Six months before Mistress Mary would not have seen\nhow the world was waking up, but now she missed nothing.\n\nWhen she had reached the place where the door hid itself under the ivy,\nshe was startled by a curious loud sound. It was the caw caw of a crow\nand it came from the top of the wall, and when she looked up, there sat\na big glossy-plumaged blue-black bird, looking down at her very wisely\nindeed. She had never seen a crow so close before and he made her a\nlittle nervous, but the next moment he spread his wings and flapped\naway across the garden. She hoped he was not going to stay inside and\nshe pushed the door open wondering if he would. When she got fairly\ninto the garden she saw that he probably did intend to stay because he\nhad alighted on a dwarf apple-tree and under the apple-tree was lying a\nlittle reddish animal with a Bushy tail, and both of them were watching\nthe stooping body and rust-red head of Dickon, who was kneeling on the\ngrass working hard.\n\nMary flew across the grass to him.\n\n Oh, Dickon! Dickon!  she cried out.  How could you get here so early!\nHow could you! The sun has only just got up! \n\nHe got up himself, laughing and glowing, and tousled; his eyes like a\nbit of the sky.\n\n Eh!  he said.  I was up long before him. How could I have stayed abed!\nTh  world s all fair begun again this mornin , it has. An  it s workin \nan  hummin  an  scratchin  an  pipin  an  nest-buildin  an  breathin \nout scents, till you ve got to be out on it  stead o  lyin  on your\nback. When th  sun did jump up, th  moor went mad for joy, an  I was in\nthe midst of th  heather, an  I run like mad myself, shoutin  an \nsingin . An  I come straight here. I couldn t have stayed away. Why,\nth  garden was lyin  here waitin ! \n\nMary put her hands on her chest, panting, as if she had been running\nherself.\n\n Oh, Dickon! Dickon!  she said.  I m so happy I can scarcely breathe! \n\nSeeing him talking to a stranger, the little bushy-tailed animal rose\nfrom its place under the tree and came to him, and the rook, cawing\nonce, flew down from its branch and settled quietly on his shoulder.\n\n This is th  little fox cub,  he said, rubbing the little reddish\nanimal s head.  It s named Captain. An  this here s Soot. Soot he flew\nacross th  moor with me an  Captain he run same as if th  hounds had\nbeen after him. They both felt same as I did. \n\nNeither of the creatures looked as if he were the least afraid of Mary.\nWhen Dickon began to walk about, Soot stayed on his shoulder and\nCaptain trotted quietly close to his side.\n\n See here!  said Dickon.  See how these has pushed up, an  these an \nthese! An  Eh! Look at these here! \n\nHe threw himself upon his knees and Mary went down beside him. They had\ncome upon a whole clump of crocuses burst into purple and orange and\ngold. Mary bent her face down and kissed and kissed them.\n\n You never kiss a person in that way,  she said when she lifted her\nhead.  Flowers are so different. \n\nHe looked puzzled but smiled.\n\n Eh!  he said,  I ve kissed mother many a time that way when I come in\nfrom th  moor after a day s roamin  an  she stood there at th  door in\nth  sun, lookin  so glad an  comfortable. \n\nThey ran from one part of the garden to another and found so many\nwonders that they were obliged to remind themselves that they must\nwhisper or speak low. He showed her swelling leafbuds on rose branches\nwhich had seemed dead. He showed her ten thousand new green points\npushing through the mould. They put their eager young noses close to\nthe earth and sniffed its warmed springtime breathing; they dug and\npulled and laughed low with rapture until Mistress Mary s hair was as\ntumbled as Dickon s and her cheeks were almost as poppy red as his.\n\nThere was every joy on earth in the secret garden that morning, and in\nthe midst of them came a delight more delightful than all, because it\nwas more wonderful. Swiftly something flew across the wall and darted\nthrough the trees to a close grown corner, a little flare of\nred-breasted bird with something hanging from its beak. Dickon stood\nquite still and put his hand on Mary almost as if they had suddenly\nfound themselves laughing in a church.\n\n We munnot stir,  he whispered in broad Yorkshire.  We munnot scarce\nbreathe. I knowed he was mate-huntin  when I seed him last. It s Ben\nWeatherstaff s robin. He s buildin  his nest. He ll stay here if us\ndon t flight him. \n\nThey settled down softly upon the grass and sat there without moving.\n\n Us mustn t seem as if us was watchin  him too close,  said Dickon.\n He d be out with us for good if he got th  notion us was interferin \nnow. He ll be a good bit different till all this is over. He s settin \nup housekeepin . He ll be shyer an  readier to take things ill. He s\ngot no time for visitin  an  gossipin . Us must keep still a bit an \ntry to look as if us was grass an  trees an  bushes. Then when he s got\nused to seein  us I ll chirp a bit an  he ll know us ll not be in his\nway. \n\nMistress Mary was not at all sure that she knew, as Dickon seemed to,\nhow to try to look like grass and trees and bushes. But he had said the\nqueer thing as if it were the simplest and most natural thing in the\nworld, and she felt it must be quite easy to him, and indeed she\nwatched him for a few minutes carefully, wondering if it was possible\nfor him to quietly turn green and put out branches and leaves. But he\nonly sat wonderfully still, and when he spoke dropped his voice to such\na softness that it was curious that she could hear him, but she could.\n\n It s part o  th  springtime, this nest-buildin  is,  he said.  I\nwarrant it s been goin  on in th  same way every year since th  world\nwas begun. They ve got their way o  thinkin  and doin  things an  a\nbody had better not meddle. You can lose a friend in springtime easier\nthan any other season if you re too curious. \n\n If we talk about him I can t help looking at him,  Mary said as softly\nas possible.  We must talk of something else. There is something I want\nto tell you. \n\n He ll like it better if us talks o  somethin  else,  said Dickon.\n What is it tha s got to tell me? \n\n Well do you know about Colin?  she whispered.\n\nHe turned his head to look at her.\n\n What does tha  know about him?  he asked.\n\n I ve seen him. I have been to talk to him every day this week. He\nwants me to come. He says I m making him forget about being ill and\ndying,  answered Mary.\n\nDickon looked actually relieved as soon as the surprise died away from\nhis round face.\n\n I am glad o  that,  he exclaimed.  I m right down glad. It makes me\neasier. I knowed I must say nothin  about him an  I don t like havin \nto hide things. \n\n Don t you like hiding the garden?  said Mary.\n\n I ll never tell about it,  he answered.  But I says to mother,\n Mother,  I says,  I got a secret to keep. It s not a bad  un, tha \nknows that. It s no worse than hidin  where a bird s nest is. Tha \ndoesn t mind it, does tha ? \n\nMary always wanted to hear about mother.\n\n What did she say?  she asked, not at all afraid to hear.\n\nDickon grinned sweet-temperedly.\n\n It was just like her, what she said,  he answered.  She give my head a\nbit of a rub an  laughed an  she says,  Eh, lad, tha  can have all th \nsecrets tha  likes. I ve knowed thee twelve year . \n\n How did you know about Colin?  asked Mary.\n\n Everybody as knowed about Mester Craven knowed there was a little lad\nas was like to be a cripple, an  they knowed Mester Craven didn t like\nhim to be talked about. Folks is sorry for Mester Craven because Mrs.\nCraven was such a pretty young lady an  they was so fond of each other.\nMrs. Medlock stops in our cottage whenever she goes to Thwaite an  she\ndoesn t mind talkin  to mother before us children, because she knows us\nhas been brought up to be trusty. How did tha  find out about him?\nMartha was in fine trouble th  last time she came home. She said tha d\nheard him frettin  an  tha  was askin  questions an  she didn t know\nwhat to say. \n\nMary told him her story about the midnight wuthering of the wind which\nhad wakened her and about the faint far-off sounds of the complaining\nvoice which had led her down the dark corridors with her candle and had\nended with her opening of the door of the dimly lighted room with the\ncarven four-posted bed in the corner. When she described the small\nivory-white face and the strange black-rimmed eyes Dickon shook his\nhead.\n\n Them s just like his mother s eyes, only hers was always laughin ,\nthey say,  he said.  They say as Mr. Craven can t bear to see him when\nhe s awake an  it s because his eyes is so like his mother s an  yet\nlooks so different in his miserable bit of a face. \n\n Do you think he wants to die?  whispered Mary.\n\n No, but he wishes he d never been born. Mother she says that s th \nworst thing on earth for a child. Them as is not wanted scarce ever\nthrives. Mester Craven he d buy anythin  as money could buy for th \npoor lad but he d like to forget as he s on earth. For one thing, he s\nafraid he ll look at him some day and find he s growed hunchback. \n\n Colin s so afraid of it himself that he won t sit up,  said Mary.  He\nsays he s always thinking that if he should feel a lump coming he\nshould go crazy and scream himself to death. \n\n Eh! he oughtn t to lie there thinkin  things like that,  said Dickon.\n No lad could get well as thought them sort o  things. \n\nThe fox was lying on the grass close by him, looking up to ask for a\npat now and then, and Dickon bent down and rubbed his neck softly and\nthought a few minutes in silence. Presently he lifted his head and\nlooked round the garden.\n\n When first we got in here,  he said,  it seemed like everything was\ngray. Look round now and tell me if tha  doesn t see a difference. \n\nMary looked and caught her breath a little.\n\n Why!  she cried,  the gray wall is changing. It is as if a green mist\nwere creeping over it. It s almost like a green gauze veil. \n\n Aye,  said Dickon.  An  it ll be greener and greener till th  gray s\nall gone. Can tha  guess what I was thinkin ? \n\n I know it was something nice,  said Mary eagerly.  I believe it was\nsomething about Colin. \n\n I was thinkin  that if he was out here he wouldn t be watchin  for\nlumps to grow on his back; he d be watchin  for buds to break on th \nrose-bushes, an  he d likely be healthier,  explained Dickon.  I was\nwonderin  if us could ever get him in th  humor to come out here an \nlie under th  trees in his carriage. \n\n I ve been wondering that myself. I ve thought of it almost every time\nI ve talked to him,  said Mary.  I ve wondered if he could keep a\nsecret and I ve wondered if we could bring him here without anyone\nseeing us. I thought perhaps you could push his carriage. The doctor\nsaid he must have fresh air and if he wants us to take him out no one\ndare disobey him. He won t go out for other people and perhaps they\nwill be glad if he will go out with us. He could order the gardeners to\nkeep away so they wouldn t find out. \n\nDickon was thinking very hard as he scratched Captain s back.\n\n It d be good for him, I ll warrant,  he said.  Us d not be thinkin \nhe d better never been born. Us d be just two children watchin  a\ngarden grow, an  he d be another. Two lads an  a little lass just\nlookin  on at th  springtime. I warrant it d be better than doctor s\nstuff. \n\n He s been lying in his room so long and he s always been so afraid of\nhis back that it has made him queer,  said Mary.  He knows a good many\nthings out of books but he doesn t know anything else. He says he has\nbeen too ill to notice things and he hates going out of doors and hates\ngardens and gardeners. But he likes to hear about this garden because\nit is a secret. I daren t tell him much but he said he wanted to see\nit. \n\n Us ll have him out here sometime for sure,  said Dickon.  I could push\nhis carriage well enough. Has tha  noticed how th  robin an  his mate\nhas been workin  while we ve been sittin  here? Look at him perched on\nthat branch wonderin  where it d be best to put that twig he s got in\nhis beak. \n\nHe made one of his low whistling calls and the robin turned his head\nand looked at him inquiringly, still holding his twig. Dickon spoke to\nhim as Ben Weatherstaff did, but Dickon s tone was one of friendly\nadvice.\n\n Wheres ever tha  puts it,  he said,  it ll be all right. Tha  knew how\nto build tha  nest before tha  came out o  th  egg. Get on with thee,\nlad. Tha st got no time to lose. \n\n Oh, I do like to hear you talk to him!  Mary said, laughing\ndelightedly.  Ben Weatherstaff scolds him and makes fun of him, and he\nhops about and looks as if he understood every word, and I know he\nlikes it. Ben Weatherstaff says he is so conceited he would rather have\nstones thrown at him than not be noticed. \n\nDickon laughed too and went on talking.\n\n Tha  knows us won t trouble thee,  he said to the robin.  Us is near\nbein  wild things ourselves. Us is nest-buildin  too, bless thee. Look\nout tha  doesn t tell on us. \n\nAnd though the robin did not answer, because his beak was occupied,\nMary knew that when he flew away with his twig to his own corner of the\ngarden the darkness of his dew-bright eye meant that he would not tell\ntheir secret for the world.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n I WON T!  SAID MARY\n\n\nThey found a great deal to do that morning and Mary was late in\nreturning to the house and was also in such a hurry to get back to her\nwork that she quite forgot Colin until the last moment.\n\n Tell Colin that I can t come and see him yet,  she said to Martha.\n I m very busy in the garden. \n\nMartha looked rather frightened.\n\n Eh! Miss Mary,  she said,  it may put him all out of humor when I tell\nhim that. \n\nBut Mary was not as afraid of him as other people were and she was not\na self-sacrificing person.\n\n I can t stay,  she answered.  Dickon s waiting for me;  and she ran\naway.\n\nThe afternoon was even lovelier and busier than the morning had been.\nAlready nearly all the weeds were cleared out of the garden and most of\nthe roses and trees had been pruned or dug about. Dickon had brought a\nspade of his own and he had taught Mary to use all her tools, so that\nby this time it was plain that though the lovely wild place was not\nlikely to become a  gardener s garden  it would be a wilderness of\ngrowing things before the springtime was over.\n\n There ll be apple blossoms an  cherry blossoms overhead,  Dickon said,\nworking away with all his might.  An  there ll be peach an  plum trees\nin bloom against th  walls, an  th  grass ll be a carpet o  flowers. \n\nThe little fox and the rook were as happy and busy as they were, and\nthe robin and his mate flew backward and forward like tiny streaks of\nlightning. Sometimes the rook flapped his black wings and soared away\nover the tree-tops in the park. Each time he came back and perched near\nDickon and cawed several times as if he were relating his adventures,\nand Dickon talked to him just as he had talked to the robin. Once when\nDickon was so busy that he did not answer him at first, Soot flew on to\nhis shoulders and gently tweaked his ear with his large beak. When Mary\nwanted to rest a little Dickon sat down with her under a tree and once\nhe took his pipe out of his pocket and played the soft strange little\nnotes and two squirrels appeared on the wall and looked and listened.\n\n Tha s a good bit stronger than tha  was,  Dickon said, looking at her\nas she was digging.  Tha s beginning to look different, for sure. \n\nMary was glowing with exercise and good spirits.\n\n I m getting fatter and fatter every day,  she said quite exultantly.\n Mrs. Medlock will have to get me some bigger dresses. Martha says my\nhair is growing thicker. It isn t so flat and stringy. \n\nThe sun was beginning to set and sending deep gold-colored rays\nslanting under the trees when they parted.\n\n It ll be fine tomorrow,  said Dickon.  I ll be at work by sunrise. \n\n So will I,  said Mary.\n\nShe ran back to the house as quickly as her feet would carry her. She\nwanted to tell Colin about Dickon s fox cub and the rook and about what\nthe springtime had been doing. She felt sure he would like to hear. So\nit was not very pleasant when she opened the door of her room, to see\nMartha standing waiting for her with a doleful face.\n\n What is the matter?  she asked.  What did Colin say when you told him\nI couldn t come? \n\n Eh!  said Martha,  I wish tha d gone. He was nigh goin  into one o \nhis tantrums. There s been a nice to do all afternoon to keep him\nquiet. He would watch the clock all th  time. \n\nMary s lips pinched themselves together. She was no more used to\nconsidering other people than Colin was and she saw no reason why an\nill-tempered boy should interfere with the thing she liked best. She\nknew nothing about the pitifulness of people who had been ill and\nnervous and who did not know that they could control their tempers and\nneed not make other people ill and nervous, too. When she had had a\nheadache in India she had done her best to see that everybody else also\nhad a headache or something quite as bad. And she felt she was quite\nright; but of course now she felt that Colin was quite wrong.\n\nHe was not on his sofa when she went into his room. He was lying flat\non his back in bed and he did not turn his head toward her as she came\nin. This was a bad beginning and Mary marched up to him with her stiff\nmanner.\n\n Why didn t you get up?  she said.\n\n I did get up this morning when I thought you were coming,  he\nanswered, without looking at her.  I made them put me back in bed this\nafternoon. My back ached and my head ached and I was tired. Why didn t\nyou come? \n\n I was working in the garden with Dickon,  said Mary.\n\nColin frowned and condescended to look at her.\n\n I won t let that boy come here if you go and stay with him instead of\ncoming to talk to me,  he said.\n\nMary flew into a fine passion. She could fly into a passion without\nmaking a noise. She just grew sour and obstinate and did not care what\nhappened.\n\n If you send Dickon away, I ll never come into this room again!  she\nretorted.\n\n You ll have to if I want you,  said Colin.\n\n I won t!  said Mary.\n\n I ll make you,  said Colin.  They shall drag you in. \n\n Shall they, Mr. Rajah!  said Mary fiercely.  They may drag me in but\nthey can t make me talk when they get me here. I ll sit and clench my\nteeth and never tell you one thing. I won t even look at you. I ll\nstare at the floor! \n\nThey were a nice agreeable pair as they glared at each other. If they\nhad been two little street boys they would have sprung at each other\nand had a rough-and-tumble fight. As it was, they did the next thing to\nit.\n\n You are a selfish thing!  cried Colin.\n\n What are you?  said Mary.  Selfish people always say that. Anyone is\nselfish who doesn t do what they want. You re more selfish than I am.\nYou re the most selfish boy I ever saw. \n\n I m not!  snapped Colin.  I m not as selfish as your fine Dickon is!\nHe keeps you playing in the dirt when he knows I am all by myself. He s\nselfish, if you like! \n\nMary s eyes flashed fire.\n\n He s nicer than any other boy that ever lived!  she said.  He s he s\nlike an angel!  It might sound rather silly to say that but she did not\ncare.\n\n A nice angel!  Colin sneered ferociously.  He s a common cottage boy\noff the moor! \n\n He s better than a common Rajah!  retorted Mary.  He s a thousand\ntimes better! \n\nBecause she was the stronger of the two she was beginning to get the\nbetter of him. The truth was that he had never had a fight with anyone\nlike himself in his life and, upon the whole, it was rather good for\nhim, though neither he nor Mary knew anything about that. He turned his\nhead on his pillow and shut his eyes and a big tear was squeezed out\nand ran down his cheek. He was beginning to feel pathetic and sorry for\nhimself not for anyone else.\n\n I m not as selfish as you, because I m always ill, and I m sure there\nis a lump coming on my back,  he said.  And I am going to die besides. \n\n You re not!  contradicted Mary unsympathetically.\n\nHe opened his eyes quite wide with indignation. He had never heard such\na thing said before. He was at once furious and slightly pleased, if a\nperson could be both at one time.\n\n I m not?  he cried.  I am! You know I am! Everybody says so. \n\n I don t believe it!  said Mary sourly.  You just say that to make\npeople sorry. I believe you re proud of it. I don t believe it! If you\nwere a nice boy it might be true but you re too nasty! \n\nIn spite of his invalid back Colin sat up in bed in quite a healthy\nrage.\n\n Get out of the room!  he shouted and he caught hold of his pillow and\nthrew it at her. He was not strong enough to throw it far and it only\nfell at her feet, but Mary s face looked as pinched as a nutcracker.\n\n I m going,  she said.  And I won t come back! \n\nShe walked to the door and when she reached it she turned round and\nspoke again.\n\n I was going to tell you all sorts of nice things,  she said.  Dickon\nbrought his fox and his rook and I was going to tell you all about\nthem. Now I won t tell you a single thing! \n\nShe marched out of the door and closed it behind her, and there to her\ngreat astonishment she found the trained nurse standing as if she had\nbeen listening and, more amazing still she was laughing. She was a big\nhandsome young woman who ought not to have been a trained nurse at all,\nas she could not bear invalids and she was always making excuses to\nleave Colin to Martha or anyone else who would take her place. Mary had\nnever liked her, and she simply stood and gazed up at her as she stood\ngiggling into her handkerchief..\n\n What are you laughing at?  she asked her.\n\n At you two young ones,  said the nurse.  It s the best thing that\ncould happen to the sickly pampered thing to have someone to stand up\nto him that s as spoiled as himself;  and she laughed into her\nhandkerchief again.  If he d had a young vixen of a sister to fight\nwith it would have been the saving of him. \n\n Is he going to die? \n\n I don t know and I don t care,  said the nurse.  Hysterics and temper\nare half what ails him. \n\n What are hysterics?  asked Mary.\n\n You ll find out if you work him into a tantrum after this but at any\nrate you ve given him something to have hysterics about, and I m glad\nof it. \n\nMary went back to her room not feeling at all as she had felt when she\nhad come in from the garden. She was cross and disappointed but not at\nall sorry for Colin. She had looked forward to telling him a great many\nthings and she had meant to try to make up her mind whether it would be\nsafe to trust him with the great secret. She had been beginning to\nthink it would be, but now she had changed her mind entirely. She would\nnever tell him and he could stay in his room and never get any fresh\nair and die if he liked! It would serve him right! She felt so sour and\nunrelenting that for a few minutes she almost forgot about Dickon and\nthe green veil creeping over the world and the soft wind blowing down\nfrom the moor.\n\nMartha was waiting for her and the trouble in her face had been\ntemporarily replaced by interest and curiosity. There was a wooden box\non the table and its cover had been removed and revealed that it was\nfull of neat packages.\n\n Mr. Craven sent it to you,  said Martha.  It looks as if it had\npicture-books in it. \n\nMary remembered what he had asked her the day she had gone to his room.\n Do you want anything dolls toys books?  She opened the package\nwondering if he had sent a doll, and also wondering what she should do\nwith it if he had. But he had not sent one. There were several\nbeautiful books such as Colin had, and two of them were about gardens\nand were full of pictures. There were two or three games and there was\na beautiful little writing-case with a gold monogram on it and a gold\npen and inkstand.\n\nEverything was so nice that her pleasure began to crowd her anger out\nof her mind. She had not expected him to remember her at all and her\nhard little heart grew quite warm.\n\n I can write better than I can print,  she said,  and the first thing I\nshall write with that pen will be a letter to tell him I am much\nobliged. \n\nIf she had been friends with Colin she would have run to show him her\npresents at once, and they would have looked at the pictures and read\nsome of the gardening books and perhaps tried playing the games, and he\nwould have enjoyed himself so much he would never once have thought he\nwas going to die or have put his hand on his spine to see if there was\na lump coming. He had a way of doing that which she could not bear. It\ngave her an uncomfortable frightened feeling because he always looked\nso frightened himself. He said that if he felt even quite a little lump\nsome day he should know his hunch had begun to grow. Something he had\nheard Mrs. Medlock whispering to the nurse had given him the idea and\nhe had thought over it in secret until it was quite firmly fixed in his\nmind. Mrs. Medlock had said his father s back had begun to show its\ncrookedness in that way when he was a child. He had never told anyone\nbut Mary that most of his  tantrums  as they called them grew out of\nhis hysterical hidden fear. Mary had been sorry for him when he had\ntold her.\n\n He always began to think about it when he was cross or tired,  she\nsaid to herself.  And he has been cross today. Perhaps perhaps he has\nbeen thinking about it all afternoon. \n\nShe stood still, looking down at the carpet and thinking.\n\n I said I would never go back again  she hesitated, knitting her\nbrows but perhaps, just perhaps, I will go and see if he wants me in\nthe morning. Perhaps he ll try to throw his pillow at me again, but I\nthink I ll go. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\nA TANTRUM\n\n\nShe had got up very early in the morning and had worked hard in the\ngarden and she was tired and sleepy, so as soon as Martha had brought\nher supper and she had eaten it, she was glad to go to bed. As she laid\nher head on the pillow she murmured to herself:\n\n I ll go out before breakfast and work with Dickon and then afterward I\nbelieve I ll go to see him. \n\nShe thought it was the middle of the night when she was awakened by\nsuch dreadful sounds that she jumped out of bed in an instant. What was\nit what was it? The next minute she felt quite sure she knew. Doors\nwere opened and shut and there were hurrying feet in the corridors and\nsomeone was crying and screaming at the same time, screaming and crying\nin a horrible way.\n\n It s Colin,  she said.  He s having one of those tantrums the nurse\ncalled hysterics. How awful it sounds. \n\nAs she listened to the sobbing screams she did not wonder that people\nwere so frightened that they gave him his own way in everything rather\nthan hear them. She put her hands over her ears and felt sick and\nshivering.\n\n I don t know what to do. I don t know what to do,  she kept saying.  I\ncan t bear it. \n\nOnce she wondered if he would stop if she dared go to him and then she\nremembered how he had driven her out of the room and thought that\nperhaps the sight of her might make him worse. Even when she pressed\nher hands more tightly over her ears she could not keep the awful\nsounds out. She hated them so and was so terrified by them that\nsuddenly they began to make her angry and she felt as if she should\nlike to fly into a tantrum herself and frighten him as he was\nfrightening her. She was not used to anyone s tempers but her own. She\ntook her hands from her ears and sprang up and stamped her foot.\n\n He ought to be stopped! Somebody ought to make him stop! Somebody\nought to beat him!  she cried out.\n\nJust then she heard feet almost running down the corridor and her door\nopened and the nurse came in. She was not laughing now by any means.\nShe even looked rather pale.\n\n He s worked himself into hysterics,  she said in a great hurry.  He ll\ndo himself harm. No one can do anything with him. You come and try,\nlike a good child. He likes you. \n\n He turned me out of the room this morning,  said Mary, stamping her\nfoot with excitement.\n\nThe stamp rather pleased the nurse. The truth was that she had been\nafraid she might find Mary crying and hiding her head under the\nbed-clothes.\n\n That s right,  she said.  You re in the right humor. You go and scold\nhim. Give him something new to think of. Do go, child, as quick as ever\nyou can. \n\nIt was not until afterward that Mary realized that the thing had been\nfunny as well as dreadful that it was funny that all the grown-up\npeople were so frightened that they came to a little girl just because\nthey guessed she was almost as bad as Colin himself.\n\nShe flew along the corridor and the nearer she got to the screams the\nhigher her temper mounted. She felt quite wicked by the time she\nreached the door. She slapped it open with her hand and ran across the\nroom to the four-posted bed.\n\n You stop!  she almost shouted.  You stop! I hate you! Everybody hates\nyou! I wish everybody would run out of the house and let you scream\nyourself to death! You _will_ scream yourself to death in a minute, and\nI wish you would! \n\nA nice sympathetic child could neither have thought nor said such\nthings, but it just happened that the shock of hearing them was the\nbest possible thing for this hysterical boy whom no one had ever dared\nto restrain or contradict.\n\nHe had been lying on his face beating his pillow with his hands and he\nactually almost jumped around, he turned so quickly at the sound of the\nfurious little voice. His face looked dreadful, white and red and\nswollen, and he was gasping and choking; but savage little Mary did not\ncare an atom.\n\n If you scream another scream,  she said,  I ll scream too and I can\nscream louder than you can and I ll frighten you, I ll frighten you! \n\nHe actually had stopped screaming because she had startled him so. The\nscream which had been coming almost choked him. The tears were\nstreaming down his face and he shook all over.\n\n I can t stop!  he gasped and sobbed.  I can t I can t! \n\n You can!  shouted Mary.  Half that ails you is hysterics and\ntemper just hysterics hysterics hysterics!  and she stamped each time\nshe said it.\n\n I felt the lump I felt it,  choked out Colin.  I knew I should. I\nshall have a hunch on my back and then I shall die,  and he began to\nwrithe again and turned on his face and sobbed and wailed but he didn t\nscream.\n\n You didn t feel a lump!  contradicted Mary fiercely.  If you did it\nwas only a hysterical lump. Hysterics makes lumps. There s nothing the\nmatter with your horrid back nothing but hysterics! Turn over and let\nme look at it! \n\nShe liked the word  hysterics  and felt somehow as if it had an effect\non him. He was probably like herself and had never heard it before.\n\n Nurse,  she commanded,  come here and show me his back this minute! \n\nThe nurse, Mrs. Medlock and Martha had been standing huddled together\nnear the door staring at her, their mouths half open. All three had\ngasped with fright more than once. The nurse came forward as if she\nwere half afraid. Colin was heaving with great breathless sobs.\n\n Perhaps he he won t let me,  she hesitated in a low voice.\n\nColin heard her, however, and he gasped out between two sobs:\n\n Sh-show her! She-she ll see then! \n\nIt was a poor thin back to look at when it was bared. Every rib could\nbe counted and every joint of the spine, though Mistress Mary did not\ncount them as she bent over and examined them with a solemn savage\nlittle face. She looked so sour and old-fashioned that the nurse turned\nher head aside to hide the twitching of her mouth. There was just a\nminute s silence, for even Colin tried to hold his breath while Mary\nlooked up and down his spine, and down and up, as intently as if she\nhad been the great doctor from London.\n\n There s not a single lump there!  she said at last.  There s not a\nlump as big as a pin except backbone lumps, and you can only feel them\nbecause you re thin. I ve got backbone lumps myself, and they used to\nstick out as much as yours do, until I began to get fatter, and I am\nnot fat enough yet to hide them. There s not a lump as big as a pin! If\nyou ever say there is again, I shall laugh! \n\nNo one but Colin himself knew what effect those crossly spoken childish\nwords had on him. If he had ever had anyone to talk to about his secret\nterrors if he had ever dared to let himself ask questions if he had had\nchildish companions and had not lain on his back in the huge closed\nhouse, breathing an atmosphere heavy with the fears of people who were\nmost of them ignorant and tired of him, he would have found out that\nmost of his fright and illness was created by himself. But he had lain\nand thought of himself and his aches and weariness for hours and days\nand months and years. And now that an angry unsympathetic little girl\ninsisted obstinately that he was not as ill as he thought he was he\nactually felt as if she might be speaking the truth.\n\n I didn t know,  ventured the nurse,  that he thought he had a lump on\nhis spine. His back is weak because he won t try to sit up. I could\nhave told him there was no lump there.  Colin gulped and turned his\nface a little to look at her.\n\n C-could you?  he said pathetically.\n\n Yes, sir. \n\n There!  said Mary, and she gulped too.\n\nColin turned on his face again and but for his long-drawn broken\nbreaths, which were the dying down of his storm of sobbing, he lay\nstill for a minute, though great tears streamed down his face and wet\nthe pillow. Actually the tears meant that a curious great relief had\ncome to him. Presently he turned and looked at the nurse again and\nstrangely enough he was not like a Rajah at all as he spoke to her.\n\n Do you think I could live to grow up?  he said.\n\nThe nurse was neither clever nor soft-hearted but she could repeat some\nof the London doctor s words.\n\n You probably will if you will do what you are told to do and not give\nway to your temper, and stay out a great deal in the fresh air. \n\nColin s tantrum had passed and he was weak and worn out with crying and\nthis perhaps made him feel gentle. He put out his hand a little toward\nMary, and I am glad to say that, her own tantum having passed, she was\nsoftened too and met him half-way with her hand, so that it was a sort\nof making up.\n\n I ll I ll go out with you, Mary,  he said.  I shan t hate fresh air if\nwe can find  He remembered just in time to stop himself from saying\n if we can find the secret garden  and he ended,  I shall like to go\nout with you if Dickon will come and push my chair. I do so want to see\nDickon and the fox and the crow. \n\nThe nurse remade the tumbled bed and shook and straightened the\npillows. Then she made Colin a cup of beef tea and gave a cup to Mary,\nwho really was very glad to get it after her excitement. Mrs. Medlock\nand Martha gladly slipped away, and after everything was neat and calm\nand in order the nurse looked as if she would very gladly slip away\nalso. She was a healthy young woman who resented being robbed of her\nsleep and she yawned quite openly as she looked at Mary, who had pushed\nher big footstool close to the four-posted bed and was holding Colin s\nhand.\n\n You must go back and get your sleep out,  she said.  He ll drop off\nafter a while if he s not too upset. Then I ll lie down myself in the\nnext room. \n\n Would you like me to sing you that song I learned from my Ayah?  Mary\nwhispered to Colin.\n\nHis hand pulled hers gently and he turned his tired eyes on her\nappealingly.\n\n Oh, yes!  he answered.  It s such a soft song. I shall go to sleep in\na minute. \n\n I will put him to sleep,  Mary said to the yawning nurse.  You can go\nif you like. \n\n Well,  said the nurse, with an attempt at reluctance.  If he doesn t\ngo to sleep in half an hour you must call me. \n\n Very well,  answered Mary.\n\nThe nurse was out of the room in a minute and as soon as she was gone\nColin pulled Mary s hand again.\n\n I almost told,  he said;  but I stopped myself in time. I won t talk\nand I ll go to sleep, but you said you had a whole lot of nice things\nto tell me. Have you do you think you have found out anything at all\nabout the way into the secret garden? \n\nMary looked at his poor little tired face and swollen eyes and her\nheart relented.\n\n Ye-es,  she answered,  I think I have. And if you will go to sleep I\nwill tell you tomorrow.  His hand quite trembled.\n\n Oh, Mary!  he said.  Oh, Mary! If I could get into it I think I should\nlive to grow up! Do you suppose that instead of singing the Ayah\nsong you could just tell me softly as you did that first day what you\nimagine it looks like inside? I am sure it will make me go to sleep. \n\n Yes,  answered Mary.  Shut your eyes. \n\nHe closed his eyes and lay quite still and she held his hand and began\nto speak very slowly and in a very low voice.\n\n I think it has been left alone so long that it has grown all into a\nlovely tangle. I think the roses have climbed and climbed and climbed\nuntil they hang from the branches and walls and creep over the\nground almost like a strange gray mist. Some of them have died but\nmany are alive and when the summer comes there will be curtains and\nfountains of roses. I think the ground is full of daffodils and\nsnowdrops and lilies and iris working their way out of the dark. Now\nthe spring has begun perhaps perhaps \n\nThe soft drone of her voice was making him stiller and stiller and she\nsaw it and went on.\n\n Perhaps they are coming up through the grass perhaps there are\nclusters of purple crocuses and gold ones even now. Perhaps the leaves\nare beginning to break out and uncurl and perhaps the gray is changing\nand a green gauze veil is creeping and creeping over everything. And\nthe birds are coming to look at it because it is so safe and still. And\nperhaps perhaps perhaps  very softly and slowly indeed,  the robin has\nfound a mate and is building a nest. \n\nAnd Colin was asleep.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n THA  MUNNOT WASTE NO TIME \n\n\nOf course Mary did not waken early the next morning. She slept late\nbecause she was tired, and when Martha brought her breakfast she told\nher that though Colin was quite quiet he was ill and feverish as he\nalways was after he had worn himself out with a fit of crying. Mary ate\nher breakfast slowly as she listened.\n\n He says he wishes tha  would please go and see him as soon as tha \ncan,  Martha said.  It s queer what a fancy he s took to thee. Tha  did\ngive it him last night for sure didn t tha? Nobody else would have\ndared to do it. Eh! poor lad! He s been spoiled till salt won t save\nhim. Mother says as th  two worst things as can happen to a child is\nnever to have his own way or always to have it. She doesn t know which\nis th  worst. Tha  was in a fine temper tha self, too. But he says to\nme when I went into his room,  Please ask Miss Mary if she ll please\ncome an  talk to me?  Think o  him saying please! Will you go, Miss? \n\n I ll run and see Dickon first,  said Mary.  No, I ll go and see Colin\nfirst and tell him I know what I ll tell him,  with a sudden\ninspiration.\n\nShe had her hat on when she appeared in Colin s room and for a second\nhe looked disappointed. He was in bed. His face was pitifully white and\nthere were dark circles round his eyes.\n\n I m glad you came,  he said.  My head aches and I ache all over\nbecause I m so tired. Are you going somewhere? \n\nMary went and leaned against his bed.\n\n I won t be long,  she said.  I m going to Dickon, but I ll come back.\nColin, it s it s something about the garden. \n\nHis whole face brightened and a little color came into it.\n\n Oh! is it?  he cried out.  I dreamed about it all night. I heard you\nsay something about gray changing into green, and I dreamed I was\nstanding in a place all filled with trembling little green leaves and\nthere were birds on nests everywhere and they looked so soft and still.\nI ll lie and think about it until you come back. \n\nIn five minutes Mary was with Dickon in their garden. The fox and the\ncrow were with him again and this time he had brought two tame\nsquirrels.\n\n I came over on the pony this mornin ,  he said.  Eh! he is a good\nlittle chap Jump is! I brought these two in my pockets. This here one\nhe s called Nut an  this here other one s called Shell. \n\nWhen he said  Nut  one squirrel leaped on to his right shoulder and\nwhen he said  Shell  the other one leaped on to his left shoulder.\n\nWhen they sat down on the grass with Captain curled at their feet, Soot\nsolemnly listening on a tree and Nut and Shell nosing about close to\nthem, it seemed to Mary that it would be scarcely bearable to leave\nsuch delightfulness, but when she began to tell her story somehow the\nlook in Dickon s funny face gradually changed her mind. She could see\nhe felt sorrier for Colin than she did. He looked up at the sky and all\nabout him.\n\n Just listen to them birds th  world seems full of  em all whistlin \nan  pipin ,  he said.  Look at  em dartin  about, an  hearken at  em\ncallin  to each other. Come springtime seems like as if all th  world s\ncallin . The leaves is uncurlin  so you can see  em an , my word, th \nnice smells there is about!  sniffing with his happy turned-up nose.\n An  that poor lad lyin  shut up an  seein  so little that he gets to\nthinkin  o  things as sets him screamin . Eh! my! we mun get him out\nhere we mun get him watchin  an listenin  an  sniffin  up th  air an \nget him just soaked through wi  sunshine. An  we munnot lose no time\nabout it. \n\nWhen he was very much interested he often spoke quite broad Yorkshire\nthough at other times he tried to modify his dialect so that Mary could\nbetter understand. But she loved his broad Yorkshire and had in fact\nbeen trying to learn to speak it herself. So she spoke a little now.\n\n Aye, that we mun,  she said (which meant  Yes, indeed, we must ).\n I ll tell thee what us ll do first,  she proceeded, and Dickon\ngrinned, because when the little wench tried to twist her tongue into\nspeaking Yorkshire it amused him very much.  He s took a graidely fancy\nto thee. He wants to see thee and he wants to see Soot an  Captain.\nWhen I go back to the house to talk to him I ll ax him if tha  canna \ncome an  see him tomorrow mornin an  bring tha  creatures wi  thee an \nthen in a bit, when there s more leaves out, an  happen a bud or two,\nwe ll get him to come out an  tha  shall push him in his chair an \nwe ll bring him here an  show him everything. \n\nWhen she stopped she was quite proud of herself. She had never made a\nlong speech in Yorkshire before and she had remembered very well.\n\n Tha  mun talk a bit o  Yorkshire like that to Mester Colin,  Dickon\nchuckled.  Tha ll make him laugh an  there s nowt as good for ill folk\nas laughin  is. Mother says she believes as half a hour s good laugh\nevery mornin   ud cure a chap as was makin  ready for typhus fever. \n\n I m going to talk Yorkshire to him this very day,  said Mary,\nchuckling herself.\n\nThe garden had reached the time when every day and every night it\nseemed as if Magicians were passing through it drawing loveliness out\nof the earth and the boughs with wands. It was hard to go away and\nleave it all, particularly as Nut had actually crept on to her dress\nand Shell had scrambled down the trunk of the apple-tree they sat under\nand stayed there looking at her with inquiring eyes. But she went back\nto the house and when she sat down close to Colin s bed he began to\nsniff as Dickon did though not in such an experienced way.\n\n You smell like flowers and and fresh things,  he cried out quite\njoyously.  What is it you smell of? It s cool and warm and sweet all at\nthe same time. \n\n It s th  wind from th  moor,  said Mary.  It comes o  sittin  on th \ngrass under a tree wi  Dickon an  wi  Captain an  Soot an  Nut an \nShell. It s th  springtime an  out o  doors an  sunshine as smells so\ngraidely. \n\nShe said it as broadly as she could, and you do not know how broadly\nYorkshire sounds until you have heard someone speak it. Colin began to\nlaugh.\n\n What are you doing?  he said.  I never heard you talk like that\nbefore. How funny it sounds. \n\n I m givin  thee a bit o  Yorkshire,  answered Mary triumphantly.  I\ncanna  talk as graidely as Dickon an  Martha can but tha  sees I can\nshape a bit. Doesn t tha  understand a bit o  Yorkshire when tha  hears\nit? An  tha  a Yorkshire lad thysel  bred an  born! Eh! I wonder tha rt\nnot ashamed o  thy face. \n\nAnd then she began to laugh too and they both laughed until they could\nnot stop themselves and they laughed until the room echoed and Mrs.\nMedlock opening the door to come in drew back into the corridor and\nstood listening amazed.\n\n Well, upon my word!  she said, speaking rather broad Yorkshire herself\nbecause there was no one to hear her and she was so astonished.\n Whoever heard th  like! Whoever on earth would ha  thought it! \n\nThere was so much to talk about. It seemed as if Colin could never hear\nenough of Dickon and Captain and Soot and Nut and Shell and the pony\nwhose name was Jump. Mary had run round into the wood with Dickon to\nsee Jump. He was a tiny little shaggy moor pony with thick locks\nhanging over his eyes and with a pretty face and a nuzzling velvet\nnose. He was rather thin with living on moor grass but he was as tough\nand wiry as if the muscle in his little legs had been made of steel\nsprings. He had lifted his head and whinnied softly the moment he saw\nDickon and he had trotted up to him and put his head across his\nshoulder and then Dickon had talked into his ear and Jump had talked\nback in odd little whinnies and puffs and snorts. Dickon had made him\ngive Mary his small front hoof and kiss her on her cheek with his\nvelvet muzzle.\n\n Does he really understand everything Dickon says?  Colin asked.\n\n It seems as if he does,  answered Mary.  Dickon says anything will\nunderstand if you re friends with it for sure, but you have to be\nfriends for sure. \n\nColin lay quiet a little while and his strange gray eyes seemed to be\nstaring at the wall, but Mary saw he was thinking.\n\n I wish I was friends with things,  he said at last,  but I m not. I\nnever had anything to be friends with, and I can t bear people. \n\n Can t you bear me?  asked Mary.\n\n Yes, I can,  he answered.  It s funny but I even like you. \n\n Ben Weatherstaff said I was like him,  said Mary.  He said he d\nwarrant we d both got the same nasty tempers. I think you are like him\ntoo. We are all three alike you and I and Ben Weatherstaff. He said we\nwere neither of us much to look at and we were as sour as we looked.\nBut I don t feel as sour as I used to before I knew the robin and\nDickon. \n\n Did you feel as if you hated people? \n\n Yes,  answered Mary without any affectation.  I should have detested\nyou if I had seen you before I saw the robin and Dickon. \n\nColin put out his thin hand and touched her.\n\n Mary,  he said,  I wish I hadn t said what I did about sending Dickon\naway. I hated you when you said he was like an angel and I laughed at\nyou but but perhaps he is. \n\n Well, it was rather funny to say it,  she admitted frankly,  because\nhis nose does turn up and he has a big mouth and his clothes have\npatches all over them and he talks broad Yorkshire, but but if an angel\ndid come to Yorkshire and live on the moor if there was a Yorkshire\nangel I believe he d understand the green things and know how to make\nthem grow and he would know how to talk to the wild creatures as Dickon\ndoes and they d know he was friends for sure. \n\n I shouldn t mind Dickon looking at me,  said Colin;  I want to see\nhim. \n\n I m glad you said that,  answered Mary,  because because \n\nQuite suddenly it came into her mind that this was the minute to tell\nhim. Colin knew something new was coming.\n\n Because what?  he cried eagerly.\n\nMary was so anxious that she got up from her stool and came to him and\ncaught hold of both his hands.\n\n Can I trust you? I trusted Dickon because birds trusted him. Can I\ntrust you for sure _for sure?_  she implored.\n\nHer face was so solemn that he almost whispered his answer.\n\n Yes yes! \n\n Well, Dickon will come to see you tomorrow morning, and he ll bring\nhis creatures with him. \n\n Oh! Oh!  Colin cried out in delight.\n\n But that s not all,  Mary went on, almost pale with solemn excitement.\n The rest is better. There is a door into the garden. I found it. It is\nunder the ivy on the wall. \n\nIf he had been a strong healthy boy Colin would probably have shouted\n Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!  but he was weak and rather hysterical; his\neyes grew bigger and bigger and he gasped for breath.\n\n Oh! Mary!  he cried out with a half sob.  Shall I see it? Shall I get\ninto it? Shall I _live_ to get into it?  and he clutched her hands and\ndragged her toward him.\n\n Of course you ll see it!  snapped Mary indignantly.  Of course you ll\nlive to get into it! Don t be silly! \n\nAnd she was so un-hysterical and natural and childish that she brought\nhim to his senses and he began to laugh at himself and a few minutes\nafterward she was sitting on her stool again telling him not what she\nimagined the secret garden to be like but what it really was, and\nColin s aches and tiredness were forgotten and he was listening\nenraptured.\n\n It is just what you thought it would be,  he said at last.  It sounds\njust as if you had really seen it. You know I said that when you told\nme first. \n\nMary hesitated about two minutes and then boldly spoke the truth.\n\n I had seen it and I had been in,  she said.  I found the key and got\nin weeks ago. But I daren t tell you I daren t because I was so afraid\nI couldn t trust you _for sure!_ \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n IT HAS COME! \n\n\nOf course Dr. Craven had been sent for the morning after Colin had had\nhis tantrum. He was always sent for at once when such a thing occurred\nand he always found, when he arrived, a white shaken boy lying on his\nbed, sulky and still so hysterical that he was ready to break into\nfresh sobbing at the least word. In fact, Dr. Craven dreaded and\ndetested the difficulties of these visits. On this occasion he was away\nfrom Misselthwaite Manor until afternoon.\n\n How is he?  he asked Mrs. Medlock rather irritably when he arrived.\n He will break a blood-vessel in one of those fits some day. The boy is\nhalf insane with hysteria and self-indulgence. \n\n Well, sir,  answered Mrs. Medlock,  you ll scarcely believe your eyes\nwhen you see him. That plain sour-faced child that s almost as bad as\nhimself has just bewitched him. How she s done it there s no telling.\nThe Lord knows she s nothing to look at and you scarcely ever hear her\nspeak, but she did what none of us dare do. She just flew at him like a\nlittle cat last night, and stamped her feet and ordered him to stop\nscreaming, and somehow she startled him so that he actually did stop,\nand this afternoon well just come up and see, sir. It s past\ncrediting. \n\nThe scene which Dr. Craven beheld when he entered his patient s room\nwas indeed rather astonishing to him. As Mrs. Medlock opened the door\nhe heard laughing and chattering. Colin was on his sofa in his\ndressing-gown and he was sitting up quite straight looking at a picture\nin one of the garden books and talking to the plain child who at that\nmoment could scarcely be called plain at all because her face was so\nglowing with enjoyment.\n\n Those long spires of blue ones we ll have a lot of those,  Colin was\nannouncing.  They re called Del-phin-iums. \n\n Dickon says they re larkspurs made big and grand,  cried Mistress\nMary.  There are clumps there already. \n\nThen they saw Dr. Craven and stopped. Mary became quite still and Colin\nlooked fretful.\n\n I am sorry to hear you were ill last night, my boy,  Dr. Craven said a\ntrifle nervously. He was rather a nervous man.\n\n I m better now much better,  Colin answered, rather like a Rajah.  I m\ngoing out in my chair in a day or two if it is fine. I want some fresh\nair. \n\nDr. Craven sat down by him and felt his pulse and looked at him\ncuriously.\n\n It must be a very fine day,  he said,  and you must be very careful\nnot to tire yourself. \n\n Fresh air won t tire me,  said the young Rajah.\n\nAs there had been occasions when this same young gentleman had shrieked\naloud with rage and had insisted that fresh air would give him cold and\nkill him, it is not to be wondered at that his doctor felt somewhat\nstartled.\n\n I thought you did not like fresh air,  he said.\n\n I don t when I am by myself,  replied the Rajah;  but my cousin is\ngoing out with me. \n\n And the nurse, of course?  suggested Dr. Craven.\n\n No, I will not have the nurse,  so magnificently that Mary could not\nhelp remembering how the young native Prince had looked with his\ndiamonds and emeralds and pearls stuck all over him and the great\nrubies on the small dark hand he had waved to command his servants to\napproach with salaams and receive his orders.\n\n My cousin knows how to take care of me. I am always better when she is\nwith me. She made me better last night. A very strong boy I know will\npush my carriage. \n\nDr. Craven felt rather alarmed. If this tiresome hysterical boy should\nchance to get well he himself would lose all chance of inheriting\nMisselthwaite; but he was not an unscrupulous man, though he was a weak\none, and he did not intend to let him run into actual danger.\n\n He must be a strong boy and a steady boy,  he said.  And I must know\nsomething about him. Who is he? What is his name? \n\n It s Dickon,  Mary spoke up suddenly. She felt somehow that everybody\nwho knew the moor must know Dickon. And she was right, too. She saw\nthat in a moment Dr. Craven s serious face relaxed into a relieved\nsmile.\n\n Oh, Dickon,  he said.  If it is Dickon you will be safe enough. He s\nas strong as a moor pony, is Dickon. \n\n And he s trusty,  said Mary.  He s th  trustiest lad i  Yorkshire. \nShe had been talking Yorkshire to Colin and she forgot herself.\n\n Did Dickon teach you that?  asked Dr. Craven, laughing outright.\n\n I m learning it as if it was French,  said Mary rather coldly.  It s\nlike a native dialect in India. Very clever people try to learn them. I\nlike it and so does Colin. \n\n Well, well,  he said.  If it amuses you perhaps it won t do you any\nharm. Did you take your bromide last night, Colin? \n\n No,  Colin answered.  I wouldn t take it at first and after Mary made\nme quiet she talked me to sleep in a low voice about the spring\ncreeping into a garden. \n\n That sounds soothing,  said Dr. Craven, more perplexed than ever and\nglancing sideways at Mistress Mary sitting on her stool and looking\ndown silently at the carpet.  You are evidently better, but you must\nremember \n\n I don t want to remember,  interrupted the Rajah, appearing again.\n When I lie by myself and remember I begin to have pains everywhere and\nI think of things that make me begin to scream because I hate them so.\nIf there was a doctor anywhere who could make you forget you were ill\ninstead of remembering it I would have him brought here.  And he waved\na thin hand which ought really to have been covered with royal signet\nrings made of rubies.  It is because my cousin makes me forget that she\nmakes me better. \n\nDr. Craven had never made such a short stay after a  tantrum ; usually\nhe was obliged to remain a very long time and do a great many things.\nThis afternoon he did not give any medicine or leave any new orders and\nhe was spared any disagreeable scenes. When he went downstairs he\nlooked very thoughtful and when he talked to Mrs. Medlock in the\nlibrary she felt that he was a much puzzled man.\n\n Well, sir,  she ventured,  could you have believed it? \n\n It is certainly a new state of affairs,  said the doctor.  And there s\nno denying it is better than the old one. \n\n I believe Susan Sowerby s right I do that,  said Mrs. Medlock.  I\nstopped in her cottage on my way to Thwaite yesterday and had a bit of\ntalk with her. And she says to me,  Well, Sarah Ann, she mayn t be a\ngood child, an  she mayn t be a pretty one, but she s a child, an \nchildren needs children.  We went to school together, Susan Sowerby and\nme. \n\n She s the best sick nurse I know,  said Dr. Craven.  When I find her\nin a cottage I know the chances are that I shall save my patient. \n\nMrs. Medlock smiled. She was fond of Susan Sowerby.\n\n She s got a way with her, has Susan,  she went on quite volubly.  I ve\nbeen thinking all morning of one thing she said yesterday. She says,\n Once when I was givin  th  children a bit of a preach after they d\nbeen fightin  I ses to  em all,  When I was at school my jography told\nas th  world was shaped like a orange an  I found out before I was ten\nthat th  whole orange doesn t belong to nobody. No one owns more than\nhis bit of a quarter an  there s times it seems like there s not enow\nquarters to go round. But don t you none o  you think as you own th \nwhole orange or you ll find out you re mistaken, an  you won t find it\nout without hard knocks.   What children learns from children,  she\nsays,  is that there s no sense in grabbin  at th  whole orange peel\nan  all. If you do you ll likely not get even th  pips, an  them s too\nbitter to eat. \n\n She s a shrewd woman,  said Dr. Craven, putting on his coat.\n\n Well, she s got a way of saying things,  ended Mrs. Medlock, much\npleased.  Sometimes I ve said to her,  Eh! Susan, if you was a\ndifferent woman an  didn t talk such broad Yorkshire I ve seen the\ntimes when I should have said you was clever. \n\n\nThat night Colin slept without once awakening and when he opened his\neyes in the morning he lay still and smiled without knowing it smiled\nbecause he felt so curiously comfortable. It was actually nice to be\nawake, and he turned over and stretched his limbs luxuriously. He felt\nas if tight strings which had held him had loosened themselves and let\nhim go. He did not know that Dr. Craven would have said that his nerves\nhad relaxed and rested themselves. Instead of lying and staring at the\nwall and wishing he had not awakened, his mind was full of the plans he\nand Mary had made yesterday, of pictures of the garden and of Dickon\nand his wild creatures. It was so nice to have things to think about.\nAnd he had not been awake more than ten minutes when he heard feet\nrunning along the corridor and Mary was at the door. The next minute\nshe was in the room and had run across to his bed, bringing with her a\nwaft of fresh air full of the scent of the morning.\n\n You ve been out! You ve been out! There s that nice smell of leaves! \nhe cried.\n\nShe had been running and her hair was loose and blown and she was\nbright with the air and pink-cheeked, though he could not see it.\n\n It s so beautiful!  she said, a little breathless with her speed.  You\nnever saw anything so beautiful! It has _come!_ I thought it had come\nthat other morning, but it was only coming. It is here now! It has\ncome, the Spring! Dickon says so! \n\n Has it?  cried Colin, and though he really knew nothing about it he\nfelt his heart beat. He actually sat up in bed.\n\n Open the window!  he added, laughing half with joyful excitement and\nhalf at his own fancy.  Perhaps we may hear golden trumpets! \n\nAnd though he laughed, Mary was at the window in a moment and in a\nmoment more it was opened wide and freshness and softness and scents\nand birds  songs were pouring through.\n\n That s fresh air,  she said.  Lie on your back and draw in long\nbreaths of it. That s what Dickon does when he s lying on the moor. He\nsays he feels it in his veins and it makes him strong and he feels as\nif he could live forever and ever. Breathe it and breathe it. \n\nShe was only repeating what Dickon had told her, but she caught Colin s\nfancy.\n\n Forever and ever ! Does it make him feel like that?  he said, and he\ndid as she told him, drawing in long deep breaths over and over again\nuntil he felt that something quite new and delightful was happening to\nhim.\n\nMary was at his bedside again.\n\n Things are crowding up out of the earth,  she ran on in a hurry.  And\nthere are flowers uncurling and buds on everything and the green veil\nhas covered nearly all the gray and the birds are in such a hurry about\ntheir nests for fear they may be too late that some of them are even\nfighting for places in the secret garden. And the rose-bushes look as\nwick as wick can be, and there are primroses in the lanes and woods,\nand the seeds we planted are up, and Dickon has brought the fox and the\ncrow and the squirrels and a new-born lamb. \n\nAnd then she paused for breath. The new-born lamb Dickon had found\nthree days before lying by its dead mother among the gorse bushes on\nthe moor. It was not the first motherless lamb he had found and he knew\nwhat to do with it. He had taken it to the cottage wrapped in his\njacket and he had let it lie near the fire and had fed it with warm\nmilk. It was a soft thing with a darling silly baby face and legs\nrather long for its body. Dickon had carried it over the moor in his\narms and its feeding bottle was in his pocket with a squirrel, and when\nMary had sat under a tree with its limp warmness huddled on her lap she\nhad felt as if she were too full of strange joy to speak. A lamb a\nlamb! A living lamb who lay on your lap like a baby!\n\nShe was describing it with great joy and Colin was listening and\ndrawing in long breaths of air when the nurse entered. She started a\nlittle at the sight of the open window. She had sat stifling in the\nroom many a warm day because her patient was sure that open windows\ngave people cold.\n\n Are you sure you are not chilly, Master Colin?  she inquired.\n\n No,  was the answer.  I am breathing long breaths of fresh air. It\nmakes you strong. I am going to get up to the sofa for breakfast. My\ncousin will have breakfast with me. \n\nThe nurse went away, concealing a smile, to give the order for two\nbreakfasts. She found the servants  hall a more amusing place than the\ninvalid s chamber and just now everybody wanted to hear the news from\nupstairs. There was a great deal of joking about the unpopular young\nrecluse who, as the cook said,  had found his master, and good for\nhim.  The servants  hall had been very tired of the tantrums, and the\nbutler, who was a man with a family, had more than once expressed his\nopinion that the invalid would be all the better  for a good hiding. \n\nWhen Colin was on his sofa and the breakfast for two was put upon the\ntable he made an announcement to the nurse in his most Rajah-like\nmanner.\n\n A boy, and a fox, and a crow, and two squirrels, and a new-born lamb,\nare coming to see me this morning. I want them brought upstairs as soon\nas they come,  he said.  You are not to begin playing with the animals\nin the servants  hall and keep them there. I want them here. \n\nThe nurse gave a slight gasp and tried to conceal it with a cough.\n\n Yes, sir,  she answered.\n\n I ll tell you what you can do,  added Colin, waving his hand.  You can\ntell Martha to bring them here. The boy is Martha s brother. His name\nis Dickon and he is an animal charmer. \n\n I hope the animals won t bite, Master Colin,  said the nurse.\n\n I told you he was a charmer,  said Colin austerely.  Charmers  animals\nnever bite. \n\n There are snake-charmers in India,  said Mary.  And they can put their\nsnakes  heads in their mouths. \n\n Goodness!  shuddered the nurse.\n\nThey ate their breakfast with the morning air pouring in upon them.\nColin s breakfast was a very good one and Mary watched him with serious\ninterest.\n\n You will begin to get fatter just as I did,  she said.  I never wanted\nmy breakfast when I was in India and now I always want it. \n\n I wanted mine this morning,  said Colin.  Perhaps it was the fresh\nair. When do you think Dickon will come? \n\nHe was not long in coming. In about ten minutes Mary held up her hand.\n\n Listen!  she said.  Did you hear a caw? \n\nColin listened and heard it, the oddest sound in the world to hear\ninside a house, a hoarse  caw-caw. \n\n Yes,  he answered.\n\n That s Soot,  said Mary.  Listen again. Do you hear a bleat a tiny\none? \n\n Oh, yes!  cried Colin, quite flushing.\n\n That s the new-born lamb,  said Mary.  He s coming. \n\nDickon s moorland boots were thick and clumsy and though he tried to\nwalk quietly they made a clumping sound as he walked through the long\ncorridors. Mary and Colin heard him marching marching, until he passed\nthrough the tapestry door on to the soft carpet of Colin s own passage.\n\n If you please, sir,  announced Martha, opening the door,  if you\nplease, sir, here s Dickon an  his creatures. \n\nDickon came in smiling his nicest wide smile. The new-born lamb was in\nhis arms and the little red fox trotted by his side. Nut sat on his\nleft shoulder and Soot on his right and Shell s head and paws peeped\nout of his coat pocket.\n\nColin slowly sat up and stared and stared as he had stared when he\nfirst saw Mary; but this was a stare of wonder and delight. The truth\nwas that in spite of all he had heard he had not in the least\nunderstood what this boy would be like and that his fox and his crow\nand his squirrels and his lamb were so near to him and his friendliness\nthat they seemed almost to be part of himself. Colin had never talked\nto a boy in his life and he was so overwhelmed by his own pleasure and\ncuriosity that he did not even think of speaking.\n\nBut Dickon did not feel the least shy or awkward. He had not felt\nembarrassed because the crow had not known his language and had only\nstared and had not spoken to him the first time they met. Creatures\nwere always like that until they found out about you. He walked over to\nColin s sofa and put the new-born lamb quietly on his lap, and\nimmediately the little creature turned to the warm velvet dressing-gown\nand began to nuzzle and nuzzle into its folds and butt its tight-curled\nhead with soft impatience against his side. Of course no boy could have\nhelped speaking then.\n\n What is it doing?  cried Colin.  What does it want? \n\n It wants its mother,  said Dickon, smiling more and more.  I brought\nit to thee a bit hungry because I knowed tha d like to see it feed. \n\nHe knelt down by the sofa and took a feeding-bottle from his pocket.\n\n Come on, little  un,  he said, turning the small woolly white head\nwith a gentle brown hand.  This is what tha s after. Tha ll get more\nout o  this than tha  will out o  silk velvet coats. There now,  and he\npushed the rubber tip of the bottle into the nuzzling mouth and the\nlamb began to suck it with ravenous ecstasy.\n\nAfter that there was no wondering what to say. By the time the lamb\nfell asleep questions poured forth and Dickon answered them all. He\ntold them how he had found the lamb just as the sun was rising three\nmornings ago. He had been standing on the moor listening to a skylark\nand watching him swing higher and higher into the sky until he was only\na speck in the heights of blue.\n\n I d almost lost him but for his song an  I was wonderin  how a chap\ncould hear it when it seemed as if he d get out o  th  world in a\nminute an  just then I heard somethin  else far off among th  gorse\nbushes. It was a weak bleatin  an  I knowed it was a new lamb as was\nhungry an  I knowed it wouldn t be hungry if it hadn t lost its mother\nsomehow, so I set off searchin . Eh! I did have a look for it. I went\nin an  out among th  gorse bushes an  round an  round an  I always\nseemed to take th  wrong turnin . But at last I seed a bit o  white by\na rock on top o  th  moor an  I climbed up an  found th  little  un\nhalf dead wi  cold an  clemmin . \n\nWhile he talked, Soot flew solemnly in and out of the open window and\ncawed remarks about the scenery while Nut and Shell made excursions\ninto the big trees outside and ran up and down trunks and explored\nbranches. Captain curled up near Dickon, who sat on the hearth-rug from\npreference.\n\nThey looked at the pictures in the gardening books and Dickon knew all\nthe flowers by their country names and knew exactly which ones were\nalready growing in the secret garden.\n\n I couldna  say that there name,  he said, pointing to one under which\nwas written  Aquilegia,   but us calls that a columbine, an  that there\none it s a snapdragon and they both grow wild in hedges, but these is\ngarden ones an  they re bigger an  grander. There s some big clumps o \ncolumbine in th  garden. They ll look like a bed o  blue an  white\nbutterflies flutterin  when they re out. \n\n I m going to see them,  cried Colin.  I am going to see them! \n\n Aye, that tha  mun,  said Mary quite seriously.  An  tha  munnot lose\nno time about it. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n I SHALL LIVE FOREVER AND EVER AND EVER! \n\n\nBut they were obliged to wait more than a week because first there came\nsome very windy days and then Colin was threatened with a cold, which\ntwo things happening one after the other would no doubt have thrown him\ninto a rage but that there was so much careful and mysterious planning\nto do and almost every day Dickon came in, if only for a few minutes,\nto talk about what was happening on the moor and in the lanes and\nhedges and on the borders of streams. The things he had to tell about\notters  and badgers  and water-rats  houses, not to mention birds \nnests and field-mice and their burrows, were enough to make you almost\ntremble with excitement when you heard all the intimate details from an\nanimal charmer and realized with what thrilling eagerness and anxiety\nthe whole busy underworld was working.\n\n They re same as us,  said Dickon,  only they have to build their homes\nevery year. An  it keeps  em so busy they fair scuffle to get  em\ndone. \n\nThe most absorbing thing, however, was the preparations to be made\nbefore Colin could be transported with sufficient secrecy to the\ngarden. No one must see the chair-carriage and Dickon and Mary after\nthey turned a certain corner of the shrubbery and entered upon the walk\noutside the ivied walls. As each day passed, Colin had become more and\nmore fixed in his feeling that the mystery surrounding the garden was\none of its greatest charms. Nothing must spoil that. No one must ever\nsuspect that they had a secret. People must think that he was simply\ngoing out with Mary and Dickon because he liked them and did not object\nto their looking at him. They had long and quite delightful talks about\ntheir route. They would go up this path and down that one and cross the\nother and go round among the fountain flower-beds as if they were\nlooking at the  bedding-out plants  the head gardener, Mr. Roach, had\nbeen having arranged. That would seem such a rational thing to do that\nno one would think it at all mysterious. They would turn into the\nshrubbery walks and lose themselves until they came to the long walls.\nIt was almost as serious and elaborately thought out as the plans of\nmarch made by great generals in time of war.\n\nRumors of the new and curious things which were occurring in the\ninvalid s apartments had of course filtered through the servants  hall\ninto the stable yards and out among the gardeners, but notwithstanding\nthis, Mr. Roach was startled one day when he received orders from\nMaster Colin s room to the effect that he must report himself in the\napartment no outsider had ever seen, as the invalid himself desired to\nspeak to him.\n\n Well, well,  he said to himself as he hurriedly changed his coat,\n what s to do now? His Royal Highness that wasn t to be looked at\ncalling up a man he s never set eyes on. \n\nMr. Roach was not without curiosity. He had never caught even a glimpse\nof the boy and had heard a dozen exaggerated stories about his uncanny\nlooks and ways and his insane tempers. The thing he had heard oftenest\nwas that he might die at any moment and there had been numerous\nfanciful descriptions of a humped back and helpless limbs, given by\npeople who had never seen him.\n\n Things are changing in this house, Mr. Roach,  said Mrs. Medlock, as\nshe led him up the back staircase to the corridor on to which opened\nthe hitherto mysterious chamber.\n\n Let s hope they re changing for the better, Mrs. Medlock,  he\nanswered.\n\n They couldn t well change for the worse,  she continued;  and queer as\nit all is there s them as finds their duties made a lot easier to stand\nup under. Don t you be surprised, Mr. Roach, if you find yourself in\nthe middle of a menagerie and Martha Sowerby s Dickon more at home than\nyou or me could ever be. \n\nThere really was a sort of Magic about Dickon, as Mary always privately\nbelieved. When Mr. Roach heard his name he smiled quite leniently.\n\n He d be at home in Buckingham Palace or at the bottom of a coal mine, \nhe said.  And yet it s not impudence, either. He s just fine, is that\nlad. \n\nIt was perhaps well he had been prepared or he might have been\nstartled. When the bedroom door was opened a large crow, which seemed\nquite at home perched on the high back of a carven chair, announced the\nentrance of a visitor by saying  Caw Caw  quite loudly. In spite of\nMrs. Medlock s warning, Mr. Roach only just escaped being sufficiently\nundignified to jump backward.\n\nThe young Rajah was neither in bed nor on his sofa. He was sitting in\nan armchair and a young lamb was standing by him shaking its tail in\nfeeding-lamb fashion as Dickon knelt giving it milk from its bottle. A\nsquirrel was perched on Dickon s bent back attentively nibbling a nut.\nThe little girl from India was sitting on a big footstool looking on.\n\n Here is Mr. Roach, Master Colin,  said Mrs. Medlock.\n\nThe young Rajah turned and looked his servitor over at least that was\nwhat the head gardener felt happened.\n\n Oh, you are Roach, are you?  he said.  I sent for you to give you some\nvery important orders. \n\n Very good, sir,  answered Roach, wondering if he was to receive\ninstructions to fell all the oaks in the park or to transform the\norchards into water-gardens.\n\n I am going out in my chair this afternoon,  said Colin.  If the fresh\nair agrees with me I may go out every day. When I go, none of the\ngardeners are to be anywhere near the Long Walk by the garden walls. No\none is to be there. I shall go out about two o clock and everyone must\nkeep away until I send word that they may go back to their work. \n\n Very good, sir,  replied Mr. Roach, much relieved to hear that the\noaks might remain and that the orchards were safe.\n\n Mary,  said Colin, turning to her,  what is that thing you say in\nIndia when you have finished talking and want people to go? \n\n You say,  You have my permission to go,  answered Mary.\n\nThe Rajah waved his hand.\n\n You have my permission to go, Roach,  he said.  But, remember, this is\nvery important. \n\n Caw Caw!  remarked the crow hoarsely but not impolitely.\n\n Very good, sir. Thank you, sir,  said Mr. Roach, and Mrs. Medlock took\nhim out of the room.\n\nOutside in the corridor, being a rather good-natured man, he smiled\nuntil he almost laughed.\n\n My word!  he said,  he s got a fine lordly way with him, hasn t he?\nYou d think he was a whole Royal Family rolled into one Prince Consort\nand all. \n\n Eh!  protested Mrs. Medlock,  we ve had to let him trample all over\neveryone of us ever since he had feet and he thinks that s what folks\nwas born for. \n\n Perhaps he ll grow out of it, if he lives,  suggested Mr. Roach.\n\n Well, there s one thing pretty sure,  said Mrs. Medlock.  If he does\nlive and that Indian child stays here I ll warrant she teaches him that\nthe whole orange does not belong to him, as Susan Sowerby says. And\nhe ll be likely to find out the size of his own quarter. \n\nInside the room Colin was leaning back on his cushions.\n\n It s all safe now,  he said.  And this afternoon I shall see it this\nafternoon I shall be in it! \n\nDickon went back to the garden with his creatures and Mary stayed with\nColin. She did not think he looked tired but he was very quiet before\ntheir lunch came and he was quiet while they were eating it. She\nwondered why and asked him about it.\n\n What big eyes you ve got, Colin,  she said.  When you are thinking\nthey get as big as saucers. What are you thinking about now? \n\n I can t help thinking about what it will look like,  he answered.\n\n The garden?  asked Mary.\n\n The springtime,  he said.  I was thinking that I ve really never seen\nit before. I scarcely ever went out and when I did go I never looked at\nit. I didn t even think about it. \n\n I never saw it in India because there wasn t any,  said Mary.\n\nShut in and morbid as his life had been, Colin had more imagination\nthan she had and at least he had spent a good deal of time looking at\nwonderful books and pictures.\n\n That morning when you ran in and said  It s come! It s come! , you\nmade me feel quite queer. It sounded as if things were coming with a\ngreat procession and big bursts and wafts of music. I ve a picture like\nit in one of my books crowds of lovely people and children with\ngarlands and branches with blossoms on them, everyone laughing and\ndancing and crowding and playing on pipes. That was why I said,\n Perhaps we shall hear golden trumpets  and told you to throw open the\nwindow. \n\n How funny!  said Mary.  That s really just what it feels like. And if\nall the flowers and leaves and green things and birds and wild\ncreatures danced past at once, what a crowd it would be! I m sure\nthey d dance and sing and flute and that would be the wafts of music. \n\nThey both laughed but it was not because the idea was laughable but\nbecause they both so liked it.\n\nA little later the nurse made Colin ready. She noticed that instead of\nlying like a log while his clothes were put on he sat up and made some\nefforts to help himself, and he talked and laughed with Mary all the\ntime.\n\n This is one of his good days, sir,  she said to Dr. Craven, who\ndropped in to inspect him.  He s in such good spirits that it makes him\nstronger. \n\n I ll call in again later in the afternoon, after he has come in,  said\nDr. Craven.  I must see how the going out agrees with him. I wish,  in\na very low voice,  that he would let you go with him. \n\n I d rather give up the case this moment, sir, than even stay here\nwhile it s suggested,  answered the nurse. With sudden firmness.\n\n I hadn t really decided to suggest it,  said the doctor, with his\nslight nervousness.  We ll try the experiment. Dickon s a lad I d trust\nwith a new-born child. \n\nThe strongest footman in the house carried Colin downstairs and put him\nin his wheeled chair near which Dickon waited outside. After the\nmanservant had arranged his rugs and cushions the Rajah waved his hand\nto him and to the nurse.\n\n You have my permission to go,  he said, and they both disappeared\nquickly and it must be confessed giggled when they were safely inside\nthe house.\n\nDickon began to push the wheeled chair slowly and steadily. Mistress\nMary walked beside it and Colin leaned back and lifted his face to the\nsky. The arch of it looked very high and the small snowy clouds seemed\nlike white birds floating on outspread wings below its crystal\nblueness. The wind swept in soft big breaths down from the moor and was\nstrange with a wild clear scented sweetness. Colin kept lifting his\nthin chest to draw it in, and his big eyes looked as if it were they\nwhich were listening listening, instead of his ears.\n\n There are so many sounds of singing and humming and calling out,  he\nsaid.  What is that scent the puffs of wind bring? \n\n It s gorse on th  moor that s openin  out,  answered Dickon.  Eh! th \nbees are at it wonderful today. \n\nNot a human creature was to be caught sight of in the paths they took.\nIn fact every gardener or gardener s lad had been witched away. But\nthey wound in and out among the shrubbery and out and round the\nfountain beds, following their carefully planned route for the mere\nmysterious pleasure of it. But when at last they turned into the Long\nWalk by the ivied walls the excited sense of an approaching thrill made\nthem, for some curious reason they could not have explained, begin to\nspeak in whispers.\n\n This is it,  breathed Mary.  This is where I used to walk up and down\nand wonder and wonder. \n\n Is it?  cried Colin, and his eyes began to search the ivy with eager\ncuriousness.  But I can see nothing,  he whispered.  There is no door. \n\n That s what I thought,  said Mary.\n\nThen there was a lovely breathless silence and the chair wheeled on.\n\n That is the garden where Ben Weatherstaff works,  said Mary.\n\n Is it?  said Colin.\n\nA few yards more and Mary whispered again.\n\n This is where the robin flew over the wall,  she said.\n\n Is it?  cried Colin.  Oh! I wish he d come again! \n\n And that,  said Mary with solemn delight, pointing under a big lilac\nbush,  is where he perched on the little heap of earth and showed me\nthe key. \n\nThen Colin sat up.\n\n Where? Where? There?  he cried, and his eyes were as big as the wolf s\nin Red Riding-Hood, when Red Riding-Hood felt called upon to remark on\nthem. Dickon stood still and the wheeled chair stopped.\n\n And this,  said Mary, stepping on to the bed close to the ivy,  is\nwhere I went to talk to him when he chirped at me from the top of the\nwall. And this is the ivy the wind blew back,  and she took hold of the\nhanging green curtain.\n\n Oh! is it is it!  gasped Colin.\n\n And here is the handle, and here is the door. Dickon push him in push\nhim in quickly! \n\nAnd Dickon did it with one strong, steady, splendid push.\n\nBut Colin had actually dropped back against his cushions, even though\nhe gasped with delight, and he had covered his eyes with his hands and\nheld them there shutting out everything until they were inside and the\nchair stopped as if by magic and the door was closed. Not till then did\nhe take them away and look round and round and round as Dickon and Mary\nhad done. And over walls and earth and trees and swinging sprays and\ntendrils the fair green veil of tender little leaves had crept, and in\nthe grass under the trees and the gray urns in the alcoves and here and\nthere everywhere were touches or splashes of gold and purple and white\nand the trees were showing pink and snow above his head and there were\nfluttering of wings and faint sweet pipes and humming and scents and\nscents. And the sun fell warm upon his face like a hand with a lovely\ntouch. And in wonder Mary and Dickon stood and stared at him. He looked\nso strange and different because a pink glow of color had actually\ncrept all over him ivory face and neck and hands and all.\n\n I shall get well! I shall get well!  he cried out.  Mary! Dickon! I\nshall get well! And I shall live forever and ever and ever! \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI.\nBEN WEATHERSTAFF\n\n\nOne of the strange things about living in the world is that it is only\nnow and then one is quite sure one is going to live forever and ever\nand ever. One knows it sometimes when one gets up at the tender solemn\ndawn-time and goes out and stands alone and throws one s head far back\nand looks up and up and watches the pale sky slowly changing and\nflushing and marvelous unknown things happening until the East almost\nmakes one cry out and one s heart stands still at the strange\nunchanging majesty of the rising of the sun which has been happening\nevery morning for thousands and thousands and thousands of years. One\nknows it then for a moment or so. And one knows it sometimes when one\nstands by oneself in a wood at sunset and the mysterious deep gold\nstillness slanting through and under the branches seems to be saying\nslowly again and again something one cannot quite hear, however much\none tries. Then sometimes the immense quiet of the dark blue at night\nwith millions of stars waiting and watching makes one sure; and\nsometimes a sound of far-off music makes it true; and sometimes a look\nin someone s eyes.\n\nAnd it was like that with Colin when he first saw and heard and felt\nthe Springtime inside the four high walls of a hidden garden. That\nafternoon the whole world seemed to devote itself to being perfect and\nradiantly beautiful and kind to one boy. Perhaps out of pure heavenly\ngoodness the spring came and crowded everything it possibly could into\nthat one place. More than once Dickon paused in what he was doing and\nstood still with a sort of growing wonder in his eyes, shaking his head\nsoftly.\n\n Eh! it is graidely,  he said.  I m twelve goin  on thirteen an \nthere s a lot o  afternoons in thirteen years, but seems to me like I\nnever seed one as graidely as this  ere. \n\n Aye, it is a graidely one,  said Mary, and she sighed for mere joy.\n I ll warrant it s the graidelest one as ever was in this world. \n\n Does tha  think,  said Colin with dreamy carefulness,  as happen it\nwas made loike this  ere all o  purpose for me? \n\n My word!  cried Mary admiringly,  that there is a bit o  good\nYorkshire. Tha rt shapin  first-rate that tha  art. \n\nAnd delight reigned.\n\nThey drew the chair under the plum-tree, which was snow-white with\nblossoms and musical with bees. It was like a king s canopy, a fairy\nking s. There were flowering cherry-trees near and apple-trees whose\nbuds were pink and white, and here and there one had burst open wide.\nBetween the blossoming branches of the canopy bits of blue sky looked\ndown like wonderful eyes.\n\nMary and Dickon worked a little here and there and Colin watched them.\nThey brought him things to look at buds which were opening, buds which\nwere tight closed, bits of twig whose leaves were just showing green,\nthe feather of a woodpecker which had dropped on the grass, the empty\nshell of some bird early hatched. Dickon pushed the chair slowly round\nand round the garden, stopping every other moment to let him look at\nwonders springing out of the earth or trailing down from trees. It was\nlike being taken in state round the country of a magic king and queen\nand shown all the mysterious riches it contained.\n\n I wonder if we shall see the robin?  said Colin.\n\n Tha ll see him often enow after a bit,  answered Dickon.  When th \neggs hatches out th  little chap he ll be kep  so busy it ll make his\nhead swim. Tha ll see him flyin  backward an  for ard carryin  worms\nnigh as big as himsel  an  that much noise goin  on in th  nest when he\ngets there as fair flusters him so as he scarce knows which big mouth\nto drop th  first piece in. An  gapin  beaks an  squawks on every side.\nMother says as when she sees th  work a robin has to keep them gapin \nbeaks filled, she feels like she was a lady with nothin  to do. She\nsays she s seen th  little chaps when it seemed like th  sweat must be\ndroppin  off  em, though folk can t see it. \n\nThis made them giggle so delightedly that they were obliged to cover\ntheir mouths with their hands, remembering that they must not be heard.\nColin had been instructed as to the law of whispers and low voices\nseveral days before. He liked the mysteriousness of it and did his\nbest, but in the midst of excited enjoyment it is rather difficult\nnever to laugh above a whisper.\n\nEvery moment of the afternoon was full of new things and every hour the\nsunshine grew more golden. The wheeled chair had been drawn back under\nthe canopy and Dickon had sat down on the grass and had just drawn out\nhis pipe when Colin saw something he had not had time to notice before.\n\n That s a very old tree over there, isn t it?  he said.\n\nDickon looked across the grass at the tree and Mary looked and there\nwas a brief moment of stillness.\n\n Yes,  answered Dickon, after it, and his low voice had a very gentle\nsound.\n\nMary gazed at the tree and thought.\n\n The branches are quite gray and there s not a single leaf anywhere, \nColin went on.  It s quite dead, isn t it? \n\n Aye,  admitted Dickon.  But them roses as has climbed all over it will\nnear hide every bit o  th  dead wood when they re full o  leaves an \nflowers. It won t look dead then. It ll be th  prettiest of all. \n\nMary still gazed at the tree and thought.\n\n It looks as if a big branch had been broken off,  said Colin.  I\nwonder how it was done. \n\n It s been done many a year,  answered Dickon.  Eh!  with a sudden\nrelieved start and laying his hand on Colin.  Look at that robin! There\nhe is! He s been foragin  for his mate. \n\nColin was almost too late but he just caught sight of him, the flash of\nred-breasted bird with something in his beak. He darted through the\ngreenness and into the close-grown corner and was out of sight. Colin\nleaned back on his cushion again, laughing a little.\n\n He s taking her tea to her. Perhaps it s five o clock. I think I d\nlike some tea myself. \n\nAnd so they were safe.\n\n It was Magic which sent the robin,  said Mary secretly to Dickon\nafterward.  I know it was Magic.  For both she and Dickon had been\nafraid Colin might ask something about the tree whose branch had broken\noff ten years ago and they had talked it over together and Dickon had\nstood and rubbed his head in a troubled way.\n\n We mun look as if it wasn t no different from th  other trees,  he had\nsaid.  We couldn t never tell him how it broke, poor lad. If he says\nanything about it we mun we mun try to look cheerful. \n\n Aye, that we mun,  had answered Mary.\n\nBut she had not felt as if she looked cheerful when she gazed at the\ntree. She wondered and wondered in those few moments if there was any\nreality in that other thing Dickon had said. He had gone on rubbing his\nrust-red hair in a puzzled way, but a nice comforted look had begun to\ngrow in his blue eyes.\n\n Mrs. Craven was a very lovely young lady,  he had gone on rather\nhesitatingly.  An  mother she thinks maybe she s about Misselthwaite\nmany a time lookin  after Mester Colin, same as all mothers do when\nthey re took out o  th  world. They have to come back, tha  sees.\nHappen she s been in the garden an  happen it was her set us to work,\nan  told us to bring him here. \n\nMary had thought he meant something about Magic. She was a great\nbeliever in Magic. Secretly she quite believed that Dickon worked\nMagic, of course good Magic, on everything near him and that was why\npeople liked him so much and wild creatures knew he was their friend.\nShe wondered, indeed, if it were not possible that his gift had brought\nthe robin just at the right moment when Colin asked that dangerous\nquestion. She felt that his Magic was working all the afternoon and\nmaking Colin look like an entirely different boy. It did not seem\npossible that he could be the crazy creature who had screamed and\nbeaten and bitten his pillow. Even his ivory whiteness seemed to\nchange. The faint glow of color which had shown on his face and neck\nand hands when he first got inside the garden really never quite died\naway. He looked as if he were made of flesh instead of ivory or wax.\n\nThey saw the robin carry food to his mate two or three times, and it\nwas so suggestive of afternoon tea that Colin felt they must have some.\n\n Go and make one of the men servants bring some in a basket to the\nrhododendron walk,  he said.  And then you and Dickon can bring it\nhere. \n\nIt was an agreeable idea, easily carried out, and when the white cloth\nwas spread upon the grass, with hot tea and buttered toast and\ncrumpets, a delightfully hungry meal was eaten, and several birds on\ndomestic errands paused to inquire what was going on and were led into\ninvestigating crumbs with great activity. Nut and Shell whisked up\ntrees with pieces of cake and Soot took the entire half of a buttered\ncrumpet into a corner and pecked at and examined and turned it over and\nmade hoarse remarks about it until he decided to swallow it all\njoyfully in one gulp.\n\nThe afternoon was dragging towards its mellow hour. The sun was\ndeepening the gold of its lances, the bees were going home and the\nbirds were flying past less often. Dickon and Mary were sitting on the\ngrass, the tea-basket was repacked ready to be taken back to the house,\nand Colin was lying against his cushions with his heavy locks pushed\nback from his forehead and his face looking quite a natural color.\n\n I don t want this afternoon to go,  he said;  but I shall come back\ntomorrow, and the day after, and the day after, and the day after. \n\n You ll get plenty of fresh air, won t you?  said Mary.\n\n I m going to get nothing else,  he answered.  I ve seen the spring now\nand I m going to see the summer. I m going to see everything grow here.\nI m going to grow here myself. \n\n That tha  will,  said Dickon.  Us ll have thee walkin  about here an \ndiggin  same as other folk afore long. \n\nColin flushed tremendously.\n\n Walk!  he said.  Dig! Shall I? \n\nDickon s glance at him was delicately cautious. Neither he nor Mary had\never asked if anything was the matter with his legs.\n\n For sure tha  will,  he said stoutly.  Tha tha s got legs o  thine\nown, same as other folks! \n\nMary was rather frightened until she heard Colin s answer.\n\n Nothing really ails them,  he said,  but they are so thin and weak.\nThey shake so that I m afraid to try to stand on them. \n\nBoth Mary and Dickon drew a relieved breath.\n\n When tha  stops bein  afraid tha lt stand on  em,  Dickon said with\nrenewed cheer.  An  tha lt stop bein  afraid in a bit. \n\n I shall?  said Colin, and he lay still as if he were wondering about\nthings.\n\nThey were really very quiet for a little while. The sun was dropping\nlower. It was that hour when everything stills itself, and they really\nhad had a busy and exciting afternoon. Colin looked as if he were\nresting luxuriously. Even the creatures had ceased moving about and had\ndrawn together and were resting near them. Soot had perched on a low\nbranch and drawn up one leg and dropped the gray film drowsily over his\neyes. Mary privately thought he looked as if he might snore in a\nminute.\n\nIn the midst of this stillness it was rather startling when Colin half\nlifted his head and exclaimed in a loud suddenly alarmed whisper:\n\n Who is that man? \n\nDickon and Mary scrambled to their feet.\n\n Man!  they both cried in low quick voices.\n\nColin pointed to the high wall.\n\n Look!  he whispered excitedly.  Just look! \n\nMary and Dickon wheeled about and looked. There was Ben Weatherstaff s\nindignant face glaring at them over the wall from the top of a ladder!\nHe actually shook his fist at Mary.\n\n If I wasn t a bachelder, an  tha  was a wench o  mine,  he cried,  I d\ngive thee a hidin ! \n\nHe mounted another step threateningly as if it were his energetic\nintention to jump down and deal with her; but as she came toward him he\nevidently thought better of it and stood on the top step of his ladder\nshaking his fist down at her.\n\n I never thowt much o  thee!  he harangued.  I couldna  abide thee th \nfirst time I set eyes on thee. A scrawny buttermilk-faced young besom,\nallus askin  questions an  pokin  tha  nose where it wasna, wanted. I\nnever knowed how tha  got so thick wi  me. If it hadna  been for th \nrobin  Drat him \n\n Ben Weatherstaff,  called out Mary, finding her breath. She stood\nbelow him and called up to him with a sort of gasp.  Ben Weatherstaff,\nit was the robin who showed me the way! \n\nThen it did seem as if Ben really would scramble down on her side of\nthe wall, he was so outraged.\n\n Tha  young bad  un!  he called down at her.  Layin  tha  badness on a\nrobin not but what he s impidint enow for anythin . Him showin  thee\nth  way! Him! Eh! tha  young nowt she could see his next words burst\nout because he was overpowered by curiosity however i  this world did\ntha  get in? \n\n It was the robin who showed me the way,  she protested obstinately.\n He didn t know he was doing it but he did. And I can t tell you from\nhere while you re shaking your fist at me. \n\nHe stopped shaking his fist very suddenly at that very moment and his\njaw actually dropped as he stared over her head at something he saw\ncoming over the grass toward him.\n\nAt the first sound of his torrent of words Colin had been so surprised\nthat he had only sat up and listened as if he were spellbound. But in\nthe midst of it he had recovered himself and beckoned imperiously to\nDickon.\n\n Wheel me over there!  he commanded.  Wheel me quite close and stop\nright in front of him! \n\nAnd this, if you please, this is what Ben Weatherstaff beheld and which\nmade his jaw drop. A wheeled chair with luxurious cushions and robes\nwhich came toward him looking rather like some sort of State Coach\nbecause a young Rajah leaned back in it with royal command in his great\nblack-rimmed eyes and a thin white hand extended haughtily toward him.\nAnd it stopped right under Ben Weatherstaff s nose. It was really no\nwonder his mouth dropped open.\n\n Do you know who I am?  demanded the Rajah.\n\nHow Ben Weatherstaff stared! His red old eyes fixed themselves on what\nwas before him as if he were seeing a ghost. He gazed and gazed and\ngulped a lump down his throat and did not say a word.\n\n Do you know who I am?  demanded Colin still more imperiously.\n Answer! \n\nBen Weatherstaff put his gnarled hand up and passed it over his eyes\nand over his forehead and then he did answer in a queer shaky voice.\n\n Who tha  art?  he said.  Aye, that I do wi  tha  mother s eyes starin \nat me out o  tha  face. Lord knows how tha  come here. But tha rt th \npoor cripple. \n\nColin forgot that he had ever had a back. His face flushed scarlet and\nhe sat bolt upright.\n\n I m not a cripple!  he cried out furiously.  I m not! \n\n He s not!  cried Mary, almost shouting up the wall in her fierce\nindignation.  He s not got a lump as big as a pin! I looked and there\nwas none there not one! \n\nBen Weatherstaff passed his hand over his forehead again and gazed as\nif he could never gaze enough. His hand shook and his mouth shook and\nhis voice shook. He was an ignorant old man and a tactless old man and\nhe could only remember the things he had heard.\n\n Tha tha  hasn t got a crooked back?  he said hoarsely.\n\n No!  shouted Colin.\n\n Tha tha  hasn t got crooked legs?  quavered Ben more hoarsely yet.\n\nIt was too much. The strength which Colin usually threw into his\ntantrums rushed through him now in a new way. Never yet had he been\naccused of crooked legs even in whispers and the perfectly simple\nbelief in their existence which was revealed by Ben Weatherstaff s\nvoice was more than Rajah flesh and blood could endure. His anger and\ninsulted pride made him forget everything but this one moment and\nfilled him with a power he had never known before, an almost unnatural\nstrength.\n\n Come here!  he shouted to Dickon, and he actually began to tear the\ncoverings off his lower limbs and disentangle himself.  Come here! Come\nhere! This minute! \n\nDickon was by his side in a second. Mary caught her breath in a short\ngasp and felt herself turn pale.\n\n He can do it! He can do it! He can do it! He can!  she gabbled over to\nherself under her breath as fast as ever she could.\n\nThere was a brief fierce scramble, the rugs were tossed on the ground,\nDickon held Colin s arm, the thin legs were out, the thin feet were on\nthe grass. Colin was standing upright upright as straight as an arrow\nand looking strangely tall his head thrown back and his strange eyes\nflashing lightning.\n\n Look at me!  he flung up at Ben Weatherstaff.  Just look at me you!\nJust look at me! \n\n He s as straight as I am!  cried Dickon.  He s as straight as any lad\ni  Yorkshire! \n\nWhat Ben Weatherstaff did Mary thought queer beyond measure. He choked\nand gulped and suddenly tears ran down his weather-wrinkled cheeks as\nhe struck his old hands together.\n\n Eh!  he burst forth,  th  lies folk tells! Tha rt as thin as a lath\nan  as white as a wraith, but there s not a knob on thee. Tha lt make a\nmon yet. God bless thee! \n\nDickon held Colin s arm strongly but the boy had not begun to falter.\nHe stood straighter and straighter and looked Ben Weatherstaff in the\nface.\n\n I m your master,  he said,  when my father is away. And you are to\nobey me. This is my garden. Don t dare to say a word about it! You get\ndown from that ladder and go out to the Long Walk and Miss Mary will\nmeet you and bring you here. I want to talk to you. We did not want\nyou, but now you will have to be in the secret. Be quick! \n\nBen Weatherstaff s crabbed old face was still wet with that one queer\nrush of tears. It seemed as if he could not take his eyes from thin\nstraight Colin standing on his feet with his head thrown back.\n\n Eh! lad,  he almost whispered.  Eh! my lad!  And then remembering\nhimself he suddenly touched his hat gardener fashion and said,  Yes,\nsir! Yes, sir!  and obediently disappeared as he descended the ladder.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII.\nWHEN THE SUN WENT DOWN\n\n\nWhen his head was out of sight Colin turned to Mary.\n\n Go and meet him,  he said; and Mary flew across the grass to the door\nunder the ivy.\n\nDickon was watching him with sharp eyes. There were scarlet spots on\nhis cheeks and he looked amazing, but he showed no signs of falling.\n\n I can stand,  he said, and his head was still held up and he said it\nquite grandly.\n\n I told thee tha  could as soon as tha  stopped bein  afraid,  answered\nDickon.  An  tha s stopped. \n\n Yes, I ve stopped,  said Colin.\n\nThen suddenly he remembered something Mary had said.\n\n Are you making Magic?  he asked sharply.\n\nDickon s curly mouth spread in a cheerful grin.\n\n Tha s doin  Magic thysel ,  he said.  It s same Magic as made these\n ere work out o  th  earth,  and he touched with his thick boot a clump\nof crocuses in the grass.\n\nColin looked down at them.\n\n Aye,  he said slowly,  there couldna  be bigger Magic than that\nthere there couldna  be. \n\nHe drew himself up straighter than ever.\n\n I m going to walk to that tree,  he said, pointing to one a few feet\naway from him.  I m going to be standing when Weatherstaff comes here.\nI can rest against the tree if I like. When I want to sit down I will\nsit down, but not before. Bring a rug from the chair. \n\nHe walked to the tree and though Dickon held his arm he was wonderfully\nsteady. When he stood against the tree trunk it was not too plain that\nhe supported himself against it, and he still held himself so straight\nthat he looked tall.\n\nWhen Ben Weatherstaff came through the door in the wall he saw him\nstanding there and he heard Mary muttering something under her breath.\n\n What art sayin ?  he asked rather testily because he did not want his\nattention distracted from the long thin straight boy figure and proud\nface.\n\nBut she did not tell him. What she was saying was this:\n\n You can do it! You can do it! I told you you could! You can do it! You\ncan do it! You _can!_ \n\nShe was saying it to Colin because she wanted to make Magic and keep\nhim on his feet looking like that. She could not bear that he should\ngive in before Ben Weatherstaff. He did not give in. She was uplifted\nby a sudden feeling that he looked quite beautiful in spite of his\nthinness. He fixed his eyes on Ben Weatherstaff in his funny imperious\nway.\n\n Look at me!  he commanded.  Look at me all over! Am I a hunchback?\nHave I got crooked legs? \n\nBen Weatherstaff had not quite got over his emotion, but he had\nrecovered a little and answered almost in his usual way.\n\n Not tha ,  he said.  Nowt o  th  sort. What s tha  been doin  with\nthysel hidin  out o  sight an  lettin  folk think tha  was cripple an \nhalf-witted? \n\n Half-witted!  said Colin angrily.  Who thought that? \n\n Lots o  fools,  said Ben.  Th  world s full o  jackasses brayin  an \nthey never bray nowt but lies. What did tha  shut thysel  up for? \n\n Everyone thought I was going to die,  said Colin shortly.  I m not! \n\nAnd he said it with such decision Ben Weatherstaff looked him over, up\nand down, down and up.\n\n Tha  die!  he said with dry exultation.  Nowt o  th  sort! Tha s got\ntoo much pluck in thee. When I seed thee put tha  legs on th  ground in\nsuch a hurry I knowed tha  was all right. Sit thee down on th  rug a\nbit young Mester an  give me thy orders. \n\nThere was a queer mixture of crabbed tenderness and shrewd\nunderstanding in his manner. Mary had poured out speech as rapidly as\nshe could as they had come down the Long Walk. The chief thing to be\nremembered, she had told him, was that Colin was getting well getting\nwell. The garden was doing it. No one must let him remember about\nhaving humps and dying.\n\nThe Rajah condescended to seat himself on a rug under the tree.\n\n What work do you do in the gardens, Weatherstaff?  he inquired.\n\n Anythin  I m told to do,  answered old Ben.  I m kep  on by\nfavor because she liked me. \n\n She?  said Colin.\n\n Tha  mother,  answered Ben Weatherstaff.\n\n My mother?  said Colin, and he looked about him quietly.  This was her\ngarden, wasn t it? \n\n Aye, it was that!  and Ben Weatherstaff looked about him too.  She\nwere main fond of it. \n\n It is my garden now. I am fond of it. I shall come here every day, \nannounced Colin.  But it is to be a secret. My orders are that no one\nis to know that we come here. Dickon and my cousin have worked and made\nit come alive. I shall send for you sometimes to help but you must come\nwhen no one can see you. \n\nBen Weatherstaff s face twisted itself in a dry old smile.\n\n I ve come here before when no one saw me,  he said.\n\n What!  exclaimed Colin.  When? \n\n Th  last time I was here,  rubbing his chin and looking round,  was\nabout two year  ago. \n\n But no one has been in it for ten years!  cried Colin.\n\n There was no door! \n\n I m no one,  said old Ben dryly.  An  I didn t come through th  door.\nI come over th  wall. Th  rheumatics held me back th  last two year . \n\n Tha  come an  did a bit o  prunin !  cried Dickon.  I couldn t make\nout how it had been done. \n\n She was so fond of it she was!  said Ben Weatherstaff slowly.  An  she\nwas such a pretty young thing. She says to me once,  Ben,  says she\nlaughin ,  if ever I m ill or if I go away you must take care of my\nroses.  When she did go away th  orders was no one was ever to come\nnigh. But I come,  with grumpy obstinacy.  Over th  wall I come until\nth  rheumatics stopped me an  I did a bit o  work once a year. She d\ngave her order first. \n\n It wouldn t have been as wick as it is if tha  hadn t done it,  said\nDickon.  I did wonder. \n\n I m glad you did it, Weatherstaff,  said Colin.  You ll know how to\nkeep the secret. \n\n Aye, I ll know, sir,  answered Ben.  An  it ll be easier for a man wi \nrheumatics to come in at th  door. \n\nOn the grass near the tree Mary had dropped her trowel. Colin stretched\nout his hand and took it up. An odd expression came into his face and\nhe began to scratch at the earth. His thin hand was weak enough but\npresently as they watched him Mary with quite breathless interest he\ndrove the end of the trowel into the soil and turned some over.\n\n You can do it! You can do it!  said Mary to herself.  I tell you, you\ncan! \n\nDickon s round eyes were full of eager curiousness but he said not a\nword. Ben Weatherstaff looked on with interested face.\n\nColin persevered. After he had turned a few trowelfuls of soil he spoke\nexultantly to Dickon in his best Yorkshire.\n\n Tha  said as tha d have me walkin  about here same as other folk an \ntha  said tha d have me diggin . I thowt tha  was just leein  to please\nme. This is only th  first day an  I ve walked an  here I am diggin . \n\nBen Weatherstaff s mouth fell open again when he heard him, but he\nended by chuckling.\n\n Eh!  he said,  that sounds as if tha d got wits enow. Tha rt a\nYorkshire lad for sure. An  tha rt diggin , too. How d tha  like to\nplant a bit o  somethin ? I can get thee a rose in a pot. \n\n Go and get it!  said Colin, digging excitedly.  Quick! Quick! \n\nIt was done quickly enough indeed. Ben Weatherstaff went his way\nforgetting rheumatics. Dickon took his spade and dug the hole deeper\nand wider than a new digger with thin white hands could make it. Mary\nslipped out to run and bring back a watering-can. When Dickon had\ndeepened the hole Colin went on turning the soft earth over and over.\nHe looked up at the sky, flushed and glowing with the strangely new\nexercise, slight as it was.\n\n I want to do it before the sun goes quite quite down,  he said.\n\nMary thought that perhaps the sun held back a few minutes just on\npurpose. Ben Weatherstaff brought the rose in its pot from the\ngreenhouse. He hobbled over the grass as fast as he could. He had begun\nto be excited, too. He knelt down by the hole and broke the pot from\nthe mould.\n\n Here, lad,  he said, handing the plant to Colin.  Set it in the earth\nthysel  same as th  king does when he goes to a new place. \n\nThe thin white hands shook a little and Colin s flush grew deeper as he\nset the rose in the mould and held it while old Ben made firm the\nearth. It was filled in and pressed down and made steady. Mary was\nleaning forward on her hands and knees. Soot had flown down and marched\nforward to see what was being done. Nut and Shell chattered about it\nfrom a cherry-tree.\n\n It s planted!  said Colin at last.  And the sun is only slipping over\nthe edge. Help me up, Dickon. I want to be standing when it goes.\nThat s part of the Magic. \n\nAnd Dickon helped him, and the Magic or whatever it was so gave him\nstrength that when the sun did slip over the edge and end the strange\nlovely afternoon for them there he actually stood on his two\nfeet laughing.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII.\nMAGIC\n\n\nDr. Craven had been waiting some time at the house when they returned\nto it. He had indeed begun to wonder if it might not be wise to send\nsomeone out to explore the garden paths. When Colin was brought back to\nhis room the poor man looked him over seriously.\n\n You should not have stayed so long,  he said.  You must not overexert\nyourself. \n\n I am not tired at all,  said Colin.  It has made me well. Tomorrow I\nam going out in the morning as well as in the afternoon. \n\n I am not sure that I can allow it,  answered Dr. Craven.  I am afraid\nit would not be wise. \n\n It would not be wise to try to stop me,  said Colin quite seriously.\n I am going. \n\nEven Mary had found out that one of Colin s chief peculiarities was\nthat he did not know in the least what a rude little brute he was with\nhis way of ordering people about. He had lived on a sort of desert\nisland all his life and as he had been the king of it he had made his\nown manners and had had no one to compare himself with. Mary had indeed\nbeen rather like him herself and since she had been at Misselthwaite\nhad gradually discovered that her own manners had not been of the kind\nwhich is usual or popular. Having made this discovery she naturally\nthought it of enough interest to communicate to Colin. So she sat and\nlooked at him curiously for a few minutes after Dr. Craven had gone.\nShe wanted to make him ask her why she was doing it and of course she\ndid.\n\n What are you looking at me for?  he said.\n\n I m thinking that I am rather sorry for Dr. Craven. \n\n So am I,  said Colin calmly, but not without an air of some\nsatisfaction.  He won t get Misselthwaite at all now I m not going to\ndie. \n\n I m sorry for him because of that, of course,  said Mary,  but I was\nthinking just then that it must have been very horrid to have had to be\npolite for ten years to a boy who was always rude. I would never have\ndone it. \n\n Am I rude?  Colin inquired undisturbedly.\n\n If you had been his own boy and he had been a slapping sort of man, \nsaid Mary,  he would have slapped you. \n\n But he daren t,  said Colin.\n\n No, he daren t,  answered Mistress Mary, thinking the thing out quite\nwithout prejudice.  Nobody ever dared to do anything you didn t\nlike because you were going to die and things like that. You were such\na poor thing. \n\n But,  announced Colin stubbornly,  I am not going to be a poor thing.\nI won t let people think I m one. I stood on my feet this afternoon. \n\n It is always having your own way that has made you so queer,  Mary\nwent on, thinking aloud.\n\nColin turned his head, frowning.\n\n Am I queer?  he demanded.\n\n Yes,  answered Mary,  very. But you needn t be cross,  she added\nimpartially,  because so am I queer and so is Ben Weatherstaff. But I\nam not as queer as I was before I began to like people and before I\nfound the garden. \n\n I don t want to be queer,  said Colin.  I am not going to be,  and he\nfrowned again with determination.\n\nHe was a very proud boy. He lay thinking for a while and then Mary saw\nhis beautiful smile begin and gradually change his whole face.\n\n I shall stop being queer,  he said,  if I go every day to the garden.\nThere is Magic in there good Magic, you know, Mary. I am sure there\nis. \n\n So am I,  said Mary.\n\n Even if it isn t real Magic,  Colin said,  we can pretend it is.\n_Something_ is there _something!_ \n\n It s Magic,  said Mary,  but not black. It s as white as snow. \n\nThey always called it Magic and indeed it seemed like it in the months\nthat followed the wonderful months the radiant months the amazing ones.\nOh! the things which happened in that garden! If you have never had a\ngarden you cannot understand, and if you have had a garden you will\nknow that it would take a whole book to describe all that came to pass\nthere. At first it seemed that green things would never cease pushing\ntheir way through the earth, in the grass, in the beds, even in the\ncrevices of the walls. Then the green things began to show buds and the\nbuds began to unfurl and show color, every shade of blue, every shade\nof purple, every tint and hue of crimson. In its happy days flowers had\nbeen tucked away into every inch and hole and corner. Ben Weatherstaff\nhad seen it done and had himself scraped out mortar from between the\nbricks of the wall and made pockets of earth for lovely clinging things\nto grow on. Iris and white lilies rose out of the grass in sheaves, and\nthe green alcoves filled themselves with amazing armies of the blue and\nwhite flower lances of tall delphiniums or columbines or campanulas.\n\n She was main fond o  them she was,  Ben Weatherstaff said.  She liked\nthem things as was allus pointin  up to th  blue sky, she used to tell.\nNot as she was one o  them as looked down on th  earth not her. She\njust loved it but she said as th  blue sky allus looked so joyful. \n\nThe seeds Dickon and Mary had planted grew as if fairies had tended\nthem. Satiny poppies of all tints danced in the breeze by the score,\ngaily defying flowers which had lived in the garden for years and which\nit might be confessed seemed rather to wonder how such new people had\ngot there. And the roses the roses! Rising out of the grass, tangled\nround the sun-dial, wreathing the tree trunks and hanging from their\nbranches, climbing up the walls and spreading over them with long\ngarlands falling in cascades they came alive day by day, hour by hour.\nFair fresh leaves, and buds and buds tiny at first but swelling and\nworking Magic until they burst and uncurled into cups of scent\ndelicately spilling themselves over their brims and filling the garden\nair.\n\nColin saw it all, watching each change as it took place. Every morning\nhe was brought out and every hour of each day when it didn t rain he\nspent in the garden. Even gray days pleased him. He would lie on the\ngrass  watching things growing,  he said. If you watched long enough,\nhe declared, you could see buds unsheath themselves. Also you could\nmake the acquaintance of strange busy insect things running about on\nvarious unknown but evidently serious errands, sometimes carrying tiny\nscraps of straw or feather or food, or climbing blades of grass as if\nthey were trees from whose tops one could look out to explore the\ncountry. A mole throwing up its mound at the end of its burrow and\nmaking its way out at last with the long-nailed paws which looked so\nlike elfish hands, had absorbed him one whole morning. Ants  ways,\nbeetles  ways, bees  ways, frogs  ways, birds  ways, plants  ways, gave\nhim a new world to explore and when Dickon revealed them all and added\nfoxes  ways, otters  ways, ferrets  ways, squirrels  ways, and trout \nand water-rats  and badgers  ways, there was no end to the things to\ntalk about and think over.\n\nAnd this was not the half of the Magic. The fact that he had really\nonce stood on his feet had set Colin thinking tremendously and when\nMary told him of the spell she had worked he was excited and approved\nof it greatly. He talked of it constantly.\n\n Of course there must be lots of Magic in the world,  he said wisely\none day,  but people don t know what it is like or how to make it.\nPerhaps the beginning is just to say nice things are going to happen\nuntil you make them happen. I am going to try and experiment. \n\nThe next morning when they went to the secret garden he sent at once\nfor Ben Weatherstaff. Ben came as quickly as he could and found the\nRajah standing on his feet under a tree and looking very grand but also\nvery beautifully smiling.\n\n Good morning, Ben Weatherstaff,  he said.  I want you and Dickon and\nMiss Mary to stand in a row and listen to me because I am going to tell\nyou something very important. \n\n Aye, aye, sir!  answered Ben Weatherstaff, touching his forehead. (One\nof the long concealed charms of Ben Weatherstaff was that in his\nboyhood he had once run away to sea and had made voyages. So he could\nreply like a sailor.)\n\n I am going to try a scientific experiment,  explained the Rajah.  When\nI grow up I am going to make great scientific discoveries and I am\ngoing to begin now with this experiment. \n\n Aye, aye, sir!  said Ben Weatherstaff promptly, though this was the\nfirst time he had heard of great scientific discoveries.\n\nIt was the first time Mary had heard of them, either, but even at this\nstage she had begun to realize that, queer as he was, Colin had read\nabout a great many singular things and was somehow a very convincing\nsort of boy. When he held up his head and fixed his strange eyes on you\nit seemed as if you believed him almost in spite of yourself though he\nwas only ten years old going on eleven. At this moment he was\nespecially convincing because he suddenly felt the fascination of\nactually making a sort of speech like a grown-up person.\n\n The great scientific discoveries I am going to make,  he went on,\n will be about Magic. Magic is a great thing and scarcely anyone knows\nanything about it except a few people in old books and Mary a little,\nbecause she was born in India where there are fakirs. I believe Dickon\nknows some Magic, but perhaps he doesn t know he knows it. He charms\nanimals and people. I would never have let him come to see me if he had\nnot been an animal charmer which is a boy charmer, too, because a boy\nis an animal. I am sure there is Magic in everything, only we have not\nsense enough to get hold of it and make it do things for us like\nelectricity and horses and steam. \n\nThis sounded so imposing that Ben Weatherstaff became quite excited and\nreally could not keep still.\n\n Aye, aye, sir,  he said and he began to stand up quite straight.\n\n When Mary found this garden it looked quite dead,  the orator\nproceeded.  Then something began pushing things up out of the soil and\nmaking things out of nothing. One day things weren t there and another\nthey were. I had never watched things before and it made me feel very\ncurious. Scientific people are always curious and I am going to be\nscientific. I keep saying to myself,  What is it? What is it?  It s\nsomething. It can t be nothing! I don t know its name so I call it\nMagic. I have never seen the sun rise but Mary and Dickon have and from\nwhat they tell me I am sure that is Magic too. Something pushes it up\nand draws it. Sometimes since I ve been in the garden I ve looked up\nthrough the trees at the sky and I have had a strange feeling of being\nhappy as if something were pushing and drawing in my chest and making\nme breathe fast. Magic is always pushing and drawing and making things\nout of nothing. Everything is made out of Magic, leaves and trees,\nflowers and birds, badgers and foxes and squirrels and people. So it\nmust be all around us. In this garden in all the places. The Magic in\nthis garden has made me stand up and know I am going to live to be a\nman. I am going to make the scientific experiment of trying to get some\nand put it in myself and make it push and draw me and make me strong. I\ndon t know how to do it but I think that if you keep thinking about it\nand calling it perhaps it will come. Perhaps that is the first baby way\nto get it. When I was going to try to stand that first time Mary kept\nsaying to herself as fast as she could,  You can do it! You can do it! \nand I did. I had to try myself at the same time, of course, but her\nMagic helped me and so did Dickon s. Every morning and evening and as\noften in the daytime as I can remember I am going to say,  Magic is in\nme! Magic is making me well! I am going to be as strong as Dickon, as\nstrong as Dickon!  And you must all do it, too. That is my experiment\nWill you help, Ben Weatherstaff? \n\n Aye, aye, sir!  said Ben Weatherstaff.  Aye, aye! \n\n If you keep doing it every day as regularly as soldiers go through\ndrill we shall see what will happen and find out if the experiment\nsucceeds. You learn things by saying them over and over and thinking\nabout them until they stay in your mind forever and I think it will be\nthe same with Magic. If you keep calling it to come to you and help you\nit will get to be part of you and it will stay and do things. \n\n I once heard an officer in India tell my mother that there were fakirs\nwho said words over and over thousands of times,  said Mary.\n\n I ve heard Jem Fettleworth s wife say th  same thing over thousands o \ntimes callin  Jem a drunken brute,  said Ben Weatherstaff dryly.\n Summat allus come o  that, sure enough. He gave her a good hidin  an \nwent to th  Blue Lion an  got as drunk as a lord. \n\nColin drew his brows together and thought a few minutes. Then he\ncheered up.\n\n Well,  he said,  you see something did come of it. She used the wrong\nMagic until she made him beat her. If she d used the right Magic and\nhad said something nice perhaps he wouldn t have got as drunk as a lord\nand perhaps perhaps he might have bought her a new bonnet. \n\nBen Weatherstaff chuckled and there was shrewd admiration in his little\nold eyes.\n\n Tha rt a clever lad as well as a straight-legged one, Mester Colin, \nhe said.  Next time I see Bess Fettleworth I ll give her a bit of a\nhint o  what Magic will do for her. She d be rare an  pleased if th \nsinetifik  speriment worked an  so  ud Jem. \n\nDickon had stood listening to the lecture, his round eyes shining with\ncurious delight. Nut and Shell were on his shoulders and he held a\nlong-eared white rabbit in his arm and stroked and stroked it softly\nwhile it laid its ears along its back and enjoyed itself.\n\n Do you think the experiment will work?  Colin asked him, wondering\nwhat he was thinking. He so often wondered what Dickon was thinking\nwhen he saw him looking at him or at one of his  creatures  with his\nhappy wide smile.\n\nHe smiled now and his smile was wider than usual.\n\n Aye,  he answered,  that I do. It ll work same as th  seeds do when\nth  sun shines on  em. It ll work for sure. Shall us begin it now? \n\nColin was delighted and so was Mary. Fired by recollections of fakirs\nand devotees in illustrations Colin suggested that they should all sit\ncross-legged under the tree which made a canopy.\n\n It will be like sitting in a sort of temple,  said Colin.  I m rather\ntired and I want to sit down. \n\n Eh!  said Dickon,  tha  mustn t begin by sayin  tha rt tired. Tha \nmight spoil th  Magic. \n\nColin turned and looked at him into his innocent round eyes.\n\n That s true,  he said slowly.  I must only think of the Magic. \n\nIt all seemed most majestic and mysterious when they sat down in their\ncircle. Ben Weatherstaff felt as if he had somehow been led into\nappearing at a prayer-meeting. Ordinarily he was very fixed in being\nwhat he called  agen  prayer-meetin s  but this being the Rajah s\naffair he did not resent it and was indeed inclined to be gratified at\nbeing called upon to assist. Mistress Mary felt solemnly enraptured.\nDickon held his rabbit in his arm, and perhaps he made some charmer s\nsignal no one heard, for when he sat down, cross-legged like the rest,\nthe crow, the fox, the squirrels and the lamb slowly drew near and made\npart of the circle, settling each into a place of rest as if of their\nown desire.\n\n The  creatures  have come,  said Colin gravely.  They want to help\nus. \n\nColin really looked quite beautiful, Mary thought. He held his head\nhigh as if he felt like a sort of priest and his strange eyes had a\nwonderful look in them. The light shone on him through the tree canopy.\n\n Now we will begin,  he said.  Shall we sway backward and forward,\nMary, as if we were dervishes? \n\n I canna  do no swayin  back ard and for ard,  said Ben Weatherstaff.\n I ve got th  rheumatics. \n\n The Magic will take them away,  said Colin in a High Priest tone,  but\nwe won t sway until it has done it. We will only chant. \n\n I canna  do no chantin  said Ben Weatherstaff a trifle testily.  They\nturned me out o  th  church choir th  only time I ever tried it. \n\nNo one smiled. They were all too much in earnest. Colin s face was not\neven crossed by a shadow. He was thinking only of the Magic.\n\n Then I will chant,  he said. And he began, looking like a strange boy\nspirit.  The sun is shining the sun is shining. That is the Magic. The\nflowers are growing the roots are stirring. That is the Magic. Being\nalive is the Magic being strong is the Magic. The Magic is in me the\nMagic is in me. It is in me it is in me. It s in everyone of us. It s\nin Ben Weatherstaff s back. Magic! Magic! Come and help! \n\nHe said it a great many times not a thousand times but quite a goodly\nnumber. Mary listened entranced. She felt as if it were at once queer\nand beautiful and she wanted him to go on and on. Ben Weatherstaff\nbegan to feel soothed into a sort of dream which was quite agreeable.\nThe humming of the bees in the blossoms mingled with the chanting voice\nand drowsily melted into a doze. Dickon sat cross-legged with his\nrabbit asleep on his arm and a hand resting on the lamb s back. Soot\nhad pushed away a squirrel and huddled close to him on his shoulder,\nthe gray film dropped over his eyes. At last Colin stopped.\n\n Now I am going to walk round the garden,  he announced.\n\nBen Weatherstaff s head had just dropped forward and he lifted it with\na jerk.\n\n You have been asleep,  said Colin.\n\n Nowt o  th  sort,  mumbled Ben.  Th  sermon was good enow but I m\nbound to get out afore th  collection. \n\nHe was not quite awake yet.\n\n You re not in church,  said Colin.\n\n Not me,  said Ben, straightening himself.  Who said I were? I heard\nevery bit of it. You said th  Magic was in my back. Th  doctor calls it\nrheumatics. \n\nThe Rajah waved his hand.\n\n That was the wrong Magic,  he said.  You will get better. You have my\npermission to go to your work. But come back tomorrow. \n\n I d like to see thee walk round the garden,  grunted Ben.\n\nIt was not an unfriendly grunt, but it was a grunt. In fact, being a\nstubborn old party and not having entire faith in Magic he had made up\nhis mind that if he were sent away he would climb his ladder and look\nover the wall so that he might be ready to hobble back if there were\nany stumbling.\n\nThe Rajah did not object to his staying and so the procession was\nformed. It really did look like a procession. Colin was at its head\nwith Dickon on one side and Mary on the other. Ben Weatherstaff walked\nbehind, and the  creatures  trailed after them, the lamb and the fox\ncub keeping close to Dickon, the white rabbit hopping along or stopping\nto nibble and Soot following with the solemnity of a person who felt\nhimself in charge.\n\nIt was a procession which moved slowly but with dignity. Every few\nyards it stopped to rest. Colin leaned on Dickon s arm and privately\nBen Weatherstaff kept a sharp lookout, but now and then Colin took his\nhand from its support and walked a few steps alone. His head was held\nup all the time and he looked very grand.\n\n The Magic is in me!  he kept saying.  The Magic is making me strong! I\ncan feel it! I can feel it! \n\nIt seemed very certain that something was upholding and uplifting him.\nHe sat on the seats in the alcoves, and once or twice he sat down on\nthe grass and several times he paused in the path and leaned on Dickon,\nbut he would not give up until he had gone all round the garden. When\nhe returned to the canopy tree his cheeks were flushed and he looked\ntriumphant.\n\n I did it! The Magic worked!  he cried.  That is my first scientific\ndiscovery. \n\n What will Dr. Craven say?  broke out Mary.\n\n He won t say anything,  Colin answered,  because he will not be told.\nThis is to be the biggest secret of all. No one is to know anything\nabout it until I have grown so strong that I can walk and run like any\nother boy. I shall come here every day in my chair and I shall be taken\nback in it. I won t have people whispering and asking questions and I\nwon t let my father hear about it until the experiment has quite\nsucceeded. Then sometime when he comes back to Misselthwaite I shall\njust walk into his study and say  Here I am; I am like any other boy. I\nam quite well and I shall live to be a man. It has been done by a\nscientific experiment. \n\n He will think he is in a dream,  cried Mary.  He won t believe his\neyes. \n\nColin flushed triumphantly. He had made himself believe that he was\ngoing to get well, which was really more than half the battle, if he\nhad been aware of it. And the thought which stimulated him more than\nany other was this imagining what his father would look like when he\nsaw that he had a son who was as straight and strong as other fathers \nsons. One of his darkest miseries in the unhealthy morbid past days had\nbeen his hatred of being a sickly weak-backed boy whose father was\nafraid to look at him.\n\n He ll be obliged to believe them,  he said.\n\n One of the things I am going to do, after the Magic works and before I\nbegin to make scientific discoveries, is to be an athlete. \n\n We shall have thee takin  to boxin  in a week or so,  said Ben\nWeatherstaff.  Tha lt end wi  winnin  th  Belt an  bein  champion\nprize-fighter of all England. \n\nColin fixed his eyes on him sternly.\n\n Weatherstaff,  he said,  that is disrespectful. You must not take\nliberties because you are in the secret. However much the Magic works I\nshall not be a prize-fighter. I shall be a Scientific Discoverer. \n\n Ax pardon ax pardon, sir  answered Ben, touching his forehead in\nsalute.  I ought to have seed it wasn t a jokin  matter,  but his eyes\ntwinkled and secretly he was immensely pleased. He really did not mind\nbeing snubbed since the snubbing meant that the lad was gaining\nstrength and spirit.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV.\n LET THEM LAUGH \n\n\nThe secret garden was not the only one Dickon worked in. Round the\ncottage on the moor there was a piece of ground enclosed by a low wall\nof rough stones. Early in the morning and late in the fading twilight\nand on all the days Colin and Mary did not see him, Dickon worked there\nplanting or tending potatoes and cabbages, turnips and carrots and\nherbs for his mother. In the company of his  creatures  he did wonders\nthere and was never tired of doing them, it seemed. While he dug or\nweeded he whistled or sang bits of Yorkshire moor songs or talked to\nSoot or Captain or the brothers and sisters he had taught to help him.\n\n We d never get on as comfortable as we do,  Mrs. Sowerby said,  if it\nwasn t for Dickon s garden. Anything ll grow for him. His  taters and\ncabbages is twice th  size of anyone else s an  they ve got a flavor\nwith  em as nobody s has. \n\nWhen she found a moment to spare she liked to go out and talk to him.\nAfter supper there was still a long clear twilight to work in and that\nwas her quiet time. She could sit upon the low rough wall and look on\nand hear stories of the day. She loved this time. There were not only\nvegetables in this garden. Dickon had bought penny packages of flower\nseeds now and then and sown bright sweet-scented things among\ngooseberry bushes and even cabbages and he grew borders of mignonette\nand pinks and pansies and things whose seeds he could save year after\nyear or whose roots would bloom each spring and spread in time into\nfine clumps. The low wall was one of the prettiest things in Yorkshire\nbecause he had tucked moorland foxglove and ferns and rock-cress and\nhedgerow flowers into every crevice until only here and there glimpses\nof the stones were to be seen.\n\n All a chap s got to do to make  em thrive, mother,  he would say,  is\nto be friends with  em for sure. They re just like th   creatures.  If\nthey re thirsty give  em drink and if they re hungry give  em a bit o \nfood. They want to live same as we do. If they died I should feel as if\nI d been a bad lad and somehow treated them heartless. \n\nIt was in these twilight hours that Mrs. Sowerby heard of all that\nhappened at Misselthwaite Manor. At first she was only told that\n Mester Colin  had taken a fancy to going out into the grounds with\nMiss Mary and that it was doing him good. But it was not long before it\nwas agreed between the two children that Dickon s mother might  come\ninto the secret.  Somehow it was not doubted that she was  safe for\nsure. \n\nSo one beautiful still evening Dickon told the whole story, with all\nthe thrilling details of the buried key and the robin and the gray haze\nwhich had seemed like deadness and the secret Mistress Mary had planned\nnever to reveal. The coming of Dickon and how it had been told to him,\nthe doubt of Mester Colin and the final drama of his introduction to\nthe hidden domain, combined with the incident of Ben Weatherstaff s\nangry face peering over the wall and Mester Colin s sudden indignant\nstrength, made Mrs. Sowerby s nice-looking face quite change color\nseveral times.\n\n My word!  she said.  It was a good thing that little lass came to th \nManor. It s been th  makin  o  her an  th  savin, o  him. Standin  on\nhis feet! An  us all thinkin  he was a poor half-witted lad with not a\nstraight bone in him. \n\nShe asked a great many questions and her blue eyes were full of deep\nthinking.\n\n What do they make of it at th  Manor him being so well an  cheerful\nan  never complainin ?  she inquired.\n\n They don t know what to make of it,  answered Dickon.  Every day as\ncomes round his face looks different. It s fillin  out and doesn t look\nso sharp an  th  waxy color is goin . But he has to do his bit o \ncomplainin ,  with a highly entertained grin.\n\n What for, i  Mercy s name?  asked Mrs. Sowerby.\n\nDickon chuckled.\n\n He does it to keep them from guessin  what s happened. If the doctor\nknew he d found out he could stand on his feet he d likely write and\ntell Mester Craven. Mester Colin s savin  th  secret to tell himself.\nHe s goin  to practise his Magic on his legs every day till his father\ncomes back an  then he s goin  to march into his room an  show him he s\nas straight as other lads. But him an  Miss Mary thinks it s best plan\nto do a bit o  groanin  an  frettin  now an  then to throw folk off th \nscent. \n\nMrs. Sowerby was laughing a low comfortable laugh long before he had\nfinished his last sentence.\n\n Eh!  she said,  that pair s enjoyin  theirselves I ll warrant. They ll\nget a good bit o  actin  out of it an  there s nothin  children likes\nas much as play actin . Let s hear what they do, Dickon lad. \n\nDickon stopped weeding and sat up on his heels to tell her. His eyes\nwere twinkling with fun.\n\n Mester Colin is carried down to his chair every time he goes out,  he\nexplained.  An  he flies out at John, th  footman, for not carryin  him\ncareful enough. He makes himself as helpless lookin  as he can an \nnever lifts his head until we re out o  sight o  th  house. An  he\ngrunts an  frets a good bit when he s bein  settled into his chair. Him\nan  Miss Mary s both got to enjoyin  it an  when he groans an \ncomplains she ll say,  Poor Colin! Does it hurt you so much? Are you so\nweak as that, poor Colin? but th  trouble is that sometimes they can\nscarce keep from burstin  out laughin . When we get safe into the\ngarden they laugh till they ve no breath left to laugh with. An  they\nhave to stuff their faces into Mester Colin s cushions to keep the\ngardeners from hearin , if any of,  em s about. \n\n Th  more they laugh th  better for  em!  said Mrs. Sowerby, still\nlaughing herself.  Good healthy child laughin s better than pills any\nday o  th  year. That pair ll plump up for sure. \n\n They are plumpin  up,  said Dickon.  They re that hungry they don t\nknow how to get enough to eat without makin  talk. Mester Colin says if\nhe keeps sendin  for more food they won t believe he s an invalid at\nall. Miss Mary says she ll let him eat her share, but he says that if\nshe goes hungry she ll get thin an  they mun both get fat at once. \n\nMrs. Sowerby laughed so heartily at the revelation of this difficulty\nthat she quite rocked backward and forward in her blue cloak, and\nDickon laughed with her.\n\n I ll tell thee what, lad,  Mrs. Sowerby said when she could speak.\n I ve thought of a way to help  em. When tha  goes to  em in th \nmornin s tha  shall take a pail o  good new milk an  I ll bake  em a\ncrusty cottage loaf or some buns wi  currants in  em, same as you\nchildren like. Nothin s so good as fresh milk an  bread. Then they\ncould take off th  edge o  their hunger while they were in their garden\nan  th, fine food they get indoors  ud polish off th  corners. \n\n Eh! mother!  said Dickon admiringly,  what a wonder tha  art! Tha \nalways sees a way out o  things. They was quite in a pother yesterday.\nThey didn t see how they was to manage without orderin  up more\nfood they felt that empty inside. \n\n They re two young  uns growin  fast, an  health s comin  back to both\nof  em. Children like that feels like young wolves an  food s flesh an \nblood to  em,  said Mrs. Sowerby. Then she smiled Dickon s own curving\nsmile.  Eh! but they re enjoyin  theirselves for sure,  she said.\n\nShe was quite right, the comfortable wonderful mother creature and she\nhad never been more so than when she said their  play actin  would be\ntheir joy. Colin and Mary found it one of their most thrilling sources\nof entertainment. The idea of protecting themselves from suspicion had\nbeen unconsciously suggested to them first by the puzzled nurse and\nthen by Dr. Craven himself.\n\n Your appetite. Is improving very much, Master Colin,  the nurse had\nsaid one day.  You used to eat nothing, and so many things disagreed\nwith you. \n\n Nothing disagrees with me now  replied Colin, and then seeing the\nnurse looking at him curiously he suddenly remembered that perhaps he\nought not to appear too well just yet.  At least things don t so often\ndisagree with me. It s the fresh air. \n\n Perhaps it is,  said the nurse, still looking at him with a mystified\nexpression.  But I must talk to Dr. Craven about it. \n\n How she stared at you!  said Mary when she went away.  As if she\nthought there must be something to find out. \n\n I won t have her finding out things,  said Colin.  No one must begin\nto find out yet. \n\nWhen Dr. Craven came that morning he seemed puzzled, also. He asked a\nnumber of questions, to Colin s great annoyance.\n\n You stay out in the garden a great deal,  he suggested.  Where do you\ngo? \n\nColin put on his favorite air of dignified indifference to opinion.\n\n I will not let anyone know where I go,  he answered.  I go to a place\nI like. Everyone has orders to keep out of the way. I won t be watched\nand stared at. You know that! \n\n You seem to be out all day but I do not think it has done you harm I\ndo not think so. The nurse says that you eat much more than you have\never done before. \n\n Perhaps,  said Colin, prompted by a sudden inspiration,  perhaps it is\nan unnatural appetite. \n\n I do not think so, as your food seems to agree with you,  said Dr.\nCraven.  You are gaining flesh rapidly and your color is better. \n\n Perhaps perhaps I am bloated and feverish,  said Colin, assuming a\ndiscouraging air of gloom.  People who are not going to live are\noften different. \n\nDr. Craven shook his head. He was holding Colin s wrist and he pushed\nup his sleeve and felt his arm.\n\n You are not feverish,  he said thoughtfully,  and such flesh as you\nhave gained is healthy. If you can keep this up, my boy, we need not\ntalk of dying. Your father will be happy to hear of this remarkable\nimprovement. \n\n I won t have him told!  Colin broke forth fiercely.  It will only\ndisappoint him if I get worse again and I may get worse this very\nnight. I might have a raging fever. I feel as if I might be beginning\nto have one now. I won t have letters written to my father I won t I\nwon t! You are making me angry and you know that is bad for me. I feel\nhot already. I hate being written about and being talked over as much\nas I hate being stared at! \n\n Hush-h! my boy,  Dr. Craven soothed him.  Nothing shall be written\nwithout your permission. You are too sensitive about things. You must\nnot undo the good which has been done. \n\nHe said no more about writing to Mr. Craven and when he saw the nurse\nhe privately warned her that such a possibility must not be mentioned\nto the patient.\n\n The boy is extraordinarily better,  he said.  His advance seems almost\nabnormal. But of course he is doing now of his own free will what we\ncould not make him do before. Still, he excites himself very easily and\nnothing must be said to irritate him. \n\nMary and Colin were much alarmed and talked together anxiously. From\nthis time dated their plan of  play actin . \n\n I may be obliged to have a tantrum,  said Colin regretfully.  I don t\nwant to have one and I m not miserable enough now to work myself into a\nbig one. Perhaps I couldn t have one at all. That lump doesn t come in\nmy throat now and I keep thinking of nice things instead of horrible\nones. But if they talk about writing to my father I shall have to do\nsomething. \n\nHe made up his mind to eat less, but unfortunately it was not possible\nto carry out this brilliant idea when he wakened each morning with an\namazing appetite and the table near his sofa was set with a breakfast\nof home-made bread and fresh butter, snow-white eggs, raspberry jam and\nclotted cream. Mary always breakfasted with him and when they found\nthemselves at the table particularly if there were delicate slices of\nsizzling ham sending forth tempting odors from under a hot silver\ncover they would look into each other s eyes in desperation.\n\n I think we shall have to eat it all this morning, Mary,  Colin always\nended by saying.  We can send away some of the lunch and a great deal\nof the dinner. \n\nBut they never found they could send away anything and the highly\npolished condition of the empty plates returned to the pantry awakened\nmuch comment.\n\n I do wish,  Colin would say also,  I do wish the slices of ham were\nthicker, and one muffin each is not enough for anyone. \n\n It s enough for a person who is going to die,  answered Mary when\nfirst she heard this,  but it s not enough for a person who is going to\nlive. I sometimes feel as if I could eat three when those nice fresh\nheather and gorse smells from the moor come pouring in at the open\nwindow. \n\nThe morning that Dickon after they had been enjoying themselves in the\ngarden for about two hours went behind a big rosebush and brought forth\ntwo tin pails and revealed that one was full of rich new milk with\ncream on the top of it, and that the other held cottage-made currant\nbuns folded in a clean blue and white napkin, buns so carefully tucked\nin that they were still hot, there was a riot of surprised joyfulness.\nWhat a wonderful thing for Mrs. Sowerby to think of! What a kind,\nclever woman she must be! How good the buns were! And what delicious\nfresh milk!\n\n Magic is in her just as it is in Dickon,  said Colin.  It makes her\nthink of ways to do things nice things. She is a Magic person. Tell her\nwe are grateful, Dickon extremely grateful. \n\nHe was given to using rather grown-up phrases at times. He enjoyed\nthem. He liked this so much that he improved upon it.\n\n Tell her she has been most bounteous and our gratitude is extreme. \n\nAnd then forgetting his grandeur he fell to and stuffed himself with\nbuns and drank milk out of the pail in copious draughts in the manner\nof any hungry little boy who had been taking unusual exercise and\nbreathing in moorland air and whose breakfast was more than two hours\nbehind him.\n\nThis was the beginning of many agreeable incidents of the same kind.\nThey actually awoke to the fact that as Mrs. Sowerby had fourteen\npeople to provide food for she might not have enough to satisfy two\nextra appetites every day. So they asked her to let them send some of\ntheir shillings to buy things.\n\nDickon made the stimulating discovery that in the wood in the park\noutside the garden where Mary had first found him piping to the wild\ncreatures there was a deep little hollow where you could build a sort\nof tiny oven with stones and roast potatoes and eggs in it. Roasted\neggs were a previously unknown luxury and very hot potatoes with salt\nand fresh butter in them were fit for a woodland king besides being\ndeliciously satisfying. You could buy both potatoes and eggs and eat as\nmany as you liked without feeling as if you were taking food out of the\nmouths of fourteen people.\n\nEvery beautiful morning the Magic was worked by the mystic circle under\nthe plum-tree which provided a canopy of thickening green leaves after\nits brief blossom-time was ended. After the ceremony Colin always took\nhis walking exercise and throughout the day he exercised his newly\nfound power at intervals. Each day he grew stronger and could walk more\nsteadily and cover more ground. And each day his belief in the Magic\ngrew stronger as well it might. He tried one experiment after another\nas he felt himself gaining strength and it was Dickon who showed him\nthe best things of all.\n\n Yesterday,  he said one morning after an absence,  I went to Thwaite\nfor mother an  near th  Blue Cow Inn I seed Bob Haworth. He s the\nstrongest chap on th  moor. He s the champion wrestler an  he can jump\nhigher than any other chap an  throw th  hammer farther. He s gone all\nth  way to Scotland for th  sports some years. He s knowed me ever\nsince I was a little  un an  he s a friendly sort an  I axed him some\nquestions. Th  gentry calls him a athlete and I thought o  thee, Mester\nColin, and I says,  How did tha  make tha  muscles stick out that way,\nBob? Did tha  do anythin  extra to make thysel  so strong?  An  he says\n Well, yes, lad, I did. A strong man in a show that came to Thwaite\nonce showed me how to exercise my arms an  legs an  every muscle in my\nbody. An  I says,  Could a delicate chap make himself stronger with\n em, Bob?  an  he laughed an  says,  Art tha  th  delicate chap?  an  I\nsays,  No, but I knows a young gentleman that s gettin  well of a long\nillness an  I wish I knowed some o  them tricks to tell him about.  I\ndidn t say no names an  he didn t ask none. He s friendly same as I\nsaid an  he stood up an  showed me good-natured like, an  I imitated\nwhat he did till I knowed it by heart. \n\nColin had been listening excitedly.\n\n Can you show me?  he cried.  Will you? \n\n Aye, to be sure,  Dickon answered, getting up.  But he says tha  mun\ndo  em gentle at first an  be careful not to tire thysel . Rest in\nbetween times an  take deep breaths an  don t overdo. \n\n I ll be careful,  said Colin.  Show me! Show me! Dickon, you are the\nmost Magic boy in the world! \n\nDickon stood up on the grass and slowly went through a carefully\npractical but simple series of muscle exercises. Colin watched them\nwith widening eyes. He could do a few while he was sitting down.\nPresently he did a few gently while he stood upon his already steadied\nfeet. Mary began to do them also. Soot, who was watching the\nperformance, became much disturbed and left his branch and hopped about\nrestlessly because he could not do them too.\n\nFrom that time the exercises were part of the day s duties as much as\nthe Magic was. It became possible for both Colin and Mary to do more of\nthem each time they tried, and such appetites were the results that but\nfor the basket Dickon put down behind the bush each morning when he\narrived they would have been lost. But the little oven in the hollow\nand Mrs. Sowerby s bounties were so satisfying that Mrs. Medlock and\nthe nurse and Dr. Craven became mystified again. You can trifle with\nyour breakfast and seem to disdain your dinner if you are full to the\nbrim with roasted eggs and potatoes and richly frothed new milk and\noatcakes and buns and heather honey and clotted cream.\n\n They are eating next to nothing,  said the nurse.  They ll die of\nstarvation if they can t be persuaded to take some nourishment. And yet\nsee how they look. \n\n Look!  exclaimed Mrs. Medlock indignantly.  Eh! I m moithered to death\nwith them. They re a pair of young Satans. Bursting their jackets one\nday and the next turning up their noses at the best meals Cook can\ntempt them with. Not a mouthful of that lovely young fowl and bread\nsauce did they set a fork into yesterday and the poor woman fair\n_invented_ a pudding for them and back it s sent. She almost cried.\nShe s afraid she ll be blamed if they starve themselves into their\ngraves. \n\nDr. Craven came and looked at Colin long and carefully, He wore an\nextremely worried expression when the nurse talked with him and showed\nhim the almost untouched tray of breakfast she had saved for him to\nlook at but it was even more worried when he sat down by Colin s sofa\nand examined him. He had been called to London on business and had not\nseen the boy for nearly two weeks. When young things begin to gain\nhealth they gain it rapidly. The waxen tinge had left, Colins skin and\na warm rose showed through it; his beautiful eyes were clear and the\nhollows under them and in his cheeks and temples had filled out. His\nonce dark, heavy locks had begun to look as if they sprang healthily\nfrom his forehead and were soft and warm with life. His lips were\nfuller and of a normal color. In fact as an imitation of a boy who was\na confirmed invalid he was a disgraceful sight. Dr. Craven held his\nchin in his hand and thought him over.\n\n I am sorry to hear that you do not eat anything,  he said.  That will\nnot do. You will lose all you have gained and you have gained\namazingly. You ate so well a short time ago. \n\n I told you it was an unnatural appetite,  answered Colin.\n\nMary was sitting on her stool nearby and she suddenly made a very queer\nsound which she tried so violently to repress that she ended by almost\nchoking.\n\n What is the matter?  said Dr. Craven, turning to look at her.\n\nMary became quite severe in her manner.\n\n It was something between a sneeze and a cough,  she replied with\nreproachful dignity,  and it got into my throat. \n\n But,  she said afterward to Colin,  I couldn t stop myself. It just\nburst out because all at once I couldn t help remembering that last big\npotato you ate and the way your mouth stretched when you bit through\nthat thick lovely crust with jam and clotted cream on it. \n\n Is there any way in which those children can get food secretly?  Dr.\nCraven inquired of Mrs. Medlock.\n\n There s no way unless they dig it out of the earth or pick it off the\ntrees,  Mrs. Medlock answered.  They stay out in the grounds all day\nand see no one but each other. And if they want anything different to\neat from what s sent up to them they need only ask for it. \n\n Well,  said Dr. Craven,  so long as going without food agrees with\nthem we need not disturb ourselves. The boy is a new creature. \n\n So is the girl,  said Mrs. Medlock.  She s begun to be downright\npretty since she s filled out and lost her ugly little sour look. Her\nhair s grown thick and healthy looking and she s got a bright color.\nThe glummest, ill-natured little thing she used to be and now her and\nMaster Colin laugh together like a pair of crazy young ones. Perhaps\nthey re growing fat on that. \n\n Perhaps they are,  said Dr. Craven.  Let them laugh. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV.\nTHE CURTAIN\n\n\nAnd the secret garden bloomed and bloomed and every morning revealed\nnew miracles. In the robin s nest there were Eggs and the robin s mate\nsat upon them keeping them warm with her feathery little breast and\ncareful wings. At first she was very nervous and the robin himself was\nindignantly watchful. Even Dickon did not go near the close-grown\ncorner in those days, but waited until by the quiet working of some\nmysterious spell he seemed to have conveyed to the soul of the little\npair that in the garden there was nothing which was not quite like\nthemselves nothing which did not understand the wonderfulness of what\nwas happening to them the immense, tender, terrible, heart-breaking\nbeauty and solemnity of Eggs. If there had been one person in that\ngarden who had not known through all his or her innermost being that if\nan Egg were taken away or hurt the whole world would whirl round and\ncrash through space and come to an end if there had been even one who\ndid not feel it and act accordingly there could have been no happiness\neven in that golden springtime air. But they all knew it and felt it\nand the robin and his mate knew they knew it.\n\nAt first the robin watched Mary and Colin with sharp anxiety. For some\nmysterious reason he knew he need not watch Dickon. The first moment he\nset his dew-bright black eye on Dickon he knew he was not a stranger\nbut a sort of robin without beak or feathers. He could speak robin\n(which is a quite distinct language not to be mistaken for any other).\nTo speak robin to a robin is like speaking French to a Frenchman.\nDickon always spoke it to the robin himself, so the queer gibberish he\nused when he spoke to humans did not matter in the least. The robin\nthought he spoke this gibberish to them because they were not\nintelligent enough to understand feathered speech. His movements also\nwere robin. They never startled one by being sudden enough to seem\ndangerous or threatening. Any robin could understand Dickon, so his\npresence was not even disturbing.\n\nBut at the outset it seemed necessary to be on guard against the other\ntwo. In the first place the boy creature did not come into the garden\non his legs. He was pushed in on a thing with wheels and the skins of\nwild animals were thrown over him. That in itself was doubtful. Then\nwhen he began to stand up and move about he did it in a queer\nunaccustomed way and the others seemed to have to help him. The robin\nused to secrete himself in a bush and watch this anxiously, his head\ntilted first on one side and then on the other. He thought that the\nslow movements might mean that he was preparing to pounce, as cats do.\nWhen cats are preparing to pounce they creep over the ground very\nslowly. The robin talked this over with his mate a great deal for a few\ndays but after that he decided not to speak of the subject because her\nterror was so great that he was afraid it might be injurious to the\nEggs.\n\nWhen the boy began to walk by himself and even to move more quickly it\nwas an immense relief. But for a long time or it seemed a long time to\nthe robin he was a source of some anxiety. He did not act as the other\nhumans did. He seemed very fond of walking but he had a way of sitting\nor lying down for a while and then getting up in a disconcerting manner\nto begin again.\n\nOne day the robin remembered that when he himself had been made to\nlearn to fly by his parents he had done much the same sort of thing. He\nhad taken short flights of a few yards and then had been obliged to\nrest. So it occurred to him that this boy was learning to fly or rather\nto walk. He mentioned this to his mate and when he told her that the\nEggs would probably conduct themselves in the same way after they were\nfledged she was quite comforted and even became eagerly interested and\nderived great pleasure from watching the boy over the edge of her\nnest though she always thought that the Eggs would be much cleverer and\nlearn more quickly. But then she said indulgently that humans were\nalways more clumsy and slow than Eggs and most of them never seemed\nreally to learn to fly at all. You never met them in the air or on\ntree-tops.\n\nAfter a while the boy began to move about as the others did, but all\nthree of the children at times did unusual things. They would stand\nunder the trees and move their arms and legs and heads about in a way\nwhich was neither walking nor running nor sitting down. They went\nthrough these movements at intervals every day and the robin was never\nable to explain to his mate what they were doing or tying to do. He\ncould only say that he was sure that the Eggs would never flap about in\nsuch a manner; but as the boy who could speak robin so fluently was\ndoing the thing with them, birds could be quite sure that the actions\nwere not of a dangerous nature. Of course neither the robin nor his\nmate had ever heard of the champion wrestler, Bob Haworth, and his\nexercises for making the muscles stand out like lumps. Robins are not\nlike human beings; their muscles are always exercised from the first\nand so they develop themselves in a natural manner. If you have to fly\nabout to find every meal you eat, your muscles do not become atrophied\n(atrophied means wasted away through want of use).\n\nWhen the boy was walking and running about and digging and weeding like\nthe others, the nest in the corner was brooded over by a great peace\nand content. Fears for the Eggs became things of the past. Knowing that\nyour Eggs were as safe as if they were locked in a bank vault and the\nfact that you could watch so many curious things going on made setting\na most entertaining occupation. On wet days the Eggs  mother sometimes\nfelt even a little dull because the children did not come into the\ngarden.\n\nBut even on wet days it could not be said that Mary and Colin were\ndull. One morning when the rain streamed down unceasingly and Colin was\nbeginning to feel a little restive, as he was obliged to remain on his\nsofa because it was not safe to get up and walk about, Mary had an\ninspiration.\n\n Now that I am a real boy,  Colin had said,  my legs and arms and all\nmy body are so full of Magic that I can t keep them still. They want to\nbe doing things all the time. Do you know that when I waken in the\nmorning, Mary, when it s quite early and the birds are just shouting\noutside and everything seems just shouting for joy even the trees and\nthings we can t really hear I feel as if I must jump out of bed and\nshout myself. If I did it, just think what would happen! \n\nMary giggled inordinately.\n\n The nurse would come running and Mrs. Medlock would come running and\nthey would be sure you had gone crazy and they d send for the doctor, \nshe said.\n\nColin giggled himself. He could see how they would all look how\nhorrified by his outbreak and how amazed to see him standing upright.\n\n I wish my father would come home,  he said.  I want to tell him\nmyself. I m always thinking about it but we couldn t go on like this\nmuch longer. I can t stand lying still and pretending, and besides I\nlook too different. I wish it wasn t raining today. \n\nIt was then Mistress Mary had her inspiration.\n\n Colin,  she began mysteriously,  do you know how many rooms there are\nin this house? \n\n About a thousand, I suppose,  he answered.\n\n There s about a hundred no one ever goes into,  said Mary.  And one\nrainy day I went and looked into ever so many of them. No one ever\nknew, though Mrs. Medlock nearly found me out. I lost my way when I was\ncoming back and I stopped at the end of your corridor. That was the\nsecond time I heard you crying. \n\nColin started up on his sofa.\n\n A hundred rooms no one goes into,  he said.  It sounds almost like a\nsecret garden. Suppose we go and look at them. Wheel me in my chair and\nnobody would know we went. \n\n That s what I was thinking,  said Mary.  No one would dare to follow\nus. There are galleries where you could run. We could do our exercises.\nThere is a little Indian room where there is a cabinet full of ivory\nelephants. There are all sorts of rooms. \n\n Ring the bell,  said Colin.\n\nWhen the nurse came in he gave his orders.\n\n I want my chair,  he said.  Miss Mary and I are going to look at the\npart of the house which is not used. John can push me as far as the\npicture-gallery because there are some stairs. Then he must go away and\nleave us alone until I send for him again. \n\nRainy days lost their terrors that morning. When the footman had\nwheeled the chair into the picture-gallery and left the two together in\nobedience to orders, Colin and Mary looked at each other delighted. As\nsoon as Mary had made sure that John was really on his way back to his\nown quarters below stairs, Colin got out of his chair.\n\n I am going to run from one end of the gallery to the other,  he said,\n and then I am going to jump and then we will do Bob Haworth s\nexercises. \n\nAnd they did all these things and many others. They looked at the\nportraits and found the plain little girl dressed in green brocade and\nholding the parrot on her finger.\n\n All these,  said Colin,  must be my relations. They lived a long time\nago. That parrot one, I believe, is one of my great, great, great,\ngreat aunts. She looks rather like you, Mary not as you look now but as\nyou looked when you came here. Now you are a great deal fatter and\nbetter looking. \n\n So are you,  said Mary, and they both laughed.\n\nThey went to the Indian room and amused themselves with the ivory\nelephants. They found the rose-colored brocade boudoir and the hole in\nthe cushion the mouse had left, but the mice had grown up and run away\nand the hole was empty. They saw more rooms and made more discoveries\nthan Mary had made on her first pilgrimage. They found new corridors\nand corners and flights of steps and new old pictures they liked and\nweird old things they did not know the use of. It was a curiously\nentertaining morning and the feeling of wandering about in the same\nhouse with other people but at the same time feeling as if one were\nmiles away from them was a fascinating thing.\n\n I m glad we came,  Colin said.  I never knew I lived in such a big\nqueer old place. I like it. We will ramble about every rainy day. We\nshall always be finding new queer corners and things. \n\nThat morning they had found among other things such good appetites that\nwhen they returned to Colin s room it was not possible to send the\nluncheon away untouched.\n\nWhen the nurse carried the tray downstairs she slapped it down on the\nkitchen dresser so that Mrs. Loomis, the cook, could see the highly\npolished dishes and plates.\n\n Look at that!  she said.  This is a house of mystery, and those two\nchildren are the greatest mysteries in it. \n\n If they keep that up every day,  said the strong young footman John,\n there d be small wonder that he weighs twice as much today as he did a\nmonth ago. I should have to give up my place in time, for fear of doing\nmy muscles an injury. \n\nThat afternoon Mary noticed that something new had happened in Colin s\nroom. She had noticed it the day before but had said nothing because\nshe thought the change might have been made by chance. She said nothing\ntoday but she sat and looked fixedly at the picture over the mantel.\nShe could look at it because the curtain had been drawn aside. That was\nthe change she noticed.\n\n I know what you want me to tell you,  said Colin, after she had stared\na few minutes.  I always know when you want me to tell you something.\nYou are wondering why the curtain is drawn back. I am going to keep it\nlike that. \n\n Why?  asked Mary.\n\n Because it doesn t make me angry any more to see her laughing. I\nwakened when it was bright moonlight two nights ago and felt as if the\nMagic was filling the room and making everything so splendid that I\ncouldn t lie still. I got up and looked out of the window. The room was\nquite light and there was a patch of moonlight on the curtain and\nsomehow that made me go and pull the cord. She looked right down at me\nas if she were laughing because she was glad I was standing there. It\nmade me like to look at her. I want to see her laughing like that all\nthe time. I think she must have been a sort of Magic person perhaps. \n\n You are so like her now,  said Mary,  that sometimes I think perhaps\nyou are her ghost made into a boy. \n\nThat idea seemed to impress Colin. He thought it over and then answered\nher slowly.\n\n If I were her ghost my father would be fond of me,  he said.\n\n Do you want him to be fond of you?  inquired Mary.\n\n I used to hate it because he was not fond of me. If he grew fond of me\nI think I should tell him about the Magic. It might make him more\ncheerful. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI.\n IT S MOTHER! \n\n\nTheir belief in the Magic was an abiding thing. After the morning s\nincantations Colin sometimes gave them Magic lectures.\n\n I like to do it,  he explained,  because when I grow up and make great\nscientific discoveries I shall be obliged to lecture about them and so\nthis is practise. I can only give short lectures now because I am very\nyoung, and besides Ben Weatherstaff would feel as if he were in church\nand he would go to sleep. \n\n Th  best thing about lecturin ,  said Ben,  is that a chap can get up\nan  say aught he pleases an  no other chap can answer him back. I\nwouldn t be agen  lecturin  a bit mysel  sometimes. \n\nBut when Colin held forth under his tree old Ben fixed devouring eyes\non him and kept them there. He looked him over with critical affection.\nIt was not so much the lecture which interested him as the legs which\nlooked straighter and stronger each day, the boyish head which held\nitself up so well, the once sharp chin and hollow cheeks which had\nfilled and rounded out and the eyes which had begun to hold the light\nhe remembered in another pair. Sometimes when Colin felt Ben s earnest\ngaze meant that he was much impressed he wondered what he was\nreflecting on and once when he had seemed quite entranced he questioned\nhim.\n\n What are you thinking about, Ben Weatherstaff?  he asked.\n\n I was thinkin  answered Ben,  as I d warrant tha s gone up three or\nfour pound this week. I was lookin  at tha  calves an  tha  shoulders.\nI d like to get thee on a pair o  scales. \n\n It s the Magic and and Mrs. Sowerby s buns and milk and things,  said\nColin.  You see the scientific experiment has succeeded. \n\nThat morning Dickon was too late to hear the lecture. When he came he\nwas ruddy with running and his funny face looked more twinkling than\nusual. As they had a good deal of weeding to do after the rains they\nfell to work. They always had plenty to do after a warm deep sinking\nrain. The moisture which was good for the flowers was also good for the\nweeds which thrust up tiny blades of grass and points of leaves which\nmust be pulled up before their roots took too firm hold. Colin was as\ngood at weeding as anyone in these days and he could lecture while he\nwas doing it.\n\n The Magic works best when you work, yourself,  he said this morning.\n You can feel it in your bones and muscles. I am going to read books\nabout bones and muscles, but I am going to write a book about Magic. I\nam making it up now. I keep finding out things. \n\nIt was not very long after he had said this that he laid down his\ntrowel and stood up on his feet. He had been silent for several minutes\nand they had seen that he was thinking out lectures, as he often did.\nWhen he dropped his trowel and stood upright it seemed to Mary and\nDickon as if a sudden strong thought had made him do it. He stretched\nhimself out to his tallest height and he threw out his arms exultantly.\nColor glowed in his face and his strange eyes widened with joyfulness.\nAll at once he had realized something to the full.\n\n Mary! Dickon!  he cried.  Just look at me! \n\nThey stopped their weeding and looked at him.\n\n Do you remember that first morning you brought me in here?  he\ndemanded.\n\nDickon was looking at him very hard. Being an animal charmer he could\nsee more things than most people could and many of them were things he\nnever talked about. He saw some of them now in this boy.\n\n Aye, that we do,  he answered.\n\nMary looked hard too, but she said nothing.\n\n Just this minute,  said Colin,  all at once I remembered it\nmyself when I looked at my hand digging with the trowel and I had to\nstand up on my feet to see if it was real. And it is real! I m\n_well_ I m _well!_ \n\n Aye, that th  art!  said Dickon.\n\n I m well! I m well!  said Colin again, and his face went quite red all\nover.\n\nHe had known it before in a way, he had hoped it and felt it and\nthought about it, but just at that minute something had rushed all\nthrough him a sort of rapturous belief and realization and it had been\nso strong that he could not help calling out.\n\n I shall live forever and ever and ever!  he cried grandly.  I shall\nfind out thousands and thousands of things. I shall find out about\npeople and creatures and everything that grows like Dickon and I shall\nnever stop making Magic. I m well! I m well! I feel I feel as if I want\nto shout out something something thankful, joyful! \n\nBen Weatherstaff, who had been working near a rose-bush, glanced round\nat him.\n\n Tha  might sing th  Doxology,  he suggested in his dryest grunt. He\nhad no opinion of the Doxology and he did not make the suggestion with\nany particular reverence.\n\nBut Colin was of an exploring mind and he knew nothing about the\nDoxology.\n\n What is that?  he inquired.\n\n Dickon can sing it for thee, I ll warrant,  replied Ben Weatherstaff.\n\nDickon answered with his all-perceiving animal charmer s smile.\n\n They sing it i  church,  he said.  Mother says she believes th \nskylarks sings it when they gets up i  th  mornin . \n\n If she says that, it must be a nice song,  Colin answered.  I ve never\nbeen in a church myself. I was always too ill. Sing it, Dickon. I want\nto hear it. \n\nDickon was quite simple and unaffected about it. He understood what\nColin felt better than Colin did himself. He understood by a sort of\ninstinct so natural that he did not know it was understanding. He\npulled off his cap and looked round still smiling.\n\n Tha  must take off tha  cap,  he said to Colin,  an  so mun tha ,\nBen an  tha  mun stand up, tha  knows. \n\nColin took off his cap and the sun shone on and warmed his thick hair\nas he watched Dickon intently. Ben Weatherstaff scrambled up from his\nknees and bared his head too with a sort of puzzled half-resentful look\non his old face as if he didn t know exactly why he was doing this\nremarkable thing.\n\nDickon stood out among the trees and rose-bushes and began to sing in\nquite a simple matter-of-fact way and in a nice strong boy voice:\n\n Praise God from whom all blessings flow,\nPraise Him all creatures here below,\nPraise Him above ye Heavenly Host,\nPraise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.\n            Amen. \n\nWhen he had finished, Ben Weatherstaff was standing quite still with\nhis jaws set obstinately but with a disturbed look in his eyes fixed on\nColin. Colin s face was thoughtful and appreciative.\n\n It is a very nice song,  he said.  I like it. Perhaps it means just\nwhat I mean when I want to shout out that I am thankful to the Magic. \nHe stopped and thought in a puzzled way.  Perhaps they are both the\nsame thing. How can we know the exact names of everything? Sing it\nagain, Dickon. Let us try, Mary. I want to sing it, too. It s my song.\nHow does it begin?  Praise God from whom all blessings flow ? \n\nAnd they sang it again, and Mary and Colin lifted their voices as\nmusically as they could and Dickon s swelled quite loud and\nbeautiful and at the second line Ben Weatherstaff raspingly cleared his\nthroat and at the third line he joined in with such vigor that it\nseemed almost savage and when the  Amen  came to an end Mary observed\nthat the very same thing had happened to him which had happened when he\nfound out that Colin was not a cripple his chin was twitching and he\nwas staring and winking and his leathery old cheeks were wet.\n\n I never seed no sense in th  Doxology afore,  he said hoarsely,  but I\nmay change my mind i  time. I should say tha d gone up five pound this\nweek Mester Colin five on  em! \n\nColin was looking across the garden at something attracting his\nattention and his expression had become a startled one.\n\n Who is coming in here?  he said quickly.  Who is it? \n\nThe door in the ivied wall had been pushed gently open and a woman had\nentered. She had come in with the last line of their song and she had\nstood still listening and looking at them. With the ivy behind her, the\nsunlight drifting through the trees and dappling her long blue cloak,\nand her nice fresh face smiling across the greenery she was rather like\na softly colored illustration in one of Colin s books. She had\nwonderful affectionate eyes which seemed to take everything in all of\nthem, even Ben Weatherstaff and the  creatures  and every flower that\nwas in bloom. Unexpectedly as she had appeared, not one of them felt\nthat she was an intruder at all. Dickon s eyes lighted like lamps.\n\n It s mother that s who it is!  he cried and went across the grass at a\nrun.\n\nColin began to move toward her, too, and Mary went with him. They both\nfelt their pulses beat faster.\n\n It s mother!  Dickon said again when they met halfway.  I knowed tha \nwanted to see her an  I told her where th  door was hid. \n\nColin held out his hand with a sort of flushed royal shyness but his\neyes quite devoured her face.\n\n Even when I was ill I wanted to see you,  he said,  you and Dickon and\nthe secret garden. I d never wanted to see anyone or anything before. \n\nThe sight of his uplifted face brought about a sudden change in her\nown. She flushed and the corners of her mouth shook and a mist seemed\nto sweep over her eyes.\n\n Eh! dear lad!  she broke out tremulously.  Eh! dear lad!  as if she\nhad not known she were going to say it. She did not say,  Mester\nColin,  but just  dear lad  quite suddenly. She might have said it to\nDickon in the same way if she had seen something in his face which\ntouched her. Colin liked it.\n\n Are you surprised because I am so well?  he asked.\n\nShe put her hand on his shoulder and smiled the mist out of her eyes.\n\n Aye, that I am!  she said;  but tha rt so like thy mother tha  made my\nheart jump. \n\n Do you think,  said Colin a little awkwardly,  that will make my\nfather like me? \n\n Aye, for sure, dear lad,  she answered and she gave his shoulder a\nsoft quick pat.  He mun come home he mun come home. \n\n Susan Sowerby,  said Ben Weatherstaff, getting close to her.  Look at\nth  lad s legs, wilt tha ? They was like drumsticks i  stockin  two\nmonth  ago an  I heard folk tell as they was bandy an  knock-kneed both\nat th  same time. Look at  em now! \n\nSusan Sowerby laughed a comfortable laugh.\n\n They re goin  to be fine strong lad s legs in a bit,  she said.  Let\nhim go on playin  an  workin  in the garden an  eatin  hearty an \ndrinkin  plenty o  good sweet milk an  there ll not be a finer pair i \nYorkshire, thank God for it. \n\nShe put both hands on Mistress Mary s shoulders and looked her little\nface over in a motherly fashion.\n\n An  thee, too!  she said.  Tha rt grown near as hearty as our\n Lisabeth Ellen. I ll warrant tha rt like thy mother too. Our Martha\ntold me as Mrs. Medlock heard she was a pretty woman. Tha lt be like a\nblush rose when tha  grows up, my little lass, bless thee. \n\nShe did not mention that when Martha came home on her  day out  and\ndescribed the plain sallow child she had said that she had no\nconfidence whatever in what Mrs. Medlock had heard.  It doesn t stand\nto reason that a pretty woman could be th  mother o  such a fou  little\nlass,  she had added obstinately.\n\nMary had not had time to pay much attention to her changing face. She\nhad only known that she looked  different  and seemed to have a great\ndeal more hair and that it was growing very fast. But remembering her\npleasure in looking at the Mem Sahib in the past she was glad to hear\nthat she might some day look like her.\n\nSusan Sowerby went round their garden with them and was told the whole\nstory of it and shown every bush and tree which had come alive. Colin\nwalked on one side of her and Mary on the other. Each of them kept\nlooking up at her comfortable rosy face, secretly curious about the\ndelightful feeling she gave them a sort of warm, supported feeling. It\nseemed as if she understood them as Dickon understood his  creatures. \nShe stooped over the flowers and talked about them as if they were\nchildren. Soot followed her and once or twice cawed at her and flew\nupon her shoulder as if it were Dickon s. When they told her about the\nrobin and the first flight of the young ones she laughed a motherly\nlittle mellow laugh in her throat.\n\n I suppose learnin   em to fly is like learnin  children to walk, but\nI m feared I should be all in a worrit if mine had wings instead o \nlegs,  she said.\n\nIt was because she seemed such a wonderful woman in her nice moorland\ncottage way that at last she was told about the Magic.\n\n Do you believe in Magic?  asked Colin after he had explained about\nIndian fakirs.  I do hope you do. \n\n That I do, lad,  she answered.  I never knowed it by that name but\nwhat does th  name matter? I warrant they call it a different name i \nFrance an  a different one i  Germany. Th  same thing as set th  seeds\nswellin  an  th  sun shinin  made thee a well lad an  it s th  Good\nThing. It isn t like us poor fools as think it matters if us is called\nout of our names. Th  Big Good Thing doesn t stop to worrit, bless\nthee. It goes on makin  worlds by th  million worlds like us. Never\nthee stop believin  in th  Big Good Thing an  knowin  th  world s full\nof it an  call it what tha  likes. Tha  wert singin  to it when I come\ninto th  garden. \n\n I felt so joyful,  said Colin, opening his beautiful strange eyes at\nher.  Suddenly I felt how different I was how strong my arms and legs\nwere, you know and how I could dig and stand and I jumped up and wanted\nto shout out something to anything that would listen. \n\n Th  Magic listened when tha  sung th  Doxology. It would ha  listened\nto anything tha d sung. It was th  joy that mattered. Eh! lad,\nlad what s names to th  Joy Maker,  and she gave his shoulders a quick\nsoft pat again.\n\nShe had packed a basket which held a regular feast this morning, and\nwhen the hungry hour came and Dickon brought it out from its hiding\nplace, she sat down with them under their tree and watched them devour\ntheir food, laughing and quite gloating over their appetites. She was\nfull of fun and made them laugh at all sorts of odd things. She told\nthem stories in broad Yorkshire and taught them new words. She laughed\nas if she could not help it when they told her of the increasing\ndifficulty there was in pretending that Colin was still a fretful\ninvalid.\n\n You see we can t help laughing nearly all the time when we are\ntogether,  explained Colin.  And it doesn t sound ill at all. We try to\nchoke it back but it will burst out and that sounds worse than ever. \n\n There s one thing that comes into my mind so often,  said Mary,  and I\ncan scarcely ever hold in when I think of it suddenly. I keep thinking\nsuppose Colin s face should get to look like a full moon. It isn t like\none yet but he gets a tiny bit fatter every day and suppose some\nmorning it should look like one what should we do! \n\n Bless us all, I can see tha  has a good bit o  play actin  to do, \nsaid Susan Sowerby.  But tha  won t have to keep it up much longer.\nMester Craven ll come home. \n\n Do you think he will?  asked Colin.  Why? \n\nSusan Sowerby chuckled softly.\n\n I suppose it  ud nigh break thy heart if he found out before tha  told\nhim in tha  own way,  she said.  Tha s laid awake nights plannin  it. \n\n I couldn t bear anyone else to tell him,  said Colin.  I think about\ndifferent ways every day, I think now I just want to run into his\nroom. \n\n That d be a fine start for him,  said Susan Sowerby.  I d like to see\nhis face, lad. I would that! He mun come back that he mun. \n\nOne of the things they talked of was the visit they were to make to her\ncottage. They planned it all. They were to drive over the moor and\nlunch out of doors among the heather. They would see all the twelve\nchildren and Dickon s garden and would not come back until they were\ntired.\n\nSusan Sowerby got up at last to return to the house and Mrs. Medlock.\nIt was time for Colin to be wheeled back also. But before he got into\nhis chair he stood quite close to Susan and fixed his eyes on her with\na kind of bewildered adoration and he suddenly caught hold of the fold\nof her blue cloak and held it fast.\n\n You are just what I what I wanted,  he said.  I wish you were my\nmother as well as Dickon s! \n\nAll at once Susan Sowerby bent down and drew him with her warm arms\nclose against the bosom under the blue cloak as if he had been Dickon s\nbrother. The quick mist swept over her eyes.\n\n Eh! dear lad!  she said.  Thy own mother s in this  ere very garden, I\ndo believe. She couldna  keep out of it. Thy father mun come back to\nthee he mun! \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII.\nIN THE GARDEN\n\n\nIn each century since the beginning of the world wonderful things have\nbeen discovered. In the last century more amazing things were found out\nthan in any century before. In this new century hundreds of things\nstill more astounding will be brought to light. At first people refuse\nto believe that a strange new thing can be done, then they begin to\nhope it can be done, then they see it can be done then it is done and\nall the world wonders why it was not done centuries ago. One of the new\nthings people began to find out in the last century was that\nthoughts just mere thoughts are as powerful as electric batteries as\ngood for one as sunlight is, or as bad for one as poison. To let a sad\nthought or a bad one get into your mind is as dangerous as letting a\nscarlet fever germ get into your body. If you let it stay there after\nit has got in you may never get over it as long as you live.\n\nSo long as Mistress Mary s mind was full of disagreeable thoughts about\nher dislikes and sour opinions of people and her determination not to\nbe pleased by or interested in anything, she was a yellow-faced,\nsickly, bored and wretched child. Circumstances, however, were very\nkind to her, though she was not at all aware of it. They began to push\nher about for her own good. When her mind gradually filled itself with\nrobins, and moorland cottages crowded with children, with queer crabbed\nold gardeners and common little Yorkshire housemaids, with springtime\nand with secret gardens coming alive day by day, and also with a moor\nboy and his  creatures,  there was no room left for the disagreeable\nthoughts which affected her liver and her digestion and made her yellow\nand tired.\n\nSo long as Colin shut himself up in his room and thought only of his\nfears and weakness and his detestation of people who looked at him and\nreflected hourly on humps and early death, he was a hysterical\nhalf-crazy little hypochondriac who knew nothing of the sunshine and\nthe spring and also did not know that he could get well and could stand\nupon his feet if he tried to do it. When new beautiful thoughts began\nto push out the old hideous ones, life began to come back to him, his\nblood ran healthily through his veins and strength poured into him like\na flood. His scientific experiment was quite practical and simple and\nthere was nothing weird about it at all. Much more surprising things\ncan happen to anyone who, when a disagreeable or discouraged thought\ncomes into his mind, just has the sense to remember in time and push it\nout by putting in an agreeable determinedly courageous one. Two things\ncannot be in one place.\n\n Where you tend a rose, my lad,\nA thistle cannot grow. \n\nWhile the secret garden was coming alive and two children were coming\nalive with it, there was a man wandering about certain far-away\nbeautiful places in the Norwegian fiords and the valleys and mountains\nof Switzerland and he was a man who for ten years had kept his mind\nfilled with dark and heart-broken thinking. He had not been courageous;\nhe had never tried to put any other thoughts in the place of the dark\nones. He had wandered by blue lakes and thought them; he had lain on\nmountain-sides with sheets of deep blue gentians blooming all about him\nand flower breaths filling all the air and he had thought them. A\nterrible sorrow had fallen upon him when he had been happy and he had\nlet his soul fill itself with blackness and had refused obstinately to\nallow any rift of light to pierce through. He had forgotten and\ndeserted his home and his duties. When he traveled about, darkness so\nbrooded over him that the sight of him was a wrong done to other people\nbecause it was as if he poisoned the air about him with gloom. Most\nstrangers thought he must be either half mad or a man with some hidden\ncrime on his soul. He, was a tall man with a drawn face and crooked\nshoulders and the name he always entered on hotel registers was,\n Archibald Craven, Misselthwaite Manor, Yorkshire, England. \n\nHe had traveled far and wide since the day he saw Mistress Mary in his\nstudy and told her she might have her  bit of earth.  He had been in\nthe most beautiful places in Europe, though he had remained nowhere\nmore than a few days. He had chosen the quietest and remotest spots. He\nhad been on the tops of mountains whose heads were in the clouds and\nhad looked down on other mountains when the sun rose and touched them\nwith such light as made it seem as if the world were just being born.\n\nBut the light had never seemed to touch himself until one day when he\nrealized that for the first time in ten years a strange thing had\nhappened. He was in a wonderful valley in the Austrian Tyrol and he had\nbeen walking alone through such beauty as might have lifted, any man s\nsoul out of shadow. He had walked a long way and it had not lifted his.\nBut at last he had felt tired and had thrown himself down to rest on a\ncarpet of moss by a stream. It was a clear little stream which ran\nquite merrily along on its narrow way through the luscious damp\ngreenness. Sometimes it made a sound rather like very low laughter as\nit bubbled over and round stones. He saw birds come and dip their heads\nto drink in it and then flick their wings and fly away. It seemed like\na thing alive and yet its tiny voice made the stillness seem deeper.\nThe valley was very, very still.\n\nAs he sat gazing into the clear running of the water, Archibald Craven\ngradually felt his mind and body both grow quiet, as quiet as the\nvalley itself. He wondered if he were going to sleep, but he was not.\nHe sat and gazed at the sunlit water and his eyes began to see things\ngrowing at its edge. There was one lovely mass of blue forget-me-nots\ngrowing so close to the stream that its leaves were wet and at these he\nfound himself looking as he remembered he had looked at such things\nyears ago. He was actually thinking tenderly how lovely it was and what\nwonders of blue its hundreds of little blossoms were. He did not know\nthat just that simple thought was slowly filling his mind filling and\nfilling it until other things were softly pushed aside. It was as if a\nsweet clear spring had begun to rise in a stagnant pool and had risen\nand risen until at last it swept the dark water away. But of course he\ndid not think of this himself. He only knew that the valley seemed to\ngrow quieter and quieter as he sat and stared at the bright delicate\nblueness. He did not know how long he sat there or what was happening\nto him, but at last he moved as if he were awakening and he got up\nslowly and stood on the moss carpet, drawing a long, deep, soft breath\nand wondering at himself. Something seemed to have been unbound and\nreleased in him, very quietly.\n\n What is it?  he said, almost in a whisper, and he passed his hand over\nhis forehead.  I almost feel as if I were alive! \n\nI do not know enough about the wonderfulness of undiscovered things to\nbe able to explain how this had happened to him. Neither does anyone\nelse yet. He did not understand at all himself but he remembered this\nstrange hour months afterward when he was at Misselthwaite again and he\nfound out quite by accident that on this very day Colin had cried out\nas he went into the secret garden:\n\n I am going to live forever and ever and ever! \n\nThe singular calmness remained with him the rest of the evening and he\nslept a new reposeful sleep; but it was not with him very long. He did\nnot know that it could be kept. By the next night he had opened the\ndoors wide to his dark thoughts and they had come trooping and rushing\nback. He left the valley and went on his wandering way again. But,\nstrange as it seemed to him, there were minutes sometimes\nhalf-hours when, without his knowing why, the black burden seemed to\nlift itself again and he knew he was a living man and not a dead one.\nSlowly slowly for no reason that he knew of he was  coming alive  with\nthe garden.\n\nAs the golden summer changed into the deep golden autumn he went to the\nLake of Como. There he found the loveliness of a dream. He spent his\ndays upon the crystal blueness of the lake or he walked back into the\nsoft thick verdure of the hills and tramped until he was tired so that\nhe might sleep. But by this time he had begun to sleep better, he knew,\nand his dreams had ceased to be a terror to him.\n\n Perhaps,  he thought,  my body is growing stronger. \n\nIt was growing stronger but because of the rare peaceful hours when his\nthoughts were changed his soul was slowly growing stronger, too. He\nbegan to think of Misselthwaite and wonder if he should not go home.\nNow and then he wondered vaguely about his boy and asked himself what\nhe should feel when he went and stood by the carved four-posted bed\nagain and looked down at the sharply chiseled ivory-white face while it\nslept and, the black lashes rimmed so startlingly the close-shut eyes.\nHe shrank from it.\n\nOne marvel of a day he had walked so far that when he returned the moon\nwas high and full and all the world was purple shadow and silver. The\nstillness of lake and shore and wood was so wonderful that he did not\ngo into the villa he lived in. He walked down to a little bowered\nterrace at the water s edge and sat upon a seat and breathed in all the\nheavenly scents of the night. He felt the strange calmness stealing\nover him and it grew deeper and deeper until he fell asleep.\n\nHe did not know when he fell asleep and when he began to dream; his\ndream was so real that he did not feel as if he were dreaming. He\nremembered afterward how intensely wide awake and alert he had thought\nhe was. He thought that as he sat and breathed in the scent of the late\nroses and listened to the lapping of the water at his feet he heard a\nvoice calling. It was sweet and clear and happy and far away. It seemed\nvery far, but he heard it as distinctly as if it had been at his very\nside.\n\n Archie! Archie! Archie!  it said, and then again, sweeter and clearer\nthan before,  Archie! Archie! \n\nHe thought he sprang to his feet not even startled. It was such a real\nvoice and it seemed so natural that he should hear it.\n\n Lilias! Lilias!  he answered.  Lilias! where are you? \n\n In the garden,  it came back like a sound from a golden flute.  In the\ngarden! \n\nAnd then the dream ended. But he did not awaken. He slept soundly and\nsweetly all through the lovely night. When he did awake at last it was\nbrilliant morning and a servant was standing staring at him. He was an\nItalian servant and was accustomed, as all the servants of the villa\nwere, to accepting without question any strange thing his foreign\nmaster might do. No one ever knew when he would go out or come in or\nwhere he would choose to sleep or if he would roam about the garden or\nlie in the boat on the lake all night. The man held a salver with some\nletters on it and he waited quietly until Mr. Craven took them. When he\nhad gone away Mr. Craven sat a few moments holding them in his hand and\nlooking at the lake. His strange calm was still upon him and something\nmore a lightness as if the cruel thing which had been done had not\nhappened as he thought as if something had changed. He was remembering\nthe dream the real real dream.\n\n In the garden!  he said, wondering at himself.  In the garden! But the\ndoor is locked and the key is buried deep. \n\nWhen he glanced at the letters a few minutes later he saw that the one\nlying at the top of the rest was an English letter and came from\nYorkshire. It was directed in a plain woman s hand but it was not a\nhand he knew. He opened it, scarcely thinking of the writer, but the\nfirst words attracted his attention at once.\n\n\n _Dear Sir:_\n\nI am Susan Sowerby that made bold to speak to you once on the moor. It\nwas about Miss Mary I spoke. I will make bold to speak again. Please,\nsir, I would come home if I was you. I think you would be glad to come\nand if you will excuse me, sir I think your lady would ask you to come\nif she was here.\n\n    Your obedient servant,\n\n                Susan Sowerby. \n\nMr. Craven read the letter twice before he put it back in its envelope.\nHe kept thinking about the dream.\n\n I will go back to Misselthwaite,  he said.  Yes, I ll go at once. \n\nAnd he went through the garden to the villa and ordered Pitcher to\nprepare for his return to England.\n\nIn a few days he was in Yorkshire again, and on his long railroad\njourney he found himself thinking of his boy as he had never thought in\nall the ten years past. During those years he had only wished to forget\nhim. Now, though he did not intend to think about him, memories of him\nconstantly drifted into his mind. He remembered the black days when he\nhad raved like a madman because the child was alive and the mother was\ndead. He had refused to see it, and when he had gone to look at it at\nlast it had been, such a weak wretched thing that everyone had been\nsure it would die in a few days. But to the surprise of those who took\ncare of it the days passed and it lived and then everyone believed it\nwould be a deformed and crippled creature.\n\nHe had not meant to be a bad father, but he had not felt like a father\nat all. He had supplied doctors and nurses and luxuries, but he had\nshrunk from the mere thought of the boy and had buried himself in his\nown misery. The first time after a year s absence he returned to\nMisselthwaite and the small miserable looking thing languidly and\nindifferently lifted to his face the great gray eyes with black lashes\nround them, so like and yet so horribly unlike the happy eyes he had\nadored, he could not bear the sight of them and turned away pale as\ndeath. After that he scarcely ever saw him except when he was asleep,\nand all he knew of him was that he was a confirmed invalid, with a\nvicious, hysterical, half-insane temper. He could only be kept from\nfuries dangerous to himself by being given his own way in every detail.\n\nAll this was not an uplifting thing to recall, but as the train whirled\nhim through mountain passes and golden plains the man who was  coming\nalive  began to think in a new way and he thought long and steadily and\ndeeply.\n\n Perhaps I have been all wrong for ten years,  he said to himself.  Ten\nyears is a long time. It may be too late to do anything quite too late.\nWhat have I been thinking of! \n\nOf course this was the wrong Magic to begin by saying  too late.  Even\nColin could have told him that. But he knew nothing of Magic either\nblack or white. This he had yet to learn. He wondered if Susan Sowerby\nhad taken courage and written to him only because the motherly creature\nhad realized that the boy was much worse was fatally ill. If he had not\nbeen under the spell of the curious calmness which had taken possession\nof him he would have been more wretched than ever. But the calm had\nbrought a sort of courage and hope with it. Instead of giving way to\nthoughts of the worst he actually found he was trying to believe in\nbetter things.\n\n Could it be possible that she sees that I may be able to do him good\nand control him?  he thought.  I will go and see her on my way to\nMisselthwaite. \n\nBut when on his way across the moor he stopped the carriage at the\ncottage, seven or eight children who were playing about gathered in a\ngroup and bobbing seven or eight friendly and polite curtsies told him\nthat their mother had gone to the other side of the moor early in the\nmorning to help a woman who had a new baby.  Our Dickon,  they\nvolunteered, was over at the Manor working in one of the gardens where\nhe went several days each week.\n\nMr. Craven looked over the collection of sturdy little bodies and round\nred-cheeked faces, each one grinning in its own particular way, and he\nawoke to the fact that they were a healthy likable lot. He smiled at\ntheir friendly grins and took a golden sovereign from his pocket and\ngave it to  our  Lizabeth Ellen  who was the oldest.\n\n If you divide that into eight parts there will be half a crown for\neach of, you,  he said.\n\nThen amid grins and chuckles and bobbing of curtsies he drove away,\nleaving ecstasy and nudging elbows and little jumps of joy behind.\n\nThe drive across the wonderfulness of the moor was a soothing thing.\nWhy did it seem to give him a sense of homecoming which he had been\nsure he could never feel again that sense of the beauty of land and sky\nand purple bloom of distance and a warming of the heart at drawing,\nnearer to the great old house which had held those of his blood for six\nhundred years? How he had driven away from it the last time, shuddering\nto think of its closed rooms and the boy lying in the four-posted bed\nwith the brocaded hangings. Was it possible that perhaps he might find\nhim changed a little for the better and that he might overcome his\nshrinking from him? How real that dream had been how wonderful and\nclear the voice which called back to him,  In the garden In the\ngarden! \n\n I will try to find the key,  he said.  I will try to open the door. I\nmust though I don t know why. \n\nWhen he arrived at the Manor the servants who received him with the\nusual ceremony noticed that he looked better and that he did not go to\nthe remote rooms where he usually lived attended by Pitcher. He went\ninto the library and sent for Mrs. Medlock. She came to him somewhat\nexcited and curious and flustered.\n\n How is Master Colin, Medlock?  he inquired.\n\n Well, sir,  Mrs. Medlock answered,  he s he s different, in a manner\nof speaking. \n\n Worse?  he suggested.\n\nMrs. Medlock really was flushed.\n\n Well, you see, sir,  she tried to explain,  neither Dr. Craven, nor\nthe nurse, nor me can exactly make him out. \n\n Why is that? \n\n To tell the truth, sir, Master Colin might be better and he might be\nchanging for the worse. His appetite, sir, is past understanding and\nhis ways \n\n Has he become more more peculiar?  her master, asked, knitting his\nbrows anxiously.\n\n That s it, sir. He s growing very peculiar when you compare him with\nwhat he used to be. He used to eat nothing and then suddenly he began\nto eat something enormous and then he stopped again all at once and the\nmeals were sent back just as they used to be. You never knew, sir,\nperhaps, that out of doors he never would let himself be taken. The\nthings we ve gone through to get him to go out in his chair would leave\na body trembling like a leaf. He d throw himself into such a state that\nDr. Craven said he couldn t be responsible for forcing him. Well, sir,\njust without warning not long after one of his worst tantrums he\nsuddenly insisted on being taken out every day by Miss Mary and Susan\nSowerby s boy Dickon that could push his chair. He took a fancy to both\nMiss Mary and Dickon, and Dickon brought his tame animals, and, if\nyou ll credit it, sir, out of doors he will stay from morning until\nnight. \n\n How does he look?  was the next question.\n\n If he took his food natural, sir, you d think he was putting on\nflesh but we re afraid it may be a sort of bloat. He laughs sometimes\nin a queer way when he s alone with Miss Mary. He never used to laugh\nat all. Dr. Craven is coming to see you at once, if you ll allow him.\nHe never was as puzzled in his life. \n\n Where is Master Colin now?  Mr. Craven asked.\n\n In the garden, sir. He s always in the garden though not a human\ncreature is allowed to go near for fear they ll look at him. \n\nMr. Craven scarcely heard her last words.\n\n In the garden,  he said, and after he had sent Mrs. Medlock away he\nstood and repeated it again and again.  In the garden! \n\nHe had to make an effort to bring himself back to the place he was\nstanding in and when he felt he was on earth again he turned and went\nout of the room. He took his way, as Mary had done, through the door in\nthe shrubbery and among the laurels and the fountain beds. The fountain\nwas playing now and was encircled by beds of brilliant autumn flowers.\nHe crossed the lawn and turned into the Long Walk by the ivied walls.\nHe did not walk quickly, but slowly, and his eyes were on the path. He\nfelt as if he were being drawn back to the place he had so long\nforsaken, and he did not know why. As he drew near to it his step\nbecame still more slow. He knew where the door was even though the ivy\nhung thick over it but he did not know exactly where it lay that buried\nkey.\n\nSo he stopped and stood still, looking about him, and almost the moment\nafter he had paused he started and listened asking himself if he were\nwalking in a dream.\n\nThe ivy hung thick over the door, the key was buried under the shrubs,\nno human being had passed that portal for ten lonely years and yet\ninside the garden there were sounds. They were the sounds of running\nscuffling feet seeming to chase round and round under the trees, they\nwere strange sounds of lowered suppressed voices exclamations and\nsmothered joyous cries. It seemed actually like the laughter of young\nthings, the uncontrollable laughter of children who were trying not to\nbe heard but who in a moment or so as their excitement mounted would\nburst forth. What in heaven s name was he dreaming of what in heaven s\nname did he hear? Was he losing his reason and thinking he heard things\nwhich were not for human ears? Was it that the far clear voice had\nmeant?\n\nAnd then the moment came, the uncontrollable moment when the sounds\nforgot to hush themselves. The feet ran faster and faster they were\nnearing the garden door there was quick strong young breathing and a\nwild outbreak of laughing shouts which could not be contained and the\ndoor in the wall was flung wide open, the sheet of ivy swinging back,\nand a boy burst through it at full speed and, without seeing the\noutsider, dashed almost into his arms.\n\nMr. Craven had extended them just in time to save him from falling as a\nresult of his unseeing dash against him, and when he held him away to\nlook at him in amazement at his being there he truly gasped for breath.\n\nHe was a tall boy and a handsome one. He was glowing with life and his\nrunning had sent splendid color leaping to his face. He threw the thick\nhair back from his forehead and lifted a pair of strange gray eyes eyes\nfull of boyish laughter and rimmed with black lashes like a fringe. It\nwas the eyes which made Mr. Craven gasp for breath.\n\n Who What? Who!  he stammered.\n\nThis was not what Colin had expected this was not what he had planned.\nHe had never thought of such a meeting. And yet to come dashing\nout winning a race perhaps it was even better. He drew himself up to\nhis very tallest. Mary, who had been running with him and had dashed\nthrough the door too, believed that he managed to make himself look\ntaller than he had ever looked before inches taller.\n\n Father,  he said,  I m Colin. You can t believe it. I scarcely can\nmyself. I m Colin. \n\nLike Mrs. Medlock, he did not understand what his father meant when he\nsaid hurriedly:\n\n In the garden! In the garden! \n\n Yes,  hurried on Colin.  It was the garden that did it and Mary and\nDickon and the creatures and the Magic. No one knows. We kept it to\ntell you when you came. I m well, I can beat Mary in a race. I m going\nto be an athlete. \n\nHe said it all so like a healthy boy his face flushed, his words\ntumbling over each other in his eagerness that Mr. Craven s soul shook\nwith unbelieving joy.\n\nColin put out his hand and laid it on his father s arm.\n\n Aren t you glad, Father?  he ended.  Aren t you glad? I m going to\nlive forever and ever and ever! \n\nMr. Craven put his hands on both the boy s shoulders and held him\nstill. He knew he dared not even try to speak for a moment.\n\n Take me into the garden, my boy,  he said at last.  And tell me all\nabout it. \n\nAnd so they led him in.\n\nThe place was a wilderness of autumn gold and purple and violet blue\nand flaming scarlet and on every side were sheaves of late lilies\nstanding together lilies which were white or white and ruby. He\nremembered well when the first of them had been planted that just at\nthis season of the year their late glories should reveal themselves.\nLate roses climbed and hung and clustered and the sunshine deepening\nthe hue of the yellowing trees made one feel that one, stood in an\nembowered temple of gold. The newcomer stood silent just as the\nchildren had done when they came into its grayness. He looked round and\nround.\n\n I thought it would be dead,  he said.\n\n Mary thought so at first,  said Colin.  But it came alive. \n\nThen they sat down under their tree all but Colin, who wanted to stand\nwhile he told the story.\n\nIt was the strangest thing he had ever heard, Archibald Craven thought,\nas it was poured forth in headlong boy fashion. Mystery and Magic and\nwild creatures, the weird midnight meeting the coming of the spring the\npassion of insulted pride which had dragged the young Rajah to his feet\nto defy old Ben Weatherstaff to his face. The odd companionship, the\nplay acting, the great secret so carefully kept. The listener laughed\nuntil tears came into his eyes and sometimes tears came into his eyes\nwhen he was not laughing. The Athlete, the Lecturer, the Scientific\nDiscoverer was a laughable, lovable, healthy young human thing.\n\n Now,  he said at the end of the story,  it need not be a secret any\nmore. I dare say it will frighten them nearly into fits when they see\nme but I am never going to get into the chair again. I shall walk back\nwith you, Father to the house. \n\nBen Weatherstaff s duties rarely took him away from the gardens, but on\nthis occasion he made an excuse to carry some vegetables to the kitchen\nand being invited into the servants  hall by Mrs. Medlock to drink a\nglass of beer he was on the spot as he had hoped to be when the most\ndramatic event Misselthwaite Manor had seen during the present\ngeneration actually took place.\n\nOne of the windows looking upon the courtyard gave also a glimpse of\nthe lawn. Mrs. Medlock, knowing Ben had come from the gardens, hoped\nthat he might have caught sight of his master and even by chance of his\nmeeting with Master Colin.\n\n Did you see either of them, Weatherstaff?  she asked.\n\nBen took his beer-mug from his mouth and wiped his lips with the back\nof his hand.\n\n Aye, that I did,  he answered with a shrewdly significant air.\n\n Both of them?  suggested Mrs. Medlock.\n\n Both of  em,  returned Ben Weatherstaff.  Thank ye kindly, ma am, I\ncould sup up another mug of it. \n\n Together?  said Mrs. Medlock, hastily overfilling his beer-mug in her\nexcitement.\n\n Together, ma am,  and Ben gulped down half of his new mug at one gulp.\n\n Where was Master Colin? How did he look? What did they say to each\nother? \n\n I didna  hear that,  said Ben,  along o  only bein  on th  stepladder\nlookin over th  wall. But I ll tell thee this. There s been things\ngoin  on outside as you house people knows nowt about. An  what tha ll\nfind out tha ll find out soon. \n\nAnd it was not two minutes before he swallowed the last of his beer and\nwaved his mug solemnly toward the window which took in through the\nshrubbery a piece of the lawn.\n\n Look there,  he said,  if tha s curious. Look what s comin  across th \ngrass. \n\nWhen Mrs. Medlock looked she threw up her hands and gave a little\nshriek and every man and woman servant within hearing bolted across the\nservants  hall and stood looking through the window with their eyes\nalmost starting out of their heads.\n\nAcross the lawn came the Master of Misselthwaite and he looked as many\nof them had never seen him. And by his side with his head up in the air\nand his eyes full of laughter walked as strongly and steadily as any\nboy in Yorkshire Master Colin!\n\nTHE END"
    },
    {
        "title": "The Pickwick Papers",
        "author": "Charles Dickens",
        "category": "Historical Fiction",
        "EN": "Chapter I.\n\n\nMy father s family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my\ninfant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit\nthan Pip. So, I called myself Pip, and came to be called Pip.\n\nI give Pirrip as my father s family name, on the authority of his\ntombstone and my sister, Mrs. Joe Gargery, who married the blacksmith.\nAs I never saw my father or my mother, and never saw any likeness of\neither of them (for their days were long before the days of\nphotographs), my first fancies regarding what they were like were\nunreasonably derived from their tombstones. The shape of the letters on\nmy father s, gave me an odd idea that he was a square, stout, dark man,\nwith curly black hair. From the character and turn of the inscription,\n _Also Georgiana Wife of the Above_,  I drew a childish conclusion that\nmy mother was freckled and sickly. To five little stone lozenges, each\nabout a foot and a half long, which were arranged in a neat row beside\ntheir grave, and were sacred to the memory of five little brothers of\nmine, who gave up trying to get a living, exceedingly early in that\nuniversal struggle, I am indebted for a belief I religiously\nentertained that they had all been born on their backs with their hands\nin their trousers-pockets, and had never taken them out in this state\nof existence.\n\nOurs was the marsh country, down by the river, within, as the river\nwound, twenty miles of the sea. My first most vivid and broad\nimpression of the identity of things seems to me to have been gained on\na memorable raw afternoon towards evening. At such a time I found out\nfor certain that this bleak place overgrown with nettles was the\nchurchyard; and that Philip Pirrip, late of this parish, and also\nGeorgiana wife of the above, were dead and buried; and that Alexander,\nBartholomew, Abraham, Tobias, and Roger, infant children of the\naforesaid, were also dead and buried; and that the dark flat wilderness\nbeyond the churchyard, intersected with dikes and mounds and gates,\nwith scattered cattle feeding on it, was the marshes; and that the low\nleaden line beyond was the river; and that the distant savage lair from\nwhich the wind was rushing was the sea; and that the small bundle of\nshivers growing afraid of it all and beginning to cry, was Pip.\n\n Hold your noise!  cried a terrible voice, as a man started up from\namong the graves at the side of the church porch.  Keep still, you\nlittle devil, or I ll cut your throat! \n\nA fearful man, all in coarse grey, with a great iron on his leg. A man\nwith no hat, and with broken shoes, and with an old rag tied round his\nhead. A man who had been soaked in water, and smothered in mud, and\nlamed by stones, and cut by flints, and stung by nettles, and torn by\nbriars; who limped, and shivered, and glared, and growled; and whose\nteeth chattered in his head as he seized me by the chin.\n\n Oh! Don t cut my throat, sir,  I pleaded in terror.  Pray don t do it,\nsir. \n\n Tell us your name!  said the man.  Quick! \n\n Pip, sir. \n\n Once more,  said the man, staring at me.  Give it mouth! \n\n Pip. Pip, sir. \n\n Show us where you live,  said the man.  Pint out the place! \n\nI pointed to where our village lay, on the flat in-shore among the\nalder-trees and pollards, a mile or more from the church.\n\nThe man, after looking at me for a moment, turned me upside down, and\nemptied my pockets. There was nothing in them but a piece of bread.\nWhen the church came to itself, for he was so sudden and strong that he\nmade it go head over heels before me, and I saw the steeple under my\nfeet, when the church came to itself, I say, I was seated on a high\ntombstone, trembling while he ate the bread ravenously.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n You young dog,  said the man, licking his lips,  what fat cheeks you\nha  got. \n\nI believe they were fat, though I was at that time undersized for my\nyears, and not strong.\n\n Darn me if I couldn t eat  em,  said the man, with a threatening shake\nof his head,  and if I han t half a mind to t! \n\nI earnestly expressed my hope that he wouldn t, and held tighter to the\ntombstone on which he had put me; partly, to keep myself upon it;\npartly, to keep myself from crying.\n\n Now lookee here!  said the man.  Where s your mother? \n\n There, sir!  said I.\n\nHe started, made a short run, and stopped and looked over his shoulder.\n\n There, sir!  I timidly explained.  Also Georgiana. That s my mother. \n\n Oh!  said he, coming back.  And is that your father alonger your\nmother? \n\n Yes, sir,  said I;  him too; late of this parish. \n\n Ha!  he muttered then, considering.  Who d ye live with, supposin \nyou re kindly let to live, which I han t made up my mind about? \n\n My sister, sir, Mrs. Joe Gargery, wife of Joe Gargery, the blacksmith,\nsir. \n\n Blacksmith, eh?  said he. And looked down at his leg.\n\nAfter darkly looking at his leg and me several times, he came closer to\nmy tombstone, took me by both arms, and tilted me back as far as he\ncould hold me; so that his eyes looked most powerfully down into mine,\nand mine looked most helplessly up into his.\n\n Now lookee here,  he said,  the question being whether you re to be\nlet to live. You know what a file is? \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n And you know what wittles is? \n\n Yes, sir. \n\nAfter each question he tilted me over a little more, so as to give me a\ngreater sense of helplessness and danger.\n\n You get me a file.  He tilted me again.  And you get me wittles.  He\ntilted me again.  You bring  em both to me.  He tilted me again.  Or\nI ll have your heart and liver out.  He tilted me again.\n\nI was dreadfully frightened, and so giddy that I clung to him with both\nhands, and said,  If you would kindly please to let me keep upright,\nsir, perhaps I shouldn t be sick, and perhaps I could attend more. \n\nHe gave me a most tremendous dip and roll, so that the church jumped\nover its own weathercock. Then, he held me by the arms, in an upright\nposition on the top of the stone, and went on in these fearful terms: \n\n You bring me, to-morrow morning early, that file and them wittles. You\nbring the lot to me, at that old Battery over yonder. You do it, and\nyou never dare to say a word or dare to make a sign concerning your\nhaving seen such a person as me, or any person sumever, and you shall\nbe let to live. You fail, or you go from my words in any partickler, no\nmatter how small it is, and your heart and your liver shall be tore\nout, roasted, and ate. Now, I ain t alone, as you may think I am.\nThere s a young man hid with me, in comparison with which young man I\nam a Angel. That young man hears the words I speak. That young man has\na secret way pecooliar to himself, of getting at a boy, and at his\nheart, and at his liver. It is in wain for a boy to attempt to hide\nhimself from that young man. A boy may lock his door, may be warm in\nbed, may tuck himself up, may draw the clothes over his head, may think\nhimself comfortable and safe, but that young man will softly creep and\ncreep his way to him and tear him open. I am a keeping that young man\nfrom harming of you at the present moment, with great difficulty. I\nfind it wery hard to hold that young man off of your inside. Now, what\ndo you say? \n\nI said that I would get him the file, and I would get him what broken\nbits of food I could, and I would come to him at the Battery, early in\nthe morning.\n\n Say Lord strike you dead if you don t!  said the man.\n\nI said so, and he took me down.\n\n Now,  he pursued,  you remember what you ve undertook, and you\nremember that young man, and you get home! \n\n Goo-good night, sir,  I faltered.\n\n Much of that!  said he, glancing about him over the cold wet flat.  I\nwish I was a frog. Or a eel! \n\nAt the same time, he hugged his shuddering body in both his\narms, clasping himself, as if to hold himself together, and limped\ntowards the low church wall. As I saw him go, picking his way among the\nnettles, and among the brambles that bound the green mounds, he looked\nin my young eyes as if he were eluding the hands of the dead people,\nstretching up cautiously out of their graves, to get a twist upon his\nankle and pull him in.\n\nWhen he came to the low church wall, he got over it, like a man whose\nlegs were numbed and stiff, and then turned round to look for me. When\nI saw him turning, I set my face towards home, and made the best use of\nmy legs. But presently I looked over my shoulder, and saw him going on\nagain towards the river, still hugging himself in both arms, and\npicking his way with his sore feet among the great stones dropped into\nthe marshes here and there, for stepping-places when the rains were\nheavy or the tide was in.\n\nThe marshes were just a long black horizontal line then, as I stopped\nto look after him; and the river was just another horizontal line, not\nnearly so broad nor yet so black; and the sky was just a row of long\nangry red lines and dense black lines intermixed. On the edge of the\nriver I could faintly make out the only two black things in all the\nprospect that seemed to be standing upright; one of these was the\nbeacon by which the sailors steered, like an unhooped cask upon a\npole, an ugly thing when you were near it; the other, a gibbet, with\nsome chains hanging to it which had once held a pirate. The man was\nlimping on towards this latter, as if he were the pirate come to life,\nand come down, and going back to hook himself up again. It gave me a\nterrible turn when I thought so; and as I saw the cattle lifting their\nheads to gaze after him, I wondered whether they thought so too. I\nlooked all round for the horrible young man, and could see no signs of\nhim. But now I was frightened again, and ran home without stopping.\n\n\n\n\nChapter II.\n\n\nMy sister, Mrs. Joe Gargery, was more than twenty years older than I,\nand had established a great reputation with herself and the neighbours\nbecause she had brought me up  by hand.  Having at that time to find\nout for myself what the expression meant, and knowing her to have a\nhard and heavy hand, and to be much in the habit of laying it upon her\nhusband as well as upon me, I supposed that Joe Gargery and I were both\nbrought up by hand.\n\nShe was not a good-looking woman, my sister; and I had a general\nimpression that she must have made Joe Gargery marry her by hand. Joe\nwas a fair man, with curls of flaxen hair on each side of his smooth\nface, and with eyes of such a very undecided blue that they seemed to\nhave somehow got mixed with their own whites. He was a mild,\ngood-natured, sweet-tempered, easy-going, foolish, dear fellow, a sort\nof Hercules in strength, and also in weakness.\n\nMy sister, Mrs. Joe, with black hair and eyes, had such a prevailing\nredness of skin that I sometimes used to wonder whether it was possible\nshe washed herself with a nutmeg-grater instead of soap. She was tall\nand bony, and almost always wore a coarse apron, fastened over her\nfigure behind with two loops, and having a square impregnable bib in\nfront, that was stuck full of pins and needles. She made it a powerful\nmerit in herself, and a strong reproach against Joe, that she wore this\napron so much. Though I really see no reason why she should have worn\nit at all; or why, if she did wear it at all, she should not have taken\nit off, every day of her life.\n\nJoe s forge adjoined our house, which was a wooden house, as many of\nthe dwellings in our country were, most of them, at that time. When I\nran home from the churchyard, the forge was shut up, and Joe was\nsitting alone in the kitchen. Joe and I being fellow-sufferers, and\nhaving confidences as such, Joe imparted a confidence to me, the moment\nI raised the latch of the door and peeped in at him opposite to it,\nsitting in the chimney corner.\n\n Mrs. Joe has been out a dozen times, looking for you, Pip. And she s\nout now, making it a baker s dozen. \n\n Is she? \n\n Yes, Pip,  said Joe;  and what s worse, she s got Tickler with her. \n\nAt this dismal intelligence, I twisted the only button on my waistcoat\nround and round, and looked in great depression at the fire. Tickler\nwas a wax-ended piece of cane, worn smooth by collision with my tickled\nframe.\n\n She sot down,  said Joe,  and she got up, and she made a grab at\nTickler, and she Ram-paged out. That s what she did,  said Joe, slowly\nclearing the fire between the lower bars with the poker, and looking at\nit;  she Ram-paged out, Pip. \n\n Has she been gone long, Joe?  I always treated him as a larger species\nof child, and as no more than my equal.\n\n Well,  said Joe, glancing up at the Dutch clock,  she s been on the\nRam-page, this last spell, about five minutes, Pip. She s a-coming! Get\nbehind the door, old chap, and have the jack-towel betwixt you. \n\nI took the advice. My sister, Mrs. Joe, throwing the door wide open,\nand finding an obstruction behind it, immediately divined the cause,\nand applied Tickler to its further investigation. She concluded by\nthrowing me I often served as a connubial missile at Joe, who, glad to\nget hold of me on any terms, passed me on into the chimney and quietly\nfenced me up there with his great leg.\n\n Where have you been, you young monkey?  said Mrs. Joe, stamping her\nfoot.  Tell me directly what you ve been doing to wear me away with\nfret and fright and worrit, or I d have you out of that corner if you\nwas fifty Pips, and he was five hundred Gargerys. \n\n I have only been to the churchyard,  said I, from my stool, crying and\nrubbing myself.\n\n Churchyard!  repeated my sister.  If it warn t for me you d have been\nto the churchyard long ago, and stayed there. Who brought you up by\nhand? \n\n You did,  said I.\n\n And why did I do it, I should like to know?  exclaimed my sister.\n\nI whimpered,  I don t know. \n\n _I_ don t!  said my sister.  I d never do it again! I know that. I may\ntruly say I ve never had this apron of mine off since born you were.\nIt s bad enough to be a blacksmith s wife (and him a Gargery) without\nbeing your mother. \n\nMy thoughts strayed from that question as I looked disconsolately at\nthe fire. For the fugitive out on the marshes with the ironed leg, the\nmysterious young man, the file, the food, and the dreadful pledge I was\nunder to commit a larceny on those sheltering premises, rose before me\nin the avenging coals.\n\n Hah!  said Mrs. Joe, restoring Tickler to his station.  Churchyard,\nindeed! You may well say churchyard, you two.  One of us, by the by,\nhad not said it at all.  You ll drive _me_ to the churchyard betwixt\nyou, one of these days, and O, a pr-r-recious pair you d be without\nme! \n\nAs she applied herself to set the tea-things, Joe peeped down at me\nover his leg, as if he were mentally casting me and himself up, and\ncalculating what kind of pair we practically should make, under the\ngrievous circumstances foreshadowed. After that, he sat feeling his\nright-side flaxen curls and whisker, and following Mrs. Joe about with\nhis blue eyes, as his manner always was at squally times.\n\nMy sister had a trenchant way of cutting our bread and butter for us,\nthat never varied. First, with her left hand she jammed the loaf hard\nand fast against her bib, where it sometimes got a pin into it, and\nsometimes a needle, which we afterwards got into our mouths. Then she\ntook some butter (not too much) on a knife and spread it on the loaf,\nin an apothecary kind of way, as if she were making a plaster, using\nboth sides of the knife with a slapping dexterity, and trimming and\nmoulding the butter off round the crust. Then, she gave the knife a\nfinal smart wipe on the edge of the plaster, and then sawed a very\nthick round off the loaf: which she finally, before separating from the\nloaf, hewed into two halves, of which Joe got one, and I the other.\n\nOn the present occasion, though I was hungry, I dared not eat my slice.\nI felt that I must have something in reserve for my dreadful\nacquaintance, and his ally the still more dreadful young man. I knew\nMrs. Joe s housekeeping to be of the strictest kind, and that my\nlarcenous researches might find nothing available in the safe.\nTherefore I resolved to put my hunk of bread and butter down the leg of\nmy trousers.\n\nThe effort of resolution necessary to the achievement of this purpose I\nfound to be quite awful. It was as if I had to make up my mind to leap\nfrom the top of a high house, or plunge into a great depth of water.\nAnd it was made the more difficult by the unconscious Joe. In our\nalready-mentioned freemasonry as fellow-sufferers, and in his\ngood-natured companionship with me, it was our evening habit to compare\nthe way we bit through our slices, by silently holding them up to each\nother s admiration now and then, which stimulated us to new exertions.\nTo-night, Joe several times invited me, by the display of his fast\ndiminishing slice, to enter upon our usual friendly competition; but he\nfound me, each time, with my yellow mug of tea on one knee, and my\nuntouched bread and butter on the other. At last, I desperately\nconsidered that the thing I contemplated must be done, and that it had\nbest be done in the least improbable manner consistent with the\ncircumstances. I took advantage of a moment when Joe had just looked at\nme, and got my bread and butter down my leg.\n\nJoe was evidently made uncomfortable by what he supposed to be my loss\nof appetite, and took a thoughtful bite out of his slice, which he\ndidn t seem to enjoy. He turned it about in his mouth much longer than\nusual, pondering over it a good deal, and after all gulped it down like\na pill. He was about to take another bite, and had just got his head on\none side for a good purchase on it, when his eye fell on me, and he saw\nthat my bread and butter was gone.\n\nThe wonder and consternation with which Joe stopped on the threshold of\nhis bite and stared at me, were too evident to escape my sister s\nobservation.\n\n What s the matter _now_?  said she, smartly, as she put down her cup.\n\n I say, you know!  muttered Joe, shaking his head at me in very serious\nremonstrance.  Pip, old chap! You ll do yourself a mischief. It ll\nstick somewhere. You can t have chawed it, Pip. \n\n What s the matter now?  repeated my sister, more sharply than before.\n\n If you can cough any trifle on it up, Pip, I d recommend you to do\nit,  said Joe, all aghast.  Manners is manners, but still your elth s\nyour elth. \n\nBy this time, my sister was quite desperate, so she pounced on Joe,\nand, taking him by the two whiskers, knocked his head for a little\nwhile against the wall behind him, while I sat in the corner, looking\nguiltily on.\n\n Now, perhaps you ll mention what s the matter,  said my sister, out of\nbreath,  you staring great stuck pig. \n\nJoe looked at her in a helpless way, then took a helpless bite, and\nlooked at me again.\n\n You know, Pip,  said Joe, solemnly, with his last bite in his cheek,\nand speaking in a confidential voice, as if we two were quite alone,\n you and me is always friends, and I d be the last to tell upon you,\nany time. But such a  he moved his chair and looked about the floor\nbetween us, and then again at me such a most oncommon Bolt as that! \n\n Been bolting his food, has he?  cried my sister.\n\n You know, old chap,  said Joe, looking at me, and not at Mrs. Joe,\nwith his bite still in his cheek,  I Bolted, myself, when I was your\nage frequent and as a boy I ve been among a many Bolters; but I never\nsee your Bolting equal yet, Pip, and it s a mercy you ain t Bolted\ndead. \n\nMy sister made a dive at me, and fished me up by the hair, saying\nnothing more than the awful words,  You come along and be dosed. \n\nSome medical beast had revived Tar-water in those days as a fine\nmedicine, and Mrs. Joe always kept a supply of it in the cupboard;\nhaving a belief in its virtues correspondent to its nastiness. At the\nbest of times, so much of this elixir was administered to me as a\nchoice restorative, that I was conscious of going about, smelling like\na new fence. On this particular evening the urgency of my case demanded\na pint of this mixture, which was poured down my throat, for my greater\ncomfort, while Mrs. Joe held my head under her arm, as a boot would be\nheld in a bootjack. Joe got off with half a pint; but was made to\nswallow that (much to his disturbance, as he sat slowly munching and\nmeditating before the fire),  because he had had a turn.  Judging from\nmyself, I should say he certainly had a turn afterwards, if he had had\nnone before.\n\nConscience is a dreadful thing when it accuses man or boy; but when, in\nthe case of a boy, that secret burden co-operates with another secret\nburden down the leg of his trousers, it is (as I can testify) a great\npunishment. The guilty knowledge that I was going to rob Mrs. Joe I\nnever thought I was going to rob Joe, for I never thought of any of the\nhousekeeping property as his united to the necessity of always keeping\none hand on my bread and butter as I sat, or when I was ordered about\nthe kitchen on any small errand, almost drove me out of my mind. Then,\nas the marsh winds made the fire glow and flare, I thought I heard the\nvoice outside, of the man with the iron on his leg who had sworn me to\nsecrecy, declaring that he couldn t and wouldn t starve until\nto-morrow, but must be fed now. At other times, I thought, What if the\nyoung man who was with so much difficulty restrained from imbruing his\nhands in me should yield to a constitutional impatience, or should\nmistake the time, and should think himself accredited to my heart and\nliver to-night, instead of to-morrow! If ever anybody s hair stood on\nend with terror, mine must have done so then. But, perhaps, nobody s\never did?\n\nIt was Christmas Eve, and I had to stir the pudding for next day, with\na copper-stick, from seven to eight by the Dutch clock. I tried it with\nthe load upon my leg (and that made me think afresh of the man with the\nload on _his_ leg), and found the tendency of exercise to bring the\nbread and butter out at my ankle, quite unmanageable. Happily I slipped\naway, and deposited that part of my conscience in my garret bedroom.\n\n Hark!  said I, when I had done my stirring, and was taking a final\nwarm in the chimney corner before being sent up to bed;  was that great\nguns, Joe? \n\n Ah!  said Joe.  There s another conwict off. \n\n What does that mean, Joe?  said I.\n\nMrs. Joe, who always took explanations upon herself, said, snappishly,\n Escaped. Escaped.  Administering the definition like Tar-water.\n\nWhile Mrs. Joe sat with her head bending over her needlework, I put my\nmouth into the forms of saying to Joe,  What s a convict?  Joe put\n_his_ mouth into the forms of returning such a highly elaborate answer,\nthat I could make out nothing of it but the single word  Pip. \n\n There was a conwict off last night,  said Joe, aloud,  after\nsunset-gun. And they fired warning of him. And now it appears they re\nfiring warning of another. \n\n _Who s_ firing?  said I.\n\n Drat that boy,  interposed my sister, frowning at me over her work,\n what a questioner he is. Ask no questions, and you ll be told no\nlies. \n\nIt was not very polite to herself, I thought, to imply that I should be\ntold lies by her even if I did ask questions. But she never was polite\nunless there was company.\n\nAt this point Joe greatly augmented my curiosity by taking the utmost\npains to open his mouth very wide, and to put it into the form of a\nword that looked to me like  sulks.  Therefore, I naturally pointed to\nMrs. Joe, and put my mouth into the form of saying,  her?  But Joe\nwouldn t hear of that, at all, and again opened his mouth very wide,\nand shook the form of a most emphatic word out of it. But I could make\nnothing of the word.\n\n Mrs. Joe,  said I, as a last resort,  I should like to know if you\nwouldn t much mind where the firing comes from? \n\n Lord bless the boy!  exclaimed my sister, as if she didn t quite mean\nthat but rather the contrary.  From the Hulks! \n\n Oh-h!  said I, looking at Joe.  Hulks! \n\nJoe gave a reproachful cough, as much as to say,  Well, I told you so. \n\n And please, what s Hulks?  said I.\n\n That s the way with this boy!  exclaimed my sister, pointing me out\nwith her needle and thread, and shaking her head at me.  Answer him one\nquestion, and he ll ask you a dozen directly. Hulks are prison-ships,\nright  cross th  meshes.  We always used that name for marshes, in our\ncountry.\n\n I wonder who s put into prison-ships, and why they re put there?  said\nI, in a general way, and with quiet desperation.\n\nIt was too much for Mrs. Joe, who immediately rose.  I tell you what,\nyoung fellow,  said she,  I didn t bring you up by hand to badger\npeople s lives out. It would be blame to me and not praise, if I had.\nPeople are put in the Hulks because they murder, and because they rob,\nand forge, and do all sorts of bad; and they always begin by asking\nquestions. Now, you get along to bed! \n\nI was never allowed a candle to light me to bed, and, as I went\nupstairs in the dark, with my head tingling, from Mrs. Joe s thimble\nhaving played the tambourine upon it, to accompany her last words, I\nfelt fearfully sensible of the great convenience that the hulks were\nhandy for me. I was clearly on my way there. I had begun by asking\nquestions, and I was going to rob Mrs. Joe.\n\nSince that time, which is far enough away now, I have often thought\nthat few people know what secrecy there is in the young under terror.\nNo matter how unreasonable the terror, so that it be terror. I was in\nmortal terror of the young man who wanted my heart and liver; I was in\nmortal terror of my interlocutor with the iron leg; I was in mortal\nterror of myself, from whom an awful promise had been extracted; I had\nno hope of deliverance through my all-powerful sister, who repulsed me\nat every turn; I am afraid to think of what I might have done on\nrequirement, in the secrecy of my terror.\n\nIf I slept at all that night, it was only to imagine myself drifting\ndown the river on a strong spring-tide, to the Hulks; a ghostly pirate\ncalling out to me through a speaking-trumpet, as I passed the\ngibbet-station, that I had better come ashore and be hanged there at\nonce, and not put it off. I was afraid to sleep, even if I had been\ninclined, for I knew that at the first faint dawn of morning I must rob\nthe pantry. There was no doing it in the night, for there was no\ngetting a light by easy friction then; to have got one I must have\nstruck it out of flint and steel, and have made a noise like the very\npirate himself rattling his chains.\n\nAs soon as the great black velvet pall outside my little window was\nshot with grey, I got up and went downstairs; every board upon the way,\nand every crack in every board calling after me,  Stop thief!  and  Get\nup, Mrs. Joe!  In the pantry, which was far more abundantly supplied\nthan usual, owing to the season, I was very much alarmed by a hare\nhanging up by the heels, whom I rather thought I caught, when my back\nwas half turned, winking. I had no time for verification, no time for\nselection, no time for anything, for I had no time to spare. I stole\nsome bread, some rind of cheese, about half a jar of mincemeat (which I\ntied up in my pocket-handkerchief with my last night s slice), some\nbrandy from a stone bottle (which I decanted into a glass bottle I had\nsecretly used for making that intoxicating fluid,\nSpanish-liquorice-water, up in my room: diluting the stone bottle from\na jug in the kitchen cupboard), a meat bone with very little on it, and\na beautiful round compact pork pie. I was nearly going away without the\npie, but I was tempted to mount upon a shelf, to look what it was that\nwas put away so carefully in a covered earthenware dish in a corner,\nand I found it was the pie, and I took it in the hope that it was not\nintended for early use, and would not be missed for some time.\n\nThere was a door in the kitchen, communicating with the forge; I\nunlocked and unbolted that door, and got a file from among Joe s tools.\nThen I put the fastenings as I had found them, opened the door at which\nI had entered when I ran home last night, shut it, and ran for the\nmisty marshes.\n\n\n\n\nChapter III.\n\n\nIt was a rimy morning, and very damp. I had seen the damp lying on the\noutside of my little window, as if some goblin had been crying there\nall night, and using the window for a pocket-handkerchief. Now, I saw\nthe damp lying on the bare hedges and spare grass, like a coarser sort\nof spiders  webs; hanging itself from twig to twig and blade to blade.\nOn every rail and gate, wet lay clammy, and the marsh mist was so\nthick, that the wooden finger on the post directing people to our\nvillage a direction which they never accepted, for they never came\nthere was invisible to me until I was quite close under it. Then, as I\nlooked up at it, while it dripped, it seemed to my oppressed conscience\nlike a phantom devoting me to the Hulks.\n\nThe mist was heavier yet when I got out upon the marshes, so that\ninstead of my running at everything, everything seemed to run at me.\nThis was very disagreeable to a guilty mind. The gates and dikes and\nbanks came bursting at me through the mist, as if they cried as plainly\nas could be,  A boy with somebody else s pork pie! Stop him!  The\ncattle came upon me with like suddenness, staring out of their eyes,\nand steaming out of their nostrils,  Halloa, young thief!  One black\nox, with a white cravat on, who even had to my awakened conscience\nsomething of a clerical air, fixed me so obstinately with his eyes, and\nmoved his blunt head round in such an accusatory manner as I moved\nround, that I blubbered out to him,  I couldn t help it, sir! It wasn t\nfor myself I took it!  Upon which he put down his head, blew a cloud of\nsmoke out of his nose, and vanished with a kick-up of his hind-legs and\na flourish of his tail.\n\nAll this time, I was getting on towards the river; but however fast I\nwent, I couldn t warm my feet, to which the damp cold seemed riveted,\nas the iron was riveted to the leg of the man I was running to meet. I\nknew my way to the Battery, pretty straight, for I had been down there\non a Sunday with Joe, and Joe, sitting on an old gun, had told me that\nwhen I was  prentice to him, regularly bound, we would have such Larks\nthere! However, in the confusion of the mist, I found myself at last\ntoo far to the right, and consequently had to try back along the\nriver-side, on the bank of loose stones above the mud and the stakes\nthat staked the tide out. Making my way along here with all despatch, I\nhad just crossed a ditch which I knew to be very near the Battery, and\nhad just scrambled up the mound beyond the ditch, when I saw the man\nsitting before me. His back was towards me, and he had his arms folded,\nand was nodding forward, heavy with sleep.\n\nI thought he would be more glad if I came upon him with his breakfast,\nin that unexpected manner, so I went forward softly and touched him on\nthe shoulder. He instantly jumped up, and it was not the same man, but\nanother man!\n\nAnd yet this man was dressed in coarse grey, too, and had a great iron\non his leg, and was lame, and hoarse, and cold, and was everything that\nthe other man was; except that he had not the same face, and had a flat\nbroad-brimmed low-crowned felt hat on. All this I saw in a moment, for\nI had only a moment to see it in: he swore an oath at me, made a hit at\nme, it was a round weak blow that missed me and almost knocked himself\ndown, for it made him stumble, and then he ran into the mist, stumbling\ntwice as he went, and I lost him.\n\n It s the young man!  I thought, feeling my heart shoot as I identified\nhim. I dare say I should have felt a pain in my liver, too, if I had\nknown where it was.\n\nI was soon at the Battery after that, and there was the right\nman, hugging himself and limping to and fro, as if he had never all\nnight left off hugging and limping, waiting for me. He was awfully\ncold, to be sure. I half expected to see him drop down before my face\nand die of deadly cold. His eyes looked so awfully hungry too, that\nwhen I handed him the file and he laid it down on the grass, it\noccurred to me he would have tried to eat it, if he had not seen my\nbundle. He did not turn me upside down this time to get at what I had,\nbut left me right side upwards while I opened the bundle and emptied my\npockets.\n\n What s in the bottle, boy?  said he.\n\n Brandy,  said I.\n\nHe was already handing mincemeat down his throat in the most curious\nmanner, more like a man who was putting it away somewhere in a violent\nhurry, than a man who was eating it, but he left off to take some of\nthe liquor. He shivered all the while so violently, that it was quite\nas much as he could do to keep the neck of the bottle between his\nteeth, without biting it off.\n\n I think you have got the ague,  said I.\n\n I m much of your opinion, boy,  said he.\n\n It s bad about here,  I told him.  You ve been lying out on the\nmeshes, and they re dreadful aguish. Rheumatic too. \n\n I ll eat my breakfast afore they re the death of me,  said he.  I d do\nthat, if I was going to be strung up to that there gallows as there is\nover there, directly afterwards. I ll beat the shivers so far, I ll bet\nyou. \n\nHe was gobbling mincemeat, meatbone, bread, cheese, and pork pie, all\nat once: staring distrustfully while he did so at the mist all round\nus, and often stopping even stopping his jaws to listen. Some real or\nfancied sound, some clink upon the river or breathing of beast upon the\nmarsh, now gave him a start, and he said, suddenly, \n\n You re not a deceiving imp? You brought no one with you? \n\n No, sir! No! \n\n Nor giv  no one the office to follow you? \n\n No! \n\n Well,  said he,  I believe you. You d be but a fierce young hound\nindeed, if at your time of life you could help to hunt a wretched\nwarmint hunted as near death and dunghill as this poor wretched warmint\nis! \n\nSomething clicked in his throat as if he had works in him like a clock,\nand was going to strike. And he smeared his ragged rough sleeve over\nhis eyes.\n\nPitying his desolation, and watching him as he gradually settled down\nupon the pie, I made bold to say,  I am glad you enjoy it. \n\n Did you speak? \n\n I said I was glad you enjoyed it. \n\n Thankee, my boy. I do. \n\nI had often watched a large dog of ours eating his food; and I now\nnoticed a decided similarity between the dog s way of eating, and the\nman s. The man took strong sharp sudden bites, just like the dog. He\nswallowed, or rather snapped up, every mouthful, too soon and too fast;\nand he looked sideways here and there while he ate, as if he thought\nthere was danger in every direction of somebody s coming to take the\npie away. He was altogether too unsettled in his mind over it, to\nappreciate it comfortably I thought, or to have anybody to dine with\nhim, without making a chop with his jaws at the visitor. In all of\nwhich particulars he was very like the dog.\n\n I am afraid you won t leave any of it for him,  said I, timidly; after\na silence during which I had hesitated as to the politeness of making\nthe remark.  There s no more to be got where that came from.  It was\nthe certainty of this fact that impelled me to offer the hint.\n\n Leave any for him? Who s him?  said my friend, stopping in his\ncrunching of pie-crust.\n\n The young man. That you spoke of. That was hid with you. \n\n Oh ah!  he returned, with something like a gruff laugh.  Him? Yes,\nyes! _He_ don t want no wittles. \n\n I thought he looked as if he did,  said I.\n\nThe man stopped eating, and regarded me with the keenest scrutiny and\nthe greatest surprise.\n\n Looked? When? \n\n Just now. \n\n Where? \n\n Yonder,  said I, pointing;  over there, where I found him nodding\nasleep, and thought it was you. \n\nHe held me by the collar and stared at me so, that I began to think his\nfirst idea about cutting my throat had revived.\n\n Dressed like you, you know, only with a hat,  I explained, trembling;\n and and I was very anxious to put this delicately and with the same\nreason for wanting to borrow a file. Didn t you hear the cannon last\nnight? \n\n Then there _was_ firing!  he said to himself.\n\n I wonder you shouldn t have been sure of that,  I returned,  for we\nheard it up at home, and that s farther away, and we were shut in\nbesides. \n\n Why, see now!  said he.  When a man s alone on these flats, with a\nlight head and a light stomach, perishing of cold and want, he hears\nnothin  all night, but guns firing, and voices calling. Hears? He sees\nthe soldiers, with their red coats lighted up by the torches carried\nafore, closing in round him. Hears his number called, hears himself\nchallenged, hears the rattle of the muskets, hears the orders  Make\nready! Present! Cover him steady, men!  and is laid hands on and\nthere s nothin ! Why, if I see one pursuing party last night coming up\nin order, Damn  em, with their tramp, tramp I see a hundred. And as to\nfiring! Why, I see the mist shake with the cannon, arter it was broad\nday, But this man ; he had said all the rest, as if he had forgotten my\nbeing there;  did you notice anything in him? \n\n He had a badly bruised face,  said I, recalling what I hardly knew I\nknew.\n\n Not here?  exclaimed the man, striking his left cheek mercilessly,\nwith the flat of his hand.\n\n Yes, there! \n\n Where is he?  He crammed what little food was left, into the breast of\nhis grey jacket.  Show me the way he went. I ll pull him down, like a\nbloodhound. Curse this iron on my sore leg! Give us hold of the file,\nboy. \n\nI indicated in what direction the mist had shrouded the other man, and\nhe looked up at it for an instant. But he was down on the rank wet\ngrass, filing at his iron like a madman, and not minding me or minding\nhis own leg, which had an old chafe upon it and was bloody, but which\nhe handled as roughly as if it had no more feeling in it than the file.\nI was very much afraid of him again, now that he had worked himself\ninto this fierce hurry, and I was likewise very much afraid of keeping\naway from home any longer. I told him I must go, but he took no notice,\nso I thought the best thing I could do was to slip off. The last I saw\nof him, his head was bent over his knee and he was working hard at his\nfetter, muttering impatient imprecations at it and at his leg. The last\nI heard of him, I stopped in the mist to listen, and the file was still\ngoing.\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV.\n\n\nI fully expected to find a Constable in the kitchen, waiting to take me\nup. But not only was there no Constable there, but no discovery had yet\nbeen made of the robbery. Mrs. Joe was prodigiously busy in getting the\nhouse ready for the festivities of the day, and Joe had been put upon\nthe kitchen doorstep to keep him out of the dust-pan, an article into\nwhich his destiny always led him, sooner or later, when my sister was\nvigorously reaping the floors of her establishment.\n\n And where the deuce ha  _you_ been?  was Mrs. Joe s Christmas\nsalutation, when I and my conscience showed ourselves.\n\nI said I had been down to hear the Carols.  Ah! well!  observed Mrs.\nJoe.  You might ha  done worse.  Not a doubt of that I thought.\n\n Perhaps if I warn t a blacksmith s wife, and (what s the same thing) a\nslave with her apron never off, _I_ should have been to hear the\nCarols,  said Mrs. Joe.  I m rather partial to Carols, myself, and\nthat s the best of reasons for my never hearing any. \n\nJoe, who had ventured into the kitchen after me as the dustpan had\nretired before us, drew the back of his hand across his nose with a\nconciliatory air, when Mrs. Joe darted a look at him, and, when her\neyes were withdrawn, secretly crossed his two forefingers, and\nexhibited them to me, as our token that Mrs. Joe was in a cross temper.\nThis was so much her normal state, that Joe and I would often, for\nweeks together, be, as to our fingers, like monumental Crusaders as to\ntheir legs.\n\nWe were to have a superb dinner, consisting of a leg of pickled pork\nand greens, and a pair of roast stuffed fowls. A handsome mince-pie had\nbeen made yesterday morning (which accounted for the mincemeat not\nbeing missed), and the pudding was already on the boil. These extensive\narrangements occasioned us to be cut off unceremoniously in respect of\nbreakfast;  for I ain t,  said Mrs. Joe, I ain t a-going to have no\nformal cramming and busting and washing up now, with what I ve got\nbefore me, I promise you! \n\nSo, we had our slices served out, as if we were two thousand troops on\na forced march instead of a man and boy at home; and we took gulps of\nmilk and water, with apologetic countenances, from a jug on the\ndresser. In the meantime, Mrs. Joe put clean white curtains up, and\ntacked a new flowered flounce across the wide chimney to replace the\nold one, and uncovered the little state parlour across the passage,\nwhich was never uncovered at any other time, but passed the rest of the\nyear in a cool haze of silver paper, which even extended to the four\nlittle white crockery poodles on the mantel-shelf, each with a black\nnose and a basket of flowers in his mouth, and each the counterpart of\nthe other. Mrs. Joe was a very clean housekeeper, but had an exquisite\nart of making her cleanliness more uncomfortable and unacceptable than\ndirt itself. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, and some people do the\nsame by their religion.\n\nMy sister, having so much to do, was going to church vicariously, that\nis to say, Joe and I were going. In his working-clothes, Joe was a\nwell-knit characteristic-looking blacksmith; in his holiday clothes, he\nwas more like a scarecrow in good circumstances, than anything else.\nNothing that he wore then fitted him or seemed to belong to him; and\neverything that he wore then grazed him. On the present festive\noccasion he emerged from his room, when the blithe bells were going,\nthe picture of misery, in a full suit of Sunday penitentials. As to me,\nI think my sister must have had some general idea that I was a young\noffender whom an Accoucheur Policeman had taken up (on my birthday) and\ndelivered over to her, to be dealt with according to the outraged\nmajesty of the law. I was always treated as if I had insisted on being\nborn in opposition to the dictates of reason, religion, and morality,\nand against the dissuading arguments of my best friends. Even when I\nwas taken to have a new suit of clothes, the tailor had orders to make\nthem like a kind of Reformatory, and on no account to let me have the\nfree use of my limbs.\n\nJoe and I going to church, therefore, must have been a moving spectacle\nfor compassionate minds. Yet, what I suffered outside was nothing to\nwhat I underwent within. The terrors that had assailed me whenever Mrs.\nJoe had gone near the pantry, or out of the room, were only to be\nequalled by the remorse with which my mind dwelt on what my hands had\ndone. Under the weight of my wicked secret, I pondered whether the\nChurch would be powerful enough to shield me from the vengeance of the\nterrible young man, if I divulged to that establishment. I conceived\nthe idea that the time when the banns were read and when the clergyman\nsaid,  Ye are now to declare it!  would be the time for me to rise and\npropose a private conference in the vestry. I am far from being sure\nthat I might not have astonished our small congregation by resorting to\nthis extreme measure, but for its being Christmas Day and no Sunday.\n\nMr. Wopsle, the clerk at church, was to dine with us; and Mr. Hubble\nthe wheelwright and Mrs. Hubble; and Uncle Pumblechook (Joe s uncle,\nbut Mrs. Joe appropriated him), who was a well-to-do cornchandler in\nthe nearest town, and drove his own chaise-cart. The dinner hour was\nhalf-past one. When Joe and I got home, we found the table laid, and\nMrs. Joe dressed, and the dinner dressing, and the front door unlocked\n(it never was at any other time) for the company to enter by, and\neverything most splendid. And still, not a word of the robbery.\n\nThe time came, without bringing with it any relief to my feelings, and\nthe company came. Mr. Wopsle, united to a Roman nose and a large\nshining bald forehead, had a deep voice which he was uncommonly proud\nof; indeed it was understood among his acquaintance that if you could\nonly give him his head, he would read the clergyman into fits; he\nhimself confessed that if the Church was  thrown open,  meaning to\ncompetition, he would not despair of making his mark in it. The Church\nnot being  thrown open,  he was, as I have said, our clerk. But he\npunished the Amens tremendously; and when he gave out the psalm, always\ngiving the whole verse, he looked all round the congregation first, as\nmuch as to say,  You have heard my friend overhead; oblige me with your\nopinion of this style! \n\nI opened the door to the company, making believe that it was a habit of\nours to open that door, and I opened it first to Mr. Wopsle, next to\nMr. and Mrs. Hubble, and last of all to Uncle Pumblechook. N.B. _I_ was\nnot allowed to call him uncle, under the severest penalties.\n\n Mrs. Joe,  said Uncle Pumblechook, a large hard-breathing middle-aged\nslow man, with a mouth like a fish, dull staring eyes, and sandy hair\nstanding upright on his head, so that he looked as if he had just been\nall but choked, and had that moment come to,  I have brought you as the\ncompliments of the season I have brought you, Mum, a bottle of sherry\nwine and I have brought you, Mum, a bottle of port wine. \n\nEvery Christmas Day he presented himself, as a profound novelty, with\nexactly the same words, and carrying the two bottles like dumb-bells.\nEvery Christmas Day, Mrs. Joe replied, as she now replied,  O, Un cle\nPum-ble chook! This _is_ kind!  Every Christmas Day, he retorted, as he\nnow retorted,  It s no more than your merits. And now are you all\nbobbish, and how s Sixpennorth of halfpence?  meaning me.\n\nWe dined on these occasions in the kitchen, and adjourned, for the nuts\nand oranges and apples to the parlour; which was a change very like\nJoe s change from his working-clothes to his Sunday dress. My sister\nwas uncommonly lively on the present occasion, and indeed was generally\nmore gracious in the society of Mrs. Hubble than in other company. I\nremember Mrs. Hubble as a little curly sharp-edged person in sky-blue,\nwho held a conventionally juvenile position, because she had married\nMr. Hubble, I don t know at what remote period, when she was much\nyounger than he. I remember Mr Hubble as a tough, high-shouldered,\nstooping old man, of a sawdusty fragrance, with his legs\nextraordinarily wide apart: so that in my short days I always saw some\nmiles of open country between them when I met him coming up the lane.\n\nAmong this good company I should have felt myself, even if I hadn t\nrobbed the pantry, in a false position. Not because I was squeezed in\nat an acute angle of the tablecloth, with the table in my chest, and\nthe Pumblechookian elbow in my eye, nor because I was not allowed to\nspeak (I didn t want to speak), nor because I was regaled with the\nscaly tips of the drumsticks of the fowls, and with those obscure\ncorners of pork of which the pig, when living, had had the least reason\nto be vain. No; I should not have minded that, if they would only have\nleft me alone. But they wouldn t leave me alone. They seemed to think\nthe opportunity lost, if they failed to point the conversation at me,\nevery now and then, and stick the point into me. I might have been an\nunfortunate little bull in a Spanish arena, I got so smartingly touched\nup by these moral goads.\n\nIt began the moment we sat down to dinner. Mr. Wopsle said grace with\ntheatrical declamation, as it now appears to me, something like a\nreligious cross of the Ghost in Hamlet with Richard the Third, and\nended with the very proper aspiration that we might be truly grateful.\nUpon which my sister fixed me with her eye, and said, in a low\nreproachful voice,  Do you hear that? Be grateful. \n\n Especially,  said Mr. Pumblechook,  be grateful, boy, to them which\nbrought you up by hand. \n\nMrs. Hubble shook her head, and contemplating me with a mournful\npresentiment that I should come to no good, asked,  Why is it that the\nyoung are never grateful?  This moral mystery seemed too much for the\ncompany until Mr. Hubble tersely solved it by saying,  Naterally\nwicious.  Everybody then murmured  True!  and looked at me in a\nparticularly unpleasant and personal manner.\n\nJoe s station and influence were something feebler (if possible) when\nthere was company than when there was none. But he always aided and\ncomforted me when he could, in some way of his own, and he always did\nso at dinner-time by giving me gravy, if there were any. There being\nplenty of gravy to-day, Joe spooned into my plate, at this point, about\nhalf a pint.\n\nA little later on in the dinner, Mr. Wopsle reviewed the sermon with\nsome severity, and intimated in the usual hypothetical case of the\nChurch being  thrown open what kind of sermon _he_ would have given\nthem. After favouring them with some heads of that discourse, he\nremarked that he considered the subject of the day s homily, ill\nchosen; which was the less excusable, he added, when there were so many\nsubjects  going about. \n\n True again,  said Uncle Pumblechook.  You ve hit it, sir! Plenty of\nsubjects going about, for them that know how to put salt upon their\ntails. That s what s wanted. A man needn t go far to find a subject, if\nhe s ready with his salt-box.  Mr. Pumblechook added, after a short\ninterval of reflection,  Look at Pork alone. There s a subject! If you\nwant a subject, look at Pork! \n\n True, sir. Many a moral for the young,  returned Mr. Wopsle, and I\nknew he was going to lug me in, before he said it;  might be deduced\nfrom that text. \n\n( You listen to this,  said my sister to me, in a severe parenthesis.)\n\nJoe gave me some more gravy.\n\n Swine,  pursued Mr. Wopsle, in his deepest voice, and pointing his\nfork at my blushes, as if he were mentioning my Christian name, swine\nwere the companions of the prodigal. The gluttony of Swine is put\nbefore us, as an example to the young.  (I thought this pretty well in\nhim who had been praising up the pork for being so plump and juicy.)\n What is detestable in a pig is more detestable in a boy. \n\n Or girl,  suggested Mr. Hubble.\n\n Of course, or girl, Mr. Hubble,  assented Mr. Wopsle, rather\nirritably,  but there is no girl present. \n\n Besides,  said Mr. Pumblechook, turning sharp on me,  think what\nyou ve got to be grateful for. If you d been born a Squeaker \n\n He _was_, if ever a child was,  said my sister, most emphatically.\n\nJoe gave me some more gravy.\n\n Well, but I mean a four-footed Squeaker,  said Mr. Pumblechook.  If\nyou had been born such, would you have been here now? Not you \n\n Unless in that form,  said Mr. Wopsle, nodding towards the dish.\n\n But I don t mean in that form, sir,  returned Mr. Pumblechook, who had\nan objection to being interrupted;  I mean, enjoying himself with his\nelders and betters, and improving himself with their conversation, and\nrolling in the lap of luxury. Would he have been doing that? No, he\nwouldn t. And what would have been your destination?  turning on me\nagain.  You would have been disposed of for so many shillings according\nto the market price of the article, and Dunstable the butcher would\nhave come up to you as you lay in your straw, and he would have whipped\nyou under his left arm, and with his right he would have tucked up his\nfrock to get a penknife from out of his waistcoat-pocket, and he would\nhave shed your blood and had your life. No bringing up by hand then.\nNot a bit of it! \n\nJoe offered me more gravy, which I was afraid to take.\n\n He was a world of trouble to you, ma am,  said Mrs. Hubble,\ncommiserating my sister.\n\n Trouble?  echoed my sister;  trouble?  and then entered on a fearful\ncatalogue of all the illnesses I had been guilty of, and all the acts\nof sleeplessness I had committed, and all the high places I had tumbled\nfrom, and all the low places I had tumbled into, and all the injuries I\nhad done myself, and all the times she had wished me in my grave, and I\nhad contumaciously refused to go there.\n\nI think the Romans must have aggravated one another very much, with\ntheir noses. Perhaps, they became the restless people they were, in\nconsequence. Anyhow, Mr. Wopsle s Roman nose so aggravated me, during\nthe recital of my misdemeanours, that I should have liked to pull it\nuntil he howled. But, all I had endured up to this time was nothing in\ncomparison with the awful feelings that took possession of me when the\npause was broken which ensued upon my sister s recital, and in which\npause everybody had looked at me (as I felt painfully conscious) with\nindignation and abhorrence.\n\n Yet,  said Mr. Pumblechook, leading the company gently back to the\ntheme from which they had strayed,  Pork regarded as biled is rich,\ntoo; ain t it? \n\n Have a little brandy, uncle,  said my sister.\n\nO Heavens, it had come at last! He would find it was weak, he would say\nit was weak, and I was lost! I held tight to the leg of the table under\nthe cloth, with both hands, and awaited my fate.\n\nMy sister went for the stone bottle, came back with the stone bottle,\nand poured his brandy out: no one else taking any. The wretched man\ntrifled with his glass, took it up, looked at it through the light, put\nit down, prolonged my misery. All this time Mrs. Joe and Joe were\nbriskly clearing the table for the pie and pudding.\n\nI couldn t keep my eyes off him. Always holding tight by the leg of the\ntable with my hands and feet, I saw the miserable creature finger his\nglass playfully, take it up, smile, throw his head back, and drink the\nbrandy off. Instantly afterwards, the company were seized with\nunspeakable consternation, owing to his springing to his feet, turning\nround several times in an appalling spasmodic whooping-cough dance, and\nrushing out at the door; he then became visible through the window,\nviolently plunging and expectorating, making the most hideous faces,\nand apparently out of his mind.\n\nI held on tight, while Mrs. Joe and Joe ran to him. I didn t know how I\nhad done it, but I had no doubt I had murdered him somehow. In my\ndreadful situation, it was a relief when he was brought back, and\nsurveying the company all round as if _they_ had disagreed with him,\nsank down into his chair with the one significant gasp,  Tar! \n\nI had filled up the bottle from the tar-water jug. I knew he would be\nworse by and by. I moved the table, like a Medium of the present day,\nby the vigor of my unseen hold upon it.\n\n Tar!  cried my sister, in amazement.  Why, how ever could Tar come\nthere? \n\nBut, Uncle Pumblechook, who was omnipotent in that kitchen, wouldn t\nhear the word, wouldn t hear of the subject, imperiously waved it all\naway with his hand, and asked for hot gin and water. My sister, who had\nbegun to be alarmingly meditative, had to employ herself actively in\ngetting the gin, the hot water, the sugar, and the lemon-peel, and\nmixing them. For the time being at least, I was saved. I still held on\nto the leg of the table, but clutched it now with the fervor of\ngratitude.\n\nBy degrees, I became calm enough to release my grasp and partake of\npudding. Mr. Pumblechook partook of pudding. All partook of pudding.\nThe course terminated, and Mr. Pumblechook had begun to beam under the\ngenial influence of gin and water. I began to think I should get over\nthe day, when my sister said to Joe,  Clean plates, cold. \n\nI clutched the leg of the table again immediately, and pressed it to my\nbosom as if it had been the companion of my youth and friend of my\nsoul. I foresaw what was coming, and I felt that this time I really was\ngone.\n\n You must taste,  said my sister, addressing the guests with her best\ngrace you must taste, to finish with, such a delightful and delicious\npresent of Uncle Pumblechook s! \n\nMust they! Let them not hope to taste it!\n\n You must know,  said my sister, rising,  it s a pie; a savory pork\npie. \n\nThe company murmured their compliments. Uncle Pumblechook, sensible of\nhaving deserved well of his fellow-creatures, said, quite vivaciously,\nall things considered, Well, Mrs. Joe, we ll do our best endeavours;\nlet us have a cut at this same pie. \n\nMy sister went out to get it. I heard her steps proceed to the pantry.\nI saw Mr. Pumblechook balance his knife. I saw reawakening appetite in\nthe Roman nostrils of Mr. Wopsle. I heard Mr. Hubble remark that  a bit\nof savory pork pie would lay atop of anything you could mention, and do\nno harm,  and I heard Joe say,  You shall have some, Pip.  I have never\nbeen absolutely certain whether I uttered a shrill yell of terror,\nmerely in spirit, or in the bodily hearing of the company. I felt that\nI could bear no more, and that I must run away. I released the leg of\nthe table, and ran for my life.\n\nBut I ran no farther than the house door, for there I ran head-foremost\ninto a party of soldiers with their muskets, one of whom held out a\npair of handcuffs to me, saying,  Here you are, look sharp, come on! \n\n\n\n\nChapter V.\n\n\nThe apparition of a file of soldiers ringing down the but-ends of their\nloaded muskets on our door-step, caused the dinner-party to rise from\ntable in confusion, and caused Mrs. Joe re-entering the kitchen\nempty-handed, to stop short and stare, in her wondering lament of\n Gracious goodness gracious me, what s gone with the pie! \n\nThe sergeant and I were in the kitchen when Mrs. Joe stood staring; at\nwhich crisis I partially recovered the use of my senses. It was the\nsergeant who had spoken to me, and he was now looking round at the\ncompany, with his handcuffs invitingly extended towards them in his\nright hand, and his left on my shoulder.\n\n Excuse me, ladies and gentleman,  said the sergeant,  but as I have\nmentioned at the door to this smart young shaver,  (which he hadn t),\n I am on a chase in the name of the king, and I want the blacksmith. \n\n And pray what might you want with _him_?  retorted my sister, quick to\nresent his being wanted at all.\n\n Missis,  returned the gallant sergeant,  speaking for myself, I should\nreply, the honour and pleasure of his fine wife s acquaintance;\nspeaking for the king, I answer, a little job done. \n\nThis was received as rather neat in the sergeant; insomuch that Mr.\nPumblechook cried audibly,  Good again! \n\n You see, blacksmith,  said the sergeant, who had by this time picked\nout Joe with his eye,  we have had an accident with these, and I find\nthe lock of one of  em goes wrong, and the coupling don t act pretty.\nAs they are wanted for immediate service, will you throw your eye over\nthem? \n\nJoe threw his eye over them, and pronounced that the job would\nnecessitate the lighting of his forge fire, and would take nearer two\nhours than one.  Will it? Then will you set about it at once,\nblacksmith?  said the off-hand sergeant,  as it s on his Majesty s\nservice. And if my men can bear a hand anywhere, they ll make\nthemselves useful.  With that, he called to his men, who came trooping\ninto the kitchen one after another, and piled their arms in a corner.\nAnd then they stood about, as soldiers do; now, with their hands\nloosely clasped before them; now, resting a knee or a shoulder; now,\neasing a belt or a pouch; now, opening the door to spit stiffly over\ntheir high stocks, out into the yard.\n\nAll these things I saw without then knowing that I saw them, for I was\nin an agony of apprehension. But beginning to perceive that the\nhandcuffs were not for me, and that the military had so far got the\nbetter of the pie as to put it in the background, I collected a little\nmore of my scattered wits.\n\n Would you give me the time?  said the sergeant, addressing himself to\nMr. Pumblechook, as to a man whose appreciative powers justified the\ninference that he was equal to the time.\n\n It s just gone half past two. \n\n That s not so bad,  said the sergeant, reflecting;  even if I was\nforced to halt here nigh two hours, that ll do. How far might you call\nyourselves from the marshes, hereabouts? Not above a mile, I reckon? \n\n Just a mile,  said Mrs. Joe.\n\n That ll do. We begin to close in upon  em about dusk. A little before\ndusk, my orders are. That ll do. \n\n Convicts, sergeant?  asked Mr. Wopsle, in a matter-of-course way.\n\n Ay!  returned the sergeant,  two. They re pretty well known to be out\non the marshes still, and they won t try to get clear of  em before\ndusk. Anybody here seen anything of any such game? \n\nEverybody, myself excepted, said no, with confidence. Nobody thought of\nme.\n\n Well!  said the sergeant,  they ll find themselves trapped in a\ncircle, I expect, sooner than they count on. Now, blacksmith! If you re\nready, his Majesty the King is. \n\nJoe had got his coat and waistcoat and cravat off, and his leather\napron on, and passed into the forge. One of the soldiers opened its\nwooden windows, another lighted the fire, another turned to at the\nbellows, the rest stood round the blaze, which was soon roaring. Then\nJoe began to hammer and clink, hammer and clink, and we all looked on.\n\nThe interest of the impending pursuit not only absorbed the general\nattention, but even made my sister liberal. She drew a pitcher of beer\nfrom the cask for the soldiers, and invited the sergeant to take a\nglass of brandy. But Mr. Pumblechook said, sharply,  Give him wine,\nMum. I ll engage there s no tar in that:  so, the sergeant thanked him\nand said that as he preferred his drink without tar, he would take\nwine, if it was equally convenient. When it was given him, he drank his\nMajesty s health and compliments of the season, and took it all at a\nmouthful and smacked his lips.\n\n Good stuff, eh, sergeant?  said Mr. Pumblechook.\n\n I ll tell you something,  returned the sergeant;  I suspect that\nstuff s of _your_ providing. \n\nMr. Pumblechook, with a fat sort of laugh, said,  Ay, ay? Why? \n\n Because,  returned the sergeant, clapping him on the shoulder,  you re\na man that knows what s what. \n\n D ye think so?  said Mr. Pumblechook, with his former laugh.  Have\nanother glass! \n\n With you. Hob and nob,  returned the sergeant.  The top of mine to the\nfoot of yours, the foot of yours to the top of mine, Ring once, ring\ntwice, the best tune on the Musical Glasses! Your health. May you live\na thousand years, and never be a worse judge of the right sort than you\nare at the present moment of your life! \n\nThe sergeant tossed off his glass again and seemed quite ready for\nanother glass. I noticed that Mr. Pumblechook in his hospitality\nappeared to forget that he had made a present of the wine, but took the\nbottle from Mrs. Joe and had all the credit of handing it about in a\ngush of joviality. Even I got some. And he was so very free of the wine\nthat he even called for the other bottle, and handed that about with\nthe same liberality, when the first was gone.\n\nAs I watched them while they all stood clustering about the forge,\nenjoying themselves so much, I thought what terrible good sauce for a\ndinner my fugitive friend on the marshes was. They had not enjoyed\nthemselves a quarter so much, before the entertainment was brightened\nwith the excitement he furnished. And now, when they were all in lively\nanticipation of  the two villains  being taken, and when the bellows\nseemed to roar for the fugitives, the fire to flare for them, the smoke\nto hurry away in pursuit of them, Joe to hammer and clink for them, and\nall the murky shadows on the wall to shake at them in menace as the\nblaze rose and sank, and the red-hot sparks dropped and died, the pale\nafternoon outside almost seemed in my pitying young fancy to have\nturned pale on their account, poor wretches.\n\nAt last, Joe s job was done, and the ringing and roaring stopped. As\nJoe got on his coat, he mustered courage to propose that some of us\nshould go down with the soldiers and see what came of the hunt. Mr.\nPumblechook and Mr. Hubble declined, on the plea of a pipe and ladies \nsociety; but Mr. Wopsle said he would go, if Joe would. Joe said he was\nagreeable, and would take me, if Mrs. Joe approved. We never should\nhave got leave to go, I am sure, but for Mrs. Joe s curiosity to know\nall about it and how it ended. As it was, she merely stipulated,  If\nyou bring the boy back with his head blown to bits by a musket, don t\nlook to me to put it together again. \n\nThe sergeant took a polite leave of the ladies, and parted from Mr.\nPumblechook as from a comrade; though I doubt if he were quite as fully\nsensible of that gentleman s merits under arid conditions, as when\nsomething moist was going. His men resumed their muskets and fell in.\nMr. Wopsle, Joe, and I, received strict charge to keep in the rear, and\nto speak no word after we reached the marshes. When we were all out in\nthe raw air and were steadily moving towards our business, I\ntreasonably whispered to Joe,  I hope, Joe, we shan t find them.  and\nJoe whispered to me,  I d give a shilling if they had cut and run,\nPip. \n\nWe were joined by no stragglers from the village, for the weather was\ncold and threatening, the way dreary, the footing bad, darkness coming\non, and the people had good fires in-doors and were keeping the day. A\nfew faces hurried to glowing windows and looked after us, but none came\nout. We passed the finger-post, and held straight on to the churchyard.\nThere we were stopped a few minutes by a signal from the sergeant s\nhand, while two or three of his men dispersed themselves among the\ngraves, and also examined the porch. They came in again without finding\nanything, and then we struck out on the open marshes, through the gate\nat the side of the churchyard. A bitter sleet came rattling against us\nhere on the east wind, and Joe took me on his back.\n\nNow that we were out upon the dismal wilderness where they little\nthought I had been within eight or nine hours and had seen both men\nhiding, I considered for the first time, with great dread, if we should\ncome upon them, would my particular convict suppose that it was I who\nhad brought the soldiers there? He had asked me if I was a deceiving\nimp, and he had said I should be a fierce young hound if I joined the\nhunt against him. Would he believe that I was both imp and hound in\ntreacherous earnest, and had betrayed him?\n\nIt was of no use asking myself this question now. There I was, on Joe s\nback, and there was Joe beneath me, charging at the ditches like a\nhunter, and stimulating Mr. Wopsle not to tumble on his Roman nose, and\nto keep up with us. The soldiers were in front of us, extending into a\npretty wide line with an interval between man and man. We were taking\nthe course I had begun with, and from which I had diverged in the mist.\nEither the mist was not out again yet, or the wind had dispelled it.\nUnder the low red glare of sunset, the beacon, and the gibbet, and the\nmound of the Battery, and the opposite shore of the river, were plain,\nthough all of a watery lead colour.\n\nWith my heart thumping like a blacksmith at Joe s broad shoulder, I\nlooked all about for any sign of the convicts. I could see none, I\ncould hear none. Mr. Wopsle had greatly alarmed me more than once, by\nhis blowing and hard breathing; but I knew the sounds by this time, and\ncould dissociate them from the object of pursuit. I got a dreadful\nstart, when I thought I heard the file still going; but it was only a\nsheep-bell. The sheep stopped in their eating and looked timidly at us;\nand the cattle, their heads turned from the wind and sleet, stared\nangrily as if they held us responsible for both annoyances; but, except\nthese things, and the shudder of the dying day in every blade of grass,\nthere was no break in the bleak stillness of the marshes.\n\nThe soldiers were moving on in the direction of the old Battery, and we\nwere moving on a little way behind them, when, all of a sudden, we all\nstopped. For there had reached us on the wings of the wind and rain, a\nlong shout. It was repeated. It was at a distance towards the east, but\nit was long and loud. Nay, there seemed to be two or more shouts raised\ntogether, if one might judge from a confusion in the sound.\n\nTo this effect the sergeant and the nearest men were speaking under\ntheir breath, when Joe and I came up. After another moment s listening,\nJoe (who was a good judge) agreed, and Mr. Wopsle (who was a bad judge)\nagreed. The sergeant, a decisive man, ordered that the sound should not\nbe answered, but that the course should be changed, and that his men\nshould make towards it  at the double.  So we slanted to the right\n(where the East was), and Joe pounded away so wonderfully, that I had\nto hold on tight to keep my seat.\n\nIt was a run indeed now, and what Joe called, in the only two words he\nspoke all the time,  a Winder.  Down banks and up banks, and over\ngates, and splashing into dikes, and breaking among coarse rushes: no\nman cared where he went. As we came nearer to the shouting, it became\nmore and more apparent that it was made by more than one voice.\nSometimes, it seemed to stop altogether, and then the soldiers stopped.\nWhen it broke out again, the soldiers made for it at a greater rate\nthan ever, and we after them. After a while, we had so run it down,\nthat we could hear one voice calling  Murder!  and another voice,\n Convicts! Runaways! Guard! This way for the runaway convicts!  Then\nboth voices would seem to be stifled in a struggle, and then would\nbreak out again. And when it had come to this, the soldiers ran like\ndeer, and Joe too.\n\nThe sergeant ran in first, when we had run the noise quite down, and\ntwo of his men ran in close upon him. Their pieces were cocked and\nlevelled when we all ran in.\n\n Here are both men!  panted the sergeant, struggling at the bottom of a\nditch.  Surrender, you two! and confound you for two wild beasts! Come\nasunder! \n\nWater was splashing, and mud was flying, and oaths were being sworn,\nand blows were being struck, when some more men went down into the\nditch to help the sergeant, and dragged out, separately, my convict and\nthe other one. Both were bleeding and panting and execrating and\nstruggling; but of course I knew them both directly.\n\n Mind!  said my convict, wiping blood from his face with his ragged\nsleeves, and shaking torn hair from his fingers:  _I_ took him! _I_\ngive him up to you! Mind that! \n\n It s not much to be particular about,  said the sergeant;  it ll do\nyou small good, my man, being in the same plight yourself. Handcuffs\nthere! \n\n I don t expect it to do me any good. I don t want it to do me more\ngood than it does now,  said my convict, with a greedy laugh.  I took\nhim. He knows it. That s enough for me. \n\nThe other convict was livid to look at, and, in addition to the old\nbruised left side of his face, seemed to be bruised and torn all over.\nHe could not so much as get his breath to speak, until they were both\nseparately handcuffed, but leaned upon a soldier to keep himself from\nfalling.\n\n Take notice, guard, he tried to murder me,  were his first words.\n\n Tried to murder him?  said my convict, disdainfully.  Try, and not do\nit? I took him, and giv  him up; that s what I done. I not only\nprevented him getting off the marshes, but I dragged him here, dragged\nhim this far on his way back. He s a gentleman, if you please, this\nvillain. Now, the Hulks has got its gentleman again, through me. Murder\nhim? Worth my while, too, to murder him, when I could do worse and drag\nhim back! \n\nThe other one still gasped,  He tried he tried-to murder me. Bear bear\nwitness. \n\n Lookee here!  said my convict to the sergeant.  Single-handed I got\nclear of the prison-ship; I made a dash and I done it. I could ha  got\nclear of these death-cold flats likewise look at my leg: you won t find\nmuch iron on it if I hadn t made the discovery that _he_ was here. Let\n_him_ go free? Let _him_ profit by the means as I found out? Let _him_\nmake a tool of me afresh and again? Once more? No, no, no. If I had\ndied at the bottom there,  and he made an emphatic swing at the ditch\nwith his manacled hands,  I d have held to him with that grip, that you\nshould have been safe to find him in my hold. \n\nThe other fugitive, who was evidently in extreme horror of his\ncompanion, repeated,  He tried to murder me. I should have been a dead\nman if you had not come up. \n\n He lies!  said my convict, with fierce energy.  He s a liar born, and\nhe ll die a liar. Look at his face; ain t it written there? Let him\nturn those eyes of his on me. I defy him to do it. \n\nThe other, with an effort at a scornful smile, which could not,\nhowever, collect the nervous working of his mouth into any set\nexpression, looked at the soldiers, and looked about at the marshes and\nat the sky, but certainly did not look at the speaker.\n\n Do you see him?  pursued my convict.  Do you see what a villain he is?\nDo you see those grovelling and wandering eyes? That s how he looked\nwhen we were tried together. He never looked at me. \n\nThe other, always working and working his dry lips and turning his eyes\nrestlessly about him far and near, did at last turn them for a moment\non the speaker, with the words,  You are not much to look at,  and with\na half-taunting glance at the bound hands. At that point, my convict\nbecame so frantically exasperated, that he would have rushed upon him\nbut for the interposition of the soldiers.  Didn t I tell you,  said\nthe other convict then,  that he would murder me, if he could?  And any\none could see that he shook with fear, and that there broke out upon\nhis lips curious white flakes, like thin snow.\n\n Enough of this parley,  said the sergeant.  Light those torches. \n\nAs one of the soldiers, who carried a basket in lieu of a gun, went\ndown on his knee to open it, my convict looked round him for the first\ntime, and saw me. I had alighted from Joe s back on the brink of the\nditch when we came up, and had not moved since. I looked at him eagerly\nwhen he looked at me, and slightly moved my hands and shook my head. I\nhad been waiting for him to see me that I might try to assure him of my\ninnocence. It was not at all expressed to me that he even comprehended\nmy intention, for he gave me a look that I did not understand, and it\nall passed in a moment. But if he had looked at me for an hour or for a\nday, I could not have remembered his face ever afterwards, as having\nbeen more attentive.\n\nThe soldier with the basket soon got a light, and lighted three or four\ntorches, and took one himself and distributed the others. It had been\nalmost dark before, but now it seemed quite dark, and soon afterwards\nvery dark. Before we departed from that spot, four soldiers standing in\na ring, fired twice into the air. Presently we saw other torches\nkindled at some distance behind us, and others on the marshes on the\nopposite bank of the river.  All right,  said the sergeant.  March. \n\nWe had not gone far when three cannon were fired ahead of us with a\nsound that seemed to burst something inside my ear.  You are expected\non board,  said the sergeant to my convict;  they know you are coming.\nDon t straggle, my man. Close up here. \n\nThe two were kept apart, and each walked surrounded by a separate\nguard. I had hold of Joe s hand now, and Joe carried one of the\ntorches. Mr. Wopsle had been for going back, but Joe was resolved to\nsee it out, so we went on with the party. There was a reasonably good\npath now, mostly on the edge of the river, with a divergence here and\nthere where a dike came, with a miniature windmill on it and a muddy\nsluice-gate. When I looked round, I could see the other lights coming\nin after us. The torches we carried dropped great blotches of fire upon\nthe track, and I could see those, too, lying smoking and flaring. I\ncould see nothing else but black darkness. Our lights warmed the air\nabout us with their pitchy blaze, and the two prisoners seemed rather\nto like that, as they limped along in the midst of the muskets. We\ncould not go fast, because of their lameness; and they were so spent,\nthat two or three times we had to halt while they rested.\n\nAfter an hour or so of this travelling, we came to a rough wooden hut\nand a landing-place. There was a guard in the hut, and they challenged,\nand the sergeant answered. Then, we went into the hut, where there was\na smell of tobacco and whitewash, and a bright fire, and a lamp, and a\nstand of muskets, and a drum, and a low wooden bedstead, like an\novergrown mangle without the machinery, capable of holding about a\ndozen soldiers all at once. Three or four soldiers who lay upon it in\ntheir great-coats were not much interested in us, but just lifted their\nheads and took a sleepy stare, and then lay down again. The sergeant\nmade some kind of report, and some entry in a book, and then the\nconvict whom I call the other convict was drafted off with his guard,\nto go on board first.\n\nMy convict never looked at me, except that once. While we stood in the\nhut, he stood before the fire looking thoughtfully at it, or putting up\nhis feet by turns upon the hob, and looking thoughtfully at them as if\nhe pitied them for their recent adventures. Suddenly, he turned to the\nsergeant, and remarked, \n\n I wish to say something respecting this escape. It may prevent some\npersons laying under suspicion alonger me. \n\n You can say what you like,  returned the sergeant, standing coolly\nlooking at him with his arms folded,  but you have no call to say it\nhere. You ll have opportunity enough to say about it, and hear about\nit, before it s done with, you know. \n\n I know, but this is another pint, a separate matter. A man can t\nstarve; at least _I_ can t. I took some wittles, up at the willage over\nyonder, where the church stands a most out on the marshes. \n\n You mean stole,  said the sergeant.\n\n And I ll tell you where from. From the blacksmith s. \n\n Halloa!  said the sergeant, staring at Joe.\n\n Halloa, Pip!  said Joe, staring at me.\n\n It was some broken wittles that s what it was and a dram of liquor,\nand a pie. \n\n Have you happened to miss such an article as a pie, blacksmith?  asked\nthe sergeant, confidentially.\n\n My wife did, at the very moment when you came in. Don t you know,\nPip? \n\n So,  said my convict, turning his eyes on Joe in a moody manner, and\nwithout the least glance at me, so you re the blacksmith, are you?\nThan I m sorry to say, I ve eat your pie. \n\n God knows you re welcome to it, so far as it was ever mine,  returned\nJoe, with a saving remembrance of Mrs. Joe.  We don t know what you\nhave done, but we wouldn t have you starved to death for it, poor\nmiserable fellow-creatur. Would us, Pip? \n\nThe something that I had noticed before, clicked in the man s throat\nagain, and he turned his back. The boat had returned, and his guard\nwere ready, so we followed him to the landing-place made of rough\nstakes and stones, and saw him put into the boat, which was rowed by a\ncrew of convicts like himself. No one seemed surprised to see him, or\ninterested in seeing him, or glad to see him, or sorry to see him, or\nspoke a word, except that somebody in the boat growled as if to dogs,\n Give way, you!  which was the signal for the dip of the oars. By the\nlight of the torches, we saw the black Hulk lying out a little way from\nthe mud of the shore, like a wicked Noah s ark. Cribbed and barred and\nmoored by massive rusty chains, the prison-ship seemed in my young eyes\nto be ironed like the prisoners. We saw the boat go alongside, and we\nsaw him taken up the side and disappear. Then, the ends of the torches\nwere flung hissing into the water, and went out, as if it were all over\nwith him.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI.\n\n\nMy state of mind regarding the pilfering from which I had been so\nunexpectedly exonerated did not impel me to frank disclosure; but I\nhope it had some dregs of good at the bottom of it.\n\nI do not recall that I felt any tenderness of conscience in reference\nto Mrs. Joe, when the fear of being found out was lifted off me. But I\nloved Joe, perhaps for no better reason in those early days than\nbecause the dear fellow let me love him, and, as to him, my inner self\nwas not so easily composed. It was much upon my mind (particularly when\nI first saw him looking about for his file) that I ought to tell Joe\nthe whole truth. Yet I did not, and for the reason that I mistrusted\nthat if I did, he would think me worse than I was. The fear of losing\nJoe s confidence, and of thenceforth sitting in the chimney corner at\nnight staring drearily at my forever lost companion and friend, tied up\nmy tongue. I morbidly represented to myself that if Joe knew it, I\nnever afterwards could see him at the fireside feeling his fair\nwhisker, without thinking that he was meditating on it. That, if Joe\nknew it, I never afterwards could see him glance, however casually, at\nyesterday s meat or pudding when it came on to-day s table, without\nthinking that he was debating whether I had been in the pantry. That,\nif Joe knew it, and at any subsequent period of our joint domestic life\nremarked that his beer was flat or thick, the conviction that he\nsuspected tar in it, would bring a rush of blood to my face. In a word,\nI was too cowardly to do what I knew to be right, as I had been too\ncowardly to avoid doing what I knew to be wrong. I had had no\nintercourse with the world at that time, and I imitated none of its\nmany inhabitants who act in this manner. Quite an untaught genius, I\nmade the discovery of the line of action for myself.\n\nAs I was sleepy before we were far away from the prison-ship, Joe took\nme on his back again and carried me home. He must have had a tiresome\njourney of it, for Mr. Wopsle, being knocked up, was in such a very bad\ntemper that if the Church had been thrown open, he would probably have\nexcommunicated the whole expedition, beginning with Joe and myself. In\nhis lay capacity, he persisted in sitting down in the damp to such an\ninsane extent, that when his coat was taken off to be dried at the\nkitchen fire, the circumstantial evidence on his trousers would have\nhanged him, if it had been a capital offence.\n\nBy that time, I was staggering on the kitchen floor like a little\ndrunkard, through having been newly set upon my feet, and through\nhaving been fast asleep, and through waking in the heat and lights and\nnoise of tongues. As I came to myself (with the aid of a heavy thump\nbetween the shoulders, and the restorative exclamation  Yah! Was there\never such a boy as this!  from my sister,) I found Joe telling them\nabout the convict s confession, and all the visitors suggesting\ndifferent ways by which he had got into the pantry. Mr. Pumblechook\nmade out, after carefully surveying the premises, that he had first got\nupon the roof of the forge, and had then got upon the roof of the\nhouse, and had then let himself down the kitchen chimney by a rope made\nof his bedding cut into strips; and as Mr. Pumblechook was very\npositive and drove his own chaise-cart over everybody it was agreed\nthat it must be so. Mr. Wopsle, indeed, wildly cried out,  No!  with\nthe feeble malice of a tired man; but, as he had no theory, and no coat\non, he was unanimously set at naught, not to mention his smoking hard\nbehind, as he stood with his back to the kitchen fire to draw the damp\nout: which was not calculated to inspire confidence.\n\nThis was all I heard that night before my sister clutched me, as a\nslumberous offence to the company s eyesight, and assisted me up to bed\nwith such a strong hand that I seemed to have fifty boots on, and to be\ndangling them all against the edges of the stairs. My state of mind, as\nI have described it, began before I was up in the morning, and lasted\nlong after the subject had died out, and had ceased to be mentioned\nsaving on exceptional occasions.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII.\n\n\nAt the time when I stood in the churchyard reading the family\ntombstones, I had just enough learning to be able to spell them out. My\nconstruction even of their simple meaning was not very correct, for I\nread  wife of the Above  as a complimentary reference to my father s\nexaltation to a better world; and if any one of my deceased relations\nhad been referred to as  Below,  I have no doubt I should have formed\nthe worst opinions of that member of the family. Neither were my\nnotions of the theological positions to which my Catechism bound me, at\nall accurate; for, I have a lively remembrance that I supposed my\ndeclaration that I was to  walk in the same all the days of my life, \nlaid me under an obligation always to go through the village from our\nhouse in one particular direction, and never to vary it by turning down\nby the wheelwright s or up by the mill.\n\nWhen I was old enough, I was to be apprenticed to Joe, and until I\ncould assume that dignity I was not to be what Mrs. Joe called\n Pompeyed,  or (as I render it) pampered. Therefore, I was not only\nodd-boy about the forge, but if any neighbour happened to want an extra\nboy to frighten birds, or pick up stones, or do any such job, I was\nfavoured with the employment. In order, however, that our superior\nposition might not be compromised thereby, a money-box was kept on the\nkitchen mantel-shelf, into which it was publicly made known that all my\nearnings were dropped. I have an impression that they were to be\ncontributed eventually towards the liquidation of the National Debt,\nbut I know I had no hope of any personal participation in the treasure.\n\nMr. Wopsle s great-aunt kept an evening school in the village; that is\nto say, she was a ridiculous old woman of limited means and unlimited\ninfirmity, who used to go to sleep from six to seven every evening, in\nthe society of youth who paid two pence per week each, for the\nimproving opportunity of seeing her do it. She rented a small cottage,\nand Mr. Wopsle had the room upstairs, where we students used to\noverhear him reading aloud in a most dignified and terrific manner, and\noccasionally bumping on the ceiling. There was a fiction that Mr.\nWopsle  examined  the scholars once a quarter. What he did on those\noccasions was to turn up his cuffs, stick up his hair, and give us Mark\nAntony s oration over the body of Caesar. This was always followed by\nCollins s Ode on the Passions, wherein I particularly venerated Mr.\nWopsle as Revenge throwing his blood-stained sword in thunder down, and\ntaking the War-denouncing trumpet with a withering look. It was not\nwith me then, as it was in later life, when I fell into the society of\nthe Passions, and compared them with Collins and Wopsle, rather to the\ndisadvantage of both gentlemen.\n\nMr. Wopsle s great-aunt, besides keeping this Educational Institution,\nkept in the same room a little general shop. She had no idea what stock\nshe had, or what the price of anything in it was; but there was a\nlittle greasy memorandum-book kept in a drawer, which served as a\nCatalogue of Prices, and by this oracle Biddy arranged all the shop\ntransactions. Biddy was Mr. Wopsle s great-aunt s granddaughter; I\nconfess myself quite unequal to the working out of the problem, what\nrelation she was to Mr. Wopsle. She was an orphan like myself; like me,\ntoo, had been brought up by hand. She was most noticeable, I thought,\nin respect of her extremities; for, her hair always wanted brushing,\nher hands always wanted washing, and her shoes always wanted mending\nand pulling up at heel. This description must be received with a\nweek-day limitation. On Sundays, she went to church elaborated.\n\nMuch of my unassisted self, and more by the help of Biddy than of Mr.\nWopsle s great-aunt, I struggled through the alphabet as if it had been\na bramble-bush; getting considerably worried and scratched by every\nletter. After that I fell among those thieves, the nine figures, who\nseemed every evening to do something new to disguise themselves and\nbaffle recognition. But, at last I began, in a purblind groping way, to\nread, write, and cipher, on the very smallest scale.\n\nOne night I was sitting in the chimney corner with my slate, expending\ngreat efforts on the production of a letter to Joe. I think it must\nhave been a full year after our hunt upon the marshes, for it was a\nlong time after, and it was winter and a hard frost. With an alphabet\non the hearth at my feet for reference, I contrived in an hour or two\nto print and smear this epistle: \n\n MI DEER JO i OPE U R KRWITE WELL i OPE i SHAL SON B HABELL 4 2 TEEDGE\nU JO AN THEN WE SHORL B SO GLODD AN WEN i M PRENGTD 2 U JO WOT LARX AN\nBLEVE ME INF XN PIP. \n\n\nThere was no indispensable necessity for my communicating with Joe by\nletter, inasmuch as he sat beside me and we were alone. But I delivered\nthis written communication (slate and all) with my own hand, and Joe\nreceived it as a miracle of erudition.\n\n I say, Pip, old chap!  cried Joe, opening his blue eyes wide,  what a\nscholar you are! An t you? \n\n I should like to be,  said I, glancing at the slate as he held it;\nwith a misgiving that the writing was rather hilly.\n\n Why, here s a J,  said Joe,  and a O equal to anythink! Here s a J and\na O, Pip, and a J-O, Joe. \n\n[Illustration]\n\nI had never heard Joe read aloud to any greater extent than this\nmonosyllable, and I had observed at church last Sunday, when I\naccidentally held our Prayer-Book upside down, that it seemed to suit\nhis convenience quite as well as if it had been all right. Wishing to\nembrace the present occasion of finding out whether in teaching Joe, I\nshould have to begin quite at the beginning, I said,  Ah! But read the\nrest, Jo. \n\n The rest, eh, Pip?  said Joe, looking at it with a slow, searching\neye,  One, two, three. Why, here s three Js, and three Os, and three\nJ-O, Joes in it, Pip! \n\nI leaned over Joe, and, with the aid of my forefinger read him the\nwhole letter.\n\n Astonishing!  said Joe, when I had finished.  You ARE a scholar. \n\n How do you spell Gargery, Joe?  I asked him, with a modest patronage.\n\n I don t spell it at all,  said Joe.\n\n But supposing you did? \n\n It _can t_ be supposed,  said Joe.  Tho  I m uncommon fond of reading,\ntoo. \n\n Are you, Joe? \n\n On-common. Give me,  said Joe,  a good book, or a good newspaper, and\nsit me down afore a good fire, and I ask no better. Lord!  he\ncontinued, after rubbing his knees a little,  when you _do_ come to a J\nand a O, and says you,  Here, at last, is a J-O, Joe,  how interesting\nreading is! \n\nI derived from this, that Joe s education, like Steam, was yet in its\ninfancy. Pursuing the subject, I inquired, \n\n Didn t you ever go to school, Joe, when you were as little as me? \n\n No, Pip. \n\n Why didn t you ever go to school, Joe, when you were as little as me? \n\n Well, Pip,  said Joe, taking up the poker, and settling himself to his\nusual occupation when he was thoughtful, of slowly raking the fire\nbetween the lower bars;  I ll tell you. My father, Pip, he were given\nto drink, and when he were overtook with drink, he hammered away at my\nmother, most onmerciful. It were a most the only hammering he did,\nindeed,  xcepting at myself. And he hammered at me with a wigor only to\nbe equalled by the wigor with which he didn t hammer at his\nanwil. You re a listening and understanding, Pip? \n\n Yes, Joe. \n\n Consequence, my mother and me we ran away from my father several\ntimes; and then my mother she d go out to work, and she d say,  Joe, \nshe d say,  now, please God, you shall have some schooling, child,  and\nshe d put me to school. But my father were that good in his hart that\nhe couldn t abear to be without us. So, he d come with a most\ntremenjous crowd and make such a row at the doors of the houses where\nwe was, that they used to be obligated to have no more to do with us\nand to give us up to him. And then he took us home and hammered us.\nWhich, you see, Pip,  said Joe, pausing in his meditative raking of the\nfire, and looking at me,  were a drawback on my learning. \n\n Certainly, poor Joe! \n\n Though mind you, Pip,  said Joe, with a judicial touch or two of the\npoker on the top bar,  rendering unto all their doo, and maintaining\nequal justice betwixt man and man, my father were that good in his\nhart, don t you see? \n\nI didn t see; but I didn t say so.\n\n Well!  Joe pursued,  somebody must keep the pot a-biling, Pip, or the\npot won t bile, don t you know? \n\nI saw that, and said so.\n\n Consequence, my father didn t make objections to my going to work; so\nI went to work at my present calling, which were his too, if he would\nhave followed it, and I worked tolerable hard, I assure _you_, Pip. In\ntime I were able to keep him, and I kep him till he went off in a\npurple leptic fit. And it were my intentions to have had put upon his\ntombstone that, Whatsume er the failings on his part, Remember reader\nhe were that good in his heart. \n\nJoe recited this couplet with such manifest pride and careful\nperspicuity, that I asked him if he had made it himself.\n\n I made it,  said Joe,  my own self. I made it in a moment. It was like\nstriking out a horseshoe complete, in a single blow. I never was so\nmuch surprised in all my life, couldn t credit my own ed, to tell you\nthe truth, hardly believed it _were_ my own ed. As I was saying, Pip,\nit were my intentions to have had it cut over him; but poetry costs\nmoney, cut it how you will, small or large, and it were not done. Not\nto mention bearers, all the money that could be spared were wanted for\nmy mother. She were in poor elth, and quite broke. She weren t long of\nfollowing, poor soul, and her share of peace come round at last. \n\nJoe s blue eyes turned a little watery; he rubbed first one of them,\nand then the other, in a most uncongenial and uncomfortable manner,\nwith the round knob on the top of the poker.\n\n It were but lonesome then,  said Joe,  living here alone, and I got\nacquainted with your sister. Now, Pip, Joe looked firmly at me as if\nhe knew I was not going to agree with him; your sister is a fine\nfigure of a woman. \n\nI could not help looking at the fire, in an obvious state of doubt.\n\n Whatever family opinions, or whatever the world s opinions, on that\nsubject may be, Pip, your sister is,  Joe tapped the top bar with the\npoker after every word following,  a-fine-figure of a woman! \n\nI could think of nothing better to say than  I am glad you think so,\nJoe. \n\n So am I,  returned Joe, catching me up.  _I_ am glad I think so, Pip.\nA little redness or a little matter of Bone, here or there, what does\nit signify to Me? \n\nI sagaciously observed, if it didn t signify to him, to whom did it\nsignify?\n\n Certainly!  assented Joe.  That s it. You re right, old chap! When I\ngot acquainted with your sister, it were the talk how she was bringing\nyou up by hand. Very kind of her too, all the folks said, and I said,\nalong with all the folks. As to you,  Joe pursued with a countenance\nexpressive of seeing something very nasty indeed,  if you could have\nbeen aware how small and flabby and mean you was, dear me, you d have\nformed the most contemptible opinion of yourself! \n\nNot exactly relishing this, I said,  Never mind me, Joe. \n\n But I did mind you, Pip,  he returned with tender simplicity.  When I\noffered to your sister to keep company, and to be asked in church at\nsuch times as she was willing and ready to come to the forge, I said to\nher,  And bring the poor little child. God bless the poor little\nchild,  I said to your sister,  there s room for _him_ at the forge! \n\nI broke out crying and begging pardon, and hugged Joe round the neck:\nwho dropped the poker to hug me, and to say,  Ever the best of friends;\nan t us, Pip? Don t cry, old chap! \n\nWhen this little interruption was over, Joe resumed: \n\n Well, you see, Pip, and here we are! That s about where it lights;\nhere we are! Now, when you take me in hand in my learning, Pip (and I\ntell you beforehand I am awful dull, most awful dull), Mrs. Joe mustn t\nsee too much of what we re up to. It must be done, as I may say, on the\nsly. And why on the sly? I ll tell you why, Pip. \n\nHe had taken up the poker again; without which, I doubt if he could\nhave proceeded in his demonstration.\n\n Your sister is given to government. \n\n Given to government, Joe?  I was startled, for I had some shadowy idea\n(and I am afraid I must add, hope) that Joe had divorced her in a\nfavour of the Lords of the Admiralty, or Treasury.\n\n Given to government,  said Joe.  Which I meantersay the government of\nyou and myself. \n\n Oh! \n\n And she an t over partial to having scholars on the premises,  Joe\ncontinued,  and in partickler would not be over partial to my being a\nscholar, for fear as I might rise. Like a sort of rebel, don t you\nsee? \n\nI was going to retort with an inquiry, and had got as far as  Why \nwhen Joe stopped me.\n\n Stay a bit. I know what you re a-going to say, Pip; stay a bit! I\ndon t deny that your sister comes the Mo-gul over us, now and again. I\ndon t deny that she do throw us back-falls, and that she do drop down\nupon us heavy. At such times as when your sister is on the Ram-page,\nPip,  Joe sank his voice to a whisper and glanced at the door,  candour\ncompels fur to admit that she is a Buster. \n\nJoe pronounced this word, as if it began with at least twelve capital\nBs.\n\n Why don t I rise? That were your observation when I broke it off,\nPip? \n\n Yes, Joe. \n\n Well,  said Joe, passing the poker into his left hand, that he might\nfeel his whisker; and I had no hope of him whenever he took to that\nplacid occupation;  your sister s a master-mind. A master-mind. \n\n What s that?  I asked, in some hope of bringing him to a stand. But\nJoe was readier with his definition than I had expected, and completely\nstopped me by arguing circularly, and answering with a fixed look,\n Her. \n\n And I ain t a master-mind,  Joe resumed, when he had unfixed his look,\nand got back to his whisker.  And last of all, Pip, and this I want to\nsay very serious to you, old chap, I see so much in my poor mother, of\na woman drudging and slaving and breaking her honest hart and never\ngetting no peace in her mortal days, that I m dead afeerd of going\nwrong in the way of not doing what s right by a woman, and I d fur\nrather of the two go wrong the t other way, and be a little\nill-conwenienced myself. I wish it was only me that got put out, Pip; I\nwish there warn t no Tickler for you, old chap; I wish I could take it\nall on myself; but this is the up-and-down-and-straight on it, Pip, and\nI hope you ll overlook shortcomings. \n\nYoung as I was, I believe that I dated a new admiration of Joe from\nthat night. We were equals afterwards, as we had been before; but,\nafterwards at quiet times when I sat looking at Joe and thinking about\nhim, I had a new sensation of feeling conscious that I was looking up\nto Joe in my heart.\n\n However,  said Joe, rising to replenish the fire;  here s the\nDutch-clock a-working himself up to being equal to strike Eight of  em,\nand she s not come home yet! I hope Uncle Pumblechook s mare mayn t\nhave set a forefoot on a piece o  ice, and gone down. \n\nMrs. Joe made occasional trips with Uncle Pumblechook on market-days,\nto assist him in buying such household stuffs and goods as required a\nwoman s judgment; Uncle Pumblechook being a bachelor and reposing no\nconfidences in his domestic servant. This was market-day, and Mrs. Joe\nwas out on one of these expeditions.\n\nJoe made the fire and swept the hearth, and then we went to the door to\nlisten for the chaise-cart. It was a dry cold night, and the wind blew\nkeenly, and the frost was white and hard. A man would die to-night of\nlying out on the marshes, I thought. And then I looked at the stars,\nand considered how awful it would be for a man to turn his face up to\nthem as he froze to death, and see no help or pity in all the\nglittering multitude.\n\n Here comes the mare,  said Joe,  ringing like a peal of bells! \n\nThe sound of her iron shoes upon the hard road was quite musical, as\nshe came along at a much brisker trot than usual. We got a chair out,\nready for Mrs. Joe s alighting, and stirred up the fire that they might\nsee a bright window, and took a final survey of the kitchen that\nnothing might be out of its place. When we had completed these\npreparations, they drove up, wrapped to the eyes. Mrs. Joe was soon\nlanded, and Uncle Pumblechook was soon down too, covering the mare with\na cloth, and we were soon all in the kitchen, carrying so much cold air\nin with us that it seemed to drive all the heat out of the fire.\n\n Now,  said Mrs. Joe, unwrapping herself with haste and excitement, and\nthrowing her bonnet back on her shoulders where it hung by the strings,\n if this boy ain t grateful this night, he never will be! \n\nI looked as grateful as any boy possibly could, who was wholly\nuninformed why he ought to assume that expression.\n\n It s only to be hoped,  said my sister,  that he won t be Pompeyed.\nBut I have my fears. \n\n She ain t in that line, Mum,  said Mr. Pumblechook.  She knows\nbetter. \n\nShe? I looked at Joe, making the motion with my lips and eyebrows,\n She?  Joe looked at me, making the motion with _his_ lips and\neyebrows,  She?  My sister catching him in the act, he drew the back of\nhis hand across his nose with his usual conciliatory air on such\noccasions, and looked at her.\n\n Well?  said my sister, in her snappish way.  What are you staring at?\nIs the house afire? \n\n Which some individual,  Joe politely hinted,  mentioned she. \n\n And she is a she, I suppose?  said my sister.  Unless you call Miss\nHavisham a he. And I doubt if even you ll go so far as that. \n\n Miss Havisham, up town?  said Joe.\n\n Is there any Miss Havisham down town?  returned my sister.\n\n She wants this boy to go and play there. And of course he s going. And\nhe had better play there,  said my sister, shaking her head at me as an\nencouragement to be extremely light and sportive,  or I ll work him. \n\nI had heard of Miss Havisham up town, everybody for miles round had\nheard of Miss Havisham up town, as an immensely rich and grim lady who\nlived in a large and dismal house barricaded against robbers, and who\nled a life of seclusion.\n\n Well to be sure!  said Joe, astounded.  I wonder how she come to know\nPip! \n\n Noodle!  cried my sister.  Who said she knew him? \n\n Which some individual,  Joe again politely hinted,  mentioned that\nshe wanted him to go and play there. \n\n And couldn t she ask Uncle Pumblechook if he knew of a boy to go and\nplay there? Isn t it just barely possible that Uncle Pumblechook may be\na tenant of hers, and that he may sometimes we won t say quarterly or\nhalf-yearly, for that would be requiring too much of you but\nsometimes go there to pay his rent? And couldn t she then ask Uncle\nPumblechook if he knew of a boy to go and play there? And couldn t\nUncle Pumblechook, being always considerate and thoughtful for\nus though you may not think it, Joseph,  in a tone of the deepest\nreproach, as if he were the most callous of nephews,  then mention this\nboy, standing Prancing here which I solemnly declare I was not\ndoing that I have for ever been a willing slave to? \n\n Good again!  cried Uncle Pumblechook.  Well put! Prettily pointed!\nGood indeed! Now Joseph, you know the case. \n\n No, Joseph,  said my sister, still in a reproachful manner, while Joe\napologetically drew the back of his hand across and across his nose,\n you do not yet though you may not think it know the case. You may\nconsider that you do, but you do _not_, Joseph. For you do not know\nthat Uncle Pumblechook, being sensible that for anything we can tell,\nthis boy s fortune may be made by his going to Miss Havisham s, has\noffered to take him into town to-night in his own chaise-cart, and to\nkeep him to-night, and to take him with his own hands to Miss\nHavisham s to-morrow morning. And Lor-a-mussy me!  cried my sister,\ncasting off her bonnet in sudden desperation,  here I stand talking to\nmere Mooncalfs, with Uncle Pumblechook waiting, and the mare catching\ncold at the door, and the boy grimed with crock and dirt from the hair\nof his head to the sole of his foot! \n\nWith that, she pounced upon me, like an eagle on a lamb, and my face\nwas squeezed into wooden bowls in sinks, and my head was put under taps\nof water-butts, and I was soaped, and kneaded, and towelled, and\nthumped, and harrowed, and rasped, until I really was quite beside\nmyself. (I may here remark that I suppose myself to be better\nacquainted than any living authority, with the ridgy effect of a\nwedding-ring, passing unsympathetically over the human countenance.)\n\nWhen my ablutions were completed, I was put into clean linen of the\nstiffest character, like a young penitent into sackcloth, and was\ntrussed up in my tightest and fearfullest suit. I was then delivered\nover to Mr. Pumblechook, who formally received me as if he were the\nSheriff, and who let off upon me the speech that I knew he had been\ndying to make all along:  Boy, be forever grateful to all friends, but\nespecially unto them which brought you up by hand! \n\n Good-bye, Joe! \n\n God bless you, Pip, old chap! \n\nI had never parted from him before, and what with my feelings and what\nwith soapsuds, I could at first see no stars from the chaise-cart. But\nthey twinkled out one by one, without throwing any light on the\nquestions why on earth I was going to play at Miss Havisham s, and what\non earth I was expected to play at.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII.\n\n\nMr. Pumblechook s premises in the High Street of the market town, were\nof a peppercorny and farinaceous character, as the premises of a\ncornchandler and seedsman should be. It appeared to me that he must be\na very happy man indeed, to have so many little drawers in his shop;\nand I wondered when I peeped into one or two on the lower tiers, and\nsaw the tied-up brown paper packets inside, whether the flower-seeds\nand bulbs ever wanted of a fine day to break out of those jails, and\nbloom.\n\nIt was in the early morning after my arrival that I entertained this\nspeculation. On the previous night, I had been sent straight to bed in\nan attic with a sloping roof, which was so low in the corner where the\nbedstead was, that I calculated the tiles as being within a foot of my\neyebrows. In the same early morning, I discovered a singular affinity\nbetween seeds and corduroys. Mr. Pumblechook wore corduroys, and so did\nhis shopman; and somehow, there was a general air and flavour about the\ncorduroys, so much in the nature of seeds, and a general air and\nflavour about the seeds, so much in the nature of corduroys, that I\nhardly knew which was which. The same opportunity served me for\nnoticing that Mr. Pumblechook appeared to conduct his business by\nlooking across the street at the saddler, who appeared to transact\n_his_ business by keeping his eye on the coachmaker, who appeared to\nget on in life by putting his hands in his pockets and contemplating\nthe baker, who in his turn folded his arms and stared at the grocer,\nwho stood at his door and yawned at the chemist. The watchmaker, always\nporing over a little desk with a magnifying-glass at his eye, and\nalways inspected by a group of smock-frocks poring over him through the\nglass of his shop-window, seemed to be about the only person in the\nHigh Street whose trade engaged his attention.\n\nMr. Pumblechook and I breakfasted at eight o clock in the parlour\nbehind the shop, while the shopman took his mug of tea and hunch of\nbread and butter on a sack of peas in the front premises. I considered\nMr. Pumblechook wretched company. Besides being possessed by my\nsister s idea that a mortifying and penitential character ought to be\nimparted to my diet, besides giving me as much crumb as possible in\ncombination with as little butter, and putting such a quantity of warm\nwater into my milk that it would have been more candid to have left the\nmilk out altogether, his conversation consisted of nothing but\narithmetic. On my politely bidding him Good-morning, he said,\npompously,  Seven times nine, boy?  And how should _I_ be able to\nanswer, dodged in that way, in a strange place, on an empty stomach! I\nwas hungry, but before I had swallowed a morsel, he began a running sum\nthat lasted all through the breakfast.  Seven?   And four?   And\neight?   And six?   And two?   And ten?  And so on. And after each\nfigure was disposed of, it was as much as I could do to get a bite or a\nsup, before the next came; while he sat at his ease guessing nothing,\nand eating bacon and hot roll, in (if I may be allowed the expression)\na gorging and gormandizing manner.\n\nFor such reasons, I was very glad when ten o clock came and we started\nfor Miss Havisham s; though I was not at all at my ease regarding the\nmanner in which I should acquit myself under that lady s roof. Within a\nquarter of an hour we came to Miss Havisham s house, which was of old\nbrick, and dismal, and had a great many iron bars to it. Some of the\nwindows had been walled up; of those that remained, all the lower were\nrustily barred. There was a courtyard in front, and that was barred; so\nwe had to wait, after ringing the bell, until some one should come to\nopen it. While we waited at the gate, I peeped in (even then Mr.\nPumblechook said,  And fourteen?  but I pretended not to hear him), and\nsaw that at the side of the house there was a large brewery. No brewing\nwas going on in it, and none seemed to have gone on for a long long\ntime.\n\nA window was raised, and a clear voice demanded  What name?  To which\nmy conductor replied,  Pumblechook.  The voice returned,  Quite right, \nand the window was shut again, and a young lady came across the\ncourt-yard, with keys in her hand.\n\n This,  said Mr. Pumblechook,  is Pip. \n\n This is Pip, is it?  returned the young lady, who was very pretty and\nseemed very proud;  come in, Pip. \n\nMr. Pumblechook was coming in also, when she stopped him with the gate.\n\n Oh!  she said.  Did you wish to see Miss Havisham? \n\n If Miss Havisham wished to see me,  returned Mr. Pumblechook,\ndiscomfited.\n\n Ah!  said the girl;  but you see she don t. \n\nShe said it so finally, and in such an undiscussible way, that Mr.\nPumblechook, though in a condition of ruffled dignity, could not\nprotest. But he eyed me severely, as if _I_ had done anything to\nhim! and departed with the words reproachfully delivered:  Boy! Let\nyour behaviour here be a credit unto them which brought you up by\nhand!  I was not free from apprehension that he would come back to\npropound through the gate,  And sixteen?  But he didn t.\n\nMy young conductress locked the gate, and we went across the courtyard.\nIt was paved and clean, but grass was growing in every crevice. The\nbrewery buildings had a little lane of communication with it, and the\nwooden gates of that lane stood open, and all the brewery beyond stood\nopen, away to the high enclosing wall; and all was empty and disused.\nThe cold wind seemed to blow colder there than outside the gate; and it\nmade a shrill noise in howling in and out at the open sides of the\nbrewery, like the noise of wind in the rigging of a ship at sea.\n\nShe saw me looking at it, and she said,  You could drink without hurt\nall the strong beer that s brewed there now, boy. \n\n I should think I could, miss,  said I, in a shy way.\n\n Better not try to brew beer there now, or it would turn out sour, boy;\ndon t you think so? \n\n It looks like it, miss. \n\n Not that anybody means to try,  she added,  for that s all done with,\nand the place will stand as idle as it is till it falls. As to strong\nbeer, there s enough of it in the cellars already, to drown the Manor\nHouse. \n\n[Illustration]\n\n Is that the name of this house, miss? \n\n One of its names, boy. \n\n It has more than one, then, miss? \n\n One more. Its other name was Satis; which is Greek, or Latin, or\nHebrew, or all three or all one to me for enough. \n\n Enough House,  said I;  that s a curious name, miss. \n\n Yes,  she replied;  but it meant more than it said. It meant, when it\nwas given, that whoever had this house could want nothing else. They\nmust have been easily satisfied in those days, I should think. But\ndon t loiter, boy. \n\nThough she called me  boy  so often, and with a carelessness that was\nfar from complimentary, she was of about my own age. She seemed much\nolder than I, of course, being a girl, and beautiful and\nself-possessed; and she was as scornful of me as if she had been\none-and-twenty, and a queen.\n\nWe went into the house by a side door, the great front entrance had two\nchains across it outside, and the first thing I noticed was, that the\npassages were all dark, and that she had left a candle burning there.\nShe took it up, and we went through more passages and up a staircase,\nand still it was all dark, and only the candle lighted us.\n\nAt last we came to the door of a room, and she said,  Go in. \n\nI answered, more in shyness than politeness,  After you, miss. \n\nTo this she returned:  Don t be ridiculous, boy; I am not going in. \nAnd scornfully walked away, and what was worse took the candle with\nher.\n\nThis was very uncomfortable, and I was half afraid. However, the only\nthing to be done being to knock at the door, I knocked, and was told\nfrom within to enter. I entered, therefore, and found myself in a\npretty large room, well lighted with wax candles. No glimpse of\ndaylight was to be seen in it. It was a dressing-room, as I supposed\nfrom the furniture, though much of it was of forms and uses then quite\nunknown to me. But prominent in it was a draped table with a gilded\nlooking-glass, and that I made out at first sight to be a fine lady s\ndressing-table.\n\nWhether I should have made out this object so soon if there had been no\nfine lady sitting at it, I cannot say. In an arm-chair, with an elbow\nresting on the table and her head leaning on that hand, sat the\nstrangest lady I have ever seen, or shall ever see.\n\nShe was dressed in rich materials, satins, and lace, and silks, all of\nwhite. Her shoes were white. And she had a long white veil dependent\nfrom her hair, and she had bridal flowers in her hair, but her hair was\nwhite. Some bright jewels sparkled on her neck and on her hands, and\nsome other jewels lay sparkling on the table. Dresses, less splendid\nthan the dress she wore, and half-packed trunks, were scattered about.\nShe had not quite finished dressing, for she had but one shoe on, the\nother was on the table near her hand, her veil was but half arranged,\nher watch and chain were not put on, and some lace for her bosom lay\nwith those trinkets, and with her handkerchief, and gloves, and some\nflowers, and a Prayer-Book all confusedly heaped about the\nlooking-glass.\n\nIt was not in the first few moments that I saw all these things, though\nI saw more of them in the first moments than might be supposed. But I\nsaw that everything within my view which ought to be white, had been\nwhite long ago, and had lost its lustre and was faded and yellow. I saw\nthat the bride within the bridal dress had withered like the dress, and\nlike the flowers, and had no brightness left but the brightness of her\nsunken eyes. I saw that the dress had been put upon the rounded figure\nof a young woman, and that the figure upon which it now hung loose had\nshrunk to skin and bone. Once, I had been taken to see some ghastly\nwaxwork at the Fair, representing I know not what impossible personage\nlying in state. Once, I had been taken to one of our old marsh churches\nto see a skeleton in the ashes of a rich dress that had been dug out of\na vault under the church pavement. Now, waxwork and skeleton seemed to\nhave dark eyes that moved and looked at me. I should have cried out, if\nI could.\n\n Who is it?  said the lady at the table.\n\n Pip, ma am. \n\n Pip? \n\n Mr. Pumblechook s boy, ma am. Come to play. \n\n Come nearer; let me look at you. Come close. \n\nIt was when I stood before her, avoiding her eyes, that I took note of\nthe surrounding objects in detail, and saw that her watch had stopped\nat twenty minutes to nine, and that a clock in the room had stopped at\ntwenty minutes to nine.\n\n Look at me,  said Miss Havisham.  You are not afraid of a woman who\nhas never seen the sun since you were born? \n\nI regret to state that I was not afraid of telling the enormous lie\ncomprehended in the answer  No. \n\n Do you know what I touch here?  she said, laying her hands, one upon\nthe other, on her left side.\n\n Yes, ma am.  (It made me think of the young man.)\n\n What do I touch? \n\n Your heart. \n\n Broken! \n\nShe uttered the word with an eager look, and with strong emphasis, and\nwith a weird smile that had a kind of boast in it. Afterwards she kept\nher hands there for a little while, and slowly took them away as if\nthey were heavy.\n\n I am tired,  said Miss Havisham.  I want diversion, and I have done\nwith men and women. Play. \n\nI think it will be conceded by my most disputatious reader, that she\ncould hardly have directed an unfortunate boy to do anything in the\nwide world more difficult to be done under the circumstances.\n\n I sometimes have sick fancies,  she went on,  and I have a sick fancy\nthat I want to see some play. There, there!  with an impatient movement\nof the fingers of her right hand;  play, play, play! \n\nFor a moment, with the fear of my sister s working me before my eyes, I\nhad a desperate idea of starting round the room in the assumed\ncharacter of Mr. Pumblechook s chaise-cart. But I felt myself so\nunequal to the performance that I gave it up, and stood looking at Miss\nHavisham in what I suppose she took for a dogged manner, inasmuch as\nshe said, when we had taken a good look at each other, \n\n Are you sullen and obstinate? \n\n No, ma am, I am very sorry for you, and very sorry I can t play just\nnow. If you complain of me I shall get into trouble with my sister, so\nI would do it if I could; but it s so new here, and so strange, and so\nfine, and melancholy .  I stopped, fearing I might say too much, or had\nalready said it, and we took another look at each other.\n\nBefore she spoke again, she turned her eyes from me, and looked at the\ndress she wore, and at the dressing-table, and finally at herself in\nthe looking-glass.\n\n So new to him,  she muttered,  so old to me; so strange to him, so\nfamiliar to me; so melancholy to both of us! Call Estella. \n\nAs she was still looking at the reflection of herself, I thought she\nwas still talking to herself, and kept quiet.\n\n Call Estella,  she repeated, flashing a look at me.  You can do that.\nCall Estella. At the door. \n\nTo stand in the dark in a mysterious passage of an unknown house,\nbawling Estella to a scornful young lady neither visible nor\nresponsive, and feeling it a dreadful liberty so to roar out her name,\nwas almost as bad as playing to order. But she answered at last, and\nher light came along the dark passage like a star.\n\nMiss Havisham beckoned her to come close, and took up a jewel from the\ntable, and tried its effect upon her fair young bosom and against her\npretty brown hair.  Your own, one day, my dear, and you will use it\nwell. Let me see you play cards with this boy. \n\n With this boy? Why, he is a common labouring-boy! \n\nI thought I overheard Miss Havisham answer, only it seemed so\nunlikely, Well? You can break his heart. \n\n What do you play, boy?  asked Estella of myself, with the greatest\ndisdain.\n\n Nothing but beggar my neighbour, miss. \n\n Beggar him,  said Miss Havisham to Estella. So we sat down to cards.\n\nIt was then I began to understand that everything in the room had\nstopped, like the watch and the clock, a long time ago. I noticed that\nMiss Havisham put down the jewel exactly on the spot from which she had\ntaken it up. As Estella dealt the cards, I glanced at the\ndressing-table again, and saw that the shoe upon it, once white, now\nyellow, had never been worn. I glanced down at the foot from which the\nshoe was absent, and saw that the silk stocking on it, once white, now\nyellow, had been trodden ragged. Without this arrest of everything,\nthis standing still of all the pale decayed objects, not even the\nwithered bridal dress on the collapsed form could have looked so like\ngrave-clothes, or the long veil so like a shroud.\n\nSo she sat, corpse-like, as we played at cards; the frillings and\ntrimmings on her bridal dress, looking like earthy paper. I knew\nnothing then of the discoveries that are occasionally made of bodies\nburied in ancient times, which fall to powder in the moment of being\ndistinctly seen; but, I have often thought since, that she must have\nlooked as if the admission of the natural light of day would have\nstruck her to dust.\n\n He calls the knaves Jacks, this boy!  said Estella with disdain,\nbefore our first game was out.  And what coarse hands he has! And what\nthick boots! \n\nI had never thought of being ashamed of my hands before; but I began to\nconsider them a very indifferent pair. Her contempt for me was so\nstrong, that it became infectious, and I caught it.\n\nShe won the game, and I dealt. I misdealt, as was only natural, when I\nknew she was lying in wait for me to do wrong; and she denounced me for\na stupid, clumsy labouring-boy.\n\n You say nothing of her,  remarked Miss Havisham to me, as she looked\non.  She says many hard things of you, but you say nothing of her. What\ndo you think of her? \n\n I don t like to say,  I stammered.\n\n Tell me in my ear,  said Miss Havisham, bending down.\n\n I think she is very proud,  I replied, in a whisper.\n\n Anything else? \n\n I think she is very pretty. \n\n Anything else? \n\n I think she is very insulting.  (She was looking at me then with a\nlook of supreme aversion.)\n\n Anything else? \n\n I think I should like to go home. \n\n And never see her again, though she is so pretty? \n\n I am not sure that I shouldn t like to see her again, but I should\nlike to go home now. \n\n You shall go soon,  said Miss Havisham, aloud.  Play the game out. \n\nSaving for the one weird smile at first, I should have felt almost sure\nthat Miss Havisham s face could not smile. It had dropped into a\nwatchful and brooding expression, most likely when all the things about\nher had become transfixed, and it looked as if nothing could ever lift\nit up again. Her chest had dropped, so that she stooped; and her voice\nhad dropped, so that she spoke low, and with a dead lull upon her;\naltogether, she had the appearance of having dropped body and soul,\nwithin and without, under the weight of a crushing blow.\n\nI played the game to an end with Estella, and she beggared me. She\nthrew the cards down on the table when she had won them all, as if she\ndespised them for having been won of me.\n\n When shall I have you here again?  said Miss Havisham.  Let me think. \n\nI was beginning to remind her that to-day was Wednesday, when she\nchecked me with her former impatient movement of the fingers of her\nright hand.\n\n There, there! I know nothing of days of the week; I know nothing of\nweeks of the year. Come again after six days. You hear? \n\n Yes, ma am. \n\n Estella, take him down. Let him have something to eat, and let him\nroam and look about him while he eats. Go, Pip. \n\nI followed the candle down, as I had followed the candle up, and she\nstood it in the place where we had found it. Until she opened the side\nentrance, I had fancied, without thinking about it, that it must\nnecessarily be night-time. The rush of the daylight quite confounded\nme, and made me feel as if I had been in the candlelight of the strange\nroom many hours.\n\n You are to wait here, you boy,  said Estella; and disappeared and\nclosed the door.\n\nI took the opportunity of being alone in the courtyard to look at my\ncoarse hands and my common boots. My opinion of those accessories was\nnot favourable. They had never troubled me before, but they troubled me\nnow, as vulgar appendages. I determined to ask Joe why he had ever\ntaught me to call those picture-cards Jacks, which ought to be called\nknaves. I wished Joe had been rather more genteelly brought up, and\nthen I should have been so too.\n\nShe came back, with some bread and meat and a little mug of beer. She\nput the mug down on the stones of the yard, and gave me the bread and\nmeat without looking at me, as insolently as if I were a dog in\ndisgrace. I was so humiliated, hurt, spurned, offended, angry, sorry, I\ncannot hit upon the right name for the smart God knows what its name\nwas, that tears started to my eyes. The moment they sprang there, the\ngirl looked at me with a quick delight in having been the cause of\nthem. This gave me power to keep them back and to look at her: so, she\ngave a contemptuous toss but with a sense, I thought, of having made\ntoo sure that I was so wounded and left me.\n\nBut when she was gone, I looked about me for a place to hide my face\nin, and got behind one of the gates in the brewery-lane, and leaned my\nsleeve against the wall there, and leaned my forehead on it and cried.\nAs I cried, I kicked the wall, and took a hard twist at my hair; so\nbitter were my feelings, and so sharp was the smart without a name,\nthat needed counteraction.\n\nMy sister s bringing up had made me sensitive. In the little world in\nwhich children have their existence whosoever brings them up, there is\nnothing so finely perceived and so finely felt as injustice. It may be\nonly small injustice that the child can be exposed to; but the child is\nsmall, and its world is small, and its rocking-horse stands as many\nhands high, according to scale, as a big-boned Irish hunter. Within\nmyself, I had sustained, from my babyhood, a perpetual conflict with\ninjustice. I had known, from the time when I could speak, that my\nsister, in her capricious and violent coercion, was unjust to me. I had\ncherished a profound conviction that her bringing me up by hand gave\nher no right to bring me up by jerks. Through all my punishments,\ndisgraces, fasts, and vigils, and other penitential performances, I had\nnursed this assurance; and to my communing so much with it, in a\nsolitary and unprotected way, I in great part refer the fact that I was\nmorally timid and very sensitive.\n\nI got rid of my injured feelings for the time by kicking them into the\nbrewery wall, and twisting them out of my hair, and then I smoothed my\nface with my sleeve, and came from behind the gate. The bread and meat\nwere acceptable, and the beer was warming and tingling, and I was soon\nin spirits to look about me.\n\nTo be sure, it was a deserted place, down to the pigeon-house in the\nbrewery-yard, which had been blown crooked on its pole by some high\nwind, and would have made the pigeons think themselves at sea, if there\nhad been any pigeons there to be rocked by it. But there were no\npigeons in the dove-cot, no horses in the stable, no pigs in the sty,\nno malt in the storehouse, no smells of grains and beer in the copper\nor the vat. All the uses and scents of the brewery might have\nevaporated with its last reek of smoke. In a by-yard, there was a\nwilderness of empty casks, which had a certain sour remembrance of\nbetter days lingering about them; but it was too sour to be accepted as\na sample of the beer that was gone, and in this respect I remember\nthose recluses as being like most others.\n\nBehind the furthest end of the brewery, was a rank garden with an old\nwall; not so high but that I could struggle up and hold on long enough\nto look over it, and see that the rank garden was the garden of the\nhouse, and that it was overgrown with tangled weeds, but that there was\na track upon the green and yellow paths, as if some one sometimes\nwalked there, and that Estella was walking away from me even then. But\nshe seemed to be everywhere. For when I yielded to the temptation\npresented by the casks, and began to walk on them, I saw _her_ walking\non them at the end of the yard of casks. She had her back towards me,\nand held her pretty brown hair spread out in her two hands, and never\nlooked round, and passed out of my view directly. So, in the brewery\nitself, by which I mean the large paved lofty place in which they used\nto make the beer, and where the brewing utensils still were. When I\nfirst went into it, and, rather oppressed by its gloom, stood near the\ndoor looking about me, I saw her pass among the extinguished fires, and\nascend some light iron stairs, and go out by a gallery high overhead,\nas if she were going out into the sky.\n\nIt was in this place, and at this moment, that a strange thing happened\nto my fancy. I thought it a strange thing then, and I thought it a\nstranger thing long afterwards. I turned my eyes a little dimmed by\nlooking up at the frosty light towards a great wooden beam in a low\nnook of the building near me on my right hand, and I saw a figure\nhanging there by the neck. A figure all in yellow white, with but one\nshoe to the feet; and it hung so, that I could see that the faded\ntrimmings of the dress were like earthy paper, and that the face was\nMiss Havisham s, with a movement going over the whole countenance as if\nshe were trying to call to me. In the terror of seeing the figure, and\nin the terror of being certain that it had not been there a moment\nbefore, I at first ran from it, and then ran towards it. And my terror\nwas greatest of all when I found no figure there.\n\nNothing less than the frosty light of the cheerful sky, the sight of\npeople passing beyond the bars of the court-yard gate, and the reviving\ninfluence of the rest of the bread and meat and beer, would have\nbrought me round. Even with those aids, I might not have come to myself\nas soon as I did, but that I saw Estella approaching with the keys, to\nlet me out. She would have some fair reason for looking down upon me, I\nthought, if she saw me frightened; and she would have no fair reason.\n\nShe gave me a triumphant glance in passing me, as if she rejoiced that\nmy hands were so coarse and my boots were so thick, and she opened the\ngate, and stood holding it. I was passing out without looking at her,\nwhen she touched me with a taunting hand.\n\n Why don t you cry? \n\n Because I don t want to. \n\n You do,  said she.  You have been crying till you are half blind, and\nyou are near crying again now. \n\nShe laughed contemptuously, pushed me out, and locked the gate upon me.\nI went straight to Mr. Pumblechook s, and was immensely relieved to\nfind him not at home. So, leaving word with the shopman on what day I\nwas wanted at Miss Havisham s again, I set off on the four-mile walk to\nour forge; pondering, as I went along, on all I had seen, and deeply\nrevolving that I was a common labouring-boy; that my hands were coarse;\nthat my boots were thick; that I had fallen into a despicable habit of\ncalling knaves Jacks; that I was much more ignorant than I had\nconsidered myself last night, and generally that I was in a low-lived\nbad way.\n\n\n\n\nChapter IX.\n\n\nWhen I reached home, my sister was very curious to know all about Miss\nHavisham s, and asked a number of questions. And I soon found myself\ngetting heavily bumped from behind in the nape of the neck and the\nsmall of the back, and having my face ignominiously shoved against the\nkitchen wall, because I did not answer those questions at sufficient\nlength.\n\nIf a dread of not being understood be hidden in the breasts of other\nyoung people to anything like the extent to which it used to be hidden\nin mine, which I consider probable, as I have no particular reason to\nsuspect myself of having been a monstrosity, it is the key to many\nreservations. I felt convinced that if I described Miss Havisham s as\nmy eyes had seen it, I should not be understood. Not only that, but I\nfelt convinced that Miss Havisham too would not be understood; and\nalthough she was perfectly incomprehensible to me, I entertained an\nimpression that there would be something coarse and treacherous in my\ndragging her as she really was (to say nothing of Miss Estella) before\nthe contemplation of Mrs. Joe. Consequently, I said as little as I\ncould, and had my face shoved against the kitchen wall.\n\nThe worst of it was that that bullying old Pumblechook, preyed upon by\na devouring curiosity to be informed of all I had seen and heard, came\ngaping over in his chaise-cart at tea-time, to have the details\ndivulged to him. And the mere sight of the torment, with his fishy eyes\nand mouth open, his sandy hair inquisitively on end, and his waistcoat\nheaving with windy arithmetic, made me vicious in my reticence.\n\n Well, boy,  Uncle Pumblechook began, as soon as he was seated in the\nchair of honour by the fire.  How did you get on up town? \n\nI answered,  Pretty well, sir,  and my sister shook her fist at me.\n\n Pretty well?  Mr. Pumblechook repeated.  Pretty well is no answer.\nTell us what you mean by pretty well, boy? \n\nWhitewash on the forehead hardens the brain into a state of obstinacy\nperhaps. Anyhow, with whitewash from the wall on my forehead, my\nobstinacy was adamantine. I reflected for some time, and then answered\nas if I had discovered a new idea,  I mean pretty well. \n\nMy sister with an exclamation of impatience was going to fly at me, I\nhad no shadow of defence, for Joe was busy in the forge, when Mr.\nPumblechook interposed with  No! Don t lose your temper. Leave this lad\nto me, ma am; leave this lad to me.  Mr. Pumblechook then turned me\ntowards him, as if he were going to cut my hair, and said, \n\n First (to get our thoughts in order): Forty-three pence? \n\nI calculated the consequences of replying  Four Hundred Pound,  and\nfinding them against me, went as near the answer as I could which was\nsomewhere about eightpence off. Mr. Pumblechook then put me through my\npence-table from  twelve pence make one shilling,  up to  forty pence\nmake three and fourpence,  and then triumphantly demanded, as if he had\ndone for me,  _Now!_ How much is forty-three pence?  To which I\nreplied, after a long interval of reflection,  I don t know.  And I was\nso aggravated that I almost doubt if I did know.\n\nMr. Pumblechook worked his head like a screw to screw it out of me, and\nsaid,  Is forty-three pence seven and sixpence three fardens, for\ninstance? \n\n Yes!  said I. And although my sister instantly boxed my ears, it was\nhighly gratifying to me to see that the answer spoilt his joke, and\nbrought him to a dead stop.\n\n Boy! What like is Miss Havisham?  Mr. Pumblechook began again when he\nhad recovered; folding his arms tight on his chest and applying the\nscrew.\n\n Very tall and dark,  I told him.\n\n Is she, uncle?  asked my sister.\n\nMr. Pumblechook winked assent; from which I at once inferred that he\nhad never seen Miss Havisham, for she was nothing of the kind.\n\n Good!  said Mr. Pumblechook conceitedly. ( This is the way to have\nhim! We are beginning to hold our own, I think, Mum? )\n\n I am sure, uncle,  returned Mrs. Joe,  I wish you had him always; you\nknow so well how to deal with him. \n\n Now, boy! What was she a-doing of, when you went in today?  asked Mr.\nPumblechook.\n\n She was sitting,  I answered,  in a black velvet coach. \n\nMr. Pumblechook and Mrs. Joe stared at one another as they well\nmight and both repeated,  In a black velvet coach? \n\n Yes,  said I.  And Miss Estella that s her niece, I think handed her\nin cake and wine at the coach-window, on a gold plate. And we all had\ncake and wine on gold plates. And I got up behind the coach to eat\nmine, because she told me to. \n\n Was anybody else there?  asked Mr. Pumblechook.\n\n Four dogs,  said I.\n\n Large or small? \n\n Immense,  said I.  And they fought for veal-cutlets out of a silver\nbasket. \n\nMr. Pumblechook and Mrs. Joe stared at one another again, in utter\namazement. I was perfectly frantic, a reckless witness under the\ntorture, and would have told them anything.\n\n Where _was_ this coach, in the name of gracious?  asked my sister.\n\n In Miss Havisham s room.  They stared again.  But there weren t any\nhorses to it.  I added this saving clause, in the moment of rejecting\nfour richly caparisoned coursers which I had had wild thoughts of\nharnessing.\n\n Can this be possible, uncle?  asked Mrs. Joe.  What can the boy mean? \n\n I ll tell you, Mum,  said Mr. Pumblechook.  My opinion is, it s a\nsedan-chair. She s flighty, you know, very flighty, quite flighty\nenough to pass her days in a sedan-chair. \n\n Did you ever see her in it, uncle?  asked Mrs. Joe.\n\n How could I,  he returned, forced to the admission,  when I never see\nher in my life? Never clapped eyes upon her! \n\n Goodness, uncle! And yet you have spoken to her? \n\n Why, don t you know,  said Mr. Pumblechook, testily,  that when I have\nbeen there, I have been took up to the outside of her door, and the\ndoor has stood ajar, and she has spoke to me that way. Don t say you\ndon t know _that_, Mum. Howsever, the boy went there to play. What did\nyou play at, boy? \n\n We played with flags,  I said. (I beg to observe that I think of\nmyself with amazement, when I recall the lies I told on this occasion.)\n\n Flags!  echoed my sister.\n\n Yes,  said I.  Estella waved a blue flag, and I waved a red one, and\nMiss Havisham waved one sprinkled all over with little gold stars, out\nat the coach-window. And then we all waved our swords and hurrahed. \n\n Swords!  repeated my sister.  Where did you get swords from? \n\n Out of a cupboard,  said I.  And I saw pistols in it, and jam, and\npills. And there was no daylight in the room, but it was all lighted up\nwith candles. \n\n That s true, Mum,  said Mr. Pumblechook, with a grave nod.  That s the\nstate of the case, for that much I ve seen myself.  And then they both\nstared at me, and I, with an obtrusive show of artlessness on my\ncountenance, stared at them, and plaited the right leg of my trousers\nwith my right hand.\n\nIf they had asked me any more questions, I should undoubtedly have\nbetrayed myself, for I was even then on the point of mentioning that\nthere was a balloon in the yard, and should have hazarded the statement\nbut for my invention being divided between that phenomenon and a bear\nin the brewery. They were so much occupied, however, in discussing the\nmarvels I had already presented for their consideration, that I\nescaped. The subject still held them when Joe came in from his work to\nhave a cup of tea. To whom my sister, more for the relief of her own\nmind than for the gratification of his, related my pretended\nexperiences.\n\nNow, when I saw Joe open his blue eyes and roll them all round the\nkitchen in helpless amazement, I was overtaken by penitence; but only\nas regarded him, not in the least as regarded the other two. Towards\nJoe, and Joe only, I considered myself a young monster, while they sat\ndebating what results would come to me from Miss Havisham s\nacquaintance and favour. They had no doubt that Miss Havisham would  do\nsomething  for me; their doubts related to the form that something\nwould take. My sister stood out for  property.  Mr. Pumblechook was in\nfavour of a handsome premium for binding me apprentice to some genteel\ntrade, say, the corn and seed trade, for instance. Joe fell into the\ndeepest disgrace with both, for offering the bright suggestion that I\nmight only be presented with one of the dogs who had fought for the\nveal-cutlets.  If a fool s head can t express better opinions than\nthat,  said my sister,  and you have got any work to do, you had better\ngo and do it.  So he went.\n\nAfter Mr. Pumblechook had driven off, and when my sister was washing\nup, I stole into the forge to Joe, and remained by him until he had\ndone for the night. Then I said,  Before the fire goes out, Joe, I\nshould like to tell you something. \n\n Should you, Pip?  said Joe, drawing his shoeing-stool near the forge.\n Then tell us. What is it, Pip? \n\n Joe,  said I, taking hold of his rolled-up shirt sleeve, and twisting\nit between my finger and thumb,  you remember all that about Miss\nHavisham s? \n\n Remember?  said Joe.  I believe you! Wonderful! \n\n It s a terrible thing, Joe; it ain t true. \n\n What are you telling of, Pip?  cried Joe, falling back in the greatest\namazement.  You don t mean to say it s \n\n Yes I do; it s lies, Joe. \n\n But not all of it? Why sure you don t mean to say, Pip, that there was\nno black welwet co eh?  For, I stood shaking my head.  But at least\nthere was dogs, Pip? Come, Pip,  said Joe, persuasively,  if there\nwarn t no weal-cutlets, at least there was dogs? \n\n No, Joe. \n\n A dog?  said Joe.  A puppy? Come? \n\n No, Joe, there was nothing at all of the kind. \n\nAs I fixed my eyes hopelessly on Joe, Joe contemplated me in dismay.\n Pip, old chap! This won t do, old fellow! I say! Where do you expect\nto go to? \n\n It s terrible, Joe; ain t it? \n\n Terrible?  cried Joe.  Awful! What possessed you? \n\n I don t know what possessed me, Joe,  I replied, letting his shirt\nsleeve go, and sitting down in the ashes at his feet, hanging my head;\n but I wish you hadn t taught me to call Knaves at cards Jacks; and I\nwish my boots weren t so thick nor my hands so coarse. \n\nAnd then I told Joe that I felt very miserable, and that I hadn t been\nable to explain myself to Mrs. Joe and Pumblechook, who were so rude to\nme, and that there had been a beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham s\nwho was dreadfully proud, and that she had said I was common, and that\nI knew I was common, and that I wished I was not common, and that the\nlies had come of it somehow, though I didn t know how.\n\nThis was a case of metaphysics, at least as difficult for Joe to deal\nwith as for me. But Joe took the case altogether out of the region of\nmetaphysics, and by that means vanquished it.\n\n There s one thing you may be sure of, Pip,  said Joe, after some\nrumination,  namely, that lies is lies. Howsever they come, they didn t\nought to come, and they come from the father of lies, and work round to\nthe same. Don t you tell no more of  em, Pip. _That_ ain t the way to\nget out of being common, old chap. And as to being common, I don t make\nit out at all clear. You are oncommon in some things. You re oncommon\nsmall. Likewise you re a oncommon scholar. \n\n No, I am ignorant and backward, Joe. \n\n Why, see what a letter you wrote last night! Wrote in print even! I ve\nseen letters Ah! and from gentlefolks! that I ll swear weren t wrote in\nprint,  said Joe.\n\n I have learnt next to nothing, Joe. You think much of me. It s only\nthat. \n\n Well, Pip,  said Joe,  be it so or be it son t, you must be a common\nscholar afore you can be a oncommon one, I should hope! The king upon\nhis throne, with his crown upon his ed, can t sit and write his acts of\nParliament in print, without having begun, when he were a unpromoted\nPrince, with the alphabet. Ah!  added Joe, with a shake of the head\nthat was full of meaning,  and begun at A too, and worked his way to Z.\nAnd _I_ know what that is to do, though I can t say I ve exactly done\nit. \n\nThere was some hope in this piece of wisdom, and it rather encouraged\nme.\n\n Whether common ones as to callings and earnings,  pursued Joe,\nreflectively,  mightn t be the better of continuing for to keep company\nwith common ones, instead of going out to play with oncommon\nones, which reminds me to hope that there were a flag, perhaps? \n\n No, Joe. \n\n (I m sorry there weren t a flag, Pip). Whether that might be or\nmightn t be, is a thing as can t be looked into now, without putting\nyour sister on the Rampage; and that s a thing not to be thought of as\nbeing done intentional. Lookee here, Pip, at what is said to you by a\ntrue friend. Which this to you the true friend say. If you can t get to\nbe oncommon through going straight, you ll never get to do it through\ngoing crooked. So don t tell no more on  em, Pip, and live well and die\nhappy. \n\n You are not angry with me, Joe? \n\n No, old chap. But bearing in mind that them were which I meantersay of\na stunning and outdacious sort, alluding to them which bordered on\nweal-cutlets and dog-fighting, a sincere well-wisher would adwise, Pip,\ntheir being dropped into your meditations, when you go upstairs to bed.\nThat s all, old chap, and don t never do it no more. \n\nWhen I got up to my little room and said my prayers, I did not forget\nJoe s recommendation, and yet my young mind was in that disturbed and\nunthankful state, that I thought long after I laid me down, how common\nEstella would consider Joe, a mere blacksmith; how thick his boots, and\nhow coarse his hands. I thought how Joe and my sister were then sitting\nin the kitchen, and how I had come up to bed from the kitchen, and how\nMiss Havisham and Estella never sat in a kitchen, but were far above\nthe level of such common doings. I fell asleep recalling what I  used\nto do  when I was at Miss Havisham s; as though I had been there weeks\nor months, instead of hours; and as though it were quite an old subject\nof remembrance, instead of one that had arisen only that day.\n\nThat was a memorable day to me, for it made great changes in me. But it\nis the same with any life. Imagine one selected day struck out of it,\nand think how different its course would have been. Pause you who read\nthis, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of\nthorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the\nformation of the first link on one memorable day.\n\n\n\n\nChapter X.\n\n\nThe felicitous idea occurred to me a morning or two later when I woke,\nthat the best step I could take towards making myself uncommon was to\nget out of Biddy everything she knew. In pursuance of this luminous\nconception I mentioned to Biddy when I went to Mr. Wopsle s\ngreat-aunt s at night, that I had a particular reason for wishing to\nget on in life, and that I should feel very much obliged to her if she\nwould impart all her learning to me. Biddy, who was the most obliging\nof girls, immediately said she would, and indeed began to carry out her\npromise within five minutes.\n\nThe Educational scheme or Course established by Mr. Wopsle s great-aunt\nmay be resolved into the following synopsis. The pupils ate apples and\nput straws down one another s backs, until Mr. Wopsle s great-aunt\ncollected her energies, and made an indiscriminate totter at them with\na birch-rod. After receiving the charge with every mark of derision,\nthe pupils formed in line and buzzingly passed a ragged book from hand\nto hand. The book had an alphabet in it, some figures and tables, and a\nlittle spelling, that is to say, it had had once. As soon as this\nvolume began to circulate, Mr. Wopsle s great-aunt fell into a state of\ncoma, arising either from sleep or a rheumatic paroxysm. The pupils\nthen entered among themselves upon a competitive examination on the\nsubject of Boots, with the view of ascertaining who could tread the\nhardest upon whose toes. This mental exercise lasted until Biddy made a\nrush at them and distributed three defaced Bibles (shaped as if they\nhad been unskilfully cut off the chump end of something), more\nillegibly printed at the best than any curiosities of literature I have\nsince met with, speckled all over with ironmould, and having various\nspecimens of the insect world smashed between their leaves. This part\nof the Course was usually lightened by several single combats between\nBiddy and refractory students. When the fights were over, Biddy gave\nout the number of a page, and then we all read aloud what we could, or\nwhat we couldn t in a frightful chorus; Biddy leading with a high,\nshrill, monotonous voice, and none of us having the least notion of, or\nreverence for, what we were reading about. When this horrible din had\nlasted a certain time, it mechanically awoke Mr. Wopsle s great-aunt,\nwho staggered at a boy fortuitously, and pulled his ears. This was\nunderstood to terminate the Course for the evening, and we emerged into\nthe air with shrieks of intellectual victory. It is fair to remark that\nthere was no prohibition against any pupil s entertaining himself with\na slate or even with the ink (when there was any), but that it was not\neasy to pursue that branch of study in the winter season, on account of\nthe little general shop in which the classes were holden and which was\nalso Mr. Wopsle s great-aunt s sitting-room and bedchamber being but\nfaintly illuminated through the agency of one low-spirited dip-candle\nand no snuffers.\n\nIt appeared to me that it would take time to become uncommon, under\nthese circumstances: nevertheless, I resolved to try it, and that very\nevening Biddy entered on our special agreement, by imparting some\ninformation from her little catalogue of Prices, under the head of\nmoist sugar, and lending me, to copy at home, a large old English D\nwhich she had imitated from the heading of some newspaper, and which I\nsupposed, until she told me what it was, to be a design for a buckle.\n\nOf course there was a public-house in the village, and of course Joe\nliked sometimes to smoke his pipe there. I had received strict orders\nfrom my sister to call for him at the Three Jolly Bargemen, that\nevening, on my way from school, and bring him home at my peril. To the\nThree Jolly Bargemen, therefore, I directed my steps.\n\nThere was a bar at the Jolly Bargemen, with some alarmingly long chalk\nscores in it on the wall at the side of the door, which seemed to me to\nbe never paid off. They had been there ever since I could remember, and\nhad grown more than I had. But there was a quantity of chalk about our\ncountry, and perhaps the people neglected no opportunity of turning it\nto account.\n\nIt being Saturday night, I found the landlord looking rather grimly at\nthese records; but as my business was with Joe and not with him, I\nmerely wished him good evening, and passed into the common room at the\nend of the passage, where there was a bright large kitchen fire, and\nwhere Joe was smoking his pipe in company with Mr. Wopsle and a\nstranger. Joe greeted me as usual with  Halloa, Pip, old chap!  and the\nmoment he said that, the stranger turned his head and looked at me.\n\nHe was a secret-looking man whom I had never seen before. His head was\nall on one side, and one of his eyes was half shut up, as if he were\ntaking aim at something with an invisible gun. He had a pipe in his\nmouth, and he took it out, and, after slowly blowing all his smoke away\nand looking hard at me all the time, nodded. So, I nodded, and then he\nnodded again, and made room on the settle beside him that I might sit\ndown there.\n\nBut as I was used to sit beside Joe whenever I entered that place of\nresort, I said  No, thank you, sir,  and fell into the space Joe made\nfor me on the opposite settle. The strange man, after glancing at Joe,\nand seeing that his attention was otherwise engaged, nodded to me again\nwhen I had taken my seat, and then rubbed his leg in a very odd way, as\nit struck me.\n\n You was saying,  said the strange man, turning to Joe,  that you was a\nblacksmith. \n\n Yes. I said it, you know,  said Joe.\n\n What ll you drink, Mr. ? You didn t mention your name, by the bye. \n\nJoe mentioned it now, and the strange man called him by it.  What ll\nyou drink, Mr. Gargery? At my expense? To top up with? \n\n Well,  said Joe,  to tell you the truth, I ain t much in the habit of\ndrinking at anybody s expense but my own. \n\n Habit? No,  returned the stranger,  but once and away, and on a\nSaturday night too. Come! Put a name to it, Mr. Gargery. \n\n I wouldn t wish to be stiff company,  said Joe.  Rum. \n\n Rum,  repeated the stranger.  And will the other gentleman originate a\nsentiment. \n\n Rum,  said Mr. Wopsle.\n\n Three Rums!  cried the stranger, calling to the landlord.  Glasses\nround! \n\n This other gentleman,  observed Joe, by way of introducing Mr. Wopsle,\n is a gentleman that you would like to hear give it out. Our clerk at\nchurch. \n\n Aha!  said the stranger, quickly, and cocking his eye at me.  The\nlonely church, right out on the marshes, with graves round it! \n\n That s it,  said Joe.\n\nThe stranger, with a comfortable kind of grunt over his pipe, put his\nlegs up on the settle that he had to himself. He wore a flapping\nbroad-brimmed traveller s hat, and under it a handkerchief tied over\nhis head in the manner of a cap: so that he showed no hair. As he\nlooked at the fire, I thought I saw a cunning expression, followed by a\nhalf-laugh, come into his face.\n\n I am not acquainted with this country, gentlemen, but it seems a\nsolitary country towards the river. \n\n Most marshes is solitary,  said Joe.\n\n No doubt, no doubt. Do you find any gypsies, now, or tramps, or\nvagrants of any sort, out there? \n\n No,  said Joe;  none but a runaway convict now and then. And we don t\nfind _them_, easy. Eh, Mr. Wopsle? \n\nMr. Wopsle, with a majestic remembrance of old discomfiture, assented;\nbut not warmly.\n\n Seems you have been out after such?  asked the stranger.\n\n Once,  returned Joe.  Not that we wanted to take them, you understand;\nwe went out as lookers on; me, and Mr. Wopsle, and Pip. Didn t us,\nPip? \n\n Yes, Joe. \n\nThe stranger looked at me again, still cocking his eye, as if he were\nexpressly taking aim at me with his invisible gun, and said,  He s a\nlikely young parcel of bones that. What is it you call him? \n\n Pip,  said Joe.\n\n Christened Pip? \n\n No, not christened Pip. \n\n Surname Pip? \n\n No,  said Joe,  it s a kind of family name what he gave himself when a\ninfant, and is called by. \n\n Son of yours? \n\n Well,  said Joe, meditatively, not, of course, that it could be in\nanywise necessary to consider about it, but because it was the way at\nthe Jolly Bargemen to seem to consider deeply about everything that was\ndiscussed over pipes, well no. No, he ain t. \n\n Nevvy?  said the strange man.\n\n Well,  said Joe, with the same appearance of profound cogitation,  he\nis not no, not to deceive you, he is _not_ my nevvy. \n\n What the Blue Blazes is he?  asked the stranger. Which appeared to me\nto be an inquiry of unnecessary strength.\n\nMr. Wopsle struck in upon that; as one who knew all about\nrelationships, having professional occasion to bear in mind what female\nrelations a man might not marry; and expounded the ties between me and\nJoe. Having his hand in, Mr. Wopsle finished off with a most\nterrifically snarling passage from Richard the Third, and seemed to\nthink he had done quite enough to account for it when he added,  as\nthe poet says. \n\nAnd here I may remark that when Mr. Wopsle referred to me, he\nconsidered it a necessary part of such reference to rumple my hair and\npoke it into my eyes. I cannot conceive why everybody of his standing\nwho visited at our house should always have put me through the same\ninflammatory process under similar circumstances. Yet I do not call to\nmind that I was ever in my earlier youth the subject of remark in our\nsocial family circle, but some large-handed person took some such\nophthalmic steps to patronise me.\n\nAll this while, the strange man looked at nobody but me, and looked at\nme as if he were determined to have a shot at me at last, and bring me\ndown. But he said nothing after offering his Blue Blazes observation,\nuntil the glasses of rum and water were brought; and then he made his\nshot, and a most extraordinary shot it was.\n\nIt was not a verbal remark, but a proceeding in dumb-show, and was\npointedly addressed to me. He stirred his rum and water pointedly at\nme, and he tasted his rum and water pointedly at me. And he stirred it\nand he tasted it; not with a spoon that was brought to him, but _with a\nfile_.\n\nHe did this so that nobody but I saw the file; and when he had done it\nhe wiped the file and put it in a breast-pocket. I knew it to be Joe s\nfile, and I knew that he knew my convict, the moment I saw the\ninstrument. I sat gazing at him, spell-bound. But he now reclined on\nhis settle, taking very little notice of me, and talking principally\nabout turnips.\n\nThere was a delicious sense of cleaning-up and making a quiet pause\nbefore going on in life afresh, in our village on Saturday nights,\nwhich stimulated Joe to dare to stay out half an hour longer on\nSaturdays than at other times. The half-hour and the rum and water\nrunning out together, Joe got up to go, and took me by the hand.\n\n Stop half a moment, Mr. Gargery,  said the strange man.  I think I ve\ngot a bright new shilling somewhere in my pocket, and if I have, the\nboy shall have it. \n\nHe looked it out from a handful of small change, folded it in some\ncrumpled paper, and gave it to me.  Yours!  said he.  Mind! Your own. \n\nI thanked him, staring at him far beyond the bounds of good manners,\nand holding tight to Joe. He gave Joe good-night, and he gave Mr.\nWopsle good-night (who went out with us), and he gave me only a look\nwith his aiming eye, no, not a look, for he shut it up, but wonders may\nbe done with an eye by hiding it.\n\nOn the way home, if I had been in a humour for talking, the talk must\nhave been all on my side, for Mr. Wopsle parted from us at the door of\nthe Jolly Bargemen, and Joe went all the way home with his mouth wide\nopen, to rinse the rum out with as much air as possible. But I was in a\nmanner stupefied by this turning up of my old misdeed and old\nacquaintance, and could think of nothing else.\n\nMy sister was not in a very bad temper when we presented ourselves in\nthe kitchen, and Joe was encouraged by that unusual circumstance to\ntell her about the bright shilling.  A bad un, I ll be bound,  said\nMrs. Joe triumphantly,  or he wouldn t have given it to the boy! Let s\nlook at it. \n\nI took it out of the paper, and it proved to be a good one.  But what s\nthis?  said Mrs. Joe, throwing down the shilling and catching up the\npaper.  Two One-Pound notes? \n\nNothing less than two fat sweltering one-pound notes that seemed to\nhave been on terms of the warmest intimacy with all the cattle-markets\nin the county. Joe caught up his hat again, and ran with them to the\nJolly Bargemen to restore them to their owner. While he was gone, I sat\ndown on my usual stool and looked vacantly at my sister, feeling pretty\nsure that the man would not be there.\n\nPresently, Joe came back, saying that the man was gone, but that he,\nJoe, had left word at the Three Jolly Bargemen concerning the notes.\nThen my sister sealed them up in a piece of paper, and put them under\nsome dried rose-leaves in an ornamental teapot on the top of a press in\nthe state parlour. There they remained, a nightmare to me, many and\nmany a night and day.\n\nI had sadly broken sleep when I got to bed, through thinking of the\nstrange man taking aim at me with his invisible gun, and of the\nguiltily coarse and common thing it was, to be on secret terms of\nconspiracy with convicts, a feature in my low career that I had\npreviously forgotten. I was haunted by the file too. A dread possessed\nme that when I least expected it, the file would reappear. I coaxed\nmyself to sleep by thinking of Miss Havisham s, next Wednesday; and in\nmy sleep I saw the file coming at me out of a door, without seeing who\nheld it, and I screamed myself awake.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XI.\n\n\nAt the appointed time I returned to Miss Havisham s, and my hesitating\nring at the gate brought out Estella. She locked it after admitting me,\nas she had done before, and again preceded me into the dark passage\nwhere her candle stood. She took no notice of me until she had the\ncandle in her hand, when she looked over her shoulder, superciliously\nsaying,  You are to come this way to-day,  and took me to quite another\npart of the house.\n\nThe passage was a long one, and seemed to pervade the whole square\nbasement of the Manor House. We traversed but one side of the square,\nhowever, and at the end of it she stopped, and put her candle down and\nopened a door. Here, the daylight reappeared, and I found myself in a\nsmall paved courtyard, the opposite side of which was formed by a\ndetached dwelling-house, that looked as if it had once belonged to the\nmanager or head clerk of the extinct brewery. There was a clock in the\nouter wall of this house. Like the clock in Miss Havisham s room, and\nlike Miss Havisham s watch, it had stopped at twenty minutes to nine.\n\nWe went in at the door, which stood open, and into a gloomy room with a\nlow ceiling, on the ground-floor at the back. There was some company in\nthe room, and Estella said to me as she joined it,  You are to go and\nstand there boy, till you are wanted.   There , being the window, I\ncrossed to it, and stood  there,  in a very uncomfortable state of\nmind, looking out.\n\nIt opened to the ground, and looked into a most miserable corner of the\nneglected garden, upon a rank ruin of cabbage-stalks, and one box-tree\nthat had been clipped round long ago, like a pudding, and had a new\ngrowth at the top of it, out of shape and of a different colour, as if\nthat part of the pudding had stuck to the saucepan and got burnt. This\nwas my homely thought, as I contemplated the box-tree. There had been\nsome light snow, overnight, and it lay nowhere else to my knowledge;\nbut, it had not quite melted from the cold shadow of this bit of\ngarden, and the wind caught it up in little eddies and threw it at the\nwindow, as if it pelted me for coming there.\n\nI divined that my coming had stopped conversation in the room, and that\nits other occupants were looking at me. I could see nothing of the room\nexcept the shining of the fire in the window-glass, but I stiffened in\nall my joints with the consciousness that I was under close inspection.\n\nThere were three ladies in the room and one gentleman. Before I had\nbeen standing at the window five minutes, they somehow conveyed to me\nthat they were all toadies and humbugs, but that each of them pretended\nnot to know that the others were toadies and humbugs: because the\nadmission that he or she did know it, would have made him or her out to\nbe a toady and humbug.\n\nThey all had a listless and dreary air of waiting somebody s pleasure,\nand the most talkative of the ladies had to speak quite rigidly to\nrepress a yawn. This lady, whose name was Camilla, very much reminded\nme of my sister, with the difference that she was older, and (as I\nfound when I caught sight of her) of a blunter cast of features.\nIndeed, when I knew her better I began to think it was a Mercy she had\nany features at all, so very blank and high was the dead wall of her\nface.\n\n Poor dear soul!  said this lady, with an abruptness of manner quite my\nsister s.  Nobody s enemy but his own! \n\n It would be much more commendable to be somebody else s enemy,  said\nthe gentleman;  far more natural. \n\n Cousin Raymond,  observed another lady,  we are to love our\nneighbour. \n\n Sarah Pocket,  returned Cousin Raymond,  if a man is not his own\nneighbour, who is? \n\nMiss Pocket laughed, and Camilla laughed and said (checking a yawn),\n The idea!  But I thought they seemed to think it rather a good idea\ntoo. The other lady, who had not spoken yet, said gravely and\nemphatically,  _Very_ true! \n\n Poor soul!  Camilla presently went on (I knew they had all been\nlooking at me in the mean time),  he is so very strange! Would anyone\nbelieve that when Tom s wife died, he actually could not be induced to\nsee the importance of the children s having the deepest of trimmings to\ntheir mourning?  Good Lord!  says he,  Camilla, what can it signify so\nlong as the poor bereaved little things are in black?  So like Matthew!\nThe idea! \n\n Good points in him, good points in him,  said Cousin Raymond;  Heaven\nforbid I should deny good points in him; but he never had, and he never\nwill have, any sense of the proprieties. \n\n You know I was obliged,  said Camilla, I was obliged to be firm. I\nsaid,  It WILL NOT DO, for the credit of the family.  I told him that,\nwithout deep trimmings, the family was disgraced. I cried about it from\nbreakfast till dinner. I injured my digestion. And at last he flung out\nin his violent way, and said, with a D,  Then do as you like.  Thank\nGoodness it will always be a consolation to me to know that I instantly\nwent out in a pouring rain and bought the things. \n\n _He_ paid for them, did he not?  asked Estella.\n\n It s not the question, my dear child, who paid for them,  returned\nCamilla.  _I_ bought them. And I shall often think of that with peace,\nwhen I wake up in the night. \n\nThe ringing of a distant bell, combined with the echoing of some cry or\ncall along the passage by which I had come, interrupted the\nconversation and caused Estella to say to me,  Now, boy!  On my turning\nround, they all looked at me with the utmost contempt, and, as I went\nout, I heard Sarah Pocket say,  Well I am sure! What next!  and Camilla\nadd, with indignation,  Was there ever such a fancy! The i-d_e_-a! \n\nAs we were going with our candle along the dark passage, Estella\nstopped all of a sudden, and, facing round, said in her taunting\nmanner, with her face quite close to mine, \n\n Well? \n\n Well, miss?  I answered, almost falling over her and checking myself.\n\nShe stood looking at me, and, of course, I stood looking at her.\n\n Am I pretty? \n\n Yes; I think you are very pretty. \n\n Am I insulting? \n\n Not so much so as you were last time,  said I.\n\n Not so much so? \n\n No. \n\nShe fired when she asked the last question, and she slapped my face\nwith such force as she had, when I answered it.\n\n Now?  said she.  You little coarse monster, what do you think of me\nnow? \n\n I shall not tell you. \n\n Because you are going to tell upstairs. Is that it? \n\n No,  said I,  that s not it. \n\n Why don t you cry again, you little wretch? \n\n Because I ll never cry for you again,  said I. Which was, I suppose,\nas false a declaration as ever was made; for I was inwardly crying for\nher then, and I know what I know of the pain she cost me afterwards.\n\nWe went on our way upstairs after this episode; and, as we were going\nup, we met a gentleman groping his way down.\n\n Whom have we here?  asked the gentleman, stopping and looking at me.\n\n A boy,  said Estella.\n\nHe was a burly man of an exceedingly dark complexion, with an\nexceedingly large head, and a corresponding large hand. He took my chin\nin his large hand and turned up my face to have a look at me by the\nlight of the candle. He was prematurely bald on the top of his head,\nand had bushy black eyebrows that wouldn t lie down but stood up\nbristling. His eyes were set very deep in his head, and were\ndisagreeably sharp and suspicious. He had a large watch-chain, and\nstrong black dots where his beard and whiskers would have been if he\nhad let them. He was nothing to me, and I could have had no foresight\nthen, that he ever would be anything to me, but it happened that I had\nthis opportunity of observing him well.\n\n Boy of the neighbourhood? Hey?  said he.\n\n Yes, sir,  said I.\n\n How do _you_ come here? \n\n Miss Havisham sent for me, sir,  I explained.\n\n Well! Behave yourself. I have a pretty large experience of boys, and\nyou re a bad set of fellows. Now mind!  said he, biting the side of his\ngreat forefinger as he frowned at me,  you behave yourself! \n\nWith those words, he released me which I was glad of, for his hand\nsmelt of scented soap and went his way downstairs. I wondered whether\nhe could be a doctor; but no, I thought; he couldn t be a doctor, or he\nwould have a quieter and more persuasive manner. There was not much\ntime to consider the subject, for we were soon in Miss Havisham s room,\nwhere she and everything else were just as I had left them. Estella\nleft me standing near the door, and I stood there until Miss Havisham\ncast her eyes upon me from the dressing-table.\n\n So!  she said, without being startled or surprised:  the days have\nworn away, have they? \n\n Yes, ma am. To-day is \n\n There, there, there!  with the impatient movement of her fingers.  I\ndon t want to know. Are you ready to play? \n\nI was obliged to answer in some confusion,  I don t think I am, ma am. \n\n Not at cards again?  she demanded, with a searching look.\n\n Yes, ma am; I could do that, if I was wanted. \n\n Since this house strikes you old and grave, boy,  said Miss Havisham,\nimpatiently,  and you are unwilling to play, are you willing to work? \n\nI could answer this inquiry with a better heart than I had been able to\nfind for the other question, and I said I was quite willing.\n\n Then go into that opposite room,  said she, pointing at the door\nbehind me with her withered hand,  and wait there till I come. \n\nI crossed the staircase landing, and entered the room she indicated.\nFrom that room, too, the daylight was completely excluded, and it had\nan airless smell that was oppressive. A fire had been lately kindled in\nthe damp old-fashioned grate, and it was more disposed to go out than\nto burn up, and the reluctant smoke which hung in the room seemed\ncolder than the clearer air, like our own marsh mist. Certain wintry\nbranches of candles on the high chimney-piece faintly lighted the\nchamber; or it would be more expressive to say, faintly troubled its\ndarkness. It was spacious, and I dare say had once been handsome, but\nevery discernible thing in it was covered with dust and mould, and\ndropping to pieces. The most prominent object was a long table with a\ntablecloth spread on it, as if a feast had been in preparation when the\nhouse and the clocks all stopped together. An epergne or centre-piece\nof some kind was in the middle of this cloth; it was so heavily\noverhung with cobwebs that its form was quite undistinguishable; and,\nas I looked along the yellow expanse out of which I remember its\nseeming to grow, like a black fungus, I saw speckle-legged spiders with\nblotchy bodies running home to it, and running out from it, as if some\ncircumstances of the greatest public importance had just transpired in\nthe spider community.\n\nI heard the mice too, rattling behind the panels, as if the same\noccurrence were important to their interests. But the black beetles\ntook no notice of the agitation, and groped about the hearth in a\nponderous elderly way, as if they were short-sighted and hard of\nhearing, and not on terms with one another.\n\nThese crawling things had fascinated my attention, and I was watching\nthem from a distance, when Miss Havisham laid a hand upon my shoulder.\nIn her other hand she had a crutch-headed stick on which she leaned,\nand she looked like the Witch of the place.\n\n This,  said she, pointing to the long table with her stick,  is where\nI will be laid when I am dead. They shall come and look at me here. \n\nWith some vague misgiving that she might get upon the table then and\nthere and die at once, the complete realisation of the ghastly waxwork\nat the Fair, I shrank under her touch.\n\n What do you think that is?  she asked me, again pointing with her\nstick;  that, where those cobwebs are? \n\n I can t guess what it is, ma am. \n\n It s a great cake. A bride-cake. Mine! \n\nShe looked all round the room in a glaring manner, and then said,\nleaning on me while her hand twitched my shoulder,  Come, come, come!\nWalk me, walk me! \n\nI made out from this, that the work I had to do, was to walk Miss\nHavisham round and round the room. Accordingly, I started at once, and\nshe leaned upon my shoulder, and we went away at a pace that might have\nbeen an imitation (founded on my first impulse under that roof) of Mr.\nPumblechook s chaise-cart.\n\nShe was not physically strong, and after a little time said,  Slower! \nStill, we went at an impatient fitful speed, and as we went, she\ntwitched the hand upon my shoulder, and worked her mouth, and led me to\nbelieve that we were going fast because her thoughts went fast. After a\nwhile she said,  Call Estella!  so I went out on the landing and roared\nthat name as I had done on the previous occasion. When her light\nappeared, I returned to Miss Havisham, and we started away again round\nand round the room.\n\nIf only Estella had come to be a spectator of our proceedings, I should\nhave felt sufficiently discontented; but as she brought with her the\nthree ladies and the gentleman whom I had seen below, I didn t know\nwhat to do. In my politeness, I would have stopped; but Miss Havisham\ntwitched my shoulder, and we posted on, with a shame-faced\nconsciousness on my part that they would think it was all my doing.\n\n Dear Miss Havisham,  said Miss Sarah Pocket.  How well you look! \n\n I do not,  returned Miss Havisham.  I am yellow skin and bone. \n\nCamilla brightened when Miss Pocket met with this rebuff; and she\nmurmured, as she plaintively contemplated Miss Havisham,  Poor dear\nsoul! Certainly not to be expected to look well, poor thing. The idea! \n\n And how are _you_?  said Miss Havisham to Camilla. As we were close to\nCamilla then, I would have stopped as a matter of course, only Miss\nHavisham wouldn t stop. We swept on, and I felt that I was highly\nobnoxious to Camilla.\n\n Thank you, Miss Havisham,  she returned,  I am as well as can be\nexpected. \n\n Why, what s the matter with you?  asked Miss Havisham, with exceeding\nsharpness.\n\n Nothing worth mentioning,  replied Camilla.  I don t wish to make a\ndisplay of my feelings, but I have habitually thought of you more in\nthe night than I am quite equal to. \n\n Then don t think of me,  retorted Miss Havisham.\n\n Very easily said!  remarked Camilla, amiably repressing a sob, while a\nhitch came into her upper lip, and her tears overflowed.  Raymond is a\nwitness what ginger and sal volatile I am obliged to take in the night.\nRaymond is a witness what nervous jerkings I have in my legs. Chokings\nand nervous jerkings, however, are nothing new to me when I think with\nanxiety of those I love. If I could be less affectionate and sensitive,\nI should have a better digestion and an iron set of nerves. I am sure I\nwish it could be so. But as to not thinking of you in the night The\nidea!  Here, a burst of tears.\n\nThe Raymond referred to, I understood to be the gentleman present, and\nhim I understood to be Mr. Camilla. He came to the rescue at this\npoint, and said in a consolatory and complimentary voice,  Camilla, my\ndear, it is well known that your family feelings are gradually\nundermining you to the extent of making one of your legs shorter than\nthe other. \n\n I am not aware,  observed the grave lady whose voice I had heard but\nonce,  that to think of any person is to make a great claim upon that\nperson, my dear. \n\nMiss Sarah Pocket, whom I now saw to be a little dry, brown, corrugated\nold woman, with a small face that might have been made of\nwalnut-shells, and a large mouth like a cat s without the whiskers,\nsupported this position by saying,  No, indeed, my dear. Hem! \n\n Thinking is easy enough,  said the grave lady.\n\n What is easier, you know?  assented Miss Sarah Pocket.\n\n Oh, yes, yes!  cried Camilla, whose fermenting feelings appeared to\nrise from her legs to her bosom.  It s all very true! It s a weakness\nto be so affectionate, but I can t help it. No doubt my health would be\nmuch better if it was otherwise, still I wouldn t change my disposition\nif I could. It s the cause of much suffering, but it s a consolation to\nknow I possess it, when I wake up in the night.  Here another burst of\nfeeling.\n\nMiss Havisham and I had never stopped all this time, but kept going\nround and round the room; now brushing against the skirts of the\nvisitors, now giving them the whole length of the dismal chamber.\n\n There s Matthew!  said Camilla.  Never mixing with any natural ties,\nnever coming here to see how Miss Havisham is! I have taken to the sofa\nwith my staylace cut, and have lain there hours insensible, with my\nhead over the side, and my hair all down, and my feet I don t know\nwhere \n\n( Much higher than your head, my love,  said Mr. Camilla.)\n\n I have gone off into that state, hours and hours, on account of\nMatthew s strange and inexplicable conduct, and nobody has thanked me. \n\n Really I must say I should think not!  interposed the grave lady.\n\n You see, my dear,  added Miss Sarah Pocket (a blandly vicious\npersonage),  the question to put to yourself is, who did you expect to\nthank you, my love? \n\n Without expecting any thanks, or anything of the sort,  resumed\nCamilla,  I have remained in that state, hours and hours, and Raymond\nis a witness of the extent to which I have choked, and what the total\ninefficacy of ginger has been, and I have been heard at the piano-forte\ntuner s across the street, where the poor mistaken children have even\nsupposed it to be pigeons cooing at a distance, and now to be told \nHere Camilla put her hand to her throat, and began to be quite chemical\nas to the formation of new combinations there.\n\nWhen this same Matthew was mentioned, Miss Havisham stopped me and\nherself, and stood looking at the speaker. This change had a great\ninfluence in bringing Camilla s chemistry to a sudden end.\n\n Matthew will come and see me at last,  said Miss Havisham, sternly,\n when I am laid on that table. That will be his place, there,  striking\nthe table with her stick,  at my head! And yours will be there! And\nyour husband s there! And Sarah Pocket s there! And Georgiana s there!\nNow you all know where to take your stations when you come to feast\nupon me. And now go! \n\nAt the mention of each name, she had struck the table with her stick in\na new place. She now said,  Walk me, walk me!  and we went on again.\n\n I suppose there s nothing to be done,  exclaimed Camilla,  but comply\nand depart. It s something to have seen the object of one s love and\nduty for even so short a time. I shall think of it with a melancholy\nsatisfaction when I wake up in the night. I wish Matthew could have\nthat comfort, but he sets it at defiance. I am determined not to make a\ndisplay of my feelings, but it s very hard to be told one wants to\nfeast on one s relations, as if one was a Giant, and to be told to go.\nThe bare idea! \n\nMr. Camilla interposing, as Mrs. Camilla laid her hand upon her heaving\nbosom, that lady assumed an unnatural fortitude of manner which I\nsupposed to be expressive of an intention to drop and choke when out of\nview, and kissing her hand to Miss Havisham, was escorted forth. Sarah\nPocket and Georgiana contended who should remain last; but Sarah was\ntoo knowing to be outdone, and ambled round Georgiana with that artful\nslipperiness that the latter was obliged to take precedence. Sarah\nPocket then made her separate effect of departing with,  Bless you,\nMiss Havisham dear!  and with a smile of forgiving pity on her\nwalnut-shell countenance for the weaknesses of the rest.\n\nWhile Estella was away lighting them down, Miss Havisham still walked\nwith her hand on my shoulder, but more and more slowly. At last she\nstopped before the fire, and said, after muttering and looking at it\nsome seconds, \n\n This is my birthday, Pip. \n\nI was going to wish her many happy returns, when she lifted her stick.\n\n I don t suffer it to be spoken of. I don t suffer those who were here\njust now, or any one to speak of it. They come here on the day, but\nthey dare not refer to it. \n\nOf course _I_ made no further effort to refer to it.\n\n On this day of the year, long before you were born, this heap of\ndecay,  stabbing with her crutched stick at the pile of cobwebs on the\ntable, but not touching it,  was brought here. It and I have worn away\ntogether. The mice have gnawed at it, and sharper teeth than teeth of\nmice have gnawed at me. \n\nShe held the head of her stick against her heart as she stood looking\nat the table; she in her once white dress, all yellow and withered; the\nonce white cloth all yellow and withered; everything around in a state\nto crumble under a touch.\n\n When the ruin is complete,  said she, with a ghastly look,  and when\nthey lay me dead, in my bride s dress on the bride s table, which shall\nbe done, and which will be the finished curse upon him, so much the\nbetter if it is done on this day! \n\nShe stood looking at the table as if she stood looking at her own\nfigure lying there. I remained quiet. Estella returned, and she too\nremained quiet. It seemed to me that we continued thus for a long time.\nIn the heavy air of the room, and the heavy darkness that brooded in\nits remoter corners, I even had an alarming fancy that Estella and I\nmight presently begin to decay.\n\nAt length, not coming out of her distraught state by degrees, but in an\ninstant, Miss Havisham said,  Let me see you two play cards; why have\nyou not begun?  With that, we returned to her room, and sat down as\nbefore; I was beggared, as before; and again, as before, Miss Havisham\nwatched us all the time, directed my attention to Estella s beauty, and\nmade me notice it the more by trying her jewels on Estella s breast and\nhair.\n\nEstella, for her part, likewise treated me as before, except that she\ndid not condescend to speak. When we had played some half-dozen games,\na day was appointed for my return, and I was taken down into the yard\nto be fed in the former dog-like manner. There, too, I was again left\nto wander about as I liked.\n\nIt is not much to the purpose whether a gate in that garden wall which\nI had scrambled up to peep over on the last occasion was, on that last\noccasion, open or shut. Enough that I saw no gate then, and that I saw\none now. As it stood open, and as I knew that Estella had let the\nvisitors out, for she had returned with the keys in her hand, I\nstrolled into the garden, and strolled all over it. It was quite a\nwilderness, and there were old melon-frames and cucumber-frames in it,\nwhich seemed in their decline to have produced a spontaneous growth of\nweak attempts at pieces of old hats and boots, with now and then a\nweedy offshoot into the likeness of a battered saucepan.\n\nWhen I had exhausted the garden and a greenhouse with nothing in it but\na fallen-down grape-vine and some bottles, I found myself in the dismal\ncorner upon which I had looked out of the window. Never questioning for\na moment that the house was now empty, I looked in at another window,\nand found myself, to my great surprise, exchanging a broad stare with a\npale young gentleman with red eyelids and light hair.\n\nThis pale young gentleman quickly disappeared, and reappeared beside\nme. He had been at his books when I had found myself staring at him,\nand I now saw that he was inky.\n\n Halloa!  said he,  young fellow! \n\nHalloa being a general observation which I had usually observed to be\nbest answered by itself, _I_ said,  Halloa!  politely omitting young\nfellow.\n\n Who let _you_ in?  said he.\n\n Miss Estella. \n\n Who gave you leave to prowl about? \n\n Miss Estella. \n\n Come and fight,  said the pale young gentleman.\n\nWhat could I do but follow him? I have often asked myself the question\nsince; but what else could I do? His manner was so final, and I was so\nastonished, that I followed where he led, as if I had been under a\nspell.\n\n Stop a minute, though,  he said, wheeling round before we had gone\nmany paces.  I ought to give you a reason for fighting, too. There it\nis!  In a most irritating manner he instantly slapped his hands against\none another, daintily flung one of his legs up behind him, pulled my\nhair, slapped his hands again, dipped his head, and butted it into my\nstomach.\n\nThe bull-like proceeding last mentioned, besides that it was\nunquestionably to be regarded in the light of a liberty, was\nparticularly disagreeable just after bread and meat. I therefore hit\nout at him and was going to hit out again, when he said,  Aha! Would\nyou?  and began dancing backwards and forwards in a manner quite\nunparalleled within my limited experience.\n\n Laws of the game!  said he. Here, he skipped from his left leg on to\nhis right.  Regular rules!  Here, he skipped from his right leg on to\nhis left.  Come to the ground, and go through the preliminaries!  Here,\nhe dodged backwards and forwards, and did all sorts of things while I\nlooked helplessly at him.\n\nI was secretly afraid of him when I saw him so dexterous; but I felt\nmorally and physically convinced that his light head of hair could have\nhad no business in the pit of my stomach, and that I had a right to\nconsider it irrelevant when so obtruded on my attention. Therefore, I\nfollowed him without a word, to a retired nook of the garden, formed by\nthe junction of two walls and screened by some rubbish. On his asking\nme if I was satisfied with the ground, and on my replying Yes, he\nbegged my leave to absent himself for a moment, and quickly returned\nwith a bottle of water and a sponge dipped in vinegar.  Available for\nboth,  he said, placing these against the wall. And then fell to\npulling off, not only his jacket and waistcoat, but his shirt too, in a\nmanner at once light-hearted, business-like, and bloodthirsty.\n\nAlthough he did not look very healthy, having pimples on his face, and\na breaking out at his mouth, these dreadful preparations quite appalled\nme. I judged him to be about my own age, but he was much taller, and he\nhad a way of spinning himself about that was full of appearance. For\nthe rest, he was a young gentleman in a grey suit (when not denuded for\nbattle), with his elbows, knees, wrists, and heels considerably in\nadvance of the rest of him as to development.\n\nMy heart failed me when I saw him squaring at me with every\ndemonstration of mechanical nicety, and eyeing my anatomy as if he were\nminutely choosing his bone. I never have been so surprised in my life,\nas I was when I let out the first blow, and saw him lying on his back,\nlooking up at me with a bloody nose and his face exceedingly\nfore-shortened.\n\nBut, he was on his feet directly, and after sponging himself with a\ngreat show of dexterity began squaring again. The second greatest\nsurprise I have ever had in my life was seeing him on his back again,\nlooking up at me out of a black eye.\n\nHis spirit inspired me with great respect. He seemed to have no\nstrength, and he never once hit me hard, and he was always knocked\ndown; but he would be up again in a moment, sponging himself or\ndrinking out of the water-bottle, with the greatest satisfaction in\nseconding himself according to form, and then came at me with an air\nand a show that made me believe he really was going to do for me at\nlast. He got heavily bruised, for I am sorry to record that the more I\nhit him, the harder I hit him; but he came up again and again and\nagain, until at last he got a bad fall with the back of his head\nagainst the wall. Even after that crisis in our affairs, he got up and\nturned round and round confusedly a few times, not knowing where I was;\nbut finally went on his knees to his sponge and threw it up: at the\nsame time panting out,  That means you have won. \n\nHe seemed so brave and innocent, that although I had not proposed the\ncontest, I felt but a gloomy satisfaction in my victory. Indeed, I go\nso far as to hope that I regarded myself while dressing as a species of\nsavage young wolf or other wild beast. However, I got dressed, darkly\nwiping my sanguinary face at intervals, and I said,  Can I help you? \nand he said  No thankee,  and I said  Good afternoon,  and _he_ said\n Same to you. \n\nWhen I got into the courtyard, I found Estella waiting with the keys.\nBut she neither asked me where I had been, nor why I had kept her\nwaiting; and there was a bright flush upon her face, as though\nsomething had happened to delight her. Instead of going straight to the\ngate, too, she stepped back into the passage, and beckoned me.\n\n Come here! You may kiss me, if you like. \n\nI kissed her cheek as she turned it to me. I think I would have gone\nthrough a great deal to kiss her cheek. But I felt that the kiss was\ngiven to the coarse common boy as a piece of money might have been, and\nthat it was worth nothing.\n\nWhat with the birthday visitors, and what with the cards, and what with\nthe fight, my stay had lasted so long, that when I neared home the\nlight on the spit of sand off the point on the marshes was gleaming\nagainst a black night-sky, and Joe s furnace was flinging a path of\nfire across the road.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XII.\n\n\nMy mind grew very uneasy on the subject of the pale young gentleman.\nThe more I thought of the fight, and recalled the pale young gentleman\non his back in various stages of puffy and incrimsoned countenance, the\nmore certain it appeared that something would be done to me. I felt\nthat the pale young gentleman s blood was on my head, and that the Law\nwould avenge it. Without having any definite idea of the penalties I\nhad incurred, it was clear to me that village boys could not go\nstalking about the country, ravaging the houses of gentlefolks and\npitching into the studious youth of England, without laying themselves\nopen to severe punishment. For some days, I even kept close at home,\nand looked out at the kitchen door with the greatest caution and\ntrepidation before going on an errand, lest the officers of the County\nJail should pounce upon me. The pale young gentleman s nose had stained\nmy trousers, and I tried to wash out that evidence of my guilt in the\ndead of night. I had cut my knuckles against the pale young gentleman s\nteeth, and I twisted my imagination into a thousand tangles, as I\ndevised incredible ways of accounting for that damnatory circumstance\nwhen I should be haled before the Judges.\n\nWhen the day came round for my return to the scene of the deed of\nviolence, my terrors reached their height. Whether myrmidons of\nJustice, especially sent down from London, would be lying in ambush\nbehind the gate; whether Miss Havisham, preferring to take personal\nvengeance for an outrage done to her house, might rise in those\ngrave-clothes of hers, draw a pistol, and shoot me dead: whether\nsuborned boys a numerous band of mercenaries might be engaged to fall\nupon me in the brewery, and cuff me until I was no more; it was high\ntestimony to my confidence in the spirit of the pale young gentleman,\nthat I never imagined _him_ accessory to these retaliations; they\nalways came into my mind as the acts of injudicious relatives of his,\ngoaded on by the state of his visage and an indignant sympathy with the\nfamily features.\n\nHowever, go to Miss Havisham s I must, and go I did. And behold!\nnothing came of the late struggle. It was not alluded to in any way,\nand no pale young gentleman was to be discovered on the premises. I\nfound the same gate open, and I explored the garden, and even looked in\nat the windows of the detached house; but my view was suddenly stopped\nby the closed shutters within, and all was lifeless. Only in the corner\nwhere the combat had taken place could I detect any evidence of the\nyoung gentleman s existence. There were traces of his gore in that\nspot, and I covered them with garden-mould from the eye of man.\n\nOn the broad landing between Miss Havisham s own room and that other\nroom in which the long table was laid out, I saw a garden-chair, a\nlight chair on wheels, that you pushed from behind. It had been placed\nthere since my last visit, and I entered, that same day, on a regular\noccupation of pushing Miss Havisham in this chair (when she was tired\nof walking with her hand upon my shoulder) round her own room, and\nacross the landing, and round the other room. Over and over and over\nagain, we would make these journeys, and sometimes they would last as\nlong as three hours at a stretch. I insensibly fall into a general\nmention of these journeys as numerous, because it was at once settled\nthat I should return every alternate day at noon for these purposes,\nand because I am now going to sum up a period of at least eight or ten\nmonths.\n\nAs we began to be more used to one another, Miss Havisham talked more\nto me, and asked me such questions as what had I learnt and what was I\ngoing to be? I told her I was going to be apprenticed to Joe, I\nbelieved; and I enlarged upon my knowing nothing and wanting to know\neverything, in the hope that she might offer some help towards that\ndesirable end. But she did not; on the contrary, she seemed to prefer\nmy being ignorant. Neither did she ever give me any money, or anything\nbut my daily dinner, nor ever stipulate that I should be paid for my\nservices.\n\nEstella was always about, and always let me in and out, but never told\nme I might kiss her again. Sometimes, she would coldly tolerate me;\nsometimes, she would condescend to me; sometimes, she would be quite\nfamiliar with me; sometimes, she would tell me energetically that she\nhated me. Miss Havisham would often ask me in a whisper, or when we\nwere alone,  Does she grow prettier and prettier, Pip?  And when I said\nyes (for indeed she did), would seem to enjoy it greedily. Also, when\nwe played at cards Miss Havisham would look on, with a miserly relish\nof Estella s moods, whatever they were. And sometimes, when her moods\nwere so many and so contradictory of one another that I was puzzled\nwhat to say or do, Miss Havisham would embrace her with lavish\nfondness, murmuring something in her ear that sounded like  Break their\nhearts my pride and hope, break their hearts and have no mercy! \n\nThere was a song Joe used to hum fragments of at the forge, of which\nthe burden was Old Clem. This was not a very ceremonious way of\nrendering homage to a patron saint, but I believe Old Clem stood in\nthat relation towards smiths. It was a song that imitated the measure\nof beating upon iron, and was a mere lyrical excuse for the\nintroduction of Old Clem s respected name. Thus, you were to hammer\nboys round Old Clem! With a thump and a sound Old Clem! Beat it out,\nbeat it out Old Clem! With a clink for the stout Old Clem! Blow the\nfire, blow the fire Old Clem! Roaring dryer, soaring higher Old Clem!\nOne day soon after the appearance of the chair, Miss Havisham suddenly\nsaying to me, with the impatient movement of her fingers,  There,\nthere, there! Sing!  I was surprised into crooning this ditty as I\npushed her over the floor. It happened so to catch her fancy that she\ntook it up in a low brooding voice as if she were singing in her sleep.\nAfter that, it became customary with us to have it as we moved about,\nand Estella would often join in; though the whole strain was so\nsubdued, even when there were three of us, that it made less noise in\nthe grim old house than the lightest breath of wind.\n\nWhat could I become with these surroundings? How could my character\nfail to be influenced by them? Is it to be wondered at if my thoughts\nwere dazed, as my eyes were, when I came out into the natural light\nfrom the misty yellow rooms?\n\nPerhaps I might have told Joe about the pale young gentleman, if I had\nnot previously been betrayed into those enormous inventions to which I\nhad confessed. Under the circumstances, I felt that Joe could hardly\nfail to discern in the pale young gentleman, an appropriate passenger\nto be put into the black velvet coach; therefore, I said nothing of\nhim. Besides, that shrinking from having Miss Havisham and Estella\ndiscussed, which had come upon me in the beginning, grew much more\npotent as time went on. I reposed complete confidence in no one but\nBiddy; but I told poor Biddy everything. Why it came natural to me to\ndo so, and why Biddy had a deep concern in everything I told her, I did\nnot know then, though I think I know now.\n\nMeanwhile, councils went on in the kitchen at home, fraught with almost\ninsupportable aggravation to my exasperated spirit. That ass,\nPumblechook, used often to come over of a night for the purpose of\ndiscussing my prospects with my sister; and I really do believe (to\nthis hour with less penitence than I ought to feel), that if these\nhands could have taken a linchpin out of his chaise-cart, they would\nhave done it. The miserable man was a man of that confined stolidity of\nmind, that he could not discuss my prospects without having me before\nhim, as it were, to operate upon, and he would drag me up from my stool\n(usually by the collar) where I was quiet in a corner, and, putting me\nbefore the fire as if I were going to be cooked, would begin by saying,\n Now, Mum, here is this boy! Here is this boy which you brought up by\nhand. Hold up your head, boy, and be forever grateful unto them which\nso did do. Now, Mum, with respections to this boy!  And then he would\nrumple my hair the wrong way, which from my earliest remembrance, as\nalready hinted, I have in my soul denied the right of any\nfellow-creature to do, and would hold me before him by the sleeve, a\nspectacle of imbecility only to be equalled by himself.\n\nThen, he and my sister would pair off in such nonsensical speculations\nabout Miss Havisham, and about what she would do with me and for me,\nthat I used to want quite painfully to burst into spiteful tears, fly\nat Pumblechook, and pummel him all over. In these dialogues, my sister\nspoke to me as if she were morally wrenching one of my teeth out at\nevery reference; while Pumblechook himself, self-constituted my patron,\nwould sit supervising me with a depreciatory eye, like the architect of\nmy fortunes who thought himself engaged on a very unremunerative job.\n\nIn these discussions, Joe bore no part. But he was often talked at,\nwhile they were in progress, by reason of Mrs. Joe s perceiving that he\nwas not favourable to my being taken from the forge. I was fully old\nenough now to be apprenticed to Joe; and when Joe sat with the poker on\nhis knees thoughtfully raking out the ashes between the lower bars, my\nsister would so distinctly construe that innocent action into\nopposition on his part, that she would dive at him, take the poker out\nof his hands, shake him, and put it away. There was a most irritating\nend to every one of these debates. All in a moment, with nothing to\nlead up to it, my sister would stop herself in a yawn, and catching\nsight of me as it were incidentally, would swoop upon me with,  Come!\nthere s enough of _you_! _You_ get along to bed; _you_ ve given trouble\nenough for one night, I hope!  As if I had besought them as a favour to\nbother my life out.\n\nWe went on in this way for a long time, and it seemed likely that we\nshould continue to go on in this way for a long time, when one day Miss\nHavisham stopped short as she and I were walking, she leaning on my\nshoulder; and said with some displeasure, \n\n You are growing tall, Pip! \n\nI thought it best to hint, through the medium of a meditative look,\nthat this might be occasioned by circumstances over which I had no\ncontrol.\n\nShe said no more at the time; but she presently stopped and looked at\nme again; and presently again; and after that, looked frowning and\nmoody. On the next day of my attendance, when our usual exercise was\nover, and I had landed her at her dressing-table, she stayed me with a\nmovement of her impatient fingers: \n\n Tell me the name again of that blacksmith of yours. \n\n Joe Gargery, ma am. \n\n Meaning the master you were to be apprenticed to? \n\n Yes, Miss Havisham. \n\n You had better be apprenticed at once. Would Gargery come here with\nyou, and bring your indentures, do you think? \n\nI signified that I had no doubt he would take it as an honour to be\nasked.\n\n Then let him come. \n\n At any particular time, Miss Havisham? \n\n There, there! I know nothing about times. Let him come soon, and come\nalong with you. \n\nWhen I got home at night, and delivered this message for Joe, my sister\n went on the Rampage,  in a more alarming degree than at any previous\nperiod. She asked me and Joe whether we supposed she was door-mats\nunder our feet, and how we dared to use her so, and what company we\ngraciously thought she _was_ fit for? When she had exhausted a torrent\nof such inquiries, she threw a candlestick at Joe, burst into a loud\nsobbing, got out the dustpan, which was always a very bad sign, put on\nher coarse apron, and began cleaning up to a terrible extent. Not\nsatisfied with a dry cleaning, she took to a pail and scrubbing-brush,\nand cleaned us out of house and home, so that we stood shivering in the\nback-yard. It was ten o clock at night before we ventured to creep in\nagain, and then she asked Joe why he hadn t married a Negress Slave at\nonce? Joe offered no answer, poor fellow, but stood feeling his whisker\nand looking dejectedly at me, as if he thought it really might have\nbeen a better speculation.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIII.\n\n\nIt was a trial to my feelings, on the next day but one, to see Joe\narraying himself in his Sunday clothes to accompany me to Miss\nHavisham s. However, as he thought his court-suit necessary to the\noccasion, it was not for me to tell him that he looked far better in\nhis working-dress; the rather, because I knew he made himself so\ndreadfully uncomfortable, entirely on my account, and that it was for\nme he pulled up his shirt-collar so very high behind, that it made the\nhair on the crown of his head stand up like a tuft of feathers.\n\nAt breakfast-time my sister declared her intention of going to town\nwith us, and being left at Uncle Pumblechook s and called for  when we\nhad done with our fine ladies a way of putting the case, from which\nJoe appeared inclined to augur the worst. The forge was shut up for the\nday, and Joe inscribed in chalk upon the door (as it was his custom to\ndo on the very rare occasions when he was not at work) the monosyllable\nHOUT, accompanied by a sketch of an arrow supposed to be flying in the\ndirection he had taken.\n\nWe walked to town, my sister leading the way in a very large beaver\nbonnet, and carrying a basket like the Great Seal of England in plaited\nStraw, a pair of pattens, a spare shawl, and an umbrella, though it was\na fine bright day. I am not quite clear whether these articles were\ncarried penitentially or ostentatiously; but I rather think they were\ndisplayed as articles of property, much as Cleopatra or any other\nsovereign lady on the Rampage might exhibit her wealth in a pageant or\nprocession.\n\nWhen we came to Pumblechook s, my sister bounced in and left us. As it\nwas almost noon, Joe and I held straight on to Miss Havisham s house.\nEstella opened the gate as usual, and, the moment she appeared, Joe\ntook his hat off and stood weighing it by the brim in both his hands;\nas if he had some urgent reason in his mind for being particular to\nhalf a quarter of an ounce.\n\nEstella took no notice of either of us, but led us the way that I knew\nso well. I followed next to her, and Joe came last. When I looked back\nat Joe in the long passage, he was still weighing his hat with the\ngreatest care, and was coming after us in long strides on the tips of\nhis toes.\n\nEstella told me we were both to go in, so I took Joe by the coat-cuff\nand conducted him into Miss Havisham s presence. She was seated at her\ndressing-table, and looked round at us immediately.\n\n Oh!  said she to Joe.  You are the husband of the sister of this boy? \n\nI could hardly have imagined dear old Joe looking so unlike himself or\nso like some extraordinary bird; standing as he did speechless, with\nhis tuft of feathers ruffled, and his mouth open as if he wanted a\nworm.\n\n You are the husband,  repeated Miss Havisham,  of the sister of this\nboy? \n\nIt was very aggravating; but, throughout the interview, Joe persisted\nin addressing Me instead of Miss Havisham.\n\n Which I meantersay, Pip,  Joe now observed in a manner that was at\nonce expressive of forcible argumentation, strict confidence, and great\npoliteness,  as I hup and married your sister, and I were at the time\nwhat you might call (if you was anyways inclined) a single man. \n\n Well!  said Miss Havisham.  And you have reared the boy, with the\nintention of taking him for your apprentice; is that so, Mr. Gargery? \n\n You know, Pip,  replied Joe,  as you and me were ever friends, and it\nwere looked for ard to betwixt us, as being calc lated to lead to\nlarks. Not but what, Pip, if you had ever made objections to the\nbusiness, such as its being open to black and sut, or such-like, not\nbut what they would have been attended to, don t you see? \n\n Has the boy,  said Miss Havisham,  ever made any objection? Does he\nlike the trade? \n\n Which it is well beknown to yourself, Pip,  returned Joe,\nstrengthening his former mixture of argumentation, confidence, and\npoliteness,  that it were the wish of your own hart.  (I saw the idea\nsuddenly break upon him that he would adapt his epitaph to the\noccasion, before he went on to say)  And there weren t no objection on\nyour part, and Pip it were the great wish of your hart! \n\nIt was quite in vain for me to endeavour to make him sensible that he\nought to speak to Miss Havisham. The more I made faces and gestures to\nhim to do it, the more confidential, argumentative, and polite, he\npersisted in being to Me.\n\n Have you brought his indentures with you?  asked Miss Havisham.\n\n Well, Pip, you know,  replied Joe, as if that were a little\nunreasonable,  you yourself see me put  em in my  at, and therefore you\nknow as they are here.  With which he took them out, and gave them, not\nto Miss Havisham, but to me. I am afraid I was ashamed of the dear good\nfellow, I _know_ I was ashamed of him, when I saw that Estella stood at\nthe back of Miss Havisham s chair, and that her eyes laughed\nmischievously. I took the indentures out of his hand and gave them to\nMiss Havisham.\n\n You expected,  said Miss Havisham, as she looked them over,  no\npremium with the boy? \n\n Joe!  I remonstrated, for he made no reply at all.  Why don t you\nanswer \n\n Pip,  returned Joe, cutting me short as if he were hurt,  which I\nmeantersay that were not a question requiring a answer betwixt yourself\nand me, and which you know the answer to be full well No. You know it\nto be No, Pip, and wherefore should I say it? \n\nMiss Havisham glanced at him as if she understood what he really was\nbetter than I had thought possible, seeing what he was there; and took\nup a little bag from the table beside her.\n\n Pip has earned a premium here,  she said,  and here it is. There are\nfive-and-twenty guineas in this bag. Give it to your master, Pip. \n\nAs if he were absolutely out of his mind with the wonder awakened in\nhim by her strange figure and the strange room, Joe, even at this pass,\npersisted in addressing me.\n\n This is wery liberal on your part, Pip,  said Joe,  and it is as such\nreceived and grateful welcome, though never looked for, far nor near,\nnor nowheres. And now, old chap,  said Joe, conveying to me a\nsensation, first of burning and then of freezing, for I felt as if that\nfamiliar expression were applied to Miss Havisham, and now, old chap,\nmay we do our duty! May you and me do our duty, both on us, by one and\nanother, and by them which your liberal present have-conweyed to be for\nthe satisfaction of mind-of them as never  here Joe showed that he\nfelt he had fallen into frightful difficulties, until he triumphantly\nrescued himself with the words,  and from myself far be it!  These\nwords had such a round and convincing sound for him that he said them\ntwice.\n\n Good-bye, Pip!  said Miss Havisham.  Let them out, Estella. \n\n Am I to come again, Miss Havisham?  I asked.\n\n No. Gargery is your master now. Gargery! One word! \n\nThus calling him back as I went out of the door, I heard her say to Joe\nin a distinct emphatic voice,  The boy has been a good boy here, and\nthat is his reward. Of course, as an honest man, you will expect no\nother and no more. \n\nHow Joe got out of the room, I have never been able to determine; but I\nknow that when he did get out he was steadily proceeding upstairs\ninstead of coming down, and was deaf to all remonstrances until I went\nafter him and laid hold of him. In another minute we were outside the\ngate, and it was locked, and Estella was gone. When we stood in the\ndaylight alone again, Joe backed up against a wall, and said to me,\n Astonishing!  And there he remained so long saying,  Astonishing  at\nintervals, so often, that I began to think his senses were never coming\nback. At length he prolonged his remark into  Pip, I do assure _you_\nthis is as-TON-ishing!  and so, by degrees, became conversational and\nable to walk away.\n\nI have reason to think that Joe s intellects were brightened by the\nencounter they had passed through, and that on our way to Pumblechook s\nhe invented a subtle and deep design. My reason is to be found in what\ntook place in Mr. Pumblechook s parlour: where, on our presenting\nourselves, my sister sat in conference with that detested seedsman.\n\n Well?  cried my sister, addressing us both at once.  And what s\nhappened to _you_? I wonder you condescend to come back to such poor\nsociety as this, I am sure I do! \n\n Miss Havisham,  said Joe, with a fixed look at me, like an effort of\nremembrance,  made it wery partick ler that we should give her were it\ncompliments or respects, Pip? \n\n Compliments,  I said.\n\n Which that were my own belief,  answered Joe;  her compliments to Mrs.\nJ. Gargery \n\n Much good they ll do me!  observed my sister; but rather gratified\ntoo.\n\n And wishing,  pursued Joe, with another fixed look at me, like another\neffort of remembrance,  that the state of Miss Havisham s elth were\nsitch as would have allowed, were it, Pip? \n\n Of her having the pleasure,  I added.\n\n Of ladies  company,  said Joe. And drew a long breath.\n\n Well!  cried my sister, with a mollified glance at Mr. Pumblechook.\n She might have had the politeness to send that message at first, but\nit s better late than never. And what did she give young Rantipole\nhere? \n\n She giv  him,  said Joe,  nothing. \n\nMrs. Joe was going to break out, but Joe went on.\n\n What she giv ,  said Joe,  she giv  to his friends.  And by his\nfriends,  were her explanation,  I mean into the hands of his sister\nMrs. J. Gargery.  Them were her words;  Mrs. J. Gargery.  She mayn t\nhave know d,  added Joe, with an appearance of reflection,  whether it\nwere Joe, or Jorge. \n\nMy sister looked at Pumblechook: who smoothed the elbows of his wooden\narm-chair, and nodded at her and at the fire, as if he had known all\nabout it beforehand.\n\n And how much have you got?  asked my sister, laughing. Positively\nlaughing!\n\n What would present company say to ten pound?  demanded Joe.\n\n They d say,  returned my sister, curtly,  pretty well. Not too much,\nbut pretty well. \n\n It s more than that, then,  said Joe.\n\nThat fearful Impostor, Pumblechook, immediately nodded, and said, as he\nrubbed the arms of his chair,  It s more than that, Mum. \n\n Why, you don t mean to say  began my sister.\n\n Yes I do, Mum,  said Pumblechook;  but wait a bit. Go on, Joseph. Good\nin you! Go on! \n\n What would present company say,  proceeded Joe,  to twenty pound? \n\n Handsome would be the word,  returned my sister.\n\n Well, then,  said Joe,  It s more than twenty pound. \n\nThat abject hypocrite, Pumblechook, nodded again, and said, with a\npatronizing laugh,  It s more than that, Mum. Good again! Follow her\nup, Joseph! \n\n Then to make an end of it,  said Joe, delightedly handing the bag to\nmy sister;  it s five-and-twenty pound. \n\n It s five-and-twenty pound, Mum,  echoed that basest of swindlers,\nPumblechook, rising to shake hands with her;  and it s no more than\nyour merits (as I said when my opinion was asked), and I wish you joy\nof the money! \n\nIf the villain had stopped here, his case would have been sufficiently\nawful, but he blackened his guilt by proceeding to take me into\ncustody, with a right of patronage that left all his former criminality\nfar behind.\n\n Now you see, Joseph and wife,  said Pumblechook, as he took me by the\narm above the elbow,  I am one of them that always go right through\nwith what they ve begun. This boy must be bound, out of hand. That s\n_my_ way. Bound out of hand. \n\n Goodness knows, Uncle Pumblechook,  said my sister (grasping the\nmoney),  we re deeply beholden to you. \n\n Never mind me, Mum,  returned that diabolical cornchandler.  A\npleasure s a pleasure all the world over. But this boy, you know; we\nmust have him bound. I said I d see to it to tell you the truth. \n\nThe Justices were sitting in the Town Hall near at hand, and we at once\nwent over to have me bound apprentice to Joe in the Magisterial\npresence. I say we went over, but I was pushed over by Pumblechook,\nexactly as if I had that moment picked a pocket or fired a rick;\nindeed, it was the general impression in Court that I had been taken\nred-handed; for, as Pumblechook shoved me before him through the crowd,\nI heard some people say,  What s he done?  and others,  He s a young\n un, too, but looks bad, don t he?  One person of mild and benevolent\naspect even gave me a tract ornamented with a woodcut of a malevolent\nyoung man fitted up with a perfect sausage-shop of fetters, and\nentitled TO BE READ IN MY CELL.\n\nThe Hall was a queer place, I thought, with higher pews in it than a\nchurch, and with people hanging over the pews looking on, and with\nmighty Justices (one with a powdered head) leaning back in chairs, with\nfolded arms, or taking snuff, or going to sleep, or writing, or reading\nthe newspapers, and with some shining black portraits on the walls,\nwhich my unartistic eye regarded as a composition of hardbake and\nsticking-plaster. Here, in a corner my indentures were duly signed and\nattested, and I was  bound ; Mr. Pumblechook holding me all the while\nas if we had looked in on our way to the scaffold, to have those little\npreliminaries disposed of.\n\nWhen we had come out again, and had got rid of the boys who had been\nput into great spirits by the expectation of seeing me publicly\ntortured, and who were much disappointed to find that my friends were\nmerely rallying round me, we went back to Pumblechook s. And there my\nsister became so excited by the twenty-five guineas, that nothing would\nserve her but we must have a dinner out of that windfall at the Blue\nBoar, and that Pumblechook must go over in his chaise-cart, and bring\nthe Hubbles and Mr. Wopsle.\n\nIt was agreed to be done; and a most melancholy day I passed. For, it\ninscrutably appeared to stand to reason, in the minds of the whole\ncompany, that I was an excrescence on the entertainment. And to make it\nworse, they all asked me from time to time, in short, whenever they had\nnothing else to do, why I didn t enjoy myself? And what could I\npossibly do then, but say I _was_ enjoying myself, when I wasn t!\n\nHowever, they were grown up and had their own way, and they made the\nmost of it. That swindling Pumblechook, exalted into the beneficent\ncontriver of the whole occasion, actually took the top of the table;\nand, when he addressed them on the subject of my being bound, and had\nfiendishly congratulated them on my being liable to imprisonment if I\nplayed at cards, drank strong liquors, kept late hours or bad company,\nor indulged in other vagaries which the form of my indentures appeared\nto contemplate as next to inevitable, he placed me standing on a chair\nbeside him to illustrate his remarks.\n\nMy only other remembrances of the great festival are, That they\nwouldn t let me go to sleep, but whenever they saw me dropping off,\nwoke me up and told me to enjoy myself. That, rather late in the\nevening Mr. Wopsle gave us Collins s ode, and threw his bloodstained\nsword in thunder down, with such effect, that a waiter came in and\nsaid,  The Commercials underneath sent up their compliments, and it\nwasn t the Tumblers  Arms.  That, they were all in excellent spirits on\nthe road home, and sang, O Lady Fair! Mr. Wopsle taking the bass, and\nasserting with a tremendously strong voice (in reply to the inquisitive\nbore who leads that piece of music in a most impertinent manner, by\nwanting to know all about everybody s private affairs) that _he_ was\nthe man with his white locks flowing, and that he was upon the whole\nthe weakest pilgrim going.\n\nFinally, I remember that when I got into my little bedroom, I was truly\nwretched, and had a strong conviction on me that I should never like\nJoe s trade. I had liked it once, but once was not now.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIV.\n\n\nIt is a most miserable thing to feel ashamed of home. There may be\nblack ingratitude in the thing, and the punishment may be retributive\nand well deserved; but that it is a miserable thing, I can testify.\n\nHome had never been a very pleasant place to me, because of my sister s\ntemper. But, Joe had sanctified it, and I had believed in it. I had\nbelieved in the best parlour as a most elegant saloon; I had believed\nin the front door, as a mysterious portal of the Temple of State whose\nsolemn opening was attended with a sacrifice of roast fowls; I had\nbelieved in the kitchen as a chaste though not magnificent apartment; I\nhad believed in the forge as the glowing road to manhood and\nindependence. Within a single year all this was changed. Now it was all\ncoarse and common, and I would not have had Miss Havisham and Estella\nsee it on any account.\n\nHow much of my ungracious condition of mind may have been my own fault,\nhow much Miss Havisham s, how much my sister s, is now of no moment to\nme or to any one. The change was made in me; the thing was done. Well\nor ill done, excusably or inexcusably, it was done.\n\nOnce, it had seemed to me that when I should at last roll up my\nshirt-sleeves and go into the forge, Joe s  prentice, I should be\ndistinguished and happy. Now the reality was in my hold, I only felt\nthat I was dusty with the dust of small-coal, and that I had a weight\nupon my daily remembrance to which the anvil was a feather. There have\nbeen occasions in my later life (I suppose as in most lives) when I\nhave felt for a time as if a thick curtain had fallen on all its\ninterest and romance, to shut me out from anything save dull endurance\nany more. Never has that curtain dropped so heavy and blank, as when my\nway in life lay stretched out straight before me through the newly\nentered road of apprenticeship to Joe.\n\nI remember that at a later period of my  time,  I used to stand about\nthe churchyard on Sunday evenings when night was falling, comparing my\nown perspective with the windy marsh view, and making out some likeness\nbetween them by thinking how flat and low both were, and how on both\nthere came an unknown way and a dark mist and then the sea. I was quite\nas dejected on the first working-day of my apprenticeship as in that\nafter-time; but I am glad to know that I never breathed a murmur to Joe\nwhile my indentures lasted. It is about the only thing I _am_ glad to\nknow of myself in that connection.\n\nFor, though it includes what I proceed to add, all the merit of what I\nproceed to add was Joe s. It was not because I was faithful, but\nbecause Joe was faithful, that I never ran away and went for a soldier\nor a sailor. It was not because I had a strong sense of the virtue of\nindustry, but because Joe had a strong sense of the virtue of industry,\nthat I worked with tolerable zeal against the grain. It is not possible\nto know how far the influence of any amiable honest-hearted duty-doing\nman flies out into the world; but it is very possible to know how it\nhas touched one s self in going by, and I know right well that any good\nthat intermixed itself with my apprenticeship came of plain contented\nJoe, and not of restlessly aspiring discontented me.\n\nWhat I wanted, who can say? How can _I_ say, when I never knew? What I\ndreaded was, that in some unlucky hour I, being at my grimiest and\ncommonest, should lift up my eyes and see Estella looking in at one of\nthe wooden windows of the forge. I was haunted by the fear that she\nwould, sooner or later, find me out, with a black face and hands, doing\nthe coarsest part of my work, and would exult over me and despise me.\nOften after dark, when I was pulling the bellows for Joe, and we were\nsinging Old Clem, and when the thought how we used to sing it at Miss\nHavisham s would seem to show me Estella s face in the fire, with her\npretty hair fluttering in the wind and her eyes scorning me, often at\nsuch a time I would look towards those panels of black night in the\nwall which the wooden windows then were, and would fancy that I saw her\njust drawing her face away, and would believe that she had come at\nlast.\n\nAfter that, when we went in to supper, the place and the meal would\nhave a more homely look than ever, and I would feel more ashamed of\nhome than ever, in my own ungracious breast.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XV.\n\n\nAs I was getting too big for Mr. Wopsle s great-aunt s room, my\neducation under that preposterous female terminated. Not, however,\nuntil Biddy had imparted to me everything she knew, from the little\ncatalogue of prices, to a comic song she had once bought for a\nhalf-penny. Although the only coherent part of the latter piece of\nliterature were the opening lines,\n\n     When I went to Lunnon town sirs,\n     Too rul loo rul\n     Too rul loo rul\n     Wasn t I done very brown sirs?\n     Too rul loo rul\n     Too rul loo rul\n\n\n still, in my desire to be wiser, I got this composition by heart with\nthe utmost gravity; nor do I recollect that I questioned its merit,\nexcept that I thought (as I still do) the amount of Too rul somewhat in\nexcess of the poetry. In my hunger for information, I made proposals to\nMr. Wopsle to bestow some intellectual crumbs upon me, with which he\nkindly complied. As it turned out, however, that he only wanted me for\na dramatic lay-figure, to be contradicted and embraced and wept over\nand bullied and clutched and stabbed and knocked about in a variety of\nways, I soon declined that course of instruction; though not until Mr.\nWopsle in his poetic fury had severely mauled me.\n\nWhatever I acquired, I tried to impart to Joe. This statement sounds so\nwell, that I cannot in my conscience let it pass unexplained. I wanted\nto make Joe less ignorant and common, that he might be worthier of my\nsociety and less open to Estella s reproach.\n\nThe old Battery out on the marshes was our place of study, and a broken\nslate and a short piece of slate-pencil were our educational\nimplements: to which Joe always added a pipe of tobacco. I never knew\nJoe to remember anything from one Sunday to another, or to acquire,\nunder my tuition, any piece of information whatever. Yet he would smoke\nhis pipe at the Battery with a far more sagacious air than anywhere\nelse, even with a learned air, as if he considered himself to be\nadvancing immensely. Dear fellow, I hope he did.\n\nIt was pleasant and quiet, out there with the sails on the river\npassing beyond the earthwork, and sometimes, when the tide was low,\nlooking as if they belonged to sunken ships that were still sailing on\nat the bottom of the water. Whenever I watched the vessels standing out\nto sea with their white sails spread, I somehow thought of Miss\nHavisham and Estella; and whenever the light struck aslant, afar off,\nupon a cloud or sail or green hillside or water-line, it was just the\nsame. Miss Havisham and Estella and the strange house and the strange\nlife appeared to have something to do with everything that was\npicturesque.\n\nOne Sunday when Joe, greatly enjoying his pipe, had so plumed himself\non being  most awful dull,  that I had given him up for the day, I lay\non the earthwork for some time with my chin on my hand, descrying\ntraces of Miss Havisham and Estella all over the prospect, in the sky\nand in the water, until at last I resolved to mention a thought\nconcerning them that had been much in my head.\n\n Joe,  said I;  don t you think I ought to make Miss Havisham a visit? \n\n Well, Pip,  returned Joe, slowly considering.  What for? \n\n What for, Joe? What is any visit made for? \n\n There is some wisits p r aps,  said Joe,  as for ever remains open to\nthe question, Pip. But in regard to wisiting Miss Havisham. She might\nthink you wanted something, expected something of her. \n\n Don t you think I might say that I did not, Joe? \n\n You might, old chap,  said Joe.  And she might credit it. Similarly\nshe mightn t. \n\nJoe felt, as I did, that he had made a point there, and he pulled hard\nat his pipe to keep himself from weakening it by repetition.\n\n You see, Pip,  Joe pursued, as soon as he was past that danger,  Miss\nHavisham done the handsome thing by you. When Miss Havisham done the\nhandsome thing by you, she called me back to say to me as that were\nall. \n\n Yes, Joe. I heard her. \n\n ALL,  Joe repeated, very emphatically.\n\n Yes, Joe. I tell you, I heard her. \n\n Which I meantersay, Pip, it might be that her meaning were, Make a end\non it! As you was! Me to the North, and you to the South! Keep in\nsunders! \n\nI had thought of that too, and it was very far from comforting to me to\nfind that he had thought of it; for it seemed to render it more\nprobable.\n\n But, Joe. \n\n Yes, old chap. \n\n Here am I, getting on in the first year of my time, and, since the day\nof my being bound, I have never thanked Miss Havisham, or asked after\nher, or shown that I remember her. \n\n That s true, Pip; and unless you was to turn her out a set of shoes\nall four round, and which I meantersay as even a set of shoes all four\nround might not be acceptable as a present, in a total wacancy of\nhoofs \n\n I don t mean that sort of remembrance, Joe; I don t mean a present. \n\nBut Joe had got the idea of a present in his head and must harp upon\nit.  Or even,  said he,  if you was helped to knocking her up a new\nchain for the front door, or say a gross or two of shark-headed screws\nfor general use, or some light fancy article, such as a toasting-fork\nwhen she took her muffins, or a gridiron when she took a sprat or such\nlike \n\n I don t mean any present at all, Joe,  I interposed.\n\n Well,  said Joe, still harping on it as though I had particularly\npressed it,  if I was yourself, Pip, I wouldn t. No, I would _not_. For\nwhat s a door-chain when she s got one always up? And shark-headers is\nopen to misrepresentations. And if it was a toasting-fork, you d go\ninto brass and do yourself no credit. And the oncommonest workman can t\nshow himself oncommon in a gridiron, for a gridiron IS a gridiron, \nsaid Joe, steadfastly impressing it upon me, as if he were endeavouring\nto rouse me from a fixed delusion,  and you may haim at what you like,\nbut a gridiron it will come out, either by your leave or again your\nleave, and you can t help yourself \n\n My dear Joe,  I cried, in desperation, taking hold of his coat,  don t\ngo on in that way. I never thought of making Miss Havisham any\npresent. \n\n No, Pip,  Joe assented, as if he had been contending for that, all\nalong;  and what I say to you is, you are right, Pip. \n\n Yes, Joe; but what I wanted to say, was, that as we are rather slack\njust now, if you would give me a half-holiday to-morrow, I think I\nwould go uptown and make a call on Miss Est Havisham. \n\n Which her name,  said Joe, gravely,  ain t Estavisham, Pip, unless she\nhave been rechris ened. \n\n I know, Joe, I know. It was a slip of mine. What do you think of it,\nJoe? \n\nIn brief, Joe thought that if I thought well of it, he thought well of\nit. But, he was particular in stipulating that if I were not received\nwith cordiality, or if I were not encouraged to repeat my visit as a\nvisit which had no ulterior object but was simply one of gratitude for\na favour received, then this experimental trip should have no\nsuccessor. By these conditions I promised to abide.\n\nNow, Joe kept a journeyman at weekly wages whose name was Orlick. He\npretended that his Christian name was Dolge, a clear Impossibility, but\nhe was a fellow of that obstinate disposition that I believe him to\nhave been the prey of no delusion in this particular, but wilfully to\nhave imposed that name upon the village as an affront to its\nunderstanding. He was a broadshouldered loose-limbed swarthy fellow of\ngreat strength, never in a hurry, and always slouching. He never even\nseemed to come to his work on purpose, but would slouch in as if by\nmere accident; and when he went to the Jolly Bargemen to eat his\ndinner, or went away at night, he would slouch out, like Cain or the\nWandering Jew, as if he had no idea where he was going and no intention\nof ever coming back. He lodged at a sluice-keeper s out on the marshes,\nand on working-days would come slouching from his hermitage, with his\nhands in his pockets and his dinner loosely tied in a bundle round his\nneck and dangling on his back. On Sundays he mostly lay all day on the\nsluice-gates, or stood against ricks and barns. He always slouched,\nlocomotively, with his eyes on the ground; and, when accosted or\notherwise required to raise them, he looked up in a half-resentful,\nhalf-puzzled way, as though the only thought he ever had was, that it\nwas rather an odd and injurious fact that he should never be thinking.\n\nThis morose journeyman had no liking for me. When I was very small and\ntimid, he gave me to understand that the Devil lived in a black corner\nof the forge, and that he knew the fiend very well: also that it was\nnecessary to make up the fire, once in seven years, with a live boy,\nand that I might consider myself fuel. When I became Joe s  prentice,\nOrlick was perhaps confirmed in some suspicion that I should displace\nhim; howbeit, he liked me still less. Not that he ever said anything,\nor did anything, openly importing hostility; I only noticed that he\nalways beat his sparks in my direction, and that whenever I sang Old\nClem, he came in out of time.\n\nDolge Orlick was at work and present, next day, when I reminded Joe of\nmy half-holiday. He said nothing at the moment, for he and Joe had just\ngot a piece of hot iron between them, and I was at the bellows; but by\nand by he said, leaning on his hammer, \n\n Now, master! Sure you re not a-going to favour only one of us. If\nYoung Pip has a half-holiday, do as much for Old Orlick.  I suppose he\nwas about five-and-twenty, but he usually spoke of himself as an\nancient person.\n\n Why, what ll you do with a half-holiday, if you get it?  said Joe.\n\n What ll _I_ do with it! What ll _he_ do with it? I ll do as much with\nit as _him_,  said Orlick.\n\n As to Pip, he s going up town,  said Joe.\n\n Well then, as to Old Orlick, _he_ s a-going up town,  retorted that\nworthy.  Two can go up town. Tain t only one wot can go up town.\n\n Don t lose your temper,  said Joe.\n\n Shall if I like,  growled Orlick.  Some and their uptowning! Now,\nmaster! Come. No favouring in this shop. Be a man! \n\nThe master refusing to entertain the subject until the journeyman was\nin a better temper, Orlick plunged at the furnace, drew out a red-hot\nbar, made at me with it as if he were going to run it through my body,\nwhisked it round my head, laid it on the anvil, hammered it out, as if\nit were I, I thought, and the sparks were my spirting blood, and\nfinally said, when he had hammered himself hot and the iron cold, and\nhe again leaned on his hammer, \n\n Now, master! \n\n Are you all right now?  demanded Joe.\n\n Ah! I am all right,  said gruff Old Orlick.\n\n Then, as in general you stick to your work as well as most men,  said\nJoe,  let it be a half-holiday for all. \n\nMy sister had been standing silent in the yard, within hearing, she was\na most unscrupulous spy and listener, and she instantly looked in at\none of the windows.\n\n Like you, you fool!  said she to Joe,  giving holidays to great idle\nhulkers like that. You are a rich man, upon my life, to waste wages in\nthat way. I wish _I_ was his master! \n\n You d be everybody s master, if you durst,  retorted Orlick, with an\nill-favoured grin.\n\n( Let her alone,  said Joe.)\n\n I d be a match for all noodles and all rogues,  returned my sister,\nbeginning to work herself into a mighty rage.  And I couldn t be a\nmatch for the noodles, without being a match for your master, who s the\ndunder-headed king of the noodles. And I couldn t be a match for the\nrogues, without being a match for you, who are the blackest-looking and\nthe worst rogue between this and France. Now! \n\n You re a foul shrew, Mother Gargery,  growled the journeyman.  If that\nmakes a judge of rogues, you ought to be a good un. \n\n( Let her alone, will you?  said Joe.)\n\n What did you say?  cried my sister, beginning to scream.  What did you\nsay? What did that fellow Orlick say to me, Pip? What did he call me,\nwith my husband standing by? Oh! oh! oh!  Each of these exclamations\nwas a shriek; and I must remark of my sister, what is equally true of\nall the violent women I have ever seen, that passion was no excuse for\nher, because it is undeniable that instead of lapsing into passion, she\nconsciously and deliberately took extraordinary pains to force herself\ninto it, and became blindly furious by regular stages;  what was the\nname he gave me before the base man who swore to defend me? Oh! Hold\nme! Oh! \n\n Ah-h-h!  growled the journeyman, between his teeth,  I d hold you, if\nyou was my wife. I d hold you under the pump, and choke it out of you. \n\n( I tell you, let her alone,  said Joe.)\n\n Oh! To hear him!  cried my sister, with a clap of her hands and a\nscream together, which was her next stage.  To hear the names he s\ngiving me! That Orlick! In my own house! Me, a married woman! With my\nhusband standing by! Oh! Oh!  Here my sister, after a fit of clappings\nand screamings, beat her hands upon her bosom and upon her knees, and\nthrew her cap off, and pulled her hair down, which were the last stages\non her road to frenzy. Being by this time a perfect Fury and a complete\nsuccess, she made a dash at the door which I had fortunately locked.\n\nWhat could the wretched Joe do now, after his disregarded parenthetical\ninterruptions, but stand up to his journeyman, and ask him what he\nmeant by interfering betwixt himself and Mrs. Joe; and further whether\nhe was man enough to come on? Old Orlick felt that the situation\nadmitted of nothing less than coming on, and was on his defence\nstraightway; so, without so much as pulling off their singed and burnt\naprons, they went at one another, like two giants. But, if any man in\nthat neighbourhood could stand uplong against Joe, I never saw the man.\nOrlick, as if he had been of no more account than the pale young\ngentleman, was very soon among the coal-dust, and in no hurry to come\nout of it. Then Joe unlocked the door and picked up my sister, who had\ndropped insensible at the window (but who had seen the fight first, I\nthink), and who was carried into the house and laid down, and who was\nrecommended to revive, and would do nothing but struggle and clench her\nhands in Joe s hair. Then came that singular calm and silence which\nsucceed all uproars; and then, with the vague sensation which I have\nalways connected with such a lull, namely, that it was Sunday, and\nsomebody was dead, I went upstairs to dress myself.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nWhen I came down again, I found Joe and Orlick sweeping up, without any\nother traces of discomposure than a slit in one of Orlick s nostrils,\nwhich was neither expressive nor ornamental. A pot of beer had appeared\nfrom the Jolly Bargemen, and they were sharing it by turns in a\npeaceable manner. The lull had a sedative and philosophical influence\non Joe, who followed me out into the road to say, as a parting\nobservation that might do me good,  On the Rampage, Pip, and off the\nRampage, Pip: such is Life! \n\nWith what absurd emotions (for we think the feelings that are very\nserious in a man quite comical in a boy) I found myself again going to\nMiss Havisham s, matters little here. Nor, how I passed and repassed\nthe gate many times before I could make up my mind to ring. Nor, how I\ndebated whether I should go away without ringing; nor, how I should\nundoubtedly have gone, if my time had been my own, to come back.\n\nMiss Sarah Pocket came to the gate. No Estella.\n\n How, then? You here again?  said Miss Pocket.  What do you want? \n\nWhen I said that I only came to see how Miss Havisham was, Sarah\nevidently deliberated whether or no she should send me about my\nbusiness. But unwilling to hazard the responsibility, she let me in,\nand presently brought the sharp message that I was to  come up. \n\nEverything was unchanged, and Miss Havisham was alone.\n\n Well?  said she, fixing her eyes upon me.  I hope you want nothing?\nYou ll get nothing. \n\n No indeed, Miss Havisham. I only wanted you to know that I am doing\nvery well in my apprenticeship, and am always much obliged to you. \n\n There, there!  with the old restless fingers.  Come now and then; come\non your birthday. Ay!  she cried suddenly, turning herself and her\nchair towards me,  You are looking round for Estella? Hey? \n\nI had been looking round, in fact, for Estella, and I stammered that I\nhoped she was well.\n\n Abroad,  said Miss Havisham;  educating for a lady; far out of reach;\nprettier than ever; admired by all who see her. Do you feel that you\nhave lost her? \n\nThere was such a malignant enjoyment in her utterance of the last\nwords, and she broke into such a disagreeable laugh, that I was at a\nloss what to say. She spared me the trouble of considering, by\ndismissing me. When the gate was closed upon me by Sarah of the\nwalnut-shell countenance, I felt more than ever dissatisfied with my\nhome and with my trade and with everything; and that was all I took by\n_that_ motion.\n\nAs I was loitering along the High Street, looking in disconsolately at\nthe shop windows, and thinking what I would buy if I were a gentleman,\nwho should come out of the bookshop but Mr. Wopsle. Mr. Wopsle had in\nhis hand the affecting tragedy of George Barnwell, in which he had that\nmoment invested sixpence, with the view of heaping every word of it on\nthe head of Pumblechook, with whom he was going to drink tea. No sooner\ndid he see me, than he appeared to consider that a special Providence\nhad put a  prentice in his way to be read at; and he laid hold of me,\nand insisted on my accompanying him to the Pumblechookian parlour. As I\nknew it would be miserable at home, and as the nights were dark and the\nway was dreary, and almost any companionship on the road was better\nthan none, I made no great resistance; consequently, we turned into\nPumblechook s just as the street and the shops were lighting up.\n\nAs I never assisted at any other representation of George Barnwell, I\ndon t know how long it may usually take; but I know very well that it\ntook until half-past nine o  clock that night, and that when Mr. Wopsle\ngot into Newgate, I thought he never would go to the scaffold, he\nbecame so much slower than at any former period of his disgraceful\ncareer. I thought it a little too much that he should complain of being\ncut short in his flower after all, as if he had not been running to\nseed, leaf after leaf, ever since his course began. This, however, was\na mere question of length and wearisomeness. What stung me, was the\nidentification of the whole affair with my unoffending self. When\nBarnwell began to go wrong, I declare that I felt positively\napologetic, Pumblechook s indignant stare so taxed me with it. Wopsle,\ntoo, took pains to present me in the worst light. At once ferocious and\nmaudlin, I was made to murder my uncle with no extenuating\ncircumstances whatever; Millwood put me down in argument, on every\noccasion; it became sheer monomania in my master s daughter to care a\nbutton for me; and all I can say for my gasping and procrastinating\nconduct on the fatal morning, is, that it was worthy of the general\nfeebleness of my character. Even after I was happily hanged and Wopsle\nhad closed the book, Pumblechook sat staring at me, and shaking his\nhead, and saying,  Take warning, boy, take warning!  as if it were a\nwell-known fact that I contemplated murdering a near relation, provided\nI could only induce one to have the weakness to become my benefactor.\n\nIt was a very dark night when it was all over, and when I set out with\nMr. Wopsle on the walk home. Beyond town, we found a heavy mist out,\nand it fell wet and thick. The turnpike lamp was a blur, quite out of\nthe lamp s usual place apparently, and its rays looked solid substance\non the fog. We were noticing this, and saying how that the mist rose\nwith a change of wind from a certain quarter of our marshes, when we\ncame upon a man, slouching under the lee of the turnpike house.\n\n Halloa!  we said, stopping.  Orlick there? \n\n Ah!  he answered, slouching out.  I was standing by a minute, on the\nchance of company. \n\n You are late,  I remarked.\n\nOrlick not unnaturally answered,  Well? And _you_ re late. \n\n We have been,  said Mr. Wopsle, exalted with his late performance, we\nhave been indulging, Mr. Orlick, in an intellectual evening. \n\nOld Orlick growled, as if he had nothing to say about that, and we all\nwent on together. I asked him presently whether he had been spending\nhis half-holiday up and down town?\n\n Yes,  said he,  all of it. I come in behind yourself. I didn t see\nyou, but I must have been pretty close behind you. By the by, the guns\nis going again. \n\n At the Hulks?  said I.\n\n Ay! There s some of the birds flown from the cages. The guns have been\ngoing since dark, about. You ll hear one presently. \n\nIn effect, we had not walked many yards further, when the\nwell-remembered boom came towards us, deadened by the mist, and heavily\nrolled away along the low grounds by the river, as if it were pursuing\nand threatening the fugitives.\n\n A good night for cutting off in,  said Orlick.  We d be puzzled how to\nbring down a jail-bird on the wing, to-night. \n\nThe subject was a suggestive one to me, and I thought about it in\nsilence. Mr. Wopsle, as the ill-requited uncle of the evening s\ntragedy, fell to meditating aloud in his garden at Camberwell. Orlick,\nwith his hands in his pockets, slouched heavily at my side. It was very\ndark, very wet, very muddy, and so we splashed along. Now and then, the\nsound of the signal cannon broke upon us again, and again rolled\nsulkily along the course of the river. I kept myself to myself and my\nthoughts. Mr. Wopsle died amiably at Camberwell, and exceedingly game\non Bosworth Field, and in the greatest agonies at Glastonbury. Orlick\nsometimes growled,  Beat it out, beat it out, Old Clem! With a clink\nfor the stout, Old Clem!  I thought he had been drinking, but he was\nnot drunk.\n\nThus, we came to the village. The way by which we approached it took us\npast the Three Jolly Bargemen, which we were surprised to find it being\neleven o clock in a state of commotion, with the door wide open, and\nunwonted lights that had been hastily caught up and put down scattered\nabout. Mr. Wopsle dropped in to ask what was the matter (surmising that\na convict had been taken), but came running out in a great hurry.\n\n There s something wrong,  said he, without stopping,  up at your\nplace, Pip. Run all! \n\n What is it?  I asked, keeping up with him. So did Orlick, at my side.\n\n I can t quite understand. The house seems to have been violently\nentered when Joe Gargery was out. Supposed by convicts. Somebody has\nbeen attacked and hurt. \n\nWe were running too fast to admit of more being said, and we made no\nstop until we got into our kitchen. It was full of people; the whole\nvillage was there, or in the yard; and there was a surgeon, and there\nwas Joe, and there were a group of women, all on the floor in the midst\nof the kitchen. The unemployed bystanders drew back when they saw me,\nand so I became aware of my sister, lying without sense or movement on\nthe bare boards where she had been knocked down by a tremendous blow on\nthe back of the head, dealt by some unknown hand when her face was\nturned towards the fire, destined never to be on the Rampage again,\nwhile she was the wife of Joe.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XVI.\n\n\nWith my head full of George Barnwell, I was at first disposed to\nbelieve that _I_ must have had some hand in the attack upon my sister,\nor at all events that as her near relation, popularly known to be under\nobligations to her, I was a more legitimate object of suspicion than\nany one else. But when, in the clearer light of next morning, I began\nto reconsider the matter and to hear it discussed around me on all\nsides, I took another view of the case, which was more reasonable.\n\nJoe had been at the Three Jolly Bargemen, smoking his pipe, from a\nquarter after eight o clock to a quarter before ten. While he was\nthere, my sister had been seen standing at the kitchen door, and had\nexchanged Good Night with a farm-labourer going home. The man could not\nbe more particular as to the time at which he saw her (he got into\ndense confusion when he tried to be), than that it must have been\nbefore nine. When Joe went home at five minutes before ten, he found\nher struck down on the floor, and promptly called in assistance. The\nfire had not then burnt unusually low, nor was the snuff of the candle\nvery long; the candle, however, had been blown out.\n\nNothing had been taken away from any part of the house. Neither, beyond\nthe blowing out of the candle, which stood on a table between the door\nand my sister, and was behind her when she stood facing the fire and\nwas struck, was there any disarrangement of the kitchen, excepting such\nas she herself had made, in falling and bleeding. But, there was one\nremarkable piece of evidence on the spot. She had been struck with\nsomething blunt and heavy, on the head and spine; after the blows were\ndealt, something heavy had been thrown down at her with considerable\nviolence, as she lay on her face. And on the ground beside her, when\nJoe picked her up, was a convict s leg-iron which had been filed\nasunder.\n\nNow, Joe, examining this iron with a smith s eye, declared it to have\nbeen filed asunder some time ago. The hue and cry going off to the\nHulks, and people coming thence to examine the iron, Joe s opinion was\ncorroborated. They did not undertake to say when it had left the\nprison-ships to which it undoubtedly had once belonged; but they\nclaimed to know for certain that that particular manacle had not been\nworn by either of the two convicts who had escaped last night. Further,\none of those two was already retaken, and had not freed himself of his\niron.\n\nKnowing what I knew, I set up an inference of my own here. I believed\nthe iron to be my convict s iron, the iron I had seen and heard him\nfiling at, on the marshes, but my mind did not accuse him of having put\nit to its latest use. For I believed one of two other persons to have\nbecome possessed of it, and to have turned it to this cruel account.\nEither Orlick, or the strange man who had shown me the file.\n\nNow, as to Orlick; he had gone to town exactly as he told us when we\npicked him up at the turnpike, he had been seen about town all the\nevening, he had been in divers companies in several public-houses, and\nhe had come back with myself and Mr. Wopsle. There was nothing against\nhim, save the quarrel; and my sister had quarrelled with him, and with\neverybody else about her, ten thousand times. As to the strange man; if\nhe had come back for his two bank-notes there could have been no\ndispute about them, because my sister was fully prepared to restore\nthem. Besides, there had been no altercation; the assailant had come in\nso silently and suddenly, that she had been felled before she could\nlook round.\n\nIt was horrible to think that I had provided the weapon, however\nundesignedly, but I could hardly think otherwise. I suffered\nunspeakable trouble while I considered and reconsidered whether I\nshould at last dissolve that spell of my childhood and tell Joe all the\nstory. For months afterwards, I every day settled the question finally\nin the negative, and reopened and reargued it next morning. The\ncontention came, after all, to this; the secret was such an old one\nnow, had so grown into me and become a part of myself, that I could not\ntear it away. In addition to the dread that, having led up to so much\nmischief, it would be now more likely than ever to alienate Joe from me\nif he believed it, I had a further restraining dread that he would not\nbelieve it, but would assort it with the fabulous dogs and veal-cutlets\nas a monstrous invention. However, I temporized with myself, of\ncourse for, was I not wavering between right and wrong, when the thing\nis always done? and resolved to make a full disclosure if I should see\nany such new occasion as a new chance of helping in the discovery of\nthe assailant.\n\nThe Constables and the Bow Street men from London for, this happened in\nthe days of the extinct red-waistcoated police were about the house for\na week or two, and did pretty much what I have heard and read of like\nauthorities doing in other such cases. They took up several obviously\nwrong people, and they ran their heads very hard against wrong ideas,\nand persisted in trying to fit the circumstances to the ideas, instead\nof trying to extract ideas from the circumstances. Also, they stood\nabout the door of the Jolly Bargemen, with knowing and reserved looks\nthat filled the whole neighbourhood with admiration; and they had a\nmysterious manner of taking their drink, that was almost as good as\ntaking the culprit. But not quite, for they never did it.\n\nLong after these constitutional powers had dispersed, my sister lay\nvery ill in bed. Her sight was disturbed, so that she saw objects\nmultiplied, and grasped at visionary teacups and wineglasses instead of\nthe realities; her hearing was greatly impaired; her memory also; and\nher speech was unintelligible. When, at last, she came round so far as\nto be helped downstairs, it was still necessary to keep my slate always\nby her, that she might indicate in writing what she could not indicate\nin speech. As she was (very bad handwriting apart) a more than\nindifferent speller, and as Joe was a more than indifferent reader,\nextraordinary complications arose between them which I was always\ncalled in to solve. The administration of mutton instead of medicine,\nthe substitution of Tea for Joe, and the baker for bacon, were among\nthe mildest of my own mistakes.\n\nHowever, her temper was greatly improved, and she was patient. A\ntremulous uncertainty of the action of all her limbs soon became a part\nof her regular state, and afterwards, at intervals of two or three\nmonths, she would often put her hands to her head, and would then\nremain for about a week at a time in some gloomy aberration of mind. We\nwere at a loss to find a suitable attendant for her, until a\ncircumstance happened conveniently to relieve us. Mr. Wopsle s\ngreat-aunt conquered a confirmed habit of living into which she had\nfallen, and Biddy became a part of our establishment.\n\nIt may have been about a month after my sister s reappearance in the\nkitchen, when Biddy came to us with a small speckled box containing the\nwhole of her worldly effects, and became a blessing to the household.\nAbove all, she was a blessing to Joe, for the dear old fellow was sadly\ncut up by the constant contemplation of the wreck of his wife, and had\nbeen accustomed, while attending on her of an evening, to turn to me\nevery now and then and say, with his blue eyes moistened,  Such a fine\nfigure of a woman as she once were, Pip!  Biddy instantly taking the\ncleverest charge of her as though she had studied her from infancy; Joe\nbecame able in some sort to appreciate the greater quiet of his life,\nand to get down to the Jolly Bargemen now and then for a change that\ndid him good. It was characteristic of the police people that they had\nall more or less suspected poor Joe (though he never knew it), and that\nthey had to a man concurred in regarding him as one of the deepest\nspirits they had ever encountered.\n\nBiddy s first triumph in her new office, was to solve a difficulty that\nhad completely vanquished me. I had tried hard at it, but had made\nnothing of it. Thus it was: \n\nAgain and again and again, my sister had traced upon the slate, a\ncharacter that looked like a curious T, and then with the utmost\neagerness had called our attention to it as something she particularly\nwanted. I had in vain tried everything producible that began with a T,\nfrom tar to toast and tub. At length it had come into my head that the\nsign looked like a hammer, and on my lustily calling that word in my\nsister s ear, she had begun to hammer on the table and had expressed a\nqualified assent. Thereupon, I had brought in all our hammers, one\nafter another, but without avail. Then I bethought me of a crutch, the\nshape being much the same, and I borrowed one in the village, and\ndisplayed it to my sister with considerable confidence. But she shook\nher head to that extent when she was shown it, that we were terrified\nlest in her weak and shattered state she should dislocate her neck.\n\nWhen my sister found that Biddy was very quick to understand her, this\nmysterious sign reappeared on the slate. Biddy looked thoughtfully at\nit, heard my explanation, looked thoughtfully at my sister, looked\nthoughtfully at Joe (who was always represented on the slate by his\ninitial letter), and ran into the forge, followed by Joe and me.\n\n Why, of course!  cried Biddy, with an exultant face.  Don t you see?\nIt s _him_! \n\nOrlick, without a doubt! She had lost his name, and could only signify\nhim by his hammer. We told him why we wanted him to come into the\nkitchen, and he slowly laid down his hammer, wiped his brow with his\narm, took another wipe at it with his apron, and came slouching out,\nwith a curious loose vagabond bend in the knees that strongly\ndistinguished him.\n\nI confess that I expected to see my sister denounce him, and that I was\ndisappointed by the different result. She manifested the greatest\nanxiety to be on good terms with him, was evidently much pleased by his\nbeing at length produced, and motioned that she would have him given\nsomething to drink. She watched his countenance as if she were\nparticularly wishful to be assured that he took kindly to his\nreception, she showed every possible desire to conciliate him, and\nthere was an air of humble propitiation in all she did, such as I have\nseen pervade the bearing of a child towards a hard master. After that\nday, a day rarely passed without her drawing the hammer on her slate,\nand without Orlick s slouching in and standing doggedly before her, as\nif he knew no more than I did what to make of it.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XVII.\n\n\nI now fell into a regular routine of apprenticeship life, which was\nvaried beyond the limits of the village and the marshes, by no more\nremarkable circumstance than the arrival of my birthday and my paying\nanother visit to Miss Havisham. I found Miss Sarah Pocket still on duty\nat the gate; I found Miss Havisham just as I had left her, and she\nspoke of Estella in the very same way, if not in the very same words.\nThe interview lasted but a few minutes, and she gave me a guinea when I\nwas going, and told me to come again on my next birthday. I may mention\nat once that this became an annual custom. I tried to decline taking\nthe guinea on the first occasion, but with no better effect than\ncausing her to ask me very angrily, if I expected more? Then, and after\nthat, I took it.\n\nSo unchanging was the dull old house, the yellow light in the darkened\nroom, the faded spectre in the chair by the dressing-table glass, that\nI felt as if the stopping of the clocks had stopped Time in that\nmysterious place, and, while I and everything else outside it grew\nolder, it stood still. Daylight never entered the house as to my\nthoughts and remembrances of it, any more than as to the actual fact.\nIt bewildered me, and under its influence I continued at heart to hate\nmy trade and to be ashamed of home.\n\nImperceptibly I became conscious of a change in Biddy, however. Her\nshoes came up at the heel, her hair grew bright and neat, her hands\nwere always clean. She was not beautiful, she was common, and could not\nbe like Estella, but she was pleasant and wholesome and sweet-tempered.\nShe had not been with us more than a year (I remember her being newly\nout of mourning at the time it struck me), when I observed to myself\none evening that she had curiously thoughtful and attentive eyes; eyes\nthat were very pretty and very good.\n\nIt came of my lifting up my own eyes from a task I was poring\nat writing some passages from a book, to improve myself in two ways at\nonce by a sort of stratagem and seeing Biddy observant of what I was\nabout. I laid down my pen, and Biddy stopped in her needlework without\nlaying it down.\n\n Biddy,  said I,  how do you manage it? Either I am very stupid, or you\nare very clever. \n\n What is it that I manage? I don t know,  returned Biddy, smiling.\n\nShe managed our whole domestic life, and wonderfully too; but I did not\nmean that, though that made what I did mean more surprising.\n\n How do you manage, Biddy,  said I,  to learn everything that I learn,\nand always to keep up with me?  I was beginning to be rather vain of my\nknowledge, for I spent my birthday guineas on it, and set aside the\ngreater part of my pocket-money for similar investment; though I have\nno doubt, now, that the little I knew was extremely dear at the price.\n\n I might as well ask you,  said Biddy,  how _you_ manage? \n\n No; because when I come in from the forge of a night, any one can see\nme turning to at it. But you never turn to at it, Biddy. \n\n I suppose I must catch it like a cough,  said Biddy, quietly; and went\non with her sewing.\n\nPursuing my idea as I leaned back in my wooden chair, and looked at\nBiddy sewing away with her head on one side, I began to think her\nrather an extraordinary girl. For I called to mind now, that she was\nequally accomplished in the terms of our trade, and the names of our\ndifferent sorts of work, and our various tools. In short, whatever I\nknew, Biddy knew. Theoretically, she was already as good a blacksmith\nas I, or better.\n\n You are one of those, Biddy,  said I,  who make the most of every\nchance. You never had a chance before you came here, and see how\nimproved you are! \n\nBiddy looked at me for an instant, and went on with her sewing.  I was\nyour first teacher though; wasn t I?  said she, as she sewed.\n\n Biddy!  I exclaimed, in amazement.  Why, you are crying! \n\n No I am not,  said Biddy, looking up and laughing.  What put that in\nyour head? \n\nWhat could have put it in my head but the glistening of a tear as it\ndropped on her work? I sat silent, recalling what a drudge she had been\nuntil Mr. Wopsle s great-aunt successfully overcame that bad habit of\nliving, so highly desirable to be got rid of by some people. I recalled\nthe hopeless circumstances by which she had been surrounded in the\nmiserable little shop and the miserable little noisy evening school,\nwith that miserable old bundle of incompetence always to be dragged and\nshouldered. I reflected that even in those untoward times there must\nhave been latent in Biddy what was now developing, for, in my first\nuneasiness and discontent I had turned to her for help, as a matter of\ncourse. Biddy sat quietly sewing, shedding no more tears, and while I\nlooked at her and thought about it all, it occurred to me that perhaps\nI had not been sufficiently grateful to Biddy. I might have been too\nreserved, and should have patronised her more (though I did not use\nthat precise word in my meditations) with my confidence.\n\n Yes, Biddy,  I observed, when I had done turning it over,  you were my\nfirst teacher, and that at a time when we little thought of ever being\ntogether like this, in this kitchen. \n\n Ah, poor thing!  replied Biddy. It was like her self-forgetfulness to\ntransfer the remark to my sister, and to get up and be busy about her,\nmaking her more comfortable;  that s sadly true! \n\n Well!  said I,  we must talk together a little more, as we used to do.\nAnd I must consult you a little more, as I used to do. Let us have a\nquiet walk on the marshes next Sunday, Biddy, and a long chat. \n\nMy sister was never left alone now; but Joe more than readily undertook\nthe care of her on that Sunday afternoon, and Biddy and I went out\ntogether. It was summer-time, and lovely weather. When we had passed\nthe village and the church and the churchyard, and were out on the\nmarshes and began to see the sails of the ships as they sailed on, I\nbegan to combine Miss Havisham and Estella with the prospect, in my\nusual way. When we came to the river-side and sat down on the bank,\nwith the water rippling at our feet, making it all more quiet than it\nwould have been without that sound, I resolved that it was a good time\nand place for the admission of Biddy into my inner confidence.\n\n Biddy,  said I, after binding her to secrecy,  I want to be a\ngentleman. \n\n O, I wouldn t, if I was you!  she returned.  I don t think it would\nanswer. \n\n Biddy,  said I, with some severity,  I have particular reasons for\nwanting to be a gentleman. \n\n You know best, Pip; but don t you think you are happier as you are? \n\n Biddy,  I exclaimed, impatiently,  I am not at all happy as I am. I am\ndisgusted with my calling and with my life. I have never taken to\neither, since I was bound. Don t be absurd. \n\n Was I absurd?  said Biddy, quietly raising her eyebrows;  I am sorry\nfor that; I didn t mean to be. I only want you to do well, and to be\ncomfortable. \n\n Well, then, understand once for all that I never shall or can be\ncomfortable or anything but miserable there, Biddy! unless I can lead a\nvery different sort of life from the life I lead now. \n\n That s a pity!  said Biddy, shaking her head with a sorrowful air.\n\nNow, I too had so often thought it a pity, that, in the singular kind\nof quarrel with myself which I was always carrying on, I was half\ninclined to shed tears of vexation and distress when Biddy gave\nutterance to her sentiment and my own. I told her she was right, and I\nknew it was much to be regretted, but still it was not to be helped.\n\n If I could have settled down,  I said to Biddy, plucking up the short\ngrass within reach, much as I had once upon a time pulled my feelings\nout of my hair and kicked them into the brewery wall, if I could have\nsettled down and been but half as fond of the forge as I was when I was\nlittle, I know it would have been much better for me. You and I and Joe\nwould have wanted nothing then, and Joe and I would perhaps have gone\npartners when I was out of my time, and I might even have grown up to\nkeep company with you, and we might have sat on this very bank on a\nfine Sunday, quite different people. I should have been good enough for\n_you_; shouldn t I, Biddy? \n\nBiddy sighed as she looked at the ships sailing on, and returned for\nanswer,  Yes; I am not over-particular.  It scarcely sounded\nflattering, but I knew she meant well.\n\n Instead of that,  said I, plucking up more grass and chewing a blade\nor two,  see how I am going on. Dissatisfied, and uncomfortable,\nand what would it signify to me, being coarse and common, if nobody had\ntold me so! \n\nBiddy turned her face suddenly towards mine, and looked far more\nattentively at me than she had looked at the sailing ships.\n\n It was neither a very true nor a very polite thing to say,  she\nremarked, directing her eyes to the ships again.  Who said it? \n\nI was disconcerted, for I had broken away without quite seeing where I\nwas going to. It was not to be shuffled off now, however, and I\nanswered,  The beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham s, and she s more\nbeautiful than anybody ever was, and I admire her dreadfully, and I\nwant to be a gentleman on her account.  Having made this lunatic\nconfession, I began to throw my torn-up grass into the river, as if I\nhad some thoughts of following it.\n\n Do you want to be a gentleman, to spite her or to gain her over? \nBiddy quietly asked me, after a pause.\n\n I don t know,  I moodily answered.\n\n Because, if it is to spite her,  Biddy pursued,  I should think but\nyou know best that might be better and more independently done by\ncaring nothing for her words. And if it is to gain her over, I should\nthink but you know best she was not worth gaining over. \n\nExactly what I myself had thought, many times. Exactly what was\nperfectly manifest to me at the moment. But how could I, a poor dazed\nvillage lad, avoid that wonderful inconsistency into which the best and\nwisest of men fall every day?\n\n It may be all quite true,  said I to Biddy,  but I admire her\ndreadfully. \n\nIn short, I turned over on my face when I came to that, and got a good\ngrasp on the hair on each side of my head, and wrenched it well. All\nthe while knowing the madness of my heart to be so very mad and\nmisplaced, that I was quite conscious it would have served my face\nright, if I had lifted it up by my hair, and knocked it against the\npebbles as a punishment for belonging to such an idiot.\n\nBiddy was the wisest of girls, and she tried to reason no more with me.\nShe put her hand, which was a comfortable hand though roughened by\nwork, upon my hands, one after another, and gently took them out of my\nhair. Then she softly patted my shoulder in a soothing way, while with\nmy face upon my sleeve I cried a little, exactly as I had done in the\nbrewery yard, and felt vaguely convinced that I was very much ill-used\nby somebody, or by everybody; I can t say which.\n\n I am glad of one thing,  said Biddy,  and that is, that you have felt\nyou could give me your confidence, Pip. And I am glad of another thing,\nand that is, that of course you know you may depend upon my keeping it\nand always so far deserving it. If your first teacher (dear! such a\npoor one, and so much in need of being taught herself!) had been your\nteacher at the present time, she thinks she knows what lesson she would\nset. But it would be a hard one to learn, and you have got beyond her,\nand it s of no use now.  So, with a quiet sigh for me, Biddy rose from\nthe bank, and said, with a fresh and pleasant change of voice,  Shall\nwe walk a little farther, or go home? \n\n Biddy,  I cried, getting up, putting my arm round her neck, and giving\nher a kiss,  I shall always tell you everything. \n\n Till you re a gentleman,  said Biddy.\n\n You know I never shall be, so that s always. Not that I have any\noccasion to tell you anything, for you know everything I know, as I\ntold you at home the other night. \n\n Ah!  said Biddy, quite in a whisper, as she looked away at the ships.\nAnd then repeated, with her former pleasant change,  shall we walk a\nlittle farther, or go home? \n\nI said to Biddy we would walk a little farther, and we did so, and the\nsummer afternoon toned down into the summer evening, and it was very\nbeautiful. I began to consider whether I was not more naturally and\nwholesomely situated, after all, in these circumstances, than playing\nbeggar my neighbour by candle-light in the room with the stopped\nclocks, and being despised by Estella. I thought it would be very good\nfor me if I could get her out of my head, with all the rest of those\nremembrances and fancies, and could go to work determined to relish\nwhat I had to do, and stick to it, and make the best of it. I asked\nmyself the question whether I did not surely know that if Estella were\nbeside me at that moment instead of Biddy, she would make me miserable?\nI was obliged to admit that I did know it for a certainty, and I said\nto myself,  Pip, what a fool you are! \n\nWe talked a good deal as we walked, and all that Biddy said seemed\nright. Biddy was never insulting, or capricious, or Biddy to-day and\nsomebody else to-morrow; she would have derived only pain, and no\npleasure, from giving me pain; she would far rather have wounded her\nown breast than mine. How could it be, then, that I did not like her\nmuch the better of the two?\n\n Biddy,  said I, when we were walking homeward,  I wish you could put\nme right. \n\n I wish I could!  said Biddy.\n\n If I could only get myself to fall in love with you, you don t mind my\nspeaking so openly to such an old acquaintance? \n\n Oh dear, not at all!  said Biddy.  Don t mind me. \n\n If I could only get myself to do it, _that_ would be the thing for\nme. \n\n But you never will, you see,  said Biddy.\n\nIt did not appear quite so unlikely to me that evening, as it would\nhave done if we had discussed it a few hours before. I therefore\nobserved I was not quite sure of that. But Biddy said she _was_, and\nshe said it decisively. In my heart I believed her to be right; and yet\nI took it rather ill, too, that she should be so positive on the point.\n\nWhen we came near the churchyard, we had to cross an embankment, and\nget over a stile near a sluice-gate. There started up, from the gate,\nor from the rushes, or from the ooze (which was quite in his stagnant\nway), Old Orlick.\n\n Halloa!  he growled,  where are you two going? \n\n Where should we be going, but home? \n\n Well, then,  said he,  I m jiggered if I don t see you home! \n\nThis penalty of being jiggered was a favourite supposititious case of\nhis. He attached no definite meaning to the word that I am aware of,\nbut used it, like his own pretended Christian name, to affront mankind,\nand convey an idea of something savagely damaging. When I was younger,\nI had had a general belief that if he had jiggered me personally, he\nwould have done it with a sharp and twisted hook.\n\nBiddy was much against his going with us, and said to me in a whisper,\n Don t let him come; I don t like him.  As I did not like him either, I\ntook the liberty of saying that we thanked him, but we didn t want\nseeing home. He received that piece of information with a yell of\nlaughter, and dropped back, but came slouching after us at a little\ndistance.\n\nCurious to know whether Biddy suspected him of having had a hand in\nthat murderous attack of which my sister had never been able to give\nany account, I asked her why she did not like him.\n\n Oh!  she replied, glancing over her shoulder as he slouched after us,\n because I I am afraid he likes me. \n\n Did he ever tell you he liked you?  I asked indignantly.\n\n No,  said Biddy, glancing over her shoulder again,  he never told me\nso; but he dances at me, whenever he can catch my eye. \n\nHowever novel and peculiar this testimony of attachment, I did not\ndoubt the accuracy of the interpretation. I was very hot indeed upon\nOld Orlick s daring to admire her; as hot as if it were an outrage on\nmyself.\n\n But it makes no difference to you, you know,  said Biddy, calmly.\n\n No, Biddy, it makes no difference to me; only I don t like it; I don t\napprove of it. \n\n Nor I neither,  said Biddy.  Though _that_ makes no difference to\nyou. \n\n Exactly,  said I;  but I must tell you I should have no opinion of\nyou, Biddy, if he danced at you with your own consent. \n\nI kept an eye on Orlick after that night, and, whenever circumstances\nwere favourable to his dancing at Biddy, got before him to obscure that\ndemonstration. He had struck root in Joe s establishment, by reason of\nmy sister s sudden fancy for him, or I should have tried to get him\ndismissed. He quite understood and reciprocated my good intentions, as\nI had reason to know thereafter.\n\nAnd now, because my mind was not confused enough before, I complicated\nits confusion fifty thousand-fold, by having states and seasons when I\nwas clear that Biddy was immeasurably better than Estella, and that the\nplain honest working life to which I was born had nothing in it to be\nashamed of, but offered me sufficient means of self-respect and\nhappiness. At those times, I would decide conclusively that my\ndisaffection to dear old Joe and the forge was gone, and that I was\ngrowing up in a fair way to be partners with Joe and to keep company\nwith Biddy, when all in a moment some confounding remembrance of the\nHavisham days would fall upon me like a destructive missile, and\nscatter my wits again. Scattered wits take a long time picking up; and\noften before I had got them well together, they would be dispersed in\nall directions by one stray thought, that perhaps after all Miss\nHavisham was going to make my fortune when my time was out.\n\nIf my time had run out, it would have left me still at the height of my\nperplexities, I dare say. It never did run out, however, but was\nbrought to a premature end, as I proceed to relate.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XVIII.\n\n\nIt was in the fourth year of my apprenticeship to Joe, and it was a\nSaturday night. There was a group assembled round the fire at the Three\nJolly Bargemen, attentive to Mr. Wopsle as he read the newspaper aloud.\nOf that group I was one.\n\nA highly popular murder had been committed, and Mr. Wopsle was imbrued\nin blood to the eyebrows. He gloated over every abhorrent adjective in\nthe description, and identified himself with every witness at the\nInquest. He faintly moaned,  I am done for,  as the victim, and he\nbarbarously bellowed,  I ll serve you out,  as the murderer. He gave\nthe medical testimony, in pointed imitation of our local practitioner;\nand he piped and shook, as the aged turnpike-keeper who had heard\nblows, to an extent so very paralytic as to suggest a doubt regarding\nthe mental competency of that witness. The coroner, in Mr. Wopsle s\nhands, became Timon of Athens; the beadle, Coriolanus. He enjoyed\nhimself thoroughly, and we all enjoyed ourselves, and were delightfully\ncomfortable. In this cosey state of mind we came to the verdict Wilful\nMurder.\n\nThen, and not sooner, I became aware of a strange gentleman leaning\nover the back of the settle opposite me, looking on. There was an\nexpression of contempt on his face, and he bit the side of a great\nforefinger as he watched the group of faces.\n\n Well!  said the stranger to Mr. Wopsle, when the reading was done,\n you have settled it all to your own satisfaction, I have no doubt? \n\nEverybody started and looked up, as if it were the murderer. He looked\nat everybody coldly and sarcastically.\n\n Guilty, of course?  said he.  Out with it. Come! \n\n Sir,  returned Mr. Wopsle,  without having the honour of your\nacquaintance, I do say Guilty.  Upon this we all took courage to unite\nin a confirmatory murmur.\n\n I know you do,  said the stranger;  I knew you would. I told you so.\nBut now I ll ask you a question. Do you know, or do you not know, that\nthe law of England supposes every man to be innocent, until he is\nproved proved to be guilty? \n\n Sir,  Mr. Wopsle began to reply,  as an Englishman myself, I \n\n Come!  said the stranger, biting his forefinger at him.  Don t evade\nthe question. Either you know it, or you don t know it. Which is it to\nbe? \n\nHe stood with his head on one side and himself on one side, in a\nbullying, interrogative manner, and he threw his forefinger at Mr.\nWopsle, as it were to mark him out before biting it again.\n\n Now!  said he.  Do you know it, or don t you know it? \n\n Certainly I know it,  replied Mr. Wopsle.\n\n Certainly you know it. Then why didn t you say so at first? Now, I ll\nask you another question, taking possession of Mr. Wopsle, as if he\nhad a right to him, _do_ you know that none of these witnesses have\nyet been cross-examined? \n\nMr. Wopsle was beginning,  I can only say  when the stranger stopped\nhim.\n\n What? You won t answer the question, yes or no? Now, I ll try you\nagain.  Throwing his finger at him again.  Attend to me. Are you aware,\nor are you not aware, that none of these witnesses have yet been\ncross-examined? Come, I only want one word from you. Yes, or no? \n\nMr. Wopsle hesitated, and we all began to conceive rather a poor\nopinion of him.\n\n Come!  said the stranger,  I ll help you. You don t deserve help, but\nI ll help you. Look at that paper you hold in your hand. What is it? \n\n What is it?  repeated Mr. Wopsle, eyeing it, much at a loss.\n\n Is it,  pursued the stranger in his most sarcastic and suspicious\nmanner,  the printed paper you have just been reading from? \n\n Undoubtedly. \n\n Undoubtedly. Now, turn to that paper, and tell me whether it\ndistinctly states that the prisoner expressly said that his legal\nadvisers instructed him altogether to reserve his defence? \n\n I read that just now,  Mr. Wopsle pleaded.\n\n Never mind what you read just now, sir; I don t ask you what you read\njust now. You may read the Lord s Prayer backwards, if you like, and,\nperhaps, have done it before to-day. Turn to the paper. No, no, no my\nfriend; not to the top of the column; you know better than that; to the\nbottom, to the bottom.  (We all began to think Mr. Wopsle full of\nsubterfuge.)  Well? Have you found it? \n\n Here it is,  said Mr. Wopsle.\n\n Now, follow that passage with your eye, and tell me whether it\ndistinctly states that the prisoner expressly said that he was\ninstructed by his legal advisers wholly to reserve his defence? Come!\nDo you make that of it? \n\nMr. Wopsle answered,  Those are not the exact words. \n\n Not the exact words!  repeated the gentleman bitterly.  Is that the\nexact substance? \n\n Yes,  said Mr. Wopsle.\n\n Yes,  repeated the stranger, looking round at the rest of the company\nwith his right hand extended towards the witness, Wopsle.  And now I\nask you what you say to the conscience of that man who, with that\npassage before his eyes, can lay his head upon his pillow after having\npronounced a fellow-creature guilty, unheard? \n\nWe all began to suspect that Mr. Wopsle was not the man we had thought\nhim, and that he was beginning to be found out.\n\n And that same man, remember,  pursued the gentleman, throwing his\nfinger at Mr. Wopsle heavily, that same man might be summoned as a\njuryman upon this very trial, and, having thus deeply committed\nhimself, might return to the bosom of his family and lay his head upon\nhis pillow, after deliberately swearing that he would well and truly\ntry the issue joined between Our Sovereign Lord the King and the\nprisoner at the bar, and would a true verdict give according to the\nevidence, so help him God! \n\nWe were all deeply persuaded that the unfortunate Wopsle had gone too\nfar, and had better stop in his reckless career while there was yet\ntime.\n\nThe strange gentleman, with an air of authority not to be disputed, and\nwith a manner expressive of knowing something secret about every one of\nus that would effectually do for each individual if he chose to\ndisclose it, left the back of the settle, and came into the space\nbetween the two settles, in front of the fire, where he remained\nstanding, his left hand in his pocket, and he biting the forefinger of\nhis right.\n\n From information I have received,  said he, looking round at us as we\nall quailed before him,  I have reason to believe there is a blacksmith\namong you, by name Joseph or Joe Gargery. Which is the man? \n\n Here is the man,  said Joe.\n\nThe strange gentleman beckoned him out of his place, and Joe went.\n\n You have an apprentice,  pursued the stranger,  commonly known as Pip?\nIs he here? \n\n I am here!  I cried.\n\nThe stranger did not recognise me, but I recognised him as the\ngentleman I had met on the stairs, on the occasion of my second visit\nto Miss Havisham. I had known him the moment I saw him looking over the\nsettle, and now that I stood confronting him with his hand upon my\nshoulder, I checked off again in detail his large head, his dark\ncomplexion, his deep-set eyes, his bushy black eyebrows, his large\nwatch-chain, his strong black dots of beard and whisker, and even the\nsmell of scented soap on his great hand.\n\n I wish to have a private conference with you two,  said he, when he\nhad surveyed me at his leisure.  It will take a little time. Perhaps we\nhad better go to your place of residence. I prefer not to anticipate my\ncommunication here; you will impart as much or as little of it as you\nplease to your friends afterwards; I have nothing to do with that. \n\nAmidst a wondering silence, we three walked out of the Jolly Bargemen,\nand in a wondering silence walked home. While going along, the strange\ngentleman occasionally looked at me, and occasionally bit the side of\nhis finger. As we neared home, Joe vaguely acknowledging the occasion\nas an impressive and ceremonious one, went on ahead to open the front\ndoor. Our conference was held in the state parlour, which was feebly\nlighted by one candle.\n\nIt began with the strange gentleman s sitting down at the table,\ndrawing the candle to him, and looking over some entries in his\npocket-book. He then put up the pocket-book and set the candle a little\naside, after peering round it into the darkness at Joe and me, to\nascertain which was which.\n\n My name,  he said,  is Jaggers, and I am a lawyer in London. I am\npretty well known. I have unusual business to transact with you, and I\ncommence by explaining that it is not of my originating. If my advice\nhad been asked, I should not have been here. It was not asked, and you\nsee me here. What I have to do as the confidential agent of another, I\ndo. No less, no more. \n\nFinding that he could not see us very well from where he sat, he got\nup, and threw one leg over the back of a chair and leaned upon it; thus\nhaving one foot on the seat of the chair, and one foot on the ground.\n\n Now, Joseph Gargery, I am the bearer of an offer to relieve you of\nthis young fellow your apprentice. You would not object to cancel his\nindentures at his request and for his good? You would want nothing for\nso doing? \n\n Lord forbid that I should want anything for not standing in Pip s\nway,  said Joe, staring.\n\n Lord forbidding is pious, but not to the purpose,  returned Mr.\nJaggers.  The question is, Would you want anything? Do you want\nanything? \n\n The answer is,  returned Joe, sternly,  No. \n\nI thought Mr. Jaggers glanced at Joe, as if he considered him a fool\nfor his disinterestedness. But I was too much bewildered between\nbreathless curiosity and surprise, to be sure of it.\n\n Very well,  said Mr. Jaggers.  Recollect the admission you have made,\nand don t try to go from it presently. \n\n Who s a-going to try?  retorted Joe.\n\n I don t say anybody is. Do you keep a dog? \n\n Yes, I do keep a dog. \n\n Bear in mind then, that Brag is a good dog, but Holdfast is a better.\nBear that in mind, will you?  repeated Mr. Jaggers, shutting his eyes\nand nodding his head at Joe, as if he were forgiving him something.\n Now, I return to this young fellow. And the communication I have got\nto make is, that he has great expectations. \n\nJoe and I gasped, and looked at one another.\n\n I am instructed to communicate to him,  said Mr. Jaggers, throwing his\nfinger at me sideways,  that he will come into a handsome property.\nFurther, that it is the desire of the present possessor of that\nproperty, that he be immediately removed from his present sphere of\nlife and from this place, and be brought up as a gentleman, in a word,\nas a young fellow of great expectations. \n\nMy dream was out; my wild fancy was surpassed by sober reality; Miss\nHavisham was going to make my fortune on a grand scale.\n\n Now, Mr. Pip,  pursued the lawyer,  I address the rest of what I have\nto say, to you. You are to understand, first, that it is the request of\nthe person from whom I take my instructions that you always bear the\nname of Pip. You will have no objection, I dare say, to your great\nexpectations being encumbered with that easy condition. But if you have\nany objection, this is the time to mention it. \n\nMy heart was beating so fast, and there was such a singing in my ears,\nthat I could scarcely stammer I had no objection.\n\n I should think not! Now you are to understand, secondly, Mr. Pip, that\nthe name of the person who is your liberal benefactor remains a\nprofound secret, until the person chooses to reveal it. I am empowered\nto mention that it is the intention of the person to reveal it at first\nhand by word of mouth to yourself. When or where that intention may be\ncarried out, I cannot say; no one can say. It may be years hence. Now,\nyou are distinctly to understand that you are most positively\nprohibited from making any inquiry on this head, or any allusion or\nreference, however distant, to any individual whomsoever as _the_\nindividual, in all the communications you may have with me. If you have\na suspicion in your own breast, keep that suspicion in your own breast.\nIt is not the least to the purpose what the reasons of this prohibition\nare; they may be the strongest and gravest reasons, or they may be mere\nwhim. This is not for you to inquire into. The condition is laid down.\nYour acceptance of it, and your observance of it as binding, is the\nonly remaining condition that I am charged with, by the person from\nwhom I take my instructions, and for whom I am not otherwise\nresponsible. That person is the person from whom you derive your\nexpectations, and the secret is solely held by that person and by me.\nAgain, not a very difficult condition with which to encumber such a\nrise in fortune; but if you have any objection to it, this is the time\nto mention it. Speak out. \n\nOnce more, I stammered with difficulty that I had no objection.\n\n I should think not! Now, Mr. Pip, I have done with stipulations. \nThough he called me Mr. Pip, and began rather to make up to me, he\nstill could not get rid of a certain air of bullying suspicion; and\neven now he occasionally shut his eyes and threw his finger at me while\nhe spoke, as much as to express that he knew all kinds of things to my\ndisparagement, if he only chose to mention them.  We come next, to mere\ndetails of arrangement. You must know that, although I have used the\nterm  expectations  more than once, you are not endowed with\nexpectations only. There is already lodged in my hands a sum of money\namply sufficient for your suitable education and maintenance. You will\nplease consider me your guardian. Oh!  for I was going to thank him,  I\ntell you at once, I am paid for my services, or I shouldn t render\nthem. It is considered that you must be better educated, in accordance\nwith your altered position, and that you will be alive to the\nimportance and necessity of at once entering on that advantage. \n\nI said I had always longed for it.\n\n Never mind what you have always longed for, Mr. Pip,  he retorted;\n keep to the record. If you long for it now, that s enough. Am I\nanswered that you are ready to be placed at once under some proper\ntutor? Is that it? \n\nI stammered yes, that was it.\n\n Good. Now, your inclinations are to be consulted. I don t think that\nwise, mind, but it s my trust. Have you ever heard of any tutor whom\nyou would prefer to another? \n\nI had never heard of any tutor but Biddy and Mr. Wopsle s great-aunt;\nso, I replied in the negative.\n\n There is a certain tutor, of whom I have some knowledge, who I think\nmight suit the purpose,  said Mr. Jaggers.  I don t recommend him,\nobserve; because I never recommend anybody. The gentleman I speak of is\none Mr. Matthew Pocket. \n\nAh! I caught at the name directly. Miss Havisham s relation. The\nMatthew whom Mr. and Mrs. Camilla had spoken of. The Matthew whose\nplace was to be at Miss Havisham s head, when she lay dead, in her\nbride s dress on the bride s table.\n\n You know the name?  said Mr. Jaggers, looking shrewdly at me, and then\nshutting up his eyes while he waited for my answer.\n\nMy answer was, that I had heard of the name.\n\n Oh!  said he.  You have heard of the name. But the question is, what\ndo you say of it? \n\nI said, or tried to say, that I was much obliged to him for his\nrecommendation \n\n No, my young friend!  he interrupted, shaking his great head very\nslowly.  Recollect yourself! \n\nNot recollecting myself, I began again that I was much obliged to him\nfor his recommendation \n\n No, my young friend,  he interrupted, shaking his head and frowning\nand smiling both at once, no, no, no; it s very well done, but it\nwon t do; you are too young to fix me with it. Recommendation is not\nthe word, Mr. Pip. Try another. \n\nCorrecting myself, I said that I was much obliged to him for his\nmention of Mr. Matthew Pocket \n\n _That_ s more like it!  cried Mr. Jaggers. And (I added), I would\ngladly try that gentleman.\n\n Good. You had better try him in his own house. The way shall be\nprepared for you, and you can see his son first, who is in London. When\nwill you come to London? \n\nI said (glancing at Joe, who stood looking on, motionless), that I\nsupposed I could come directly.\n\n First,  said Mr. Jaggers,  you should have some new clothes to come\nin, and they should not be working-clothes. Say this day week. You ll\nwant some money. Shall I leave you twenty guineas? \n\nHe produced a long purse, with the greatest coolness, and counted them\nout on the table and pushed them over to me. This was the first time he\nhad taken his leg from the chair. He sat astride of the chair when he\nhad pushed the money over, and sat swinging his purse and eyeing Joe.\n\n Well, Joseph Gargery? You look dumbfoundered? \n\n I _am_!  said Joe, in a very decided manner.\n\n It was understood that you wanted nothing for yourself, remember? \n\n It were understood,  said Joe.  And it are understood. And it ever\nwill be similar according. \n\n But what,  said Mr. Jaggers, swinging his purse, what if it was in my\ninstructions to make you a present, as compensation? \n\n As compensation what for?  Joe demanded.\n\n For the loss of his services. \n\nJoe laid his hand upon my shoulder with the touch of a woman. I have\noften thought him since, like the steam-hammer that can crush a man or\npat an egg-shell, in his combination of strength with gentleness.  Pip\nis that hearty welcome,  said Joe,  to go free with his services, to\nhonour and fortun , as no words can tell him. But if you think as Money\ncan make compensation to me for the loss of the little child what come\nto the forge and ever the best of friends! \n\nO dear good Joe, whom I was so ready to leave and so unthankful to, I\nsee you again, with your muscular blacksmith s arm before your eyes,\nand your broad chest heaving, and your voice dying away. O dear good\nfaithful tender Joe, I feel the loving tremble of your hand upon my\narm, as solemnly this day as if it had been the rustle of an angel s\nwing!\n\nBut I encouraged Joe at the time. I was lost in the mazes of my future\nfortunes, and could not retrace the by-paths we had trodden together. I\nbegged Joe to be comforted, for (as he said) we had ever been the best\nof friends, and (as I said) we ever would be so. Joe scooped his eyes\nwith his disengaged wrist, as if he were bent on gouging himself, but\nsaid not another word.\n\nMr. Jaggers had looked on at this, as one who recognised in Joe the\nvillage idiot, and in me his keeper. When it was over, he said,\nweighing in his hand the purse he had ceased to swing: \n\n Now, Joseph Gargery, I warn you this is your last chance. No half\nmeasures with me. If you mean to take a present that I have it in\ncharge to make you, speak out, and you shall have it. If on the\ncontrary you mean to say  Here, to his great amazement, he was stopped\nby Joe s suddenly working round him with every demonstration of a fell\npugilistic purpose.\n\n Which I meantersay,  cried Joe,  that if you come into my place\nbull-baiting and badgering me, come out! Which I meantersay as sech if\nyou re a man, come on! Which I meantersay that what I say, I meantersay\nand stand or fall by! \n\nI drew Joe away, and he immediately became placable; merely stating to\nme, in an obliging manner and as a polite expostulatory notice to any\none whom it might happen to concern, that he were not a-going to be\nbull-baited and badgered in his own place. Mr. Jaggers had risen when\nJoe demonstrated, and had backed near the door. Without evincing any\ninclination to come in again, he there delivered his valedictory\nremarks. They were these.\n\n Well, Mr. Pip, I think the sooner you leave here as you are to be a\ngentleman the better. Let it stand for this day week, and you shall\nreceive my printed address in the meantime. You can take a\nhackney-coach at the stage-coach office in London, and come straight to\nme. Understand, that I express no opinion, one way or other, on the\ntrust I undertake. I am paid for undertaking it, and I do so. Now,\nunderstand that, finally. Understand that! \n\nHe was throwing his finger at both of us, and I think would have gone\non, but for his seeming to think Joe dangerous, and going off.\n\nSomething came into my head which induced me to run after him, as he\nwas going down to the Jolly Bargemen, where he had left a hired\ncarriage.\n\n I beg your pardon, Mr. Jaggers. \n\n Halloa!  said he, facing round,  what s the matter? \n\n I wish to be quite right, Mr. Jaggers, and to keep to your directions;\nso I thought I had better ask. Would there be any objection to my\ntaking leave of any one I know, about here, before I go away? \n\n No,  said he, looking as if he hardly understood me.\n\n I don t mean in the village only, but up town? \n\n No,  said he.  No objection. \n\nI thanked him and ran home again, and there I found that Joe had\nalready locked the front door and vacated the state parlour, and was\nseated by the kitchen fire with a hand on each knee, gazing intently at\nthe burning coals. I too sat down before the fire and gazed at the\ncoals, and nothing was said for a long time.\n\nMy sister was in her cushioned chair in her corner, and Biddy sat at\nher needle-work before the fire, and Joe sat next Biddy, and I sat next\nJoe in the corner opposite my sister. The more I looked into the\nglowing coals, the more incapable I became of looking at Joe; the\nlonger the silence lasted, the more unable I felt to speak.\n\nAt length I got out,  Joe, have you told Biddy? \n\n No, Pip,  returned Joe, still looking at the fire, and holding his\nknees tight, as if he had private information that they intended to\nmake off somewhere,  which I left it to yourself, Pip. \n\n I would rather you told, Joe. \n\n Pip s a gentleman of fortun  then,  said Joe,  and God bless him in\nit! \n\nBiddy dropped her work, and looked at me. Joe held his knees and looked\nat me. I looked at both of them. After a pause, they both heartily\ncongratulated me; but there was a certain touch of sadness in their\ncongratulations that I rather resented.\n\nI took it upon myself to impress Biddy (and through Biddy, Joe) with\nthe grave obligation I considered my friends under, to know nothing and\nsay nothing about the maker of my fortune. It would all come out in\ngood time, I observed, and in the meanwhile nothing was to be said,\nsave that I had come into great expectations from a mysterious patron.\nBiddy nodded her head thoughtfully at the fire as she took up her work\nagain, and said she would be very particular; and Joe, still detaining\nhis knees, said,  Ay, ay, I ll be ekervally partickler, Pip;  and then\nthey congratulated me again, and went on to express so much wonder at\nthe notion of my being a gentleman that I didn t half like it.\n\nInfinite pains were then taken by Biddy to convey to my sister some\nidea of what had happened. To the best of my belief, those efforts\nentirely failed. She laughed and nodded her head a great many times,\nand even repeated after Biddy, the words  Pip  and  Property.  But I\ndoubt if they had more meaning in them than an election cry, and I\ncannot suggest a darker picture of her state of mind.\n\nI never could have believed it without experience, but as Joe and Biddy\nbecame more at their cheerful ease again, I became quite gloomy.\nDissatisfied with my fortune, of course I could not be; but it is\npossible that I may have been, without quite knowing it, dissatisfied\nwith myself.\n\nAnyhow, I sat with my elbow on my knee and my face upon my hand,\nlooking into the fire, as those two talked about my going away, and\nabout what they should do without me, and all that. And whenever I\ncaught one of them looking at me, though never so pleasantly (and they\noften looked at me, particularly Biddy), I felt offended: as if they\nwere expressing some mistrust of me. Though Heaven knows they never did\nby word or sign.\n\nAt those times I would get up and look out at the door; for our kitchen\ndoor opened at once upon the night, and stood open on summer evenings\nto air the room. The very stars to which I then raised my eyes, I am\nafraid I took to be but poor and humble stars for glittering on the\nrustic objects among which I had passed my life.\n\n Saturday night,  said I, when we sat at our supper of bread and cheese\nand beer.  Five more days, and then the day before _the_ day! They ll\nsoon go. \n\n Yes, Pip,  observed Joe, whose voice sounded hollow in his beer-mug.\n They ll soon go. \n\n Soon, soon go,  said Biddy.\n\n I have been thinking, Joe, that when I go down town on Monday, and\norder my new clothes, I shall tell the tailor that I ll come and put\nthem on there, or that I ll have them sent to Mr. Pumblechook s. It\nwould be very disagreeable to be stared at by all the people here. \n\n Mr. and Mrs. Hubble might like to see you in your new gen-teel figure\ntoo, Pip,  said Joe, industriously cutting his bread, with his cheese\non it, in the palm of his left hand, and glancing at my untasted supper\nas if he thought of the time when we used to compare slices.  So might\nWopsle. And the Jolly Bargemen might take it as a compliment. \n\n That s just what I don t want, Joe. They would make such a business of\nit, such a coarse and common business, that I couldn t bear myself. \n\n Ah, that indeed, Pip!  said Joe.  If you couldn t abear yourself \n\nBiddy asked me here, as she sat holding my sister s plate,  Have you\nthought about when you ll show yourself to Mr. Gargery, and your sister\nand me? You will show yourself to us; won t you? \n\n Biddy,  I returned with some resentment,  you are so exceedingly quick\nthat it s difficult to keep up with you. \n\n( She always were quick,  observed Joe.)\n\n If you had waited another moment, Biddy, you would have heard me say\nthat I shall bring my clothes here in a bundle one evening, most likely\non the evening before I go away. \n\nBiddy said no more. Handsomely forgiving her, I soon exchanged an\naffectionate good night with her and Joe, and went up to bed. When I\ngot into my little room, I sat down and took a long look at it, as a\nmean little room that I should soon be parted from and raised above,\nfor ever. It was furnished with fresh young remembrances too, and even\nat the same moment I fell into much the same confused division of mind\nbetween it and the better rooms to which I was going, as I had been in\nso often between the forge and Miss Havisham s, and Biddy and Estella.\n\nThe sun had been shining brightly all day on the roof of my attic, and\nthe room was warm. As I put the window open and stood looking out, I\nsaw Joe come slowly forth at the dark door, below, and take a turn or\ntwo in the air; and then I saw Biddy come, and bring him a pipe and\nlight it for him. He never smoked so late, and it seemed to hint to me\nthat he wanted comforting, for some reason or other.\n\nHe presently stood at the door immediately beneath me, smoking his\npipe, and Biddy stood there too, quietly talking to him, and I knew\nthat they talked of me, for I heard my name mentioned in an endearing\ntone by both of them more than once. I would not have listened for\nmore, if I could have heard more; so I drew away from the window, and\nsat down in my one chair by the bedside, feeling it very sorrowful and\nstrange that this first night of my bright fortunes should be the\nloneliest I had ever known.\n\nLooking towards the open window, I saw light wreaths from Joe s pipe\nfloating there, and I fancied it was like a blessing from Joe, not\nobtruded on me or paraded before me, but pervading the air we shared\ntogether. I put my light out, and crept into bed; and it was an uneasy\nbed now, and I never slept the old sound sleep in it any more.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIX.\n\n\nMorning made a considerable difference in my general prospect of Life,\nand brightened it so much that it scarcely seemed the same. What lay\nheaviest on my mind was, the consideration that six days intervened\nbetween me and the day of departure; for I could not divest myself of a\nmisgiving that something might happen to London in the meanwhile, and\nthat, when I got there, it would be either greatly deteriorated or\nclean gone.\n\nJoe and Biddy were very sympathetic and pleasant when I spoke of our\napproaching separation; but they only referred to it when I did. After\nbreakfast, Joe brought out my indentures from the press in the best\nparlour, and we put them in the fire, and I felt that I was free. With\nall the novelty of my emancipation on me, I went to church with Joe,\nand thought perhaps the clergyman wouldn t have read that about the\nrich man and the kingdom of Heaven, if he had known all.\n\nAfter our early dinner, I strolled out alone, purposing to finish off\nthe marshes at once, and get them done with. As I passed the church, I\nfelt (as I had felt during service in the morning) a sublime compassion\nfor the poor creatures who were destined to go there, Sunday after\nSunday, all their lives through, and to lie obscurely at last among the\nlow green mounds. I promised myself that I would do something for them\none of these days, and formed a plan in outline for bestowing a dinner\nof roast-beef and plum-pudding, a pint of ale, and a gallon of\ncondescension, upon everybody in the village.\n\nIf I had often thought before, with something allied to shame, of my\ncompanionship with the fugitive whom I had once seen limping among\nthose graves, what were my thoughts on this Sunday, when the place\nrecalled the wretch, ragged and shivering, with his felon iron and\nbadge! My comfort was, that it happened a long time ago, and that he\nhad doubtless been transported a long way off, and that he was dead to\nme, and might be veritably dead into the bargain.\n\nNo more low, wet grounds, no more dikes and sluices, no more of these\ngrazing cattle, though they seemed, in their dull manner, to wear a\nmore respectful air now, and to face round, in order that they might\nstare as long as possible at the possessor of such great\nexpectations, farewell, monotonous acquaintances of my childhood,\nhenceforth I was for London and greatness; not for smith s work in\ngeneral, and for you! I made my exultant way to the old Battery, and,\nlying down there to consider the question whether Miss Havisham\nintended me for Estella, fell asleep.\n\nWhen I awoke, I was much surprised to find Joe sitting beside me,\nsmoking his pipe. He greeted me with a cheerful smile on my opening my\neyes, and said, \n\n As being the last time, Pip, I thought I d foller. \n\n And Joe, I am very glad you did so. \n\n Thankee, Pip. \n\n You may be sure, dear Joe,  I went on, after we had shaken hands,\n that I shall never forget you. \n\n No, no, Pip!  said Joe, in a comfortable tone,  _I_ m sure of that.\nAy, ay, old chap! Bless you, it were only necessary to get it well\nround in a man s mind, to be certain on it. But it took a bit of time\nto get it well round, the change come so oncommon plump; didn t it? \n\nSomehow, I was not best pleased with Joe s being so mightily secure of\nme. I should have liked him to have betrayed emotion, or to have said,\n It does you credit, Pip,  or something of that sort. Therefore, I made\nno remark on Joe s first head; merely saying as to his second, that the\ntidings had indeed come suddenly, but that I had always wanted to be a\ngentleman, and had often and often speculated on what I would do, if I\nwere one.\n\n Have you though?  said Joe.  Astonishing! \n\n It s a pity now, Joe,  said I,  that you did not get on a little more,\nwhen we had our lessons here; isn t it? \n\n Well, I don t know,  returned Joe.  I m so awful dull. I m only master\nof my own trade. It were always a pity as I was so awful dull; but it s\nno more of a pity now, than it was this day twelvemonth don t you see? \n\nWhat I had meant was, that when I came into my property and was able to\ndo something for Joe, it would have been much more agreeable if he had\nbeen better qualified for a rise in station. He was so perfectly\ninnocent of my meaning, however, that I thought I would mention it to\nBiddy in preference.\n\nSo, when we had walked home and had had tea, I took Biddy into our\nlittle garden by the side of the lane, and, after throwing out in a\ngeneral way for the elevation of her spirits, that I should never\nforget her, said I had a favour to ask of her.\n\n And it is, Biddy,  said I,  that you will not omit any opportunity of\nhelping Joe on, a little. \n\n How helping him on?  asked Biddy, with a steady sort of glance.\n\n Well! Joe is a dear good fellow, in fact, I think he is the dearest\nfellow that ever lived, but he is rather backward in some things. For\ninstance, Biddy, in his learning and his manners. \n\nAlthough I was looking at Biddy as I spoke, and although she opened her\neyes very wide when I had spoken, she did not look at me.\n\n O, his manners! won t his manners do then?  asked Biddy, plucking a\nblack-currant leaf.\n\n My dear Biddy, they do very well here \n\n O! they _do_ very well here?  interrupted Biddy, looking closely at\nthe leaf in her hand.\n\n Hear me out, but if I were to remove Joe into a higher sphere, as I\nshall hope to remove him when I fully come into my property, they would\nhardly do him justice. \n\n And don t you think he knows that?  asked Biddy.\n\nIt was such a very provoking question (for it had never in the most\ndistant manner occurred to me), that I said, snappishly, \n\n Biddy, what do you mean? \n\nBiddy, having rubbed the leaf to pieces between her hands, and the\nsmell of a black-currant bush has ever since recalled to me that\nevening in the little garden by the side of the lane, said,  Have you\nnever considered that he may be proud? \n\n Proud?  I repeated, with disdainful emphasis.\n\n O! there are many kinds of pride,  said Biddy, looking full at me and\nshaking her head;  pride is not all of one kind \n\n Well? What are you stopping for?  said I.\n\n Not all of one kind,  resumed Biddy.  He may be too proud to let any\none take him out of a place that he is competent to fill, and fills\nwell and with respect. To tell you the truth, I think he is; though it\nsounds bold in me to say so, for you must know him far better than I\ndo. \n\n Now, Biddy,  said I,  I am very sorry to see this in you. I did not\nexpect to see this in you. You are envious, Biddy, and grudging. You\nare dissatisfied on account of my rise in fortune, and you can t help\nshowing it. \n\n If you have the heart to think so,  returned Biddy,  say so. Say so\nover and over again, if you have the heart to think so. \n\n If you have the heart to be so, you mean, Biddy,  said I, in a\nvirtuous and superior tone;  don t put it off upon me. I am very sorry\nto see it, and it s a it s a bad side of human nature. I did intend to\nask you to use any little opportunities you might have after I was\ngone, of improving dear Joe. But after this I ask you nothing. I am\nextremely sorry to see this in you, Biddy,  I repeated.  It s a it s a\nbad side of human nature. \n\n Whether you scold me or approve of me,  returned poor Biddy,  you may\nequally depend upon my trying to do all that lies in my power, here, at\nall times. And whatever opinion you take away of me, shall make no\ndifference in my remembrance of you. Yet a gentleman should not be\nunjust neither,  said Biddy, turning away her head.\n\nI again warmly repeated that it was a bad side of human nature (in\nwhich sentiment, waiving its application, I have since seen reason to\nthink I was right), and I walked down the little path away from Biddy,\nand Biddy went into the house, and I went out at the garden gate and\ntook a dejected stroll until supper-time; again feeling it very\nsorrowful and strange that this, the second night of my bright\nfortunes, should be as lonely and unsatisfactory as the first.\n\nBut, morning once more brightened my view, and I extended my clemency\nto Biddy, and we dropped the subject. Putting on the best clothes I\nhad, I went into town as early as I could hope to find the shops open,\nand presented myself before Mr. Trabb, the tailor, who was having his\nbreakfast in the parlour behind his shop, and who did not think it\nworth his while to come out to me, but called me in to him.\n\n Well!  said Mr. Trabb, in a hail-fellow-well-met kind of way.  How are\nyou, and what can I do for you? \n\nMr. Trabb had sliced his hot roll into three feather-beds, and was\nslipping butter in between the blankets, and covering it up. He was a\nprosperous old bachelor, and his open window looked into a prosperous\nlittle garden and orchard, and there was a prosperous iron safe let\ninto the wall at the side of his fireplace, and I did not doubt that\nheaps of his prosperity were put away in it in bags.\n\n Mr. Trabb,  said I,  it s an unpleasant thing to have to mention,\nbecause it looks like boasting; but I have come into a handsome\nproperty. \n\nA change passed over Mr. Trabb. He forgot the butter in bed, got up\nfrom the bedside, and wiped his fingers on the tablecloth, exclaiming,\n Lord bless my soul! \n\n I am going up to my guardian in London,  said I, casually drawing some\nguineas out of my pocket and looking at them;  and I want a fashionable\nsuit of clothes to go in. I wish to pay for them,  I added otherwise I\nthought he might only pretend to make them,  with ready money. \n\n My dear sir,  said Mr. Trabb, as he respectfully bent his body, opened\nhis arms, and took the liberty of touching me on the outside of each\nelbow,  don t hurt me by mentioning that. May I venture to congratulate\nyou? Would you do me the favour of stepping into the shop? \n\nMr. Trabb s boy was the most audacious boy in all that country-side.\nWhen I had entered he was sweeping the shop, and he had sweetened his\nlabours by sweeping over me. He was still sweeping when I came out into\nthe shop with Mr. Trabb, and he knocked the broom against all possible\ncorners and obstacles, to express (as I understood it) equality with\nany blacksmith, alive or dead.\n\n Hold that noise,  said Mr. Trabb, with the greatest sternness,  or\nI ll knock your head off! Do me the favour to be seated, sir. Now,\nthis,  said Mr. Trabb, taking down a roll of cloth, and tiding it out\nin a flowing manner over the counter, preparatory to getting his hand\nunder it to show the gloss,  is a very sweet article. I can recommend\nit for your purpose, sir, because it really is extra super. But you\nshall see some others. Give me Number Four, you!  (To the boy, and with\na dreadfully severe stare; foreseeing the danger of that miscreant s\nbrushing me with it, or making some other sign of familiarity.)\n\nMr. Trabb never removed his stern eye from the boy until he had\ndeposited number four on the counter and was at a safe distance again.\nThen he commanded him to bring number five, and number eight.  And let\nme have none of your tricks here,  said Mr. Trabb,  or you shall repent\nit, you young scoundrel, the longest day you have to live. \n\nMr. Trabb then bent over number four, and in a sort of deferential\nconfidence recommended it to me as a light article for summer wear, an\narticle much in vogue among the nobility and gentry, an article that it\nwould ever be an honour to him to reflect upon a distinguished\nfellow-townsman s (if he might claim me for a fellow-townsman) having\nworn.  Are you bringing numbers five and eight, you vagabond,  said Mr.\nTrabb to the boy after that,  or shall I kick you out of the shop and\nbring them myself? \n\nI selected the materials for a suit, with the assistance of Mr. Trabb s\njudgment, and re-entered the parlour to be measured. For although Mr.\nTrabb had my measure already, and had previously been quite contented\nwith it, he said apologetically that it  wouldn t do under existing\ncircumstances, sir, wouldn t do at all.  So, Mr. Trabb measured and\ncalculated me in the parlour, as if I were an estate and he the finest\nspecies of surveyor, and gave himself such a world of trouble that I\nfelt that no suit of clothes could possibly remunerate him for his\npains. When he had at last done and had appointed to send the articles\nto Mr. Pumblechook s on the Thursday evening, he said, with his hand\nupon the parlour lock,  I know, sir, that London gentlemen cannot be\nexpected to patronise local work, as a rule; but if you would give me a\nturn now and then in the quality of a townsman, I should greatly esteem\nit. Good-morning, sir, much obliged. Door! \n\nThe last word was flung at the boy, who had not the least notion what\nit meant. But I saw him collapse as his master rubbed me out with his\nhands, and my first decided experience of the stupendous power of money\nwas, that it had morally laid upon his back Trabb s boy.\n\nAfter this memorable event, I went to the hatter s, and the\nbootmaker s, and the hosier s, and felt rather like Mother Hubbard s\ndog whose outfit required the services of so many trades. I also went\nto the coach-office and took my place for seven o clock on Saturday\nmorning. It was not necessary to explain everywhere that I had come\ninto a handsome property; but whenever I said anything to that effect,\nit followed that the officiating tradesman ceased to have his attention\ndiverted through the window by the High Street, and concentrated his\nmind upon me. When I had ordered everything I wanted, I directed my\nsteps towards Pumblechook s, and, as I approached that gentleman s\nplace of business, I saw him standing at his door.\n\nHe was waiting for me with great impatience. He had been out early with\nthe chaise-cart, and had called at the forge and heard the news. He had\nprepared a collation for me in the Barnwell parlour, and he too ordered\nhis shopman to  come out of the gangway  as my sacred person passed.\n\n My dear friend,  said Mr. Pumblechook, taking me by both hands, when\nhe and I and the collation were alone,  I give you joy of your good\nfortune. Well deserved, well deserved! \n\nThis was coming to the point, and I thought it a sensible way of\nexpressing himself.\n\n To think,  said Mr. Pumblechook, after snorting admiration at me for\nsome moments,  that I should have been the humble instrument of leading\nup to this, is a proud reward. \n\nI begged Mr. Pumblechook to remember that nothing was to be ever said\nor hinted, on that point.\n\n My dear young friend,  said Mr. Pumblechook;  if you will allow me to\ncall you so \n\nI murmured  Certainly,  and Mr. Pumblechook took me by both hands\nagain, and communicated a movement to his waistcoat, which had an\nemotional appearance, though it was rather low down,  My dear young\nfriend, rely upon my doing my little all in your absence, by keeping\nthe fact before the mind of Joseph. Joseph!  said Mr. Pumblechook, in\nthe way of a compassionate adjuration.  Joseph!! Joseph!!!  Thereupon\nhe shook his head and tapped it, expressing his sense of deficiency in\nJoseph.\n\n But my dear young friend,  said Mr. Pumblechook,  you must be hungry,\nyou must be exhausted. Be seated. Here is a chicken had round from the\nBoar, here is a tongue had round from the Boar, here s one or two\nlittle things had round from the Boar, that I hope you may not despise.\nBut do I,  said Mr. Pumblechook, getting up again the moment after he\nhad sat down,  see afore me, him as I ever sported with in his times of\nhappy infancy? And may I _may_ I ? \n\nThis May I, meant might he shake hands? I consented, and he was\nfervent, and then sat down again.\n\n Here is wine,  said Mr. Pumblechook.  Let us drink, Thanks to Fortune,\nand may she ever pick out her favourites with equal judgment! And yet I\ncannot,  said Mr. Pumblechook, getting up again,  see afore me One and\nlikewise drink to One without again expressing May I _may_ I ? \n\nI said he might, and he shook hands with me again, and emptied his\nglass and turned it upside down. I did the same; and if I had turned\nmyself upside down before drinking, the wine could not have gone more\ndirect to my head.\n\nMr. Pumblechook helped me to the liver wing, and to the best slice of\ntongue (none of those out-of-the-way No Thoroughfares of Pork now), and\ntook, comparatively speaking, no care of himself at all.  Ah! poultry,\npoultry! You little thought,  said Mr. Pumblechook, apostrophising the\nfowl in the dish,  when you was a young fledgling, what was in store\nfor you. You little thought you was to be refreshment beneath this\nhumble roof for one as Call it a weakness, if you will,  said Mr.\nPumblechook, getting up again,  but may I? _may_ I ? \n\nIt began to be unnecessary to repeat the form of saying he might, so he\ndid it at once. How he ever did it so often without wounding himself\nwith my knife, I don t know.\n\n And your sister,  he resumed, after a little steady eating,  which had\nthe honour of bringing you up by hand! It s a sad picter, to reflect\nthat she s no longer equal to fully understanding the honour. May \n\nI saw he was about to come at me again, and I stopped him.\n\n We ll drink her health,  said I.\n\n Ah!  cried Mr. Pumblechook, leaning back in his chair, quite flaccid\nwith admiration,  that s the way you know  em, sir!  (I don t know who\nSir was, but he certainly was not I, and there was no third person\npresent);  that s the way you know the noble-minded, sir! Ever\nforgiving and ever affable. It might,  said the servile Pumblechook,\nputting down his untasted glass in a hurry and getting up again,  to a\ncommon person, have the appearance of repeating but _may_ I ? \n\nWhen he had done it, he resumed his seat and drank to my sister.  Let\nus never be blind,  said Mr. Pumblechook,  to her faults of temper, but\nit is to be hoped she meant well. \n\nAt about this time, I began to observe that he was getting flushed in\nthe face; as to myself, I felt all face, steeped in wine and smarting.\n\nI mentioned to Mr. Pumblechook that I wished to have my new clothes\nsent to his house, and he was ecstatic on my so distinguishing him. I\nmentioned my reason for desiring to avoid observation in the village,\nand he lauded it to the skies. There was nobody but himself, he\nintimated, worthy of my confidence, and in short, might he? Then he\nasked me tenderly if I remembered our boyish games at sums, and how we\nhad gone together to have me bound apprentice, and, in effect, how he\nhad ever been my favourite fancy and my chosen friend? If I had taken\nten times as many glasses of wine as I had, I should have known that he\nnever had stood in that relation towards me, and should in my heart of\nhearts have repudiated the idea. Yet for all that, I remember feeling\nconvinced that I had been much mistaken in him, and that he was a\nsensible, practical, good-hearted prime fellow.\n\nBy degrees he fell to reposing such great confidence in me, as to ask\nmy advice in reference to his own affairs. He mentioned that there was\nan opportunity for a great amalgamation and monopoly of the corn and\nseed trade on those premises, if enlarged, such as had never occurred\nbefore in that or any other neighbourhood. What alone was wanting to\nthe realisation of a vast fortune, he considered to be More Capital.\nThose were the two little words, more capital. Now it appeared to him\n(Pumblechook) that if that capital were got into the business, through\na sleeping partner, sir, which sleeping partner would have nothing to\ndo but walk in, by self or deputy, whenever he pleased, and examine the\nbooks, and walk in twice a year and take his profits away in his\npocket, to the tune of fifty per cent, it appeared to him that that\nmight be an opening for a young gentleman of spirit combined with\nproperty, which would be worthy of his attention. But what did I think?\nHe had great confidence in my opinion, and what did I think? I gave it\nas my opinion.  Wait a bit!  The united vastness and distinctness of\nthis view so struck him, that he no longer asked if he might shake\nhands with me, but said he really must, and did.\n\nWe drank all the wine, and Mr. Pumblechook pledged himself over and\nover again to keep Joseph up to the mark (I don t know what mark), and\nto render me efficient and constant service (I don t know what\nservice). He also made known to me for the first time in my life, and\ncertainly after having kept his secret wonderfully well, that he had\nalways said of me,  That boy is no common boy, and mark me, his fortun \nwill be no common fortun .  He said with a tearful smile that it was a\nsingular thing to think of now, and I said so too. Finally, I went out\ninto the air, with a dim perception that there was something unwonted\nin the conduct of the sunshine, and found that I had slumberously got\nto the turnpike without having taken any account of the road.\n\nThere, I was roused by Mr. Pumblechook s hailing me. He was a long way\ndown the sunny street, and was making expressive gestures for me to\nstop. I stopped, and he came up breathless.\n\n No, my dear friend,  said he, when he had recovered wind for speech.\n Not if I can help it. This occasion shall not entirely pass without\nthat affability on your part. May I, as an old friend and well-wisher?\n_May_ I? \n\nWe shook hands for the hundredth time at least, and he ordered a young\ncarter out of my way with the greatest indignation. Then, he blessed me\nand stood waving his hand to me until I had passed the crook in the\nroad; and then I turned into a field and had a long nap under a hedge\nbefore I pursued my way home.\n\nI had scant luggage to take with me to London, for little of the little\nI possessed was adapted to my new station. But I began packing that\nsame afternoon, and wildly packed up things that I knew I should want\nnext morning, in a fiction that there was not a moment to be lost.\n\nSo, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, passed; and on Friday morning I\nwent to Mr. Pumblechook s, to put on my new clothes and pay my visit to\nMiss Havisham. Mr. Pumblechook s own room was given up to me to dress\nin, and was decorated with clean towels expressly for the event. My\nclothes were rather a disappointment, of course. Probably every new and\neagerly expected garment ever put on since clothes came in, fell a\ntrifle short of the wearer s expectation. But after I had had my new\nsuit on some half an hour, and had gone through an immensity of\nposturing with Mr. Pumblechook s very limited dressing-glass, in the\nfutile endeavour to see my legs, it seemed to fit me better. It being\nmarket morning at a neighbouring town some ten miles off, Mr.\nPumblechook was not at home. I had not told him exactly when I meant to\nleave, and was not likely to shake hands with him again before\ndeparting. This was all as it should be, and I went out in my new\narray, fearfully ashamed of having to pass the shopman, and suspicious\nafter all that I was at a personal disadvantage, something like Joe s\nin his Sunday suit.\n\nI went circuitously to Miss Havisham s by all the back ways, and rang\nat the bell constrainedly, on account of the stiff long fingers of my\ngloves. Sarah Pocket came to the gate, and positively reeled back when\nshe saw me so changed; her walnut-shell countenance likewise turned\nfrom brown to green and yellow.\n\n You?  said she.  You? Good gracious! What do you want? \n\n I am going to London, Miss Pocket,  said I,  and want to say good-bye\nto Miss Havisham. \n\nI was not expected, for she left me locked in the yard, while she went\nto ask if I were to be admitted. After a very short delay, she returned\nand took me up, staring at me all the way.\n\nMiss Havisham was taking exercise in the room with the long spread\ntable, leaning on her crutch stick. The room was lighted as of yore,\nand at the sound of our entrance, she stopped and turned. She was then\njust abreast of the rotted bride-cake.\n\n Don t go, Sarah,  she said.  Well, Pip? \n\n I start for London, Miss Havisham, to-morrow,  I was exceedingly\ncareful what I said,  and I thought you would kindly not mind my taking\nleave of you. \n\n This is a gay figure, Pip,  said she, making her crutch stick play\nround me, as if she, the fairy godmother who had changed me, were\nbestowing the finishing gift.\n\n I have come into such good fortune since I saw you last, Miss\nHavisham,  I murmured.  And I am so grateful for it, Miss Havisham! \n\n Ay, ay!  said she, looking at the discomfited and envious Sarah, with\ndelight.  I have seen Mr. Jaggers. _I_ have heard about it, Pip. So you\ngo to-morrow? \n\n Yes, Miss Havisham. \n\n And you are adopted by a rich person? \n\n Yes, Miss Havisham. \n\n Not named? \n\n No, Miss Havisham. \n\n And Mr. Jaggers is made your guardian? \n\n Yes, Miss Havisham. \n\nShe quite gloated on these questions and answers, so keen was her\nenjoyment of Sarah Pocket s jealous dismay.  Well!  she went on;  you\nhave a promising career before you. Be good deserve it and abide by Mr.\nJaggers s instructions.  She looked at me, and looked at Sarah, and\nSarah s countenance wrung out of her watchful face a cruel smile.\n Good-bye, Pip! you will always keep the name of Pip, you know. \n\n Yes, Miss Havisham. \n\n Good-bye, Pip! \n\nShe stretched out her hand, and I went down on my knee and put it to my\nlips. I had not considered how I should take leave of her; it came\nnaturally to me at the moment to do this. She looked at Sarah Pocket\nwith triumph in her weird eyes, and so I left my fairy godmother, with\nboth her hands on her crutch stick, standing in the midst of the dimly\nlighted room beside the rotten bride-cake that was hidden in cobwebs.\n\nSarah Pocket conducted me down, as if I were a ghost who must be seen\nout. She could not get over my appearance, and was in the last degree\nconfounded. I said  Good-bye, Miss Pocket;  but she merely stared, and\ndid not seem collected enough to know that I had spoken. Clear of the\nhouse, I made the best of my way back to Pumblechook s, took off my new\nclothes, made them into a bundle, and went back home in my older dress,\ncarrying it to speak the truth much more at my ease too, though I had\nthe bundle to carry.\n\nAnd now, those six days which were to have run out so slowly, had run\nout fast and were gone, and to-morrow looked me in the face more\nsteadily than I could look at it. As the six evenings had dwindled\naway, to five, to four, to three, to two, I had become more and more\nappreciative of the society of Joe and Biddy. On this last evening, I\ndressed myself out in my new clothes for their delight, and sat in my\nsplendour\t until bedtime. We had a hot supper on the occasion,\ngraced by the inevitable roast fowl, and we had some flip to finish\nwith. We were all very low, and none the higher for pretending to be in\nspirits.\n\nI was to leave our village at five in the morning, carrying my little\nhand-portmanteau, and I had told Joe that I wished to walk away all\nalone. I am afraid sore afraid that this purpose originated in my sense\nof the contrast there would be between me and Joe, if we went to the\ncoach together. I had pretended with myself that there was nothing of\nthis taint in the arrangement; but when I went up to my little room on\nthis last night, I felt compelled to admit that it might be so, and had\nan impulse upon me to go down again and entreat Joe to walk with me in\nthe morning. I did not.\n\nAll night there were coaches in my broken sleep, going to wrong places\ninstead of to London, and having in the traces, now dogs, now cats, now\npigs, now men, never horses. Fantastic failures of journeys occupied me\nuntil the day dawned and the birds were singing. Then, I got up and\npartly dressed, and sat at the window to take a last look out, and in\ntaking it fell asleep.\n\nBiddy was astir so early to get my breakfast, that, although I did not\nsleep at the window an hour, I smelt the smoke of the kitchen fire when\nI started up with a terrible idea that it must be late in the\nafternoon. But long after that, and long after I had heard the clinking\nof the teacups and was quite ready, I wanted the resolution to go\ndownstairs. After all, I remained up there, repeatedly unlocking and\nunstrapping my small portmanteau and locking and strapping it up again,\nuntil Biddy called to me that I was late.\n\nIt was a hurried breakfast with no taste in it. I got up from the meal,\nsaying with a sort of briskness, as if it had only just occurred to me,\n Well! I suppose I must be off!  and then I kissed my sister who was\nlaughing and nodding and shaking in her usual chair, and kissed Biddy,\nand threw my arms around Joe s neck. Then I took up my little\nportmanteau and walked out. The last I saw of them was, when I\npresently heard a scuffle behind me, and looking back, saw Joe throwing\nan old shoe after me and Biddy throwing another old shoe. I stopped\nthen, to wave my hat, and dear old Joe waved his strong right arm above\nhis head, crying huskily  Hooroar!  and Biddy put her apron to her\nface.\n\nI walked away at a good pace, thinking it was easier to go than I had\nsupposed it would be, and reflecting that it would never have done to\nhave had an old shoe thrown after the coach, in sight of all the High\nStreet. I whistled and made nothing of going. But the village was very\npeaceful and quiet, and the light mists were solemnly rising, as if to\nshow me the world, and I had been so innocent and little there, and all\nbeyond was so unknown and great, that in a moment with a strong heave\nand sob I broke into tears. It was by the finger-post at the end of the\nvillage, and I laid my hand upon it, and said,  Good-bye, O my dear,\ndear friend! \n\nHeaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain\nupon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts. I was\nbetter after I had cried than before, more sorry, more aware of my own\ningratitude, more gentle. If I had cried before, I should have had Joe\nwith me then.\n\nSo subdued I was by those tears, and by their breaking out again in the\ncourse of the quiet walk, that when I was on the coach, and it was\nclear of the town, I deliberated with an aching heart whether I would\nnot get down when we changed horses and walk back, and have another\nevening at home, and a better parting. We changed, and I had not made\nup my mind, and still reflected for my comfort that it would be quite\npracticable to get down and walk back, when we changed again. And while\nI was occupied with these deliberations, I would fancy an exact\nresemblance to Joe in some man coming along the road towards us, and my\nheart would beat high. As if he could possibly be there!\n\nWe changed again, and yet again, and it was now too late and too far to\ngo back, and I went on. And the mists had all solemnly risen now, and\nthe world lay spread before me.\n\nThis is the end of the first stage of Pip s expectations.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XX.\n\n\nThe journey from our town to the metropolis was a journey of about five\nhours. It was a little past midday when the four-horse stage-coach by\nwhich I was a passenger, got into the ravel of traffic frayed out about\nthe Cross Keys, Wood Street, Cheapside, London.\n\nWe Britons had at that time particularly settled that it was\ntreasonable to doubt our having and our being the best of everything:\notherwise, while I was scared by the immensity of London, I think I\nmight have had some faint doubts whether it was not rather ugly,\ncrooked, narrow, and dirty.\n\nMr. Jaggers had duly sent me his address; it was, Little Britain, and\nhe had written after it on his card,  just out of Smithfield, and close\nby the coach-office.  Nevertheless, a hackney-coachman, who seemed to\nhave as many capes to his greasy great-coat as he was years old, packed\nme up in his coach and hemmed me in with a folding and jingling barrier\nof steps, as if he were going to take me fifty miles. His getting on\nhis box, which I remember to have been decorated with an old\nweather-stained pea-green hammercloth moth-eaten into rags, was quite a\nwork of time. It was a wonderful equipage, with six great coronets\noutside, and ragged things behind for I don t know how many footmen to\nhold on by, and a harrow below them, to prevent amateur footmen from\nyielding to the temptation.\n\nI had scarcely had time to enjoy the coach and to think how like a\nstraw-yard it was, and yet how like a rag-shop, and to wonder why the\nhorses  nose-bags were kept inside, when I observed the coachman\nbeginning to get down, as if we were going to stop presently. And stop\nwe presently did, in a gloomy street, at certain offices with an open\ndoor, whereon was painted MR. JAGGERS.\n\n How much?  I asked the coachman.\n\nThe coachman answered,  A shilling unless you wish to make it more. \n\nI naturally said I had no wish to make it more.\n\n Then it must be a shilling,  observed the coachman.  I don t want to\nget into trouble. _I_ know _him_!  He darkly closed an eye at Mr.\nJaggers s name, and shook his head.\n\nWhen he had got his shilling, and had in course of time completed the\nascent to his box, and had got away (which appeared to relieve his\nmind), I went into the front office with my little portmanteau in my\nhand and asked, Was Mr. Jaggers at home?\n\n He is not,  returned the clerk.  He is in Court at present. Am I\naddressing Mr. Pip? \n\nI signified that he was addressing Mr. Pip.\n\n Mr. Jaggers left word, would you wait in his room. He couldn t say how\nlong he might be, having a case on. But it stands to reason, his time\nbeing valuable, that he won t be longer than he can help. \n\nWith those words, the clerk opened a door, and ushered me into an inner\nchamber at the back. Here, we found a gentleman with one eye, in a\nvelveteen suit and knee-breeches, who wiped his nose with his sleeve on\nbeing interrupted in the perusal of the newspaper.\n\n Go and wait outside, Mike,  said the clerk.\n\nI began to say that I hoped I was not interrupting, when the clerk\nshoved this gentleman out with as little ceremony as I ever saw used,\nand tossing his fur cap out after him, left me alone.\n\nMr. Jaggers s room was lighted by a skylight only, and was a most\ndismal place; the skylight, eccentrically pitched like a broken head,\nand the distorted adjoining houses looking as if they had twisted\nthemselves to peep down at me through it. There were not so many papers\nabout, as I should have expected to see; and there were some odd\nobjects about, that I should not have expected to see, such as an old\nrusty pistol, a sword in a scabbard, several strange-looking boxes and\npackages, and two dreadful casts on a shelf, of faces peculiarly\nswollen, and twitchy about the nose. Mr. Jaggers s own high-backed\nchair was of deadly black horsehair, with rows of brass nails round it,\nlike a coffin; and I fancied I could see how he leaned back in it, and\nbit his forefinger at the clients. The room was but small, and the\nclients seemed to have had a habit of backing up against the wall; the\nwall, especially opposite to Mr. Jaggers s chair, being greasy with\nshoulders. I recalled, too, that the one-eyed gentleman had shuffled\nforth against the wall when I was the innocent cause of his being\nturned out.\n\nI sat down in the cliental chair placed over against Mr. Jaggers s\nchair, and became fascinated by the dismal atmosphere of the place. I\ncalled to mind that the clerk had the same air of knowing something to\neverybody else s disadvantage, as his master had. I wondered how many\nother clerks there were upstairs, and whether they all claimed to have\nthe same detrimental mastery of their fellow-creatures. I wondered what\nwas the history of all the odd litter about the room, and how it came\nthere. I wondered whether the two swollen faces were of Mr. Jaggers s\nfamily, and, if he were so unfortunate as to have had a pair of such\nill-looking relations, why he stuck them on that dusty perch for the\nblacks and flies to settle on, instead of giving them a place at home.\nOf course I had no experience of a London summer day, and my spirits\nmay have been oppressed by the hot exhausted air, and by the dust and\ngrit that lay thick on everything. But I sat wondering and waiting in\nMr. Jaggers s close room, until I really could not bear the two casts\non the shelf above Mr. Jaggers s chair, and got up and went out.\n\nWhen I told the clerk that I would take a turn in the air while I\nwaited, he advised me to go round the corner and I should come into\nSmithfield. So I came into Smithfield; and the shameful place, being\nall asmear with filth and fat and blood and foam, seemed to stick to\nme. So, I rubbed it off with all possible speed by turning into a\nstreet where I saw the great black dome of Saint Paul s bulging at me\nfrom behind a grim stone building which a bystander said was Newgate\nPrison. Following the wall of the jail, I found the roadway covered\nwith straw to deaden the noise of passing vehicles; and from this, and\nfrom the quantity of people standing about smelling strongly of spirits\nand beer, I inferred that the trials were on.\n\nWhile I looked about me here, an exceedingly dirty and partially drunk\nminister of justice asked me if I would like to step in and hear a\ntrial or so: informing me that he could give me a front place for half\na crown, whence I should command a full view of the Lord Chief Justice\nin his wig and robes, mentioning that awful personage like waxwork, and\npresently offering him at the reduced price of eighteen-pence. As I\ndeclined the proposal on the plea of an appointment, he was so good as\nto take me into a yard and show me where the gallows was kept, and also\nwhere people were publicly whipped, and then he showed me the Debtors \nDoor, out of which culprits came to be hanged; heightening the interest\nof that dreadful portal by giving me to understand that  four on  em \nwould come out at that door the day after to-morrow at eight in the\nmorning, to be killed in a row. This was horrible, and gave me a\nsickening idea of London; the more so as the Lord Chief Justice s\nproprietor wore (from his hat down to his boots and up again to his\npocket-handkerchief inclusive) mildewed clothes which had evidently not\nbelonged to him originally, and which I took it into my head he had\nbought cheap of the executioner. Under these circumstances I thought\nmyself well rid of him for a shilling.\n\nI dropped into the office to ask if Mr. Jaggers had come in yet, and I\nfound he had not, and I strolled out again. This time, I made the tour\nof Little Britain, and turned into Bartholomew Close; and now I became\naware that other people were waiting about for Mr. Jaggers, as well as\nI. There were two men of secret appearance lounging in Bartholomew\nClose, and thoughtfully fitting their feet into the cracks of the\npavement as they talked together, one of whom said to the other when\nthey first passed me, that  Jaggers would do it if it was to be done. \nThere was a knot of three men and two women standing at a corner, and\none of the women was crying on her dirty shawl, and the other comforted\nher by saying, as she pulled her own shawl over her shoulders,  Jaggers\nis for him,  Melia, and what more _could_ you have?  There was a\nred-eyed little Jew who came into the Close while I was loitering\nthere, in company with a second little Jew whom he sent upon an errand;\nand while the messenger was gone, I remarked this Jew, who was of a\nhighly excitable temperament, performing a jig of anxiety under a\nlamp-post and accompanying himself, in a kind of frenzy, with the\nwords,  O Jaggerth, Jaggerth, Jaggerth! all otherth ith Cag-Maggerth,\ngive me Jaggerth!  These testimonies to the popularity of my guardian\nmade a deep impression on me, and I admired and wondered more than\never.\n\nAt length, as I was looking out at the iron gate of Bartholomew Close\ninto Little Britain, I saw Mr. Jaggers coming across the road towards\nme. All the others who were waiting saw him at the same time, and there\nwas quite a rush at him. Mr. Jaggers, putting a hand on my shoulder and\nwalking me on at his side without saying anything to me, addressed\nhimself to his followers.\n\nFirst, he took the two secret men.\n\n Now, I have nothing to say to _you_,  said Mr. Jaggers, throwing his\nfinger at them.  I want to know no more than I know. As to the result,\nit s a toss-up. I told you from the first it was a toss-up. Have you\npaid Wemmick? \n\n We made the money up this morning, sir,  said one of the men,\nsubmissively, while the other perused Mr. Jaggers s face.\n\n I don t ask you when you made it up, or where, or whether you made it\nup at all. Has Wemmick got it? \n\n Yes, sir,  said both the men together.\n\n Very well; then you may go. Now, I won t have it!  said Mr Jaggers,\nwaving his hand at them to put them behind him.  If you say a word to\nme, I ll throw up the case. \n\n We thought, Mr. Jaggers  one of the men began, pulling off his hat.\n\n That s what I told you not to do,  said Mr. Jaggers.  _You_ thought! I\nthink for you; that s enough for you. If I want you, I know where to\nfind you; I don t want you to find me. Now I won t have it. I won t\nhear a word. \n\nThe two men looked at one another as Mr. Jaggers waved them behind\nagain, and humbly fell back and were heard no more.\n\n And now _you_!  said Mr. Jaggers, suddenly stopping, and turning on\nthe two women with the shawls, from whom the three men had meekly\nseparated, Oh! Amelia, is it? \n\n Yes, Mr. Jaggers. \n\n And do you remember,  retorted Mr. Jaggers,  that but for me you\nwouldn t be here and couldn t be here? \n\n O yes, sir!  exclaimed both women together.  Lord bless you, sir, well\nwe knows that! \n\n Then why,  said Mr. Jaggers,  do you come here? \n\n My Bill, sir!  the crying woman pleaded.\n\n Now, I tell you what!  said Mr. Jaggers.  Once for all. If you don t\nknow that your Bill s in good hands, I know it. And if you come here\nbothering about your Bill, I ll make an example of both your Bill and\nyou, and let him slip through my fingers. Have you paid Wemmick? \n\n O yes, sir! Every farden. \n\n Very well. Then you have done all you have got to do. Say another\nword one single word and Wemmick shall give you your money back. \n\nThis terrible threat caused the two women to fall off immediately. No\none remained now but the excitable Jew, who had already raised the\nskirts of Mr. Jaggers s coat to his lips several times.\n\n I don t know this man!  said Mr. Jaggers, in the same devastating\nstrain:  What does this fellow want? \n\n Ma thear Mithter Jaggerth. Hown brother to Habraham Latharuth? \n\n Who s he?  said Mr. Jaggers.  Let go of my coat. \n\nThe suitor, kissing the hem of the garment again before relinquishing\nit, replied,  Habraham Latharuth, on thuthpithion of plate. \n\n You re too late,  said Mr. Jaggers.  I am over the way. \n\n Holy father, Mithter Jaggerth!  cried my excitable acquaintance,\nturning white,  don t thay you re again Habraham Latharuth! \n\n I am,  said Mr. Jaggers,  and there s an end of it. Get out of the\nway. \n\n Mithter Jaggerth! Half a moment! My hown cuthen th gone to Mithter\nWemmick at thith prethent minute, to hoffer him hany termth. Mithter\nJaggerth! Half a quarter of a moment! If you d have the condethenthun\nto be bought off from the t other thide at hany thuperior prithe! money\nno object! Mithter Jaggerth Mithter ! \n\nMy guardian threw his supplicant off with supreme indifference, and\nleft him dancing on the pavement as if it were red hot. Without further\ninterruption, we reached the front office, where we found the clerk and\nthe man in velveteen with the fur cap.\n\n Here s Mike,  said the clerk, getting down from his stool, and\napproaching Mr. Jaggers confidentially.\n\n Oh!  said Mr. Jaggers, turning to the man, who was pulling a lock of\nhair in the middle of his forehead, like the Bull in Cock Robin pulling\nat the bell-rope;  your man comes on this afternoon. Well? \n\n Well, Mas r Jaggers,  returned Mike, in the voice of a sufferer from a\nconstitutional cold;  arter a deal o  trouble, I ve found one, sir, as\nmight do. \n\n What is he prepared to swear? \n\n Well, Mas r Jaggers,  said Mike, wiping his nose on his fur cap this\ntime;  in a general way, anythink. \n\nMr. Jaggers suddenly became most irate.  Now, I warned you before, \nsaid he, throwing his forefinger at the terrified client,  that if you\never presumed to talk in that way here, I d make an example of you. You\ninfernal scoundrel, how dare you tell ME that? \n\nThe client looked scared, but bewildered too, as if he were unconscious\nwhat he had done.\n\n Spooney!  said the clerk, in a low voice, giving him a stir with his\nelbow.  Soft Head! Need you say it face to face? \n\n Now, I ask you, you blundering booby,  said my guardian, very sternly,\n once more and for the last time, what the man you have brought here is\nprepared to swear? \n\nMike looked hard at my guardian, as if he were trying to learn a lesson\nfrom his face, and slowly replied,  Ayther to character, or to having\nbeen in his company and never left him all the night in question. \n\n Now, be careful. In what station of life is this man? \n\nMike looked at his cap, and looked at the floor, and looked at the\nceiling, and looked at the clerk, and even looked at me, before\nbeginning to reply in a nervous manner,  We ve dressed him up like \nwhen my guardian blustered out, \n\n What? You WILL, will you? \n\n( Spooney!  added the clerk again, with another stir.)\n\nAfter some helpless casting about, Mike brightened and began again: \n\n He is dressed like a  spectable pieman. A sort of a pastry-cook. \n\n Is he here?  asked my guardian.\n\n I left him,  said Mike,  a setting on some doorsteps round the\ncorner. \n\n Take him past that window, and let me see him. \n\nThe window indicated was the office window. We all three went to it,\nbehind the wire blind, and presently saw the client go by in an\naccidental manner, with a murderous-looking tall individual, in a short\nsuit of white linen and a paper cap. This guileless confectioner was\nnot by any means sober, and had a black eye in the green stage of\nrecovery, which was painted over.\n\n Tell him to take his witness away directly,  said my guardian to the\nclerk, in extreme disgust,  and ask him what he means by bringing such\na fellow as that. \n\nMy guardian then took me into his own room, and while he lunched,\nstanding, from a sandwich-box and a pocket-flask of sherry (he seemed\nto bully his very sandwich as he ate it), informed me what arrangements\nhe had made for me. I was to go to  Barnard s Inn,  to young Mr.\nPocket s rooms, where a bed had been sent in for my accommodation; I\nwas to remain with young Mr. Pocket until Monday; on Monday I was to go\nwith him to his father s house on a visit, that I might try how I liked\nit. Also, I was told what my allowance was to be, it was a very liberal\none, and had handed to me from one of my guardian s drawers, the cards\nof certain tradesmen with whom I was to deal for all kinds of clothes,\nand such other things as I could in reason want.  You will find your\ncredit good, Mr. Pip,  said my guardian, whose flask of sherry smelt\nlike a whole caskful, as he hastily refreshed himself,  but I shall by\nthis means be able to check your bills, and to pull you up if I find\nyou outrunning the constable. Of course you ll go wrong somehow, but\nthat s no fault of mine. \n\nAfter I had pondered a little over this encouraging sentiment, I asked\nMr. Jaggers if I could send for a coach? He said it was not worth\nwhile, I was so near my destination; Wemmick should walk round with me,\nif I pleased.\n\nI then found that Wemmick was the clerk in the next room. Another clerk\nwas rung down from upstairs to take his place while he was out, and I\naccompanied him into the street, after shaking hands with my guardian.\nWe found a new set of people lingering outside, but Wemmick made a way\namong them by saying coolly yet decisively,  I tell you it s no use; he\nwon t have a word to say to one of you;  and we soon got clear of them,\nand went on side by side.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXI.\n\n\nCasting my eyes on Mr. Wemmick as we went along, to see what he was\nlike in the light of day, I found him to be a dry man, rather short in\nstature, with a square wooden face, whose expression seemed to have\nbeen imperfectly chipped out with a dull-edged chisel. There were some\nmarks in it that might have been dimples, if the material had been\nsofter and the instrument finer, but which, as it was, were only dints.\nThe chisel had made three or four of these attempts at embellishment\nover his nose, but had given them up without an effort to smooth them\noff. I judged him to be a bachelor from the frayed condition of his\nlinen, and he appeared to have sustained a good many bereavements; for\nhe wore at least four mourning rings, besides a brooch representing a\nlady and a weeping willow at a tomb with an urn on it. I noticed, too,\nthat several rings and seals hung at his watch-chain, as if he were\nquite laden with remembrances of departed friends. He had glittering\neyes, small, keen, and black, and thin wide mottled lips. He had had\nthem, to the best of my belief, from forty to fifty years.\n\n So you were never in London before?  said Mr. Wemmick to me.\n\n No,  said I.\n\n _I_ was new here once,  said Mr. Wemmick.  Rum to think of now! \n\n You are well acquainted with it now? \n\n Why, yes,  said Mr. Wemmick.  I know the moves of it. \n\n Is it a very wicked place?  I asked, more for the sake of saying\nsomething than for information.\n\n You may get cheated, robbed, and murdered in London. But there are\nplenty of people anywhere, who ll do that for you. \n\n If there is bad blood between you and them,  said I, to soften it off\na little.\n\n O! I don t know about bad blood,  returned Mr. Wemmick;  there s not\nmuch bad blood about. They ll do it, if there s anything to be got by\nit. \n\n That makes it worse. \n\n You think so?  returned Mr. Wemmick.  Much about the same, I should\nsay. \n\nHe wore his hat on the back of his head, and looked straight before\nhim: walking in a self-contained way as if there were nothing in the\nstreets to claim his attention. His mouth was such a post-office of a\nmouth that he had a mechanical appearance of smiling. We had got to the\ntop of Holborn Hill before I knew that it was merely a mechanical\nappearance, and that he was not smiling at all.\n\n Do you know where Mr. Matthew Pocket lives?  I asked Mr. Wemmick.\n\n Yes,  said he, nodding in the direction.  At Hammersmith, west of\nLondon. \n\n Is that far? \n\n Well! Say five miles. \n\n Do you know him? \n\n Why, you re a regular cross-examiner!  said Mr. Wemmick, looking at me\nwith an approving air.  Yes, I know him. _I_ know him! \n\nThere was an air of toleration or depreciation about his utterance of\nthese words that rather depressed me; and I was still looking sideways\nat his block of a face in search of any encouraging note to the text,\nwhen he said here we were at Barnard s Inn. My depression was not\nalleviated by the announcement, for, I had supposed that establishment\nto be an hotel kept by Mr. Barnard, to which the Blue Boar in our town\nwas a mere public-house. Whereas I now found Barnard to be a\ndisembodied spirit, or a fiction, and his inn the dingiest collection\nof shabby buildings ever squeezed together in a rank corner as a club\nfor Tom-cats.\n\nWe entered this haven through a wicket-gate, and were disgorged by an\nintroductory passage into a melancholy little square that looked to me\nlike a flat burying-ground. I thought it had the most dismal trees in\nit, and the most dismal sparrows, and the most dismal cats, and the\nmost dismal houses (in number half a dozen or so), that I had ever\nseen. I thought the windows of the sets of chambers into which those\nhouses were divided were in every stage of dilapidated blind and\ncurtain, crippled flower-pot, cracked glass, dusty decay, and miserable\nmakeshift; while To Let, To Let, To Let, glared at me from empty rooms,\nas if no new wretches ever came there, and the vengeance of the soul of\nBarnard were being slowly appeased by the gradual suicide of the\npresent occupants and their unholy interment under the gravel. A frowzy\nmourning of soot and smoke attired this forlorn creation of Barnard,\nand it had strewn ashes on its head, and was undergoing penance and\nhumiliation as a mere dust-hole. Thus far my sense of sight; while dry\nrot and wet rot and all the silent rots that rot in neglected roof and\ncellar, rot of rat and mouse and bug and coaching-stables near at hand\nbesides addressed themselves faintly to my sense of smell, and moaned,\n Try Barnard s Mixture. \n\nSo imperfect was this realisation of the first of my great\nexpectations, that I looked in dismay at Mr. Wemmick.  Ah!  said he,\nmistaking me;  the retirement reminds you of the country. So it does\nme. \n\nHe led me into a corner and conducted me up a flight of stairs, which\nappeared to me to be slowly collapsing into sawdust, so that one of\nthose days the upper lodgers would look out at their doors and find\nthemselves without the means of coming down, to a set of chambers on\nthe top floor. MR. POCKET, JUN., was painted on the door, and there was\na label on the letter-box,  Return shortly. \n\n He hardly thought you d come so soon,  Mr. Wemmick explained.  You\ndon t want me any more? \n\n No, thank you,  said I.\n\n As I keep the cash,  Mr. Wemmick observed,  we shall most likely meet\npretty often. Good day. \n\n Good day. \n\nI put out my hand, and Mr. Wemmick at first looked at it as if he\nthought I wanted something. Then he looked at me, and said, correcting\nhimself, \n\n To be sure! Yes. You re in the habit of shaking hands? \n\nI was rather confused, thinking it must be out of the London fashion,\nbut said yes.\n\n I have got so out of it!  said Mr. Wemmick, except at last. Very\nglad, I m sure, to make your acquaintance. Good day! \n\nWhen we had shaken hands and he was gone, I opened the staircase window\nand had nearly beheaded myself, for, the lines had rotted away, and it\ncame down like the guillotine. Happily it was so quick that I had not\nput my head out. After this escape, I was content to take a foggy view\nof the Inn through the window s encrusting dirt, and to stand dolefully\nlooking out, saying to myself that London was decidedly overrated.\n\nMr. Pocket, Junior s, idea of Shortly was not mine, for I had nearly\nmaddened myself with looking out for half an hour, and had written my\nname with my finger several times in the dirt of every pane in the\nwindow, before I heard footsteps on the stairs. Gradually there arose\nbefore me the hat, head, neckcloth, waistcoat, trousers, boots, of a\nmember of society of about my own standing. He had a paper-bag under\neach arm and a pottle of strawberries in one hand, and was out of\nbreath.\n\n Mr. Pip?  said he.\n\n Mr. Pocket?  said I.\n\n Dear me!  he exclaimed.  I am extremely sorry; but I knew there was a\ncoach from your part of the country at midday, and I thought you would\ncome by that one. The fact is, I have been out on your account, not\nthat that is any excuse, for I thought, coming from the country, you\nmight like a little fruit after dinner, and I went to Covent Garden\nMarket to get it good. \n\nFor a reason that I had, I felt as if my eyes would start out of my\nhead. I acknowledged his attention incoherently, and began to think\nthis was a dream.\n\n Dear me!  said Mr. Pocket, Junior.  This door sticks so! \n\nAs he was fast making jam of his fruit by wrestling with the door while\nthe paper-bags were under his arms, I begged him to allow me to hold\nthem. He relinquished them with an agreeable smile, and combated with\nthe door as if it were a wild beast. It yielded so suddenly at last,\nthat he staggered back upon me, and I staggered back upon the opposite\ndoor, and we both laughed. But still I felt as if my eyes must start\nout of my head, and as if this must be a dream.\n\n Pray come in,  said Mr. Pocket, Junior.  Allow me to lead the way. I\nam rather bare here, but I hope you ll be able to make out tolerably\nwell till Monday. My father thought you would get on more agreeably\nthrough to-morrow with me than with him, and might like to take a walk\nabout London. I am sure I shall be very happy to show London to you. As\nto our table, you won t find that bad, I hope, for it will be supplied\nfrom our coffee-house here, and (it is only right I should add) at your\nexpense, such being Mr. Jaggers s directions. As to our lodging, it s\nnot by any means splendid, because I have my own bread to earn, and my\nfather hasn t anything to give me, and I shouldn t be willing to take\nit, if he had. This is our sitting-room, just such chairs and tables\nand carpet and so forth, you see, as they could spare from home. You\nmustn t give me credit for the tablecloth and spoons and castors,\nbecause they come for you from the coffee-house. This is my little\nbedroom; rather musty, but Barnard s _is_ musty. This is your bedroom;\nthe furniture s hired for the occasion, but I trust it will answer the\npurpose; if you should want anything, I ll go and fetch it. The\nchambers are retired, and we shall be alone together, but we shan t\nfight, I dare say. But dear me, I beg your pardon, you re holding the\nfruit all this time. Pray let me take these bags from you. I am quite\nashamed. \n\nAs I stood opposite to Mr. Pocket, Junior, delivering him the bags,\nOne, Two, I saw the starting appearance come into his own eyes that I\nknew to be in mine, and he said, falling back, \n\n Lord bless me, you re the prowling boy! \n\n And you,  said I,  are the pale young gentleman! \n\n\n\n\nChapter XXII.\n\n\nThe pale young gentleman and I stood contemplating one another in\nBarnard s Inn, until we both burst out laughing.  The idea of its being\nyou!  said he.  The idea of its being _you_!  said I. And then we\ncontemplated one another afresh, and laughed again.  Well!  said the\npale young gentleman, reaching out his hand good-humouredly,  it s all\nover now, I hope, and it will be magnanimous in you if you ll forgive\nme for having knocked you about so. \n\nI derived from this speech that Mr. Herbert Pocket (for Herbert was the\npale young gentleman s name) still rather confounded his intention with\nhis execution. But I made a modest reply, and we shook hands warmly.\n\n You hadn t come into your good fortune at that time?  said Herbert\nPocket.\n\n No,  said I.\n\n No,  he acquiesced:  I heard it had happened very lately. _I_ was\nrather on the lookout for good fortune then. \n\n Indeed? \n\n Yes. Miss Havisham had sent for me, to see if she could take a fancy\nto me. But she couldn t, at all events, she didn t. \n\nI thought it polite to remark that I was surprised to hear that.\n\n Bad taste,  said Herbert, laughing,  but a fact. Yes, she had sent for\nme on a trial visit, and if I had come out of it successfully, I\nsuppose I should have been provided for; perhaps I should have been\nwhat-you-may-called it to Estella. \n\n What s that?  I asked, with sudden gravity.\n\nHe was arranging his fruit in plates while we talked, which divided his\nattention, and was the cause of his having made this lapse of a word.\n Affianced,  he explained, still busy with the fruit.  Betrothed.\nEngaged. What s-his-named. Any word of that sort. \n\n How did you bear your disappointment?  I asked.\n\n Pooh!  said he,  I didn t care much for it. _She s_ a Tartar. \n\n Miss Havisham? \n\n I don t say no to that, but I meant Estella. That girl s hard and\nhaughty and capricious to the last degree, and has been brought up by\nMiss Havisham to wreak revenge on all the male sex. \n\n What relation is she to Miss Havisham? \n\n None,  said he.  Only adopted. \n\n Why should she wreak revenge on all the male sex? What revenge? \n\n Lord, Mr. Pip!  said he.  Don t you know? \n\n No,  said I.\n\n Dear me! It s quite a story, and shall be saved till dinner-time. And\nnow let me take the liberty of asking you a question. How did you come\nthere, that day? \n\nI told him, and he was attentive until I had finished, and then burst\nout laughing again, and asked me if I was sore afterwards? I didn t ask\nhim if _he_ was, for my conviction on that point was perfectly\nestablished.\n\n Mr. Jaggers is your guardian, I understand?  he went on.\n\n Yes. \n\n You know he is Miss Havisham s man of business and solicitor, and has\nher confidence when nobody else has? \n\nThis was bringing me (I felt) towards dangerous ground. I answered with\na constraint I made no attempt to disguise, that I had seen Mr. Jaggers\nin Miss Havisham s house on the very day of our combat, but never at\nany other time, and that I believed he had no recollection of having\never seen me there.\n\n He was so obliging as to suggest my father for your tutor, and he\ncalled on my father to propose it. Of course he knew about my father\nfrom his connection with Miss Havisham. My father is Miss Havisham s\ncousin; not that that implies familiar intercourse between them, for he\nis a bad courtier and will not propitiate her. \n\nHerbert Pocket had a frank and easy way with him that was very taking.\nI had never seen any one then, and I have never seen any one since, who\nmore strongly expressed to me, in every look and tone, a natural\nincapacity to do anything secret and mean. There was something\nwonderfully hopeful about his general air, and something that at the\nsame time whispered to me he would never be very successful or rich. I\ndon t know how this was. I became imbued with the notion on that first\noccasion before we sat down to dinner, but I cannot define by what\nmeans.\n\nHe was still a pale young gentleman, and had a certain conquered\nlanguor about him in the midst of his spirits and briskness, that did\nnot seem indicative of natural strength. He had not a handsome face,\nbut it was better than handsome: being extremely amiable and cheerful.\nHis figure was a little ungainly, as in the days when my knuckles had\ntaken such liberties with it, but it looked as if it would always be\nlight and young. Whether Mr. Trabb s local work would have sat more\ngracefully on him than on me, may be a question; but I am conscious\nthat he carried off his rather old clothes much better than I carried\noff my new suit.\n\nAs he was so communicative, I felt that reserve on my part would be a\nbad return unsuited to our years. I therefore told him my small story,\nand laid stress on my being forbidden to inquire who my benefactor was.\nI further mentioned that as I had been brought up a blacksmith in a\ncountry place, and knew very little of the ways of politeness, I would\ntake it as a great kindness in him if he would give me a hint whenever\nhe saw me at a loss or going wrong.\n\n With pleasure,  said he,  though I venture to prophesy that you ll\nwant very few hints. I dare say we shall be often together, and I\nshould like to banish any needless restraint between us. Will you do me\nthe favour to begin at once to call me by my Christian name, Herbert? \n\nI thanked him and said I would. I informed him in exchange that my\nChristian name was Philip.\n\n I don t take to Philip,  said he, smiling,  for it sounds like a moral\nboy out of the spelling-book, who was so lazy that he fell into a pond,\nor so fat that he couldn t see out of his eyes, or so avaricious that\nhe locked up his cake till the mice ate it, or so determined to go a\nbird s-nesting that he got himself eaten by bears who lived handy in\nthe neighbourhood. I tell you what I should like. We are so harmonious,\nand you have been a blacksmith, would you mind it? \n\n I shouldn t mind anything that you propose,  I answered,  but I don t\nunderstand you. \n\n Would you mind Handel for a familiar name? There s a charming piece of\nmusic by Handel, called the Harmonious Blacksmith. \n\n I should like it very much. \n\n Then, my dear Handel,  said he, turning round as the door opened,\n here is the dinner, and I must beg of you to take the top of the\ntable, because the dinner is of your providing. \n\nThis I would not hear of, so he took the top, and I faced him. It was a\nnice little dinner, seemed to me then a very Lord Mayor s Feast, and it\nacquired additional relish from being eaten under those independent\ncircumstances, with no old people by, and with London all around us.\nThis again was heightened by a certain gypsy character that set the\nbanquet off; for while the table was, as Mr. Pumblechook might have\nsaid, the lap of luxury, being entirely furnished forth from the\ncoffee-house, the circumjacent region of sitting-room was of a\ncomparatively pastureless and shifty character; imposing on the waiter\nthe wandering habits of putting the covers on the floor (where he fell\nover them), the melted butter in the arm-chair, the bread on the\nbookshelves, the cheese in the coal-scuttle, and the boiled fowl into\nmy bed in the next room, where I found much of its parsley and butter\nin a state of congelation when I retired for the night. All this made\nthe feast delightful, and when the waiter was not there to watch me, my\npleasure was without alloy.\n\nWe had made some progress in the dinner, when I reminded Herbert of his\npromise to tell me about Miss Havisham.\n\n True,  he replied.  I ll redeem it at once. Let me introduce the\ntopic, Handel, by mentioning that in London it is not the custom to put\nthe knife in the mouth, for fear of accidents, and that while the fork\nis reserved for that use, it is not put further in than necessary. It\nis scarcely worth mentioning, only it s as well to do as other people\ndo. Also, the spoon is not generally used over-hand, but under. This\nhas two advantages. You get at your mouth better (which after all is\nthe object), and you save a good deal of the attitude of opening\noysters, on the part of the right elbow. \n\nHe offered these friendly suggestions in such a lively way, that we\nboth laughed and I scarcely blushed.\n\n Now,  he pursued,  concerning Miss Havisham. Miss Havisham, you must\nknow, was a spoilt child. Her mother died when she was a baby, and her\nfather denied her nothing. Her father was a country gentleman down in\nyour part of the world, and was a brewer. I don t know why it should be\na crack thing to be a brewer; but it is indisputable that while you\ncannot possibly be genteel and bake, you may be as genteel as never was\nand brew. You see it every day. \n\n Yet a gentleman may not keep a public-house; may he?  said I.\n\n Not on any account,  returned Herbert;  but a public-house may keep a\ngentleman. Well! Mr. Havisham was very rich and very proud. So was his\ndaughter. \n\n Miss Havisham was an only child?  I hazarded.\n\n Stop a moment, I am coming to that. No, she was not an only child; she\nhad a half-brother. Her father privately married again his cook, I\nrather think. \n\n I thought he was proud,  said I.\n\n My good Handel, so he was. He married his second wife privately,\nbecause he was proud, and in course of time _she_ died. When she was\ndead, I apprehend he first told his daughter what he had done, and then\nthe son became a part of the family, residing in the house you are\nacquainted with. As the son grew a young man, he turned out riotous,\nextravagant, undutiful, altogether bad. At last his father disinherited\nhim; but he softened when he was dying, and left him well off, though\nnot nearly so well off as Miss Havisham. Take another glass of wine,\nand excuse my mentioning that society as a body does not expect one to\nbe so strictly conscientious in emptying one s glass, as to turn it\nbottom upwards with the rim on one s nose. \n\nI had been doing this, in an excess of attention to his recital. I\nthanked him, and apologised. He said,  Not at all,  and resumed.\n\n Miss Havisham was now an heiress, and you may suppose was looked after\nas a great match. Her half-brother had now ample means again, but what\nwith debts and what with new madness wasted them most fearfully again.\nThere were stronger differences between him and her than there had been\nbetween him and his father, and it is suspected that he cherished a\ndeep and mortal grudge against her as having influenced the father s\nanger. Now, I come to the cruel part of the story, merely breaking off,\nmy dear Handel, to remark that a dinner-napkin will not go into a\ntumbler. \n\nWhy I was trying to pack mine into my tumbler, I am wholly unable to\nsay. I only know that I found myself, with a perseverance worthy of a\nmuch better cause, making the most strenuous exertions to compress it\nwithin those limits. Again I thanked him and apologised, and again he\nsaid in the cheerfullest manner,  Not at all, I am sure!  and resumed.\n\n There appeared upon the scene say at the races, or the public balls,\nor anywhere else you like a certain man, who made love to Miss\nHavisham. I never saw him (for this happened five-and-twenty years ago,\nbefore you and I were, Handel), but I have heard my father mention that\nhe was a showy man, and the kind of man for the purpose. But that he\nwas not to be, without ignorance or prejudice, mistaken for a\ngentleman, my father most strongly asseverates; because it is a\nprinciple of his that no man who was not a true gentleman at heart ever\nwas, since the world began, a true gentleman in manner. He says, no\nvarnish can hide the grain of the wood; and that the more varnish you\nput on, the more the grain will express itself. Well! This man pursued\nMiss Havisham closely, and professed to be devoted to her. I believe\nshe had not shown much susceptibility up to that time; but all the\nsusceptibility she possessed certainly came out then, and she\npassionately loved him. There is no doubt that she perfectly idolized\nhim. He practised on her affection in that systematic way, that he got\ngreat sums of money from her, and he induced her to buy her brother out\nof a share in the brewery (which had been weakly left him by his\nfather) at an immense price, on the plea that when he was her husband\nhe must hold and manage it all. Your guardian was not at that time in\nMiss Havisham s counsels, and she was too haughty and too much in love\nto be advised by any one. Her relations were poor and scheming, with\nthe exception of my father; he was poor enough, but not time-serving or\njealous. The only independent one among them, he warned her that she\nwas doing too much for this man, and was placing herself too\nunreservedly in his power. She took the first opportunity of angrily\nordering my father out of the house, in his presence, and my father has\nnever seen her since. \n\nI thought of her having said,  Matthew will come and see me at last\nwhen I am laid dead upon that table;  and I asked Herbert whether his\nfather was so inveterate against her?\n\n It s not that,  said he,  but she charged him, in the presence of her\nintended husband, with being disappointed in the hope of fawning upon\nher for his own advancement, and, if he were to go to her now, it would\nlook true even to him and even to her. To return to the man and make an\nend of him. The marriage day was fixed, the wedding dresses were\nbought, the wedding tour was planned out, the wedding guests were\ninvited. The day came, but not the bridegroom. He wrote her a letter \n\n Which she received,  I struck in,  when she was dressing for her\nmarriage? At twenty minutes to nine? \n\n At the hour and minute,  said Herbert, nodding,  at which she\nafterwards stopped all the clocks. What was in it, further than that it\nmost heartlessly broke the marriage off, I can t tell you, because I\ndon t know. When she recovered from a bad illness that she had, she\nlaid the whole place waste, as you have seen it, and she has never\nsince looked upon the light of day. \n\n Is that all the story?  I asked, after considering it.\n\n All I know of it; and indeed I only know so much, through piecing it\nout for myself; for my father always avoids it, and, even when Miss\nHavisham invited me to go there, told me no more of it than it was\nabsolutely requisite I should understand. But I have forgotten one\nthing. It has been supposed that the man to whom she gave her misplaced\nconfidence acted throughout in concert with her half-brother; that it\nwas a conspiracy between them; and that they shared the profits. \n\n I wonder he didn t marry her and get all the property,  said I.\n\n He may have been married already, and her cruel mortification may have\nbeen a part of her half-brother s scheme,  said Herbert.  Mind! I don t\nknow that. \n\n What became of the two men?  I asked, after again considering the\nsubject.\n\n They fell into deeper shame and degradation if there can be deeper and\nruin. \n\n Are they alive now? \n\n I don t know. \n\n You said just now that Estella was not related to Miss Havisham, but\nadopted. When adopted? \n\nHerbert shrugged his shoulders.  There has always been an Estella,\nsince I have heard of a Miss Havisham. I know no more. And now,\nHandel,  said he, finally throwing off the story as it were,  there is\na perfectly open understanding between us. All that I know about Miss\nHavisham, you know. \n\n And all that I know,  I retorted,  you know. \n\n I fully believe it. So there can be no competition or perplexity\nbetween you and me. And as to the condition on which you hold your\nadvancement in life, namely, that you are not to inquire or discuss to\nwhom you owe it, you may be very sure that it will never be encroached\nupon, or even approached, by me, or by any one belonging to me. \n\nIn truth, he said this with so much delicacy, that I felt the subject\ndone with, even though I should be under his father s roof for years\nand years to come. Yet he said it with so much meaning, too, that I\nfelt he as perfectly understood Miss Havisham to be my benefactress, as\nI understood the fact myself.\n\nIt had not occurred to me before, that he had led up to the theme for\nthe purpose of clearing it out of our way; but we were so much the\nlighter and easier for having broached it, that I now perceived this to\nbe the case. We were very gay and sociable, and I asked him, in the\ncourse of conversation, what he was? He replied,  A capitalist, an\nInsurer of Ships.  I suppose he saw me glancing about the room in\nsearch of some tokens of Shipping, or capital, for he added,  In the\nCity. \n\nI had grand ideas of the wealth and importance of Insurers of Ships in\nthe City, and I began to think with awe of having laid a young Insurer\non his back, blackened his enterprising eye, and cut his responsible\nhead open. But again there came upon me, for my relief, that odd\nimpression that Herbert Pocket would never be very successful or rich.\n\n I shall not rest satisfied with merely employing my capital in\ninsuring ships. I shall buy up some good Life Assurance shares, and cut\ninto the Direction. I shall also do a little in the mining way. None of\nthese things will interfere with my chartering a few thousand tons on\nmy own account. I think I shall trade,  said he, leaning back in his\nchair,  to the East Indies, for silks, shawls, spices, dyes, drugs, and\nprecious woods. It s an interesting trade. \n\n And the profits are large?  said I.\n\n Tremendous!  said he.\n\nI wavered again, and began to think here were greater expectations than\nmy own.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n I think I shall trade, also,  said he, putting his thumbs in his\nwaist-coat pockets,  to the West Indies, for sugar, tobacco, and rum.\nAlso to Ceylon, especially for elephants  tusks. \n\n You will want a good many ships,  said I.\n\n A perfect fleet,  said he.\n\nQuite overpowered by the magnificence of these transactions, I asked\nhim where the ships he insured mostly traded to at present?\n\n I haven t begun insuring yet,  he replied.  I am looking about me. \n\nSomehow, that pursuit seemed more in keeping with Barnard s Inn. I said\n(in a tone of conviction),  Ah-h! \n\n Yes. I am in a counting-house, and looking about me. \n\n Is a counting-house profitable?  I asked.\n\n To do you mean to the young fellow who s in it?  he asked, in reply.\n\n Yes; to you. \n\n Why, n-no; not to me.  He said this with the air of one carefully\nreckoning up and striking a balance.  Not directly profitable. That is,\nit doesn t pay me anything, and I have to keep myself. \n\nThis certainly had not a profitable appearance, and I shook my head as\nif I would imply that it would be difficult to lay by much accumulative\ncapital from such a source of income.\n\n But the thing is,  said Herbert Pocket,  that you look about you.\n_That s_ the grand thing. You are in a counting-house, you know, and\nyou look about you. \n\nIt struck me as a singular implication that you couldn t be out of a\ncounting-house, you know, and look about you; but I silently deferred\nto his experience.\n\n Then the time comes,  said Herbert,  when you see your opening. And\nyou go in, and you swoop upon it and you make your capital, and then\nthere you are! When you have once made your capital, you have nothing\nto do but employ it. \n\nThis was very like his way of conducting that encounter in the garden;\nvery like. His manner of bearing his poverty, too, exactly corresponded\nto his manner of bearing that defeat. It seemed to me that he took all\nblows and buffets now with just the same air as he had taken mine then.\nIt was evident that he had nothing around him but the simplest\nnecessaries, for everything that I remarked upon turned out to have\nbeen sent in on my account from the coffee-house or somewhere else.\n\nYet, having already made his fortune in his own mind, he was so\nunassuming with it that I felt quite grateful to him for not being\npuffed up. It was a pleasant addition to his naturally pleasant ways,\nand we got on famously. In the evening we went out for a walk in the\nstreets, and went half-price to the Theatre; and next day we went to\nchurch at Westminster Abbey, and in the afternoon we walked in the\nParks; and I wondered who shod all the horses there, and wished Joe\ndid.\n\nOn a moderate computation, it was many months, that Sunday, since I had\nleft Joe and Biddy. The space interposed between myself and them\npartook of that expansion, and our marshes were any distance off. That\nI could have been at our old church in my old church-going clothes, on\nthe very last Sunday that ever was, seemed a combination of\nimpossibilities, geographical and social, solar and lunar. Yet in the\nLondon streets so crowded with people and so brilliantly lighted in the\ndusk of evening, there were depressing hints of reproaches for that I\nhad put the poor old kitchen at home so far away; and in the dead of\nnight, the footsteps of some incapable impostor of a porter mooning\nabout Barnard s Inn, under pretence of watching it, fell hollow on my\nheart.\n\nOn the Monday morning at a quarter before nine, Herbert went to the\ncounting-house to report himself, to look about him, too, I\nsuppose, and I bore him company. He was to come away in an hour or two\nto attend me to Hammersmith, and I was to wait about for him. It\nappeared to me that the eggs from which young Insurers were hatched\nwere incubated in dust and heat, like the eggs of ostriches, judging\nfrom the places to which those incipient giants repaired on a Monday\nmorning. Nor did the counting-house where Herbert assisted, show in my\neyes as at all a good Observatory; being a back second floor up a yard,\nof a grimy presence in all particulars, and with a look into another\nback second floor, rather than a look out.\n\nI waited about until it was noon, and I went upon  Change, and I saw\nfluey men sitting there under the bills about shipping, whom I took to\nbe great merchants, though I couldn t understand why they should all be\nout of spirits. When Herbert came, we went and had lunch at a\ncelebrated house which I then quite venerated, but now believe to have\nbeen the most abject superstition in Europe, and where I could not help\nnoticing, even then, that there was much more gravy on the tablecloths\nand knives and waiters  clothes, than in the steaks. This collation\ndisposed of at a moderate price (considering the grease, which was not\ncharged for), we went back to Barnard s Inn and got my little\nportmanteau, and then took coach for Hammersmith. We arrived there at\ntwo or three o clock in the afternoon, and had very little way to walk\nto Mr. Pocket s house. Lifting the latch of a gate, we passed direct\ninto a little garden overlooking the river, where Mr. Pocket s children\nwere playing about. And unless I deceive myself on a point where my\ninterests or prepossessions are certainly not concerned, I saw that Mr.\nand Mrs. Pocket s children were not growing up or being brought up, but\nwere tumbling up.\n\nMrs. Pocket was sitting on a garden chair under a tree, reading, with\nher legs upon another garden chair; and Mrs. Pocket s two nurse-maids\nwere looking about them while the children played.  Mamma,  said\nHerbert,  this is young Mr. Pip.  Upon which Mrs. Pocket received me\nwith an appearance of amiable dignity.\n\n Master Alick and Miss Jane,  cried one of the nurses to two of the\nchildren,  if you go a bouncing up against them bushes you ll fall over\ninto the river and be drownded, and what ll your pa say then? \n\nAt the same time this nurse picked up Mrs. Pocket s handkerchief, and\nsaid,  If that don t make six times you ve dropped it, Mum!  Upon which\nMrs. Pocket laughed and said,  Thank you, Flopson,  and settling\nherself in one chair only, resumed her book. Her countenance\nimmediately assumed a knitted and intent expression as if she had been\nreading for a week, but before she could have read half a dozen lines,\nshe fixed her eyes upon me, and said,  I hope your mamma is quite\nwell?  This unexpected inquiry put me into such a difficulty that I\nbegan saying in the absurdest way that if there had been any such\nperson I had no doubt she would have been quite well and would have\nbeen very much obliged and would have sent her compliments, when the\nnurse came to my rescue.\n\n Well!  she cried, picking up the pocket-handkerchief,  if that don t\nmake seven times! What ARE you a-doing of this afternoon, Mum!  Mrs.\nPocket received her property, at first with a look of unutterable\nsurprise as if she had never seen it before, and then with a laugh of\nrecognition, and said,  Thank you, Flopson,  and forgot me, and went on\nreading.\n\nI found, now I had leisure to count them, that there were no fewer than\nsix little Pockets present, in various stages of tumbling up. I had\nscarcely arrived at the total when a seventh was heard, as in the\nregion of air, wailing dolefully.\n\n If there ain t Baby!  said Flopson, appearing to think it most\nsurprising.  Make haste up, Millers. \n\nMillers, who was the other nurse, retired into the house, and by\ndegrees the child s wailing was hushed and stopped, as if it were a\nyoung ventriloquist with something in its mouth. Mrs. Pocket read all\nthe time, and I was curious to know what the book could be.\n\nWe were waiting, I supposed, for Mr. Pocket to come out to us; at any\nrate we waited there, and so I had an opportunity of observing the\nremarkable family phenomenon that whenever any of the children strayed\nnear Mrs. Pocket in their play, they always tripped themselves up and\ntumbled over her, always very much to her momentary astonishment, and\ntheir own more enduring lamentation. I was at a loss to account for\nthis surprising circumstance, and could not help giving my mind to\nspeculations about it, until by and by Millers came down with the baby,\nwhich baby was handed to Flopson, which Flopson was handing it to Mrs.\nPocket, when she too went fairly head foremost over Mrs. Pocket, baby\nand all, and was caught by Herbert and myself.\n\n Gracious me, Flopson!  said Mrs. Pocket, looking off her book for a\nmoment,  everybody s tumbling! \n\n Gracious you, indeed, Mum!  returned Flopson, very red in the face;\n what have you got there? \n\n _I_ got here, Flopson?  asked Mrs. Pocket.\n\n Why, if it ain t your footstool!  cried Flopson.  And if you keep it\nunder your skirts like that, who s to help tumbling? Here! Take the\nbaby, Mum, and give me your book. \n\nMrs. Pocket acted on the advice, and inexpertly danced the infant a\nlittle in her lap, while the other children played about it. This had\nlasted but a very short time, when Mrs. Pocket issued summary orders\nthat they were all to be taken into the house for a nap. Thus I made\nthe second discovery on that first occasion, that the nurture of the\nlittle Pockets consisted of alternately tumbling up and lying down.\n\nUnder these circumstances, when Flopson and Millers had got the\nchildren into the house, like a little flock of sheep, and Mr. Pocket\ncame out of it to make my acquaintance, I was not much surprised to\nfind that Mr. Pocket was a gentleman with a rather perplexed expression\nof face, and with his very grey hair disordered on his head, as if he\ndidn t quite see his way to putting anything straight.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXIII.\n\n\nMr. Pocket said he was glad to see me, and he hoped I was not sorry to\nsee him.  For, I really am not,  he added, with his son s smile,  an\nalarming personage.  He was a young-looking man, in spite of his\nperplexities and his very grey hair, and his manner seemed quite\nnatural. I use the word natural, in the sense of its being unaffected;\nthere was something comic in his distraught way, as though it would\nhave been downright ludicrous but for his own perception that it was\nvery near being so. When he had talked with me a little, he said to\nMrs. Pocket, with a rather anxious contraction of his eyebrows, which\nwere black and handsome,  Belinda, I hope you have welcomed Mr. Pip? \nAnd she looked up from her book, and said,  Yes.  She then smiled upon\nme in an absent state of mind, and asked me if I liked the taste of\norange-flower water? As the question had no bearing, near or remote, on\nany foregone or subsequent transaction, I consider it to have been\nthrown out, like her previous approaches, in general conversational\ncondescension.\n\nI found out within a few hours, and may mention at once, that Mrs.\nPocket was the only daughter of a certain quite accidental deceased\nKnight, who had invented for himself a conviction that his deceased\nfather would have been made a Baronet but for somebody s determined\nopposition arising out of entirely personal motives, I forget whose, if\nI ever knew, the Sovereign s, the Prime Minister s, the Lord\nChancellor s, the Archbishop of Canterbury s, anybody s, and had tacked\nhimself on to the nobles of the earth in right of this quite\nsupposititious fact. I believe he had been knighted himself for\nstorming the English grammar at the point of the pen, in a desperate\naddress engrossed on vellum, on the occasion of the laying of the first\nstone of some building or other, and for handing some Royal Personage\neither the trowel or the mortar. Be that as it may, he had directed\nMrs. Pocket to be brought up from her cradle as one who in the nature\nof things must marry a title, and who was to be guarded from the\nacquisition of plebeian domestic knowledge.\n\nSo successful a watch and ward had been established over the young lady\nby this judicious parent, that she had grown up highly ornamental, but\nperfectly helpless and useless. With her character thus happily formed,\nin the first bloom of her youth she had encountered Mr. Pocket: who was\nalso in the first bloom of youth, and not quite decided whether to\nmount to the Woolsack, or to roof himself in with a mitre. As his doing\nthe one or the other was a mere question of time, he and Mrs. Pocket\nhad taken Time by the forelock (when, to judge from its length, it\nwould seem to have wanted cutting), and had married without the\nknowledge of the judicious parent. The judicious parent, having nothing\nto bestow or withhold but his blessing, had handsomely settled that\ndower upon them after a short struggle, and had informed Mr. Pocket\nthat his wife was  a treasure for a Prince.  Mr. Pocket had invested\nthe Prince s treasure in the ways of the world ever since, and it was\nsupposed to have brought him in but indifferent interest. Still, Mrs.\nPocket was in general the object of a queer sort of respectful pity,\nbecause she had not married a title; while Mr. Pocket was the object of\na queer sort of forgiving reproach, because he had never got one.\n\nMr. Pocket took me into the house and showed me my room: which was a\npleasant one, and so furnished as that I could use it with comfort for\nmy own private sitting-room. He then knocked at the doors of two other\nsimilar rooms, and introduced me to their occupants, by name Drummle\nand Startop. Drummle, an old-looking young man of a heavy order of\narchitecture, was whistling. Startop, younger in years and appearance,\nwas reading and holding his head, as if he thought himself in danger of\nexploding it with too strong a charge of knowledge.\n\nBoth Mr. and Mrs. Pocket had such a noticeable air of being in somebody\nelse s hands, that I wondered who really was in possession of the house\nand let them live there, until I found this unknown power to be the\nservants. It was a smooth way of going on, perhaps, in respect of\nsaving trouble; but it had the appearance of being expensive, for the\nservants felt it a duty they owed to themselves to be nice in their\neating and drinking, and to keep a deal of company downstairs. They\nallowed a very liberal table to Mr. and Mrs. Pocket, yet it always\nappeared to me that by far the best part of the house to have boarded\nin would have been the kitchen, always supposing the boarder capable of\nself-defence, for, before I had been there a week, a neighbouring lady\nwith whom the family were personally unacquainted, wrote in to say that\nshe had seen Millers slapping the baby. This greatly distressed Mrs.\nPocket, who burst into tears on receiving the note, and said that it\nwas an extraordinary thing that the neighbours couldn t mind their own\nbusiness.\n\nBy degrees I learnt, and chiefly from Herbert, that Mr. Pocket had been\neducated at Harrow and at Cambridge, where he had distinguished\nhimself; but that when he had had the happiness of marrying Mrs. Pocket\nvery early in life, he had impaired his prospects and taken up the\ncalling of a Grinder. After grinding a number of dull blades, of whom\nit was remarkable that their fathers, when influential, were always\ngoing to help him to preferment, but always forgot to do it when the\nblades had left the Grindstone, he had wearied of that poor work and\nhad come to London. Here, after gradually failing in loftier hopes, he\nhad  read  with divers who had lacked opportunities or neglected them,\nand had refurbished divers others for special occasions, and had turned\nhis acquirements to the account of literary compilation and correction,\nand on such means, added to some very moderate private resources, still\nmaintained the house I saw.\n\nMr. and Mrs. Pocket had a toady neighbour; a widow lady of that highly\nsympathetic nature that she agreed with everybody, blessed everybody,\nand shed smiles and tears on everybody, according to circumstances.\nThis lady s name was Mrs. Coiler, and I had the honour of taking her\ndown to dinner on the day of my installation. She gave me to understand\non the stairs, that it was a blow to dear Mrs. Pocket that dear Mr.\nPocket should be under the necessity of receiving gentlemen to read\nwith him. That did not extend to me, she told me in a gush of love and\nconfidence (at that time, I had known her something less than five\nminutes); if they were all like Me, it would be quite another thing.\n\n But dear Mrs. Pocket,  said Mrs. Coiler,  after her early\ndisappointment (not that dear Mr. Pocket was to blame in that),\nrequires so much luxury and elegance \n\n Yes, ma am,  I said, to stop her, for I was afraid she was going to\ncry.\n\n And she is of so aristocratic a disposition \n\n Yes, ma am,  I said again, with the same object as before.\n\n That it _is_ hard,  said Mrs. Coiler,  to have dear Mr. Pocket s time\nand attention diverted from dear Mrs. Pocket. \n\nI could not help thinking that it might be harder if the butcher s time\nand attention were diverted from dear Mrs. Pocket; but I said nothing,\nand indeed had enough to do in keeping a bashful watch upon my company\nmanners.\n\nIt came to my knowledge, through what passed between Mrs. Pocket and\nDrummle while I was attentive to my knife and fork, spoon, glasses, and\nother instruments of self-destruction, that Drummle, whose Christian\nname was Bentley, was actually the next heir but one to a baronetcy. It\nfurther appeared that the book I had seen Mrs. Pocket reading in the\ngarden was all about titles, and that she knew the exact date at which\nher grandpapa would have come into the book, if he ever had come at\nall. Drummle didn t say much, but in his limited way (he struck me as a\nsulky kind of fellow) he spoke as one of the elect, and recognised Mrs.\nPocket as a woman and a sister. No one but themselves and Mrs. Coiler\nthe toady neighbour showed any interest in this part of the\nconversation, and it appeared to me that it was painful to Herbert; but\nit promised to last a long time, when the page came in with the\nannouncement of a domestic affliction. It was, in effect, that the cook\nhad mislaid the beef. To my unutterable amazement, I now, for the first\ntime, saw Mr. Pocket relieve his mind by going through a performance\nthat struck me as very extraordinary, but which made no impression on\nanybody else, and with which I soon became as familiar as the rest. He\nlaid down the carving-knife and fork, being engaged in carving, at the\nmoment, put his two hands into his disturbed hair, and appeared to make\nan extraordinary effort to lift himself up by it. When he had done\nthis, and had not lifted himself up at all, he quietly went on with\nwhat he was about.\n\nMrs. Coiler then changed the subject and began to flatter me. I liked\nit for a few moments, but she flattered me so very grossly that the\npleasure was soon over. She had a serpentine way of coming close at me\nwhen she pretended to be vitally interested in the friends and\nlocalities I had left, which was altogether snaky and fork-tongued; and\nwhen she made an occasional bounce upon Startop (who said very little\nto her), or upon Drummle (who said less), I rather envied them for\nbeing on the opposite side of the table.\n\nAfter dinner the children were introduced, and Mrs. Coiler made\nadmiring comments on their eyes, noses, and legs, a sagacious way of\nimproving their minds. There were four little girls, and two little\nboys, besides the baby who might have been either, and the baby s next\nsuccessor who was as yet neither. They were brought in by Flopson and\nMillers, much as though those two non-commissioned officers had been\nrecruiting somewhere for children and had enlisted these, while Mrs.\nPocket looked at the young Nobles that ought to have been as if she\nrather thought she had had the pleasure of inspecting them before, but\ndidn t quite know what to make of them.\n\n Here! Give me your fork, Mum, and take the baby,  said Flopson.  Don t\ntake it that way, or you ll get its head under the table. \n\nThus advised, Mrs. Pocket took it the other way, and got its head upon\nthe table; which was announced to all present by a prodigious\nconcussion.\n\n Dear, dear! Give it me back, Mum,  said Flopson;  and Miss Jane, come\nand dance to baby, do! \n\nOne of the little girls, a mere mite who seemed to have prematurely\ntaken upon herself some charge of the others, stepped out of her place\nby me, and danced to and from the baby until it left off crying, and\nlaughed. Then, all the children laughed, and Mr. Pocket (who in the\nmeantime had twice endeavoured to lift himself up by the hair) laughed,\nand we all laughed and were glad.\n\nFlopson, by dint of doubling the baby at the joints like a Dutch doll,\nthen got it safely into Mrs. Pocket s lap, and gave it the nut-crackers\nto play with; at the same time recommending Mrs. Pocket to take notice\nthat the handles of that instrument were not likely to agree with its\neyes, and sharply charging Miss Jane to look after the same. Then, the\ntwo nurses left the room, and had a lively scuffle on the staircase\nwith a dissipated page who had waited at dinner, and who had clearly\nlost half his buttons at the gaming-table.\n\nI was made very uneasy in my mind by Mrs. Pocket s falling into a\ndiscussion with Drummle respecting two baronetcies, while she ate a\nsliced orange steeped in sugar and wine, and, forgetting all about the\nbaby on her lap, who did most appalling things with the nut-crackers.\nAt length little Jane, perceiving its young brains to be imperilled,\nsoftly left her place, and with many small artifices coaxed the\ndangerous weapon away. Mrs. Pocket finishing her orange at about the\nsame time, and not approving of this, said to Jane, \n\n You naughty child, how dare you? Go and sit down this instant! \n\n Mamma dear,  lisped the little girl,  baby ood have put hith eyeth\nout. \n\n How dare you tell me so?  retorted Mrs. Pocket.  Go and sit down in\nyour chair this moment! \n\nMrs. Pocket s dignity was so crushing, that I felt quite abashed, as if\nI myself had done something to rouse it.\n\n Belinda,  remonstrated Mr. Pocket, from the other end of the table,\n how can you be so unreasonable? Jane only interfered for the\nprotection of baby. \n\n I will not allow anybody to interfere,  said Mrs. Pocket.  I am\nsurprised, Matthew, that you should expose me to the affront of\ninterference. \n\n Good God!  cried Mr. Pocket, in an outbreak of desolate desperation.\n Are infants to be nut-crackered into their tombs, and is nobody to\nsave them? \n\n I will not be interfered with by Jane,  said Mrs. Pocket, with a\nmajestic glance at that innocent little offender.  I hope I know my\npoor grandpapa s position. Jane, indeed! \n\nMr. Pocket got his hands in his hair again, and this time really did\nlift himself some inches out of his chair.  Hear this!  he helplessly\nexclaimed to the elements.  Babies are to be nut-crackered dead, for\npeople s poor grandpapa s positions!  Then he let himself down again,\nand became silent.\n\nWe all looked awkwardly at the tablecloth while this was going on. A\npause succeeded, during which the honest and irrepressible baby made a\nseries of leaps and crows at little Jane, who appeared to me to be the\nonly member of the family (irrespective of servants) with whom it had\nany decided acquaintance.\n\n Mr. Drummle,  said Mrs. Pocket,  will you ring for Flopson? Jane, you\nundutiful little thing, go and lie down. Now, baby darling, come with\nma! \n\nThe baby was the soul of honour, and protested with all its might. It\ndoubled itself up the wrong way over Mrs. Pocket s arm, exhibited a\npair of knitted shoes and dimpled ankles to the company in lieu of its\nsoft face, and was carried out in the highest state of mutiny. And it\ngained its point after all, for I saw it through the window within a\nfew minutes, being nursed by little Jane.\n\nIt happened that the other five children were left behind at the\ndinner-table, through Flopson s having some private engagement, and\ntheir not being anybody else s business. I thus became aware of the\nmutual relations between them and Mr. Pocket, which were exemplified in\nthe following manner. Mr. Pocket, with the normal perplexity of his\nface heightened and his hair rumpled, looked at them for some minutes,\nas if he couldn t make out how they came to be boarding and lodging in\nthat establishment, and why they hadn t been billeted by Nature on\nsomebody else. Then, in a distant Missionary way he asked them certain\nquestions, as why little Joe had that hole in his frill, who said, Pa,\nFlopson was going to mend it when she had time, and how little Fanny\ncame by that whitlow, who said, Pa, Millers was going to poultice it\nwhen she didn t forget. Then, he melted into parental tenderness, and\ngave them a shilling apiece and told them to go and play; and then as\nthey went out, with one very strong effort to lift himself up by the\nhair he dismissed the hopeless subject.\n\nIn the evening there was rowing on the river. As Drummle and Startop\nhad each a boat, I resolved to set up mine, and to cut them both out. I\nwas pretty good at most exercises in which country boys are adepts, but\nas I was conscious of wanting elegance of style for the Thames, not to\nsay for other waters, I at once engaged to place myself under the\ntuition of the winner of a prize-wherry who plied at our stairs, and to\nwhom I was introduced by my new allies. This practical authority\nconfused me very much by saying I had the arm of a blacksmith. If he\ncould have known how nearly the compliment lost him his pupil, I doubt\nif he would have paid it.\n\nThere was a supper-tray after we got home at night, and I think we\nshould all have enjoyed ourselves, but for a rather disagreeable\ndomestic occurrence. Mr. Pocket was in good spirits, when a housemaid\ncame in, and said,  If you please, sir, I should wish to speak to you. \n\n Speak to your master?  said Mrs. Pocket, whose dignity was roused\nagain.  How can you think of such a thing? Go and speak to Flopson. Or\nspeak to me at some other time. \n\n Begging your pardon, ma am,  returned the housemaid,  I should wish to\nspeak at once, and to speak to master. \n\nHereupon, Mr. Pocket went out of the room, and we made the best of\nourselves until he came back.\n\n This is a pretty thing, Belinda!  said Mr. Pocket, returning with a\ncountenance expressive of grief and despair.  Here s the cook lying\ninsensibly drunk on the kitchen floor, with a large bundle of fresh\nbutter made up in the cupboard ready to sell for grease! \n\nMrs. Pocket instantly showed much amiable emotion, and said,  This is\nthat odious Sophia s doing! \n\n What do you mean, Belinda?  demanded Mr. Pocket.\n\n Sophia has told you,  said Mrs. Pocket.  Did I not see her with my own\neyes and hear her with my own ears, come into the room just now and ask\nto speak to you? \n\n But has she not taken me downstairs, Belinda,  returned Mr. Pocket,\n and shown me the woman, and the bundle too? \n\n And do you defend her, Matthew,  said Mrs. Pocket,  for making\nmischief? \n\nMr. Pocket uttered a dismal groan.\n\n Am I, grandpapa s granddaughter, to be nothing in the house?  said\nMrs. Pocket.  Besides, the cook has always been a very nice respectful\nwoman, and said in the most natural manner when she came to look after\nthe situation, that she felt I was born to be a Duchess. \n\nThere was a sofa where Mr. Pocket stood, and he dropped upon it in the\nattitude of the Dying Gladiator. Still in that attitude he said, with a\nhollow voice,  Good night, Mr. Pip,  when I deemed it advisable to go\nto bed and leave him.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXIV.\n\n\nAfter two or three days, when I had established myself in my room and\nhad gone backwards and forwards to London several times, and had\nordered all I wanted of my tradesmen, Mr. Pocket and I had a long talk\ntogether. He knew more of my intended career than I knew myself, for he\nreferred to his having been told by Mr. Jaggers that I was not designed\nfor any profession, and that I should be well enough educated for my\ndestiny if I could  hold my own  with the average of young men in\nprosperous circumstances. I acquiesced, of course, knowing nothing to\nthe contrary.\n\nHe advised my attending certain places in London, for the acquisition\nof such mere rudiments as I wanted, and my investing him with the\nfunctions of explainer and director of all my studies. He hoped that\nwith intelligent assistance I should meet with little to discourage me,\nand should soon be able to dispense with any aid but his. Through his\nway of saying this, and much more to similar purpose, he placed himself\non confidential terms with me in an admirable manner; and I may state\nat once that he was always so zealous and honourable in fulfilling his\ncompact with me, that he made me zealous and honourable in fulfilling\nmine with him. If he had shown indifference as a master, I have no\ndoubt I should have returned the compliment as a pupil; he gave me no\nsuch excuse, and each of us did the other justice. Nor did I ever\nregard him as having anything ludicrous about him or anything but what\nwas serious, honest, and good in his tutor communication with me.\n\nWhen these points were settled, and so far carried out as that I had\nbegun to work in earnest, it occurred to me that if I could retain my\nbedroom in Barnard s Inn, my life would be agreeably varied, while my\nmanners would be none the worse for Herbert s society. Mr. Pocket did\nnot object to this arrangement, but urged that before any step could\npossibly be taken in it, it must be submitted to my guardian. I felt\nthat this delicacy arose out of the consideration that the plan would\nsave Herbert some expense, so I went off to Little Britain and imparted\nmy wish to Mr. Jaggers.\n\n If I could buy the furniture now hired for me,  said I,  and one or\ntwo other little things, I should be quite at home there. \n\n Go it!  said Mr. Jaggers, with a short laugh.  I told you you d get\non. Well! How much do you want? \n\nI said I didn t know how much.\n\n Come!  retorted Mr. Jaggers.  How much? Fifty pounds? \n\n O, not nearly so much. \n\n Five pounds?  said Mr. Jaggers.\n\nThis was such a great fall, that I said in discomfiture,  O, more than\nthat. \n\n More than that, eh!  retorted Mr. Jaggers, lying in wait for me, with\nhis hands in his pockets, his head on one side, and his eyes on the\nwall behind me;  how much more? \n\n It is so difficult to fix a sum,  said I, hesitating.\n\n Come!  said Mr. Jaggers.  Let s get at it. Twice five; will that do?\nThree times five; will that do? Four times five; will that do? \n\nI said I thought that would do handsomely.\n\n Four times five will do handsomely, will it?  said Mr. Jaggers,\nknitting his brows.  Now, what do you make of four times five? \n\n What do I make of it? \n\n Ah!  said Mr. Jaggers;  how much? \n\n I suppose you make it twenty pounds,  said I, smiling.\n\n Never mind what _I_ make it, my friend,  observed Mr. Jaggers, with a\nknowing and contradictory toss of his head.  I want to know what _you_\nmake it. \n\n Twenty pounds, of course. \n\n Wemmick!  said Mr. Jaggers, opening his office door.  Take Mr. Pip s\nwritten order, and pay him twenty pounds. \n\nThis strongly marked way of doing business made a strongly marked\nimpression on me, and that not of an agreeable kind. Mr. Jaggers never\nlaughed; but he wore great bright creaking boots, and, in poising\nhimself on these boots, with his large head bent down and his eyebrows\njoined together, awaiting an answer, he sometimes caused the boots to\ncreak, as if _they_ laughed in a dry and suspicious way. As he happened\nto go out now, and as Wemmick was brisk and talkative, I said to\nWemmick that I hardly knew what to make of Mr. Jaggers s manner.\n\n Tell him that, and he ll take it as a compliment,  answered Wemmick;\n he don t mean that you _should_ know what to make of it. Oh!  for I\nlooked surprised,  it s not personal; it s professional: only\nprofessional. \n\nWemmick was at his desk, lunching and crunching on a dry hard biscuit;\npieces of which he threw from time to time into his slit of a mouth, as\nif he were posting them.\n\n Always seems to me,  said Wemmick,  as if he had set a man-trap and\nwas watching it. Suddenly click you re caught! \n\nWithout remarking that man-traps were not among the amenities of life,\nI said I supposed he was very skilful?\n\n Deep,  said Wemmick,  as Australia.  Pointing with his pen at the\noffice floor, to express that Australia was understood, for the\npurposes of the figure, to be symmetrically on the opposite spot of the\nglobe.  If there was anything deeper,  added Wemmick, bringing his pen\nto paper,  he d be it. \n\nThen, I said I supposed he had a fine business, and Wemmick said,\n Ca-pi-tal!  Then I asked if there were many clerks? to which he\nreplied, \n\n We don t run much into clerks, because there s only one Jaggers, and\npeople won t have him at second hand. There are only four of us. Would\nyou like to see  em? You are one of us, as I may say. \n\nI accepted the offer. When Mr. Wemmick had put all the biscuit into the\npost, and had paid me my money from a cash-box in a safe, the key of\nwhich safe he kept somewhere down his back and produced from his\ncoat-collar like an iron-pigtail, we went upstairs. The house was dark\nand shabby, and the greasy shoulders that had left their mark in Mr.\nJaggers s room seemed to have been shuffling up and down the staircase\nfor years. In the front first floor, a clerk who looked something\nbetween a publican and a rat-catcher a large pale, puffed, swollen\nman was attentively engaged with three or four people of shabby\nappearance, whom he treated as unceremoniously as everybody seemed to\nbe treated who contributed to Mr. Jaggers s coffers.  Getting evidence\ntogether,  said Mr. Wemmick, as we came out,  for the Bailey.  In the\nroom over that, a little flabby terrier of a clerk with dangling hair\n(his cropping seemed to have been forgotten when he was a puppy) was\nsimilarly engaged with a man with weak eyes, whom Mr. Wemmick presented\nto me as a smelter who kept his pot always boiling, and who would melt\nme anything I pleased, and who was in an excessive white-perspiration,\nas if he had been trying his art on himself. In a back room, a\nhigh-shouldered man with a face-ache tied up in dirty flannel, who was\ndressed in old black clothes that bore the appearance of having been\nwaxed, was stooping over his work of making fair copies of the notes of\nthe other two gentlemen, for Mr. Jaggers s own use.\n\nThis was all the establishment. When we went downstairs again, Wemmick\nled me into my guardian s room, and said,  This you ve seen already. \n\n Pray,  said I, as the two odious casts with the twitchy leer upon them\ncaught my sight again,  whose likenesses are those? \n\n These?  said Wemmick, getting upon a chair, and blowing the dust off\nthe horrible heads before bringing them down.  These are two celebrated\nones. Famous clients of ours that got us a world of credit. This chap\n(why you must have come down in the night and been peeping into the\ninkstand, to get this blot upon your eyebrow, you old rascal!) murdered\nhis master, and, considering that he wasn t brought up to evidence,\ndidn t plan it badly. \n\n Is it like him?  I asked, recoiling from the brute, as Wemmick spat\nupon his eyebrow and gave it a rub with his sleeve.\n\n Like him? It s himself, you know. The cast was made in Newgate,\ndirectly after he was taken down. You had a particular fancy for me,\nhadn t you, Old Artful?  said Wemmick. He then explained this\naffectionate apostrophe, by touching his brooch representing the lady\nand the weeping willow at the tomb with the urn upon it, and saying,\n Had it made for me, express! \n\n Is the lady anybody?  said I.\n\n No,  returned Wemmick.  Only his game. (You liked your bit of game,\ndidn t you?) No; deuce a bit of a lady in the case, Mr. Pip, except\none, and she wasn t of this slender lady-like sort, and you wouldn t\nhave caught _her_ looking after this urn, unless there was something to\ndrink in it.  Wemmick s attention being thus directed to his brooch, he\nput down the cast, and polished the brooch with his\npocket-handkerchief.\n\n Did that other creature come to the same end?  I asked.  He has the\nsame look. \n\n You re right,  said Wemmick;  it s the genuine look. Much as if one\nnostril was caught up with a horse-hair and a little fish-hook. Yes, he\ncame to the same end; quite the natural end here, I assure you. He\nforged wills, this blade did, if he didn t also put the supposed\ntestators to sleep too. You were a gentlemanly Cove, though  (Mr.\nWemmick was again apostrophising),  and you said you could write Greek.\nYah, Bounceable! What a liar you were! I never met such a liar as you! \nBefore putting his late friend on his shelf again, Wemmick touched the\nlargest of his mourning rings and said,  Sent out to buy it for me,\nonly the day before. \n\nWhile he was putting up the other cast and coming down from the chair,\nthe thought crossed my mind that all his personal jewelry was derived\nfrom like sources. As he had shown no diffidence on the subject, I\nventured on the liberty of asking him the question, when he stood\nbefore me, dusting his hands.\n\n O yes,  he returned,  these are all gifts of that kind. One brings\nanother, you see; that s the way of it. I always take  em. They re\ncuriosities. And they re property. They may not be worth much, but,\nafter all, they re property and portable. It don t signify to you with\nyour brilliant lookout, but as to myself, my guiding-star always is,\n Get hold of portable property . \n\nWhen I had rendered homage to this light, he went on to say, in a\nfriendly manner: \n\n If at any odd time when you have nothing better to do, you wouldn t\nmind coming over to see me at Walworth, I could offer you a bed, and I\nshould consider it an honour. I have not much to show you; but such two\nor three curiosities as I have got you might like to look over; and I\nam fond of a bit of garden and a summer-house. \n\nI said I should be delighted to accept his hospitality.\n\n Thankee,  said he;  then we ll consider that it s to come off, when\nconvenient to you. Have you dined with Mr. Jaggers yet? \n\n Not yet. \n\n Well,  said Wemmick,  he ll give you wine, and good wine. I ll give\nyou punch, and not bad punch. And now I ll tell you something. When you\ngo to dine with Mr. Jaggers, look at his housekeeper. \n\n Shall I see something very uncommon? \n\n Well,  said Wemmick,  you ll see a wild beast tamed. Not so very\nuncommon, you ll tell me. I reply, that depends on the original\nwildness of the beast, and the amount of taming. It won t lower your\nopinion of Mr. Jaggers s powers. Keep your eye on it. \n\nI told him I would do so, with all the interest and curiosity that his\npreparation awakened. As I was taking my departure, he asked me if I\nwould like to devote five minutes to seeing Mr. Jaggers  at it? \n\nFor several reasons, and not least because I didn t clearly know what\nMr. Jaggers would be found to be  at,  I replied in the affirmative. We\ndived into the City, and came up in a crowded police-court, where a\nblood-relation (in the murderous sense) of the deceased, with the\nfanciful taste in brooches, was standing at the bar, uncomfortably\nchewing something; while my guardian had a woman under examination or\ncross-examination, I don t know which, and was striking her, and the\nbench, and everybody present, with awe. If anybody, of whatsoever\ndegree, said a word that he didn t approve of, he instantly required to\nhave it  taken down.  If anybody wouldn t make an admission, he said,\n I ll have it out of you!  and if anybody made an admission, he said,\n Now I have got you!  The magistrates shivered under a single bite of\nhis finger. Thieves and thief-takers hung in dread rapture on his\nwords, and shrank when a hair of his eyebrows turned in their\ndirection. Which side he was on I couldn t make out, for he seemed to\nme to be grinding the whole place in a mill; I only know that when I\nstole out on tiptoe, he was not on the side of the bench; for, he was\nmaking the legs of the old gentleman who presided, quite convulsive\nunder the table, by his denunciations of his conduct as the\nrepresentative of British law and justice in that chair that day.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXV.\n\n\nBentley Drummle, who was so sulky a fellow that he even took up a book\nas if its writer had done him an injury, did not take up an\nacquaintance in a more agreeable spirit. Heavy in figure, movement, and\ncomprehension, in the sluggish complexion of his face, and in the\nlarge, awkward tongue that seemed to loll about in his mouth as he\nhimself lolled about in a room, he was idle, proud, niggardly,\nreserved, and suspicious. He came of rich people down in Somersetshire,\nwho had nursed this combination of qualities until they made the\ndiscovery that it was just of age and a blockhead. Thus, Bentley\nDrummle had come to Mr. Pocket when he was a head taller than that\ngentleman, and half a dozen heads thicker than most gentlemen.\n\nStartop had been spoilt by a weak mother and kept at home when he ought\nto have been at school, but he was devotedly attached to her, and\nadmired her beyond measure. He had a woman s delicacy of feature, and\nwas as you may see, though you never saw her,  said Herbert to\nme exactly like his mother.  It was but natural that I should take to\nhim much more kindly than to Drummle, and that, even in the earliest\nevenings of our boating, he and I should pull homeward abreast of one\nanother, conversing from boat to boat, while Bentley Drummle came up in\nour wake alone, under the overhanging banks and among the rushes. He\nwould always creep in-shore like some uncomfortable amphibious\ncreature, even when the tide would have sent him fast upon his way; and\nI always think of him as coming after us in the dark or by the\nback-water, when our own two boats were breaking the sunset or the\nmoonlight in mid-stream.\n\nHerbert was my intimate companion and friend. I presented him with a\nhalf-share in my boat, which was the occasion of his often coming down\nto Hammersmith; and my possession of a half-share in his chambers often\ntook me up to London. We used to walk between the two places at all\nhours. I have an affection for the road yet (though it is not so\npleasant a road as it was then), formed in the impressibility of\nuntried youth and hope.\n\nWhen I had been in Mr. Pocket s family a month or two, Mr. and Mrs.\nCamilla turned up. Camilla was Mr. Pocket s sister. Georgiana, whom I\nhad seen at Miss Havisham s on the same occasion, also turned up. She\nwas a cousin, an indigestive single woman, who called her rigidity\nreligion, and her liver love. These people hated me with the hatred of\ncupidity and disappointment. As a matter of course, they fawned upon me\nin my prosperity with the basest meanness. Towards Mr. Pocket, as a\ngrown-up infant with no notion of his own interests, they showed the\ncomplacent forbearance I had heard them express. Mrs. Pocket they held\nin contempt; but they allowed the poor soul to have been heavily\ndisappointed in life, because that shed a feeble reflected light upon\nthemselves.\n\nThese were the surroundings among which I settled down, and applied\nmyself to my education. I soon contracted expensive habits, and began\nto spend an amount of money that within a few short months I should\nhave thought almost fabulous; but through good and evil I stuck to my\nbooks. There was no other merit in this, than my having sense enough to\nfeel my deficiencies. Between Mr. Pocket and Herbert I got on fast;\nand, with one or the other always at my elbow to give me the start I\nwanted, and clear obstructions out of my road, I must have been as\ngreat a dolt as Drummle if I had done less.\n\nI had not seen Mr. Wemmick for some weeks, when I thought I would write\nhim a note and propose to go home with him on a certain evening. He\nreplied that it would give him much pleasure, and that he would expect\nme at the office at six o clock. Thither I went, and there I found him,\nputting the key of his safe down his back as the clock struck.\n\n Did you think of walking down to Walworth?  said he.\n\n Certainly,  said I,  if you approve. \n\n Very much,  was Wemmick s reply,  for I have had my legs under the\ndesk all day, and shall be glad to stretch them. Now, I ll tell you\nwhat I have got for supper, Mr. Pip. I have got a stewed steak, which\nis of home preparation, and a cold roast fowl, which is from the\ncook s-shop. I think it s tender, because the master of the shop was a\nJuryman in some cases of ours the other day, and we let him down easy.\nI reminded him of it when I bought the fowl, and I said,  Pick us out a\ngood one, old Briton, because if we had chosen to keep you in the box\nanother day or two, we could easily have done it.  He said to that,\n Let me make you a present of the best fowl in the shop.  I let him, of\ncourse. As far as it goes, it s property and portable. You don t object\nto an aged parent, I hope? \n\nI really thought he was still speaking of the fowl, until he added,\n Because I have got an aged parent at my place.  I then said what\npoliteness required.\n\n So, you haven t dined with Mr. Jaggers yet?  he pursued, as we walked\nalong.\n\n Not yet. \n\n He told me so this afternoon when he heard you were coming. I expect\nyou ll have an invitation to-morrow. He s going to ask your pals, too.\nThree of  em; ain t there? \n\nAlthough I was not in the habit of counting Drummle as one of my\nintimate associates, I answered,  Yes. \n\n Well, he s going to ask the whole gang, I hardly felt complimented by\nthe word, and whatever he gives you, he ll give you good. Don t look\nforward to variety, but you ll have excellence. And there s another rum\nthing in his house,  proceeded Wemmick, after a moment s pause, as if\nthe remark followed on the housekeeper understood;  he never lets a\ndoor or window be fastened at night. \n\n Is he never robbed? \n\n That s it!  returned Wemmick.  He says, and gives it out publicly,  I\nwant to see the man who ll rob _me_.  Lord bless you, I have heard him,\na hundred times, if I have heard him once, say to regular cracksmen in\nour front office,  You know where I live; now, no bolt is ever drawn\nthere; why don t you do a stroke of business with me? Come; can t I\ntempt you?  Not a man of them, sir, would be bold enough to try it on,\nfor love or money. \n\n They dread him so much?  said I.\n\n Dread him,  said Wemmick.  I believe you they dread him. Not but what\nhe s artful, even in his defiance of them. No silver, sir. Britannia\nmetal, every spoon. \n\n So they wouldn t have much,  I observed,  even if they \n\n Ah! But _he_ would have much,  said Wemmick, cutting me short,  and\nthey know it. He d have their lives, and the lives of scores of  em.\nHe d have all he could get. And it s impossible to say what he couldn t\nget, if he gave his mind to it. \n\nI was falling into meditation on my guardian s greatness, when Wemmick\nremarked: \n\n As to the absence of plate, that s only his natural depth, you know. A\nriver s its natural depth, and he s his natural depth. Look at his\nwatch-chain. That s real enough. \n\n It s very massive,  said I.\n\n Massive?  repeated Wemmick.  I think so. And his watch is a gold\nrepeater, and worth a hundred pound if it s worth a penny. Mr. Pip,\nthere are about seven hundred thieves in this town who know all about\nthat watch; there s not a man, a woman, or a child, among them, who\nwouldn t identify the smallest link in that chain, and drop it as if it\nwas red hot, if inveigled into touching it. \n\nAt first with such discourse, and afterwards with conversation of a\nmore general nature, did Mr. Wemmick and I beguile the time and the\nroad, until he gave me to understand that we had arrived in the\ndistrict of Walworth.\n\nIt appeared to be a collection of back lanes, ditches, and little\ngardens, and to present the aspect of a rather dull retirement.\nWemmick s house was a little wooden cottage in the midst of plots of\ngarden, and the top of it was cut out and painted like a battery\nmounted with guns.\n\n My own doing,  said Wemmick.  Looks pretty; don t it? \n\nI highly commended it, I think it was the smallest house I ever saw;\nwith the queerest gothic windows (by far the greater part of them\nsham), and a gothic door almost too small to get in at.\n\n That s a real flagstaff, you see,  said Wemmick,  and on Sundays I run\nup a real flag. Then look here. After I have crossed this bridge, I\nhoist it up so and cut off the communication. \n\nThe bridge was a plank, and it crossed a chasm about four feet wide and\ntwo deep. But it was very pleasant to see the pride with which he\nhoisted it up and made it fast; smiling as he did so, with a relish and\nnot merely mechanically.\n\n At nine o clock every night, Greenwich time,  said Wemmick,  the gun\nfires. There he is, you see! And when you hear him go, I think you ll\nsay he s a Stinger. \n\nThe piece of ordnance referred to, was mounted in a separate fortress,\nconstructed of lattice-work. It was protected from the weather by an\ningenious little tarpaulin contrivance in the nature of an umbrella.\n\n Then, at the back,  said Wemmick,  out of sight, so as not to impede\nthe idea of fortifications, for it s a principle with me, if you have\nan idea, carry it out and keep it up, I don t know whether that s your\nopinion \n\nI said, decidedly.\n\n At the back, there s a pig, and there are fowls and rabbits; then, I\nknock together my own little frame, you see, and grow cucumbers; and\nyou ll judge at supper what sort of a salad I can raise. So, sir,  said\nWemmick, smiling again, but seriously too, as he shook his head,  if\nyou can suppose the little place besieged, it would hold out a devil of\na time in point of provisions. \n\nThen, he conducted me to a bower about a dozen yards off, but which was\napproached by such ingenious twists of path that it took quite a long\ntime to get at; and in this retreat our glasses were already set forth.\nOur punch was cooling in an ornamental lake, on whose margin the bower\nwas raised. This piece of water (with an island in the middle which\nmight have been the salad for supper) was of a circular form, and he\nhad constructed a fountain in it, which, when you set a little mill\ngoing and took a cork out of a pipe, played to that powerful extent\nthat it made the back of your hand quite wet.\n\n I am my own engineer, and my own carpenter, and my own plumber, and my\nown gardener, and my own Jack of all Trades,  said Wemmick, in\nacknowledging my compliments.  Well; it s a good thing, you know. It\nbrushes the Newgate cobwebs away, and pleases the Aged. You wouldn t\nmind being at once introduced to the Aged, would you? It wouldn t put\nyou out? \n\nI expressed the readiness I felt, and we went into the castle. There we\nfound, sitting by a fire, a very old man in a flannel coat: clean,\ncheerful, comfortable, and well cared for, but intensely deaf.\n\n Well aged parent,  said Wemmick, shaking hands with him in a cordial\nand jocose way,  how am you? \n\n All right, John; all right!  replied the old man.\n\n Here s Mr. Pip, aged parent,  said Wemmick,  and I wish you could hear\nhis name. Nod away at him, Mr. Pip; that s what he likes. Nod away at\nhim, if you please, like winking! \n\n This is a fine place of my son s, sir,  cried the old man, while I\nnodded as hard as I possibly could.  This is a pretty pleasure-ground,\nsir. This spot and these beautiful works upon it ought to be kept\ntogether by the Nation, after my son s time, for the people s\nenjoyment. \n\n You re as proud of it as Punch; ain t you, Aged?  said Wemmick,\ncontemplating the old man, with his hard face really softened;\n _there s_ a nod for you;  giving him a tremendous one;  _there s_\nanother for you;  giving him a still more tremendous one;  you like\nthat, don t you? If you re not tired, Mr. Pip though I know it s tiring\nto strangers will you tip him one more? You can t think how it pleases\nhim. \n\nI tipped him several more, and he was in great spirits. We left him\nbestirring himself to feed the fowls, and we sat down to our punch in\nthe arbour; where Wemmick told me, as he smoked a pipe, that it had\ntaken him a good many years to bring the property up to its present\npitch of perfection.\n\n Is it your own, Mr. Wemmick? \n\n O yes,  said Wemmick,  I have got hold of it, a bit at a time. It s a\nfreehold, by George! \n\n Is it indeed? I hope Mr. Jaggers admires it? \n\n Never seen it,  said Wemmick.  Never heard of it. Never seen the Aged.\nNever heard of him. No; the office is one thing, and private life is\nanother. When I go into the office, I leave the Castle behind me, and\nwhen I come into the Castle, I leave the office behind me. If it s not\nin any way disagreeable to you, you ll oblige me by doing the same. I\ndon t wish it professionally spoken about. \n\nOf course I felt my good faith involved in the observance of his\nrequest. The punch being very nice, we sat there drinking it and\ntalking, until it was almost nine o clock.  Getting near gun-fire, \nsaid Wemmick then, as he laid down his pipe;  it s the Aged s treat. \n\nProceeding into the Castle again, we found the Aged heating the poker,\nwith expectant eyes, as a preliminary to the performance of this great\nnightly ceremony. Wemmick stood with his watch in his hand until the\nmoment was come for him to take the red-hot poker from the Aged, and\nrepair to the battery. He took it, and went out, and presently the\nStinger went off with a Bang that shook the crazy little box of a\ncottage as if it must fall to pieces, and made every glass and teacup\nin it ring. Upon this, the Aged who I believe would have been blown out\nof his arm-chair but for holding on by the elbows cried out exultingly,\n He s fired! I heerd him!  and I nodded at the old gentleman until it\nis no figure of speech to declare that I absolutely could not see him.\n\nThe interval between that time and supper Wemmick devoted to showing me\nhis collection of curiosities. They were mostly of a felonious\ncharacter; comprising the pen with which a celebrated forgery had been\ncommitted, a distinguished razor or two, some locks of hair, and\nseveral manuscript confessions written under condemnation, upon which\nMr. Wemmick set particular value as being, to use his own words,  every\none of  em Lies, sir.  These were agreeably dispersed among small\nspecimens of china and glass, various neat trifles made by the\nproprietor of the museum, and some tobacco-stoppers carved by the Aged.\nThey were all displayed in that chamber of the Castle into which I had\nbeen first inducted, and which served, not only as the general\nsitting-room but as the kitchen too, if I might judge from a saucepan\non the hob, and a brazen bijou over the fireplace designed for the\nsuspension of a roasting-jack.\n\nThere was a neat little girl in attendance, who looked after the Aged\nin the day. When she had laid the supper-cloth, the bridge was lowered\nto give her means of egress, and she withdrew for the night. The supper\nwas excellent; and though the Castle was rather subject to dry-rot\ninsomuch that it tasted like a bad nut, and though the pig might have\nbeen farther off, I was heartily pleased with my whole entertainment.\nNor was there any drawback on my little turret bedroom, beyond there\nbeing such a very thin ceiling between me and the flagstaff, that when\nI lay down on my back in bed, it seemed as if I had to balance that\npole on my forehead all night.\n\nWemmick was up early in the morning, and I am afraid I heard him\ncleaning my boots. After that, he fell to gardening, and I saw him from\nmy gothic window pretending to employ the Aged, and nodding at him in a\nmost devoted manner. Our breakfast was as good as the supper, and at\nhalf-past eight precisely we started for Little Britain. By degrees,\nWemmick got dryer and harder as we went along, and his mouth tightened\ninto a post-office again. At last, when we got to his place of business\nand he pulled out his key from his coat-collar, he looked as\nunconscious of his Walworth property as if the Castle and the\ndrawbridge and the arbour and the lake and the fountain and the Aged,\nhad all been blown into space together by the last discharge of the\nStinger.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXVI.\n\n\nIt fell out as Wemmick had told me it would, that I had an early\nopportunity of comparing my guardian s establishment with that of his\ncashier and clerk. My guardian was in his room, washing his hands with\nhis scented soap, when I went into the office from Walworth; and he\ncalled me to him, and gave me the invitation for myself and friends\nwhich Wemmick had prepared me to receive.  No ceremony,  he stipulated,\n and no dinner dress, and say to-morrow.  I asked him where we should\ncome to (for I had no idea where he lived), and I believe it was in his\ngeneral objection to make anything like an admission, that he replied,\n Come here, and I ll take you home with me.  I embrace this opportunity\nof remarking that he washed his clients off, as if he were a surgeon or\na dentist. He had a closet in his room, fitted up for the purpose,\nwhich smelt of the scented soap like a perfumer s shop. It had an\nunusually large jack-towel on a roller inside the door, and he would\nwash his hands, and wipe them and dry them all over this towel,\nwhenever he came in from a police court or dismissed a client from his\nroom. When I and my friends repaired to him at six o clock next day, he\nseemed to have been engaged on a case of a darker complexion than\nusual, for we found him with his head butted into this closet, not only\nwashing his hands, but laving his face and gargling his throat. And\neven when he had done all that, and had gone all round the jack-towel,\nhe took out his penknife and scraped the case out of his nails before\nhe put his coat on.\n\nThere were some people slinking about as usual when we passed out into\nthe street, who were evidently anxious to speak with him; but there was\nsomething so conclusive in the halo of scented soap which encircled his\npresence, that they gave it up for that day. As we walked along\nwestward, he was recognised ever and again by some face in the crowd of\nthe streets, and whenever that happened he talked louder to me; but he\nnever otherwise recognised anybody, or took notice that anybody\nrecognised him.\n\nHe conducted us to Gerrard Street, Soho, to a house on the south side\nof that street. Rather a stately house of its kind, but dolefully in\nwant of painting, and with dirty windows. He took out his key and\nopened the door, and we all went into a stone hall, bare, gloomy, and\nlittle used. So, up a dark brown staircase into a series of three dark\nbrown rooms on the first floor. There were carved garlands on the\npanelled walls, and as he stood among them giving us welcome, I know\nwhat kind of loops I thought they looked like.\n\nDinner was laid in the best of these rooms; the second was his\ndressing-room; the third, his bedroom. He told us that he held the\nwhole house, but rarely used more of it than we saw. The table was\ncomfortably laid no silver in the service, of course and at the side of\nhis chair was a capacious dumb-waiter, with a variety of bottles and\ndecanters on it, and four dishes of fruit for dessert. I noticed\nthroughout, that he kept everything under his own hand, and distributed\neverything himself.\n\nThere was a bookcase in the room; I saw from the backs of the books,\nthat they were about evidence, criminal law, criminal biography,\ntrials, acts of Parliament, and such things. The furniture was all very\nsolid and good, like his watch-chain. It had an official look, however,\nand there was nothing merely ornamental to be seen. In a corner was a\nlittle table of papers with a shaded lamp: so that he seemed to bring\nthe office home with him in that respect too, and to wheel it out of an\nevening and fall to work.\n\nAs he had scarcely seen my three companions until now, for he and I had\nwalked together, he stood on the hearth-rug, after ringing the bell,\nand took a searching look at them. To my surprise, he seemed at once to\nbe principally if not solely interested in Drummle.\n\n Pip,  said he, putting his large hand on my shoulder and moving me to\nthe window,  I don t know one from the other. Who s the Spider? \n\n The spider?  said I.\n\n The blotchy, sprawly, sulky fellow. \n\n That s Bentley Drummle,  I replied;  the one with the delicate face is\nStartop. \n\nNot making the least account of  the one with the delicate face,  he\nreturned,  Bentley Drummle is his name, is it? I like the look of that\nfellow. \n\nHe immediately began to talk to Drummle: not at all deterred by his\nreplying in his heavy reticent way, but apparently led on by it to\nscrew discourse out of him. I was looking at the two, when there came\nbetween me and them the housekeeper, with the first dish for the table.\n\nShe was a woman of about forty, I supposed, but I may have thought her\nyounger than she was. Rather tall, of a lithe nimble figure, extremely\npale, with large faded eyes, and a quantity of streaming hair. I cannot\nsay whether any diseased affection of the heart caused her lips to be\nparted as if she were panting, and her face to bear a curious\nexpression of suddenness and flutter; but I know that I had been to see\nMacbeth at the theatre, a night or two before, and that her face looked\nto me as if it were all disturbed by fiery air, like the faces I had\nseen rise out of the Witches  caldron.\n\nShe set the dish on, touched my guardian quietly on the arm with a\nfinger to notify that dinner was ready, and vanished. We took our seats\nat the round table, and my guardian kept Drummle on one side of him,\nwhile Startop sat on the other. It was a noble dish of fish that the\nhousekeeper had put on table, and we had a joint of equally choice\nmutton afterwards, and then an equally choice bird. Sauces, wines, all\nthe accessories we wanted, and all of the best, were given out by our\nhost from his dumb-waiter; and when they had made the circuit of the\ntable, he always put them back again. Similarly, he dealt us clean\nplates and knives and forks, for each course, and dropped those just\ndisused into two baskets on the ground by his chair. No other attendant\nthan the housekeeper appeared. She set on every dish; and I always saw\nin her face, a face rising out of the caldron. Years afterwards, I made\na dreadful likeness of that woman, by causing a face that had no other\nnatural resemblance to it than it derived from flowing hair to pass\nbehind a bowl of flaming spirits in a dark room.\n\nInduced to take particular notice of the housekeeper, both by her own\nstriking appearance and by Wemmick s preparation, I observed that\nwhenever she was in the room she kept her eyes attentively on my\nguardian, and that she would remove her hands from any dish she put\nbefore him, hesitatingly, as if she dreaded his calling her back, and\nwanted him to speak when she was nigh, if he had anything to say. I\nfancied that I could detect in his manner a consciousness of this, and\na purpose of always holding her in suspense.\n\nDinner went off gayly, and although my guardian seemed to follow rather\nthan originate subjects, I knew that he wrenched the weakest part of\nour dispositions out of us. For myself, I found that I was expressing\nmy tendency to lavish expenditure, and to patronise Herbert, and to\nboast of my great prospects, before I quite knew that I had opened my\nlips. It was so with all of us, but with no one more than Drummle: the\ndevelopment of whose inclination to gird in a grudging and suspicious\nway at the rest, was screwed out of him before the fish was taken off.\n\nIt was not then, but when we had got to the cheese, that our\nconversation turned upon our rowing feats, and that Drummle was rallied\nfor coming up behind of a night in that slow amphibious way of his.\nDrummle upon this, informed our host that he much preferred our room to\nour company, and that as to skill he was more than our master, and that\nas to strength he could scatter us like chaff. By some invisible\nagency, my guardian wound him up to a pitch little short of ferocity\nabout this trifle; and he fell to baring and spanning his arm to show\nhow muscular it was, and we all fell to baring and spanning our arms in\na ridiculous manner.\n\nNow the housekeeper was at that time clearing the table; my guardian,\ntaking no heed of her, but with the side of his face turned from her,\nwas leaning back in his chair biting the side of his forefinger and\nshowing an interest in Drummle, that, to me, was quite inexplicable.\nSuddenly, he clapped his large hand on the housekeeper s, like a trap,\nas she stretched it across the table. So suddenly and smartly did he do\nthis, that we all stopped in our foolish contention.\n\n If you talk of strength,  said Mr. Jaggers,  _I_ ll show you a wrist.\nMolly, let them see your wrist. \n\nHer entrapped hand was on the table, but she had already put her other\nhand behind her waist.  Master,  she said, in a low voice, with her\neyes attentively and entreatingly fixed upon him.  Don t. \n\n _I_ ll show you a wrist,  repeated Mr. Jaggers, with an immovable\ndetermination to show it.  Molly, let them see your wrist. \n\n Master,  she again murmured.  Please! \n\n Molly,  said Mr. Jaggers, not looking at her, but obstinately looking\nat the opposite side of the room,  let them see _both_ your wrists.\nShow them. Come! \n\nHe took his hand from hers, and turned that wrist up on the table. She\nbrought her other hand from behind her, and held the two out side by\nside. The last wrist was much disfigured, deeply scarred and scarred\nacross and across. When she held her hands out she took her eyes from\nMr. Jaggers, and turned them watchfully on every one of the rest of us\nin succession.\n\n There s power here,  said Mr. Jaggers, coolly tracing out the sinews\nwith his forefinger.  Very few men have the power of wrist that this\nwoman has. It s remarkable what mere force of grip there is in these\nhands. I have had occasion to notice many hands; but I never saw\nstronger in that respect, man s or woman s, than these. \n\nWhile he said these words in a leisurely, critical style, she continued\nto look at every one of us in regular succession as we sat. The moment\nhe ceased, she looked at him again.  That ll do, Molly,  said Mr.\nJaggers, giving her a slight nod;  you have been admired, and can go. \nShe withdrew her hands and went out of the room, and Mr. Jaggers,\nputting the decanters on from his dumb-waiter, filled his glass and\npassed round the wine.\n\n At half-past nine, gentlemen,  said he,  we must break up. Pray make\nthe best use of your time. I am glad to see you all. Mr. Drummle, I\ndrink to you. \n\nIf his object in singling out Drummle were to bring him out still more,\nit perfectly succeeded. In a sulky triumph, Drummle showed his morose\ndepreciation of the rest of us, in a more and more offensive degree,\nuntil he became downright intolerable. Through all his stages, Mr.\nJaggers followed him with the same strange interest. He actually seemed\nto serve as a zest to Mr. Jaggers s wine.\n\nIn our boyish want of discretion I dare say we took too much to drink,\nand I know we talked too much. We became particularly hot upon some\nboorish sneer of Drummle s, to the effect that we were too free with\nour money. It led to my remarking, with more zeal than discretion, that\nit came with a bad grace from him, to whom Startop had lent money in my\npresence but a week or so before.\n\n Well,  retorted Drummle;  he ll be paid. \n\n I don t mean to imply that he won t,  said I,  but it might make you\nhold your tongue about us and our money, I should think. \n\n _You_ should think!  retorted Drummle.  Oh Lord! \n\n I dare say,  I went on, meaning to be very severe,  that you wouldn t\nlend money to any of us if we wanted it. \n\n You are right,  said Drummle.  I wouldn t lend one of you a sixpence.\nI wouldn t lend anybody a sixpence. \n\n Rather mean to borrow under those circumstances, I should say. \n\n _You_ should say,  repeated Drummle.  Oh Lord! \n\nThis was so very aggravating the more especially as I found myself\nmaking no way against his surly obtuseness that I said, disregarding\nHerbert s efforts to check me, \n\n Come, Mr. Drummle, since we are on the subject, I ll tell you what\npassed between Herbert here and me, when you borrowed that money. \n\n _I_ don t want to know what passed between Herbert there and you, \ngrowled Drummle. And I think he added in a lower growl, that we might\nboth go to the devil and shake ourselves.\n\n I ll tell you, however,  said I,  whether you want to know or not. We\nsaid that as you put it in your pocket very glad to get it, you seemed\nto be immensely amused at his being so weak as to lend it. \n\nDrummle laughed outright, and sat laughing in our faces, with his hands\nin his pockets and his round shoulders raised; plainly signifying that\nit was quite true, and that he despised us as asses all.\n\nHereupon Startop took him in hand, though with a much better grace than\nI had shown, and exhorted him to be a little more agreeable. Startop,\nbeing a lively, bright young fellow, and Drummle being the exact\nopposite, the latter was always disposed to resent him as a direct\npersonal affront. He now retorted in a coarse, lumpish way, and Startop\ntried to turn the discussion aside with some small pleasantry that made\nus all laugh. Resenting this little success more than anything,\nDrummle, without any threat or warning, pulled his hands out of his\npockets, dropped his round shoulders, swore, took up a large glass, and\nwould have flung it at his adversary s head, but for our entertainer s\ndexterously seizing it at the instant when it was raised for that\npurpose.\n\n Gentlemen,  said Mr. Jaggers, deliberately putting down the glass, and\nhauling out his gold repeater by its massive chain,  I am exceedingly\nsorry to announce that it s half past nine. \n\nOn this hint we all rose to depart. Before we got to the street door,\nStartop was cheerily calling Drummle  old boy,  as if nothing had\nhappened. But the old boy was so far from responding, that he would not\neven walk to Hammersmith on the same side of the way; so Herbert and I,\nwho remained in town, saw them going down the street on opposite sides;\nStartop leading, and Drummle lagging behind in the shadow of the\nhouses, much as he was wont to follow in his boat.\n\nAs the door was not yet shut, I thought I would leave Herbert there for\na moment, and run upstairs again to say a word to my guardian. I found\nhim in his dressing-room surrounded by his stock of boots, already hard\nat it, washing his hands of us.\n\nI told him I had come up again to say how sorry I was that anything\ndisagreeable should have occurred, and that I hoped he would not blame\nme much.\n\n Pooh!  said he, sluicing his face, and speaking through the\nwater-drops;  it s nothing, Pip. I like that Spider though. \n\nHe had turned towards me now, and was shaking his head, and blowing,\nand towelling himself.\n\n I am glad you like him, sir,  said I but I don t. \n\n No, no,  my guardian assented;  don t have too much to do with him.\nKeep as clear of him as you can. But I like the fellow, Pip; he is one\nof the true sort. Why, if I was a fortune-teller \n\nLooking out of the towel, he caught my eye.\n\n But I am not a fortune-teller,  he said, letting his head drop into a\nfestoon of towel, and towelling away at his two ears.  You know what I\nam, don t you? Good night, Pip. \n\n Good night, sir. \n\nIn about a month after that, the Spider s time with Mr. Pocket was up\nfor good, and, to the great relief of all the house but Mrs. Pocket, he\nwent home to the family hole.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXVII.\n\n\n MY DEAR MR PIP: \n\n I write this by request of Mr. Gargery, for to let you know that he is\ngoing to London in company with Mr. Wopsle and would be glad if\nagreeable to be allowed to see you. He would call at Barnard s Hotel\nTuesday morning at nine o clock, when if not agreeable please leave\nword. Your poor sister is much the same as when you left. We talk of\nyou in the kitchen every night, and wonder what you are saying and\ndoing. If now considered in the light of a liberty, excuse it for the\nlove of poor old days. No more, dear Mr. Pip, from\n\n Your ever obliged, and affectionate servant,\n BIDDY. \n\n\n P.S. He wishes me most particular to write _what larks_. He says you\nwill understand. I hope and do not doubt it will be agreeable to see\nhim, even though a gentleman, for you had ever a good heart, and he is\na worthy, worthy man. I have read him all, excepting only the last\nlittle sentence, and he wishes me most particular to write again _what\nlarks_. \n\nI received this letter by the post on Monday morning, and therefore its\nappointment was for next day. Let me confess exactly with what feelings\nI looked forward to Joe s coming.\n\nNot with pleasure, though I was bound to him by so many ties; no; with\nconsiderable disturbance, some mortification, and a keen sense of\nincongruity. If I could have kept him away by paying money, I certainly\nwould have paid money. My greatest reassurance was that he was coming\nto Barnard s Inn, not to Hammersmith, and consequently would not fall\nin Bentley Drummle s way. I had little objection to his being seen by\nHerbert or his father, for both of whom I had a respect; but I had the\nsharpest sensitiveness as to his being seen by Drummle, whom I held in\ncontempt. So, throughout life, our worst weaknesses and meannesses are\nusually committed for the sake of the people whom we most despise.\n\nI had begun to be always decorating the chambers in some quite\nunnecessary and inappropriate way or other, and very expensive those\nwrestles with Barnard proved to be. By this time, the rooms were vastly\ndifferent from what I had found them, and I enjoyed the honour of\noccupying a few prominent pages in the books of a neighbouring\nupholsterer. I had got on so fast of late, that I had even started a\nboy in boots, top boots, in bondage and slavery to whom I might have\nbeen said to pass my days. For, after I had made the monster (out of\nthe refuse of my washerwoman s family), and had clothed him with a blue\ncoat, canary waistcoat, white cravat, creamy breeches, and the boots\nalready mentioned, I had to find him a little to do and a great deal to\neat; and with both of those horrible requirements he haunted my\nexistence.\n\nThis avenging phantom was ordered to be on duty at eight on Tuesday\nmorning in the hall, (it was two feet square, as charged for\nfloorcloth,) and Herbert suggested certain things for breakfast that he\nthought Joe would like. While I felt sincerely obliged to him for being\nso interested and considerate, I had an odd half-provoked sense of\nsuspicion upon me, that if Joe had been coming to see _him_, he\nwouldn t have been quite so brisk about it.\n\nHowever, I came into town on the Monday night to be ready for Joe, and\nI got up early in the morning, and caused the sitting-room and\nbreakfast-table to assume their most splendid appearance. Unfortunately\nthe morning was drizzly, and an angel could not have concealed the fact\nthat Barnard was shedding sooty tears outside the window, like some\nweak giant of a Sweep.\n\nAs the time approached I should have liked to run away, but the Avenger\npursuant to orders was in the hall, and presently I heard Joe on the\nstaircase. I knew it was Joe, by his clumsy manner of coming\nupstairs, his state boots being always too big for him, and by the time\nit took him to read the names on the other floors in the course of his\nascent. When at last he stopped outside our door, I could hear his\nfinger tracing over the painted letters of my name, and I afterwards\ndistinctly heard him breathing in at the keyhole. Finally he gave a\nfaint single rap, and Pepper such was the compromising name of the\navenging boy announced  Mr. Gargery!  I thought he never would have\ndone wiping his feet, and that I must have gone out to lift him off the\nmat, but at last he came in.\n\n Joe, how are you, Joe? \n\n Pip, how AIR you, Pip? \n\nWith his good honest face all glowing and shining, and his hat put down\non the floor between us, he caught both my hands and worked them\nstraight up and down, as if I had been the last-patented Pump.\n\n I am glad to see you, Joe. Give me your hat. \n\nBut Joe, taking it up carefully with both hands, like a bird s-nest\nwith eggs in it, wouldn t hear of parting with that piece of property,\nand persisted in standing talking over it in a most uncomfortable way.\n\n Which you have that growed,  said Joe,  and that swelled, and that\ngentle-folked;  Joe considered a little before he discovered this word;\n as to be sure you are a honour to your king and country. \n\n And you, Joe, look wonderfully well. \n\n Thank God,  said Joe,  I m ekerval to most. And your sister, she s no\nworse than she were. And Biddy, she s ever right and ready. And all\nfriends is no backerder, if not no forarder.  Ceptin Wopsle; he s had a\ndrop. \n\nAll this time (still with both hands taking great care of the\nbird s-nest), Joe was rolling his eyes round and round the room, and\nround and round the flowered pattern of my dressing-gown.\n\n Had a drop, Joe? \n\n Why yes,  said Joe, lowering his voice,  he s left the Church and went\ninto the playacting. Which the playacting have likeways brought him to\nLondon along with me. And his wish were,  said Joe, getting the\nbird s-nest under his left arm for the moment, and groping in it for an\negg with his right;  if no offence, as I would  and you that. \n\nI took what Joe gave me, and found it to be the crumpled play-bill of a\nsmall metropolitan theatre, announcing the first appearance, in that\nvery week, of  the celebrated Provincial Amateur of Roscian renown,\nwhose unique performance in the highest tragic walk of our National\nBard has lately occasioned so great a sensation in local dramatic\ncircles. \n\n Were you at his performance, Joe?  I inquired.\n\n I _were_,  said Joe, with emphasis and solemnity.\n\n Was there a great sensation? \n\n Why,  said Joe,  yes, there certainly were a peck of orange-peel.\nPartickler when he see the ghost. Though I put it to yourself, sir,\nwhether it were calc lated to keep a man up to his work with a good\nhart, to be continiwally cutting in betwixt him and the Ghost with\n Amen!  A man may have had a misfortun  and been in the Church,  said\nJoe, lowering his voice to an argumentative and feeling tone,  but that\nis no reason why you should put him out at such a time. Which I\nmeantersay, if the ghost of a man s own father cannot be allowed to\nclaim his attention, what can, Sir? Still more, when his mourning  at\nis unfortunately made so small as that the weight of the black feathers\nbrings it off, try to keep it on how you may. \n\nA ghost-seeing effect in Joe s own countenance informed me that Herbert\nhad entered the room. So, I presented Joe to Herbert, who held out his\nhand; but Joe backed from it, and held on by the bird s-nest.\n\n Your servant, Sir,  said Joe,  which I hope as you and Pip here his\neye fell on the Avenger, who was putting some toast on table, and so\nplainly denoted an intention to make that young gentleman one of the\nfamily, that I frowned it down and confused him more I meantersay, you\ntwo gentlemen, which I hope as you get your elths in this close spot?\nFor the present may be a werry good inn, according to London opinions, \nsaid Joe, confidentially,  and I believe its character do stand it; but\nI wouldn t keep a pig in it myself, not in the case that I wished him\nto fatten wholesome and to eat with a meller flavour on him. \n\nHaving borne this flattering testimony to the merits of our\ndwelling-place, and having incidentally shown this tendency to call me\n sir,  Joe, being invited to sit down to table, looked all round the\nroom for a suitable spot on which to deposit his hat, as if it were\nonly on some very few rare substances in nature that it could find a\nresting place, and ultimately stood it on an extreme corner of the\nchimney-piece, from which it ever afterwards fell off at intervals.\n\n Do you take tea, or coffee, Mr. Gargery?  asked Herbert, who always\npresided of a morning.\n\n Thankee, Sir,  said Joe, stiff from head to foot,  I ll take whichever\nis most agreeable to yourself. \n\n What do you say to coffee? \n\n Thankee, Sir,  returned Joe, evidently dispirited by the proposal,\n since you _are_ so kind as make chice of coffee, I will not run\ncontrairy to your own opinions. But don t you never find it a little\n eating? \n\n Say tea then,  said Herbert, pouring it out.\n\nHere Joe s hat tumbled off the mantel-piece, and he started out of his\nchair and picked it up, and fitted it to the same exact spot. As if it\nwere an absolute point of good breeding that it should tumble off again\nsoon.\n\n When did you come to town, Mr. Gargery? \n\n Were it yesterday afternoon?  said Joe, after coughing behind his\nhand, as if he had had time to catch the whooping-cough since he came.\n No it were not. Yes it were. Yes. It were yesterday afternoon  (with\nan appearance of mingled wisdom, relief, and strict impartiality).\n\n Have you seen anything of London yet? \n\n Why, yes, Sir,  said Joe,  me and Wopsle went off straight to look at\nthe Blacking Ware us. But we didn t find that it come up to its\nlikeness in the red bills at the shop doors; which I meantersay,  added\nJoe, in an explanatory manner,  as it is there drawd too\narchitectooralooral. \n\nI really believe Joe would have prolonged this word (mightily\nexpressive to my mind of some architecture that I know) into a perfect\nChorus, but for his attention being providentially attracted by his\nhat, which was toppling. Indeed, it demanded from him a constant\nattention, and a quickness of eye and hand, very like that exacted by\nwicket-keeping. He made extraordinary play with it, and showed the\ngreatest skill; now, rushing at it and catching it neatly as it\ndropped; now, merely stopping it midway, beating it up, and humouring\nit in various parts of the room and against a good deal of the pattern\nof the paper on the wall, before he felt it safe to close with it;\nfinally splashing it into the slop-basin, where I took the liberty of\nlaying hands upon it.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nAs to his shirt-collar, and his coat-collar, they were perplexing to\nreflect upon, insoluble mysteries both. Why should a man scrape himself\nto that extent, before he could consider himself full dressed? Why\nshould he suppose it necessary to be purified by suffering for his\nholiday clothes? Then he fell into such unaccountable fits of\nmeditation, with his fork midway between his plate and his mouth; had\nhis eyes attracted in such strange directions; was afflicted with such\nremarkable coughs; sat so far from the table, and dropped so much more\nthan he ate, and pretended that he hadn t dropped it; that I was\nheartily glad when Herbert left us for the City.\n\nI had neither the good sense nor the good feeling to know that this was\nall my fault, and that if I had been easier with Joe, Joe would have\nbeen easier with me. I felt impatient of him and out of temper with\nhim; in which condition he heaped coals of fire on my head.\n\n Us two being now alone, sir, began Joe.\n\n Joe,  I interrupted, pettishly,  how can you call me, sir? \n\nJoe looked at me for a single instant with something faintly like\nreproach. Utterly preposterous as his cravat was, and as his collars\nwere, I was conscious of a sort of dignity in the look.\n\n Us two being now alone,  resumed Joe,  and me having the intentions\nand abilities to stay not many minutes more, I will now\nconclude leastways begin to mention what have led to my having had the\npresent honour. For was it not,  said Joe, with his old air of lucid\nexposition,  that my only wish were to be useful to you, I should not\nhave had the honour of breaking wittles in the company and abode of\ngentlemen. \n\nI was so unwilling to see the look again, that I made no remonstrance\nagainst this tone.\n\n Well, sir,  pursued Joe,  this is how it were. I were at the Bargemen\nt other night, Pip; whenever he subsided into affection, he called me\nPip, and whenever he relapsed into politeness he called me sir;  when\nthere come up in his shay-cart, Pumblechook. Which that same\nidentical,  said Joe, going down a new track,  do comb my  air the\nwrong way sometimes, awful, by giving out up and down town as it were\nhim which ever had your infant companionation and were looked upon as a\nplayfellow by yourself. \n\n Nonsense. It was you, Joe. \n\n Which I fully believed it were, Pip,  said Joe, slightly tossing his\nhead,  though it signify little now, sir. Well, Pip; this same\nidentical, which his manners is given to blusterous, come to me at the\nBargemen (wot a pipe and a pint of beer do give refreshment to the\nworkingman, sir, and do not over stimilate), and his word were,\n Joseph, Miss Havisham she wish to speak to you. \n\n Miss Havisham, Joe? \n\n She wish,  were Pumblechook s word,  to speak to you.  Joe sat and\nrolled his eyes at the ceiling.\n\n Yes, Joe? Go on, please. \n\n Next day, sir,  said Joe, looking at me as if I were a long way off,\n having cleaned myself, I go and I see Miss A. \n\n Miss A., Joe? Miss Havisham? \n\n Which I say, sir,  replied Joe, with an air of legal formality, as if\nhe were making his will,  Miss A., or otherways Havisham. Her\nexpression air then as follering:  Mr. Gargery. You air in\ncorrespondence with Mr. Pip?  Having had a letter from you, I were able\nto say  I am.  (When I married your sister, sir, I said  I will;  and\nwhen I answered your friend, Pip, I said  I am. )  Would you tell him,\nthen,  said she,  that which Estella has come home and would be glad to\nsee him. \n\nI felt my face fire up as I looked at Joe. I hope one remote cause of\nits firing may have been my consciousness that if I had known his\nerrand, I should have given him more encouragement.\n\n Biddy,  pursued Joe,  when I got home and asked her fur to write the\nmessage to you, a little hung back. Biddy says,  I know he will be very\nglad to have it by word of mouth, it is holiday time, you want to see\nhim, go!  I have now concluded, sir,  said Joe, rising from his chair,\n and, Pip, I wish you ever well and ever prospering to a greater and a\ngreater height. \n\n But you are not going now, Joe? \n\n Yes I am,  said Joe.\n\n But you are coming back to dinner, Joe? \n\n No I am not,  said Joe.\n\nOur eyes met, and all the  Sir  melted out of that manly heart as he\ngave me his hand.\n\n Pip, dear old chap, life is made of ever so many partings welded\ntogether, as I may say, and one man s a blacksmith, and one s a\nwhitesmith, and one s a goldsmith, and one s a coppersmith. Diwisions\namong such must come, and must be met as they come. If there s been any\nfault at all to-day, it s mine. You and me is not two figures to be\ntogether in London; nor yet anywheres else but what is private, and\nbeknown, and understood among friends. It ain t that I am proud, but\nthat I want to be right, as you shall never see me no more in these\nclothes. I m wrong in these clothes. I m wrong out of the forge, the\nkitchen, or off th  meshes. You won t find half so much fault in me if\nyou think of me in my forge dress, with my hammer in my hand, or even\nmy pipe. You won t find half so much fault in me if, supposing as you\nshould ever wish to see me, you come and put your head in at the forge\nwindow and see Joe the blacksmith, there, at the old anvil, in the old\nburnt apron, sticking to the old work. I m awful dull, but I hope I ve\nbeat out something nigh the rights of this at last. And so GOD bless\nyou, dear old Pip, old chap, GOD bless you! \n\nI had not been mistaken in my fancy that there was a simple dignity in\nhim. The fashion of his dress could no more come in its way when he\nspoke these words than it could come in its way in Heaven. He touched\nme gently on the forehead, and went out. As soon as I could recover\nmyself sufficiently, I hurried out after him and looked for him in the\nneighbouring streets; but he was gone.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXVIII.\n\n\nIt was clear that I must repair to our town next day, and in the first\nflow of my repentance, it was equally clear that I must stay at Joe s.\nBut, when I had secured my box-place by to-morrow s coach, and had been\ndown to Mr. Pocket s and back, I was not by any means convinced on the\nlast point, and began to invent reasons and make excuses for putting up\nat the Blue Boar. I should be an inconvenience at Joe s; I was not\nexpected, and my bed would not be ready; I should be too far from Miss\nHavisham s, and she was exacting and mightn t like it. All other\nswindlers upon earth are nothing to the self-swindlers, and with such\npretences did I cheat myself. Surely a curious thing. That I should\ninnocently take a bad half-crown of somebody else s manufacture is\nreasonable enough; but that I should knowingly reckon the spurious coin\nof my own make as good money! An obliging stranger, under pretence of\ncompactly folding up my bank-notes for security s sake, abstracts the\nnotes and gives me nutshells; but what is his sleight of hand to mine,\nwhen I fold up my own nutshells and pass them on myself as notes!\n\nHaving settled that I must go to the Blue Boar, my mind was much\ndisturbed by indecision whether or not to take the Avenger. It was\ntempting to think of that expensive Mercenary publicly airing his boots\nin the archway of the Blue Boar s posting-yard; it was almost solemn to\nimagine him casually produced in the tailor s shop, and confounding the\ndisrespectful senses of Trabb s boy. On the other hand, Trabb s boy\nmight worm himself into his intimacy and tell him things; or, reckless\nand desperate wretch as I knew he could be, might hoot him in the High\nStreet. My patroness, too, might hear of him, and not approve. On the\nwhole, I resolved to leave the Avenger behind.\n\nIt was the afternoon coach by which I had taken my place, and, as\nwinter had now come round, I should not arrive at my destination until\ntwo or three hours after dark. Our time of starting from the Cross Keys\nwas two o clock. I arrived on the ground with a quarter of an hour to\nspare, attended by the Avenger, if I may connect that expression with\none who never attended on me if he could possibly help it.\n\nAt that time it was customary to carry Convicts down to the dock-yards\nby stage-coach. As I had often heard of them in the capacity of outside\npassengers, and had more than once seen them on the high road dangling\ntheir ironed legs over the coach roof, I had no cause to be surprised\nwhen Herbert, meeting me in the yard, came up and told me there were\ntwo convicts going down with me. But I had a reason that was an old\nreason now for constitutionally faltering whenever I heard the word\n convict. \n\n You don t mind them, Handel?  said Herbert.\n\n O no! \n\n I thought you seemed as if you didn t like them? \n\n I can t pretend that I do like them, and I suppose you don t\nparticularly. But I don t mind them. \n\n See! There they are,  said Herbert,  coming out of the Tap. What a\ndegraded and vile sight it is! \n\nThey had been treating their guard, I suppose, for they had a gaoler\nwith them, and all three came out wiping their mouths on their hands.\nThe two convicts were handcuffed together, and had irons on their\nlegs, irons of a pattern that I knew well. They wore the dress that I\nlikewise knew well. Their keeper had a brace of pistols, and carried a\nthick-knobbed bludgeon under his arm; but he was on terms of good\nunderstanding with them, and stood with them beside him, looking on at\nthe putting-to of the horses, rather with an air as if the convicts\nwere an interesting Exhibition not formally open at the moment, and he\nthe Curator. One was a taller and stouter man than the other, and\nappeared as a matter of course, according to the mysterious ways of the\nworld, both convict and free, to have had allotted to him the smaller\nsuit of clothes. His arms and legs were like great pincushions of those\nshapes, and his attire disguised him absurdly; but I knew his\nhalf-closed eye at one glance. There stood the man whom I had seen on\nthe settle at the Three Jolly Bargemen on a Saturday night, and who had\nbrought me down with his invisible gun!\n\nIt was easy to make sure that as yet he knew me no more than if he had\nnever seen me in his life. He looked across at me, and his eye\nappraised my watch-chain, and then he incidentally spat and said\nsomething to the other convict, and they laughed and slued themselves\nround with a clink of their coupling manacle, and looked at something\nelse. The great numbers on their backs, as if they were street doors;\ntheir coarse mangy ungainly outer surface, as if they were lower\nanimals; their ironed legs, apologetically garlanded with\npocket-handkerchiefs; and the way in which all present looked at them\nand kept from them; made them (as Herbert had said) a most disagreeable\nand degraded spectacle.\n\nBut this was not the worst of it. It came out that the whole of the\nback of the coach had been taken by a family removing from London, and\nthat there were no places for the two prisoners but on the seat in\nfront behind the coachman. Hereupon, a choleric gentleman, who had\ntaken the fourth place on that seat, flew into a most violent passion,\nand said that it was a breach of contract to mix him up with such\nvillainous company, and that it was poisonous, and pernicious, and\ninfamous, and shameful, and I don t know what else. At this time the\ncoach was ready and the coachman impatient, and we were all preparing\nto get up, and the prisoners had come over with their keeper, bringing\nwith them that curious flavour of bread-poultice, baize, rope-yarn, and\nhearthstone, which attends the convict presence.\n\n Don t take it so much amiss, sir,  pleaded the keeper to the angry\npassenger;  I ll sit next you myself. I ll put  em on the outside of\nthe row. They won t interfere with you, sir. You needn t know they re\nthere. \n\n And don t blame _me_,  growled the convict I had recognised.  _I_\ndon t want to go. _I_ am quite ready to stay behind. As fur as I am\nconcerned any one s welcome to _my_ place. \n\n Or mine,  said the other, gruffly.  _I_ wouldn t have incommoded none\nof you, if I d had _my_ way.  Then they both laughed, and began\ncracking nuts, and spitting the shells about. As I really think I\nshould have liked to do myself, if I had been in their place and so\ndespised.\n\nAt length, it was voted that there was no help for the angry gentleman,\nand that he must either go in his chance company or remain behind. So\nhe got into his place, still making complaints, and the keeper got into\nthe place next him, and the convicts hauled themselves up as well as\nthey could, and the convict I had recognised sat behind me with his\nbreath on the hair of my head.\n\n Good-bye, Handel!  Herbert called out as we started. I thought what a\nblessed fortune it was, that he had found another name for me than Pip.\n\nIt is impossible to express with what acuteness I felt the convict s\nbreathing, not only on the back of my head, but all along my spine. The\nsensation was like being touched in the marrow with some pungent and\nsearching acid, it set my very teeth on edge. He seemed to have more\nbreathing business to do than another man, and to make more noise in\ndoing it; and I was conscious of growing high-shouldered on one side,\nin my shrinking endeavours to fend him off.\n\nThe weather was miserably raw, and the two cursed the cold. It made us\nall lethargic before we had gone far, and when we had left the Half-way\nHouse behind, we habitually dozed and shivered and were silent. I dozed\noff, myself, in considering the question whether I ought to restore a\ncouple of pounds sterling to this creature before losing sight of him,\nand how it could best be done. In the act of dipping forward as if I\nwere going to bathe among the horses, I woke in a fright and took the\nquestion up again.\n\nBut I must have lost it longer than I had thought, since, although I\ncould recognise nothing in the darkness and the fitful lights and\nshadows of our lamps, I traced marsh country in the cold damp wind that\nblew at us. Cowering forward for warmth and to make me a screen against\nthe wind, the convicts were closer to me than before. The very first\nwords I heard them interchange as I became conscious, were the words of\nmy own thought,  Two One Pound notes. \n\n How did he get  em?  said the convict I had never seen.\n\n How should I know?  returned the other.  He had  em stowed away\nsomehows. Giv him by friends, I expect. \n\n I wish,  said the other, with a bitter curse upon the cold,  that I\nhad  em here. \n\n Two one pound notes, or friends? \n\n Two one pound notes. I d sell all the friends I ever had for one, and\nthink it a blessed good bargain. Well? So he says ? \n\n So he says,  resumed the convict I had recognised, it was all said\nand done in half a minute, behind a pile of timber in the\nDock-yard, You re a-going to be discharged?  Yes, I was. Would I find\nout that boy that had fed him and kep his secret, and give him them two\none pound notes? Yes, I would. And I did. \n\n More fool you,  growled the other.  I d have spent  em on a Man, in\nwittles and drink. He must have been a green one. Mean to say he knowed\nnothing of you? \n\n Not a ha porth. Different gangs and different ships. He was tried\nagain for prison breaking, and got made a Lifer. \n\n And was that Honour! the only time you worked out, in this part of the\ncountry? \n\n The only time. \n\n What might have been your opinion of the place? \n\n A most beastly place. Mudbank, mist, swamp, and work; work, swamp,\nmist, and mudbank. \n\nThey both execrated the place in very strong language, and gradually\ngrowled themselves out, and had nothing left to say.\n\nAfter overhearing this dialogue, I should assuredly have got down and\nbeen left in the solitude and darkness of the highway, but for feeling\ncertain that the man had no suspicion of my identity. Indeed, I was not\nonly so changed in the course of nature, but so differently dressed and\nso differently circumstanced, that it was not at all likely he could\nhave known me without accidental help. Still, the coincidence of our\nbeing together on the coach, was sufficiently strange to fill me with a\ndread that some other coincidence might at any moment connect me, in\nhis hearing, with my name. For this reason, I resolved to alight as\nsoon as we touched the town, and put myself out of his hearing. This\ndevice I executed successfully. My little portmanteau was in the boot\nunder my feet; I had but to turn a hinge to get it out; I threw it down\nbefore me, got down after it, and was left at the first lamp on the\nfirst stones of the town pavement. As to the convicts, they went their\nway with the coach, and I knew at what point they would be spirited off\nto the river. In my fancy, I saw the boat with its convict crew waiting\nfor them at the slime-washed stairs, again heard the gruff  Give way,\nyou!  like and order to dogs, again saw the wicked Noah s Ark lying out\non the black water.\n\nI could not have said what I was afraid of, for my fear was altogether\nundefined and vague, but there was great fear upon me. As I walked on\nto the hotel, I felt that a dread, much exceeding the mere apprehension\nof a painful or disagreeable recognition, made me tremble. I am\nconfident that it took no distinctness of shape, and that it was the\nrevival for a few minutes of the terror of childhood.\n\nThe coffee-room at the Blue Boar was empty, and I had not only ordered\nmy dinner there, but had sat down to it, before the waiter knew me. As\nsoon as he had apologised for the remissness of his memory, he asked me\nif he should send Boots for Mr. Pumblechook?\n\n No,  said I,  certainly not. \n\nThe waiter (it was he who had brought up the Great Remonstrance from\nthe Commercials, on the day when I was bound) appeared surprised, and\ntook the earliest opportunity of putting a dirty old copy of a local\nnewspaper so directly in my way, that I took it up and read this\nparagraph: \n\nOur readers will learn, not altogether without interest, in reference\nto the recent romantic rise in fortune of a young artificer in iron of\nthis neighbourhood (what a theme, by the way, for the magic pen of our\nas yet not universally acknowledged townsman TOOBY, the poet of our\ncolumns!) that the youth s earliest patron, companion, and friend, was\na highly respected individual not entirely unconnected with the corn\nand seed trade, and whose eminently convenient and commodious business\npremises are situate within a hundred miles of the High Street. It is\nnot wholly irrespective of our personal feelings that we record HIM as\nthe Mentor of our young Telemachus, for it is good to know that our\ntown produced the founder of the latter s fortunes. Does the\nthought-contracted brow of the local Sage or the lustrous eye of local\nBeauty inquire whose fortunes? We believe that Quintin Matsys was the\nBLACKSMITH of Antwerp. VERB. SAP.\n\nI entertain a conviction, based upon large experience, that if in the\ndays of my prosperity I had gone to the North Pole, I should have met\nsomebody there, wandering Esquimaux or civilized man, who would have\ntold me that Pumblechook was my earliest patron and the founder of my\nfortunes.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXIX.\n\n\nBetimes in the morning I was up and out. It was too early yet to go to\nMiss Havisham s, so I loitered into the country on Miss Havisham s side\nof town, which was not Joe s side; I could go there to-morrow, thinking\nabout my patroness, and painting brilliant pictures of her plans for\nme.\n\nShe had adopted Estella, she had as good as adopted me, and it could\nnot fail to be her intention to bring us together. She reserved it for\nme to restore the desolate house, admit the sunshine into the dark\nrooms, set the clocks a-going and the cold hearths a-blazing, tear down\nthe cobwebs, destroy the vermin, in short, do all the shining deeds of\nthe young Knight of romance, and marry the Princess. I had stopped to\nlook at the house as I passed; and its seared red brick walls, blocked\nwindows, and strong green ivy clasping even the stacks of chimneys with\nits twigs and tendons, as if with sinewy old arms, had made up a rich\nattractive mystery, of which I was the hero. Estella was the\ninspiration of it, and the heart of it, of course. But, though she had\ntaken such strong possession of me, though my fancy and my hope were so\nset upon her, though her influence on my boyish life and character had\nbeen all-powerful, I did not, even that romantic morning, invest her\nwith any attributes save those she possessed. I mention this in this\nplace, of a fixed purpose, because it is the clue by which I am to be\nfollowed into my poor labyrinth. According to my experience, the\nconventional notion of a lover cannot be always true. The unqualified\ntruth is, that when I loved Estella with the love of a man, I loved her\nsimply because I found her irresistible. Once for all; I knew to my\nsorrow, often and often, if not always, that I loved her against\nreason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against\nhappiness, against all discouragement that could be. Once for all; I\nloved her none the less because I knew it, and it had no more influence\nin restraining me than if I had devoutly believed her to be human\nperfection.\n\nI so shaped out my walk as to arrive at the gate at my old time. When I\nhad rung at the bell with an unsteady hand, I turned my back upon the\ngate, while I tried to get my breath and keep the beating of my heart\nmoderately quiet. I heard the side-door open, and steps come across the\ncourtyard; but I pretended not to hear, even when the gate swung on its\nrusty hinges.\n\nBeing at last touched on the shoulder, I started and turned. I started\nmuch more naturally then, to find myself confronted by a man in a sober\ngrey dress. The last man I should have expected to see in that place of\nporter at Miss Havisham s door.\n\n Orlick! \n\n Ah, young master, there s more changes than yours. But come in, come\nin. It s opposed to my orders to hold the gate open. \n\nI entered and he swung it, and locked it, and took the key out.  Yes! \nsaid he, facing round, after doggedly preceding me a few steps towards\nthe house.  Here I am! \n\n How did you come here? \n\n I come here,  he retorted,  on my legs. I had my box brought alongside\nme in a barrow. \n\n Are you here for good? \n\n I ain t here for harm, young master, I suppose? \n\nI was not so sure of that. I had leisure to entertain the retort in my\nmind, while he slowly lifted his heavy glance from the pavement, up my\nlegs and arms, to my face.\n\n Then you have left the forge?  I said.\n\n Do this look like a forge?  replied Orlick, sending his glance all\nround him with an air of injury.  Now, do it look like it? \n\nI asked him how long he had left Gargery s forge?\n\n One day is so like another here,  he replied,  that I don t know\nwithout casting it up. However, I come here some time since you left. \n\n I could have told you that, Orlick. \n\n Ah!  said he, dryly.  But then you ve got to be a scholar. \n\nBy this time we had come to the house, where I found his room to be one\njust within the side-door, with a little window in it looking on the\ncourtyard. In its small proportions, it was not unlike the kind of\nplace usually assigned to a gate-porter in Paris. Certain keys were\nhanging on the wall, to which he now added the gate key; and his\npatchwork-covered bed was in a little inner division or recess. The\nwhole had a slovenly, confined, and sleepy look, like a cage for a\nhuman dormouse; while he, looming dark and heavy in the shadow of a\ncorner by the window, looked like the human dormouse for whom it was\nfitted up, as indeed he was.\n\n I never saw this room before,  I remarked;  but there used to be no\nPorter here. \n\n No,  said he;  not till it got about that there was no protection on\nthe premises, and it come to be considered dangerous, with convicts and\nTag and Rag and Bobtail going up and down. And then I was recommended\nto the place as a man who could give another man as good as he brought,\nand I took it. It s easier than bellowsing and hammering. That s\nloaded, that is. \n\nMy eye had been caught by a gun with a brass-bound stock over the\nchimney-piece, and his eye had followed mine.\n\n Well,  said I, not desirous of more conversation,  shall I go up to\nMiss Havisham? \n\n Burn me, if I know!  he retorted, first stretching himself and then\nshaking himself;  my orders ends here, young master. I give this here\nbell a rap with this here hammer, and you go on along the passage till\nyou meet somebody. \n\n I am expected, I believe? \n\n Burn me twice over, if I can say!  said he.\n\nUpon that, I turned down the long passage which I had first trodden in\nmy thick boots, and he made his bell sound. At the end of the passage,\nwhile the bell was still reverberating, I found Sarah Pocket, who\nappeared to have now become constitutionally green and yellow by reason\nof me.\n\n Oh!  said she.  You, is it, Mr. Pip? \n\n It is, Miss Pocket. I am glad to tell you that Mr. Pocket and family\nare all well. \n\n Are they any wiser?  said Sarah, with a dismal shake of the head;\n they had better be wiser, than well. Ah, Matthew, Matthew! You know\nyour way, sir? \n\nTolerably, for I had gone up the staircase in the dark, many a time. I\nascended it now, in lighter boots than of yore, and tapped in my old\nway at the door of Miss Havisham s room.  Pip s rap,  I heard her say,\nimmediately;  come in, Pip. \n\nShe was in her chair near the old table, in the old dress, with her two\nhands crossed on her stick, her chin resting on them, and her eyes on\nthe fire. Sitting near her, with the white shoe, that had never been\nworn, in her hand, and her head bent as she looked at it, was an\nelegant lady whom I had never seen.\n\n Come in, Pip,  Miss Havisham continued to mutter, without looking\nround or up;  come in, Pip, how do you do, Pip? so you kiss my hand as\nif I were a queen, eh? Well? \n\nShe looked up at me suddenly, only moving her eyes, and repeated in a\ngrimly playful manner, \n\n Well? \n\n I heard, Miss Havisham,  said I, rather at a loss,  that you were so\nkind as to wish me to come and see you, and I came directly. \n\n Well? \n\nThe lady whom I had never seen before, lifted up her eyes and looked\narchly at me, and then I saw that the eyes were Estella s eyes. But she\nwas so much changed, was so much more beautiful, so much more womanly,\nin all things winning admiration, had made such wonderful advance, that\nI seemed to have made none. I fancied, as I looked at her, that I\nslipped hopelessly back into the coarse and common boy again. O the\nsense of distance and disparity that came upon me, and the\ninaccessibility that came about her!\n\nShe gave me her hand. I stammered something about the pleasure I felt\nin seeing her again, and about my having looked forward to it, for a\nlong, long time.\n\n Do you find her much changed, Pip?  asked Miss Havisham, with her\ngreedy look, and striking her stick upon a chair that stood between\nthem, as a sign to me to sit down there.\n\n When I came in, Miss Havisham, I thought there was nothing of Estella\nin the face or figure; but now it all settles down so curiously into\nthe old \n\n What? You are not going to say into the old Estella?  Miss Havisham\ninterrupted.  She was proud and insulting, and you wanted to go away\nfrom her. Don t you remember? \n\nI said confusedly that that was long ago, and that I knew no better\nthen, and the like. Estella smiled with perfect composure, and said she\nhad no doubt of my having been quite right, and of her having been very\ndisagreeable.\n\n Is _he_ changed?  Miss Havisham asked her.\n\n Very much,  said Estella, looking at me.\n\n Less coarse and common?  said Miss Havisham, playing with Estella s\nhair.\n\nEstella laughed, and looked at the shoe in her hand, and laughed again,\nand looked at me, and put the shoe down. She treated me as a boy still,\nbut she lured me on.\n\nWe sat in the dreamy room among the old strange influences which had so\nwrought upon me, and I learnt that she had but just come home from\nFrance, and that she was going to London. Proud and wilful as of old,\nshe had brought those qualities into such subjection to her beauty that\nit was impossible and out of nature or I thought so to separate them\nfrom her beauty. Truly it was impossible to dissociate her presence\nfrom all those wretched hankerings after money and gentility that had\ndisturbed my boyhood, from all those ill-regulated aspirations that had\nfirst made me ashamed of home and Joe, from all those visions that had\nraised her face in the glowing fire, struck it out of the iron on the\nanvil, extracted it from the darkness of night to look in at the wooden\nwindow of the forge, and flit away. In a word, it was impossible for me\nto separate her, in the past or in the present, from the innermost life\nof my life.\n\nIt was settled that I should stay there all the rest of the day, and\nreturn to the hotel at night, and to London to-morrow. When we had\nconversed for a while, Miss Havisham sent us two out to walk in the\nneglected garden: on our coming in by and by, she said, I should wheel\nher about a little, as in times of yore.\n\nSo, Estella and I went out into the garden by the gate through which I\nhad strayed to my encounter with the pale young gentleman, now Herbert;\nI, trembling in spirit and worshipping the very hem of her dress; she,\nquite composed and most decidedly not worshipping the hem of mine. As\nwe drew near to the place of encounter, she stopped and said, \n\n I must have been a singular little creature to hide and see that fight\nthat day; but I did, and I enjoyed it very much. \n\n You rewarded me very much. \n\n Did I?  she replied, in an incidental and forgetful way.  I remember I\nentertained a great objection to your adversary, because I took it ill\nthat he should be brought here to pester me with his company. \n\n He and I are great friends now. \n\n Are you? I think I recollect though, that you read with his father? \n\n Yes. \n\nI made the admission with reluctance, for it seemed to have a boyish\nlook, and she already treated me more than enough like a boy.\n\n Since your change of fortune and prospects, you have changed your\ncompanions,  said Estella.\n\n Naturally,  said I.\n\n And necessarily,  she added, in a haughty tone;  what was fit company\nfor you once, would be quite unfit company for you now. \n\nIn my conscience, I doubt very much whether I had any lingering\nintention left of going to see Joe; but if I had, this observation put\nit to flight.\n\n You had no idea of your impending good fortune, in those times?  said\nEstella, with a slight wave of her hand, signifying in the fighting\ntimes.\n\n Not the least. \n\nThe air of completeness and superiority with which she walked at my\nside, and the air of youthfulness and submission with which I walked at\nhers, made a contrast that I strongly felt. It would have rankled in me\nmore than it did, if I had not regarded myself as eliciting it by being\nso set apart for her and assigned to her.\n\nThe garden was too overgrown and rank for walking in with ease, and\nafter we had made the round of it twice or thrice, we came out again\ninto the brewery yard. I showed her to a nicety where I had seen her\nwalking on the casks, that first old day, and she said, with a cold and\ncareless look in that direction,  Did I?  I reminded her where she had\ncome out of the house and given me my meat and drink, and she said,  I\ndon t remember.   Not remember that you made me cry?  said I.  No, \nsaid she, and shook her head and looked about her. I verily believe\nthat her not remembering and not minding in the least, made me cry\nagain, inwardly, and that is the sharpest crying of all.\n\n You must know,  said Estella, condescending to me as a brilliant and\nbeautiful woman might,  that I have no heart, if that has anything to\ndo with my memory. \n\nI got through some jargon to the effect that I took the liberty of\ndoubting that. That I knew better. That there could be no such beauty\nwithout it.\n\n Oh! I have a heart to be stabbed in or shot in, I have no doubt,  said\nEstella,  and of course if it ceased to beat I should cease to be. But\nyou know what I mean. I have no softness there,\nno sympathy sentiment nonsense. \n\nWhat _was_ it that was borne in upon my mind when she stood still and\nlooked attentively at me? Anything that I had seen in Miss Havisham?\nNo. In some of her looks and gestures there was that tinge of\nresemblance to Miss Havisham which may often be noticed to have been\nacquired by children, from grown person with whom they have been much\nassociated and secluded, and which, when childhood is passed, will\nproduce a remarkable occasional likeness of expression between faces\nthat are otherwise quite different. And yet I could not trace this to\nMiss Havisham. I looked again, and though she was still looking at me,\nthe suggestion was gone.\n\nWhat _was_ it?\n\n I am serious,  said Estella, not so much with a frown (for her brow\nwas smooth) as with a darkening of her face;  if we are to be thrown\nmuch together, you had better believe it at once. No!  imperiously\nstopping me as I opened my lips.  I have not bestowed my tenderness\nanywhere. I have never had any such thing. \n\nIn another moment we were in the brewery, so long disused, and she\npointed to the high gallery where I had seen her going out on that same\nfirst day, and told me she remembered to have been up there, and to\nhave seen me standing scared below. As my eyes followed her white hand,\nagain the same dim suggestion that I could not possibly grasp crossed\nme. My involuntary start occasioned her to lay her hand upon my arm.\nInstantly the ghost passed once more and was gone.\n\nWhat _was_ it?\n\n What is the matter?  asked Estella.  Are you scared again? \n\n I should be, if I believed what you said just now,  I replied, to turn\nit off.\n\n Then you don t? Very well. It is said, at any rate. Miss Havisham will\nsoon be expecting you at your old post, though I think that might be\nlaid aside now, with other old belongings. Let us make one more round\nof the garden, and then go in. Come! You shall not shed tears for my\ncruelty to-day; you shall be my Page, and give me your shoulder. \n\nHer handsome dress had trailed upon the ground. She held it in one hand\nnow, and with the other lightly touched my shoulder as we walked. We\nwalked round the ruined garden twice or thrice more, and it was all in\nbloom for me. If the green and yellow growth of weed in the chinks of\nthe old wall had been the most precious flowers that ever blew, it\ncould not have been more cherished in my remembrance.\n\nThere was no discrepancy of years between us to remove her far from me;\nwe were of nearly the same age, though of course the age told for more\nin her case than in mine; but the air of inaccessibility which her\nbeauty and her manner gave her, tormented me in the midst of my\ndelight, and at the height of the assurance I felt that our patroness\nhad chosen us for one another. Wretched boy!\n\nAt last we went back into the house, and there I heard, with surprise,\nthat my guardian had come down to see Miss Havisham on business, and\nwould come back to dinner. The old wintry branches of chandeliers in\nthe room where the mouldering table was spread had been lighted while\nwe were out, and Miss Havisham was in her chair and waiting for me.\n\nIt was like pushing the chair itself back into the past, when we began\nthe old slow circuit round about the ashes of the bridal feast. But, in\nthe funereal room, with that figure of the grave fallen back in the\nchair fixing its eyes upon her, Estella looked more bright and\nbeautiful than before, and I was under stronger enchantment.\n\nThe time so melted away, that our early dinner-hour drew close at hand,\nand Estella left us to prepare herself. We had stopped near the centre\nof the long table, and Miss Havisham, with one of her withered arms\nstretched out of the chair, rested that clenched hand upon the yellow\ncloth. As Estella looked back over her shoulder before going out at the\ndoor, Miss Havisham kissed that hand to her, with a ravenous intensity\nthat was of its kind quite dreadful.\n\nThen, Estella being gone and we two left alone, she turned to me, and\nsaid in a whisper, \n\n Is she beautiful, graceful, well-grown? Do you admire her? \n\n Everybody must who sees her, Miss Havisham. \n\nShe drew an arm round my neck, and drew my head close down to hers as\nshe sat in the chair.  Love her, love her, love her! How does she use\nyou? \n\nBefore I could answer (if I could have answered so difficult a question\nat all) she repeated,  Love her, love her, love her! If she favours\nyou, love her. If she wounds you, love her. If she tears your heart to\npieces, and as it gets older and stronger it will tear deeper, love\nher, love her, love her! \n\nNever had I seen such passionate eagerness as was joined to her\nutterance of these words. I could feel the muscles of the thin arm\nround my neck swell with the vehemence that possessed her.\n\n Hear me, Pip! I adopted her, to be loved. I bred her and educated her,\nto be loved. I developed her into what she is, that she might be loved.\nLove her! \n\nShe said the word often enough, and there could be no doubt that she\nmeant to say it; but if the often repeated word had been hate instead\nof love despair revenge dire death it could not have sounded from her\nlips more like a curse.\n\n I ll tell you,  said she, in the same hurried passionate whisper,\n what real love is. It is blind devotion, unquestioning\nself-humiliation, utter submission, trust and belief against yourself\nand against the whole world, giving up your whole heart and soul to the\nsmiter as I did! \n\nWhen she came to that, and to a wild cry that followed that, I caught\nher round the waist. For she rose up in the chair, in her shroud of a\ndress, and struck at the air as if she would as soon have struck\nherself against the wall and fallen dead.\n\nAll this passed in a few seconds. As I drew her down into her chair, I\nwas conscious of a scent that I knew, and turning, saw my guardian in\nthe room.\n\nHe always carried (I have not yet mentioned it, I think) a\npocket-handkerchief of rich silk and of imposing proportions, which was\nof great value to him in his profession. I have seen him so terrify a\nclient or a witness by ceremoniously unfolding this pocket-handkerchief\nas if he were immediately going to blow his nose, and then pausing, as\nif he knew he should not have time to do it before such client or\nwitness committed himself, that the self-committal has followed\ndirectly, quite as a matter of course. When I saw him in the room he\nhad this expressive pocket-handkerchief in both hands, and was looking\nat us. On meeting my eye, he said plainly, by a momentary and silent\npause in that attitude,  Indeed? Singular!  and then put the\nhandkerchief to its right use with wonderful effect.\n\nMiss Havisham had seen him as soon as I, and was (like everybody else)\nafraid of him. She made a strong attempt to compose herself, and\nstammered that he was as punctual as ever.\n\n As punctual as ever,  he repeated, coming up to us.  (How do you do,\nPip? Shall I give you a ride, Miss Havisham? Once round?) And so you\nare here, Pip? \n\nI told him when I had arrived, and how Miss Havisham had wished me to\ncome and see Estella. To which he replied,  Ah! Very fine young lady! \nThen he pushed Miss Havisham in her chair before him, with one of his\nlarge hands, and put the other in his trousers-pocket as if the pocket\nwere full of secrets.\n\n Well, Pip! How often have you seen Miss Estella before?  said he, when\nhe came to a stop.\n\n How often? \n\n Ah! How many times? Ten thousand times? \n\n Oh! Certainly not so many. \n\n Twice? \n\n Jaggers,  interposed Miss Havisham, much to my relief,  leave my Pip\nalone, and go with him to your dinner. \n\nHe complied, and we groped our way down the dark stairs together. While\nwe were still on our way to those detached apartments across the paved\nyard at the back, he asked me how often I had seen Miss Havisham eat\nand drink; offering me a breadth of choice, as usual, between a hundred\ntimes and once.\n\nI considered, and said,  Never. \n\n And never will, Pip,  he retorted, with a frowning smile.  She has\nnever allowed herself to be seen doing either, since she lived this\npresent life of hers. She wanders about in the night, and then lays\nhands on such food as she takes. \n\n Pray, sir,  said I,  may I ask you a question? \n\n You may,  said he,  and I may decline to answer it. Put your\nquestion. \n\n Estella s name. Is it Havisham or ?  I had nothing to add.\n\n Or what?  said he.\n\n Is it Havisham? \n\n It is Havisham. \n\nThis brought us to the dinner-table, where she and Sarah Pocket awaited\nus. Mr. Jaggers presided, Estella sat opposite to him, I faced my green\nand yellow friend. We dined very well, and were waited on by a\nmaid-servant whom I had never seen in all my comings and goings, but\nwho, for anything I know, had been in that mysterious house the whole\ntime. After dinner a bottle of choice old port was placed before my\nguardian (he was evidently well acquainted with the vintage), and the\ntwo ladies left us.\n\nAnything to equal the determined reticence of Mr. Jaggers under that\nroof I never saw elsewhere, even in him. He kept his very looks to\nhimself, and scarcely directed his eyes to Estella s face once during\ndinner. When she spoke to him, he listened, and in due course answered,\nbut never looked at her, that I could see. On the other hand, she often\nlooked at him, with interest and curiosity, if not distrust, but his\nface never showed the least consciousness. Throughout dinner he took a\ndry delight in making Sarah Pocket greener and yellower, by often\nreferring in conversation with me to my expectations; but here, again,\nhe showed no consciousness, and even made it appear that he\nextorted and even did extort, though I don t know how those references\nout of my innocent self.\n\nAnd when he and I were left alone together, he sat with an air upon him\nof general lying by in consequence of information he possessed, that\nreally was too much for me. He cross-examined his very wine when he had\nnothing else in hand. He held it between himself and the candle, tasted\nthe port, rolled it in his mouth, swallowed it, looked at his glass\nagain, smelt the port, tried it, drank it, filled again, and\ncross-examined the glass again, until I was as nervous as if I had\nknown the wine to be telling him something to my disadvantage. Three or\nfour times I feebly thought I would start conversation; but whenever he\nsaw me going to ask him anything, he looked at me with his glass in his\nhand, and rolling his wine about in his mouth, as if requesting me to\ntake notice that it was of no use, for he couldn t answer.\n\nI think Miss Pocket was conscious that the sight of me involved her in\nthe danger of being goaded to madness, and perhaps tearing off her\ncap, which was a very hideous one, in the nature of a muslin mop, and\nstrewing the ground with her hair, which assuredly had never grown on\n_her_ head. She did not appear when we afterwards went up to Miss\nHavisham s room, and we four played at whist. In the interval, Miss\nHavisham, in a fantastic way, had put some of the most beautiful jewels\nfrom her dressing-table into Estella s hair, and about her bosom and\narms; and I saw even my guardian look at her from under his thick\neyebrows, and raise them a little, when her loveliness was before him,\nwith those rich flushes of glitter and colour in it.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nOf the manner and extent to which he took our trumps into custody, and\ncame out with mean little cards at the ends of hands, before which the\nglory of our Kings and Queens was utterly abased, I say nothing; nor,\nof the feeling that I had, respecting his looking upon us personally in\nthe light of three very obvious and poor riddles that he had found out\nlong ago. What I suffered from, was the incompatibility between his\ncold presence and my feelings towards Estella. It was not that I knew I\ncould never bear to speak to him about her, that I knew I could never\nbear to hear him creak his boots at her, that I knew I could never bear\nto see him wash his hands of her; it was, that my admiration should be\nwithin a foot or two of him, it was, that my feelings should be in the\nsame place with him, _that_, was the agonizing circumstance.\n\nWe played until nine o clock, and then it was arranged that when\nEstella came to London I should be forewarned of her coming and should\nmeet her at the coach; and then I took leave of her, and touched her\nand left her.\n\nMy guardian lay at the Boar in the next room to mine. Far into the\nnight, Miss Havisham s words,  Love her, love her, love her!  sounded\nin my ears. I adapted them for my own repetition, and said to my\npillow,  I love her, I love her, I love her!  hundreds of times. Then,\na burst of gratitude came upon me, that she should be destined for me,\nonce the blacksmith s boy. Then I thought if she were, as I feared, by\nno means rapturously grateful for that destiny yet, when would she\nbegin to be interested in me? When should I awaken the heart within her\nthat was mute and sleeping now?\n\nAh me! I thought those were high and great emotions. But I never\nthought there was anything low and small in my keeping away from Joe,\nbecause I knew she would be contemptuous of him. It was but a day gone,\nand Joe had brought the tears into my eyes; they had soon dried, God\nforgive me! soon dried.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXX.\n\n\nAfter well considering the matter while I was dressing at the Blue Boar\nin the morning, I resolved to tell my guardian that I doubted Orlick s\nbeing the right sort of man to fill a post of trust at Miss Havisham s.\n Why of course he is not the right sort of man, Pip,  said my guardian,\ncomfortably satisfied beforehand on the general head,  because the man\nwho fills the post of trust never is the right sort of man.  It seemed\nquite to put him into spirits to find that this particular post was not\nexceptionally held by the right sort of man, and he listened in a\nsatisfied manner while I told him what knowledge I had of Orlick.  Very\ngood, Pip,  he observed, when I had concluded,  I ll go round\npresently, and pay our friend off.  Rather alarmed by this summary\naction, I was for a little delay, and even hinted that our friend\nhimself might be difficult to deal with.  Oh no he won t,  said my\nguardian, making his pocket-handkerchief-point, with perfect\nconfidence;  I should like to see him argue the question with _me_. \n\nAs we were going back together to London by the midday coach, and as I\nbreakfasted under such terrors of Pumblechook that I could scarcely\nhold my cup, this gave me an opportunity of saying that I wanted a\nwalk, and that I would go on along the London road while Mr. Jaggers\nwas occupied, if he would let the coachman know that I would get into\nmy place when overtaken. I was thus enabled to fly from the Blue Boar\nimmediately after breakfast. By then making a loop of about a couple of\nmiles into the open country at the back of Pumblechook s premises, I\ngot round into the High Street again, a little beyond that pitfall, and\nfelt myself in comparative security.\n\nIt was interesting to be in the quiet old town once more, and it was\nnot disagreeable to be here and there suddenly recognised and stared\nafter. One or two of the tradespeople even darted out of their shops\nand went a little way down the street before me, that they might turn,\nas if they had forgotten something, and pass me face to face, on which\noccasions I don t know whether they or I made the worse pretence; they\nof not doing it, or I of not seeing it. Still my position was a\ndistinguished one, and I was not at all dissatisfied with it, until\nFate threw me in the way of that unlimited miscreant, Trabb s boy.\n\nCasting my eyes along the street at a certain point of my progress, I\nbeheld Trabb s boy approaching, lashing himself with an empty blue bag.\nDeeming that a serene and unconscious contemplation of him would best\nbeseem me, and would be most likely to quell his evil mind, I advanced\nwith that expression of countenance, and was rather congratulating\nmyself on my success, when suddenly the knees of Trabb s boy smote\ntogether, his hair uprose, his cap fell off, he trembled violently in\nevery limb, staggered out into the road, and crying to the populace,\n Hold me! I m so frightened!  feigned to be in a paroxysm of terror and\ncontrition, occasioned by the dignity of my appearance. As I passed\nhim, his teeth loudly chattered in his head, and with every mark of\nextreme humiliation, he prostrated himself in the dust.\n\nThis was a hard thing to bear, but this was nothing. I had not advanced\nanother two hundred yards when, to my inexpressible terror, amazement,\nand indignation, I again beheld Trabb s boy approaching. He was coming\nround a narrow corner. His blue bag was slung over his shoulder, honest\nindustry beamed in his eyes, a determination to proceed to Trabb s with\ncheerful briskness was indicated in his gait. With a shock he became\naware of me, and was severely visited as before; but this time his\nmotion was rotatory, and he staggered round and round me with knees\nmore afflicted, and with uplifted hands as if beseeching for mercy. His\nsufferings were hailed with the greatest joy by a knot of spectators,\nand I felt utterly confounded.\n\nI had not got as much further down the street as the post-office, when\nI again beheld Trabb s boy shooting round by a back way. This time, he\nwas entirely changed. He wore the blue bag in the manner of my\ngreat-coat, and was strutting along the pavement towards me on the\nopposite side of the street, attended by a company of delighted young\nfriends to whom he from time to time exclaimed, with a wave of his\nhand,  Don t know yah!  Words cannot state the amount of aggravation\nand injury wreaked upon me by Trabb s boy, when passing abreast of me,\nhe pulled up his shirt-collar, twined his side-hair, stuck an arm\nakimbo, and smirked extravagantly by, wriggling his elbows and body,\nand drawling to his attendants,  Don t know yah, don t know yah,  pon\nmy soul don t know yah!  The disgrace attendant on his immediately\nafterwards taking to crowing and pursuing me across the bridge with\ncrows, as from an exceedingly dejected fowl who had known me when I was\na blacksmith, culminated the disgrace with which I left the town, and\nwas, so to speak, ejected by it into the open country.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nBut unless I had taken the life of Trabb s boy on that occasion, I\nreally do not even now see what I could have done save endure. To have\nstruggled with him in the street, or to have exacted any lower\nrecompense from him than his heart s best blood, would have been futile\nand degrading. Moreover, he was a boy whom no man could hurt; an\ninvulnerable and dodging serpent who, when chased into a corner, flew\nout again between his captor s legs, scornfully yelping. I wrote,\nhowever, to Mr. Trabb by next day s post, to say that Mr. Pip must\ndecline to deal further with one who could so far forget what he owed\nto the best interests of society, as to employ a boy who excited\nLoathing in every respectable mind.\n\nThe coach, with Mr. Jaggers inside, came up in due time, and I took my\nbox-seat again, and arrived in London safe, but not sound, for my heart\nwas gone. As soon as I arrived, I sent a penitential codfish and barrel\nof oysters to Joe (as reparation for not having gone myself), and then\nwent on to Barnard s Inn.\n\nI found Herbert dining on cold meat, and delighted to welcome me back.\nHaving despatched The Avenger to the coffee-house for an addition to\nthe dinner, I felt that I must open my breast that very evening to my\nfriend and chum. As confidence was out of the question with The Avenger\nin the hall, which could merely be regarded in the light of an\nantechamber to the keyhole, I sent him to the Play. A better proof of\nthe severity of my bondage to that taskmaster could scarcely be\nafforded, than the degrading shifts to which I was constantly driven to\nfind him employment. So mean is extremity, that I sometimes sent him to\nHyde Park corner to see what o clock it was.\n\nDinner done and we sitting with our feet upon the fender, I said to\nHerbert,  My dear Herbert, I have something very particular to tell\nyou. \n\n My dear Handel,  he returned,  I shall esteem and respect your\nconfidence. \n\n It concerns myself, Herbert,  said I,  and one other person. \n\nHerbert crossed his feet, looked at the fire with his head on one side,\nand having looked at it in vain for some time, looked at me because I\ndidn t go on.\n\n Herbert,  said I, laying my hand upon his knee,  I love I\nadore Estella. \n\nInstead of being transfixed, Herbert replied in an easy\nmatter-of-course way,  Exactly. Well? \n\n Well, Herbert? Is that all you say? Well? \n\n What next, I mean?  said Herbert.  Of course I know _that_. \n\n How do you know it?  said I.\n\n How do I know it, Handel? Why, from you. \n\n I never told you. \n\n Told me! You have never told me when you have got your hair cut, but I\nhave had senses to perceive it. You have always adored her, ever since\nI have known you. You brought your adoration and your portmanteau here\ntogether. Told me! Why, you have always told me all day long. When you\ntold me your own story, you told me plainly that you began adoring her\nthe first time you saw her, when you were very young indeed. \n\n Very well, then,  said I, to whom this was a new and not unwelcome\nlight,  I have never left off adoring her. And she has come back, a\nmost beautiful and most elegant creature. And I saw her yesterday. And\nif I adored her before, I now doubly adore her. \n\n Lucky for you then, Handel,  said Herbert,  that you are picked out\nfor her and allotted to her. Without encroaching on forbidden ground,\nwe may venture to say that there can be no doubt between ourselves of\nthat fact. Have you any idea yet, of Estella s views on the adoration\nquestion? \n\nI shook my head gloomily.  Oh! She is thousands of miles away, from\nme,  said I.\n\n Patience, my dear Handel: time enough, time enough. But you have\nsomething more to say? \n\n I am ashamed to say it,  I returned,  and yet it s no worse to say it\nthan to think it. You call me a lucky fellow. Of course, I am. I was a\nblacksmith s boy but yesterday; I am what shall I say I am to-day? \n\n Say a good fellow, if you want a phrase,  returned Herbert, smiling,\nand clapping his hand on the back of mine a good fellow, with\nimpetuosity and hesitation, boldness and diffidence, action and\ndreaming, curiously mixed in him. \n\nI stopped for a moment to consider whether there really was this\nmixture in my character. On the whole, I by no means recognised the\nanalysis, but thought it not worth disputing.\n\n When I ask what I am to call myself to-day, Herbert,  I went on,  I\nsuggest what I have in my thoughts. You say I am lucky. I know I have\ndone nothing to raise myself in life, and that Fortune alone has raised\nme; that is being very lucky. And yet, when I think of Estella \n\n( And when don t you, you know?  Herbert threw in, with his eyes on the\nfire; which I thought kind and sympathetic of him.)\n\n Then, my dear Herbert, I cannot tell you how dependent and uncertain\nI feel, and how exposed to hundreds of chances. Avoiding forbidden\nground, as you did just now, I may still say that on the constancy of\none person (naming no person) all my expectations depend. And at the\nbest, how indefinite and unsatisfactory, only to know so vaguely what\nthey are!  In saying this, I relieved my mind of what had always been\nthere, more or less, though no doubt most since yesterday.\n\n Now, Handel,  Herbert replied, in his gay, hopeful way,  it seems to\nme that in the despondency of the tender passion, we are looking into\nour gift-horse s mouth with a magnifying-glass. Likewise, it seems to\nme that, concentrating our attention on the examination, we altogether\noverlook one of the best points of the animal. Didn t you tell me that\nyour guardian, Mr. Jaggers, told you in the beginning, that you were\nnot endowed with expectations only? And even if he had not told you\nso, though that is a very large If, I grant, could you believe that of\nall men in London, Mr. Jaggers is the man to hold his present relations\ntowards you unless he were sure of his ground? \n\nI said I could not deny that this was a strong point. I said it (people\noften do so, in such cases) like a rather reluctant concession to truth\nand justice; as if I wanted to deny it!\n\n I should think it _was_ a strong point,  said Herbert,  and I should\nthink you would be puzzled to imagine a stronger; as to the rest, you\nmust bide your guardian s time, and he must bide his client s time.\nYou ll be one-and-twenty before you know where you are, and then\nperhaps you ll get some further enlightenment. At all events, you ll be\nnearer getting it, for it must come at last. \n\n What a hopeful disposition you have!  said I, gratefully admiring his\ncheery ways.\n\n I ought to have,  said Herbert,  for I have not much else. I must\nacknowledge, by the by, that the good sense of what I have just said is\nnot my own, but my father s. The only remark I ever heard him make on\nyour story, was the final one,  The thing is settled and done, or Mr.\nJaggers would not be in it.  And now before I say anything more about\nmy father, or my father s son, and repay confidence with confidence, I\nwant to make myself seriously disagreeable to you for a\nmoment, positively repulsive. \n\n You won t succeed,  said I.\n\n O yes I shall!  said he.  One, two, three, and now I am in for it.\nHandel, my good fellow; though he spoke in this light tone, he was\nvery much in earnest, I have been thinking since we have been talking\nwith our feet on this fender, that Estella surely cannot be a condition\nof your inheritance, if she was never referred to by your guardian. Am\nI right in so understanding what you have told me, as that he never\nreferred to her, directly or indirectly, in any way? Never even hinted,\nfor instance, that your patron might have views as to your marriage\nultimately? \n\n Never. \n\n Now, Handel, I am quite free from the flavour of sour grapes, upon my\nsoul and honour! Not being bound to her, can you not detach yourself\nfrom her? I told you I should be disagreeable. \n\nI turned my head aside, for, with a rush and a sweep, like the old\nmarsh winds coming up from the sea, a feeling like that which had\nsubdued me on the morning when I left the forge, when the mists were\nsolemnly rising, and when I laid my hand upon the village finger-post,\nsmote upon my heart again. There was silence between us for a little\nwhile.\n\n Yes; but my dear Handel,  Herbert went on, as if we had been talking,\ninstead of silent,  its having been so strongly rooted in the breast of\na boy whom nature and circumstances made so romantic, renders it very\nserious. Think of her bringing-up, and think of Miss Havisham. Think of\nwhat she is herself (now I am repulsive and you abominate me). This may\nlead to miserable things. \n\n I know it, Herbert,  said I, with my head still turned away,  but I\ncan t help it. \n\n You can t detach yourself? \n\n No. Impossible! \n\n You can t try, Handel? \n\n No. Impossible! \n\n Well!  said Herbert, getting up with a lively shake as if he had been\nasleep, and stirring the fire,  now I ll endeavour to make myself\nagreeable again! \n\nSo he went round the room and shook the curtains out, put the chairs in\ntheir places, tidied the books and so forth that were lying about,\nlooked into the hall, peeped into the letter-box, shut the door, and\ncame back to his chair by the fire: where he sat down, nursing his left\nleg in both arms.\n\n I was going to say a word or two, Handel, concerning my father and my\nfather s son. I am afraid it is scarcely necessary for my father s son\nto remark that my father s establishment is not particularly brilliant\nin its housekeeping. \n\n There is always plenty, Herbert,  said I, to say something\nencouraging.\n\n O yes! and so the dustman says, I believe, with the strongest\napproval, and so does the marine-store shop in the back street.\nGravely, Handel, for the subject is grave enough, you know how it is as\nwell as I do. I suppose there was a time once when my father had not\ngiven matters up; but if ever there was, the time is gone. May I ask\nyou if you have ever had an opportunity of remarking, down in your part\nof the country, that the children of not exactly suitable marriages are\nalways most particularly anxious to be married? \n\nThis was such a singular question, that I asked him in return,  Is it\nso? \n\n I don t know,  said Herbert,  that s what I want to know. Because it\nis decidedly the case with us. My poor sister Charlotte, who was next\nme and died before she was fourteen, was a striking example. Little\nJane is the same. In her desire to be matrimonially established, you\nmight suppose her to have passed her short existence in the perpetual\ncontemplation of domestic bliss. Little Alick in a frock has already\nmade arrangements for his union with a suitable young person at Kew.\nAnd indeed, I think we are all engaged, except the baby. \n\n Then you are?  said I.\n\n I am,  said Herbert;  but it s a secret. \n\nI assured him of my keeping the secret, and begged to be favoured with\nfurther particulars. He had spoken so sensibly and feelingly of my\nweakness that I wanted to know something about his strength.\n\n May I ask the name?  I said.\n\n Name of Clara,  said Herbert.\n\n Live in London? \n\n Yes, perhaps I ought to mention,  said Herbert, who had become\ncuriously crestfallen and meek, since we entered on the interesting\ntheme,  that she is rather below my mother s nonsensical family\nnotions. Her father had to do with the victualling of passenger-ships.\nI think he was a species of purser. \n\n What is he now?  said I.\n\n He s an invalid now,  replied Herbert.\n\n Living on ? \n\n On the first floor,  said Herbert. Which was not at all what I meant,\nfor I had intended my question to apply to his means.  I have never\nseen him, for he has always kept his room overhead, since I have known\nClara. But I have heard him constantly. He makes tremendous\nrows, roars, and pegs at the floor with some frightful instrument.  In\nlooking at me and then laughing heartily, Herbert for the time\nrecovered his usual lively manner.\n\n Don t you expect to see him?  said I.\n\n O yes, I constantly expect to see him,  returned Herbert,  because I\nnever hear him, without expecting him to come tumbling through the\nceiling. But I don t know how long the rafters may hold. \n\nWhen he had once more laughed heartily, he became meek again, and told\nme that the moment he began to realise Capital, it was his intention to\nmarry this young lady. He added as a self-evident proposition,\nengendering low spirits,  But you _can t_ marry, you know, while you re\nlooking about you. \n\nAs we contemplated the fire, and as I thought what a difficult vision\nto realise this same Capital sometimes was, I put my hands in my\npockets. A folded piece of paper in one of them attracting my\nattention, I opened it and found it to be the play-bill I had received\nfrom Joe, relative to the celebrated provincial amateur of Roscian\nrenown.  And bless my heart,  I involuntarily added aloud,  it s\nto-night! \n\nThis changed the subject in an instant, and made us hurriedly resolve\nto go to the play. So, when I had pledged myself to comfort and abet\nHerbert in the affair of his heart by all practicable and impracticable\nmeans, and when Herbert had told me that his affianced already knew me\nby reputation and that I should be presented to her, and when we had\nwarmly shaken hands upon our mutual confidence, we blew out our\ncandles, made up our fire, locked our door, and issued forth in quest\nof Mr. Wopsle and Denmark.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXI.\n\n\nOn our arrival in Denmark, we found the king and queen of that country\nelevated in two arm-chairs on a kitchen-table, holding a Court. The\nwhole of the Danish nobility were in attendance; consisting of a noble\nboy in the wash-leather boots of a gigantic ancestor, a venerable Peer\nwith a dirty face who seemed to have risen from the people late in\nlife, and the Danish chivalry with a comb in its hair and a pair of\nwhite silk legs, and presenting on the whole a feminine appearance. My\ngifted townsman stood gloomily apart, with folded arms, and I could\nhave wished that his curls and forehead had been more probable.\n\nSeveral curious little circumstances transpired as the action\nproceeded. The late king of the country not only appeared to have been\ntroubled with a cough at the time of his decease, but to have taken it\nwith him to the tomb, and to have brought it back. The royal phantom\nalso carried a ghostly manuscript round its truncheon, to which it had\nthe appearance of occasionally referring, and that too, with an air of\nanxiety and a tendency to lose the place of reference which were\nsuggestive of a state of mortality. It was this, I conceive, which led\nto the Shade s being advised by the gallery to  turn over! a\nrecommendation which it took extremely ill. It was likewise to be noted\nof this majestic spirit, that whereas it always appeared with an air of\nhaving been out a long time and walked an immense distance, it\nperceptibly came from a closely contiguous wall. This occasioned its\nterrors to be received derisively. The Queen of Denmark, a very buxom\nlady, though no doubt historically brazen, was considered by the public\nto have too much brass about her; her chin being attached to her diadem\nby a broad band of that metal (as if she had a gorgeous toothache), her\nwaist being encircled by another, and each of her arms by another, so\nthat she was openly mentioned as  the kettle-drum.  The noble boy in\nthe ancestral boots was inconsistent, representing himself, as it were\nin one breath, as an able seaman, a strolling actor, a grave-digger, a\nclergyman, and a person of the utmost importance at a Court\nfencing-match, on the authority of whose practised eye and nice\ndiscrimination the finest strokes were judged. This gradually led to a\nwant of toleration for him, and even on his being detected in holy\norders, and declining to perform the funeral service to the general\nindignation taking the form of nuts. Lastly, Ophelia was a prey to such\nslow musical madness, that when, in course of time, she had taken off\nher white muslin scarf, folded it up, and buried it, a sulky man who\nhad been long cooling his impatient nose against an iron bar in the\nfront row of the gallery, growled,  Now the baby s put to bed let s\nhave supper!  Which, to say the least of it, was out of keeping.\n\nUpon my unfortunate townsman all these incidents accumulated with\nplayful effect. Whenever that undecided Prince had to ask a question or\nstate a doubt, the public helped him out with it. As for example; on\nthe question whether  twas nobler in the mind to suffer, some roared\nyes, and some no, and some inclining to both opinions said  Toss up for\nit;  and quite a Debating Society arose. When he asked what should such\nfellows as he do crawling between earth and heaven, he was encouraged\nwith loud cries of  Hear, hear!  When he appeared with his stocking\ndisordered (its disorder expressed, according to usage, by one very\nneat fold in the top, which I suppose to be always got up with a flat\niron), a conversation took place in the gallery respecting the paleness\nof his leg, and whether it was occasioned by the turn the ghost had\ngiven him. On his taking the recorders, very like a little black flute\nthat had just been played in the orchestra and handed out at the\ndoor, he was called upon unanimously for Rule Britannia. When he\nrecommended the player not to saw the air thus, the sulky man said,\n And don t _you_ do it, neither; you re a deal worse than _him_!  And I\ngrieve to add that peals of laughter greeted Mr. Wopsle on every one of\nthese occasions.\n\nBut his greatest trials were in the churchyard, which had the\nappearance of a primeval forest, with a kind of small ecclesiastical\nwash-house on one side, and a turnpike gate on the other. Mr. Wopsle in\na comprehensive black cloak, being descried entering at the turnpike,\nthe gravedigger was admonished in a friendly way,  Look out! Here s the\nundertaker a coming, to see how you re a getting on with your work!  I\nbelieve it is well known in a constitutional country that Mr. Wopsle\ncould not possibly have returned the skull, after moralizing over it,\nwithout dusting his fingers on a white napkin taken from his breast;\nbut even that innocent and indispensable action did not pass without\nthe comment,  Wai-ter!  The arrival of the body for interment (in an\nempty black box with the lid tumbling open), was the signal for a\ngeneral joy, which was much enhanced by the discovery, among the\nbearers, of an individual obnoxious to identification. The joy attended\nMr. Wopsle through his struggle with Laertes on the brink of the\norchestra and the grave, and slackened no more until he had tumbled the\nking off the kitchen-table, and had died by inches from the ankles\nupward.\n\nWe had made some pale efforts in the beginning to applaud Mr. Wopsle;\nbut they were too hopeless to be persisted in. Therefore we had sat,\nfeeling keenly for him, but laughing, nevertheless, from ear to ear. I\nlaughed in spite of myself all the time, the whole thing was so droll;\nand yet I had a latent impression that there was something decidedly\nfine in Mr. Wopsle s elocution, not for old associations  sake, I am\nafraid, but because it was very slow, very dreary, very uphill and\ndownhill, and very unlike any way in which any man in any natural\ncircumstances of life or death ever expressed himself about anything.\nWhen the tragedy was over, and he had been called for and hooted, I\nsaid to Herbert,  Let us go at once, or perhaps we shall meet him. \n\nWe made all the haste we could downstairs, but we were not quick enough\neither. Standing at the door was a Jewish man with an unnatural heavy\nsmear of eyebrow, who caught my eyes as we advanced, and said, when we\ncame up with him, \n\n Mr. Pip and friend? \n\nIdentity of Mr. Pip and friend confessed.\n\n Mr. Waldengarver,  said the man,  would be glad to have the honour. \n\n Waldengarver?  I repeated when Herbert murmured in my ear,  Probably\nWopsle. \n\n Oh!  said I.  Yes. Shall we follow you? \n\n A few steps, please.  When we were in a side alley, he turned and\nasked,  How did you think he looked? I dressed him. \n\nI don t know what he had looked like, except a funeral; with the\naddition of a large Danish sun or star hanging round his neck by a blue\nribbon, that had given him the appearance of being insured in some\nextraordinary Fire Office. But I said he had looked very nice.\n\n When he come to the grave,  said our conductor,  he showed his cloak\nbeautiful. But, judging from the wing, it looked to me that when he see\nthe ghost in the queen s apartment, he might have made more of his\nstockings. \n\nI modestly assented, and we all fell through a little dirty swing door,\ninto a sort of hot packing-case immediately behind it. Here Mr. Wopsle\nwas divesting himself of his Danish garments, and here there was just\nroom for us to look at him over one another s shoulders, by keeping the\npacking-case door, or lid, wide open.\n\n Gentlemen,  said Mr. Wopsle,  I am proud to see you. I hope, Mr. Pip,\nyou will excuse my sending round. I had the happiness to know you in\nformer times, and the Drama has ever had a claim which has ever been\nacknowledged, on the noble and the affluent. \n\nMeanwhile, Mr. Waldengarver, in a frightful perspiration, was trying to\nget himself out of his princely sables.\n\n Skin the stockings off Mr. Waldengarver,  said the owner of that\nproperty,  or you ll bust  em. Bust  em, and you ll bust\nfive-and-thirty shillings. Shakspeare never was complimented with a\nfiner pair. Keep quiet in your chair now, and leave  em to me. \n\nWith that, he went upon his knees, and began to flay his victim; who,\non the first stocking coming off, would certainly have fallen over\nbackward with his chair, but for there being no room to fall anyhow.\n\nI had been afraid until then to say a word about the play. But then,\nMr. Waldengarver looked up at us complacently, and said, \n\n Gentlemen, how did it seem to you, to go, in front? \n\nHerbert said from behind (at the same time poking me),  Capitally.  So\nI said  Capitally. \n\n How did you like my reading of the character, gentlemen?  said Mr.\nWaldengarver, almost, if not quite, with patronage.\n\nHerbert said from behind (again poking me),  Massive and concrete.  So\nI said boldly, as if I had originated it, and must beg to insist upon\nit,  Massive and concrete. \n\n I am glad to have your approbation, gentlemen,  said Mr. Waldengarver,\nwith an air of dignity, in spite of his being ground against the wall\nat the time, and holding on by the seat of the chair.\n\n But I ll tell you one thing, Mr. Waldengarver,  said the man who was\non his knees,  in which you re out in your reading. Now mind! I don t\ncare who says contrairy; I tell you so. You re out in your reading of\nHamlet when you get your legs in profile. The last Hamlet as I dressed,\nmade the same mistakes in his reading at rehearsal, till I got him to\nput a large red wafer on each of his shins, and then at that rehearsal\n(which was the last) I went in front, sir, to the back of the pit, and\nwhenever his reading brought him into profile, I called out  I don t\nsee no wafers!  And at night his reading was lovely. \n\nMr. Waldengarver smiled at me, as much as to say  a faithful\nDependent I overlook his folly;  and then said aloud,  My view is a\nlittle classic and thoughtful for them here; but they will improve,\nthey will improve. \n\nHerbert and I said together, O, no doubt they would improve.\n\n Did you observe, gentlemen,  said Mr. Waldengarver,  that there was a\nman in the gallery who endeavoured to cast derision on the service, I\nmean, the representation? \n\nWe basely replied that we rather thought we had noticed such a man. I\nadded,  He was drunk, no doubt. \n\n O dear no, sir,  said Mr. Wopsle,  not drunk. His employer would see\nto that, sir. His employer would not allow him to be drunk. \n\n You know his employer?  said I.\n\nMr. Wopsle shut his eyes, and opened them again; performing both\nceremonies very slowly.  You must have observed, gentlemen,  said he,\n an ignorant and a blatant ass, with a rasping throat and a countenance\nexpressive of low malignity, who went through I will not say\nsustained the r le (if I may use a French expression) of Claudius, King\nof Denmark. That is his employer, gentlemen. Such is the profession! \n\nWithout distinctly knowing whether I should have been more sorry for\nMr. Wopsle if he had been in despair, I was so sorry for him as it was,\nthat I took the opportunity of his turning round to have his braces put\non, which jostled us out at the doorway, to ask Herbert what he thought\nof having him home to supper? Herbert said he thought it would be kind\nto do so; therefore I invited him, and he went to Barnard s with us,\nwrapped up to the eyes, and we did our best for him, and he sat until\ntwo o clock in the morning, reviewing his success and developing his\nplans. I forget in detail what they were, but I have a general\nrecollection that he was to begin with reviving the Drama, and to end\nwith crushing it; inasmuch as his decease would leave it utterly bereft\nand without a chance or hope.\n\nMiserably I went to bed after all, and miserably thought of Estella,\nand miserably dreamed that my expectations were all cancelled, and that\nI had to give my hand in marriage to Herbert s Clara, or play Hamlet to\nMiss Havisham s Ghost, before twenty thousand people, without knowing\ntwenty words of it.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXII.\n\n\nOne day when I was busy with my books and Mr. Pocket, I received a note\nby the post, the mere outside of which threw me into a great flutter;\nfor, though I had never seen the handwriting in which it was addressed,\nI divined whose hand it was. It had no set beginning, as Dear Mr. Pip,\nor Dear Pip, or Dear Sir, or Dear Anything, but ran thus: \n\n I am to come to London the day after to-morrow by the midday coach. I\nbelieve it was settled you should meet me? At all events Miss Havisham\nhas that impression, and I write in obedience to it. She sends you her\nregard.\n\n\n Yours, ESTELLA. \n\n\nIf there had been time, I should probably have ordered several suits of\nclothes for this occasion; but as there was not, I was fain to be\ncontent with those I had. My appetite vanished instantly, and I knew no\npeace or rest until the day arrived. Not that its arrival brought me\neither; for, then I was worse than ever, and began haunting the\ncoach-office in Wood Street, Cheapside, before the coach had left the\nBlue Boar in our town. For all that I knew this perfectly well, I still\nfelt as if it were not safe to let the coach-office be out of my sight\nlonger than five minutes at a time; and in this condition of unreason I\nhad performed the first half-hour of a watch of four or five hours,\nwhen Wemmick ran against me.\n\n Halloa, Mr. Pip,  said he;  how do you do? I should hardly have\nthought this was _your_ beat. \n\nI explained that I was waiting to meet somebody who was coming up by\ncoach, and I inquired after the Castle and the Aged.\n\n Both flourishing thankye,  said Wemmick,  and particularly the Aged.\nHe s in wonderful feather. He ll be eighty-two next birthday. I have a\nnotion of firing eighty-two times, if the neighbourhood shouldn t\ncomplain, and that cannon of mine should prove equal to the pressure.\nHowever, this is not London talk. Where do you think I am going to? \n\n To the office?  said I, for he was tending in that direction.\n\n Next thing to it,  returned Wemmick,  I am going to Newgate. We are in\na banker s-parcel case just at present, and I have been down the road\ntaking a squint at the scene of action, and thereupon must have a word\nor two with our client. \n\n Did your client commit the robbery?  I asked.\n\n Bless your soul and body, no,  answered Wemmick, very drily.  But he\nis accused of it. So might you or I be. Either of us might be accused\nof it, you know. \n\n Only neither of us is,  I remarked.\n\n Yah!  said Wemmick, touching me on the breast with his forefinger;\n you re a deep one, Mr. Pip! Would you like to have a look at Newgate?\nHave you time to spare? \n\nI had so much time to spare, that the proposal came as a relief,\nnotwithstanding its irreconcilability with my latent desire to keep my\neye on the coach-office. Muttering that I would make the inquiry\nwhether I had time to walk with him, I went into the office, and\nascertained from the clerk with the nicest precision and much to the\ntrying of his temper, the earliest moment at which the coach could be\nexpected, which I knew beforehand, quite as well as he. I then rejoined\nMr. Wemmick, and affecting to consult my watch, and to be surprised by\nthe information I had received, accepted his offer.\n\nWe were at Newgate in a few minutes, and we passed through the lodge\nwhere some fetters were hanging up on the bare walls among the prison\nrules, into the interior of the jail. At that time jails were much\nneglected, and the period of exaggerated reaction consequent on all\npublic wrongdoing and which is always its heaviest and longest\npunishment was still far off. So, felons were not lodged and fed better\nthan soldiers (to say nothing of paupers), and seldom set fire to their\nprisons with the excusable object of improving the flavour of their\nsoup. It was visiting time when Wemmick took me in, and a potman was\ngoing his rounds with beer; and the prisoners, behind bars in yards,\nwere buying beer, and talking to friends; and a frowzy, ugly,\ndisorderly, depressing scene it was.\n\nIt struck me that Wemmick walked among the prisoners much as a gardener\nmight walk among his plants. This was first put into my head by his\nseeing a shoot that had come up in the night, and saying,  What,\nCaptain Tom? Are _you_ there? Ah, indeed!  and also,  Is that Black\nBill behind the cistern? Why I didn t look for you these two months;\nhow do you find yourself?  Equally in his stopping at the bars and\nattending to anxious whisperers, always singly, Wemmick with his\npost-office in an immovable state, looked at them while in conference,\nas if he were taking particular notice of the advance they had made,\nsince last observed, towards coming out in full blow at their trial.\n\nHe was highly popular, and I found that he took the familiar department\nof Mr. Jaggers s business; though something of the state of Mr. Jaggers\nhung about him too, forbidding approach beyond certain limits. His\npersonal recognition of each successive client was comprised in a nod,\nand in his settling his hat a little easier on his head with both\nhands, and then tightening the post-office, and putting his hands in\nhis pockets. In one or two instances there was a difficulty respecting\nthe raising of fees, and then Mr. Wemmick, backing as far as possible\nfrom the insufficient money produced, said,  it s no use, my boy. I m\nonly a subordinate. I can t take it. Don t go on in that way with a\nsubordinate. If you are unable to make up your quantum, my boy, you had\nbetter address yourself to a principal; there are plenty of principals\nin the profession, you know, and what is not worth the while of one,\nmay be worth the while of another; that s my recommendation to you,\nspeaking as a subordinate. Don t try on useless measures. Why should\nyou? Now, who s next? \n\nThus, we walked through Wemmick s greenhouse, until he turned to me and\nsaid,  Notice the man I shall shake hands with.  I should have done so,\nwithout the preparation, as he had shaken hands with no one yet.\n\nAlmost as soon as he had spoken, a portly upright man (whom I can see\nnow, as I write) in a well-worn olive-coloured frock-coat, with a\npeculiar pallor overspreading the red in his complexion, and eyes that\nwent wandering about when he tried to fix them, came up to a corner of\nthe bars, and put his hand to his hat which had a greasy and fatty\nsurface like cold broth with a half-serious and half-jocose military\nsalute.\n\n Colonel, to you!  said Wemmick;  how are you, Colonel? \n\n All right, Mr. Wemmick. \n\n Everything was done that could be done, but the evidence was too\nstrong for us, Colonel. \n\n Yes, it was too strong, sir, but _I_ don t care. \n\n No, no,  said Wemmick, coolly,  _you_ don t care.  Then, turning to\nme,  Served His Majesty this man. Was a soldier in the line and bought\nhis discharge. \n\nI said,  Indeed?  and the man s eyes looked at me, and then looked over\nmy head, and then looked all round me, and then he drew his hand across\nhis lips and laughed.\n\n I think I shall be out of this on Monday, sir,  he said to Wemmick.\n\n Perhaps,  returned my friend,  but there s no knowing. \n\n I am glad to have the chance of bidding you good-bye, Mr. Wemmick, \nsaid the man, stretching out his hand between two bars.\n\n Thankye,  said Wemmick, shaking hands with him.  Same to you,\nColonel. \n\n If what I had upon me when taken had been real, Mr. Wemmick,  said the\nman, unwilling to let his hand go,  I should have asked the favour of\nyour wearing another ring in acknowledgment of your attentions. \n\n I ll accept the will for the deed,  said Wemmick.  By the by; you were\nquite a pigeon-fancier.  The man looked up at the sky.  I am told you\nhad a remarkable breed of tumblers. _Could_ you commission any friend\nof yours to bring me a pair, if you ve no further use for  em? \n\n It shall be done, sir. \n\n All right,  said Wemmick,  they shall be taken care of.\nGood-afternoon, Colonel. Good-bye!  They shook hands again, and as we\nwalked away Wemmick said to me,  A Coiner, a very good workman. The\nRecorder s report is made to-day, and he is sure to be executed on\nMonday. Still you see, as far as it goes, a pair of pigeons are\nportable property all the same.  With that, he looked back, and nodded\nat this dead plant, and then cast his eyes about him in walking out of\nthe yard, as if he were considering what other pot would go best in its\nplace.\n\nAs we came out of the prison through the lodge, I found that the great\nimportance of my guardian was appreciated by the turnkeys, no less than\nby those whom they held in charge.  Well, Mr. Wemmick,  said the\nturnkey, who kept us between the two studded and spiked lodge gates,\nand who carefully locked one before he unlocked the other,  what s Mr.\nJaggers going to do with that water-side murder? Is he going to make it\nmanslaughter, or what s he going to make of it? \n\n Why don t you ask him?  returned Wemmick.\n\n O yes, I dare say!  said the turnkey.\n\n Now, that s the way with them here, Mr. Pip,  remarked Wemmick,\nturning to me with his post-office elongated.  They don t mind what\nthey ask of me, the subordinate; but you ll never catch  em asking any\nquestions of my principal. \n\n Is this young gentleman one of the  prentices or articled ones of your\noffice?  asked the turnkey, with a grin at Mr. Wemmick s humour.\n\n There he goes again, you see!  cried Wemmick,  I told you so! Asks\nanother question of the subordinate before his first is dry! Well,\nsupposing Mr. Pip is one of them? \n\n Why then,  said the turnkey, grinning again,  he knows what Mr.\nJaggers is. \n\n Yah!  cried Wemmick, suddenly hitting out at the turnkey in a\nfacetious way,  you re dumb as one of your own keys when you have to do\nwith my principal, you know you are. Let us out, you old fox, or I ll\nget him to bring an action against you for false imprisonment. \n\nThe turnkey laughed, and gave us good day, and stood laughing at us\nover the spikes of the wicket when we descended the steps into the\nstreet.\n\n Mind you, Mr. Pip,  said Wemmick, gravely in my ear, as he took my arm\nto be more confidential;  I don t know that Mr. Jaggers does a better\nthing than the way in which he keeps himself so high. He s always so\nhigh. His constant height is of a piece with his immense abilities.\nThat Colonel durst no more take leave of _him_, than that turnkey durst\nask him his intentions respecting a case. Then, between his height and\nthem, he slips in his subordinate, don t you see? and so he has  em,\nsoul and body. \n\nI was very much impressed, and not for the first time, by my guardian s\nsubtlety. To confess the truth, I very heartily wished, and not for the\nfirst time, that I had had some other guardian of minor abilities.\n\nMr. Wemmick and I parted at the office in Little Britain, where\nsuppliants for Mr. Jaggers s notice were lingering about as usual, and\nI returned to my watch in the street of the coach-office, with some\nthree hours on hand. I consumed the whole time in thinking how strange\nit was that I should be encompassed by all this taint of prison and\ncrime; that, in my childhood out on our lonely marshes on a winter\nevening, I should have first encountered it; that, it should have\nreappeared on two occasions, starting out like a stain that was faded\nbut not gone; that, it should in this new way pervade my fortune and\nadvancement. While my mind was thus engaged, I thought of the beautiful\nyoung Estella, proud and refined, coming towards me, and I thought with\nabsolute abhorrence of the contrast between the jail and her. I wished\nthat Wemmick had not met me, or that I had not yielded to him and gone\nwith him, so that, of all days in the year on this day, I might not\nhave had Newgate in my breath and on my clothes. I beat the prison dust\noff my feet as I sauntered to and fro, and I shook it out of my dress,\nand I exhaled its air from my lungs. So contaminated did I feel,\nremembering who was coming, that the coach came quickly after all, and\nI was not yet free from the soiling consciousness of Mr. Wemmick s\nconservatory, when I saw her face at the coach window and her hand\nwaving to me.\n\nWhat _was_ the nameless shadow which again in that one instant had\npassed?\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXIII.\n\n\nIn her furred travelling-dress, Estella seemed more delicately\nbeautiful than she had ever seemed yet, even in my eyes. Her manner was\nmore winning than she had cared to let it be to me before, and I\nthought I saw Miss Havisham s influence in the change.\n\nWe stood in the Inn Yard while she pointed out her luggage to me, and\nwhen it was all collected I remembered having forgotten everything but\nherself in the meanwhile that I knew nothing of her destination.\n\n I am going to Richmond,  she told me.  Our lesson is, that there are\ntwo Richmonds, one in Surrey and one in Yorkshire, and that mine is the\nSurrey Richmond. The distance is ten miles. I am to have a carriage,\nand you are to take me. This is my purse, and you are to pay my charges\nout of it. O, you must take the purse! We have no choice, you and I,\nbut to obey our instructions. We are not free to follow our own\ndevices, you and I. \n\nAs she looked at me in giving me the purse, I hoped there was an inner\nmeaning in her words. She said them slightingly, but not with\ndispleasure.\n\n A carriage will have to be sent for, Estella. Will you rest here a\nlittle? \n\n Yes, I am to rest here a little, and I am to drink some tea, and you\nare to take care of me the while. \n\nShe drew her arm through mine, as if it must be done, and I requested a\nwaiter who had been staring at the coach like a man who had never seen\nsuch a thing in his life, to show us a private sitting-room. Upon that,\nhe pulled out a napkin, as if it were a magic clue without which he\ncouldn t find the way upstairs, and led us to the black hole of the\nestablishment, fitted up with a diminishing mirror (quite a superfluous\narticle, considering the hole s proportions), an anchovy sauce-cruet,\nand somebody s pattens. On my objecting to this retreat, he took us\ninto another room with a dinner-table for thirty, and in the grate a\nscorched leaf of a copy-book under a bushel of coal-dust. Having looked\nat this extinct conflagration and shaken his head, he took my order;\nwhich, proving to be merely,  Some tea for the lady,  sent him out of\nthe room in a very low state of mind.\n\nI was, and I am, sensible that the air of this chamber, in its strong\ncombination of stable with soup-stock, might have led one to infer that\nthe coaching department was not doing well, and that the enterprising\nproprietor was boiling down the horses for the refreshment department.\nYet the room was all in all to me, Estella being in it. I thought that\nwith her I could have been happy there for life. (I was not at all\nhappy there at the time, observe, and I knew it well.)\n\n Where are you going to, at Richmond?  I asked Estella.\n\n I am going to live,  said she,  at a great expense, with a lady there,\nwho has the power or says she has of taking me about, and introducing\nme, and showing people to me and showing me to people. \n\n I suppose you will be glad of variety and admiration? \n\n Yes, I suppose so. \n\nShe answered so carelessly, that I said,  You speak of yourself as if\nyou were some one else. \n\n Where did you learn how I speak of others? Come, come,  said Estella,\nsmiling delightfully,  you must not expect me to go to school to _you_;\nI must talk in my own way. How do you thrive with Mr. Pocket? \n\n I live quite pleasantly there; at least  It appeared to me that I was\nlosing a chance.\n\n At least?  repeated Estella.\n\n As pleasantly as I could anywhere, away from you. \n\n You silly boy,  said Estella, quite composedly,  how can you talk such\nnonsense? Your friend Mr. Matthew, I believe, is superior to the rest\nof his family? \n\n Very superior indeed. He is nobody s enemy \n\n Don t add but his own,  interposed Estella,  for I hate that class of\nman. But he really is disinterested, and above small jealousy and\nspite, I have heard? \n\n I am sure I have every reason to say so. \n\n You have not every reason to say so of the rest of his people,  said\nEstella, nodding at me with an expression of face that was at once\ngrave and rallying,  for they beset Miss Havisham with reports and\ninsinuations to your disadvantage. They watch you, misrepresent you,\nwrite letters about you (anonymous sometimes), and you are the torment\nand the occupation of their lives. You can scarcely realise to yourself\nthe hatred those people feel for you. \n\n They do me no harm, I hope? \n\nInstead of answering, Estella burst out laughing. This was very\nsingular to me, and I looked at her in considerable perplexity. When\nshe left off and she had not laughed languidly, but with real\nenjoyment I said, in my diffident way with her, \n\n I hope I may suppose that you would not be amused if they did me any\nharm. \n\n No, no you may be sure of that,  said Estella.  You may be certain\nthat I laugh because they fail. O, those people with Miss Havisham, and\nthe tortures they undergo!  She laughed again, and even now when she\nhad told me why, her laughter was very singular to me, for I could not\ndoubt its being genuine, and yet it seemed too much for the occasion. I\nthought there must really be something more here than I knew; she saw\nthe thought in my mind, and answered it.\n\n It is not easy for even you.  said Estella,  to know what satisfaction\nit gives me to see those people thwarted, or what an enjoyable sense of\nthe ridiculous I have when they are made ridiculous. For you were not\nbrought up in that strange house from a mere baby. I was. You had not\nyour little wits sharpened by their intriguing against you, suppressed\nand defenceless, under the mask of sympathy and pity and what not that\nis soft and soothing. I had. You did not gradually open your round\nchildish eyes wider and wider to the discovery of that impostor of a\nwoman who calculates her stores of peace of mind for when she wakes up\nin the night. I did. \n\nIt was no laughing matter with Estella now, nor was she summoning these\nremembrances from any shallow place. I would not have been the cause of\nthat look of hers for all my expectations in a heap.\n\n Two things I can tell you,  said Estella.  First, notwithstanding the\nproverb that constant dropping will wear away a stone, you may set your\nmind at rest that these people never will never would in a hundred\nyears impair your ground with Miss Havisham, in any particular, great\nor small. Second, I am beholden to you as the cause of their being so\nbusy and so mean in vain, and there is my hand upon it. \n\nAs she gave it to me playfully, for her darker mood had been but\nmomentary I held it and put it to my lips.  You ridiculous boy,  said\nEstella,  will you never take warning? Or do you kiss my hand in the\nsame spirit in which I once let you kiss my cheek? \n\n What spirit was that?  said I.\n\n I must think a moment. A spirit of contempt for the fawners and\nplotters. \n\n If I say yes, may I kiss the cheek again? \n\n You should have asked before you touched the hand. But, yes, if you\nlike. \n\nI leaned down, and her calm face was like a statue s.  Now,  said\nEstella, gliding away the instant I touched her cheek,  you are to take\ncare that I have some tea, and you are to take me to Richmond. \n\nHer reverting to this tone as if our association were forced upon us,\nand we were mere puppets, gave me pain; but everything in our\nintercourse did give me pain. Whatever her tone with me happened to be,\nI could put no trust in it, and build no hope on it; and yet I went on\nagainst trust and against hope. Why repeat it a thousand times? So it\nalways was.\n\nI rang for the tea, and the waiter, reappearing with his magic clue,\nbrought in by degrees some fifty adjuncts to that refreshment, but of\ntea not a glimpse. A teaboard, cups and saucers, plates, knives and\nforks (including carvers), spoons (various), salt-cellars, a meek\nlittle muffin confined with the utmost precaution under a strong iron\ncover, Moses in the bulrushes typified by a soft bit of butter in a\nquantity of parsley, a pale loaf with a powdered head, two proof\nimpressions of the bars of the kitchen fireplace on triangular bits of\nbread, and ultimately a fat family urn; which the waiter staggered in\nwith, expressing in his countenance burden and suffering. After a\nprolonged absence at this stage of the entertainment, he at length came\nback with a casket of precious appearance containing twigs. These I\nsteeped in hot water, and so from the whole of these appliances\nextracted one cup of I don t know what for Estella.\n\nThe bill paid, and the waiter remembered, and the ostler not forgotten,\nand the chambermaid taken into consideration, in a word, the whole\nhouse bribed into a state of contempt and animosity, and Estella s\npurse much lightened, we got into our post-coach and drove away.\nTurning into Cheapside and rattling up Newgate Street, we were soon\nunder the walls of which I was so ashamed.\n\n What place is that?  Estella asked me.\n\nI made a foolish pretence of not at first recognising it, and then told\nher. As she looked at it, and drew in her head again, murmuring,\n Wretches!  I would not have confessed to my visit for any\nconsideration.\n\n Mr. Jaggers,  said I, by way of putting it neatly on somebody else,\n has the reputation of being more in the secrets of that dismal place\nthan any man in London. \n\n He is more in the secrets of every place, I think,  said Estella, in a\nlow voice.\n\n You have been accustomed to see him often, I suppose? \n\n I have been accustomed to see him at uncertain intervals, ever since I\ncan remember. But I know him no better now, than I did before I could\nspeak plainly. What is your own experience of him? Do you advance with\nhim? \n\n Once habituated to his distrustful manner,  said I,  I have done very\nwell. \n\n Are you intimate? \n\n I have dined with him at his private house. \n\n I fancy,  said Estella, shrinking  that must be a curious place. \n\n It is a curious place. \n\nI should have been chary of discussing my guardian too freely even with\nher; but I should have gone on with the subject so far as to describe\nthe dinner in Gerrard Street, if we had not then come into a sudden\nglare of gas. It seemed, while it lasted, to be all alight and alive\nwith that inexplicable feeling I had had before; and when we were out\nof it, I was as much dazed for a few moments as if I had been in\nlightning.\n\nSo we fell into other talk, and it was principally about the way by\nwhich we were travelling, and about what parts of London lay on this\nside of it, and what on that. The great city was almost new to her, she\ntold me, for she had never left Miss Havisham s neighbourhood until she\nhad gone to France, and she had merely passed through London then in\ngoing and returning. I asked her if my guardian had any charge of her\nwhile she remained here? To that she emphatically said  God forbid! \nand no more.\n\nIt was impossible for me to avoid seeing that she cared to attract me;\nthat she made herself winning, and would have won me even if the task\nhad needed pains. Yet this made me none the happier, for even if she\nhad not taken that tone of our being disposed of by others, I should\nhave felt that she held my heart in her hand because she wilfully chose\nto do it, and not because it would have wrung any tenderness in her to\ncrush it and throw it away.\n\nWhen we passed through Hammersmith, I showed her where Mr. Matthew\nPocket lived, and said it was no great way from Richmond, and that I\nhoped I should see her sometimes.\n\n O yes, you are to see me; you are to come when you think proper; you\nare to be mentioned to the family; indeed you are already mentioned. \n\nI inquired was it a large household she was going to be a member of?\n\n No; there are only two; mother and daughter. The mother is a lady of\nsome station, though not averse to increasing her income. \n\n I wonder Miss Havisham could part with you again so soon. \n\n It is a part of Miss Havisham s plans for me, Pip,  said Estella, with\na sigh, as if she were tired;  I am to write to her constantly and see\nher regularly and report how I go on, I and the jewels, for they are\nnearly all mine now. \n\nIt was the first time she had ever called me by my name. Of course she\ndid so purposely, and knew that I should treasure it up.\n\nWe came to Richmond all too soon, and our destination there was a house\nby the green, a staid old house, where hoops and powder and patches,\nembroidered coats, rolled stockings, ruffles and swords, had had their\ncourt days many a time. Some ancient trees before the house were still\ncut into fashions as formal and unnatural as the hoops and wigs and\nstiff skirts; but their own allotted places in the great procession of\nthe dead were not far off, and they would soon drop into them and go\nthe silent way of the rest.\n\nA bell with an old voice which I dare say in its time had often said to\nthe house, Here is the green farthingale, Here is the diamond-hilted\nsword, Here are the shoes with red heels and the blue solitaire sounded\ngravely in the moonlight, and two cherry-coloured maids came fluttering\nout to receive Estella. The doorway soon absorbed her boxes, and she\ngave me her hand and a smile, and said good-night, and was absorbed\nlikewise. And still I stood looking at the house, thinking how happy I\nshould be if I lived there with her, and knowing that I never was happy\nwith her, but always miserable.\n\nI got into the carriage to be taken back to Hammersmith, and I got in\nwith a bad heart-ache, and I got out with a worse heart-ache. At our\nown door, I found little Jane Pocket coming home from a little party\nescorted by her little lover; and I envied her little lover, in spite\nof his being subject to Flopson.\n\nMr. Pocket was out lecturing; for, he was a most delightful lecturer on\ndomestic economy, and his treatises on the management of children and\nservants were considered the very best text-books on those themes. But\nMrs. Pocket was at home, and was in a little difficulty, on account of\nthe baby s having been accommodated with a needle-case to keep him\nquiet during the unaccountable absence (with a relative in the Foot\nGuards) of Millers. And more needles were missing than it could be\nregarded as quite wholesome for a patient of such tender years either\nto apply externally or to take as a tonic.\n\nMr. Pocket being justly celebrated for giving most excellent practical\nadvice, and for having a clear and sound perception of things and a\nhighly judicious mind, I had some notion in my heart-ache of begging\nhim to accept my confidence. But happening to look up at Mrs. Pocket as\nshe sat reading her book of dignities after prescribing Bed as a\nsovereign remedy for baby, I thought Well No, I wouldn t.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXIV.\n\n\nAs I had grown accustomed to my expectations, I had insensibly begun to\nnotice their effect upon myself and those around me. Their influence on\nmy own character I disguised from my recognition as much as possible,\nbut I knew very well that it was not all good. I lived in a state of\nchronic uneasiness respecting my behaviour to Joe. My conscience was\nnot by any means comfortable about Biddy. When I woke up in the\nnight, like Camilla, I used to think, with a weariness on my spirits,\nthat I should have been happier and better if I had never seen Miss\nHavisham s face, and had risen to manhood content to be partners with\nJoe in the honest old forge. Many a time of an evening, when I sat\nalone looking at the fire, I thought, after all there was no fire like\nthe forge fire and the kitchen fire at home.\n\nYet Estella was so inseparable from all my restlessness and disquiet of\nmind, that I really fell into confusion as to the limits of my own part\nin its production. That is to say, supposing I had had no expectations,\nand yet had had Estella to think of, I could not make out to my\nsatisfaction that I should have done much better. Now, concerning the\ninfluence of my position on others, I was in no such difficulty, and so\nI perceived though dimly enough perhaps that it was not beneficial to\nanybody, and, above all, that it was not beneficial to Herbert. My\nlavish habits led his easy nature into expenses that he could not\nafford, corrupted the simplicity of his life, and disturbed his peace\nwith anxieties and regrets. I was not at all remorseful for having\nunwittingly set those other branches of the Pocket family to the poor\narts they practised; because such littlenesses were their natural bent,\nand would have been evoked by anybody else, if I had left them\nslumbering. But Herbert s was a very different case, and it often\ncaused me a twinge to think that I had done him evil service in\ncrowding his sparely furnished chambers with incongruous upholstery\nwork, and placing the Canary-breasted Avenger at his disposal.\n\nSo now, as an infallible way of making little ease great ease, I began\nto contract a quantity of debt. I could hardly begin but Herbert must\nbegin too, so he soon followed. At Startop s suggestion, we put\nourselves down for election into a club called The Finches of the\nGrove: the object of which institution I have never divined, if it were\nnot that the members should dine expensively once a fortnight, to\nquarrel among themselves as much as possible after dinner, and to cause\nsix waiters to get drunk on the stairs. I know that these gratifying\nsocial ends were so invariably accomplished, that Herbert and I\nunderstood nothing else to be referred to in the first standing toast\nof the society: which ran  Gentlemen, may the present promotion of good\nfeeling ever reign predominant among the Finches of the Grove. \n\nThe Finches spent their money foolishly (the Hotel we dined at was in\nCovent Garden), and the first Finch I saw when I had the honour of\njoining the Grove was Bentley Drummle, at that time floundering about\ntown in a cab of his own, and doing a great deal of damage to the posts\nat the street corners. Occasionally, he shot himself out of his\nequipage headforemost over the apron; and I saw him on one occasion\ndeliver himself at the door of the Grove in this unintentional way like\ncoals. But here I anticipate a little, for I was not a Finch, and could\nnot be, according to the sacred laws of the society, until I came of\nage.\n\nIn my confidence in my own resources, I would willingly have taken\nHerbert s expenses on myself; but Herbert was proud, and I could make\nno such proposal to him. So he got into difficulties in every\ndirection, and continued to look about him. When we gradually fell into\nkeeping late hours and late company, I noticed that he looked about him\nwith a desponding eye at breakfast-time; that he began to look about\nhim more hopefully about midday; that he drooped when he came into\ndinner; that he seemed to descry Capital in the distance, rather\nclearly, after dinner; that he all but realised Capital towards\nmidnight; and that at about two o clock in the morning, he became so\ndeeply despondent again as to talk of buying a rifle and going to\nAmerica, with a general purpose of compelling buffaloes to make his\nfortune.\n\nI was usually at Hammersmith about half the week, and when I was at\nHammersmith I haunted Richmond, whereof separately by and by. Herbert\nwould often come to Hammersmith when I was there, and I think at those\nseasons his father would occasionally have some passing perception that\nthe opening he was looking for, had not appeared yet. But in the\ngeneral tumbling up of the family, his tumbling out in life somewhere,\nwas a thing to transact itself somehow. In the meantime Mr. Pocket grew\ngreyer, and tried oftener to lift himself out of his perplexities by\nthe hair. While Mrs. Pocket tripped up the family with her footstool,\nread her book of dignities, lost her pocket-handkerchief, told us about\nher grandpapa, and taught the young idea how to shoot, by shooting it\ninto bed whenever it attracted her notice.\n\nAs I am now generalising a period of my life with the object of\nclearing my way before me, I can scarcely do so better than by at once\ncompleting the description of our usual manners and customs at\nBarnard s Inn.\n\nWe spent as much money as we could, and got as little for it as people\ncould make up their minds to give us. We were always more or less\nmiserable, and most of our acquaintance were in the same condition.\nThere was a gay fiction among us that we were constantly enjoying\nourselves, and a skeleton truth that we never did. To the best of my\nbelief, our case was in the last aspect a rather common one.\n\nEvery morning, with an air ever new, Herbert went into the City to look\nabout him. I often paid him a visit in the dark back-room in which he\nconsorted with an ink-jar, a hat-peg, a coal-box, a string-box, an\nalmanac, a desk and stool, and a ruler; and I do not remember that I\never saw him do anything else but look about him. If we all did what we\nundertake to do, as faithfully as Herbert did, we might live in a\nRepublic of the Virtues. He had nothing else to do, poor fellow, except\nat a certain hour of every afternoon to  go to Lloyd s in observance\nof a ceremony of seeing his principal, I think. He never did anything\nelse in connection with Lloyd s that I could find out, except come back\nagain. When he felt his case unusually serious, and that he positively\nmust find an opening, he would go on  Change at a busy time, and walk\nin and out, in a kind of gloomy country dance figure, among the\nassembled magnates.  For,  says Herbert to me, coming home to dinner on\none of those special occasions,  I find the truth to be, Handel, that\nan opening won t come to one, but one must go to it, so I have been. \n\nIf we had been less attached to one another, I think we must have hated\none another regularly every morning. I detested the chambers beyond\nexpression at that period of repentance, and could not endure the sight\nof the Avenger s livery; which had a more expensive and a less\nremunerative appearance then than at any other time in the\nfour-and-twenty hours. As we got more and more into debt, breakfast\nbecame a hollower and hollower form, and, being on one occasion at\nbreakfast-time threatened (by letter) with legal proceedings,  not\nunwholly unconnected,  as my local paper might put it,  with jewelery, \nI went so far as to seize the Avenger by his blue collar and shake him\noff his feet, so that he was actually in the air, like a booted\nCupid, for presuming to suppose that we wanted a roll.\n\nAt certain times meaning at uncertain times, for they depended on our\nhumour I would say to Herbert, as if it were a remarkable discovery, \n\n My dear Herbert, we are getting on badly. \n\n My dear Handel,  Herbert would say to me, in all sincerity,  if you\nwill believe me, those very words were on my lips, by a strange\ncoincidence. \n\n Then, Herbert,  I would respond,  let us look into our affairs. \n\nWe always derived profound satisfaction from making an appointment for\nthis purpose. I always thought this was business, this was the way to\nconfront the thing, this was the way to take the foe by the throat. And\nI know Herbert thought so too.\n\nWe ordered something rather special for dinner, with a bottle of\nsomething similarly out of the common way, in order that our minds\nmight be fortified for the occasion, and we might come well up to the\nmark. Dinner over, we produced a bundle of pens, a copious supply of\nink, and a goodly show of writing and blotting paper. For there was\nsomething very comfortable in having plenty of stationery.\n\nI would then take a sheet of paper, and write across the top of it, in\na neat hand, the heading,  Memorandum of Pip s debts ; with Barnard s\nInn and the date very carefully added. Herbert would also take a sheet\nof paper, and write across it with similar formalities,  Memorandum of\nHerbert s debts. \n\nEach of us would then refer to a confused heap of papers at his side,\nwhich had been thrown into drawers, worn into holes in pockets, half\nburnt in lighting candles, stuck for weeks into the looking-glass, and\notherwise damaged. The sound of our pens going refreshed us\nexceedingly, insomuch that I sometimes found it difficult to\ndistinguish between this edifying business proceeding and actually\npaying the money. In point of meritorious character, the two things\nseemed about equal.\n\nWhen we had written a little while, I would ask Herbert how he got on?\nHerbert probably would have been scratching his head in a most rueful\nmanner at the sight of his accumulating figures.\n\n They are mounting up, Handel,  Herbert would say;  upon my life, they\nare mounting up. \n\n Be firm, Herbert,  I would retort, plying my own pen with great\nassiduity.  Look the thing in the face. Look into your affairs. Stare\nthem out of countenance. \n\n So I would, Handel, only they are staring _me_ out of countenance. \n\nHowever, my determined manner would have its effect, and Herbert would\nfall to work again. After a time he would give up once more, on the\nplea that he had not got Cobbs s bill, or Lobbs s, or Nobbs s, as the\ncase might be.\n\n Then, Herbert, estimate; estimate it in round numbers, and put it\ndown. \n\n What a fellow of resource you are!  my friend would reply, with\nadmiration.  Really your business powers are very remarkable. \n\nI thought so too. I established with myself, on these occasions, the\nreputation of a first-rate man of business, prompt, decisive,\nenergetic, clear, cool-headed. When I had got all my responsibilities\ndown upon my list, I compared each with the bill, and ticked it off. My\nself-approval when I ticked an entry was quite a luxurious sensation.\nWhen I had no more ticks to make, I folded all my bills up uniformly,\ndocketed each on the back, and tied the whole into a symmetrical\nbundle. Then I did the same for Herbert (who modestly said he had not\nmy administrative genius), and felt that I had brought his affairs into\na focus for him.\n\nMy business habits had one other bright feature, which I called\n leaving a Margin.  For example; supposing Herbert s debts to be one\nhundred and sixty-four pounds four-and-twopence, I would say,  Leave a\nmargin, and put them down at two hundred.  Or, supposing my own to be\nfour times as much, I would leave a margin, and put them down at seven\nhundred. I had the highest opinion of the wisdom of this same Margin,\nbut I am bound to acknowledge that on looking back, I deem it to have\nbeen an expensive device. For, we always ran into new debt immediately,\nto the full extent of the margin, and sometimes, in the sense of\nfreedom and solvency it imparted, got pretty far on into another\nmargin.\n\nBut there was a calm, a rest, a virtuous hush, consequent on these\nexaminations of our affairs that gave me, for the time, an admirable\nopinion of myself. Soothed by my exertions, my method, and Herbert s\ncompliments, I would sit with his symmetrical bundle and my own on the\ntable before me among the stationery, and feel like a Bank of some\nsort, rather than a private individual.\n\nWe shut our outer door on these solemn occasions, in order that we\nmight not be interrupted. I had fallen into my serene state one\nevening, when we heard a letter dropped through the slit in the said\ndoor, and fall on the ground.  It s for you, Handel,  said Herbert,\ngoing out and coming back with it,  and I hope there is nothing the\nmatter.  This was in allusion to its heavy black seal and border.\n\nThe letter was signed Trabb & Co., and its contents were simply, that I\nwas an honoured sir, and that they begged to inform me that Mrs. J.\nGargery had departed this life on Monday last at twenty minutes past\nsix in the evening, and that my attendance was requested at the\ninterment on Monday next at three o clock in the afternoon.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXV.\n\n\nIt was the first time that a grave had opened in my road of life, and\nthe gap it made in the smooth ground was wonderful. The figure of my\nsister in her chair by the kitchen fire, haunted me night and day. That\nthe place could possibly be, without her, was something my mind seemed\nunable to compass; and whereas she had seldom or never been in my\nthoughts of late, I had now the strangest ideas that she was coming\ntowards me in the street, or that she would presently knock at the\ndoor. In my rooms too, with which she had never been at all associated,\nthere was at once the blankness of death and a perpetual suggestion of\nthe sound of her voice or the turn of her face or figure, as if she\nwere still alive and had been often there.\n\nWhatever my fortunes might have been, I could scarcely have recalled my\nsister with much tenderness. But I suppose there is a shock of regret\nwhich may exist without much tenderness. Under its influence (and\nperhaps to make up for the want of the softer feeling) I was seized\nwith a violent indignation against the assailant from whom she had\nsuffered so much; and I felt that on sufficient proof I could have\nrevengefully pursued Orlick, or any one else, to the last extremity.\n\nHaving written to Joe, to offer him consolation, and to assure him that\nI would come to the funeral, I passed the intermediate days in the\ncurious state of mind I have glanced at. I went down early in the\nmorning, and alighted at the Blue Boar in good time to walk over to the\nforge.\n\nIt was fine summer weather again, and, as I walked along, the times\nwhen I was a little helpless creature, and my sister did not spare me,\nvividly returned. But they returned with a gentle tone upon them that\nsoftened even the edge of Tickler. For now, the very breath of the\nbeans and clover whispered to my heart that the day must come when it\nwould be well for my memory that others walking in the sunshine should\nbe softened as they thought of me.\n\nAt last I came within sight of the house, and saw that Trabb and Co.\nhad put in a funereal execution and taken possession. Two dismally\nabsurd persons, each ostentatiously exhibiting a crutch done up in a\nblack bandage, as if that instrument could possibly communicate any\ncomfort to anybody, were posted at the front door; and in one of them I\nrecognised a postboy discharged from the Boar for turning a young\ncouple into a sawpit on their bridal morning, in consequence of\nintoxication rendering it necessary for him to ride his horse clasped\nround the neck with both arms. All the children of the village, and\nmost of the women, were admiring these sable warders and the closed\nwindows of the house and forge; and as I came up, one of the two\nwarders (the postboy) knocked at the door, implying that I was far too\nmuch exhausted by grief to have strength remaining to knock for myself.\n\nAnother sable warder (a carpenter, who had once eaten two geese for a\nwager) opened the door, and showed me into the best parlour. Here, Mr.\nTrabb had taken unto himself the best table, and had got all the leaves\nup, and was holding a kind of black Bazaar, with the aid of a quantity\nof black pins. At the moment of my arrival, he had just finished\nputting somebody s hat into black long-clothes, like an African baby;\nso he held out his hand for mine. But I, misled by the action, and\nconfused by the occasion, shook hands with him with every testimony of\nwarm affection.\n\nPoor dear Joe, entangled in a little black cloak tied in a large bow\nunder his chin, was seated apart at the upper end of the room; where,\nas chief mourner, he had evidently been stationed by Trabb. When I bent\ndown and said to him,  Dear Joe, how are you?  he said,  Pip, old chap,\nyou knowed her when she were a fine figure of a  and clasped my hand\nand said no more.\n\nBiddy, looking very neat and modest in her black dress, went quietly\nhere and there, and was very helpful. When I had spoken to Biddy, as I\nthought it not a time for talking I went and sat down near Joe, and\nthere began to wonder in what part of the house it she my sister was.\nThe air of the parlour being faint with the smell of sweet-cake, I\nlooked about for the table of refreshments; it was scarcely visible\nuntil one had got accustomed to the gloom, but there was a cut-up plum\ncake upon it, and there were cut-up oranges, and sandwiches, and\nbiscuits, and two decanters that I knew very well as ornaments, but had\nnever seen used in all my life; one full of port, and one of sherry.\nStanding at this table, I became conscious of the servile Pumblechook\nin a black cloak and several yards of hatband, who was alternately\nstuffing himself, and making obsequious movements to catch my\nattention. The moment he succeeded, he came over to me (breathing\nsherry and crumbs), and said in a subdued voice,  May I, dear sir?  and\ndid. I then descried Mr. and Mrs. Hubble; the last-named in a decent\nspeechless paroxysm in a corner. We were all going to  follow,  and\nwere all in course of being tied up separately (by Trabb) into\nridiculous bundles.\n\n Which I meantersay, Pip,  Joe whispered me, as we were being what Mr.\nTrabb called  formed  in the parlour, two and two, and it was\ndreadfully like a preparation for some grim kind of dance;  which I\nmeantersay, sir, as I would in preference have carried her to the\nchurch myself, along with three or four friendly ones wot come to it\nwith willing harts and arms, but it were considered wot the neighbours\nwould look down on such and would be of opinions as it were wanting in\nrespect. \n\n Pocket-handkerchiefs out, all!  cried Mr. Trabb at this point, in a\ndepressed business-like voice.  Pocket-handkerchiefs out! We are\nready! \n\nSo we all put our pocket-handkerchiefs to our faces, as if our noses\nwere bleeding, and filed out two and two; Joe and I; Biddy and\nPumblechook; Mr. and Mrs. Hubble. The remains of my poor sister had\nbeen brought round by the kitchen door, and, it being a point of\nUndertaking ceremony that the six bearers must be stifled and blinded\nunder a horrible black velvet housing with a white border, the whole\nlooked like a blind monster with twelve human legs, shuffling and\nblundering along, under the guidance of two keepers, the postboy and\nhis comrade.\n\nThe neighbourhood, however, highly approved of these arrangements, and\nwe were much admired as we went through the village; the more youthful\nand vigorous part of the community making dashes now and then to cut us\noff, and lying in wait to intercept us at points of vantage. At such\ntimes the more exuberant among them called out in an excited manner on\nour emergence round some corner of expectancy,  _Here_ they come! \n _Here_ they are!  and we were all but cheered. In this progress I was\nmuch annoyed by the abject Pumblechook, who, being behind me, persisted\nall the way as a delicate attention in arranging my streaming hatband,\nand smoothing my cloak. My thoughts were further distracted by the\nexcessive pride of Mr. and Mrs. Hubble, who were surpassingly conceited\nand vainglorious in being members of so distinguished a procession.\n\nAnd now the range of marshes lay clear before us, with the sails of the\nships on the river growing out of it; and we went into the churchyard,\nclose to the graves of my unknown parents, Philip Pirrip, late of this\nparish, and Also Georgiana, Wife of the Above. And there, my sister was\nlaid quietly in the earth, while the larks sang high above it, and the\nlight wind strewed it with beautiful shadows of clouds and trees.\n\nOf the conduct of the worldly minded Pumblechook while this was doing,\nI desire to say no more than it was all addressed to me; and that even\nwhen those noble passages were read which remind humanity how it\nbrought nothing into the world and can take nothing out, and how it\nfleeth like a shadow and never continueth long in one stay, I heard him\ncough a reservation of the case of a young gentleman who came\nunexpectedly into large property. When we got back, he had the\nhardihood to tell me that he wished my sister could have known I had\ndone her so much honour, and to hint that she would have considered it\nreasonably purchased at the price of her death. After that, he drank\nall the rest of the sherry, and Mr. Hubble drank the port, and the two\ntalked (which I have since observed to be customary in such cases) as\nif they were of quite another race from the deceased, and were\nnotoriously immortal. Finally, he went away with Mr. and Mrs.\nHubble, to make an evening of it, I felt sure, and to tell the Jolly\nBargemen that he was the founder of my fortunes and my earliest\nbenefactor.\n\nWhen they were all gone, and when Trabb and his men but not his Boy; I\nlooked for him had crammed their mummery into bags, and were gone too,\nthe house felt wholesomer. Soon afterwards, Biddy, Joe, and I, had a\ncold dinner together; but we dined in the best parlour, not in the old\nkitchen, and Joe was so exceedingly particular what he did with his\nknife and fork and the saltcellar and what not, that there was great\nrestraint upon us. But after dinner, when I made him take his pipe, and\nwhen I had loitered with him about the forge, and when we sat down\ntogether on the great block of stone outside it, we got on better. I\nnoticed that after the funeral Joe changed his clothes so far, as to\nmake a compromise between his Sunday dress and working dress; in which\nthe dear fellow looked natural, and like the Man he was.\n\nHe was very much pleased by my asking if I might sleep in my own little\nroom, and I was pleased too; for I felt that I had done rather a great\nthing in making the request. When the shadows of evening were closing\nin, I took an opportunity of getting into the garden with Biddy for a\nlittle talk.\n\n Biddy,  said I,  I think you might have written to me about these sad\nmatters. \n\n Do you, Mr. Pip?  said Biddy.  I should have written if I had thought\nthat. \n\n Don t suppose that I mean to be unkind, Biddy, when I say I consider\nthat you ought to have thought that. \n\n Do you, Mr. Pip? \n\nShe was so quiet, and had such an orderly, good, and pretty way with\nher, that I did not like the thought of making her cry again. After\nlooking a little at her downcast eyes as she walked beside me, I gave\nup that point.\n\n I suppose it will be difficult for you to remain here now, Biddy\ndear? \n\n Oh! I can t do so, Mr. Pip,  said Biddy, in a tone of regret but still\nof quiet conviction.  I have been speaking to Mrs. Hubble, and I am\ngoing to her to-morrow. I hope we shall be able to take some care of\nMr. Gargery, together, until he settles down. \n\n How are you going to live, Biddy? If you want any mo \n\n How am I going to live?  repeated Biddy, striking in, with a momentary\nflush upon her face.  I ll tell you, Mr. Pip. I am going to try to get\nthe place of mistress in the new school nearly finished here. I can be\nwell recommended by all the neighbours, and I hope I can be industrious\nand patient, and teach myself while I teach others. You know, Mr. Pip, \npursued Biddy, with a smile, as she raised her eyes to my face,  the\nnew schools are not like the old, but I learnt a good deal from you\nafter that time, and have had time since then to improve. \n\n I think you would always improve, Biddy, under any circumstances. \n\n Ah! Except in my bad side of human nature,  murmured Biddy.\n\nIt was not so much a reproach as an irresistible thinking aloud. Well!\nI thought I would give up that point too. So, I walked a little further\nwith Biddy, looking silently at her downcast eyes.\n\n I have not heard the particulars of my sister s death, Biddy. \n\n They are very slight, poor thing. She had been in one of her bad\nstates though they had got better of late, rather than worse for four\ndays, when she came out of it in the evening, just at tea-time, and\nsaid quite plainly,  Joe.  As she had never said any word for a long\nwhile, I ran and fetched in Mr. Gargery from the forge. She made signs\nto me that she wanted him to sit down close to her, and wanted me to\nput her arms round his neck. So I put them round his neck, and she laid\nher head down on his shoulder quite content and satisfied. And so she\npresently said  Joe  again, and once  Pardon,  and once  Pip.  And so\nshe never lifted her head up any more, and it was just an hour later\nwhen we laid it down on her own bed, because we found she was gone. \n\nBiddy cried; the darkening garden, and the lane, and the stars that\nwere coming out, were blurred in my own sight.\n\n Nothing was ever discovered, Biddy? \n\n Nothing. \n\n Do you know what is become of Orlick? \n\n I should think from the colour of his clothes that he is working in\nthe quarries. \n\n Of course you have seen him then? Why are you looking at that dark\ntree in the lane? \n\n I saw him there, on the night she died. \n\n That was not the last time either, Biddy? \n\n No; I have seen him there, since we have been walking here. It is of\nno use,  said Biddy, laying her hand upon my arm, as I was for running\nout,  you know I would not deceive you; he was not there a minute, and\nhe is gone. \n\nIt revived my utmost indignation to find that she was still pursued by\nthis fellow, and I felt inveterate against him. I told her so, and told\nher that I would spend any money or take any pains to drive him out of\nthat country. By degrees she led me into more temperate talk, and she\ntold me how Joe loved me, and how Joe never complained of anything, she\ndidn t say, of me; she had no need; I knew what she meant, but ever did\nhis duty in his way of life, with a strong hand, a quiet tongue, and a\ngentle heart.\n\n Indeed, it would be hard to say too much for him,  said I;  and Biddy,\nwe must often speak of these things, for of course I shall be often\ndown here now. I am not going to leave poor Joe alone. \n\nBiddy said never a single word.\n\n Biddy, don t you hear me? \n\n Yes, Mr. Pip. \n\n Not to mention your calling me Mr. Pip, which appears to me to be in\nbad taste, Biddy, what do you mean? \n\n What do I mean?  asked Biddy, timidly.\n\n Biddy,  said I, in a virtuously self-asserting manner,  I must request\nto know what you mean by this? \n\n By this?  said Biddy.\n\n Now, don t echo,  I retorted.  You used not to echo, Biddy. \n\n Used not!  said Biddy.  O Mr. Pip! Used! \n\nWell! I rather thought I would give up that point too. After another\nsilent turn in the garden, I fell back on the main position.\n\n Biddy,  said I,  I made a remark respecting my coming down here often,\nto see Joe, which you received with a marked silence. Have the\ngoodness, Biddy, to tell me why. \n\n Are you quite sure, then, that you WILL come to see him often?  asked\nBiddy, stopping in the narrow garden walk, and looking at me under the\nstars with a clear and honest eye.\n\n O dear me!  said I, as if I found myself compelled to give up Biddy in\ndespair.  This really is a very bad side of human nature! Don t say any\nmore, if you please, Biddy. This shocks me very much. \n\nFor which cogent reason I kept Biddy at a distance during supper, and\nwhen I went up to my own old little room, took as stately a leave of\nher as I could, in my murmuring soul, deem reconcilable with the\nchurchyard and the event of the day. As often as I was restless in the\nnight, and that was every quarter of an hour, I reflected what an\nunkindness, what an injury, what an injustice, Biddy had done me.\n\nEarly in the morning I was to go. Early in the morning I was out, and\nlooking in, unseen, at one of the wooden windows of the forge. There I\nstood, for minutes, looking at Joe, already at work with a glow of\nhealth and strength upon his face that made it show as if the bright\nsun of the life in store for him were shining on it.\n\n Good-bye, dear Joe! No, don t wipe it off for God s sake, give me your\nblackened hand! I shall be down soon and often. \n\n[Illustration]\n\n Never too soon, sir,  said Joe,  and never too often, Pip! \n\nBiddy was waiting for me at the kitchen door, with a mug of new milk\nand a crust of bread.  Biddy,  said I, when I gave her my hand at\nparting,  I am not angry, but I am hurt. \n\n No, don t be hurt,  she pleaded quite pathetically;  let only me be\nhurt, if I have been ungenerous. \n\nOnce more, the mists were rising as I walked away. If they disclosed to\nme, as I suspect they did, that I should _not_ come back, and that\nBiddy was quite right, all I can say is, they were quite right too.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXVI.\n\n\nHerbert and I went on from bad to worse, in the way of increasing our\ndebts, looking into our affairs, leaving Margins, and the like\nexemplary transactions; and Time went on, whether or no, as he has a\nway of doing; and I came of age, in fulfilment of Herbert s prediction,\nthat I should do so before I knew where I was.\n\nHerbert himself had come of age eight months before me. As he had\nnothing else than his majority to come into, the event did not make a\nprofound sensation in Barnard s Inn. But we had looked forward to my\none-and-twentieth birthday, with a crowd of speculations and\nanticipations, for we had both considered that my guardian could hardly\nhelp saying something definite on that occasion.\n\nI had taken care to have it well understood in Little Britain when my\nbirthday was. On the day before it, I received an official note from\nWemmick, informing me that Mr. Jaggers would be glad if I would call\nupon him at five in the afternoon of the auspicious day. This convinced\nus that something great was to happen, and threw me into an unusual\nflutter when I repaired to my guardian s office, a model of\npunctuality.\n\nIn the outer office Wemmick offered me his congratulations, and\nincidentally rubbed the side of his nose with a folded piece of\ntissue-paper that I liked the look of. But he said nothing respecting\nit, and motioned me with a nod into my guardian s room. It was\nNovember, and my guardian was standing before his fire leaning his back\nagainst the chimney-piece, with his hands under his coattails.\n\n Well, Pip,  said he,  I must call you Mr. Pip to-day. Congratulations,\nMr. Pip. \n\nWe shook hands, he was always a remarkably short shaker, and I thanked\nhim.\n\n Take a chair, Mr. Pip,  said my guardian.\n\nAs I sat down, and he preserved his attitude and bent his brows at his\nboots, I felt at a disadvantage, which reminded me of that old time\nwhen I had been put upon a tombstone. The two ghastly casts on the\nshelf were not far from him, and their expression was as if they were\nmaking a stupid apoplectic attempt to attend to the conversation.\n\n Now my young friend,  my guardian began, as if I were a witness in the\nbox,  I am going to have a word or two with you. \n\n If you please, sir. \n\n What do you suppose,  said Mr. Jaggers, bending forward to look at the\nground, and then throwing his head back to look at the ceiling, what\ndo you suppose you are living at the rate of? \n\n At the rate of, sir? \n\n At,  repeated Mr. Jaggers, still looking at the ceiling,\n the rate of?  And then looked all round the room, and paused with his\npocket-handkerchief in his hand, half-way to his nose.\n\nI had looked into my affairs so often, that I had thoroughly destroyed\nany slight notion I might ever have had of their bearings. Reluctantly,\nI confessed myself quite unable to answer the question. This reply\nseemed agreeable to Mr. Jaggers, who said,  I thought so!  and blew his\nnose with an air of satisfaction.\n\n Now, I have asked _you_ a question, my friend,  said Mr. Jaggers.\n Have you anything to ask _me_? \n\n Of course it would be a great relief to me to ask you several\nquestions, sir; but I remember your prohibition. \n\n Ask one,  said Mr. Jaggers.\n\n Is my benefactor to be made known to me to-day? \n\n No. Ask another. \n\n Is that confidence to be imparted to me soon? \n\n Waive that, a moment,  said Mr. Jaggers,  and ask another. \n\nI looked about me, but there appeared to be now no possible escape from\nthe inquiry,  Have-I anything to receive, sir?  On that, Mr. Jaggers\nsaid, triumphantly,  I thought we should come to it!  and called to\nWemmick to give him that piece of paper. Wemmick appeared, handed it\nin, and disappeared.\n\n Now, Mr. Pip,  said Mr. Jaggers,  attend, if you please. You have been\ndrawing pretty freely here; your name occurs pretty often in Wemmick s\ncash-book; but you are in debt, of course? \n\n I am afraid I must say yes, sir. \n\n You know you must say yes; don t you?  said Mr. Jaggers.\n\n Yes, sir. \n\n I don t ask you what you owe, because you don t know; and if you did\nknow, you wouldn t tell me; you would say less. Yes, yes, my friend, \ncried Mr. Jaggers, waving his forefinger to stop me as I made a show of\nprotesting:  it s likely enough that you think you wouldn t, but you\nwould. You ll excuse me, but I know better than you. Now, take this\npiece of paper in your hand. You have got it? Very good. Now, unfold it\nand tell me what it is. \n\n This is a bank-note,  said I,  for five hundred pounds. \n\n That is a bank-note,  repeated Mr. Jaggers,  for five hundred pounds.\nAnd a very handsome sum of money too, I think. You consider it so? \n\n How could I do otherwise! \n\n Ah! But answer the question,  said Mr. Jaggers.\n\n Undoubtedly. \n\n You consider it, undoubtedly, a handsome sum of money. Now, that\nhandsome sum of money, Pip, is your own. It is a present to you on this\nday, in earnest of your expectations. And at the rate of that handsome\nsum of money per annum, and at no higher rate, you are to live until\nthe donor of the whole appears. That is to say, you will now take your\nmoney affairs entirely into your own hands, and you will draw from\nWemmick one hundred and twenty-five pounds per quarter, until you are\nin communication with the fountain-head, and no longer with the mere\nagent. As I have told you before, I am the mere agent. I execute my\ninstructions, and I am paid for doing so. I think them injudicious, but\nI am not paid for giving any opinion on their merits. \n\nI was beginning to express my gratitude to my benefactor for the great\nliberality with which I was treated, when Mr. Jaggers stopped me.  I am\nnot paid, Pip,  said he, coolly,  to carry your words to any one;  and\nthen gathered up his coat-tails, as he had gathered up the subject, and\nstood frowning at his boots as if he suspected them of designs against\nhim.\n\nAfter a pause, I hinted, \n\n There was a question just now, Mr. Jaggers, which you desired me to\nwaive for a moment. I hope I am doing nothing wrong in asking it\nagain? \n\n What is it?  said he.\n\nI might have known that he would never help me out; but it took me\naback to have to shape the question afresh, as if it were quite new.\n Is it likely,  I said, after hesitating,  that my patron, the\nfountain-head you have spoken of, Mr. Jaggers, will soon  there I\ndelicately stopped.\n\n Will soon what?  asked Mr. Jaggers.  That s no question as it stands,\nyou know. \n\n Will soon come to London,  said I, after casting about for a precise\nform of words,  or summon me anywhere else? \n\n Now, here,  replied Mr. Jaggers, fixing me for the first time with his\ndark deep-set eyes,  we must revert to the evening when we first\nencountered one another in your village. What did I tell you then,\nPip? \n\n You told me, Mr. Jaggers, that it might be years hence when that\nperson appeared. \n\n Just so,  said Mr. Jaggers,  that s my answer. \n\nAs we looked full at one another, I felt my breath come quicker in my\nstrong desire to get something out of him. And as I felt that it came\nquicker, and as I felt that he saw that it came quicker, I felt that I\nhad less chance than ever of getting anything out of him.\n\n Do you suppose it will still be years hence, Mr. Jaggers? \n\nMr. Jaggers shook his head, not in negativing the question, but in\naltogether negativing the notion that he could anyhow be got to answer\nit, and the two horrible casts of the twitched faces looked, when my\neyes strayed up to them, as if they had come to a crisis in their\nsuspended attention, and were going to sneeze.\n\n Come!  said Mr. Jaggers, warming the backs of his legs with the backs\nof his warmed hands,  I ll be plain with you, my friend Pip. That s a\nquestion I must not be asked. You ll understand that better, when I\ntell you it s a question that might compromise _me_. Come! I ll go a\nlittle further with you; I ll say something more. \n\nHe bent down so low to frown at his boots, that he was able to rub the\ncalves of his legs in the pause he made.\n\n When that person discloses,  said Mr. Jaggers, straightening himself,\n you and that person will settle your own affairs. When that person\ndiscloses, my part in this business will cease and determine. When that\nperson discloses, it will not be necessary for me to know anything\nabout it. And that s all I have got to say. \n\nWe looked at one another until I withdrew my eyes, and looked\nthoughtfully at the floor. From this last speech I derived the notion\nthat Miss Havisham, for some reason or no reason, had not taken him\ninto her confidence as to her designing me for Estella; that he\nresented this, and felt a jealousy about it; or that he really did\nobject to that scheme, and would have nothing to do with it. When I\nraised my eyes again, I found that he had been shrewdly looking at me\nall the time, and was doing so still.\n\n If that is all you have to say, sir,  I remarked,  there can be\nnothing left for me to say. \n\nHe nodded assent, and pulled out his thief-dreaded watch, and asked me\nwhere I was going to dine? I replied at my own chambers, with Herbert.\nAs a necessary sequence, I asked him if he would favour us with his\ncompany, and he promptly accepted the invitation. But he insisted on\nwalking home with me, in order that I might make no extra preparation\nfor him, and first he had a letter or two to write, and (of course) had\nhis hands to wash. So I said I would go into the outer office and talk\nto Wemmick.\n\nThe fact was, that when the five hundred pounds had come into my\npocket, a thought had come into my head which had been often there\nbefore; and it appeared to me that Wemmick was a good person to advise\nwith concerning such thought.\n\nHe had already locked up his safe, and made preparations for going\nhome. He had left his desk, brought out his two greasy office\ncandlesticks and stood them in line with the snuffers on a slab near\nthe door, ready to be extinguished; he had raked his fire low, put his\nhat and great-coat ready, and was beating himself all over the chest\nwith his safe-key, as an athletic exercise after business.\n\n Mr. Wemmick,  said I,  I want to ask your opinion. I am very desirous\nto serve a friend. \n\nWemmick tightened his post-office and shook his head, as if his opinion\nwere dead against any fatal weakness of that sort.\n\n This friend,  I pursued,  is trying to get on in commercial life, but\nhas no money, and finds it difficult and disheartening to make a\nbeginning. Now I want somehow to help him to a beginning. \n\n With money down?  said Wemmick, in a tone drier than any sawdust.\n\n With _some_ money down,  I replied, for an uneasy remembrance shot\nacross me of that symmetrical bundle of papers at home with _some_\nmoney down, and perhaps some anticipation of my expectations. \n\n Mr. Pip,  said Wemmick,  I should like just to run over with you on my\nfingers, if you please, the names of the various bridges up as high as\nChelsea Reach. Let s see; there s London, one; Southwark, two;\nBlackfriars, three; Waterloo, four; Westminster, five; Vauxhall, six. \nHe had checked off each bridge in its turn, with the handle of his\nsafe-key on the palm of his hand.  There s as many as six, you see, to\nchoose from. \n\n I don t understand you,  said I.\n\n Choose your bridge, Mr. Pip,  returned Wemmick,  and take a walk upon\nyour bridge, and pitch your money into the Thames over the centre arch\nof your bridge, and you know the end of it. Serve a friend with it, and\nyou may know the end of it too, but it s a less pleasant and profitable\nend. \n\nI could have posted a newspaper in his mouth, he made it so wide after\nsaying this.\n\n This is very discouraging,  said I.\n\n Meant to be so,  said Wemmick.\n\n Then is it your opinion,  I inquired, with some little indignation,\n that a man should never \n\n Invest portable property in a friend?  said Wemmick.  Certainly he\nshould not. Unless he wants to get rid of the friend, and then it\nbecomes a question how much portable property it may be worth to get\nrid of him. \n\n And that,  said I,  is your deliberate opinion, Mr. Wemmick? \n\n That,  he returned,  is my deliberate opinion in this office. \n\n Ah!  said I, pressing him, for I thought I saw him near a loophole\nhere;  but would that be your opinion at Walworth? \n\n Mr. Pip,  he replied, with gravity,  Walworth is one place, and this\noffice is another. Much as the Aged is one person, and Mr. Jaggers is\nanother. They must not be confounded together. My Walworth sentiments\nmust be taken at Walworth; none but my official sentiments can be taken\nin this office. \n\n Very well,  said I, much relieved,  then I shall look you up at\nWalworth, you may depend upon it. \n\n Mr. Pip,  he returned,  you will be welcome there, in a private and\npersonal capacity. \n\nWe had held this conversation in a low voice, well knowing my\nguardian s ears to be the sharpest of the sharp. As he now appeared in\nhis doorway, towelling his hands, Wemmick got on his great-coat and\nstood by to snuff out the candles. We all three went into the street\ntogether, and from the door-step Wemmick turned his way, and Mr.\nJaggers and I turned ours.\n\nI could not help wishing more than once that evening, that Mr. Jaggers\nhad had an Aged in Gerrard Street, or a Stinger, or a Something, or a\nSomebody, to unbend his brows a little. It was an uncomfortable\nconsideration on a twenty-first birthday, that coming of age at all\nseemed hardly worth while in such a guarded and suspicious world as he\nmade of it. He was a thousand times better informed and cleverer than\nWemmick, and yet I would a thousand times rather have had Wemmick to\ndinner. And Mr. Jaggers made not me alone intensely melancholy,\nbecause, after he was gone, Herbert said of himself, with his eyes\nfixed on the fire, that he thought he must have committed a felony and\nforgotten the details of it, he felt so dejected and guilty.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXVII.\n\n\nDeeming Sunday the best day for taking Mr. Wemmick s Walworth\nsentiments, I devoted the next ensuing Sunday afternoon to a pilgrimage\nto the Castle. On arriving before the battlements, I found the Union\nJack flying and the drawbridge up; but undeterred by this show of\ndefiance and resistance, I rang at the gate, and was admitted in a most\npacific manner by the Aged.\n\n My son, sir,  said the old man, after securing the drawbridge,  rather\nhad it in his mind that you might happen to drop in, and he left word\nthat he would soon be home from his afternoon s walk. He is very\nregular in his walks, is my son. Very regular in everything, is my\nson. \n\nI nodded at the old gentleman as Wemmick himself might have nodded, and\nwe went in and sat down by the fireside.\n\n You made acquaintance with my son, sir,  said the old man, in his\nchirping way, while he warmed his hands at the blaze,  at his office, I\nexpect?  I nodded.  Hah! I have heerd that my son is a wonderful hand\nat his business, sir?  I nodded hard.  Yes; so they tell me. His\nbusiness is the Law?  I nodded harder.  Which makes it more surprising\nin my son,  said the old man,  for he was not brought up to the Law,\nbut to the Wine-Coopering. \n\nCurious to know how the old gentleman stood informed concerning the\nreputation of Mr. Jaggers, I roared that name at him. He threw me into\nthe greatest confusion by laughing heartily and replying in a very\nsprightly manner,  No, to be sure; you re right.  And to this hour I\nhave not the faintest notion what he meant, or what joke he thought I\nhad made.\n\nAs I could not sit there nodding at him perpetually, without making\nsome other attempt to interest him, I shouted at inquiry whether his\nown calling in life had been  the Wine-Coopering.  By dint of straining\nthat term out of myself several times and tapping the old gentleman on\nthe chest to associate it with him, I at last succeeded in making my\nmeaning understood.\n\n No,  said the old gentleman;  the warehousing, the warehousing. First,\nover yonder;  he appeared to mean up the chimney, but I believe he\nintended to refer me to Liverpool;  and then in the City of London\nhere. However, having an infirmity for I am hard of hearing, sir \n\nI expressed in pantomime the greatest astonishment.\n\n Yes, hard of hearing; having that infirmity coming upon me, my son he\nwent into the Law, and he took charge of me, and he by little and\nlittle made out this elegant and beautiful property. But returning to\nwhat you said, you know,  pursued the old man, again laughing heartily,\n what I say is, No to be sure; you re right. \n\nI was modestly wondering whether my utmost ingenuity would have enabled\nme to say anything that would have amused him half as much as this\nimaginary pleasantry, when I was startled by a sudden click in the wall\non one side of the chimney, and the ghostly tumbling open of a little\nwooden flap with  JOHN  upon it. The old man, following my eyes, cried\nwith great triumph,  My son s come home!  and we both went out to the\ndrawbridge.\n\nIt was worth any money to see Wemmick waving a salute to me from the\nother side of the moat, when we might have shaken hands across it with\nthe greatest ease. The Aged was so delighted to work the drawbridge,\nthat I made no offer to assist him, but stood quiet until Wemmick had\ncome across, and had presented me to Miss Skiffins; a lady by whom he\nwas accompanied.\n\nMiss Skiffins was of a wooden appearance, and was, like her escort, in\nthe post-office branch of the service. She might have been some two or\nthree years younger than Wemmick, and I judged her to stand possessed\nof portable property. The cut of her dress from the waist upward, both\nbefore and behind, made her figure very like a boy s kite; and I might\nhave pronounced her gown a little too decidedly orange, and her gloves\na little too intensely green. But she seemed to be a good sort of\nfellow, and showed a high regard for the Aged. I was not long in\ndiscovering that she was a frequent visitor at the Castle; for, on our\ngoing in, and my complimenting Wemmick on his ingenious contrivance for\nannouncing himself to the Aged, he begged me to give my attention for a\nmoment to the other side of the chimney, and disappeared. Presently\nanother click came, and another little door tumbled open with  Miss\nSkiffins  on it; then Miss Skiffins shut up and John tumbled open; then\nMiss Skiffins and John both tumbled open together, and finally shut up\ntogether. On Wemmick s return from working these mechanical appliances,\nI expressed the great admiration with which I regarded them, and he\nsaid,  Well, you know, they re both pleasant and useful to the Aged.\nAnd by George, sir, it s a thing worth mentioning, that of all the\npeople who come to this gate, the secret of those pulls is only known\nto the Aged, Miss Skiffins, and me! \n\n And Mr. Wemmick made them,  added Miss Skiffins,  with his own hands\nout of his own head. \n\nWhile Miss Skiffins was taking off her bonnet (she retained her green\ngloves during the evening as an outward and visible sign that there was\ncompany), Wemmick invited me to take a walk with him round the\nproperty, and see how the island looked in wintertime. Thinking that he\ndid this to give me an opportunity of taking his Walworth sentiments, I\nseized the opportunity as soon as we were out of the Castle.\n\nHaving thought of the matter with care, I approached my subject as if I\nhad never hinted at it before. I informed Wemmick that I was anxious in\nbehalf of Herbert Pocket, and I told him how we had first met, and how\nwe had fought. I glanced at Herbert s home, and at his character, and\nat his having no means but such as he was dependent on his father for;\nthose, uncertain and unpunctual. I alluded to the advantages I had\nderived in my first rawness and ignorance from his society, and I\nconfessed that I feared I had but ill repaid them, and that he might\nhave done better without me and my expectations. Keeping Miss Havisham\nin the background at a great distance, I still hinted at the\npossibility of my having competed with him in his prospects, and at the\ncertainty of his possessing a generous soul, and being far above any\nmean distrusts, retaliations, or designs. For all these reasons (I told\nWemmick), and because he was my young companion and friend, and I had a\ngreat affection for him, I wished my own good fortune to reflect some\nrays upon him, and therefore I sought advice from Wemmick s experience\nand knowledge of men and affairs, how I could best try with my\nresources to help Herbert to some present income, say of a hundred a\nyear, to keep him in good hope and heart, and gradually to buy him on\nto some small partnership. I begged Wemmick, in conclusion, to\nunderstand that my help must always be rendered without Herbert s\nknowledge or suspicion, and that there was no one else in the world\nwith whom I could advise. I wound up by laying my hand upon his\nshoulder, and saying,  I can t help confiding in you, though I know it\nmust be troublesome to you; but that is your fault, in having ever\nbrought me here. \n\nWemmick was silent for a little while, and then said with a kind of\nstart,  Well you know, Mr. Pip, I must tell you one thing. This is\ndevilish good of you. \n\n Say you ll help me to be good then,  said I.\n\n Ecod,  replied Wemmick, shaking his head,  that s not my trade. \n\n Nor is this your trading-place,  said I.\n\n You are right,  he returned.  You hit the nail on the head. Mr. Pip,\nI ll put on my considering-cap, and I think all you want to do may be\ndone by degrees. Skiffins (that s her brother) is an accountant and\nagent. I ll look him up and go to work for you. \n\n I thank you ten thousand times. \n\n On the contrary,  said he,  I thank you, for though we are strictly in\nour private and personal capacity, still it may be mentioned that there\n_are_ Newgate cobwebs about, and it brushes them away. \n\nAfter a little further conversation to the same effect, we returned\ninto the Castle where we found Miss Skiffins preparing tea. The\nresponsible duty of making the toast was delegated to the Aged, and\nthat excellent old gentleman was so intent upon it that he seemed to me\nin some danger of melting his eyes. It was no nominal meal that we were\ngoing to make, but a vigorous reality. The Aged prepared such a\nhay-stack of buttered toast, that I could scarcely see him over it as\nit simmered on an iron stand hooked on to the top-bar; while Miss\nSkiffins brewed such a jorum of tea, that the pig in the back premises\nbecame strongly excited, and repeatedly expressed his desire to\nparticipate in the entertainment.\n\nThe flag had been struck, and the gun had been fired, at the right\nmoment of time, and I felt as snugly cut off from the rest of Walworth\nas if the moat were thirty feet wide by as many deep. Nothing disturbed\nthe tranquillity of the Castle, but the occasional tumbling open of\nJohn and Miss Skiffins: which little doors were a prey to some\nspasmodic infirmity that made me sympathetically uncomfortable until I\ngot used to it. I inferred from the methodical nature of Miss\nSkiffins s arrangements that she made tea there every Sunday night; and\nI rather suspected that a classic brooch she wore, representing the\nprofile of an undesirable female with a very straight nose and a very\nnew moon, was a piece of portable property that had been given her by\nWemmick.\n\nWe ate the whole of the toast, and drank tea in proportion, and it was\ndelightful to see how warm and greasy we all got after it. The Aged\nespecially, might have passed for some clean old chief of a savage\ntribe, just oiled. After a short pause of repose, Miss Skiffins in the\nabsence of the little servant who, it seemed, retired to the bosom of\nher family on Sunday afternoons washed up the tea-things, in a trifling\nlady-like amateur manner that compromised none of us. Then, she put on\nher gloves again, and we drew round the fire, and Wemmick said,  Now,\nAged Parent, tip us the paper. \n\nWemmick explained to me while the Aged got his spectacles out, that\nthis was according to custom, and that it gave the old gentleman\ninfinite satisfaction to read the news aloud.  I won t offer an\napology,  said Wemmick,  for he isn t capable of many pleasures are\nyou, Aged P.? \n\n All right, John, all right,  returned the old man, seeing himself\nspoken to.\n\n Only tip him a nod every now and then when he looks off his paper, \nsaid Wemmick,  and he ll be as happy as a king. We are all attention,\nAged One. \n\n All right, John, all right!  returned the cheerful old man, so busy\nand so pleased, that it really was quite charming.\n\nThe Aged s reading reminded me of the classes at Mr. Wopsle s\ngreat-aunt s, with the pleasanter peculiarity that it seemed to come\nthrough a keyhole. As he wanted the candles close to him, and as he was\nalways on the verge of putting either his head or the newspaper into\nthem, he required as much watching as a powder-mill. But Wemmick was\nequally untiring and gentle in his vigilance, and the Aged read on,\nquite unconscious of his many rescues. Whenever he looked at us, we all\nexpressed the greatest interest and amazement, and nodded until he\nresumed again.\n\nAs Wemmick and Miss Skiffins sat side by side, and as I sat in a\nshadowy corner, I observed a slow and gradual elongation of Mr.\nWemmick s mouth, powerfully suggestive of his slowly and gradually\nstealing his arm round Miss Skiffins s waist. In course of time I saw\nhis hand appear on the other side of Miss Skiffins; but at that moment\nMiss Skiffins neatly stopped him with the green glove, unwound his arm\nagain as if it were an article of dress, and with the greatest\ndeliberation laid it on the table before her. Miss Skiffins s composure\nwhile she did this was one of the most remarkable sights I have ever\nseen, and if I could have thought the act consistent with abstraction\nof mind, I should have deemed that Miss Skiffins performed it\nmechanically.\n\nBy and by, I noticed Wemmick s arm beginning to disappear again, and\ngradually fading out of view. Shortly afterwards, his mouth began to\nwiden again. After an interval of suspense on my part that was quite\nenthralling and almost painful, I saw his hand appear on the other side\nof Miss Skiffins. Instantly, Miss Skiffins stopped it with the neatness\nof a placid boxer, took off that girdle or cestus as before, and laid\nit on the table. Taking the table to represent the path of virtue, I am\njustified in stating that during the whole time of the Aged s reading,\nWemmick s arm was straying from the path of virtue and being recalled\nto it by Miss Skiffins.\n\nAt last, the Aged read himself into a light slumber. This was the time\nfor Wemmick to produce a little kettle, a tray of glasses, and a black\nbottle with a porcelain-topped cork, representing some clerical\ndignitary of a rubicund and social aspect. With the aid of these\nappliances we all had something warm to drink, including the Aged, who\nwas soon awake again. Miss Skiffins mixed, and I observed that she and\nWemmick drank out of one glass. Of course I knew better than to offer\nto see Miss Skiffins home, and under the circumstances I thought I had\nbest go first; which I did, taking a cordial leave of the Aged, and\nhaving passed a pleasant evening.\n\nBefore a week was out, I received a note from Wemmick, dated Walworth,\nstating that he hoped he had made some advance in that matter\nappertaining to our private and personal capacities, and that he would\nbe glad if I could come and see him again upon it. So, I went out to\nWalworth again, and yet again, and yet again, and I saw him by\nappointment in the City several times, but never held any communication\nwith him on the subject in or near Little Britain. The upshot was, that\nwe found a worthy young merchant or shipping-broker, not long\nestablished in business, who wanted intelligent help, and who wanted\ncapital, and who in due course of time and receipt would want a\npartner. Between him and me, secret articles were signed of which\nHerbert was the subject, and I paid him half of my five hundred pounds\ndown, and engaged for sundry other payments: some, to fall due at\ncertain dates out of my income: some, contingent on my coming into my\nproperty. Miss Skiffins s brother conducted the negotiation. Wemmick\npervaded it throughout, but never appeared in it.\n\nThe whole business was so cleverly managed, that Herbert had not the\nleast suspicion of my hand being in it. I never shall forget the\nradiant face with which he came home one afternoon, and told me, as a\nmighty piece of news, of his having fallen in with one Clarriker (the\nyoung merchant s name), and of Clarriker s having shown an\nextraordinary inclination towards him, and of his belief that the\nopening had come at last. Day by day as his hopes grew stronger and his\nface brighter, he must have thought me a more and more affectionate\nfriend, for I had the greatest difficulty in restraining my tears of\ntriumph when I saw him so happy. At length, the thing being done, and\nhe having that day entered Clarriker s House, and he having talked to\nme for a whole evening in a flush of pleasure and success, I did really\ncry in good earnest when I went to bed, to think that my expectations\nhad done some good to somebody.\n\nA great event in my life, the turning point of my life, now opens on my\nview. But, before I proceed to narrate it, and before I pass on to all\nthe changes it involved, I must give one chapter to Estella. It is not\nmuch to give to the theme that so long filled my heart.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXVIII.\n\n\nIf that staid old house near the Green at Richmond should ever come to\nbe haunted when I am dead, it will be haunted, surely, by my ghost. O\nthe many, many nights and days through which the unquiet spirit within\nme haunted that house when Estella lived there! Let my body be where it\nwould, my spirit was always wandering, wandering, wandering, about that\nhouse.\n\nThe lady with whom Estella was placed, Mrs. Brandley by name, was a\nwidow, with one daughter several years older than Estella. The mother\nlooked young, and the daughter looked old; the mother s complexion was\npink, and the daughter s was yellow; the mother set up for frivolity,\nand the daughter for theology. They were in what is called a good\nposition, and visited, and were visited by, numbers of people. Little,\nif any, community of feeling subsisted between them and Estella, but\nthe understanding was established that they were necessary to her, and\nthat she was necessary to them. Mrs. Brandley had been a friend of Miss\nHavisham s before the time of her seclusion.\n\nIn Mrs. Brandley s house and out of Mrs. Brandley s house, I suffered\nevery kind and degree of torture that Estella could cause me. The\nnature of my relations with her, which placed me on terms of\nfamiliarity without placing me on terms of favour, conduced to my\ndistraction. She made use of me to tease other admirers, and she turned\nthe very familiarity between herself and me to the account of putting a\nconstant slight on my devotion to her. If I had been her secretary,\nsteward, half-brother, poor relation, if I had been a younger brother\nof her appointed husband, I could not have seemed to myself further\nfrom my hopes when I was nearest to her. The privilege of calling her\nby her name and hearing her call me by mine became, under the\ncircumstances an aggravation of my trials; and while I think it likely\nthat it almost maddened her other lovers, I know too certainly that it\nalmost maddened me.\n\nShe had admirers without end. No doubt my jealousy made an admirer of\nevery one who went near her; but there were more than enough of them\nwithout that.\n\nI saw her often at Richmond, I heard of her often in town, and I used\noften to take her and the Brandleys on the water; there were picnics,\nf te days, plays, operas, concerts, parties, all sorts of pleasures,\nthrough which I pursued her, and they were all miseries to me. I never\nhad one hour s happiness in her society, and yet my mind all round the\nfour-and-twenty hours was harping on the happiness of having her with\nme unto death.\n\nThroughout this part of our intercourse, and it lasted, as will\npresently be seen, for what I then thought a long time, she habitually\nreverted to that tone which expressed that our association was forced\nupon us. There were other times when she would come to a sudden check\nin this tone and in all her many tones, and would seem to pity me.\n\n Pip, Pip,  she said one evening, coming to such a check, when we sat\napart at a darkening window of the house in Richmond;  will you never\ntake warning? \n\n Of what? \n\n Of me. \n\n Warning not to be attracted by you, do you mean, Estella? \n\n Do I mean! If you don t know what I mean, you are blind. \n\nI should have replied that Love was commonly reputed blind, but for the\nreason that I always was restrained and this was not the least of my\nmiseries by a feeling that it was ungenerous to press myself upon her,\nwhen she knew that she could not choose but obey Miss Havisham. My\ndread always was, that this knowledge on her part laid me under a heavy\ndisadvantage with her pride, and made me the subject of a rebellious\nstruggle in her bosom.\n\n At any rate,  said I,  I have no warning given me just now, for you\nwrote to me to come to you, this time. \n\n That s true,  said Estella, with a cold careless smile that always\nchilled me.\n\nAfter looking at the twilight without, for a little while, she went on\nto say: \n\n The time has come round when Miss Havisham wishes to have me for a day\nat Satis. You are to take me there, and bring me back, if you will. She\nwould rather I did not travel alone, and objects to receiving my maid,\nfor she has a sensitive horror of being talked of by such people. Can\nyou take me? \n\n Can I take you, Estella! \n\n You can then? The day after to-morrow, if you please. You are to pay\nall charges out of my purse. You hear the condition of your going? \n\n And must obey,  said I.\n\nThis was all the preparation I received for that visit, or for others\nlike it; Miss Havisham never wrote to me, nor had I ever so much as\nseen her handwriting. We went down on the next day but one, and we\nfound her in the room where I had first beheld her, and it is needless\nto add that there was no change in Satis House.\n\nShe was even more dreadfully fond of Estella than she had been when I\nlast saw them together; I repeat the word advisedly, for there was\nsomething positively dreadful in the energy of her looks and embraces.\nShe hung upon Estella s beauty, hung upon her words, hung upon her\ngestures, and sat mumbling her own trembling fingers while she looked\nat her, as though she were devouring the beautiful creature she had\nreared.\n\nFrom Estella she looked at me, with a searching glance that seemed to\npry into my heart and probe its wounds.  How does she use you, Pip; how\ndoes she use you?  she asked me again, with her witch-like eagerness,\neven in Estella s hearing. But, when we sat by her flickering fire at\nnight, she was most weird; for then, keeping Estella s hand drawn\nthrough her arm and clutched in her own hand, she extorted from her, by\ndint of referring back to what Estella had told her in her regular\nletters, the names and conditions of the men whom she had fascinated;\nand as Miss Havisham dwelt upon this roll, with the intensity of a mind\nmortally hurt and diseased, she sat with her other hand on her crutch\nstick, and her chin on that, and her wan bright eyes glaring at me, a\nvery spectre.\n\nI saw in this, wretched though it made me, and bitter the sense of\ndependence and even of degradation that it awakened, I saw in this that\nEstella was set to wreak Miss Havisham s revenge on men, and that she\nwas not to be given to me until she had gratified it for a term. I saw\nin this, a reason for her being beforehand assigned to me. Sending her\nout to attract and torment and do mischief, Miss Havisham sent her with\nthe malicious assurance that she was beyond the reach of all admirers,\nand that all who staked upon that cast were secured to lose. I saw in\nthis that I, too, was tormented by a perversion of ingenuity, even\nwhile the prize was reserved for me. I saw in this the reason for my\nbeing staved off so long and the reason for my late guardian s\ndeclining to commit himself to the formal knowledge of such a scheme.\nIn a word, I saw in this Miss Havisham as I had her then and there\nbefore my eyes, and always had had her before my eyes; and I saw in\nthis, the distinct shadow of the darkened and unhealthy house in which\nher life was hidden from the sun.\n\nThe candles that lighted that room of hers were placed in sconces on\nthe wall. They were high from the ground, and they burnt with the\nsteady dulness of artificial light in air that is seldom renewed. As I\nlooked round at them, and at the pale gloom they made, and at the\nstopped clock, and at the withered articles of bridal dress upon the\ntable and the ground, and at her own awful figure with its ghostly\nreflection thrown large by the fire upon the ceiling and the wall, I\nsaw in everything the construction that my mind had come to, repeated\nand thrown back to me. My thoughts passed into the great room across\nthe landing where the table was spread, and I saw it written, as it\nwere, in the falls of the cobwebs from the centre-piece, in the\ncrawlings of the spiders on the cloth, in the tracks of the mice as\nthey betook their little quickened hearts behind the panels, and in the\ngropings and pausings of the beetles on the floor.\n\nIt happened on the occasion of this visit that some sharp words arose\nbetween Estella and Miss Havisham. It was the first time I had ever\nseen them opposed.\n\nWe were seated by the fire, as just now described, and Miss Havisham\nstill had Estella s arm drawn through her own, and still clutched\nEstella s hand in hers, when Estella gradually began to detach herself.\nShe had shown a proud impatience more than once before, and had rather\nendured that fierce affection than accepted or returned it.\n\n What!  said Miss Havisham, flashing her eyes upon her,  are you tired\nof me? \n\n Only a little tired of myself,  replied Estella, disengaging her arm,\nand moving to the great chimney-piece, where she stood looking down at\nthe fire.\n\n Speak the truth, you ingrate!  cried Miss Havisham, passionately\nstriking her stick upon the floor;  you are tired of me. \n\nEstella looked at her with perfect composure, and again looked down at\nthe fire. Her graceful figure and her beautiful face expressed a\nself-possessed indifference to the wild heat of the other, that was\nalmost cruel.\n\n You stock and stone!  exclaimed Miss Havisham.  You cold, cold heart! \n\n What?  said Estella, preserving her attitude of indifference as she\nleaned against the great chimney-piece and only moving her eyes;  do\nyou reproach me for being cold? You? \n\n Are you not?  was the fierce retort.\n\n You should know,  said Estella.  I am what you have made me. Take all\nthe praise, take all the blame; take all the success, take all the\nfailure; in short, take me. \n\n O, look at her, look at her!  cried Miss Havisham, bitterly;  Look at\nher so hard and thankless, on the hearth where she was reared! Where I\ntook her into this wretched breast when it was first bleeding from its\nstabs, and where I have lavished years of tenderness upon her! \n\n[Illustration]\n\n At least I was no party to the compact,  said Estella,  for if I could\nwalk and speak, when it was made, it was as much as I could do. But\nwhat would you have? You have been very good to me, and I owe\neverything to you. What would you have? \n\n Love,  replied the other.\n\n You have it. \n\n I have not,  said Miss Havisham.\n\n Mother by adoption,  retorted Estella, never departing from the easy\ngrace of her attitude, never raising her voice as the other did, never\nyielding either to anger or tenderness, mother by adoption, I have\nsaid that I owe everything to you. All I possess is freely yours. All\nthat you have given me, is at your command to have again. Beyond that,\nI have nothing. And if you ask me to give you, what you never gave me,\nmy gratitude and duty cannot do impossibilities. \n\n Did I never give her love!  cried Miss Havisham, turning wildly to me.\n Did I never give her a burning love, inseparable from jealousy at all\ntimes, and from sharp pain, while she speaks thus to me! Let her call\nme mad, let her call me mad! \n\n Why should I call you mad,  returned Estella,  I, of all people? Does\nany one live, who knows what set purposes you have, half as well as I\ndo? Does any one live, who knows what a steady memory you have, half as\nwell as I do? I who have sat on this same hearth on the little stool\nthat is even now beside you there, learning your lessons and looking up\ninto your face, when your face was strange and frightened me! \n\n Soon forgotten!  moaned Miss Havisham.  Times soon forgotten! \n\n No, not forgotten,  retorted Estella, not forgotten, but treasured up\nin my memory. When have you found me false to your teaching? When have\nyou found me unmindful of your lessons? When have you found me giving\nadmission here,  she touched her bosom with her hand,  to anything that\nyou excluded? Be just to me. \n\n So proud, so proud!  moaned Miss Havisham, pushing away her grey hair\nwith both her hands.\n\n Who taught me to be proud?  returned Estella.  Who praised me when I\nlearnt my lesson? \n\n So hard, so hard!  moaned Miss Havisham, with her former action.\n\n Who taught me to be hard?  returned Estella.  Who praised me when I\nlearnt my lesson? \n\n But to be proud and hard to _me_!  Miss Havisham quite shrieked, as\nshe stretched out her arms.  Estella, Estella, Estella, to be proud and\nhard to _me_! \n\nEstella looked at her for a moment with a kind of calm wonder, but was\nnot otherwise disturbed; when the moment was past, she looked down at\nthe fire again.\n\n I cannot think,  said Estella, raising her eyes after a silence  why\nyou should be so unreasonable when I come to see you after a\nseparation. I have never forgotten your wrongs and their causes. I have\nnever been unfaithful to you or your schooling. I have never shown any\nweakness that I can charge myself with. \n\n Would it be weakness to return my love?  exclaimed Miss Havisham.  But\nyes, yes, she would call it so! \n\n I begin to think,  said Estella, in a musing way, after another moment\nof calm wonder,  that I almost understand how this comes about. If you\nhad brought up your adopted daughter wholly in the dark confinement of\nthese rooms, and had never let her know that there was such a thing as\nthe daylight by which she had never once seen your face, if you had\ndone that, and then, for a purpose had wanted her to understand the\ndaylight and know all about it, you would have been disappointed and\nangry? \n\nMiss Havisham, with her head in her hands, sat making a low moaning,\nand swaying herself on her chair, but gave no answer.\n\n Or,  said Estella, which is a nearer case, if you had taught her,\nfrom the dawn of her intelligence, with your utmost energy and might,\nthat there was such a thing as daylight, but that it was made to be her\nenemy and destroyer, and she must always turn against it, for it had\nblighted you and would else blight her; if you had done this, and then,\nfor a purpose, had wanted her to take naturally to the daylight and she\ncould not do it, you would have been disappointed and angry? \n\nMiss Havisham sat listening (or it seemed so, for I could not see her\nface), but still made no answer.\n\n So,  said Estella,  I must be taken as I have been made. The success\nis not mine, the failure is not mine, but the two together make me. \n\nMiss Havisham had settled down, I hardly knew how, upon the floor,\namong the faded bridal relics with which it was strewn. I took\nadvantage of the moment I had sought one from the first to leave the\nroom, after beseeching Estella s attention to her, with a movement of\nmy hand. When I left, Estella was yet standing by the great\nchimney-piece, just as she had stood throughout. Miss Havisham s grey\nhair was all adrift upon the ground, among the other bridal wrecks, and\nwas a miserable sight to see.\n\nIt was with a depressed heart that I walked in the starlight for an\nhour and more, about the courtyard, and about the brewery, and about\nthe ruined garden. When I at last took courage to return to the room, I\nfound Estella sitting at Miss Havisham s knee, taking up some stitches\nin one of those old articles of dress that were dropping to pieces, and\nof which I have often been reminded since by the faded tatters of old\nbanners that I have seen hanging up in cathedrals. Afterwards, Estella\nand I played at cards, as of yore, only we were skilful now, and played\nFrench games, and so the evening wore away, and I went to bed.\n\nI lay in that separate building across the courtyard. It was the first\ntime I had ever lain down to rest in Satis House, and sleep refused to\ncome near me. A thousand Miss Havishams haunted me. She was on this\nside of my pillow, on that, at the head of the bed, at the foot, behind\nthe half-opened door of the dressing-room, in the dressing-room, in the\nroom overhead, in the room beneath, everywhere. At last, when the night\nwas slow to creep on towards two o clock, I felt that I absolutely\ncould no longer bear the place as a place to lie down in, and that I\nmust get up. I therefore got up and put on my clothes, and went out\nacross the yard into the long stone passage, designing to gain the\nouter courtyard and walk there for the relief of my mind. But I was no\nsooner in the passage than I extinguished my candle; for I saw Miss\nHavisham going along it in a ghostly manner, making a low cry. I\nfollowed her at a distance, and saw her go up the staircase. She\ncarried a bare candle in her hand, which she had probably taken from\none of the sconces in her own room, and was a most unearthly object by\nits light. Standing at the bottom of the staircase, I felt the mildewed\nair of the feast-chamber, without seeing her open the door, and I heard\nher walking there, and so across into her own room, and so across again\ninto that, never ceasing the low cry. After a time, I tried in the dark\nboth to get out, and to go back, but I could do neither until some\nstreaks of day strayed in and showed me where to lay my hands. During\nthe whole interval, whenever I went to the bottom of the staircase, I\nheard her footstep, saw her light pass above, and heard her ceaseless\nlow cry.\n\nBefore we left next day, there was no revival of the difference between\nher and Estella, nor was it ever revived on any similar occasion; and\nthere were four similar occasions, to the best of my remembrance. Nor,\ndid Miss Havisham s manner towards Estella in anywise change, except\nthat I believed it to have something like fear infused among its former\ncharacteristics.\n\nIt is impossible to turn this leaf of my life, without putting Bentley\nDrummle s name upon it; or I would, very gladly.\n\nOn a certain occasion when the Finches were assembled in force, and\nwhen good feeling was being promoted in the usual manner by nobody s\nagreeing with anybody else, the presiding Finch called the Grove to\norder, forasmuch as Mr. Drummle had not yet toasted a lady; which,\naccording to the solemn constitution of the society, it was the brute s\nturn to do that day. I thought I saw him leer in an ugly way at me\nwhile the decanters were going round, but as there was no love lost\nbetween us, that might easily be. What was my indignant surprise when\nhe called upon the company to pledge him to  Estella! \n\n Estella who?  said I.\n\n Never you mind,  retorted Drummle.\n\n Estella of where?  said I.  You are bound to say of where.  Which he\nwas, as a Finch.\n\n Of Richmond, gentlemen,  said Drummle, putting me out of the question,\n and a peerless beauty. \n\nMuch he knew about peerless beauties, a mean, miserable idiot! I\nwhispered Herbert.\n\n I know that lady,  said Herbert, across the table, when the toast had\nbeen honoured.\n\n _Do_ you?  said Drummle.\n\n And so do I,  I added, with a scarlet face.\n\n _Do_ you?  said Drummle.  _O_, Lord! \n\nThis was the only retort except glass or crockery that the heavy\ncreature was capable of making; but, I became as highly incensed by it\nas if it had been barbed with wit, and I immediately rose in my place\nand said that I could not but regard it as being like the honourable\nFinch s impudence to come down to that Grove, we always talked about\ncoming down to that Grove, as a neat Parliamentary turn of\nexpression, down to that Grove, proposing a lady of whom he knew\nnothing. Mr. Drummle, upon this, starting up, demanded what I meant by\nthat? Whereupon I made him the extreme reply that I believed he knew\nwhere I was to be found.\n\nWhether it was possible in a Christian country to get on without blood,\nafter this, was a question on which the Finches were divided. The\ndebate upon it grew so lively, indeed, that at least six more\nhonourable members told six more, during the discussion, that they\nbelieved _they_ knew where _they_ were to be found. However, it was\ndecided at last (the Grove being a Court of Honour) that if Mr. Drummle\nwould bring never so slight a certificate from the lady, importing that\nhe had the honour of her acquaintance, Mr. Pip must express his regret,\nas a gentleman and a Finch, for  having been betrayed into a warmth\nwhich.  Next day was appointed for the production (lest our honour\nshould take cold from delay), and next day Drummle appeared with a\npolite little avowal in Estella s hand, that she had had the honour of\ndancing with him several times. This left me no course but to regret\nthat I had been  betrayed into a warmth which,  and on the whole to\nrepudiate, as untenable, the idea that I was to be found anywhere.\nDrummle and I then sat snorting at one another for an hour, while the\nGrove engaged in indiscriminate contradiction, and finally the\npromotion of good feeling was declared to have gone ahead at an amazing\nrate.\n\nI tell this lightly, but it was no light thing to me. For, I cannot\nadequately express what pain it gave me to think that Estella should\nshow any favour to a contemptible, clumsy, sulky booby, so very far\nbelow the average. To the present moment, I believe it to have been\nreferable to some pure fire of generosity and disinterestedness in my\nlove for her, that I could not endure the thought of her stooping to\nthat hound. No doubt I should have been miserable whomsoever she had\nfavoured; but a worthier object would have caused me a different kind\nand degree of distress.\n\nIt was easy for me to find out, and I did soon find out, that Drummle\nhad begun to follow her closely, and that she allowed him to do it. A\nlittle while, and he was always in pursuit of her, and he and I crossed\none another every day. He held on, in a dull persistent way, and\nEstella held him on; now with encouragement, now with discouragement,\nnow almost flattering him, now openly despising him, now knowing him\nvery well, now scarcely remembering who he was.\n\nThe Spider, as Mr. Jaggers had called him, was used to lying in wait,\nhowever, and had the patience of his tribe. Added to that, he had a\nblockhead confidence in his money and in his family greatness, which\nsometimes did him good service, almost taking the place of\nconcentration and determined purpose. So, the Spider, doggedly watching\nEstella, outwatched many brighter insects, and would often uncoil\nhimself and drop at the right nick of time.\n\nAt a certain Assembly Ball at Richmond (there used to be Assembly Balls\nat most places then), where Estella had outshone all other beauties,\nthis blundering Drummle so hung about her, and with so much toleration\non her part, that I resolved to speak to her concerning him. I took the\nnext opportunity; which was when she was waiting for Mrs. Blandley to\ntake her home, and was sitting apart among some flowers, ready to go. I\nwas with her, for I almost always accompanied them to and from such\nplaces.\n\n Are you tired, Estella? \n\n Rather, Pip. \n\n You should be. \n\n Say rather, I should not be; for I have my letter to Satis House to\nwrite, before I go to sleep. \n\n Recounting to-night s triumph?  said I.  Surely a very poor one,\nEstella. \n\n What do you mean? I didn t know there had been any. \n\n Estella,  said I,  do look at that fellow in the corner yonder, who is\nlooking over here at us. \n\n Why should I look at him?  returned Estella, with her eyes on me\ninstead.  What is there in that fellow in the corner yonder, to use\nyour words, that I need look at? \n\n Indeed, that is the very question I want to ask you,  said I.  For he\nhas been hovering about you all night. \n\n Moths, and all sorts of ugly creatures,  replied Estella, with a\nglance towards him,  hover about a lighted candle. Can the candle help\nit? \n\n No,  I returned;  but cannot the Estella help it? \n\n Well!  said she, laughing, after a moment,  perhaps. Yes. Anything you\nlike. \n\n But, Estella, do hear me speak. It makes me wretched that you should\nencourage a man so generally despised as Drummle. You know he is\ndespised. \n\n Well?  said she.\n\n You know he is as ungainly within as without. A deficient,\nill-tempered, lowering, stupid fellow. \n\n Well?  said she.\n\n You know he has nothing to recommend him but money and a ridiculous\nroll of addle-headed predecessors; now, don t you? \n\n Well?  said she again; and each time she said it, she opened her\nlovely eyes the wider.\n\nTo overcome the difficulty of getting past that monosyllable, I took it\nfrom her, and said, repeating it with emphasis,  Well! Then, that is\nwhy it makes me wretched. \n\nNow, if I could have believed that she favoured Drummle with any idea\nof making me me wretched, I should have been in better heart about it;\nbut in that habitual way of hers, she put me so entirely out of the\nquestion, that I could believe nothing of the kind.\n\n Pip,  said Estella, casting her glance over the room,  don t be\nfoolish about its effect on you. It may have its effect on others, and\nmay be meant to have. It s not worth discussing. \n\n Yes it is,  said I,  because I cannot bear that people should say,\n she throws away her graces and attractions on a mere boor, the lowest\nin the crowd. \n\n I can bear it,  said Estella.\n\n Oh! don t be so proud, Estella, and so inflexible. \n\n Calls me proud and inflexible in this breath!  said Estella, opening\nher hands.  And in his last breath reproached me for stooping to a\nboor! \n\n There is no doubt you do,  said I, something hurriedly,  for I have\nseen you give him looks and smiles this very night, such as you never\ngive to me. \n\n Do you want me then,  said Estella, turning suddenly with a fixed and\nserious, if not angry, look,  to deceive and entrap you? \n\n Do you deceive and entrap him, Estella? \n\n Yes, and many others, all of them but you. Here is Mrs. Brandley. I ll\nsay no more. \n\n\n\n\nAnd now that I have given the one chapter to the theme that so filled\nmy heart, and so often made it ache and ache again, I pass on\nunhindered, to the event that had impended over me longer yet; the\nevent that had begun to be prepared for, before I knew that the world\nheld Estella, and in the days when her baby intelligence was receiving\nits first distortions from Miss Havisham s wasting hands.\n\nIn the Eastern story, the heavy slab that was to fall on the bed of\nstate in the flush of conquest was slowly wrought out of the quarry,\nthe tunnel for the rope to hold it in its place was slowly carried\nthrough the leagues of rock, the slab was slowly raised and fitted in\nthe roof, the rope was rove to it and slowly taken through the miles of\nhollow to the great iron ring. All being made ready with much labour,\nand the hour come, the sultan was aroused in the dead of the night, and\nthe sharpened axe that was to sever the rope from the great iron ring\nwas put into his hand, and he struck with it, and the rope parted and\nrushed away, and the ceiling fell. So, in my case; all the work, near\nand afar, that tended to the end, had been accomplished; and in an\ninstant the blow was struck, and the roof of my stronghold dropped upon\nme.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXIX.\n\n\nI was three-and-twenty years of age. Not another word had I heard to\nenlighten me on the subject of my expectations, and my twenty-third\nbirthday was a week gone. We had left Barnard s Inn more than a year,\nand lived in the Temple. Our chambers were in Garden-court, down by the\nriver.\n\nMr. Pocket and I had for some time parted company as to our original\nrelations, though we continued on the best terms. Notwithstanding my\ninability to settle to anything, which I hope arose out of the restless\nand incomplete tenure on which I held my means, I had a taste for\nreading, and read regularly so many hours a day. That matter of\nHerbert s was still progressing, and everything with me was as I have\nbrought it down to the close of the last preceding chapter.\n\nBusiness had taken Herbert on a journey to Marseilles. I was alone, and\nhad a dull sense of being alone. Dispirited and anxious, long hoping\nthat to-morrow or next week would clear my way, and long disappointed,\nI sadly missed the cheerful face and ready response of my friend.\n\nIt was wretched weather; stormy and wet, stormy and wet; and mud, mud,\nmud, deep in all the streets. Day after day, a vast heavy veil had been\ndriving over London from the East, and it drove still, as if in the\nEast there were an eternity of cloud and wind. So furious had been the\ngusts, that high buildings in town had had the lead stripped off their\nroofs; and in the country, trees had been torn up, and sails of\nwindmills carried away; and gloomy accounts had come in from the coast,\nof shipwreck and death. Violent blasts of rain had accompanied these\nrages of wind, and the day just closed as I sat down to read had been\nthe worst of all.\n\nAlterations have been made in that part of the Temple since that time,\nand it has not now so lonely a character as it had then, nor is it so\nexposed to the river. We lived at the top of the last house, and the\nwind rushing up the river shook the house that night, like discharges\nof cannon, or breakings of a sea. When the rain came with it and dashed\nagainst the windows, I thought, raising my eyes to them as they rocked,\nthat I might have fancied myself in a storm-beaten lighthouse.\nOccasionally, the smoke came rolling down the chimney as though it\ncould not bear to go out into such a night; and when I set the doors\nopen and looked down the staircase, the staircase lamps were blown out;\nand when I shaded my face with my hands and looked through the black\nwindows (opening them ever so little was out of the question in the\nteeth of such wind and rain), I saw that the lamps in the court were\nblown out, and that the lamps on the bridges and the shore were\nshuddering, and that the coal-fires in barges on the river were being\ncarried away before the wind like red-hot splashes in the rain.\n\nI read with my watch upon the table, purposing to close my book at\neleven o clock. As I shut it, Saint Paul s, and all the many\nchurch-clocks in the City some leading, some accompanying, some\nfollowing struck that hour. The sound was curiously flawed by the wind;\nand I was listening, and thinking how the wind assailed and tore it,\nwhen I heard a footstep on the stair.\n\nWhat nervous folly made me start, and awfully connect it with the\nfootstep of my dead sister, matters not. It was past in a moment, and I\nlistened again, and heard the footstep stumble in coming on.\nRemembering then, that the staircase-lights were blown out, I took up\nmy reading-lamp and went out to the stair-head. Whoever was below had\nstopped on seeing my lamp, for all was quiet.\n\n There is some one down there, is there not?  I called out, looking\ndown.\n\n Yes,  said a voice from the darkness beneath.\n\n What floor do you want? \n\n The top. Mr. Pip. \n\n That is my name. There is nothing the matter? \n\n Nothing the matter,  returned the voice. And the man came on.\n\nI stood with my lamp held out over the stair-rail, and he came slowly\nwithin its light. It was a shaded lamp, to shine upon a book, and its\ncircle of light was very contracted; so that he was in it for a mere\ninstant, and then out of it. In the instant, I had seen a face that was\nstrange to me, looking up with an incomprehensible air of being touched\nand pleased by the sight of me.\n\nMoving the lamp as the man moved, I made out that he was substantially\ndressed, but roughly, like a voyager by sea. That he had long iron-grey\nhair. That his age was about sixty. That he was a muscular man, strong\non his legs, and that he was browned and hardened by exposure to\nweather. As he ascended the last stair or two, and the light of my lamp\nincluded us both, I saw, with a stupid kind of amazement, that he was\nholding out both his hands to me.\n\n Pray what is your business?  I asked him.\n\n My business?  he repeated, pausing.  Ah! Yes. I will explain my\nbusiness, by your leave. \n\n Do you wish to come in? \n\n Yes,  he replied;  I wish to come in, master. \n\nI had asked him the question inhospitably enough, for I resented the\nsort of bright and gratified recognition that still shone in his face.\nI resented it, because it seemed to imply that he expected me to\nrespond to it. But I took him into the room I had just left, and,\nhaving set the lamp on the table, asked him as civilly as I could to\nexplain himself.\n\nHe looked about him with the strangest air, an air of wondering\npleasure, as if he had some part in the things he admired, and he\npulled off a rough outer coat, and his hat. Then, I saw that his head\nwas furrowed and bald, and that the long iron-grey hair grew only on\nits sides. But, I saw nothing that in the least explained him. On the\ncontrary, I saw him next moment, once more holding out both his hands\nto me.\n\n What do you mean?  said I, half suspecting him to be mad.\n\nHe stopped in his looking at me, and slowly rubbed his right hand over\nhis head.  It s disapinting to a man,  he said, in a coarse broken\nvoice,  arter having looked for ard so distant, and come so fur; but\nyou re not to blame for that, neither on us is to blame for that. I ll\nspeak in half a minute. Give me half a minute, please. \n\nHe sat down on a chair that stood before the fire, and covered his\nforehead with his large brown veinous hands. I looked at him\nattentively then, and recoiled a little from him; but I did not know\nhim.\n\n There s no one nigh,  said he, looking over his shoulder;  is there? \n\n Why do you, a stranger coming into my rooms at this time of the night,\nask that question?  said I.\n\n You re a game one,  he returned, shaking his head at me with a\ndeliberate affection, at once most unintelligible and most\nexasperating;  I m glad you ve grow d up, a game one! But don t catch\nhold of me. You d be sorry arterwards to have done it. \n\nI relinquished the intention he had detected, for I knew him! Even yet\nI could not recall a single feature, but I knew him! If the wind and\nthe rain had driven away the intervening years, had scattered all the\nintervening objects, had swept us to the churchyard where we first\nstood face to face on such different levels, I could not have known my\nconvict more distinctly than I knew him now as he sat in the chair\nbefore the fire. No need to take a file from his pocket and show it to\nme; no need to take the handkerchief from his neck and twist it round\nhis head; no need to hug himself with both his arms, and take a\nshivering turn across the room, looking back at me for recognition. I\nknew him before he gave me one of those aids, though, a moment before,\nI had not been conscious of remotely suspecting his identity.\n\nHe came back to where I stood, and again held out both his hands. Not\nknowing what to do, for, in my astonishment I had lost my\nself-possession, I reluctantly gave him my hands. He grasped them\nheartily, raised them to his lips, kissed them, and still held them.\n\n You acted noble, my boy,  said he.  Noble, Pip! And I have never\nforgot it! \n\nAt a change in his manner as if he were even going to embrace me, I\nlaid a hand upon his breast and put him away.\n\n Stay!  said I.  Keep off! If you are grateful to me for what I did\nwhen I was a little child, I hope you have shown your gratitude by\nmending your way of life. If you have come here to thank me, it was not\nnecessary. Still, however you have found me out, there must be\nsomething good in the feeling that has brought you here, and I will not\nrepulse you; but surely you must understand that I \n\nMy attention was so attracted by the singularity of his fixed look at\nme, that the words died away on my tongue.\n\n You was a-saying,  he observed, when we had confronted one another in\nsilence,  that surely I must understand. What, surely must I\nunderstand? \n\n That I cannot wish to renew that chance intercourse with you of long\nago, under these different circumstances. I am glad to believe you have\nrepented and recovered yourself. I am glad to tell you so. I am glad\nthat, thinking I deserve to be thanked, you have come to thank me. But\nour ways are different ways, none the less. You are wet, and you look\nweary. Will you drink something before you go? \n\nHe had replaced his neckerchief loosely, and had stood, keenly\nobservant of me, biting a long end of it.  I think,  he answered, still\nwith the end at his mouth and still observant of me,  that I _will_\ndrink (I thank you) afore I go. \n\nThere was a tray ready on a side-table. I brought it to the table near\nthe fire, and asked him what he would have? He touched one of the\nbottles without looking at it or speaking, and I made him some hot rum\nand water. I tried to keep my hand steady while I did so, but his look\nat me as he leaned back in his chair with the long draggled end of his\nneckerchief between his teeth evidently forgotten made my hand very\ndifficult to master. When at last I put the glass to him, I saw with\namazement that his eyes were full of tears.\n\nUp to this time I had remained standing, not to disguise that I wished\nhim gone. But I was softened by the softened aspect of the man, and\nfelt a touch of reproach.  I hope,  said I, hurriedly putting something\ninto a glass for myself, and drawing a chair to the table,  that you\nwill not think I spoke harshly to you just now. I had no intention of\ndoing it, and I am sorry for it if I did. I wish you well and happy! \n\nAs I put my glass to my lips, he glanced with surprise at the end of\nhis neckerchief, dropping from his mouth when he opened it, and\nstretched out his hand. I gave him mine, and then he drank, and drew\nhis sleeve across his eyes and forehead.\n\n How are you living?  I asked him.\n\n I ve been a sheep-farmer, stock-breeder, other trades besides, away in\nthe new world,  said he;  many a thousand mile of stormy water off from\nthis. \n\n I hope you have done well? \n\n I ve done wonderfully well. There s others went out alonger me as has\ndone well too, but no man has done nigh as well as me. I m famous for\nit. \n\n I am glad to hear it. \n\n I hope to hear you say so, my dear boy. \n\nWithout stopping to try to understand those words or the tone in which\nthey were spoken, I turned off to a point that had just come into my\nmind.\n\n Have you ever seen a messenger you once sent to me,  I inquired,\n since he undertook that trust? \n\n Never set eyes upon him. I warn t likely to it. \n\n He came faithfully, and he brought me the two one-pound notes. I was a\npoor boy then, as you know, and to a poor boy they were a little\nfortune. But, like you, I have done well since, and you must let me pay\nthem back. You can put them to some other poor boy s use.  I took out\nmy purse.\n\nHe watched me as I laid my purse upon the table and opened it, and he\nwatched me as I separated two one-pound notes from its contents. They\nwere clean and new, and I spread them out and handed them over to him.\nStill watching me, he laid them one upon the other, folded them\nlong-wise, gave them a twist, set fire to them at the lamp, and dropped\nthe ashes into the tray.\n\n May I make so bold,  he said then, with a smile that was like a frown,\nand with a frown that was like a smile,  as ask you _how_ you have done\nwell, since you and me was out on them lone shivering marshes? \n\n How? \n\n Ah! \n\nHe emptied his glass, got up, and stood at the side of the fire, with\nhis heavy brown hand on the mantel-shelf. He put a foot up to the bars,\nto dry and warm it, and the wet boot began to steam; but, he neither\nlooked at it, nor at the fire, but steadily looked at me. It was only\nnow that I began to tremble.\n\nWhen my lips had parted, and had shaped some words that were without\nsound, I forced myself to tell him (though I could not do it\ndistinctly), that I had been chosen to succeed to some property.\n\n Might a mere warmint ask what property?  said he.\n\nI faltered,  I don t know. \n\n Might a mere warmint ask whose property?  said he.\n\nI faltered again,  I don t know. \n\n Could I make a guess, I wonder,  said the Convict,  at your income\nsince you come of age! As to the first figure now. Five? \n\nWith my heart beating like a heavy hammer of disordered action, I rose\nout of my chair, and stood with my hand upon the back of it, looking\nwildly at him.\n\n Concerning a guardian,  he went on.  There ought to have been some\nguardian, or such-like, whiles you was a minor. Some lawyer, maybe. As\nto the first letter of that lawyer s name now. Would it be J? \n\nAll the truth of my position came flashing on me; and its\ndisappointments, dangers, disgraces, consequences of all kinds, rushed\nin in such a multitude that I was borne down by them and had to\nstruggle for every breath I drew.\n\n Put it,  he resumed,  as the employer of that lawyer whose name begun\nwith a J, and might be Jaggers, put it as he had come over sea to\nPortsmouth, and had landed there, and had wanted to come on to you.\n However, you have found me out,  you says just now. Well! However, did\nI find you out? Why, I wrote from Portsmouth to a person in London, for\nparticulars of your address. That person s name? Why, Wemmick. \n\nI could not have spoken one word, though it had been to save my life. I\nstood, with a hand on the chair-back and a hand on my breast, where I\nseemed to be suffocating, I stood so, looking wildly at him, until I\ngrasped at the chair, when the room began to surge and turn. He caught\nme, drew me to the sofa, put me up against the cushions, and bent on\none knee before me, bringing the face that I now well remembered, and\nthat I shuddered at, very near to mine.\n\n Yes, Pip, dear boy, I ve made a gentleman on you! It s me wot has done\nit! I swore that time, sure as ever I earned a guinea, that guinea\nshould go to you. I swore arterwards, sure as ever I spec lated and got\nrich, you should get rich. I lived rough, that you should live smooth;\nI worked hard, that you should be above work. What odds, dear boy? Do I\ntell it, fur you to feel a obligation? Not a bit. I tell it, fur you to\nknow as that there hunted dunghill dog wot you kep life in, got his\nhead so high that he could make a gentleman, and, Pip, you re him! \n\nThe abhorrence in which I held the man, the dread I had of him, the\nrepugnance with which I shrank from him, could not have been exceeded\nif he had been some terrible beast.\n\n Look ee here, Pip. I m your second father. You re my son, more to me\nnor any son. I ve put away money, only for you to spend. When I was a\nhired-out shepherd in a solitary hut, not seeing no faces but faces of\nsheep till I half forgot wot men s and women s faces wos like, I see\nyourn. I drops my knife many a time in that hut when I was a-eating my\ndinner or my supper, and I says,  Here s the boy again, a looking at me\nwhiles I eats and drinks!  I see you there a many times, as plain as\never I see you on them misty marshes.  Lord strike me dead!  I says\neach time, and I goes out in the air to say it under the open\nheavens, but wot, if I gets liberty and money, I ll make that boy a\ngentleman!  And I done it. Why, look at you, dear boy! Look at these\nhere lodgings of yourn, fit for a lord! A lord? Ah! You shall show\nmoney with lords for wagers, and beat  em! \n\nIn his heat and triumph, and in his knowledge that I had been nearly\nfainting, he did not remark on my reception of all this. It was the one\ngrain of relief I had.\n\n Look ee here!  he went on, taking my watch out of my pocket, and\nturning towards him a ring on my finger, while I recoiled from his\ntouch as if he had been a snake,  a gold  un and a beauty: _that s_ a\ngentleman s, I hope! A diamond all set round with rubies; _that s_ a\ngentleman s, I hope! Look at your linen; fine and beautiful! Look at\nyour clothes; better ain t to be got! And your books too,  turning his\neyes round the room,  mounting up, on their shelves, by hundreds! And\nyou read  em; don t you? I see you d been a reading of  em when I come\nin. Ha, ha, ha! You shall read  em to me, dear boy! And if they re in\nforeign languages wot I don t understand, I shall be just as proud as\nif I did. \n\nAgain he took both my hands and put them to his lips, while my blood\nran cold within me.\n\n Don t you mind talking, Pip,  said he, after again drawing his sleeve\nover his eyes and forehead, as the click came in his throat which I\nwell remembered, and he was all the more horrible to me that he was so\nmuch in earnest;  you can t do better nor keep quiet, dear boy. You\nain t looked slowly forward to this as I have; you wosn t prepared for\nthis as I wos. But didn t you never think it might be me? \n\n O no, no, no,  I returned,  Never, never! \n\n Well, you see it _wos_ me, and single-handed. Never a soul in it but\nmy own self and Mr. Jaggers. \n\n Was there no one else?  I asked.\n\n No,  said he, with a glance of surprise:  who else should there be?\nAnd, dear boy, how good looking you have growed! There s bright eyes\nsomewheres eh? Isn t there bright eyes somewheres, wot you love the\nthoughts on? \n\nO Estella, Estella!\n\n They shall be yourn, dear boy, if money can buy  em. Not that a\ngentleman like you, so well set up as you, can t win  em off of his own\ngame; but money shall back you! Let me finish wot I was a telling you,\ndear boy. From that there hut and that there hiring-out, I got money\nleft me by my master (which died, and had been the same as me), and got\nmy liberty and went for myself. In every single thing I went for, I\nwent for you.  Lord strike a blight upon it,  I says, wotever it was I\nwent for,  if it ain t for him!  It all prospered wonderful. As I giv \nyou to understand just now, I m famous for it. It was the money left\nme, and the gains of the first few year wot I sent home to Mr.\nJaggers all for you when he first come arter you, agreeable to my\nletter. \n\nO that he had never come! That he had left me at the forge, far from\ncontented, yet, by comparison happy!\n\n And then, dear boy, it was a recompense to me, look ee here, to know\nin secret that I was making a gentleman. The blood horses of them\ncolonists might fling up the dust over me as I was walking; what do I\nsay? I says to myself,  I m making a better gentleman nor ever _you_ ll\nbe!  When one of  em says to another,  He was a convict, a few year\nago, and is a ignorant common fellow now, for all he s lucky,  what do\nI say? I says to myself,  If I ain t a gentleman, nor yet ain t got no\nlearning, I m the owner of such. All on you owns stock and land; which\non you owns a brought-up London gentleman?  This way I kep myself\na-going. And this way I held steady afore my mind that I would for\ncertain come one day and see my boy, and make myself known to him, on\nhis own ground. \n\nHe laid his hand on my shoulder. I shuddered at the thought that for\nanything I knew, his hand might be stained with blood.\n\n It warn t easy, Pip, for me to leave them parts, nor yet it warn t\nsafe. But I held to it, and the harder it was, the stronger I held, for\nI was determined, and my mind firm made up. At last I done it. Dear\nboy, I done it! \n\nI tried to collect my thoughts, but I was stunned. Throughout, I had\nseemed to myself to attend more to the wind and the rain than to him;\neven now, I could not separate his voice from those voices, though\nthose were loud and his was silent.\n\n Where will you put me?  he asked, presently.  I must be put\nsomewheres, dear boy. \n\n To sleep?  said I.\n\n Yes. And to sleep long and sound,  he answered;  for I ve been\nsea-tossed and sea-washed, months and months. \n\n My friend and companion,  said I, rising from the sofa,  is absent;\nyou must have his room. \n\n He won t come back to-morrow; will he? \n\n No,  said I, answering almost mechanically, in spite of my utmost\nefforts;  not to-morrow. \n\n Because, look ee here, dear boy,  he said, dropping his voice, and\nlaying a long finger on my breast in an impressive manner,  caution is\nnecessary. \n\n How do you mean? Caution? \n\n By G , it s Death! \n\n What s death? \n\n I was sent for life. It s death to come back. There s been overmuch\ncoming back of late years, and I should of a certainty be hanged if\ntook. \n\nNothing was needed but this; the wretched man, after loading wretched\nme with his gold and silver chains for years, had risked his life to\ncome to me, and I held it there in my keeping! If I had loved him\ninstead of abhorring him; if I had been attracted to him by the\nstrongest admiration and affection, instead of shrinking from him with\nthe strongest repugnance; it could have been no worse. On the contrary,\nit would have been better, for his preservation would then have\nnaturally and tenderly addressed my heart.\n\nMy first care was to close the shutters, so that no light might be seen\nfrom without, and then to close and make fast the doors. While I did\nso, he stood at the table drinking rum and eating biscuit; and when I\nsaw him thus engaged, I saw my convict on the marshes at his meal\nagain. It almost seemed to me as if he must stoop down presently, to\nfile at his leg.\n\nWhen I had gone into Herbert s room, and had shut off any other\ncommunication between it and the staircase than through the room in\nwhich our conversation had been held, I asked him if he would go to\nbed? He said yes, but asked me for some of my  gentleman s linen  to\nput on in the morning. I brought it out, and laid it ready for him, and\nmy blood again ran cold when he again took me by both hands to give me\ngood-night.\n\nI got away from him, without knowing how I did it, and mended the fire\nin the room where we had been together, and sat down by it, afraid to\ngo to bed. For an hour or more, I remained too stunned to think; and it\nwas not until I began to think, that I began fully to know how wrecked\nI was, and how the ship in which I had sailed was gone to pieces.\n\nMiss Havisham s intentions towards me, all a mere dream; Estella not\ndesigned for me; I only suffered in Satis House as a convenience, a\nsting for the greedy relations, a model with a mechanical heart to\npractise on when no other practice was at hand; those were the first\nsmarts I had. But, sharpest and deepest pain of all, it was for the\nconvict, guilty of I knew not what crimes, and liable to be taken out\nof those rooms where I sat thinking, and hanged at the Old Bailey door,\nthat I had deserted Joe.\n\nI would not have gone back to Joe now, I would not have gone back to\nBiddy now, for any consideration; simply, I suppose, because my sense\nof my own worthless conduct to them was greater than every\nconsideration. No wisdom on earth could have given me the comfort that\nI should have derived from their simplicity and fidelity; but I could\nnever, never, undo what I had done.\n\nIn every rage of wind and rush of rain, I heard pursuers. Twice, I\ncould have sworn there was a knocking and whispering at the outer door.\nWith these fears upon me, I began either to imagine or recall that I\nhad had mysterious warnings of this man s approach. That, for weeks\ngone by, I had passed faces in the streets which I had thought like\nhis. That these likenesses had grown more numerous, as he, coming over\nthe sea, had drawn nearer. That his wicked spirit had somehow sent\nthese messengers to mine, and that now on this stormy night he was as\ngood as his word, and with me.\n\nCrowding up with these reflections came the reflection that I had seen\nhim with my childish eyes to be a desperately violent man; that I had\nheard that other convict reiterate that he had tried to murder him;\nthat I had seen him down in the ditch tearing and fighting like a wild\nbeast. Out of such remembrances I brought into the light of the fire a\nhalf-formed terror that it might not be safe to be shut up there with\nhim in the dead of the wild solitary night. This dilated until it\nfilled the room, and impelled me to take a candle and go in and look at\nmy dreadful burden.\n\nHe had rolled a handkerchief round his head, and his face was set and\nlowering in his sleep. But he was asleep, and quietly too, though he\nhad a pistol lying on the pillow. Assured of this, I softly removed the\nkey to the outside of his door, and turned it on him before I again sat\ndown by the fire. Gradually I slipped from the chair and lay on the\nfloor. When I awoke without having parted in my sleep with the\nperception of my wretchedness, the clocks of the Eastward churches were\nstriking five, the candles were wasted out, the fire was dead, and the\nwind and rain intensified the thick black darkness.\n\nTHIS IS THE END OF THE SECOND STAGE OF PIP S EXPECTATIONS.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XL.\n\n\nIt was fortunate for me that I had to take precautions to ensure (so\nfar as I could) the safety of my dreaded visitor; for, this thought\npressing on me when I awoke, held other thoughts in a confused\nconcourse at a distance.\n\nThe impossibility of keeping him concealed in the chambers was\nself-evident. It could not be done, and the attempt to do it would\ninevitably engender suspicion. True, I had no Avenger in my service\nnow, but I was looked after by an inflammatory old female, assisted by\nan animated rag-bag whom she called her niece, and to keep a room\nsecret from them would be to invite curiosity and exaggeration. They\nboth had weak eyes, which I had long attributed to their chronically\nlooking in at keyholes, and they were always at hand when not wanted;\nindeed that was their only reliable quality besides larceny. Not to get\nup a mystery with these people, I resolved to announce in the morning\nthat my uncle had unexpectedly come from the country.\n\nThis course I decided on while I was yet groping about in the darkness\nfor the means of getting a light. Not stumbling on the means after all,\nI was fain to go out to the adjacent Lodge and get the watchman there\nto come with his lantern. Now, in groping my way down the black\nstaircase I fell over something, and that something was a man crouching\nin a corner.\n\nAs the man made no answer when I asked him what he did there, but\neluded my touch in silence, I ran to the Lodge and urged the watchman\nto come quickly; telling him of the incident on the way back. The wind\nbeing as fierce as ever, we did not care to endanger the light in the\nlantern by rekindling the extinguished lamps on the staircase, but we\nexamined the staircase from the bottom to the top and found no one\nthere. It then occurred to me as possible that the man might have\nslipped into my rooms; so, lighting my candle at the watchman s, and\nleaving him standing at the door, I examined them carefully, including\nthe room in which my dreaded guest lay asleep. All was quiet, and\nassuredly no other man was in those chambers.\n\nIt troubled me that there should have been a lurker on the stairs, on\nthat night of all nights in the year, and I asked the watchman, on the\nchance of eliciting some hopeful explanation as I handed him a dram at\nthe door, whether he had admitted at his gate any gentleman who had\nperceptibly been dining out? Yes, he said; at different times of the\nnight, three. One lived in Fountain Court, and the other two lived in\nthe Lane, and he had seen them all go home. Again, the only other man\nwho dwelt in the house of which my chambers formed a part had been in\nthe country for some weeks, and he certainly had not returned in the\nnight, because we had seen his door with his seal on it as we came\nupstairs.\n\n The night being so bad, sir,  said the watchman, as he gave me back my\nglass,  uncommon few have come in at my gate. Besides them three\ngentlemen that I have named, I don t call to mind another since about\neleven o clock, when a stranger asked for you. \n\n My uncle,  I muttered.  Yes. \n\n You saw him, sir? \n\n Yes. Oh yes. \n\n Likewise the person with him? \n\n Person with him!  I repeated.\n\n I judged the person to be with him,  returned the watchman.  The\nperson stopped, when he stopped to make inquiry of me, and the person\ntook this way when he took this way. \n\n What sort of person? \n\nThe watchman had not particularly noticed; he should say a working\nperson; to the best of his belief, he had a dust-coloured kind of\nclothes on, under a dark coat. The watchman made more light of the\nmatter than I did, and naturally; not having my reason for attaching\nweight to it.\n\nWhen I had got rid of him, which I thought it well to do without\nprolonging explanations, my mind was much troubled by these two\ncircumstances taken together. Whereas they were easy of innocent\nsolution apart, as, for instance, some diner out or diner at home, who\nhad not gone near this watchman s gate, might have strayed to my\nstaircase and dropped asleep there, and my nameless visitor might have\nbrought some one with him to show him the way, still, joined, they had\nan ugly look to one as prone to distrust and fear as the changes of a\nfew hours had made me.\n\nI lighted my fire, which burnt with a raw pale flare at that time of\nthe morning, and fell into a doze before it. I seemed to have been\ndozing a whole night when the clocks struck six. As there was full an\nhour and a half between me and daylight, I dozed again; now, waking up\nuneasily, with prolix conversations about nothing, in my ears; now,\nmaking thunder of the wind in the chimney; at length, falling off into\na profound sleep from which the daylight woke me with a start.\n\nAll this time I had never been able to consider my own situation, nor\ncould I do so yet. I had not the power to attend to it. I was greatly\ndejected and distressed, but in an incoherent wholesale sort of way. As\nto forming any plan for the future, I could as soon have formed an\nelephant. When I opened the shutters and looked out at the wet wild\nmorning, all of a leaden hue; when I walked from room to room; when I\nsat down again shivering, before the fire, waiting for my laundress to\nappear; I thought how miserable I was, but hardly knew why, or how long\nI had been so, or on what day of the week I made the reflection, or\neven who I was that made it.\n\nAt last, the old woman and the niece came in, the latter with a head\nnot easily distinguishable from her dusty broom, and testified surprise\nat sight of me and the fire. To whom I imparted how my uncle had come\nin the night and was then asleep, and how the breakfast preparations\nwere to be modified accordingly. Then I washed and dressed while they\nknocked the furniture about and made a dust; and so, in a sort of dream\nor sleep-waking, I found myself sitting by the fire again, waiting\nfor Him to come to breakfast.\n\nBy and by, his door opened and he came out. I could not bring myself to\nbear the sight of him, and I thought he had a worse look by daylight.\n\n I do not even know,  said I, speaking low as he took his seat at the\ntable,  by what name to call you. I have given out that you are my\nuncle. \n\n That s it, dear boy! Call me uncle. \n\n You assumed some name, I suppose, on board ship? \n\n Yes, dear boy. I took the name of Provis. \n\n Do you mean to keep that name? \n\n Why, yes, dear boy, it s as good as another, unless you d like\nanother. \n\n What is your real name?  I asked him in a whisper.\n\n Magwitch,  he answered, in the same tone;  chrisen d Abel. \n\n What were you brought up to be? \n\n A warmint, dear boy. \n\nHe answered quite seriously, and used the word as if it denoted some\nprofession.\n\n When you came into the Temple last night  said I, pausing to wonder\nwhether that could really have been last night, which seemed so long\nago.\n\n Yes, dear boy? \n\n When you came in at the gate and asked the watchman the way here, had\nyou any one with you? \n\n With me? No, dear boy. \n\n But there was some one there? \n\n I didn t take particular notice,  he said, dubiously,  not knowing the\nways of the place. But I think there _was_ a person, too, come in\nalonger me. \n\n Are you known in London? \n\n I hope not!  said he, giving his neck a jerk with his forefinger that\nmade me turn hot and sick.\n\n Were you known in London, once? \n\n Not over and above, dear boy. I was in the provinces mostly. \n\n Were you tried in London? \n\n Which time?  said he, with a sharp look.\n\n The last time. \n\nHe nodded.  First knowed Mr. Jaggers that way. Jaggers was for me. \n\nIt was on my lips to ask him what he was tried for, but he took up a\nknife, gave it a flourish, and with the words,  And what I done is\nworked out and paid for!  fell to at his breakfast.\n\nHe ate in a ravenous way that was very disagreeable, and all his\nactions were uncouth, noisy, and greedy. Some of his teeth had failed\nhim since I saw him eat on the marshes, and as he turned his food in\nhis mouth, and turned his head sideways to bring his strongest fangs to\nbear upon it, he looked terribly like a hungry old dog. If I had begun\nwith any appetite, he would have taken it away, and I should have sat\nmuch as I did, repelled from him by an insurmountable aversion, and\ngloomily looking at the cloth.\n\n I m a heavy grubber, dear boy,  he said, as a polite kind of apology\nwhen he made an end of his meal,  but I always was. If it had been in\nmy constitution to be a lighter grubber, I might ha  got into lighter\ntrouble. Similarly, I must have my smoke. When I was first hired out as\nshepherd t other side the world, it s my belief I should ha  turned\ninto a molloncolly-mad sheep myself, if I hadn t a had my smoke. \n\nAs he said so, he got up from table, and putting his hand into the\nbreast of the pea-coat he wore, brought out a short black pipe, and a\nhandful of loose tobacco of the kind that is called Negro-head. Having\nfilled his pipe, he put the surplus tobacco back again, as if his\npocket were a drawer. Then, he took a live coal from the fire with the\ntongs, and lighted his pipe at it, and then turned round on the\nhearth-rug with his back to the fire, and went through his favourite\naction of holding out both his hands for mine.\n\n And this,  said he, dandling my hands up and down in his, as he puffed\nat his pipe, and this is the gentleman what I made! The real genuine\nOne! It does me good fur to look at you, Pip. All I stip late, is, to\nstand by and look at you, dear boy! \n\nI released my hands as soon as I could, and found that I was beginning\nslowly to settle down to the contemplation of my condition. What I was\nchained to, and how heavily, became intelligible to me, as I heard his\nhoarse voice, and sat looking up at his furrowed bald head with its\niron grey hair at the sides.\n\n I mustn t see my gentleman a footing it in the mire of the streets;\nthere mustn t be no mud on _his_ boots. My gentleman must have horses,\nPip! Horses to ride, and horses to drive, and horses for his servant to\nride and drive as well. Shall colonists have their horses (and blood\n uns, if you please, good Lord!) and not my London gentleman? No, no.\nWe ll show  em another pair of shoes than that, Pip; won t us? \n\nHe took out of his pocket a great thick pocket-book, bursting with\npapers, and tossed it on the table.\n\n There s something worth spending in that there book, dear boy. It s\nyourn. All I ve got ain t mine; it s yourn. Don t you be afeerd on it.\nThere s more where that come from. I ve come to the old country fur to\nsee my gentleman spend his money _like_ a gentleman. That ll be _my_\npleasure. _My_ pleasure  ull be fur to see him do it. And blast you\nall!  he wound up, looking round the room and snapping his fingers once\nwith a loud snap,  blast you every one, from the judge in his wig, to\nthe colonist a stirring up the dust, I ll show a better gentleman than\nthe whole kit on you put together! \n\n Stop!  said I, almost in a frenzy of fear and dislike,  I want to\nspeak to you. I want to know what is to be done. I want to know how you\nare to be kept out of danger, how long you are going to stay, what\nprojects you have. \n\n Look ee here, Pip,  said he, laying his hand on my arm in a suddenly\naltered and subdued manner;  first of all, look ee here. I forgot\nmyself half a minute ago. What I said was low; that s what it was; low.\nLook ee here, Pip. Look over it. I ain t a-going to be low. \n\n First,  I resumed, half groaning,  what precautions can be taken\nagainst your being recognised and seized? \n\n No, dear boy,  he said, in the same tone as before,  that don t go\nfirst. Lowness goes first. I ain t took so many year to make a\ngentleman, not without knowing what s due to him. Look ee here, Pip. I\nwas low; that s what I was; low. Look over it, dear boy. \n\nSome sense of the grimly-ludicrous moved me to a fretful laugh, as I\nreplied,  I _have_ looked over it. In Heaven s name, don t harp upon\nit! \n\n Yes, but look ee here,  he persisted.  Dear boy, I ain t come so fur,\nnot fur to be low. Now, go on, dear boy. You was a saying \n\n How are you to be guarded from the danger you have incurred? \n\n Well, dear boy, the danger ain t so great. Without I was informed\nagen, the danger ain t so much to signify. There s Jaggers, and there s\nWemmick, and there s you. Who else is there to inform? \n\n Is there no chance person who might identify you in the street?  said\nI.\n\n Well,  he returned,  there ain t many. Nor yet I don t intend to\nadvertise myself in the newspapers by the name of A.M. come back from\nBotany Bay; and years have rolled away, and who s to gain by it? Still,\nlook ee here, Pip. If the danger had been fifty times as great, I\nshould ha  come to see you, mind you, just the same. \n\n And how long do you remain? \n\n How long?  said he, taking his black pipe from his mouth, and dropping\nhis jaw as he stared at me.  I m not a-going back. I ve come for good. \n\n Where are you to live?  said I.  What is to be done with you? Where\nwill you be safe? \n\n Dear boy,  he returned,  there s disguising wigs can be bought for\nmoney, and there s hair powder, and spectacles, and black\nclothes, shorts and what not. Others has done it safe afore, and what\nothers has done afore, others can do agen. As to the where and how of\nliving, dear boy, give me your own opinions on it. \n\n You take it smoothly now,  said I,  but you were very serious last\nnight, when you swore it was Death. \n\n And so I swear it is Death,  said he, putting his pipe back in his\nmouth,  and Death by the rope, in the open street not fur from this,\nand it s serious that you should fully understand it to be so. What\nthen, when that s once done? Here I am. To go back now  ud be as bad as\nto stand ground worse. Besides, Pip, I m here, because I ve meant it by\nyou, years and years. As to what I dare, I m a old bird now, as has\ndared all manner of traps since first he was fledged, and I m not\nafeerd to perch upon a scarecrow. If there s Death hid inside of it,\nthere is, and let him come out, and I ll face him, and then I ll\nbelieve in him and not afore. And now let me have a look at my\ngentleman agen. \n\nOnce more, he took me by both hands and surveyed me with an air of\nadmiring proprietorship: smoking with great complacency all the while.\n\nIt appeared to me that I could do no better than secure him some quiet\nlodging hard by, of which he might take possession when Herbert\nreturned: whom I expected in two or three days. That the secret must be\nconfided to Herbert as a matter of unavoidable necessity, even if I\ncould have put the immense relief I should derive from sharing it with\nhim out of the question, was plain to me. But it was by no means so\nplain to Mr. Provis (I resolved to call him by that name), who reserved\nhis consent to Herbert s participation until he should have seen him\nand formed a favourable judgment of his physiognomy.  And even then,\ndear boy,  said he, pulling a greasy little clasped black Testament out\nof his pocket,  we ll have him on his oath. \n\nTo state that my terrible patron carried this little black book about\nthe world solely to swear people on in cases of emergency, would be to\nstate what I never quite established; but this I can say, that I never\nknew him put it to any other use. The book itself had the appearance of\nhaving been stolen from some court of justice, and perhaps his\nknowledge of its antecedents, combined with his own experience in that\nwise, gave him a reliance on its powers as a sort of legal spell or\ncharm. On this first occasion of his producing it, I recalled how he\nhad made me swear fidelity in the churchyard long ago, and how he had\ndescribed himself last night as always swearing to his resolutions in\nhis solitude.\n\nAs he was at present dressed in a seafaring slop suit, in which he\nlooked as if he had some parrots and cigars to dispose of, I next\ndiscussed with him what dress he should wear. He cherished an\nextraordinary belief in the virtues of  shorts  as a disguise, and had\nin his own mind sketched a dress for himself that would have made him\nsomething between a dean and a dentist. It was with considerable\ndifficulty that I won him over to the assumption of a dress more like a\nprosperous farmer s; and we arranged that he should cut his hair close,\nand wear a little powder. Lastly, as he had not yet been seen by the\nlaundress or her niece, he was to keep himself out of their view until\nhis change of dress was made.\n\nIt would seem a simple matter to decide on these precautions; but in my\ndazed, not to say distracted, state, it took so long, that I did not\nget out to further them until two or three in the afternoon. He was to\nremain shut up in the chambers while I was gone, and was on no account\nto open the door.\n\nThere being to my knowledge a respectable lodging-house in Essex\nStreet, the back of which looked into the Temple, and was almost within\nhail of my windows, I first of all repaired to that house, and was so\nfortunate as to secure the second floor for my uncle, Mr. Provis. I\nthen went from shop to shop, making such purchases as were necessary to\nthe change in his appearance. This business transacted, I turned my\nface, on my own account, to Little Britain. Mr. Jaggers was at his\ndesk, but, seeing me enter, got up immediately and stood before his\nfire.\n\n Now, Pip,  said he,  be careful. \n\n I will, sir,  I returned. For, coming along I had thought well of what\nI was going to say.\n\n Don t commit yourself,  said Mr. Jaggers,  and don t commit any one.\nYou understand any one. Don t tell me anything: I don t want to know\nanything; I am not curious. \n\nOf course I saw that he knew the man was come.\n\n I merely want, Mr. Jaggers,  said I,  to assure myself that what I\nhave been told is true. I have no hope of its being untrue, but at\nleast I may verify it. \n\nMr. Jaggers nodded.  But did you say  told  or  informed ?  he asked\nme, with his head on one side, and not looking at me, but looking in a\nlistening way at the floor.  Told would seem to imply verbal\ncommunication. You can t have verbal communication with a man in New\nSouth Wales, you know. \n\n I will say, informed, Mr. Jaggers. \n\n Good. \n\n I have been informed by a person named Abel Magwitch, that he is the\nbenefactor so long unknown to me. \n\n That is the man,  said Mr. Jaggers,  in New South Wales. \n\n And only he?  said I.\n\n And only he,  said Mr. Jaggers.\n\n I am not so unreasonable, sir, as to think you at all responsible for\nmy mistakes and wrong conclusions; but I always supposed it was Miss\nHavisham. \n\n As you say, Pip,  returned Mr. Jaggers, turning his eyes upon me\ncoolly, and taking a bite at his forefinger,  I am not at all\nresponsible for that. \n\n And yet it looked so like it, sir,  I pleaded with a downcast heart.\n\n Not a particle of evidence, Pip,  said Mr. Jaggers, shaking his head\nand gathering up his skirts.  Take nothing on its looks; take\neverything on evidence. There s no better rule. \n\n I have no more to say,  said I, with a sigh, after standing silent for\na little while.  I have verified my information, and there s an end. \n\n And Magwitch in New South Wales having at last disclosed himself, \nsaid Mr. Jaggers,  you will comprehend, Pip, how rigidly throughout my\ncommunication with you, I have always adhered to the strict line of\nfact. There has never been the least departure from the strict line of\nfact. You are quite aware of that? \n\n Quite, sir. \n\n I communicated to Magwitch in New South Wales when he first wrote to\nme from New South Wales the caution that he must not expect me ever to\ndeviate from the strict line of fact. I also communicated to him\nanother caution. He appeared to me to have obscurely hinted in his\nletter at some distant idea he had of seeing you in England here. I\ncautioned him that I must hear no more of that; that he was not at all\nlikely to obtain a pardon; that he was expatriated for the term of his\nnatural life; and that his presenting himself in this country would be\nan act of felony, rendering him liable to the extreme penalty of the\nlaw. I gave Magwitch that caution,  said Mr. Jaggers, looking hard at\nme;  I wrote it to New South Wales. He guided himself by it, no doubt. \n\n No doubt,  said I.\n\n I have been informed by Wemmick,  pursued Mr. Jaggers, still looking\nhard at me,  that he has received a letter, under date Portsmouth, from\na colonist of the name of Purvis, or \n\n Or Provis,  I suggested.\n\n Or Provis thank you, Pip. Perhaps it _is_ Provis? Perhaps you know\nit s Provis? \n\n Yes,  said I.\n\n You know it s Provis. A letter, under date Portsmouth, from a colonist\nof the name of Provis, asking for the particulars of your address, on\nbehalf of Magwitch. Wemmick sent him the particulars, I understand, by\nreturn of post. Probably it is through Provis that you have received\nthe explanation of Magwitch in New South Wales? \n\n It came through Provis,  I replied.\n\n Good day, Pip,  said Mr. Jaggers, offering his hand;  glad to have\nseen you. In writing by post to Magwitch in New South Wales or in\ncommunicating with him through Provis, have the goodness to mention\nthat the particulars and vouchers of our long account shall be sent to\nyou, together with the balance; for there is still a balance remaining.\nGood-day, Pip! \n\nWe shook hands, and he looked hard at me as long as he could see me. I\nturned at the door, and he was still looking hard at me, while the two\nvile casts on the shelf seemed to be trying to get their eyelids open,\nand to force out of their swollen throats,  O, what a man he is! \n\nWemmick was out, and though he had been at his desk he could have done\nnothing for me. I went straight back to the Temple, where I found the\nterrible Provis drinking rum and water and smoking negro-head, in\nsafety.\n\nNext day the clothes I had ordered all came home, and he put them on.\nWhatever he put on, became him less (it dismally seemed to me) than\nwhat he had worn before. To my thinking, there was something in him\nthat made it hopeless to attempt to disguise him. The more I dressed\nhim and the better I dressed him, the more he looked like the slouching\nfugitive on the marshes. This effect on my anxious fancy was partly\nreferable, no doubt, to his old face and manner growing more familiar\nto me; but I believe too that he dragged one of his legs as if there\nwere still a weight of iron on it, and that from head to foot there was\nConvict in the very grain of the man.\n\nThe influences of his solitary hut-life were upon him besides, and gave\nhim a savage air that no dress could tame; added to these were the\ninfluences of his subsequent branded life among men, and, crowning all,\nhis consciousness that he was dodging and hiding now. In all his ways\nof sitting and standing, and eating and drinking, of brooding about in\na high-shouldered reluctant style, of taking out his great horn-handled\njackknife and wiping it on his legs and cutting his food, of lifting\nlight glasses and cups to his lips, as if they were clumsy\npannikins, of chopping a wedge off his bread, and soaking up with it\nthe last fragments of gravy round and round his plate, as if to make\nthe most of an allowance, and then drying his finger-ends on it, and\nthen swallowing it, in these ways and a thousand other small nameless\ninstances arising every minute in the day, there was Prisoner, Felon,\nBondsman, plain as plain could be.\n\nIt had been his own idea to wear that touch of powder, and I had\nconceded the powder after overcoming the shorts. But I can compare the\neffect of it, when on, to nothing but the probable effect of rouge upon\nthe dead; so awful was the manner in which everything in him that it\nwas most desirable to repress, started through that thin layer of\npretence, and seemed to come blazing out at the crown of his head. It\nwas abandoned as soon as tried, and he wore his grizzled hair cut\nshort.\n\nWords cannot tell what a sense I had, at the same time, of the dreadful\nmystery that he was to me. When he fell asleep of an evening, with his\nknotted hands clenching the sides of the easy-chair, and his bald head\ntattooed with deep wrinkles falling forward on his breast, I would sit\nand look at him, wondering what he had done, and loading him with all\nthe crimes in the Calendar, until the impulse was powerful on me to\nstart up and fly from him. Every hour so increased my abhorrence of\nhim, that I even think I might have yielded to this impulse in the\nfirst agonies of being so haunted, notwithstanding all he had done for\nme and the risk he ran, but for the knowledge that Herbert must soon\ncome back. Once, I actually did start out of bed in the night, and\nbegin to dress myself in my worst clothes, hurriedly intending to leave\nhim there with everything else I possessed, and enlist for India as a\nprivate soldier.\n\nI doubt if a ghost could have been more terrible to me, up in those\nlonely rooms in the long evenings and long nights, with the wind and\nthe rain always rushing by. A ghost could not have been taken and\nhanged on my account, and the consideration that he could be, and the\ndread that he would be, were no small addition to my horrors. When he\nwas not asleep, or playing a complicated kind of Patience with a ragged\npack of cards of his own, a game that I never saw before or since, and\nin which he recorded his winnings by sticking his jackknife into the\ntable, when he was not engaged in either of these pursuits, he would\nask me to read to him, Foreign language, dear boy!  While I complied,\nhe, not comprehending a single word, would stand before the fire\nsurveying me with the air of an Exhibitor, and I would see him, between\nthe fingers of the hand with which I shaded my face, appealing in dumb\nshow to the furniture to take notice of my proficiency. The imaginary\nstudent pursued by the misshapen creature he had impiously made, was\nnot more wretched than I, pursued by the creature who had made me, and\nrecoiling from him with a stronger repulsion, the more he admired me\nand the fonder he was of me.\n\nThis is written of, I am sensible, as if it had lasted a year. It\nlasted about five days. Expecting Herbert all the time, I dared not go\nout, except when I took Provis for an airing after dark. At length, one\nevening when dinner was over and I had dropped into a slumber quite\nworn out, for my nights had been agitated and my rest broken by fearful\ndreams, I was roused by the welcome footstep on the staircase. Provis,\nwho had been asleep too, staggered up at the noise I made, and in an\ninstant I saw his jackknife shining in his hand.\n\n Quiet! It s Herbert!  I said; and Herbert came bursting in, with the\nairy freshness of six hundred miles of France upon him.\n\n Handel, my dear fellow, how are you, and again how are you, and again\nhow are you? I seem to have been gone a twelvemonth! Why, so I must\nhave been, for you have grown quite thin and pale! Handel, my Halloa! I\nbeg your pardon. \n\nHe was stopped in his running on and in his shaking hands with me, by\nseeing Provis. Provis, regarding him with a fixed attention, was slowly\nputting up his jackknife, and groping in another pocket for something\nelse.\n\n Herbert, my dear friend,  said I, shutting the double doors, while\nHerbert stood staring and wondering,  something very strange has\nhappened. This is a visitor of mine. \n\n It s all right, dear boy!  said Provis coming forward, with his little\nclasped black book, and then addressing himself to Herbert.  Take it in\nyour right hand. Lord strike you dead on the spot, if ever you split in\nany way sumever! Kiss it! \n\n Do so, as he wishes it,  I said to Herbert. So, Herbert, looking at me\nwith a friendly uneasiness and amazement, complied, and Provis\nimmediately shaking hands with him, said,  Now you re on your oath, you\nknow. And never believe me on mine, if Pip shan t make a gentleman on\nyou! \n\n\n\n\nChapter XLI.\n\n\nIn vain should I attempt to describe the astonishment and disquiet of\nHerbert, when he and I and Provis sat down before the fire, and I\nrecounted the whole of the secret. Enough, that I saw my own feelings\nreflected in Herbert s face, and not least among them, my repugnance\ntowards the man who had done so much for me.\n\nWhat would alone have set a division between that man and us, if there\nhad been no other dividing circumstance, was his triumph in my story.\nSaving his troublesome sense of having been  low  on one occasion since\nhis return, on which point he began to hold forth to Herbert, the\nmoment my revelation was finished, he had no perception of the\npossibility of my finding any fault with my good fortune. His boast\nthat he had made me a gentleman, and that he had come to see me support\nthe character on his ample resources, was made for me quite as much as\nfor himself. And that it was a highly agreeable boast to both of us,\nand that we must both be very proud of it, was a conclusion quite\nestablished in his own mind.\n\n Though, look ee here, Pip s comrade,  he said to Herbert, after having\ndiscoursed for some time,  I know very well that once since I come\nback for half a minute I ve been low. I said to Pip, I knowed as I had\nbeen low. But don t you fret yourself on that score. I ain t made Pip a\ngentleman, and Pip ain t a-going to make you a gentleman, not fur me\nnot to know what s due to ye both. Dear boy, and Pip s comrade, you two\nmay count upon me always having a genteel muzzle on. Muzzled I have\nbeen since that half a minute when I was betrayed into lowness, muzzled\nI am at the present time, muzzled I ever will be. \n\nHerbert said,  Certainly,  but looked as if there were no specific\nconsolation in this, and remained perplexed and dismayed. We were\nanxious for the time when he would go to his lodging and leave us\ntogether, but he was evidently jealous of leaving us together, and sat\nlate. It was midnight before I took him round to Essex Street, and saw\nhim safely in at his own dark door. When it closed upon him, I\nexperienced the first moment of relief I had known since the night of\nhis arrival.\n\nNever quite free from an uneasy remembrance of the man on the stairs, I\nhad always looked about me in taking my guest out after dark, and in\nbringing him back; and I looked about me now. Difficult as it is in a\nlarge city to avoid the suspicion of being watched, when the mind is\nconscious of danger in that regard, I could not persuade myself that\nany of the people within sight cared about my movements. The few who\nwere passing passed on their several ways, and the street was empty\nwhen I turned back into the Temple. Nobody had come out at the gate\nwith us, nobody went in at the gate with me. As I crossed by the\nfountain, I saw his lighted back windows looking bright and quiet, and,\nwhen I stood for a few moments in the doorway of the building where I\nlived, before going up the stairs, Garden Court was as still and\nlifeless as the staircase was when I ascended it.\n\nHerbert received me with open arms, and I had never felt before so\nblessedly what it is to have a friend. When he had spoken some sound\nwords of sympathy and encouragement, we sat down to consider the\nquestion, What was to be done?\n\nThe chair that Provis had occupied still remaining where it had\nstood, for he had a barrack way with him of hanging about one spot, in\none unsettled manner, and going through one round of observances with\nhis pipe and his negro-head and his jackknife and his pack of cards,\nand what not, as if it were all put down for him on a slate, I say his\nchair remaining where it had stood, Herbert unconsciously took it, but\nnext moment started out of it, pushed it away, and took another. He had\nno occasion to say after that that he had conceived an aversion for my\npatron, neither had I occasion to confess my own. We interchanged that\nconfidence without shaping a syllable.\n\n What,  said I to Herbert, when he was safe in another chair, what is\nto be done? \n\n My poor dear Handel,  he replied, holding his head,  I am too stunned\nto think. \n\n So was I, Herbert, when the blow first fell. Still, something must be\ndone. He is intent upon various new expenses, horses, and carriages,\nand lavish appearances of all kinds. He must be stopped somehow. \n\n You mean that you can t accept \n\n How can I?  I interposed, as Herbert paused.  Think of him! Look at\nhim! \n\nAn involuntary shudder passed over both of us.\n\n Yet I am afraid the dreadful truth is, Herbert, that he is attached to\nme, strongly attached to me. Was there ever such a fate! \n\n My poor dear Handel,  Herbert repeated.\n\n Then,  said I,  after all, stopping short here, never taking another\npenny from him, think what I owe him already! Then again: I am heavily\nin debt, very heavily for me, who have now no expectations, and I have\nbeen bred to no calling, and I am fit for nothing. \n\n Well, well, well!  Herbert remonstrated.  Don t say fit for nothing. \n\n What am I fit for? I know only one thing that I am fit for, and that\nis, to go for a soldier. And I might have gone, my dear Herbert, but\nfor the prospect of taking counsel with your friendship and affection. \n\nOf course I broke down there: and of course Herbert, beyond seizing a\nwarm grip of my hand, pretended not to know it.\n\n Anyhow, my dear Handel,  said he presently,  soldiering won t do. If\nyou were to renounce this patronage and these favours, I suppose you\nwould do so with some faint hope of one day repaying what you have\nalready had. Not very strong, that hope, if you went soldiering!\nBesides, it s absurd. You would be infinitely better in Clarriker s\nhouse, small as it is. I am working up towards a partnership, you\nknow. \n\nPoor fellow! He little suspected with whose money.\n\n But there is another question,  said Herbert.  This is an ignorant,\ndetermined man, who has long had one fixed idea. More than that, he\nseems to me (I may misjudge him) to be a man of a desperate and fierce\ncharacter. \n\n I know he is,  I returned.  Let me tell you what evidence I have seen\nof it.  And I told him what I had not mentioned in my narrative, of\nthat encounter with the other convict.\n\n See, then,  said Herbert;  think of this! He comes here at the peril\nof his life, for the realisation of his fixed idea. In the moment of\nrealisation, after all his toil and waiting, you cut the ground from\nunder his feet, destroy his idea, and make his gains worthless to him.\nDo you see nothing that he might do, under the disappointment? \n\n I have seen it, Herbert, and dreamed of it, ever since the fatal night\nof his arrival. Nothing has been in my thoughts so distinctly as his\nputting himself in the way of being taken. \n\n Then you may rely upon it,  said Herbert,  that there would be great\ndanger of his doing it. That is his power over you as long as he\nremains in England, and that would be his reckless course if you\nforsook him. \n\nI was so struck by the horror of this idea, which had weighed upon me\nfrom the first, and the working out of which would make me regard\nmyself, in some sort, as his murderer, that I could not rest in my\nchair, but began pacing to and fro. I said to Herbert, meanwhile, that\neven if Provis were recognised and taken, in spite of himself, I should\nbe wretched as the cause, however innocently. Yes; even though I was so\nwretched in having him at large and near me, and even though I would\nfar rather have worked at the forge all the days of my life than I\nwould ever have come to this!\n\nBut there was no staving off the question, What was to be done?\n\n The first and the main thing to be done,  said Herbert,  is to get him\nout of England. You will have to go with him, and then he may be\ninduced to go. \n\n But get him where I will, could I prevent his coming back? \n\n My good Handel, is it not obvious that with Newgate in the next\nstreet, there must be far greater hazard in your breaking your mind to\nhim and making him reckless, here, than elsewhere? If a pretext to get\nhim away could be made out of that other convict, or out of anything\nelse in his life, now. \n\n There, again!  said I, stopping before Herbert, with my open hands\nheld out, as if they contained the desperation of the case.  I know\nnothing of his life. It has almost made me mad to sit here of a night\nand see him before me, so bound up with my fortunes and misfortunes,\nand yet so unknown to me, except as the miserable wretch who terrified\nme two days in my childhood! \n\nHerbert got up, and linked his arm in mine, and we slowly walked to and\nfro together, studying the carpet.\n\n Handel,  said Herbert, stopping,  you feel convinced that you can take\nno further benefits from him; do you? \n\n Fully. Surely you would, too, if you were in my place? \n\n And you feel convinced that you must break with him? \n\n Herbert, can you ask me? \n\n And you have, and are bound to have, that tenderness for the life he\nhas risked on your account, that you must save him, if possible, from\nthrowing it away. Then you must get him out of England before you stir\na finger to extricate yourself. That done, extricate yourself, in\nHeaven s name, and we ll see it out together, dear old boy. \n\nIt was a comfort to shake hands upon it, and walk up and down again,\nwith only that done.\n\n Now, Herbert,  said I,  with reference to gaining some knowledge of\nhis history. There is but one way that I know of. I must ask him point\nblank. \n\n Yes. Ask him,  said Herbert,  when we sit at breakfast in the\nmorning.  For he had said, on taking leave of Herbert, that he would\ncome to breakfast with us.\n\nWith this project formed, we went to bed. I had the wildest dreams\nconcerning him, and woke unrefreshed; I woke, too, to recover the fear\nwhich I had lost in the night, of his being found out as a returned\ntransport. Waking, I never lost that fear.\n\nHe came round at the appointed time, took out his jackknife, and sat\ndown to his meal. He was full of plans  for his gentleman s coming out\nstrong, and like a gentleman,  and urged me to begin speedily upon the\npocket-book which he had left in my possession. He considered the\nchambers and his own lodging as temporary residences, and advised me to\nlook out at once for a  fashionable crib  near Hyde Park, in which he\ncould have  a shake-down.  When he had made an end of his breakfast,\nand was wiping his knife on his leg, I said to him, without a word of\npreface, \n\n After you were gone last night, I told my friend of the struggle that\nthe soldiers found you engaged in on the marshes, when we came up. You\nremember? \n\n Remember!  said he.  I think so! \n\n We want to know something about that man and about you. It is strange\nto know no more about either, and particularly you, than I was able to\ntell last night. Is not this as good a time as another for our knowing\nmore? \n\n Well!  he said, after consideration.  You re on your oath, you know,\nPip s comrade? \n\n Assuredly,  replied Herbert.\n\n As to anything I say, you know,  he insisted.  The oath applies to\nall. \n\n I understand it to do so. \n\n And look ee here! Wotever I done is worked out and paid for,  he\ninsisted again.\n\n So be it. \n\nHe took out his black pipe and was going to fill it with negro-head,\nwhen, looking at the tangle of tobacco in his hand, he seemed to think\nit might perplex the thread of his narrative. He put it back again,\nstuck his pipe in a button-hole of his coat, spread a hand on each\nknee, and after turning an angry eye on the fire for a few silent\nmoments, looked round at us and said what follows.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XLII.\n\n\n Dear boy and Pip s comrade. I am not a-going fur to tell you my life\nlike a song, or a story-book. But to give it you short and handy, I ll\nput it at once into a mouthful of English. In jail and out of jail, in\njail and out of jail, in jail and out of jail. There, you ve got it.\nThat s _my_ life pretty much, down to such times as I got shipped off,\narter Pip stood my friend.\n\n I ve been done everything to, pretty well except hanged. I ve been\nlocked up as much as a silver tea-kittle. I ve been carted here and\ncarted there, and put out of this town, and put out of that town, and\nstuck in the stocks, and whipped and worried and drove. I ve no more\nnotion where I was born than you have if so much. I first become aware\nof myself down in Essex, a thieving turnips for my living. Summun had\nrun away from me a man a tinker and he d took the fire with him, and\nleft me wery cold.\n\n I know d my name to be Magwitch, chrisen d Abel. How did I know it?\nMuch as I know d the birds  names in the hedges to be chaffinch,\nsparrer, thrush. I might have thought it was all lies together, only as\nthe birds  names come out true, I supposed mine did.\n\n So fur as I could find, there warn t a soul that see young Abel\nMagwitch, with us little on him as in him, but wot caught fright at\nhim, and either drove him off, or took him up. I was took up, took up,\ntook up, to that extent that I reg larly grow d up took up.\n\n This is the way it was, that when I was a ragged little creetur as\nmuch to be pitied as ever I see (not that I looked in the glass, for\nthere warn t many insides of furnished houses known to me), I got the\nname of being hardened.  This is a terrible hardened one,  they says to\nprison wisitors, picking out me.  May be said to live in jails, this\nboy.  Then they looked at me, and I looked at them, and they measured\nmy head, some on  em, they had better a measured my stomach, and others\non  em giv me tracts what I couldn t read, and made me speeches what I\ncouldn t understand. They always went on agen me about the Devil. But\nwhat the Devil was I to do? I must put something into my stomach,\nmustn t I? Howsomever, I m a getting low, and I know what s due. Dear\nboy and Pip s comrade, don t you be afeerd of me being low.\n\n Tramping, begging, thieving, working sometimes when I could, though\nthat warn t as often as you may think, till you put the question\nwhether you would ha  been over-ready to give me work yourselves, a bit\nof a poacher, a bit of a labourer, a bit of a wagoner, a bit of a\nhaymaker, a bit of a hawker, a bit of most things that don t pay and\nlead to trouble, I got to be a man. A deserting soldier in a\nTraveller s Rest, what lay hid up to the chin under a lot of taturs,\nlearnt me to read; and a travelling Giant what signed his name at a\npenny a time learnt me to write. I warn t locked up as often now as\nformerly, but I wore out my good share of key-metal still.\n\n At Epsom races, a matter of over twenty years ago, I got acquainted\nwi  a man whose skull I d crack wi  this poker, like the claw of a\nlobster, if I d got it on this hob. His right name was Compeyson; and\nthat s the man, dear boy, what you see me a pounding in the ditch,\naccording to what you truly told your comrade arter I was gone last\nnight.\n\n He set up fur a gentleman, this Compeyson, and he d been to a public\nboarding-school and had learning. He was a smooth one to talk, and was\na dab at the ways of gentlefolks. He was good-looking too. It was the\nnight afore the great race, when I found him on the heath, in a booth\nthat I know d on. Him and some more was a sitting among the tables when\nI went in, and the landlord (which had a knowledge of me, and was a\nsporting one) called him out, and said,  I think this is a man that\nmight suit you, meaning I was.\n\n Compeyson, he looks at me very noticing, and I look at him. He has a\nwatch and a chain and a ring and a breast-pin and a handsome suit of\nclothes.\n\n To judge from appearances, you re out of luck,  says Compeyson to me.\n\n Yes, master, and I ve never been in it much.  (I had come out of\nKingston Jail last on a vagrancy committal. Not but what it might have\nbeen for something else; but it warn t.)\n\n Luck changes,  says Compeyson;  perhaps yours is going to change. \n\n I says,  I hope it may be so. There s room. \n\n What can you do?  says Compeyson.\n\n Eat and drink,  I says;  if you ll find the materials. \n\n Compeyson laughed, looked at me again very noticing, giv me five\nshillings, and appointed me for next night. Same place.\n\n I went to Compeyson next night, same place, and Compeyson took me on\nto be his man and pardner. And what was Compeyson s business in which\nwe was to go pardners? Compeyson s business was the swindling,\nhandwriting forging, stolen bank-note passing, and such-like. All sorts\nof traps as Compeyson could set with his head, and keep his own legs\nout of and get the profits from and let another man in for, was\nCompeyson s business. He d no more heart than a iron file, he was as\ncold as death, and he had the head of the Devil afore mentioned.\n\n There was another in with Compeyson, as was called Arthur, not as\nbeing so chrisen d, but as a surname. He was in a Decline, and was a\nshadow to look at. Him and Compeyson had been in a bad thing with a\nrich lady some years afore, and they d made a pot of money by it; but\nCompeyson betted and gamed, and he d have run through the king s taxes.\nSo, Arthur was a dying, and a dying poor and with the horrors on him,\nand Compeyson s wife (which Compeyson kicked mostly) was a having pity\non him when she could, and Compeyson was a having pity on nothing and\nnobody.\n\n I might a took warning by Arthur, but I didn t; and I won t pretend I\nwas partick ler for where  ud be the good on it, dear boy and comrade?\nSo I begun wi  Compeyson, and a poor tool I was in his hands. Arthur\nlived at the top of Compeyson s house (over nigh Brentford it was), and\nCompeyson kept a careful account agen him for board and lodging, in\ncase he should ever get better to work it out. But Arthur soon settled\nthe account. The second or third time as ever I see him, he come a\ntearing down into Compeyson s parlour late at night, in only a flannel\ngown, with his hair all in a sweat, and he says to Compeyson s wife,\n Sally, she really is upstairs alonger me, now, and I can t get rid of\nher. She s all in white,  he says,  wi  white flowers in her hair, and\nshe s awful mad, and she s got a shroud hanging over her arm, and she\nsays she ll put it on me at five in the morning. \n\n Says Compeyson:  Why, you fool, don t you know she s got a living\nbody? And how should she be up there, without coming through the door,\nor in at the window, and up the stairs? \n\n I don t know how she s there,  says Arthur, shivering dreadful with\nthe horrors,  but she s standing in the corner at the foot of the bed,\nawful mad. And over where her heart s broke _you_ broke it! there s\ndrops of blood. \n\n Compeyson spoke hardy, but he was always a coward.  Go up alonger this\ndrivelling sick man,  he says to his wife,  and Magwitch, lend her a\nhand, will you?  But he never come nigh himself.\n\n Compeyson s wife and me took him up to bed agen, and he raved most\ndreadful.  Why look at her!  he cries out.  She s a shaking the shroud\nat me! Don t you see her? Look at her eyes! Ain t it awful to see her\nso mad?  Next he cries,  She ll put it on me, and then I m done for!\nTake it away from her, take it away!  And then he catched hold of us,\nand kep on a talking to her, and answering of her, till I half believed\nI see her myself.\n\n Compeyson s wife, being used to him, giv him some liquor to get the\nhorrors off, and by and by he quieted.  O, she s gone! Has her keeper\nbeen for her?  he says.  Yes,  says Compeyson s wife.  Did you tell him\nto lock her and bar her in?   Yes.   And to take that ugly thing away\nfrom her?   Yes, yes, all right.   You re a good creetur,  he says,\n don t leave me, whatever you do, and thank you! \n\n He rested pretty quiet till it might want a few minutes of five, and\nthen he starts up with a scream, and screams out,  Here she is! She s\ngot the shroud again. She s unfolding it. She s coming out of the\ncorner. She s coming to the bed. Hold me, both on you one of each\nside don t let her touch me with it. Hah! she missed me that time.\nDon t let her throw it over my shoulders. Don t let her lift me up to\nget it round me. She s lifting me up. Keep me down!  Then he lifted\nhimself up hard, and was dead.\n\n Compeyson took it easy as a good riddance for both sides. Him and me\nwas soon busy, and first he swore me (being ever artful) on my own\nbook, this here little black book, dear boy, what I swore your comrade\non.\n\n Not to go into the things that Compeyson planned, and I done which  ud\ntake a week I ll simply say to you, dear boy, and Pip s comrade, that\nthat man got me into such nets as made me his black slave. I was always\nin debt to him, always under his thumb, always a working, always a\ngetting into danger. He was younger than me, but he d got craft, and\nhe d got learning, and he overmatched me five hundred times told and no\nmercy. My Missis as I had the hard time wi Stop though! I ain t\nbrought _her_ in \n\nHe looked about him in a confused way, as if he had lost his place in\nthe book of his remembrance; and he turned his face to the fire, and\nspread his hands broader on his knees, and lifted them off and put them\non again.\n\n There ain t no need to go into it,  he said, looking round once more.\n The time wi  Compeyson was a most as hard a time as ever I had; that\nsaid, all s said. Did I tell you as I was tried, alone, for\nmisdemeanor, while with Compeyson? \n\nI answered, No.\n\n Well!  he said,  I _was_, and got convicted. As to took up on\nsuspicion, that was twice or three times in the four or five year that\nit lasted; but evidence was wanting. At last, me and Compeyson was both\ncommitted for felony, on a charge of putting stolen notes in\ncirculation, and there was other charges behind. Compeyson says to me,\n Separate defences, no communication,  and that was all. And I was so\nmiserable poor, that I sold all the clothes I had, except what hung on\nmy back, afore I could get Jaggers.\n\n When we was put in the dock, I noticed first of all what a gentleman\nCompeyson looked, wi  his curly hair and his black clothes and his\nwhite pocket-handkercher, and what a common sort of a wretch I looked.\nWhen the prosecution opened and the evidence was put short, aforehand,\nI noticed how heavy it all bore on me, and how light on him. When the\nevidence was giv in the box, I noticed how it was always me that had\ncome for ard, and could be swore to, how it was always me that the\nmoney had been paid to, how it was always me that had seemed to work\nthe thing and get the profit. But when the defence come on, then I see\nthe plan plainer; for, says the counsellor for Compeyson,  My lord and\ngentlemen, here you has afore you, side by side, two persons as your\neyes can separate wide; one, the younger, well brought up, who will be\nspoke to as such; one, the elder, ill brought up, who will be spoke to\nas such; one, the younger, seldom if ever seen in these here\ntransactions, and only suspected; t other, the elder, always seen in\n em and always wi  his guilt brought home. Can you doubt, if there is\nbut one in it, which is the one, and, if there is two in it, which is\nmuch the worst one?  And such-like. And when it come to character,\nwarn t it Compeyson as had been to the school, and warn t it his\nschoolfellows as was in this position and in that, and warn t it him as\nhad been know d by witnesses in such clubs and societies, and nowt to\nhis disadvantage? And warn t it me as had been tried afore, and as had\nbeen know d up hill and down dale in Bridewells and Lock-Ups! And when\nit come to speech-making, warn t it Compeyson as could speak to  em wi \nhis face dropping every now and then into his white\npocket-handkercher, ah! and wi  verses in his speech, too, and warn t\nit me as could only say,  Gentlemen, this man at my side is a most\nprecious rascal ? And when the verdict come, warn t it Compeyson as was\nrecommended to mercy on account of good character and bad company, and\ngiving up all the information he could agen me, and warn t it me as got\nnever a word but Guilty? And when I says to Compeyson,  Once out of\nthis court, I ll smash that face of yourn!  ain t it Compeyson as prays\nthe Judge to be protected, and gets two turnkeys stood betwixt us? And\nwhen we re sentenced, ain t it him as gets seven year, and me fourteen,\nand ain t it him as the Judge is sorry for, because he might a done so\nwell, and ain t it me as the Judge perceives to be a old offender of\nwiolent passion, likely to come to worse? \n\nHe had worked himself into a state of great excitement, but he checked\nit, took two or three short breaths, swallowed as often, and stretching\nout his hand towards me said, in a reassuring manner,  I ain t a-going\nto be low, dear boy! \n\nHe had so heated himself that he took out his handkerchief and wiped\nhis face and head and neck and hands, before he could go on.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n I had said to Compeyson that I d smash that face of his, and I swore\nLord smash mine! to do it. We was in the same prison-ship, but I\ncouldn t get at him for long, though I tried. At last I come behind him\nand hit him on the cheek to turn him round and get a smashing one at\nhim, when I was seen and seized. The black-hole of that ship warn t a\nstrong one, to a judge of black-holes that could swim and dive. I\nescaped to the shore, and I was a hiding among the graves there,\nenvying them as was in  em and all over, when I first see my boy! \n\nHe regarded me with a look of affection that made him almost abhorrent\nto me again, though I had felt great pity for him.\n\n By my boy, I was giv to understand as Compeyson was out on them\nmarshes too. Upon my soul, I half believe he escaped in his terror, to\nget quit of me, not knowing it was me as had got ashore. I hunted him\ndown. I smashed his face.  And now,  says I  as the worst thing I can\ndo, caring nothing for myself, I ll drag you back.  And I d have swum\noff, towing him by the hair, if it had come to that, and I d a got him\naboard without the soldiers.\n\n Of course he d much the best of it to the last, his character was so\ngood. He had escaped when he was made half wild by me and my murderous\nintentions; and his punishment was light. I was put in irons, brought\nto trial again, and sent for life. I didn t stop for life, dear boy and\nPip s comrade, being here. \n\nHe wiped himself again, as he had done before, and then slowly took his\ntangle of tobacco from his pocket, and plucked his pipe from his\nbutton-hole, and slowly filled it, and began to smoke.\n\n Is he dead?  I asked, after a silence.\n\n Is who dead, dear boy? \n\n Compeyson. \n\n He hopes _I_ am, if he s alive, you may be sure,  with a fierce look.\n I never heerd no more of him. \n\nHerbert had been writing with his pencil in the cover of a book. He\nsoftly pushed the book over to me, as Provis stood smoking with his\neyes on the fire, and I read in it: \n\n Young Havisham s name was Arthur. Compeyson is the man who professed\nto be Miss Havisham s lover. \n\nI shut the book and nodded slightly to Herbert, and put the book by;\nbut we neither of us said anything, and both looked at Provis as he\nstood smoking by the fire.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XLIII.\n\n\nWhy should I pause to ask how much of my shrinking from Provis might be\ntraced to Estella? Why should I loiter on my road, to compare the state\nof mind in which I had tried to rid myself of the stain of the prison\nbefore meeting her at the coach-office, with the state of mind in which\nI now reflected on the abyss between Estella in her pride and beauty,\nand the returned transport whom I harboured? The road would be none the\nsmoother for it, the end would be none the better for it, he would not\nbe helped, nor I extenuated.\n\nA new fear had been engendered in my mind by his narrative; or rather,\nhis narrative had given form and purpose to the fear that was already\nthere. If Compeyson were alive and should discover his return, I could\nhardly doubt the consequence. That Compeyson stood in mortal fear of\nhim, neither of the two could know much better than I; and that any\nsuch man as that man had been described to be would hesitate to release\nhimself for good from a dreaded enemy by the safe means of becoming an\ninformer was scarcely to be imagined.\n\nNever had I breathed, and never would I breathe or so I resolved a word\nof Estella to Provis. But, I said to Herbert that, before I could go\nabroad, I must see both Estella and Miss Havisham. This was when we\nwere left alone on the night of the day when Provis told us his story.\nI resolved to go out to Richmond next day, and I went.\n\nOn my presenting myself at Mrs. Brandley s, Estella s maid was called\nto tell that Estella had gone into the country. Where? To Satis House,\nas usual. Not as usual, I said, for she had never yet gone there\nwithout me; when was she coming back? There was an air of reservation\nin the answer which increased my perplexity, and the answer was, that\nher maid believed she was only coming back at all for a little while. I\ncould make nothing of this, except that it was meant that I should make\nnothing of it, and I went home again in complete discomfiture.\n\nAnother night consultation with Herbert after Provis was gone home (I\nalways took him home, and always looked well about me), led us to the\nconclusion that nothing should be said about going abroad until I came\nback from Miss Havisham s. In the mean time, Herbert and I were to\nconsider separately what it would be best to say; whether we should\ndevise any pretence of being afraid that he was under suspicious\nobservation; or whether I, who had never yet been abroad, should\npropose an expedition. We both knew that I had but to propose anything,\nand he would consent. We agreed that his remaining many days in his\npresent hazard was not to be thought of.\n\nNext day I had the meanness to feign that I was under a binding promise\nto go down to Joe; but I was capable of almost any meanness towards Joe\nor his name. Provis was to be strictly careful while I was gone, and\nHerbert was to take the charge of him that I had taken. I was to be\nabsent only one night, and, on my return, the gratification of his\nimpatience for my starting as a gentleman on a greater scale was to be\nbegun. It occurred to me then, and as I afterwards found to Herbert\nalso, that he might be best got away across the water, on that\npretence, as, to make purchases, or the like.\n\nHaving thus cleared the way for my expedition to Miss Havisham s, I set\noff by the early morning coach before it was yet light, and was out on\nthe open country road when the day came creeping on, halting and\nwhimpering and shivering, and wrapped in patches of cloud and rags of\nmist, like a beggar. When we drove up to the Blue Boar after a drizzly\nride, whom should I see come out under the gateway, toothpick in hand,\nto look at the coach, but Bentley Drummle!\n\nAs he pretended not to see me, I pretended not to see him. It was a\nvery lame pretence on both sides; the lamer, because we both went into\nthe coffee-room, where he had just finished his breakfast, and where I\nordered mine. It was poisonous to me to see him in the town, for I very\nwell knew why he had come there.\n\nPretending to read a smeary newspaper long out of date, which had\nnothing half so legible in its local news, as the foreign matter of\ncoffee, pickles, fish sauces, gravy, melted butter, and wine with which\nit was sprinkled all over, as if it had taken the measles in a highly\nirregular form, I sat at my table while he stood before the fire. By\ndegrees it became an enormous injury to me that he stood before the\nfire. And I got up, determined to have my share of it. I had to put my\nhand behind his legs for the poker when I went up to the fireplace to\nstir the fire, but still pretended not to know him.\n\n Is this a cut?  said Mr. Drummle.\n\n Oh!  said I, poker in hand;  it s you, is it? How do you do? I was\nwondering who it was, who kept the fire off. \n\nWith that, I poked tremendously, and having done so, planted myself\nside by side with Mr. Drummle, my shoulders squared and my back to the\nfire.\n\n You have just come down?  said Mr. Drummle, edging me a little away\nwith his shoulder.\n\n Yes,  said I, edging _him_ a little away with _my_ shoulder.\n\n Beastly place,  said Drummle.  Your part of the country, I think? \n\n Yes,  I assented.  I am told it s very like your Shropshire. \n\n Not in the least like it,  said Drummle.\n\nHere Mr. Drummle looked at his boots and I looked at mine, and then Mr.\nDrummle looked at my boots, and I looked at his.\n\n Have you been here long?  I asked, determined not to yield an inch of\nthe fire.\n\n Long enough to be tired of it,  returned Drummle, pretending to yawn,\nbut equally determined.\n\n Do you stay here long? \n\n Can t say,  answered Mr. Drummle.  Do you? \n\n Can t say,  said I.\n\nI felt here, through a tingling in my blood, that if Mr. Drummle s\nshoulder had claimed another hair s breadth of room, I should have\njerked him into the window; equally, that if my own shoulder had urged\na similar claim, Mr. Drummle would have jerked me into the nearest box.\nHe whistled a little. So did I.\n\n Large tract of marshes about here, I believe?  said Drummle.\n\n Yes. What of that?  said I.\n\nMr. Drummle looked at me, and then at my boots, and then said,  Oh! \nand laughed.\n\n Are you amused, Mr. Drummle? \n\n No,  said he,  not particularly. I am going out for a ride in the\nsaddle. I mean to explore those marshes for amusement. Out-of-the-way\nvillages there, they tell me. Curious little public-houses and\nsmithies and that. Waiter! \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n Is that horse of mine ready? \n\n Brought round to the door, sir. \n\n I say. Look here, you sir. The lady won t ride to-day; the weather\nwon t do. \n\n Very good, sir. \n\n And I don t dine, because I m going to dine at the lady s. \n\n Very good, sir. \n\nThen, Drummle glanced at me, with an insolent triumph on his\ngreat-jowled face that cut me to the heart, dull as he was, and so\nexasperated me, that I felt inclined to take him in my arms (as the\nrobber in the story-book is said to have taken the old lady) and seat\nhim on the fire.\n\nOne thing was manifest to both of us, and that was, that until relief\ncame, neither of us could relinquish the fire. There we stood, well\nsquared up before it, shoulder to shoulder and foot to foot, with our\nhands behind us, not budging an inch. The horse was visible outside in\nthe drizzle at the door, my breakfast was put on the table, Drummle s\nwas cleared away, the waiter invited me to begin, I nodded, we both\nstood our ground.\n\n Have you been to the Grove since?  said Drummle.\n\n No,  said I,  I had quite enough of the Finches the last time I was\nthere. \n\n Was that when we had a difference of opinion? \n\n Yes,  I replied, very shortly.\n\n Come, come! They let you off easily enough,  sneered Drummle.  You\nshouldn t have lost your temper. \n\n Mr. Drummle,  said I,  you are not competent to give advice on that\nsubject. When I lose my temper (not that I admit having done so on that\noccasion), I don t throw glasses. \n\n I do,  said Drummle.\n\nAfter glancing at him once or twice, in an increased state of\nsmouldering ferocity, I said, \n\n Mr. Drummle, I did not seek this conversation, and I don t think it an\nagreeable one. \n\n I am sure it s not,  said he, superciliously over his shoulder;  I\ndon t think anything about it. \n\n And therefore,  I went on,  with your leave, I will suggest that we\nhold no kind of communication in future. \n\n Quite my opinion,  said Drummle,  and what I should have suggested\nmyself, or done more likely without suggesting. But don t lose your\ntemper. Haven t you lost enough without that? \n\n What do you mean, sir? \n\n Waiter!  said Drummle, by way of answering me.\n\nThe waiter reappeared.\n\n Look here, you sir. You quite understand that the young lady don t\nride to-day, and that I dine at the young lady s? \n\n Quite so, sir! \n\nWhen the waiter had felt my fast-cooling teapot with the palm of his\nhand, and had looked imploringly at me, and had gone out, Drummle,\ncareful not to move the shoulder next me, took a cigar from his pocket\nand bit the end off, but showed no sign of stirring. Choking and\nboiling as I was, I felt that we could not go a word further, without\nintroducing Estella s name, which I could not endure to hear him utter;\nand therefore I looked stonily at the opposite wall, as if there were\nno one present, and forced myself to silence. How long we might have\nremained in this ridiculous position it is impossible to say, but for\nthe incursion of three thriving farmers laid on by the waiter, I\nthink who came into the coffee-room unbuttoning their great-coats and\nrubbing their hands, and before whom, as they charged at the fire, we\nwere obliged to give way.\n\nI saw him through the window, seizing his horse s mane, and mounting in\nhis blundering brutal manner, and sidling and backing away. I thought\nhe was gone, when he came back, calling for a light for the cigar in\nhis mouth, which he had forgotten. A man in a dust-coloured dress\nappeared with what was wanted, I could not have said from where:\nwhether from the inn yard, or the street, or where not, and as Drummle\nleaned down from the saddle and lighted his cigar and laughed, with a\njerk of his head towards the coffee-room windows, the slouching\nshoulders and ragged hair of this man whose back was towards me\nreminded me of Orlick.\n\nToo heavily out of sorts to care much at the time whether it were he or\nno, or after all to touch the breakfast, I washed the weather and the\njourney from my face and hands, and went out to the memorable old house\nthat it would have been so much the better for me never to have\nentered, never to have seen.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XLIV.\n\n\nIn the room where the dressing-table stood, and where the wax-candles\nburnt on the wall, I found Miss Havisham and Estella; Miss Havisham\nseated on a settee near the fire, and Estella on a cushion at her feet.\nEstella was knitting, and Miss Havisham was looking on. They both\nraised their eyes as I went in, and both saw an alteration in me. I\nderived that, from the look they interchanged.\n\n And what wind,  said Miss Havisham,  blows you here, Pip? \n\nThough she looked steadily at me, I saw that she was rather confused.\nEstella, pausing a moment in her knitting with her eyes upon me, and\nthen going on, I fancied that I read in the action of her fingers, as\nplainly as if she had told me in the dumb alphabet, that she perceived\nI had discovered my real benefactor.\n\n Miss Havisham,  said I,  I went to Richmond yesterday, to speak to\nEstella; and finding that some wind had blown _her_ here, I followed. \n\nMiss Havisham motioning to me for the third or fourth time to sit down,\nI took the chair by the dressing-table, which I had often seen her\noccupy. With all that ruin at my feet and about me, it seemed a natural\nplace for me, that day.\n\n What I had to say to Estella, Miss Havisham, I will say before you,\npresently in a few moments. It will not surprise you, it will not\ndisplease you. I am as unhappy as you can ever have meant me to be. \n\nMiss Havisham continued to look steadily at me. I could see in the\naction of Estella s fingers as they worked that she attended to what I\nsaid; but she did not look up.\n\n I have found out who my patron is. It is not a fortunate discovery,\nand is not likely ever to enrich me in reputation, station, fortune,\nanything. There are reasons why I must say no more of that. It is not\nmy secret, but another s. \n\nAs I was silent for a while, looking at Estella and considering how to\ngo on, Miss Havisham repeated,  It is not your secret, but another s.\nWell? \n\n When you first caused me to be brought here, Miss Havisham, when I\nbelonged to the village over yonder, that I wish I had never left, I\nsuppose I did really come here, as any other chance boy might have\ncome, as a kind of servant, to gratify a want or a whim, and to be paid\nfor it? \n\n Ay, Pip,  replied Miss Havisham, steadily nodding her head;  you did. \n\n And that Mr. Jaggers \n\n Mr. Jaggers,  said Miss Havisham, taking me up in a firm tone,  had\nnothing to do with it, and knew nothing of it. His being my lawyer, and\nhis being the lawyer of your patron is a coincidence. He holds the same\nrelation towards numbers of people, and it might easily arise. Be that\nas it may, it did arise, and was not brought about by any one. \n\nAny one might have seen in her haggard face that there was no\nsuppression or evasion so far.\n\n But when I fell into the mistake I have so long remained in, at least\nyou led me on?  said I.\n\n Yes,  she returned, again nodding steadily,  I let you go on. \n\n Was that kind? \n\n Who am I,  cried Miss Havisham, striking her stick upon the floor and\nflashing into wrath so suddenly that Estella glanced up at her in\nsurprise, who am I, for God s sake, that I should be kind? \n\nIt was a weak complaint to have made, and I had not meant to make it. I\ntold her so, as she sat brooding after this outburst.\n\n Well, well, well!  she said.  What else? \n\n I was liberally paid for my old attendance here,  I said, to soothe\nher,  in being apprenticed, and I have asked these questions only for\nmy own information. What follows has another (and I hope more\ndisinterested) purpose. In humouring my mistake, Miss Havisham, you\npunished practised on perhaps you will supply whatever term expresses\nyour intention, without offence your self-seeking relations? \n\n I did. Why, they would have it so! So would you. What has been my\nhistory, that I should be at the pains of entreating either them or you\nnot to have it so! You made your own snares. _I_ never made them. \n\nWaiting until she was quiet again, for this, too, flashed out of her in\na wild and sudden way, I went on.\n\n I have been thrown among one family of your relations, Miss Havisham,\nand have been constantly among them since I went to London. I know them\nto have been as honestly under my delusion as I myself. And I should be\nfalse and base if I did not tell you, whether it is acceptable to you\nor no, and whether you are inclined to give credence to it or no, that\nyou deeply wrong both Mr. Matthew Pocket and his son Herbert, if you\nsuppose them to be otherwise than generous, upright, open, and\nincapable of anything designing or mean. \n\n They are your friends,  said Miss Havisham.\n\n They made themselves my friends,  said I,  when they supposed me to\nhave superseded them; and when Sarah Pocket, Miss Georgiana, and\nMistress Camilla were not my friends, I think. \n\nThis contrasting of them with the rest seemed, I was glad to see, to do\nthem good with her. She looked at me keenly for a little while, and\nthen said quietly, \n\n What do you want for them? \n\n Only,  said I,  that you would not confound them with the others. They\nmay be of the same blood, but, believe me, they are not of the same\nnature. \n\nStill looking at me keenly, Miss Havisham repeated, \n\n What do you want for them? \n\n I am not so cunning, you see,  I said, in answer, conscious that I\nreddened a little,  as that I could hide from you, even if I desired,\nthat I do want something. Miss Havisham, if you would spare the money\nto do my friend Herbert a lasting service in life, but which from the\nnature of the case must be done without his knowledge, I could show you\nhow. \n\n Why must it be done without his knowledge?  she asked, settling her\nhands upon her stick, that she might regard me the more attentively.\n\n Because,  said I,  I began the service myself, more than two years\nago, without his knowledge, and I don t want to be betrayed. Why I fail\nin my ability to finish it, I cannot explain. It is a part of the\nsecret which is another person s and not mine. \n\nShe gradually withdrew her eyes from me, and turned them on the fire.\nAfter watching it for what appeared in the silence and by the light of\nthe slowly wasting candles to be a long time, she was roused by the\ncollapse of some of the red coals, and looked towards me again at\nfirst, vacantly then, with a gradually concentrating attention. All\nthis time Estella knitted on. When Miss Havisham had fixed her\nattention on me, she said, speaking as if there had been no lapse in\nour dialogue, \n\n What else? \n\n Estella,  said I, turning to her now, and trying to command my\ntrembling voice,  you know I love you. You know that I have loved you\nlong and dearly. \n\nShe raised her eyes to my face, on being thus addressed, and her\nfingers plied their work, and she looked at me with an unmoved\ncountenance. I saw that Miss Havisham glanced from me to her, and from\nher to me.\n\n I should have said this sooner, but for my long mistake. It induced me\nto hope that Miss Havisham meant us for one another. While I thought\nyou could not help yourself, as it were, I refrained from saying it.\nBut I must say it now. \n\nPreserving her unmoved countenance, and with her fingers still going,\nEstella shook her head.\n\n I know,  said I, in answer to that action, I know. I have no hope\nthat I shall ever call you mine, Estella. I am ignorant what may become\nof me very soon, how poor I may be, or where I may go. Still, I love\nyou. I have loved you ever since I first saw you in this house. \n\nLooking at me perfectly unmoved and with her fingers busy, she shook\nher head again.\n\n It would have been cruel in Miss Havisham, horribly cruel, to practise\non the susceptibility of a poor boy, and to torture me through all\nthese years with a vain hope and an idle pursuit, if she had reflected\non the gravity of what she did. But I think she did not. I think that,\nin the endurance of her own trial, she forgot mine, Estella. \n\nI saw Miss Havisham put her hand to her heart and hold it there, as she\nsat looking by turns at Estella and at me.\n\n It seems,  said Estella, very calmly,  that there are sentiments,\nfancies, I don t know how to call them, which I am not able to\ncomprehend. When you say you love me, I know what you mean, as a form\nof words; but nothing more. You address nothing in my breast, you touch\nnothing there. I don t care for what you say at all. I have tried to\nwarn you of this; now, have I not? \n\nI said in a miserable manner,  Yes. \n\n Yes. But you would not be warned, for you thought I did not mean it.\nNow, did you not think so? \n\n I thought and hoped you could not mean it. You, so young, untried, and\nbeautiful, Estella! Surely it is not in Nature. \n\n It is in _my_ nature,  she returned. And then she added, with a stress\nupon the words,  It is in the nature formed within me. I make a great\ndifference between you and all other people when I say so much. I can\ndo no more. \n\n Is it not true,  said I,  that Bentley Drummle is in town here, and\npursuing you? \n\n It is quite true,  she replied, referring to him with the indifference\nof utter contempt.\n\n That you encourage him, and ride out with him, and that he dines with\nyou this very day? \n\nShe seemed a little surprised that I should know it, but again replied,\n Quite true. \n\n You cannot love him, Estella! \n\nHer fingers stopped for the first time, as she retorted rather angrily,\n What have I told you? Do you still think, in spite of it, that I do\nnot mean what I say? \n\n You would never marry him, Estella? \n\nShe looked towards Miss Havisham, and considered for a moment with her\nwork in her hands. Then she said,  Why not tell you the truth? I am\ngoing to be married to him. \n\nI dropped my face into my hands, but was able to control myself better\nthan I could have expected, considering what agony it gave me to hear\nher say those words. When I raised my face again, there was such a\nghastly look upon Miss Havisham s, that it impressed me, even in my\npassionate hurry and grief.\n\n Estella, dearest Estella, do not let Miss Havisham lead you into this\nfatal step. Put me aside for ever, you have done so, I well know, but\nbestow yourself on some worthier person than Drummle. Miss Havisham\ngives you to him, as the greatest slight and injury that could be done\nto the many far better men who admire you, and to the few who truly\nlove you. Among those few there may be one who loves you even as\ndearly, though he has not loved you as long, as I. Take him, and I can\nbear it better, for your sake! \n\nMy earnestness awoke a wonder in her that seemed as if it would have\nbeen touched with compassion, if she could have rendered me at all\nintelligible to her own mind.\n\n I am going,  she said again, in a gentler voice,  to be married to\nhim. The preparations for my marriage are making, and I shall be\nmarried soon. Why do you injuriously introduce the name of my mother by\nadoption? It is my own act. \n\n Your own act, Estella, to fling yourself away upon a brute? \n\n On whom should I fling myself away?  she retorted, with a smile.\n Should I fling myself away upon the man who would the soonest feel (if\npeople do feel such things) that I took nothing to him? There! It is\ndone. I shall do well enough, and so will my husband. As to leading me\ninto what you call this fatal step, Miss Havisham would have had me\nwait, and not marry yet; but I am tired of the life I have led, which\nhas very few charms for me, and I am willing enough to change it. Say\nno more. We shall never understand each other. \n\n Such a mean brute, such a stupid brute!  I urged, in despair.\n\n Don t be afraid of my being a blessing to him,  said Estella;  I shall\nnot be that. Come! Here is my hand. Do we part on this, you visionary\nboy or man? \n\n O Estella!  I answered, as my bitter tears fell fast on her hand, do\nwhat I would to restrain them;  even if I remained in England and could\nhold my head up with the rest, how could I see you Drummle s wife? \n\n Nonsense,  she returned, nonsense. This will pass in no time. \n\n Never, Estella! \n\n You will get me out of your thoughts in a week. \n\n Out of my thoughts! You are part of my existence, part of myself. You\nhave been in every line I have ever read since I first came here, the\nrough common boy whose poor heart you wounded even then. You have been\nin every prospect I have ever seen since, on the river, on the sails of\nthe ships, on the marshes, in the clouds, in the light, in the\ndarkness, in the wind, in the woods, in the sea, in the streets. You\nhave been the embodiment of every graceful fancy that my mind has ever\nbecome acquainted with. The stones of which the strongest London\nbuildings are made are not more real, or more impossible to be\ndisplaced by your hands, than your presence and influence have been to\nme, there and everywhere, and will be. Estella, to the last hour of my\nlife, you cannot choose but remain part of my character, part of the\nlittle good in me, part of the evil. But, in this separation, I\nassociate you only with the good; and I will faithfully hold you to\nthat always, for you must have done me far more good than harm, let me\nfeel now what sharp distress I may. O God bless you, God forgive you! \n\nIn what ecstasy of unhappiness I got these broken words out of myself,\nI don t know. The rhapsody welled up within me, like blood from an\ninward wound, and gushed out. I held her hand to my lips some lingering\nmoments, and so I left her. But ever afterwards, I remembered, and soon\nafterwards with stronger reason, that while Estella looked at me merely\nwith incredulous wonder, the spectral figure of Miss Havisham, her hand\nstill covering her heart, seemed all resolved into a ghastly stare of\npity and remorse.\n\nAll done, all gone! So much was done and gone, that when I went out at\nthe gate, the light of the day seemed of a darker colour than when I\nwent in. For a while, I hid myself among some lanes and by-paths, and\nthen struck off to walk all the way to London. For, I had by that time\ncome to myself so far as to consider that I could not go back to the\ninn and see Drummle there; that I could not bear to sit upon the coach\nand be spoken to; that I could do nothing half so good for myself as\ntire myself out.\n\nIt was past midnight when I crossed London Bridge. Pursuing the narrow\nintricacies of the streets which at that time tended westward near the\nMiddlesex shore of the river, my readiest access to the Temple was\nclose by the river-side, through Whitefriars. I was not expected till\nto-morrow; but I had my keys, and, if Herbert were gone to bed, could\nget to bed myself without disturbing him.\n\nAs it seldom happened that I came in at that Whitefriars gate after the\nTemple was closed, and as I was very muddy and weary, I did not take it\nill that the night-porter examined me with much attention as he held\nthe gate a little way open for me to pass in. To help his memory I\nmentioned my name.\n\n I was not quite sure, sir, but I thought so. Here s a note, sir. The\nmessenger that brought it, said would you be so good as read it by my\nlantern? \n\n[Illustration]\n\nMuch surprised by the request, I took the note. It was directed to\nPhilip Pip, Esquire, and on the top of the superscription were the\nwords,  PLEASE READ THIS, HERE.  I opened it, the watchman holding up\nhis light, and read inside, in Wemmick s writing, \n\n DON T GO HOME. \n\n\n\n\nChapter XLV.\n\n\nTurning from the Temple gate as soon as I had read the warning, I made\nthe best of my way to Fleet Street, and there got a late hackney\nchariot and drove to the Hummums in Covent Garden. In those times a bed\nwas always to be got there at any hour of the night, and the\nchamberlain, letting me in at his ready wicket, lighted the candle next\nin order on his shelf, and showed me straight into the bedroom next in\norder on his list. It was a sort of vault on the ground floor at the\nback, with a despotic monster of a four-post bedstead in it, straddling\nover the whole place, putting one of his arbitrary legs into the\nfireplace and another into the doorway, and squeezing the wretched\nlittle washing-stand in quite a Divinely Righteous manner.\n\nAs I had asked for a night-light, the chamberlain had brought me in,\nbefore he left me, the good old constitutional rushlight of those\nvirtuous days an object like the ghost of a walking-cane, which\ninstantly broke its back if it were touched, which nothing could ever\nbe lighted at, and which was placed in solitary confinement at the\nbottom of a high tin tower, perforated with round holes that made a\nstaringly wide-awake pattern on the walls. When I had got into bed, and\nlay there footsore, weary, and wretched, I found that I could no more\nclose my own eyes than I could close the eyes of this foolish Argus.\nAnd thus, in the gloom and death of the night, we stared at one\nanother.\n\nWhat a doleful night! How anxious, how dismal, how long! There was an\ninhospitable smell in the room, of cold soot and hot dust; and, as I\nlooked up into the corners of the tester over my head, I thought what a\nnumber of blue-bottle flies from the butchers , and earwigs from the\nmarket, and grubs from the country, must be holding on up there, lying\nby for next summer. This led me to speculate whether any of them ever\ntumbled down, and then I fancied that I felt light falls on my face, a\ndisagreeable turn of thought, suggesting other and more objectionable\napproaches up my back. When I had lain awake a little while, those\nextraordinary voices with which silence teems began to make themselves\naudible. The closet whispered, the fireplace sighed, the little\nwashing-stand ticked, and one guitar-string played occasionally in the\nchest of drawers. At about the same time, the eyes on the wall acquired\na new expression, and in every one of those staring rounds I saw\nwritten, DON T GO HOME.\n\nWhatever night-fancies and night-noises crowded on me, they never\nwarded off this DON T GO HOME. It plaited itself into whatever I\nthought of, as a bodily pain would have done. Not long before, I had\nread in the newspapers, how a gentleman unknown had come to the Hummums\nin the night, and had gone to bed, and had destroyed himself, and had\nbeen found in the morning weltering in blood. It came into my head that\nhe must have occupied this very vault of mine, and I got out of bed to\nassure myself that there were no red marks about; then opened the door\nto look out into the passages, and cheer myself with the companionship\nof a distant light, near which I knew the chamberlain to be dozing. But\nall this time, why I was not to go home, and what had happened at home,\nand when I should go home, and whether Provis was safe at home, were\nquestions occupying my mind so busily, that one might have supposed\nthere could be no more room in it for any other theme. Even when I\nthought of Estella, and how we had parted that day forever, and when I\nrecalled all the circumstances of our parting, and all her looks and\ntones, and the action of her fingers while she knitted, even then I was\npursuing, here and there and everywhere, the caution, Don t go home.\nWhen at last I dozed, in sheer exhaustion of mind and body, it became a\nvast shadowy verb which I had to conjugate. Imperative mood, present\ntense: Do not thou go home, let him not go home, let us not go home, do\nnot ye or you go home, let not them go home. Then potentially: I may\nnot and I cannot go home; and I might not, could not, would not, and\nshould not go home; until I felt that I was going distracted, and\nrolled over on the pillow, and looked at the staring rounds upon the\nwall again.\n\nI had left directions that I was to be called at seven; for it was\nplain that I must see Wemmick before seeing any one else, and equally\nplain that this was a case in which his Walworth sentiments only could\nbe taken. It was a relief to get out of the room where the night had\nbeen so miserable, and I needed no second knocking at the door to\nstartle me from my uneasy bed.\n\nThe Castle battlements arose upon my view at eight o clock. The little\nservant happening to be entering the fortress with two hot rolls, I\npassed through the postern and crossed the drawbridge in her company,\nand so came without announcement into the presence of Wemmick as he was\nmaking tea for himself and the Aged. An open door afforded a\nperspective view of the Aged in bed.\n\n Halloa, Mr. Pip!  said Wemmick.  You did come home, then? \n\n Yes,  I returned;  but I didn t go home. \n\n That s all right,  said he, rubbing his hands.  I left a note for you\nat each of the Temple gates, on the chance. Which gate did you come\nto? \n\nI told him.\n\n I ll go round to the others in the course of the day and destroy the\nnotes,  said Wemmick;  it s a good rule never to leave documentary\nevidence if you can help it, because you don t know when it may be put\nin. I m going to take a liberty with you. _Would_ you mind toasting\nthis sausage for the Aged P.? \n\nI said I should be delighted to do it.\n\n Then you can go about your work, Mary Anne,  said Wemmick to the\nlittle servant;  which leaves us to ourselves, don t you see, Mr. Pip? \nhe added, winking, as she disappeared.\n\nI thanked him for his friendship and caution, and our discourse\nproceeded in a low tone, while I toasted the Aged s sausage and he\nbuttered the crumb of the Aged s roll.\n\n Now, Mr. Pip, you know,  said Wemmick,  you and I understand one\nanother. We are in our private and personal capacities, and we have\nbeen engaged in a confidential transaction before to-day. Official\nsentiments are one thing. We are extra official. \n\nI cordially assented. I was so very nervous, that I had already lighted\nthe Aged s sausage like a torch, and been obliged to blow it out.\n\n I accidentally heard, yesterday morning,  said Wemmick,  being in a\ncertain place where I once took you, even between you and me, it s as\nwell not to mention names when avoidable \n\n Much better not,  said I.  I understand you. \n\n I heard there by chance, yesterday morning,  said Wemmick,  that a\ncertain person not altogether of uncolonial pursuits, and not\nunpossessed of portable property, I don t know who it may really be, we\nwon t name this person \n\n Not necessary,  said I.\n\n Had made some little stir in a certain part of the world where a good\nmany people go, not always in gratification of their own inclinations,\nand not quite irrespective of the government expense \n\nIn watching his face, I made quite a firework of the Aged s sausage,\nand greatly discomposed both my own attention and Wemmick s; for which\nI apologised.\n\n By disappearing from such place, and being no more heard of\nthereabouts. From which,  said Wemmick,  conjectures had been raised\nand theories formed. I also heard that you at your chambers in Garden\nCourt, Temple, had been watched, and might be watched again. \n\n By whom?  said I.\n\n I wouldn t go into that,  said Wemmick, evasively,  it might clash\nwith official responsibilities. I heard it, as I have in my time heard\nother curious things in the same place. I don t tell it you on\ninformation received. I heard it. \n\nHe took the toasting-fork and sausage from me as he spoke, and set\nforth the Aged s breakfast neatly on a little tray. Previous to placing\nit before him, he went into the Aged s room with a clean white cloth,\nand tied the same under the old gentleman s chin, and propped him up,\nand put his nightcap on one side, and gave him quite a rakish air. Then\nhe placed his breakfast before him with great care, and said,  All\nright, ain t you, Aged P.?  To which the cheerful Aged replied,  All\nright, John, my boy, all right!  As there seemed to be a tacit\nunderstanding that the Aged was not in a presentable state, and was\ntherefore to be considered invisible, I made a pretence of being in\ncomplete ignorance of these proceedings.\n\n This watching of me at my chambers (which I have once had reason to\nsuspect),  I said to Wemmick when he came back,  is inseparable from\nthe person to whom you have adverted; is it? \n\nWemmick looked very serious.  I couldn t undertake to say that, of my\nown knowledge. I mean, I couldn t undertake to say it was at first. But\nit either is, or it will be, or it s in great danger of being. \n\nAs I saw that he was restrained by fealty to Little Britain from saying\nas much as he could, and as I knew with thankfulness to him how far out\nof his way he went to say what he did, I could not press him. But I\ntold him, after a little meditation over the fire, that I would like to\nask him a question, subject to his answering or not answering, as he\ndeemed right, and sure that his course would be right. He paused in his\nbreakfast, and crossing his arms, and pinching his shirt-sleeves (his\nnotion of in-door comfort was to sit without any coat), he nodded to me\nonce, to put my question.\n\n You have heard of a man of bad character, whose true name is\nCompeyson? \n\nHe answered with one other nod.\n\n Is he living? \n\nOne other nod.\n\n Is he in London? \n\nHe gave me one other nod, compressed the post-office exceedingly, gave\nme one last nod, and went on with his breakfast.\n\n Now,  said Wemmick,  questioning being over,  which he emphasised and\nrepeated for my guidance,  I come to what I did, after hearing what I\nheard. I went to Garden Court to find you; not finding you, I went to\nClarriker s to find Mr. Herbert. \n\n And him you found?  said I, with great anxiety.\n\n And him I found. Without mentioning any names or going into any\ndetails, I gave him to understand that if he was aware of anybody Tom,\nJack, or Richard being about the chambers, or about the immediate\nneighbourhood, he had better get Tom, Jack, or Richard out of the way\nwhile you were out of the way. \n\n He would be greatly puzzled what to do? \n\n He _was_ puzzled what to do; not the less, because I gave him my\nopinion that it was not safe to try to get Tom, Jack, or Richard too\nfar out of the way at present. Mr. Pip, I ll tell you something. Under\nexisting circumstances, there is no place like a great city when you\nare once in it. Don t break cover too soon. Lie close. Wait till things\nslacken, before you try the open, even for foreign air. \n\nI thanked him for his valuable advice, and asked him what Herbert had\ndone?\n\n Mr. Herbert,  said Wemmick,  after being all of a heap for half an\nhour, struck out a plan. He mentioned to me as a secret, that he is\ncourting a young lady who has, as no doubt you are aware, a bedridden\nPa. Which Pa, having been in the Purser line of life, lies a-bed in a\nbow-window where he can see the ships sail up and down the river. You\nare acquainted with the young lady, most probably? \n\n Not personally,  said I.\n\nThe truth was, that she had objected to me as an expensive companion\nwho did Herbert no good, and that, when Herbert had first proposed to\npresent me to her, she had received the proposal with such very\nmoderate warmth, that Herbert had felt himself obliged to confide the\nstate of the case to me, with a view to the lapse of a little time\nbefore I made her acquaintance. When I had begun to advance Herbert s\nprospects by stealth, I had been able to bear this with cheerful\nphilosophy: he and his affianced, for their part, had naturally not\nbeen very anxious to introduce a third person into their interviews;\nand thus, although I was assured that I had risen in Clara s esteem,\nand although the young lady and I had long regularly interchanged\nmessages and remembrances by Herbert, I had never seen her. However, I\ndid not trouble Wemmick with these particulars.\n\n The house with the bow-window,  said Wemmick,  being by the\nriver-side, down the Pool there between Limehouse and Greenwich, and\nbeing kept, it seems, by a very respectable widow who has a furnished\nupper floor to let, Mr. Herbert put it to me, what did I think of that\nas a temporary tenement for Tom, Jack, or Richard? Now, I thought very\nwell of it, for three reasons I ll give you. That is to say: _Firstly_.\nIt s altogether out of all your beats, and is well away from the usual\nheap of streets great and small. _Secondly_. Without going near it\nyourself, you could always hear of the safety of Tom, Jack, or Richard,\nthrough Mr. Herbert. _Thirdly_. After a while and when it might be\nprudent, if you should want to slip Tom, Jack, or Richard on board a\nforeign packet-boat, there he is ready. \n\nMuch comforted by these considerations, I thanked Wemmick again and\nagain, and begged him to proceed.\n\n Well, sir! Mr. Herbert threw himself into the business with a will,\nand by nine o clock last night he housed Tom, Jack, or\nRichard, whichever it may be, you and I don t want to know, quite\nsuccessfully. At the old lodgings it was understood that he was\nsummoned to Dover, and, in fact, he was taken down the Dover road and\ncornered out of it. Now, another great advantage of all this is, that\nit was done without you, and when, if any one was concerning himself\nabout your movements, you must be known to be ever so many miles off\nand quite otherwise engaged. This diverts suspicion and confuses it;\nand for the same reason I recommended that, even if you came back last\nnight, you should not go home. It brings in more confusion, and you\nwant confusion. \n\nWemmick, having finished his breakfast, here looked at his watch, and\nbegan to get his coat on.\n\n And now, Mr. Pip,  said he, with his hands still in the sleeves,  I\nhave probably done the most I can do; but if I can ever do more, from a\nWalworth point of view, and in a strictly private and personal\ncapacity, I shall be glad to do it. Here s the address. There can be no\nharm in your going here to-night, and seeing for yourself that all is\nwell with Tom, Jack, or Richard, before you go home, which is another\nreason for your not going home last night. But, after you have gone\nhome, don t go back here. You are very welcome, I am sure, Mr. Pip ;\nhis hands were now out of his sleeves, and I was shaking them;  and let\nme finally impress one important point upon you.  He laid his hands\nupon my shoulders, and added in a solemn whisper:  Avail yourself of\nthis evening to lay hold of his portable property. You don t know what\nmay happen to him. Don t let anything happen to the portable property. \n\nQuite despairing of making my mind clear to Wemmick on this point, I\nforbore to try.\n\n Time s up,  said Wemmick,  and I must be off. If you had nothing more\npressing to do than to keep here till dark, that s what I should\nadvise. You look very much worried, and it would do you good to have a\nperfectly quiet day with the Aged, he ll be up presently, and a little\nbit of you remember the pig? \n\n Of course,  said I.\n\n Well; and a little bit of _him_. That sausage you toasted was his, and\nhe was in all respects a first-rater. Do try him, if it is only for old\nacquaintance sake. Good-bye, Aged Parent!  in a cheery shout.\n\n All right, John; all right, my boy!  piped the old man from within.\n\nI soon fell asleep before Wemmick s fire, and the Aged and I enjoyed\none another s society by falling asleep before it more or less all day.\nWe had loin of pork for dinner, and greens grown on the estate; and I\nnodded at the Aged with a good intention whenever I failed to do it\ndrowsily. When it was quite dark, I left the Aged preparing the fire\nfor toast; and I inferred from the number of teacups, as well as from\nhis glances at the two little doors in the wall, that Miss Skiffins was\nexpected.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XLVI.\n\n\nEight o clock had struck before I got into the air, that was scented,\nnot disagreeably, by the chips and shavings of the long-shore\nboat-builders, and mast, oar, and block makers. All that water-side\nregion of the upper and lower Pool below Bridge was unknown ground to\nme; and when I struck down by the river, I found that the spot I wanted\nwas not where I had supposed it to be, and was anything but easy to\nfind. It was called Mill Pond Bank, Chinks s Basin; and I had no other\nguide to Chinks s Basin than the Old Green Copper Rope-walk.\n\nIt matters not what stranded ships repairing in dry docks I lost myself\namong, what old hulls of ships in course of being knocked to pieces,\nwhat ooze and slime and other dregs of tide, what yards of\nship-builders and ship-breakers, what rusty anchors blindly biting into\nthe ground, though for years off duty, what mountainous country of\naccumulated casks and timber, how many rope-walks that were not the Old\nGreen Copper. After several times falling short of my destination and\nas often overshooting it, I came unexpectedly round a corner, upon Mill\nPond Bank. It was a fresh kind of place, all circumstances considered,\nwhere the wind from the river had room to turn itself round; and there\nwere two or three trees in it, and there was the stump of a ruined\nwindmill, and there was the Old Green Copper Rope-walk, whose long and\nnarrow vista I could trace in the moonlight, along a series of wooden\nframes set in the ground, that looked like superannuated\nhaymaking-rakes which had grown old and lost most of their teeth.\n\nSelecting from the few queer houses upon Mill Pond Bank a house with a\nwooden front and three stories of bow-window (not bay-window, which is\nanother thing), I looked at the plate upon the door, and read there,\nMrs. Whimple. That being the name I wanted, I knocked, and an elderly\nwoman of a pleasant and thriving appearance responded. She was\nimmediately deposed, however, by Herbert, who silently led me into the\nparlour and shut the door. It was an odd sensation to see his very\nfamiliar face established quite at home in that very unfamiliar room\nand region; and I found myself looking at him, much as I looked at the\ncorner-cupboard with the glass and china, the shells upon the\nchimney-piece, and the coloured engravings on the wall, representing\nthe death of Captain Cook, a ship-launch, and his Majesty King George\nthe Third in a state coachman s wig, leather-breeches, and top-boots,\non the terrace at Windsor.\n\n All is well, Handel,  said Herbert,  and he is quite satisfied, though\neager to see you. My dear girl is with her father; and if you ll wait\ntill she comes down, I ll make you known to her, and then we ll go\nupstairs. _That s_ her father. \n\nI had become aware of an alarming growling overhead, and had probably\nexpressed the fact in my countenance.\n\n I am afraid he is a sad old rascal,  said Herbert, smiling,  but I\nhave never seen him. Don t you smell rum? He is always at it. \n\n At rum?  said I.\n\n Yes,  returned Herbert,  and you may suppose how mild it makes his\ngout. He persists, too, in keeping all the provisions upstairs in his\nroom, and serving them out. He keeps them on shelves over his head, and\n_will_ weigh them all. His room must be like a chandler s shop. \n\nWhile he thus spoke, the growling noise became a prolonged roar, and\nthen died away.\n\n What else can be the consequence,  said Herbert, in explanation,  if\nhe _will_ cut the cheese? A man with the gout in his right hand and\neverywhere else can t expect to get through a Double Gloucester without\nhurting himself. \n\nHe seemed to have hurt himself very much, for he gave another furious\nroar.\n\n To have Provis for an upper lodger is quite a godsend to Mrs.\nWhimple,  said Herbert,  for of course people in general won t stand\nthat noise. A curious place, Handel; isn t it? \n\nIt was a curious place, indeed; but remarkably well kept and clean.\n\n Mrs. Whimple,  said Herbert, when I told him so,  is the best of\nhousewives, and I really do not know what my Clara would do without her\nmotherly help. For, Clara has no mother of her own, Handel, and no\nrelation in the world but old Gruffandgrim. \n\n Surely that s not his name, Herbert? \n\n No, no,  said Herbert,  that s my name for him. His name is Mr.\nBarley. But what a blessing it is for the son of my father and mother\nto love a girl who has no relations, and who can never bother herself\nor anybody else about her family! \n\nHerbert had told me on former occasions, and now reminded me, that he\nfirst knew Miss Clara Barley when she was completing her education at\nan establishment at Hammersmith, and that on her being recalled home to\nnurse her father, he and she had confided their affection to the\nmotherly Mrs. Whimple, by whom it had been fostered and regulated with\nequal kindness and discretion, ever since. It was understood that\nnothing of a tender nature could possibly be confided to old Barley, by\nreason of his being totally unequal to the consideration of any subject\nmore psychological than Gout, Rum, and Purser s stores.\n\nAs we were thus conversing in a low tone while Old Barley s sustained\ngrowl vibrated in the beam that crossed the ceiling, the room door\nopened, and a very pretty, slight, dark-eyed girl of twenty or so came\nin with a basket in her hand: whom Herbert tenderly relieved of the\nbasket, and presented, blushing, as  Clara.  She really was a most\ncharming girl, and might have passed for a captive fairy, whom that\ntruculent Ogre, Old Barley, had pressed into his service.\n\n Look here,  said Herbert, showing me the basket, with a compassionate\nand tender smile, after we had talked a little;  here s poor Clara s\nsupper, served out every night. Here s her allowance of bread, and\nhere s her slice of cheese, and here s her rum, which I drink. This is\nMr. Barley s breakfast for to-morrow, served out to be cooked. Two\nmutton-chops, three potatoes, some split peas, a little flour, two\nounces of butter, a pinch of salt, and all this black pepper. It s\nstewed up together, and taken hot, and it s a nice thing for the gout,\nI should think! \n\nThere was something so natural and winning in Clara s resigned way of\nlooking at these stores in detail, as Herbert pointed them out; and\nsomething so confiding, loving, and innocent in her modest manner of\nyielding herself to Herbert s embracing arm; and something so gentle in\nher, so much needing protection on Mill Pond Bank, by Chinks s Basin,\nand the Old Green Copper Rope-walk, with Old Barley growling in the\nbeam, that I would not have undone the engagement between her and\nHerbert for all the money in the pocket-book I had never opened.\n\nI was looking at her with pleasure and admiration, when suddenly the\ngrowl swelled into a roar again, and a frightful bumping noise was\nheard above, as if a giant with a wooden leg were trying to bore it\nthrough the ceiling to come at us. Upon this Clara said to Herbert,\n Papa wants me, darling!  and ran away.\n\n There is an unconscionable old shark for you!  said Herbert.  What do\nyou suppose he wants now, Handel? \n\n I don t know,  said I.  Something to drink? \n\n That s it!  cried Herbert, as if I had made a guess of extraordinary\nmerit.  He keeps his grog ready mixed in a little tub on the table.\nWait a moment, and you ll hear Clara lift him up to take some. There he\ngoes!  Another roar, with a prolonged shake at the end.  Now,  said\nHerbert, as it was succeeded by silence,  he s drinking. Now,  said\nHerbert, as the growl resounded in the beam once more,  he s down again\non his back! \n\nClara returned soon afterwards, and Herbert accompanied me upstairs to\nsee our charge. As we passed Mr. Barley s door, he was heard hoarsely\nmuttering within, in a strain that rose and fell like wind, the\nfollowing Refrain, in which I substitute good wishes for something\nquite the reverse: \n\n Ahoy! Bless your eyes, here s old Bill Barley. Here s old Bill Barley,\nbless your eyes. Here s old Bill Barley on the flat of his back, by the\nLord. Lying on the flat of his back like a drifting old dead flounder,\nhere s your old Bill Barley, bless your eyes. Ahoy! Bless you. \n\nIn this strain of consolation, Herbert informed me the invisible Barley\nwould commune with himself by the day and night together; Often, while\nit was light, having, at the same time, one eye at a telescope which\nwas fitted on his bed for the convenience of sweeping the river.\n\nIn his two cabin rooms at the top of the house, which were fresh and\nairy, and in which Mr. Barley was less audible than below, I found\nProvis comfortably settled. He expressed no alarm, and seemed to feel\nnone that was worth mentioning; but it struck me that he was\nsoftened, indefinably, for I could not have said how, and could never\nafterwards recall how when I tried, but certainly.\n\nThe opportunity that the day s rest had given me for reflection had\nresulted in my fully determining to say nothing to him respecting\nCompeyson. For anything I knew, his animosity towards the man might\notherwise lead to his seeking him out and rushing on his own\ndestruction. Therefore, when Herbert and I sat down with him by his\nfire, I asked him first of all whether he relied on Wemmick s judgment\nand sources of information?\n\n Ay, ay, dear boy!  he answered, with a grave nod,  Jaggers knows. \n\n Then, I have talked with Wemmick,  said I,  and have come to tell you\nwhat caution he gave me and what advice. \n\nThis I did accurately, with the reservation just mentioned; and I told\nhim how Wemmick had heard, in Newgate prison (whether from officers or\nprisoners I could not say), that he was under some suspicion, and that\nmy chambers had been watched; how Wemmick had recommended his keeping\nclose for a time, and my keeping away from him; and what Wemmick had\nsaid about getting him abroad. I added, that of course, when the time\ncame, I should go with him, or should follow close upon him, as might\nbe safest in Wemmick s judgment. What was to follow that I did not\ntouch upon; neither, indeed, was I at all clear or comfortable about it\nin my own mind, now that I saw him in that softer condition, and in\ndeclared peril for my sake. As to altering my way of living by\nenlarging my expenses, I put it to him whether in our present unsettled\nand difficult circumstances, it would not be simply ridiculous, if it\nwere no worse?\n\nHe could not deny this, and indeed was very reasonable throughout. His\ncoming back was a venture, he said, and he had always known it to be a\nventure. He would do nothing to make it a desperate venture, and he had\nvery little fear of his safety with such good help.\n\nHerbert, who had been looking at the fire and pondering, here said that\nsomething had come into his thoughts arising out of Wemmick s\nsuggestion, which it might be worth while to pursue.  We are both good\nwatermen, Handel, and could take him down the river ourselves when the\nright time comes. No boat would then be hired for the purpose, and no\nboatmen; that would save at least a chance of suspicion, and any chance\nis worth saving. Never mind the season; don t you think it might be a\ngood thing if you began at once to keep a boat at the Temple stairs,\nand were in the habit of rowing up and down the river? You fall into\nthat habit, and then who notices or minds? Do it twenty or fifty times,\nand there is nothing special in your doing it the twenty-first or\nfifty-first. \n\nI liked this scheme, and Provis was quite elated by it. We agreed that\nit should be carried into execution, and that Provis should never\nrecognise us if we came below Bridge, and rowed past Mill Pond Bank.\nBut we further agreed that he should pull down the blind in that part\nof his window which gave upon the east, whenever he saw us and all was\nright.\n\nOur conference being now ended, and everything arranged, I rose to go;\nremarking to Herbert that he and I had better not go home together, and\nthat I would take half an hour s start of him.  I don t like to leave\nyou here,  I said to Provis,  though I cannot doubt your being safer\nhere than near me. Good-bye! \n\n Dear boy,  he answered, clasping my hands,  I don t know when we may\nmeet again, and I don t like good-bye. Say good-night! \n\n Good-night! Herbert will go regularly between us, and when the time\ncomes you may be certain I shall be ready. Good-night, good-night! \n\nWe thought it best that he should stay in his own rooms; and we left\nhim on the landing outside his door, holding a light over the\nstair-rail to light us downstairs. Looking back at him, I thought of\nthe first night of his return, when our positions were reversed, and\nwhen I little supposed my heart could ever be as heavy and anxious at\nparting from him as it was now.\n\nOld Barley was growling and swearing when we repassed his door, with no\nappearance of having ceased or of meaning to cease. When we got to the\nfoot of the stairs, I asked Herbert whether he had preserved the name\nof Provis. He replied, certainly not, and that the lodger was Mr.\nCampbell. He also explained that the utmost known of Mr. Campbell there\nwas, that he (Herbert) had Mr. Campbell consigned to him, and felt a\nstrong personal interest in his being well cared for, and living a\nsecluded life. So, when we went into the parlour where Mrs. Whimple and\nClara were seated at work, I said nothing of my own interest in Mr.\nCampbell, but kept it to myself.\n\nWhen I had taken leave of the pretty, gentle, dark-eyed girl, and of\nthe motherly woman who had not outlived her honest sympathy with a\nlittle affair of true love, I felt as if the Old Green Copper Rope-walk\nhad grown quite a different place. Old Barley might be as old as the\nhills, and might swear like a whole field of troopers, but there were\nredeeming youth and trust and hope enough in Chinks s Basin to fill it\nto overflowing. And then I thought of Estella, and of our parting, and\nwent home very sadly.\n\nAll things were as quiet in the Temple as ever I had seen them. The\nwindows of the rooms on that side, lately occupied by Provis, were dark\nand still, and there was no lounger in Garden Court. I walked past the\nfountain twice or thrice before I descended the steps that were between\nme and my rooms, but I was quite alone. Herbert, coming to my bedside\nwhen he came in, for I went straight to bed, dispirited and\nfatigued, made the same report. Opening one of the windows after that,\nhe looked out into the moonlight, and told me that the pavement was as\nsolemnly empty as the pavement of any cathedral at that same hour.\n\nNext day I set myself to get the boat. It was soon done, and the boat\nwas brought round to the Temple stairs, and lay where I could reach her\nwithin a minute or two. Then, I began to go out as for training and\npractice: sometimes alone, sometimes with Herbert. I was often out in\ncold, rain, and sleet, but nobody took much note of me after I had been\nout a few times. At first, I kept above Blackfriars Bridge; but as the\nhours of the tide changed, I took towards London Bridge. It was Old\nLondon Bridge in those days, and at certain states of the tide there\nwas a race and fall of water there which gave it a bad reputation. But\nI knew well enough how to  shoot  the bridge after seeing it done, and\nso began to row about among the shipping in the Pool, and down to\nErith. The first time I passed Mill Pond Bank, Herbert and I were\npulling a pair of oars; and, both in going and returning, we saw the\nblind towards the east come down. Herbert was rarely there less\nfrequently than three times in a week, and he never brought me a single\nword of intelligence that was at all alarming. Still, I knew that there\nwas cause for alarm, and I could not get rid of the notion of being\nwatched. Once received, it is a haunting idea; how many undesigning\npersons I suspected of watching me, it would be hard to calculate.\n\nIn short, I was always full of fears for the rash man who was in\nhiding. Herbert had sometimes said to me that he found it pleasant to\nstand at one of our windows after dark, when the tide was running down,\nand to think that it was flowing, with everything it bore, towards\nClara. But I thought with dread that it was flowing towards Magwitch,\nand that any black mark on its surface might be his pursuers, going\nswiftly, silently, and surely, to take him.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XLVII.\n\n\nSome weeks passed without bringing any change. We waited for Wemmick,\nand he made no sign. If I had never known him out of Little Britain,\nand had never enjoyed the privilege of being on a familiar footing at\nthe Castle, I might have doubted him; not so for a moment, knowing him\nas I did.\n\nMy worldly affairs began to wear a gloomy appearance, and I was pressed\nfor money by more than one creditor. Even I myself began to know the\nwant of money (I mean of ready money in my own pocket), and to relieve\nit by converting some easily spared articles of jewelery into cash. But\nI had quite determined that it would be a heartless fraud to take more\nmoney from my patron in the existing state of my uncertain thoughts and\nplans. Therefore, I had sent him the unopened pocket-book by Herbert,\nto hold in his own keeping, and I felt a kind of satisfaction whether\nit was a false kind or a true, I hardly know in not having profited by\nhis generosity since his revelation of himself.\n\nAs the time wore on, an impression settled heavily upon me that Estella\nwas married. Fearful of having it confirmed, though it was all but a\nconviction, I avoided the newspapers, and begged Herbert (to whom I had\nconfided the circumstances of our last interview) never to speak of her\nto me. Why I hoarded up this last wretched little rag of the robe of\nhope that was rent and given to the winds, how do I know? Why did you\nwho read this, commit that not dissimilar inconsistency of your own\nlast year, last month, last week?\n\nIt was an unhappy life that I lived; and its one dominant anxiety,\ntowering over all its other anxieties, like a high mountain above a\nrange of mountains, never disappeared from my view. Still, no new cause\nfor fear arose. Let me start from my bed as I would, with the terror\nfresh upon me that he was discovered; let me sit listening, as I would\nwith dread, for Herbert s returning step at night, lest it should be\nfleeter than ordinary, and winged with evil news, for all that, and\nmuch more to like purpose, the round of things went on. Condemned to\ninaction and a state of constant restlessness and suspense, I rowed\nabout in my boat, and waited, waited, waited, as I best could.\n\nThere were states of the tide when, having been down the river, I could\nnot get back through the eddy-chafed arches and starlings of old London\nBridge; then, I left my boat at a wharf near the Custom House, to be\nbrought up afterwards to the Temple stairs. I was not averse to doing\nthis, as it served to make me and my boat a commoner incident among the\nwater-side people there. From this slight occasion sprang two meetings\nthat I have now to tell of.\n\nOne afternoon, late in the month of February, I came ashore at the\nwharf at dusk. I had pulled down as far as Greenwich with the ebb tide,\nand had turned with the tide. It had been a fine bright day, but had\nbecome foggy as the sun dropped, and I had had to feel my way back\namong the shipping, pretty carefully. Both in going and returning, I\nhad seen the signal in his window, All well.\n\nAs it was a raw evening, and I was cold, I thought I would comfort\nmyself with dinner at once; and as I had hours of dejection and\nsolitude before me if I went home to the Temple, I thought I would\nafterwards go to the play. The theatre where Mr. Wopsle had achieved\nhis questionable triumph was in that water-side neighbourhood (it is\nnowhere now), and to that theatre I resolved to go. I was aware that\nMr. Wopsle had not succeeded in reviving the Drama, but, on the\ncontrary, had rather partaken of its decline. He had been ominously\nheard of, through the play-bills, as a faithful Black, in connection\nwith a little girl of noble birth, and a monkey. And Herbert had seen\nhim as a predatory Tartar of comic propensities, with a face like a red\nbrick, and an outrageous hat all over bells.\n\nI dined at what Herbert and I used to call a geographical chop-house,\nwhere there were maps of the world in porter-pot rims on every\nhalf-yard of the tablecloths, and charts of gravy on every one of the\nknives, to this day there is scarcely a single chop-house within the\nLord Mayor s dominions which is not geographical, and wore out the time\nin dozing over crumbs, staring at gas, and baking in a hot blast of\ndinners. By and by, I roused myself, and went to the play.\n\nThere, I found a virtuous boatswain in His Majesty s service, a most\nexcellent man, though I could have wished his trousers not quite so\ntight in some places, and not quite so loose in others, who knocked all\nthe little men s hats over their eyes, though he was very generous and\nbrave, and who wouldn t hear of anybody s paying taxes, though he was\nvery patriotic. He had a bag of money in his pocket, like a pudding in\nthe cloth, and on that property married a young person in\nbed-furniture, with great rejoicings; the whole population of\nPortsmouth (nine in number at the last census) turning out on the beach\nto rub their own hands and shake everybody else s, and sing  Fill,\nfill!  A certain dark-complexioned Swab, however, who wouldn t fill, or\ndo anything else that was proposed to him, and whose heart was openly\nstated (by the boatswain) to be as black as his figure-head, proposed\nto two other Swabs to get all mankind into difficulties; which was so\neffectually done (the Swab family having considerable political\ninfluence) that it took half the evening to set things right, and then\nit was only brought about through an honest little grocer with a white\nhat, black gaiters, and red nose, getting into a clock, with a\ngridiron, and listening, and coming out, and knocking everybody down\nfrom behind with the gridiron whom he couldn t confute with what he had\noverheard. This led to Mr. Wopsle s (who had never been heard of\nbefore) coming in with a star and garter on, as a plenipotentiary of\ngreat power direct from the Admiralty, to say that the Swabs were all\nto go to prison on the spot, and that he had brought the boatswain down\nthe Union Jack, as a slight acknowledgment of his public services. The\nboatswain, unmanned for the first time, respectfully dried his eyes on\nthe Jack, and then cheering up, and addressing Mr. Wopsle as Your\nHonour, solicited permission to take him by the fin. Mr. Wopsle,\nconceding his fin with a gracious dignity, was immediately shoved into\na dusty corner, while everybody danced a hornpipe; and from that\ncorner, surveying the public with a discontented eye, became aware of\nme.\n\nThe second piece was the last new grand comic Christmas pantomime, in\nthe first scene of which, it pained me to suspect that I detected Mr.\nWopsle with red worsted legs under a highly magnified phosphoric\ncountenance and a shock of red curtain-fringe for his hair, engaged in\nthe manufacture of thunderbolts in a mine, and displaying great\ncowardice when his gigantic master came home (very hoarse) to dinner.\nBut he presently presented himself under worthier circumstances; for,\nthe Genius of Youthful Love being in want of assistance, on account of\nthe parental brutality of an ignorant farmer who opposed the choice of\nhis daughter s heart, by purposely falling upon the object, in a\nflour-sack, out of the first-floor window, summoned a sententious\nEnchanter; and he, coming up from the antipodes rather unsteadily,\nafter an apparently violent journey, proved to be Mr. Wopsle in a\nhigh-crowned hat, with a necromantic work in one volume under his arm.\nThe business of this enchanter on earth being principally to be talked\nat, sung at, butted at, danced at, and flashed at with fires of various\ncolours, he had a good deal of time on his hands. And I observed, with\ngreat surprise, that he devoted it to staring in my direction as if he\nwere lost in amazement.\n\nThere was something so remarkable in the increasing glare of Mr.\nWopsle s eye, and he seemed to be turning so many things over in his\nmind and to grow so confused, that I could not make it out. I sat\nthinking of it long after he had ascended to the clouds in a large\nwatch-case, and still I could not make it out. I was still thinking of\nit when I came out of the theatre an hour afterwards, and found him\nwaiting for me near the door.\n\n How do you do?  said I, shaking hands with him as we turned down the\nstreet together.  I saw that you saw me. \n\n Saw you, Mr. Pip!  he returned.  Yes, of course I saw you. But who\nelse was there? \n\n Who else? \n\n It is the strangest thing,  said Mr. Wopsle, drifting into his lost\nlook again;  and yet I could swear to him. \n\nBecoming alarmed, I entreated Mr. Wopsle to explain his meaning.\n\n Whether I should have noticed him at first but for your being there, \nsaid Mr. Wopsle, going on in the same lost way,  I can t be positive;\nyet I think I should. \n\nInvoluntarily I looked round me, as I was accustomed to look round me\nwhen I went home; for these mysterious words gave me a chill.\n\n Oh! He can t be in sight,  said Mr. Wopsle.  He went out before I went\noff. I saw him go. \n\nHaving the reason that I had for being suspicious, I even suspected\nthis poor actor. I mistrusted a design to entrap me into some\nadmission. Therefore I glanced at him as we walked on together, but\nsaid nothing.\n\n I had a ridiculous fancy that he must be with you, Mr. Pip, till I saw\nthat you were quite unconscious of him, sitting behind you there like a\nghost. \n\nMy former chill crept over me again, but I was resolved not to speak\nyet, for it was quite consistent with his words that he might be set on\nto induce me to connect these references with Provis. Of course, I was\nperfectly sure and safe that Provis had not been there.\n\n I dare say you wonder at me, Mr. Pip; indeed, I see you do. But it is\nso very strange! You ll hardly believe what I am going to tell you. I\ncould hardly believe it myself, if you told me. \n\n Indeed?  said I.\n\n No, indeed. Mr. Pip, you remember in old times a certain Christmas\nDay, when you were quite a child, and I dined at Gargery s, and some\nsoldiers came to the door to get a pair of handcuffs mended? \n\n I remember it very well. \n\n And you remember that there was a chase after two convicts, and that\nwe joined in it, and that Gargery took you on his back, and that I took\nthe lead, and you kept up with me as well as you could? \n\n I remember it all very well.  Better than he thought, except the last\nclause.\n\n And you remember that we came up with the two in a ditch, and that\nthere was a scuffle between them, and that one of them had been\nseverely handled and much mauled about the face by the other? \n\n I see it all before me. \n\n And that the soldiers lighted torches, and put the two in the centre,\nand that we went on to see the last of them, over the black marshes,\nwith the torchlight shining on their faces, I am particular about\nthat, with the torchlight shining on their faces, when there was an\nouter ring of dark night all about us? \n\n Yes,  said I.  I remember all that. \n\n Then, Mr. Pip, one of those two prisoners sat behind you tonight. I\nsaw him over your shoulder. \n\n Steady!  I thought. I asked him then,  Which of the two do you suppose\nyou saw? \n\n The one who had been mauled,  he answered readily,  and I ll swear I\nsaw him! The more I think of him, the more certain I am of him. \n\n This is very curious!  said I, with the best assumption I could put on\nof its being nothing more to me.  Very curious indeed! \n\nI cannot exaggerate the enhanced disquiet into which this conversation\nthrew me, or the special and peculiar terror I felt at Compeyson s\nhaving been behind me  like a ghost.  For if he had ever been out of my\nthoughts for a few moments together since the hiding had begun, it was\nin those very moments when he was closest to me; and to think that I\nshould be so unconscious and off my guard after all my care was as if I\nhad shut an avenue of a hundred doors to keep him out, and then had\nfound him at my elbow. I could not doubt, either, that he was there,\nbecause I was there, and that, however slight an appearance of danger\nthere might be about us, danger was always near and active.\n\nI put such questions to Mr. Wopsle as, When did the man come in? He\ncould not tell me that; he saw me, and over my shoulder he saw the man.\nIt was not until he had seen him for some time that he began to\nidentify him; but he had from the first vaguely associated him with me,\nand known him as somehow belonging to me in the old village time. How\nwas he dressed? Prosperously, but not noticeably otherwise; he thought,\nin black. Was his face at all disfigured? No, he believed not. I\nbelieved not too, for, although in my brooding state I had taken no\nespecial notice of the people behind me, I thought it likely that a\nface at all disfigured would have attracted my attention.\n\nWhen Mr. Wopsle had imparted to me all that he could recall or I\nextract, and when I had treated him to a little appropriate\nrefreshment, after the fatigues of the evening, we parted. It was\nbetween twelve and one o clock when I reached the Temple, and the gates\nwere shut. No one was near me when I went in and went home.\n\nHerbert had come in, and we held a very serious council by the fire.\nBut there was nothing to be done, saving to communicate to Wemmick what\nI had that night found out, and to remind him that we waited for his\nhint. As I thought that I might compromise him if I went too often to\nthe Castle, I made this communication by letter. I wrote it before I\nwent to bed, and went out and posted it; and again no one was near me.\nHerbert and I agreed that we could do nothing else but be very\ncautious. And we were very cautious indeed, more cautious than before,\nif that were possible, and I for my part never went near Chinks s\nBasin, except when I rowed by, and then I only looked at Mill Pond Bank\nas I looked at anything else.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XLVIII.\n\n\nThe second of the two meetings referred to in the last chapter occurred\nabout a week after the first. I had again left my boat at the wharf\nbelow Bridge; the time was an hour earlier in the afternoon; and,\nundecided where to dine, I had strolled up into Cheapside, and was\nstrolling along it, surely the most unsettled person in all the busy\nconcourse, when a large hand was laid upon my shoulder by some one\novertaking me. It was Mr. Jaggers s hand, and he passed it through my\narm.\n\n As we are going in the same direction, Pip, we may walk together.\nWhere are you bound for? \n\n For the Temple, I think,  said I.\n\n Don t you know?  said Mr. Jaggers.\n\n Well,  I returned, glad for once to get the better of him in\ncross-examination,  I do _not_ know, for I have not made up my mind. \n\n You are going to dine?  said Mr. Jaggers.  You don t mind admitting\nthat, I suppose? \n\n No,  I returned,  I don t mind admitting that. \n\n And are not engaged? \n\n I don t mind admitting also that I am not engaged. \n\n Then,  said Mr. Jaggers,  come and dine with me. \n\nI was going to excuse myself, when he added,  Wemmick s coming.  So I\nchanged my excuse into an acceptance, the few words I had uttered,\nserving for the beginning of either, and we went along Cheapside and\nslanted off to Little Britain, while the lights were springing up\nbrilliantly in the shop windows, and the street lamp-lighters, scarcely\nfinding ground enough to plant their ladders on in the midst of the\nafternoon s bustle, were skipping up and down and running in and out,\nopening more red eyes in the gathering fog than my rushlight tower at\nthe Hummums had opened white eyes in the ghostly wall.\n\nAt the office in Little Britain there was the usual letter-writing,\nhand-washing, candle-snuffing, and safe-locking, that closed the\nbusiness of the day. As I stood idle by Mr. Jaggers s fire, its rising\nand falling flame made the two casts on the shelf look as if they were\nplaying a diabolical game at bo-peep with me; while the pair of coarse,\nfat office candles that dimly lighted Mr. Jaggers as he wrote in a\ncorner were decorated with dirty winding-sheets, as if in remembrance\nof a host of hanged clients.\n\nWe went to Gerrard Street, all three together, in a hackney-coach: And,\nas soon as we got there, dinner was served. Although I should not have\nthought of making, in that place, the most distant reference by so much\nas a look to Wemmick s Walworth sentiments, yet I should have had no\nobjection to catching his eye now and then in a friendly way. But it\nwas not to be done. He turned his eyes on Mr. Jaggers whenever he\nraised them from the table, and was as dry and distant to me as if\nthere were twin Wemmicks, and this was the wrong one.\n\n Did you send that note of Miss Havisham s to Mr. Pip, Wemmick?  Mr.\nJaggers asked, soon after we began dinner.\n\n No, sir,  returned Wemmick;  it was going by post, when you brought\nMr. Pip into the office. Here it is.  He handed it to his principal\ninstead of to me.\n\n It s a note of two lines, Pip,  said Mr. Jaggers, handing it on,  sent\nup to me by Miss Havisham on account of her not being sure of your\naddress. She tells me that she wants to see you on a little matter of\nbusiness you mentioned to her. You ll go down? \n\n Yes,  said I, casting my eyes over the note, which was exactly in\nthose terms.\n\n When do you think of going down? \n\n I have an impending engagement,  said I, glancing at Wemmick, who was\nputting fish into the post-office,  that renders me rather uncertain of\nmy time. At once, I think. \n\n If Mr. Pip has the intention of going at once,  said Wemmick to Mr.\nJaggers,  he needn t write an answer, you know. \n\nReceiving this as an intimation that it was best not to delay, I\nsettled that I would go to-morrow, and said so. Wemmick drank a glass\nof wine, and looked with a grimly satisfied air at Mr. Jaggers, but not\nat me.\n\n So, Pip! Our friend the Spider,  said Mr. Jaggers,  has played his\ncards. He has won the pool. \n\nIt was as much as I could do to assent.\n\n Hah! He is a promising fellow in his way but he may not have it all\nhis own way. The stronger will win in the end, but the stronger has to\nbe found out first. If he should turn to, and beat her \n\n Surely,  I interrupted, with a burning face and heart,  you do not\nseriously think that he is scoundrel enough for that, Mr. Jaggers? \n\n I didn t say so, Pip. I am putting a case. If he should turn to and\nbeat her, he may possibly get the strength on his side; if it should be\na question of intellect, he certainly will not. It would be chance work\nto give an opinion how a fellow of that sort will turn out in such\ncircumstances, because it s a toss-up between two results. \n\n May I ask what they are? \n\n A fellow like our friend the Spider,  answered Mr. Jaggers,  either\nbeats or cringes. He may cringe and growl, or cringe and not growl; but\nhe either beats or cringes. Ask Wemmick _his_ opinion. \n\n Either beats or cringes,  said Wemmick, not at all addressing himself\nto me.\n\n So here s to Mrs. Bentley Drummle,  said Mr. Jaggers, taking a\ndecanter of choicer wine from his dumb-waiter, and filling for each of\nus and for himself,  and may the question of supremacy be settled to\nthe lady s satisfaction! To the satisfaction of the lady _and_ the\ngentleman, it never will be. Now, Molly, Molly, Molly, Molly, how slow\nyou are to-day! \n\nShe was at his elbow when he addressed her, putting a dish upon the\ntable. As she withdrew her hands from it, she fell back a step or two,\nnervously muttering some excuse. And a certain action of her fingers,\nas she spoke, arrested my attention.\n\n What s the matter?  said Mr. Jaggers.\n\n Nothing. Only the subject we were speaking of,  said I,  was rather\npainful to me. \n\nThe action of her fingers was like the action of knitting. She stood\nlooking at her master, not understanding whether she was free to go, or\nwhether he had more to say to her and would call her back if she did\ngo. Her look was very intent. Surely, I had seen exactly such eyes and\nsuch hands on a memorable occasion very lately!\n\nHe dismissed her, and she glided out of the room. But she remained\nbefore me as plainly as if she were still there. I looked at those\nhands, I looked at those eyes, I looked at that flowing hair; and I\ncompared them with other hands, other eyes, other hair, that I knew of,\nand with what those might be after twenty years of a brutal husband and\na stormy life. I looked again at those hands and eyes of the\nhousekeeper, and thought of the inexplicable feeling that had come over\nme when I last walked not alone in the ruined garden, and through the\ndeserted brewery. I thought how the same feeling had come back when I\nsaw a face looking at me, and a hand waving to me from a stage-coach\nwindow; and how it had come back again and had flashed about me like\nlightning, when I had passed in a carriage not alone through a sudden\nglare of light in a dark street. I thought how one link of association\nhad helped that identification in the theatre, and how such a link,\nwanting before, had been riveted for me now, when I had passed by a\nchance swift from Estella s name to the fingers with their knitting\naction, and the attentive eyes. And I felt absolutely certain that this\nwoman was Estella s mother.\n\nMr. Jaggers had seen me with Estella, and was not likely to have missed\nthe sentiments I had been at no pains to conceal. He nodded when I said\nthe subject was painful to me, clapped me on the back, put round the\nwine again, and went on with his dinner.\n\nOnly twice more did the housekeeper reappear, and then her stay in the\nroom was very short, and Mr. Jaggers was sharp with her. But her hands\nwere Estella s hands, and her eyes were Estella s eyes, and if she had\nreappeared a hundred times I could have been neither more sure nor less\nsure that my conviction was the truth.\n\nIt was a dull evening, for Wemmick drew his wine, when it came round,\nquite as a matter of business, just as he might have drawn his salary\nwhen that came round, and with his eyes on his chief, sat in a state of\nperpetual readiness for cross-examination. As to the quantity of wine,\nhis post-office was as indifferent and ready as any other post-office\nfor its quantity of letters. From my point of view, he was the wrong\ntwin all the time, and only externally like the Wemmick of Walworth.\n\nWe took our leave early, and left together. Even when we were groping\namong Mr. Jaggers s stock of boots for our hats, I felt that the right\ntwin was on his way back; and we had not gone half a dozen yards down\nGerrard Street in the Walworth direction, before I found that I was\nwalking arm in arm with the right twin, and that the wrong twin had\nevaporated into the evening air.\n\n Well!  said Wemmick,  that s over! He s a wonderful man, without his\nliving likeness; but I feel that I have to screw myself up when I dine\nwith him, and I dine more comfortably unscrewed. \n\nI felt that this was a good statement of the case, and told him so.\n\n Wouldn t say it to anybody but yourself,  he answered.  I know that\nwhat is said between you and me goes no further. \n\nI asked him if he had ever seen Miss Havisham s adopted daughter, Mrs.\nBentley Drummle. He said no. To avoid being too abrupt, I then spoke of\nthe Aged and of Miss Skiffins. He looked rather sly when I mentioned\nMiss Skiffins, and stopped in the street to blow his nose, with a roll\nof the head, and a flourish not quite free from latent boastfulness.\n\n Wemmick,  said I,  do you remember telling me, before I first went to\nMr. Jaggers s private house, to notice that housekeeper? \n\n Did I?  he replied.  Ah, I dare say I did. Deuce take me,  he added,\nsuddenly,  I know I did. I find I am not quite unscrewed yet. \n\n A wild beast tamed, you called her. \n\n And what do _you_ call her? \n\n The same. How did Mr. Jaggers tame her, Wemmick? \n\n That s his secret. She has been with him many a long year. \n\n I wish you would tell me her story. I feel a particular interest in\nbeing acquainted with it. You know that what is said between you and me\ngoes no further. \n\n Well!  Wemmick replied,  I don t know her story, that is, I don t know\nall of it. But what I do know I ll tell you. We are in our private and\npersonal capacities, of course. \n\n Of course. \n\n A score or so of years ago, that woman was tried at the Old Bailey for\nmurder, and was acquitted. She was a very handsome young woman, and I\nbelieve had some gypsy blood in her. Anyhow, it was hot enough when it\nwas up, as you may suppose. \n\n But she was acquitted. \n\n Mr. Jaggers was for her,  pursued Wemmick, with a look full of\nmeaning,  and worked the case in a way quite astonishing. It was a\ndesperate case, and it was comparatively early days with him then, and\nhe worked it to general admiration; in fact, it may almost be said to\nhave made him. He worked it himself at the police-office, day after day\nfor many days, contending against even a committal; and at the trial\nwhere he couldn t work it himself, sat under counsel, and every one\nknew put in all the salt and pepper. The murdered person was a woman, a\nwoman a good ten years older, very much larger, and very much stronger.\nIt was a case of jealousy. They both led tramping lives, and this woman\nin Gerrard Street here had been married very young, over the broomstick\n(as we say), to a tramping man, and was a perfect fury in point of\njealousy. The murdered woman, more a match for the man, certainly, in\npoint of years was found dead in a barn near Hounslow Heath. There had\nbeen a violent struggle, perhaps a fight. She was bruised and scratched\nand torn, and had been held by the throat, at last, and choked. Now,\nthere was no reasonable evidence to implicate any person but this\nwoman, and on the improbabilities of her having been able to do it Mr.\nJaggers principally rested his case. You may be sure,  said Wemmick,\ntouching me on the sleeve,  that he never dwelt upon the strength of\nher hands then, though he sometimes does now. \n\nI had told Wemmick of his showing us her wrists, that day of the dinner\nparty.\n\n Well, sir!  Wemmick went on;  it happened happened, don t you\nsee? that this woman was so very artfully dressed from the time of her\napprehension, that she looked much slighter than she really was; in\nparticular, her sleeves are always remembered to have been so skilfully\ncontrived that her arms had quite a delicate look. She had only a\nbruise or two about her, nothing for a tramp, but the backs of her\nhands were lacerated, and the question was, Was it with finger-nails?\nNow, Mr. Jaggers showed that she had struggled through a great lot of\nbrambles which were not as high as her face; but which she could not\nhave got through and kept her hands out of; and bits of those brambles\nwere actually found in her skin and put in evidence, as well as the\nfact that the brambles in question were found on examination to have\nbeen broken through, and to have little shreds of her dress and little\nspots of blood upon them here and there. But the boldest point he made\nwas this: it was attempted to be set up, in proof of her jealousy, that\nshe was under strong suspicion of having, at about the time of the\nmurder, frantically destroyed her child by this man some three years\nold to revenge herself upon him. Mr. Jaggers worked that in this way:\n We say these are not marks of finger-nails, but marks of brambles, and\nwe show you the brambles. You say they are marks of finger-nails, and\nyou set up the hypothesis that she destroyed her child. You must accept\nall consequences of that hypothesis. For anything we know, she may have\ndestroyed her child, and the child in clinging to her may have\nscratched her hands. What then? You are not trying her for the murder\nof her child; why don t you? As to this case, if you _will_ have\nscratches, we say that, for anything we know, you may have accounted\nfor them, assuming for the sake of argument that you have not invented\nthem?   To sum up, sir,  said Wemmick,  Mr. Jaggers was altogether too\nmany for the jury, and they gave in. \n\n Has she been in his service ever since? \n\n Yes; but not only that,  said Wemmick,  she went into his service\nimmediately after her acquittal, tamed as she is now. She has since\nbeen taught one thing and another in the way of her duties, but she was\ntamed from the beginning. \n\n Do you remember the sex of the child? \n\n Said to have been a girl. \n\n You have nothing more to say to me to-night? \n\n Nothing. I got your letter and destroyed it. Nothing. \n\nWe exchanged a cordial good-night, and I went home, with new matter for\nmy thoughts, though with no relief from the old.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XLIX.\n\n\nPutting Miss Havisham s note in my pocket, that it might serve as my\ncredentials for so soon reappearing at Satis House, in case her\nwaywardness should lead her to express any surprise at seeing me, I\nwent down again by the coach next day. But I alighted at the Halfway\nHouse, and breakfasted there, and walked the rest of the distance; for\nI sought to get into the town quietly by the unfrequented ways, and to\nleave it in the same manner.\n\nThe best light of the day was gone when I passed along the quiet\nechoing courts behind the High Street. The nooks of ruin where the old\nmonks had once had their refectories and gardens, and where the strong\nwalls were now pressed into the service of humble sheds and stables,\nwere almost as silent as the old monks in their graves. The cathedral\nchimes had at once a sadder and a more remote sound to me, as I hurried\non avoiding observation, than they had ever had before; so, the swell\nof the old organ was borne to my ears like funeral music; and the\nrooks, as they hovered about the grey tower and swung in the bare high\ntrees of the priory garden, seemed to call to me that the place was\nchanged, and that Estella was gone out of it for ever.\n\nAn elderly woman, whom I had seen before as one of the servants who\nlived in the supplementary house across the back courtyard, opened the\ngate. The lighted candle stood in the dark passage within, as of old,\nand I took it up and ascended the staircase alone. Miss Havisham was\nnot in her own room, but was in the larger room across the landing.\nLooking in at the door, after knocking in vain, I saw her sitting on\nthe hearth in a ragged chair, close before, and lost in the\ncontemplation of, the ashy fire.\n\nDoing as I had often done, I went in, and stood touching the old\nchimney-piece, where she could see me when she raised her eyes. There\nwas an air of utter loneliness upon her, that would have moved me to\npity though she had wilfully done me a deeper injury than I could\ncharge her with. As I stood compassionating her, and thinking how, in\nthe progress of time, I too had come to be a part of the wrecked\nfortunes of that house, her eyes rested on me. She stared, and said in\na low voice,  Is it real? \n\n It is I, Pip. Mr. Jaggers gave me your note yesterday, and I have lost\nno time. \n\n Thank you. Thank you. \n\nAs I brought another of the ragged chairs to the hearth and sat down, I\nremarked a new expression on her face, as if she were afraid of me.\n\n I want,  she said,  to pursue that subject you mentioned to me when\nyou were last here, and to show you that I am not all stone. But\nperhaps you can never believe, now, that there is anything human in my\nheart? \n\nWhen I said some reassuring words, she stretched out her tremulous\nright hand, as though she was going to touch me; but she recalled it\nagain before I understood the action, or knew how to receive it.\n\n You said, speaking for your friend, that you could tell me how to do\nsomething useful and good. Something that you would like done, is it\nnot? \n\n Something that I would like done very much. \n\n What is it? \n\nI began explaining to her that secret history of the partnership. I had\nnot got far into it, when I judged from her looks that she was thinking\nin a discursive way of me, rather than of what I said. It seemed to be\nso; for, when I stopped speaking, many moments passed before she showed\nthat she was conscious of the fact.\n\n Do you break off,  she asked then, with her former air of being afraid\nof me,  because you hate me too much to bear to speak to me? \n\n No, no,  I answered,  how can you think so, Miss Havisham! I stopped\nbecause I thought you were not following what I said. \n\n Perhaps I was not,  she answered, putting a hand to her head.  Begin\nagain, and let me look at something else. Stay! Now tell me. \n\nShe set her hand upon her stick in the resolute way that sometimes was\nhabitual to her, and looked at the fire with a strong expression of\nforcing herself to attend. I went on with my explanation, and told her\nhow I had hoped to complete the transaction out of my means, but how in\nthis I was disappointed. That part of the subject (I reminded her)\ninvolved matters which could form no part of my explanation, for they\nwere the weighty secrets of another.\n\n So!  said she, assenting with her head, but not looking at me.  And\nhow much money is wanting to complete the purchase? \n\nI was rather afraid of stating it, for it sounded a large sum.  Nine\nhundred pounds. \n\n If I give you the money for this purpose, will you keep my secret as\nyou have kept your own? \n\n Quite as faithfully. \n\n And your mind will be more at rest? \n\n Much more at rest. \n\n Are you very unhappy now? \n\nShe asked this question, still without looking at me, but in an\nunwonted tone of sympathy. I could not reply at the moment, for my\nvoice failed me. She put her left arm across the head of her stick, and\nsoftly laid her forehead on it.\n\n I am far from happy, Miss Havisham; but I have other causes of\ndisquiet than any you know of. They are the secrets I have mentioned. \n\nAfter a little while, she raised her head, and looked at the fire\nagain.\n\n It is noble in you to tell me that you have other causes of\nunhappiness. Is it true? \n\n Too true. \n\n Can I only serve you, Pip, by serving your friend? Regarding that as\ndone, is there nothing I can do for you yourself? \n\n Nothing. I thank you for the question. I thank you even more for the\ntone of the question. But there is nothing. \n\nShe presently rose from her seat, and looked about the blighted room\nfor the means of writing. There were none there, and she took from her\npocket a yellow set of ivory tablets, mounted in tarnished gold, and\nwrote upon them with a pencil in a case of tarnished gold that hung\nfrom her neck.\n\n You are still on friendly terms with Mr. Jaggers? \n\n Quite. I dined with him yesterday. \n\n This is an authority to him to pay you that money, to lay out at your\nirresponsible discretion for your friend. I keep no money here; but if\nyou would rather Mr. Jaggers knew nothing of the matter, I will send it\nto you. \n\n Thank you, Miss Havisham; I have not the least objection to receiving\nit from him. \n\nShe read me what she had written; and it was direct and clear, and\nevidently intended to absolve me from any suspicion of profiting by the\nreceipt of the money. I took the tablets from her hand, and it trembled\nagain, and it trembled more as she took off the chain to which the\npencil was attached, and put it in mine. All this she did without\nlooking at me.\n\n My name is on the first leaf. If you can ever write under my name,  I\nforgive her,  though ever so long after my broken heart is dust pray do\nit! \n\n O Miss Havisham,  said I,  I can do it now. There have been sore\nmistakes; and my life has been a blind and thankless one; and I want\nforgiveness and direction far too much, to be bitter with you. \n\nShe turned her face to me for the first time since she had averted it,\nand, to my amazement, I may even add to my terror, dropped on her knees\nat my feet; with her folded hands raised to me in the manner in which,\nwhen her poor heart was young and fresh and whole, they must often have\nbeen raised to heaven from her mother s side.\n\nTo see her with her white hair and her worn face kneeling at my feet\ngave me a shock through all my frame. I entreated her to rise, and got\nmy arms about her to help her up; but she only pressed that hand of\nmine which was nearest to her grasp, and hung her head over it and\nwept. I had never seen her shed a tear before, and, in the hope that\nthe relief might do her good, I bent over her without speaking. She was\nnot kneeling now, but was down upon the ground.\n\n O!  she cried, despairingly.  What have I done! What have I done! \n\n If you mean, Miss Havisham, what have you done to injure me, let me\nanswer. Very little. I should have loved her under any circumstances.\nIs she married? \n\n Yes. \n\nIt was a needless question, for a new desolation in the desolate house\nhad told me so.\n\n What have I done! What have I done!  She wrung her hands, and crushed\nher white hair, and returned to this cry over and over again.  What\nhave I done! \n\nI knew not how to answer, or how to comfort her. That she had done a\ngrievous thing in taking an impressionable child to mould into the form\nthat her wild resentment, spurned affection, and wounded pride found\nvengeance in, I knew full well. But that, in shutting out the light of\nday, she had shut out infinitely more; that, in seclusion, she had\nsecluded herself from a thousand natural and healing influences; that,\nher mind, brooding solitary, had grown diseased, as all minds do and\nmust and will that reverse the appointed order of their Maker, I knew\nequally well. And could I look upon her without compassion, seeing her\npunishment in the ruin she was, in her profound unfitness for this\nearth on which she was placed, in the vanity of sorrow which had become\na master mania, like the vanity of penitence, the vanity of remorse,\nthe vanity of unworthiness, and other monstrous vanities that have been\ncurses in this world?\n\n Until you spoke to her the other day, and until I saw in you a\nlooking-glass that showed me what I once felt myself, I did not know\nwhat I had done. What have I done! What have I done!  And so again,\ntwenty, fifty times over, What had she done!\n\n Miss Havisham,  I said, when her cry had died away,  you may dismiss\nme from your mind and conscience. But Estella is a different case, and\nif you can ever undo any scrap of what you have done amiss in keeping a\npart of her right nature away from her, it will be better to do that\nthan to bemoan the past through a hundred years. \n\n Yes, yes, I know it. But, Pip my dear!  There was an earnest womanly\ncompassion for me in her new affection.  My dear! Believe this: when\nshe first came to me, I meant to save her from misery like my own. At\nfirst, I meant no more. \n\n Well, well!  said I.  I hope so. \n\n But as she grew, and promised to be very beautiful, I gradually did\nworse, and with my praises, and with my jewels, and with my teachings,\nand with this figure of myself always before her, a warning to back and\npoint my lessons, I stole her heart away, and put ice in its place. \n\n Better,  I could not help saying,  to have left her a natural heart,\neven to be bruised or broken. \n\nWith that, Miss Havisham looked distractedly at me for a while, and\nthen burst out again, What had she done!\n\n If you knew all my story,  she pleaded,  you would have some\ncompassion for me and a better understanding of me. \n\n Miss Havisham,  I answered, as delicately as I could,  I believe I may\nsay that I do know your story, and have known it ever since I first\nleft this neighbourhood. It has inspired me with great commiseration,\nand I hope I understand it and its influences. Does what has passed\nbetween us give me any excuse for asking you a question relative to\nEstella? Not as she is, but as she was when she first came here? \n\nShe was seated on the ground, with her arms on the ragged chair, and\nher head leaning on them. She looked full at me when I said this, and\nreplied,  Go on. \n\n Whose child was Estella? \n\nShe shook her head.\n\n You don t know? \n\nShe shook her head again.\n\n But Mr. Jaggers brought her here, or sent her here? \n\n Brought her here. \n\n Will you tell me how that came about? \n\nShe answered in a low whisper and with caution:  I had been shut up in\nthese rooms a long time (I don t know how long; you know what time the\nclocks keep here), when I told him that I wanted a little girl to rear\nand love, and save from my fate. I had first seen him when I sent for\nhim to lay this place waste for me; having read of him in the\nnewspapers, before I and the world parted. He told me that he would\nlook about him for such an orphan child. One night he brought her here\nasleep, and I called her Estella. \n\n Might I ask her age then? \n\n Two or three. She herself knows nothing, but that she was left an\norphan and I adopted her. \n\nSo convinced I was of that woman s being her mother, that I wanted no\nevidence to establish the fact in my own mind. But, to any mind, I\nthought, the connection here was clear and straight.\n\nWhat more could I hope to do by prolonging the interview? I had\nsucceeded on behalf of Herbert, Miss Havisham had told me all she knew\nof Estella, I had said and done what I could to ease her mind. No\nmatter with what other words we parted; we parted.\n\nTwilight was closing in when I went downstairs into the natural air. I\ncalled to the woman who had opened the gate when I entered, that I\nwould not trouble her just yet, but would walk round the place before\nleaving. For I had a presentiment that I should never be there again,\nand I felt that the dying light was suited to my last view of it.\n\nBy the wilderness of casks that I had walked on long ago, and on which\nthe rain of years had fallen since, rotting them in many places, and\nleaving miniature swamps and pools of water upon those that stood on\nend, I made my way to the ruined garden. I went all round it; round by\nthe corner where Herbert and I had fought our battle; round by the\npaths where Estella and I had walked. So cold, so lonely, so dreary\nall!\n\nTaking the brewery on my way back, I raised the rusty latch of a little\ndoor at the garden end of it, and walked through. I was going out at\nthe opposite door, not easy to open now, for the damp wood had started\nand swelled, and the hinges were yielding, and the threshold was\nencumbered with a growth of fungus, when I turned my head to look back.\nA childish association revived with wonderful force in the moment of\nthe slight action, and I fancied that I saw Miss Havisham hanging to\nthe beam. So strong was the impression, that I stood under the beam\nshuddering from head to foot before I knew it was a fancy, though to be\nsure I was there in an instant.\n\nThe mournfulness of the place and time, and the great terror of this\nillusion, though it was but momentary, caused me to feel an\nindescribable awe as I came out between the open wooden gates where I\nhad once wrung my hair after Estella had wrung my heart. Passing on\ninto the front courtyard, I hesitated whether to call the woman to let\nme out at the locked gate of which she had the key, or first to go\nupstairs and assure myself that Miss Havisham was as safe and well as I\nhad left her. I took the latter course and went up.\n\nI looked into the room where I had left her, and I saw her seated in\nthe ragged chair upon the hearth close to the fire, with her back\ntowards me. In the moment when I was withdrawing my head to go quietly\naway, I saw a great flaming light spring up. In the same moment I saw\nher running at me, shrieking, with a whirl of fire blazing all about\nher, and soaring at least as many feet above her head as she was high.\n\nI had a double-caped great-coat on, and over my arm another thick coat.\nThat I got them off, closed with her, threw her down, and got them over\nher; that I dragged the great cloth from the table for the same\npurpose, and with it dragged down the heap of rottenness in the midst,\nand all the ugly things that sheltered there; that we were on the\nground struggling like desperate enemies, and that the closer I covered\nher, the more wildly she shrieked and tried to free herself, that this\noccurred I knew through the result, but not through anything I felt, or\nthought, or knew I did. I knew nothing until I knew that we were on the\nfloor by the great table, and that patches of tinder yet alight were\nfloating in the smoky air, which, a moment ago, had been her faded\nbridal dress.\n\nThen, I looked round and saw the disturbed beetles and spiders running\naway over the floor, and the servants coming in with breathless cries\nat the door. I still held her forcibly down with all my strength, like\na prisoner who might escape; and I doubt if I even knew who she was, or\nwhy we had struggled, or that she had been in flames, or that the\nflames were out, until I saw the patches of tinder that had been her\ngarments no longer alight but falling in a black shower around us.\n\nShe was insensible, and I was afraid to have her moved, or even\ntouched. Assistance was sent for, and I held her until it came, as if I\nunreasonably fancied (I think I did) that, if I let her go, the fire\nwould break out again and consume her. When I got up, on the surgeon s\ncoming to her with other aid, I was astonished to see that both my\nhands were burnt; for, I had no knowledge of it through the sense of\nfeeling.\n\nOn examination it was pronounced that she had received serious hurts,\nbut that they of themselves were far from hopeless; the danger lay\nmainly in the nervous shock. By the surgeon s directions, her bed was\ncarried into that room and laid upon the great table, which happened to\nbe well suited to the dressing of her injuries. When I saw her again,\nan hour afterwards, she lay, indeed, where I had seen her strike her\nstick, and had heard her say that she would lie one day.\n\nThough every vestige of her dress was burnt, as they told me, she still\nhad something of her old ghastly bridal appearance; for, they had\ncovered her to the throat with white cotton-wool, and as she lay with a\nwhite sheet loosely overlying that, the phantom air of something that\nhad been and was changed was still upon her.\n\nI found, on questioning the servants, that Estella was in Paris, and I\ngot a promise from the surgeon that he would write to her by the next\npost. Miss Havisham s family I took upon myself; intending to\ncommunicate with Mr. Matthew Pocket only, and leave him to do as he\nliked about informing the rest. This I did next day, through Herbert,\nas soon as I returned to town.\n\nThere was a stage, that evening, when she spoke collectedly of what had\nhappened, though with a certain terrible vivacity. Towards midnight she\nbegan to wander in her speech; and after that it gradually set in that\nshe said innumerable times in a low solemn voice,  What have I done! \nAnd then,  When she first came, I meant to save her from misery like\nmine.  And then,  Take the pencil and write under my name,  I forgive\nher!  She never changed the order of these three sentences, but she\nsometimes left out a word in one or other of them; never putting in\nanother word, but always leaving a blank and going on to the next word.\n\nAs I could do no service there, and as I had, nearer home, that\npressing reason for anxiety and fear which even her wanderings could\nnot drive out of my mind, I decided, in the course of the night that I\nwould return by the early morning coach, walking on a mile or so, and\nbeing taken up clear of the town. At about six o clock of the morning,\ntherefore, I leaned over her and touched her lips with mine, just as\nthey said, not stopping for being touched,  Take the pencil and write\nunder my name,  I forgive her. \n\n\n\n\nChapter L.\n\n\nMy hands had been dressed twice or thrice in the night, and again in\nthe morning. My left arm was a good deal burned to the elbow, and, less\nseverely, as high as the shoulder; it was very painful, but the flames\nhad set in that direction, and I felt thankful it was no worse. My\nright hand was not so badly burnt but that I could move the fingers. It\nwas bandaged, of course, but much less inconveniently than my left hand\nand arm; those I carried in a sling; and I could only wear my coat like\na cloak, loose over my shoulders and fastened at the neck. My hair had\nbeen caught by the fire, but not my head or face.\n\nWhen Herbert had been down to Hammersmith and seen his father, he came\nback to me at our chambers, and devoted the day to attending on me. He\nwas the kindest of nurses, and at stated times took off the bandages,\nand steeped them in the cooling liquid that was kept ready, and put\nthem on again, with a patient tenderness that I was deeply grateful\nfor.\n\nAt first, as I lay quiet on the sofa, I found it painfully difficult, I\nmight say impossible, to get rid of the impression of the glare of the\nflames, their hurry and noise, and the fierce burning smell. If I dozed\nfor a minute, I was awakened by Miss Havisham s cries, and by her\nrunning at me with all that height of fire above her head. This pain of\nthe mind was much harder to strive against than any bodily pain I\nsuffered; and Herbert, seeing that, did his utmost to hold my attention\nengaged.\n\nNeither of us spoke of the boat, but we both thought of it. That was\nmade apparent by our avoidance of the subject, and by our\nagreeing without agreement to make my recovery of the use of my hands a\nquestion of so many hours, not of so many weeks.\n\nMy first question when I saw Herbert had been of course, whether all\nwas well down the river? As he replied in the affirmative, with perfect\nconfidence and cheerfulness, we did not resume the subject until the\nday was wearing away. But then, as Herbert changed the bandages, more\nby the light of the fire than by the outer light, he went back to it\nspontaneously.\n\n I sat with Provis last night, Handel, two good hours. \n\n Where was Clara? \n\n Dear little thing!  said Herbert.  She was up and down with\nGruffandgrim all the evening. He was perpetually pegging at the floor\nthe moment she left his sight. I doubt if he can hold out long, though.\nWhat with rum and pepper, and pepper and rum, I should think his\npegging must be nearly over. \n\n And then you will be married, Herbert? \n\n How can I take care of the dear child otherwise? Lay your arm out upon\nthe back of the sofa, my dear boy, and I ll sit down here, and get the\nbandage off so gradually that you shall not know when it comes. I was\nspeaking of Provis. Do you know, Handel, he improves? \n\n I said to you I thought he was softened when I last saw him. \n\n So you did. And so he is. He was very communicative last night, and\ntold me more of his life. You remember his breaking off here about some\nwoman that he had had great trouble with. Did I hurt you? \n\nI had started, but not under his touch. His words had given me a start.\n\n I had forgotten that, Herbert, but I remember it now you speak of it. \n\n Well! He went into that part of his life, and a dark wild part it is.\nShall I tell you? Or would it worry you just now? \n\n Tell me by all means. Every word. \n\nHerbert bent forward to look at me more nearly, as if my reply had been\nrather more hurried or more eager than he could quite account for.\n Your head is cool?  he said, touching it.\n\n Quite,  said I.  Tell me what Provis said, my dear Herbert. \n\n It seems,  said Herbert,  there s a bandage off most charmingly, and\nnow comes the cool one, makes you shrink at first, my poor dear fellow,\ndon t it? but it will be comfortable presently, it seems that the woman\nwas a young woman, and a jealous woman, and a revengeful woman;\nrevengeful, Handel, to the last degree. \n\n To what last degree? \n\n Murder. Does it strike too cold on that sensitive place? \n\n I don t feel it. How did she murder? Whom did she murder? \n\n Why, the deed may not have merited quite so terrible a name,  said\nHerbert,  but, she was tried for it, and Mr. Jaggers defended her, and\nthe reputation of that defence first made his name known to Provis. It\nwas another and a stronger woman who was the victim, and there had been\na struggle in a barn. Who began it, or how fair it was, or how unfair,\nmay be doubtful; but how it ended is certainly not doubtful, for the\nvictim was found throttled. \n\n Was the woman brought in guilty? \n\n No; she was acquitted. My poor Handel, I hurt you! \n\n It is impossible to be gentler, Herbert. Yes? What else? \n\n This acquitted young woman and Provis had a little child; a little\nchild of whom Provis was exceedingly fond. On the evening of the very\nnight when the object of her jealousy was strangled as I tell you, the\nyoung woman presented herself before Provis for one moment, and swore\nthat she would destroy the child (which was in her possession), and he\nshould never see it again; then she vanished. There s the worst arm\ncomfortably in the sling once more, and now there remains but the right\nhand, which is a far easier job. I can do it better by this light than\nby a stronger, for my hand is steadiest when I don t see the poor\nblistered patches too distinctly. You don t think your breathing is\naffected, my dear boy? You seem to breathe quickly. \n\n Perhaps I do, Herbert. Did the woman keep her oath? \n\n There comes the darkest part of Provis s life. She did. \n\n That is, he says she did. \n\n Why, of course, my dear boy,  returned Herbert, in a tone of surprise,\nand again bending forward to get a nearer look at me.  He says it all.\nI have no other information. \n\n No, to be sure. \n\n Now, whether,  pursued Herbert,  he had used the child s mother ill,\nor whether he had used the child s mother well, Provis doesn t say; but\nshe had shared some four or five years of the wretched life he\ndescribed to us at this fireside, and he seems to have felt pity for\nher, and forbearance towards her. Therefore, fearing he should be\ncalled upon to depose about this destroyed child, and so be the cause\nof her death, he hid himself (much as he grieved for the child), kept\nhimself dark, as he says, out of the way and out of the trial, and was\nonly vaguely talked of as a certain man called Abel, out of whom the\njealousy arose. After the acquittal she disappeared, and thus he lost\nthe child and the child s mother. \n\n I want to ask \n\n A moment, my dear boy, and I have done. That evil genius, Compeyson,\nthe worst of scoundrels among many scoundrels, knowing of his keeping\nout of the way at that time and of his reasons for doing so, of course\nafterwards held the knowledge over his head as a means of keeping him\npoorer and working him harder. It was clear last night that this barbed\nthe point of Provis s animosity. \n\n I want to know,  said I,  and particularly, Herbert, whether he told\nyou when this happened? \n\n Particularly? Let me remember, then, what he said as to that. His\nexpression was,  a round score o  year ago, and a most directly after I\ntook up wi  Compeyson.  How old were you when you came upon him in the\nlittle churchyard? \n\n I think in my seventh year. \n\n Ay. It had happened some three or four years then, he said, and you\nbrought into his mind the little girl so tragically lost, who would\nhave been about your age. \n\n Herbert,  said I, after a short silence, in a hurried way,  can you\nsee me best by the light of the window, or the light of the fire? \n\n By the firelight,  answered Herbert, coming close again.\n\n Look at me. \n\n I do look at you, my dear boy. \n\n Touch me. \n\n I do touch you, my dear boy. \n\n You are not afraid that I am in any fever, or that my head is much\ndisordered by the accident of last night? \n\n N-no, my dear boy,  said Herbert, after taking time to examine me.\n You are rather excited, but you are quite yourself. \n\n I know I am quite myself. And the man we have in hiding down the\nriver, is Estella s Father. \n\n\n\n\nChapter LI.\n\n\nWhat purpose I had in view when I was hot on tracing out and proving\nEstella s parentage, I cannot say. It will presently be seen that the\nquestion was not before me in a distinct shape until it was put before\nme by a wiser head than my own.\n\nBut when Herbert and I had held our momentous conversation, I was\nseized with a feverish conviction that I ought to hunt the matter\ndown, that I ought not to let it rest, but that I ought to see Mr.\nJaggers, and come at the bare truth. I really do not know whether I\nfelt that I did this for Estella s sake, or whether I was glad to\ntransfer to the man in whose preservation I was so much concerned some\nrays of the romantic interest that had so long surrounded me. Perhaps\nthe latter possibility may be the nearer to the truth.\n\nAny way, I could scarcely be withheld from going out to Gerrard Street\nthat night. Herbert s representations that, if I did, I should probably\nbe laid up and stricken useless, when our fugitive s safety would\ndepend upon me, alone restrained my impatience. On the understanding,\nagain and again reiterated, that, come what would, I was to go to Mr.\nJaggers to-morrow, I at length submitted to keep quiet, and to have my\nhurts looked after, and to stay at home. Early next morning we went out\ntogether, and at the corner of Giltspur Street by Smithfield, I left\nHerbert to go his way into the City, and took my way to Little Britain.\n\nThere were periodical occasions when Mr. Jaggers and Wemmick went over\nthe office accounts, and checked off the vouchers, and put all things\nstraight. On these occasions, Wemmick took his books and papers into\nMr. Jaggers s room, and one of the upstairs clerks came down into the\nouter office. Finding such clerk on Wemmick s post that morning, I knew\nwhat was going on; but I was not sorry to have Mr. Jaggers and Wemmick\ntogether, as Wemmick would then hear for himself that I said nothing to\ncompromise him.\n\nMy appearance, with my arm bandaged and my coat loose over my\nshoulders, favoured my object. Although I had sent Mr. Jaggers a brief\naccount of the accident as soon as I had arrived in town, yet I had to\ngive him all the details now; and the speciality of the occasion caused\nour talk to be less dry and hard, and less strictly regulated by the\nrules of evidence, than it had been before. While I described the\ndisaster, Mr. Jaggers stood, according to his wont, before the fire.\nWemmick leaned back in his chair, staring at me, with his hands in the\npockets of his trousers, and his pen put horizontally into the post.\nThe two brutal casts, always inseparable in my mind from the official\nproceedings, seemed to be congestively considering whether they didn t\nsmell fire at the present moment.\n\nMy narrative finished, and their questions exhausted, I then produced\nMiss Havisham s authority to receive the nine hundred pounds for\nHerbert. Mr. Jaggers s eyes retired a little deeper into his head when\nI handed him the tablets, but he presently handed them over to Wemmick,\nwith instructions to draw the check for his signature. While that was\nin course of being done, I looked on at Wemmick as he wrote, and Mr.\nJaggers, poising and swaying himself on his well-polished boots, looked\non at me.  I am sorry, Pip,  said he, as I put the check in my pocket,\nwhen he had signed it,  that we do nothing for _you_. \n\n Miss Havisham was good enough to ask me,  I returned,  whether she\ncould do nothing for me, and I told her No. \n\n Everybody should know his own business,  said Mr. Jaggers. And I saw\nWemmick s lips form the words  portable property. \n\n I should _not_ have told her No, if I had been you,  said Mr Jaggers;\n but every man ought to know his own business best. \n\n Every man s business,  said Wemmick, rather reproachfully towards me,\n is portable property. \n\nAs I thought the time was now come for pursuing the theme I had at\nheart, I said, turning on Mr. Jaggers: \n\n I did ask something of Miss Havisham, however, sir. I asked her to\ngive me some information relative to her adopted daughter, and she gave\nme all she possessed. \n\n Did she?  said Mr. Jaggers, bending forward to look at his boots and\nthen straightening himself.  Hah! I don t think I should have done so,\nif I had been Miss Havisham. But _she_ ought to know her own business\nbest. \n\n I know more of the history of Miss Havisham s adopted child than Miss\nHavisham herself does, sir. I know her mother. \n\nMr. Jaggers looked at me inquiringly, and repeated  Mother? \n\n I have seen her mother within these three days. \n\n Yes?  said Mr. Jaggers.\n\n And so have you, sir. And you have seen her still more recently. \n\n Yes?  said Mr. Jaggers.\n\n Perhaps I know more of Estella s history than even you do,  said I.  I\nknow her father too. \n\nA certain stop that Mr. Jaggers came to in his manner he was too\nself-possessed to change his manner, but he could not help its being\nbrought to an indefinably attentive stop assured me that he did not\nknow who her father was. This I had strongly suspected from Provis s\naccount (as Herbert had repeated it) of his having kept himself dark;\nwhich I pieced on to the fact that he himself was not Mr. Jaggers s\nclient until some four years later, and when he could have no reason\nfor claiming his identity. But, I could not be sure of this\nunconsciousness on Mr. Jaggers s part before, though I was quite sure\nof it now.\n\n So! You know the young lady s father, Pip?  said Mr. Jaggers.\n\n Yes,  I replied,  and his name is Provis from New South Wales. \n\nEven Mr. Jaggers started when I said those words. It was the slightest\nstart that could escape a man, the most carefully repressed and the\nsooner checked, but he did start, though he made it a part of the\naction of taking out his pocket-handkerchief. How Wemmick received the\nannouncement I am unable to say; for I was afraid to look at him just\nthen, lest Mr. Jaggers s sharpness should detect that there had been\nsome communication unknown to him between us.\n\n And on what evidence, Pip,  asked Mr. Jaggers, very coolly, as he\npaused with his handkerchief half way to his nose,  does Provis make\nthis claim? \n\n He does not make it,  said I,  and has never made it, and has no\nknowledge or belief that his daughter is in existence. \n\nFor once, the powerful pocket-handkerchief failed. My reply was so\nunexpected, that Mr. Jaggers put the handkerchief back into his pocket\nwithout completing the usual performance, folded his arms, and looked\nwith stern attention at me, though with an immovable face.\n\nThen I told him all I knew, and how I knew it; with the one reservation\nthat I left him to infer that I knew from Miss Havisham what I in fact\nknew from Wemmick. I was very careful indeed as to that. Nor did I look\ntowards Wemmick until I had finished all I had to tell, and had been\nfor some time silently meeting Mr. Jaggers s look. When I did at last\nturn my eyes in Wemmick s direction, I found that he had unposted his\npen, and was intent upon the table before him.\n\n Hah!  said Mr. Jaggers at last, as he moved towards the papers on the\ntable.  What item was it you were at, Wemmick, when Mr. Pip came in? \n\nBut I could not submit to be thrown off in that way, and I made a\npassionate, almost an indignant appeal, to him to be more frank and\nmanly with me. I reminded him of the false hopes into which I had\nlapsed, the length of time they had lasted, and the discovery I had\nmade: and I hinted at the danger that weighed upon my spirits. I\nrepresented myself as being surely worthy of some little confidence\nfrom him, in return for the confidence I had just now imparted. I said\nthat I did not blame him, or suspect him, or mistrust him, but I wanted\nassurance of the truth from him. And if he asked me why I wanted it,\nand why I thought I had any right to it, I would tell him, little as he\ncared for such poor dreams, that I had loved Estella dearly and long,\nand that although I had lost her, and must live a bereaved life,\nwhatever concerned her was still nearer and dearer to me than anything\nelse in the world. And seeing that Mr. Jaggers stood quite still and\nsilent, and apparently quite obdurate, under this appeal, I turned to\nWemmick, and said,  Wemmick, I know you to be a man with a gentle\nheart. I have seen your pleasant home, and your old father, and all the\ninnocent, cheerful playful ways with which you refresh your business\nlife. And I entreat you to say a word for me to Mr. Jaggers, and to\nrepresent to him that, all circumstances considered, he ought to be\nmore open with me! \n\nI have never seen two men look more oddly at one another than Mr.\nJaggers and Wemmick did after this apostrophe. At first, a misgiving\ncrossed me that Wemmick would be instantly dismissed from his\nemployment; but it melted as I saw Mr. Jaggers relax into something\nlike a smile, and Wemmick become bolder.\n\n What s all this?  said Mr. Jaggers.  You with an old father, and you\nwith pleasant and playful ways? \n\n Well!  returned Wemmick.  If I don t bring  em here, what does it\nmatter? \n\n Pip,  said Mr. Jaggers, laying his hand upon my arm, and smiling\nopenly,  this man must be the most cunning impostor in all London. \n\n Not a bit of it,  returned Wemmick, growing bolder and bolder.  I\nthink you re another. \n\nAgain they exchanged their former odd looks, each apparently still\ndistrustful that the other was taking him in.\n\n _You_ with a pleasant home?  said Mr. Jaggers.\n\n Since it don t interfere with business,  returned Wemmick,  let it be\nso. Now, I look at you, sir, I shouldn t wonder if _you_ might be\nplanning and contriving to have a pleasant home of your own one of\nthese days, when you re tired of all this work. \n\nMr. Jaggers nodded his head retrospectively two or three times, and\nactually drew a sigh.  Pip,  said he,  we won t talk about  poor\ndreams;  you know more about such things than I, having much fresher\nexperience of that kind. But now about this other matter. I ll put a\ncase to you. Mind! I admit nothing. \n\nHe waited for me to declare that I quite understood that he expressly\nsaid that he admitted nothing.\n\n Now, Pip,  said Mr. Jaggers,  put this case. Put the case that a\nwoman, under such circumstances as you have mentioned, held her child\nconcealed, and was obliged to communicate the fact to her legal\nadviser, on his representing to her that he must know, with an eye to\nthe latitude of his defence, how the fact stood about that child. Put\nthe case that, at the same time he held a trust to find a child for an\neccentric rich lady to adopt and bring up. \n\n I follow you, sir. \n\n Put the case that he lived in an atmosphere of evil, and that all he\nsaw of children was their being generated in great numbers for certain\ndestruction. Put the case that he often saw children solemnly tried at\na criminal bar, where they were held up to be seen; put the case that\nhe habitually knew of their being imprisoned, whipped, transported,\nneglected, cast out, qualified in all ways for the hangman, and growing\nup to be hanged. Put the case that pretty nigh all the children he saw\nin his daily business life he had reason to look upon as so much spawn,\nto develop into the fish that were to come to his net, to be\nprosecuted, defended, forsworn, made orphans, bedevilled somehow. \n\n I follow you, sir. \n\n Put the case, Pip, that here was one pretty little child out of the\nheap who could be saved; whom the father believed dead, and dared make\nno stir about; as to whom, over the mother, the legal adviser had this\npower:  I know what you did, and how you did it. You came so and so,\nyou did such and such things to divert suspicion. I have tracked you\nthrough it all, and I tell it you all. Part with the child, unless it\nshould be necessary to produce it to clear you, and then it shall be\nproduced. Give the child into my hands, and I will do my best to bring\nyou off. If you are saved, your child is saved too; if you are lost,\nyour child is still saved.  Put the case that this was done, and that\nthe woman was cleared. \n\n I understand you perfectly. \n\n But that I make no admissions? \n\n That you make no admissions.  And Wemmick repeated,  No admissions. \n\n Put the case, Pip, that passion and the terror of death had a little\nshaken the woman s intellects, and that when she was set at liberty,\nshe was scared out of the ways of the world, and went to him to be\nsheltered. Put the case that he took her in, and that he kept down the\nold, wild, violent nature whenever he saw an inkling of its breaking\nout, by asserting his power over her in the old way. Do you comprehend\nthe imaginary case? \n\n Quite. \n\n Put the case that the child grew up, and was married for money. That\nthe mother was still living. That the father was still living. That the\nmother and father, unknown to one another, were dwelling within so many\nmiles, furlongs, yards if you like, of one another. That the secret was\nstill a secret, except that you had got wind of it. Put that last case\nto yourself very carefully. \n\n I do. \n\n I ask Wemmick to put it to _him_self very carefully. \n\nAnd Wemmick said,  I do. \n\n For whose sake would you reveal the secret? For the father s? I think\nhe would not be much the better for the mother. For the mother s? I\nthink if she had done such a deed she would be safer where she was. For\nthe daughter s? I think it would hardly serve her to establish her\nparentage for the information of her husband, and to drag her back to\ndisgrace, after an escape of twenty years, pretty secure to last for\nlife. But add the case that you had loved her, Pip, and had made her\nthe subject of those  poor dreams  which have, at one time or another,\nbeen in the heads of more men than you think likely, then I tell you\nthat you had better and would much sooner when you had thought well of\nit chop off that bandaged left hand of yours with your bandaged right\nhand, and then pass the chopper on to Wemmick there, to cut _that_ off\ntoo. \n\nI looked at Wemmick, whose face was very grave. He gravely touched his\nlips with his forefinger. I did the same. Mr. Jaggers did the same.\n Now, Wemmick,  said the latter then, resuming his usual manner,  what\nitem was it you were at when Mr. Pip came in? \n\nStanding by for a little, while they were at work, I observed that the\nodd looks they had cast at one another were repeated several times:\nwith this difference now, that each of them seemed suspicious, not to\nsay conscious, of having shown himself in a weak and unprofessional\nlight to the other. For this reason, I suppose, they were now\ninflexible with one another; Mr. Jaggers being highly dictatorial, and\nWemmick obstinately justifying himself whenever there was the smallest\npoint in abeyance for a moment. I had never seen them on such ill\nterms; for generally they got on very well indeed together.\n\nBut they were both happily relieved by the opportune appearance of\nMike, the client with the fur cap and the habit of wiping his nose on\nhis sleeve, whom I had seen on the very first day of my appearance\nwithin those walls. This individual, who, either in his own person or\nin that of some member of his family, seemed to be always in trouble\n(which in that place meant Newgate), called to announce that his eldest\ndaughter was taken up on suspicion of shoplifting. As he imparted this\nmelancholy circumstance to Wemmick, Mr. Jaggers standing magisterially\nbefore the fire and taking no share in the proceedings, Mike s eye\nhappened to twinkle with a tear.\n\n What are you about?  demanded Wemmick, with the utmost indignation.\n What do you come snivelling here for? \n\n I didn t go to do it, Mr. Wemmick. \n\n You did,  said Wemmick.  How dare you? You re not in a fit state to\ncome here, if you can t come here without spluttering like a bad pen.\nWhat do you mean by it? \n\n A man can t help his feelings, Mr. Wemmick,  pleaded Mike.\n\n His what?  demanded Wemmick, quite savagely.  Say that again! \n\n Now look here my man,  said Mr. Jaggers, advancing a step, and\npointing to the door.  Get out of this office. I ll have no feelings\nhere. Get out. \n\n It serves you right,  said Wemmick,  Get out. \n\nSo, the unfortunate Mike very humbly withdrew, and Mr. Jaggers and\nWemmick appeared to have re-established their good understanding, and\nwent to work again with an air of refreshment upon them as if they had\njust had lunch.\n\n\n\n\nChapter LII.\n\n\nFrom Little Britain I went, with my check in my pocket, to Miss\nSkiffins s brother, the accountant; and Miss Skiffins s brother, the\naccountant, going straight to Clarriker s and bringing Clarriker to me,\nI had the great satisfaction of concluding that arrangement. It was the\nonly good thing I had done, and the only completed thing I had done,\nsince I was first apprised of my great expectations.\n\nClarriker informing me on that occasion that the affairs of the House\nwere steadily progressing, that he would now be able to establish a\nsmall branch-house in the East which was much wanted for the extension\nof the business, and that Herbert in his new partnership capacity would\ngo out and take charge of it, I found that I must have prepared for a\nseparation from my friend, even though my own affairs had been more\nsettled. And now, indeed, I felt as if my last anchor were loosening\nits hold, and I should soon be driving with the winds and waves.\n\nBut there was recompense in the joy with which Herbert would come home\nof a night and tell me of these changes, little imagining that he told\nme no news, and would sketch airy pictures of himself conducting Clara\nBarley to the land of the Arabian Nights, and of me going out to join\nthem (with a caravan of camels, I believe), and of our all going up the\nNile and seeing wonders. Without being sanguine as to my own part in\nthose bright plans, I felt that Herbert s way was clearing fast, and\nthat old Bill Barley had but to stick to his pepper and rum, and his\ndaughter would soon be happily provided for.\n\nWe had now got into the month of March. My left arm, though it\npresented no bad symptoms, took, in the natural course, so long to heal\nthat I was still unable to get a coat on. My right arm was tolerably\nrestored; disfigured, but fairly serviceable.\n\nOn a Monday morning, when Herbert and I were at breakfast, I received\nthe following letter from Wemmick by the post.\n\n Walworth. Burn this as soon as read. Early in the week, or say\nWednesday, you might do what you know of, if you felt disposed to try\nit. Now burn. \n\nWhen I had shown this to Herbert and had put it in the fire but not\nbefore we had both got it by heart we considered what to do. For, of\ncourse my being disabled could now be no longer kept out of view.\n\n I have thought it over again and again,  said Herbert,  and I think I\nknow a better course than taking a Thames waterman. Take Startop. A\ngood fellow, a skilled hand, fond of us, and enthusiastic and\nhonourable. \n\nI had thought of him more than once.\n\n But how much would you tell him, Herbert? \n\n It is necessary to tell him very little. Let him suppose it a mere\nfreak, but a secret one, until the morning comes: then let him know\nthat there is urgent reason for your getting Provis aboard and away.\nYou go with him? \n\n No doubt. \n\n Where? \n\nIt had seemed to me, in the many anxious considerations I had given the\npoint, almost indifferent what port we made for, Hamburg, Rotterdam,\nAntwerp, the place signified little, so that he was out of England. Any\nforeign steamer that fell in our way and would take us up would do. I\nhad always proposed to myself to get him well down the river in the\nboat; certainly well beyond Gravesend, which was a critical place for\nsearch or inquiry if suspicion were afoot. As foreign steamers would\nleave London at about the time of high-water, our plan would be to get\ndown the river by a previous ebb-tide, and lie by in some quiet spot\nuntil we could pull off to one. The time when one would be due where we\nlay, wherever that might be, could be calculated pretty nearly, if we\nmade inquiries beforehand.\n\nHerbert assented to all this, and we went out immediately after\nbreakfast to pursue our investigations. We found that a steamer for\nHamburg was likely to suit our purpose best, and we directed our\nthoughts chiefly to that vessel. But we noted down what other foreign\nsteamers would leave London with the same tide, and we satisfied\nourselves that we knew the build and colour of each. We then separated\nfor a few hours: I, to get at once such passports as were necessary;\nHerbert, to see Startop at his lodgings. We both did what we had to do\nwithout any hindrance, and when we met again at one o clock reported it\ndone. I, for my part, was prepared with passports; Herbert had seen\nStartop, and he was more than ready to join.\n\nThose two should pull a pair of oars, we settled, and I would steer;\nour charge would be sitter, and keep quiet; as speed was not our\nobject, we should make way enough. We arranged that Herbert should not\ncome home to dinner before going to Mill Pond Bank that evening; that\nhe should not go there at all to-morrow evening, Tuesday; that he\nshould prepare Provis to come down to some stairs hard by the house, on\nWednesday, when he saw us approach, and not sooner; that all the\narrangements with him should be concluded that Monday night; and that\nhe should be communicated with no more in any way, until we took him on\nboard.\n\nThese precautions well understood by both of us, I went home.\n\nOn opening the outer door of our chambers with my key, I found a letter\nin the box, directed to me; a very dirty letter, though not\nill-written. It had been delivered by hand (of course, since I left\nhome), and its contents were these: \n\n If you are not afraid to come to the old marshes to-night or to-morrow\nnight at nine, and to come to the little sluice-house by the limekiln,\nyou had better come. If you want information regarding _your uncle\nProvis_, you had much better come and tell no one, and lose no time.\n_You must come alone_. Bring this with you. \n\nI had had load enough upon my mind before the receipt of this strange\nletter. What to do now, I could not tell. And the worst was, that I\nmust decide quickly, or I should miss the afternoon coach, which would\ntake me down in time for to-night. To-morrow night I could not think of\ngoing, for it would be too close upon the time of the flight. And\nagain, for anything I knew, the proffered information might have some\nimportant bearing on the flight itself.\n\nIf I had had ample time for consideration, I believe I should still\nhave gone. Having hardly any time for consideration, my watch showing\nme that the coach started within half an hour, I resolved to go. I\nshould certainly not have gone, but for the reference to my Uncle\nProvis. That, coming on Wemmick s letter and the morning s busy\npreparation, turned the scale.\n\nIt is so difficult to become clearly possessed of the contents of\nalmost any letter, in a violent hurry, that I had to read this\nmysterious epistle again twice, before its injunction to me to be\nsecret got mechanically into my mind. Yielding to it in the same\nmechanical kind of way, I left a note in pencil for Herbert, telling\nhim that as I should be so soon going away, I knew not for how long, I\nhad decided to hurry down and back, to ascertain for myself how Miss\nHavisham was faring. I had then barely time to get my great-coat, lock\nup the chambers, and make for the coach-office by the short by-ways. If\nI had taken a hackney-chariot and gone by the streets, I should have\nmissed my aim; going as I did, I caught the coach just as it came out\nof the yard. I was the only inside passenger, jolting away knee-deep in\nstraw, when I came to myself.\n\nFor I really had not been myself since the receipt of the letter; it\nhad so bewildered me, ensuing on the hurry of the morning. The morning\nhurry and flutter had been great; for, long and anxiously as I had\nwaited for Wemmick, his hint had come like a surprise at last. And now\nI began to wonder at myself for being in the coach, and to doubt\nwhether I had sufficient reason for being there, and to consider\nwhether I should get out presently and go back, and to argue against\never heeding an anonymous communication, and, in short, to pass through\nall those phases of contradiction and indecision to which I suppose\nvery few hurried people are strangers. Still, the reference to Provis\nby name mastered everything. I reasoned as I had reasoned already\nwithout knowing it, if that be reasoning, in case any harm should\nbefall him through my not going, how could I ever forgive myself!\n\nIt was dark before we got down, and the journey seemed long and dreary\nto me, who could see little of it inside, and who could not go outside\nin my disabled state. Avoiding the Blue Boar, I put up at an inn of\nminor reputation down the town, and ordered some dinner. While it was\npreparing, I went to Satis House and inquired for Miss Havisham; she\nwas still very ill, though considered something better.\n\nMy inn had once been a part of an ancient ecclesiastical house, and I\ndined in a little octagonal common-room, like a font. As I was not able\nto cut my dinner, the old landlord with a shining bald head did it for\nme. This bringing us into conversation, he was so good as to entertain\nme with my own story, of course with the popular feature that\nPumblechook was my earliest benefactor and the founder of my fortunes.\n\n Do you know the young man?  said I.\n\n Know him!  repeated the landlord.  Ever since he was no height at\nall. \n\n Does he ever come back to this neighbourhood? \n\n Ay, he comes back,  said the landlord,  to his great friends, now and\nagain, and gives the cold shoulder to the man that made him. \n\n What man is that? \n\n Him that I speak of,  said the landlord.  Mr. Pumblechook. \n\n Is he ungrateful to no one else? \n\n No doubt he would be, if he could,  returned the landlord,  but he\ncan t. And why? Because Pumblechook done everything for him. \n\n Does Pumblechook say so? \n\n Say so!  replied the landlord.  He han t no call to say so. \n\n But does he say so? \n\n It would turn a man s blood to white wine winegar to hear him tell of\nit, sir,  said the landlord.\n\nI thought,  Yet Joe, dear Joe, _you_ never tell of it. Long-suffering\nand loving Joe, _you_ never complain. Nor you, sweet-tempered Biddy! \n\n Your appetite s been touched like by your accident,  said the\nlandlord, glancing at the bandaged arm under my coat.  Try a tenderer\nbit. \n\n No, thank you,  I replied, turning from the table to brood over the\nfire.  I can eat no more. Please take it away. \n\nI had never been struck at so keenly, for my thanklessness to Joe, as\nthrough the brazen impostor Pumblechook. The falser he, the truer Joe;\nthe meaner he, the nobler Joe.\n\nMy heart was deeply and most deservedly humbled as I mused over the\nfire for an hour or more. The striking of the clock aroused me, but not\nfrom my dejection or remorse, and I got up and had my coat fastened\nround my neck, and went out. I had previously sought in my pockets for\nthe letter, that I might refer to it again; but I could not find it,\nand was uneasy to think that it must have been dropped in the straw of\nthe coach. I knew very well, however, that the appointed place was the\nlittle sluice-house by the limekiln on the marshes, and the hour nine.\nTowards the marshes I now went straight, having no time to spare.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nChapter LIII.\n\n\nIt was a dark night, though the full moon rose as I left the enclosed\nlands, and passed out upon the marshes. Beyond their dark line there\nwas a ribbon of clear sky, hardly broad enough to hold the red large\nmoon. In a few minutes she had ascended out of that clear field, in\namong the piled mountains of cloud.\n\nThere was a melancholy wind, and the marshes were very dismal. A\nstranger would have found them insupportable, and even to me they were\nso oppressive that I hesitated, half inclined to go back. But I knew\nthem well, and could have found my way on a far darker night, and had\nno excuse for returning, being there. So, having come there against my\ninclination, I went on against it.\n\nThe direction that I took was not that in which my old home lay, nor\nthat in which we had pursued the convicts. My back was turned towards\nthe distant Hulks as I walked on, and, though I could see the old\nlights away on the spits of sand, I saw them over my shoulder. I knew\nthe limekiln as well as I knew the old Battery, but they were miles\napart; so that, if a light had been burning at each point that night,\nthere would have been a long strip of the blank horizon between the two\nbright specks.\n\nAt first, I had to shut some gates after me, and now and then to stand\nstill while the cattle that were lying in the banked-up pathway arose\nand blundered down among the grass and reeds. But after a little while\nI seemed to have the whole flats to myself.\n\nIt was another half-hour before I drew near to the kiln. The lime was\nburning with a sluggish stifling smell, but the fires were made up and\nleft, and no workmen were visible. Hard by was a small stone-quarry. It\nlay directly in my way, and had been worked that day, as I saw by the\ntools and barrows that were lying about.\n\nComing up again to the marsh level out of this excavation, for the rude\npath lay through it, I saw a light in the old sluice-house. I quickened\nmy pace, and knocked at the door with my hand. Waiting for some reply,\nI looked about me, noticing how the sluice was abandoned and broken,\nand how the house of wood with a tiled roof would not be proof against\nthe weather much longer, if it were so even now, and how the mud and\nooze were coated with lime, and how the choking vapour of the kiln\ncrept in a ghostly way towards me. Still there was no answer, and I\nknocked again. No answer still, and I tried the latch.\n\nIt rose under my hand, and the door yielded. Looking in, I saw a\nlighted candle on a table, a bench, and a mattress on a truckle\nbedstead. As there was a loft above, I called,  Is there any one here? \nbut no voice answered. Then I looked at my watch, and, finding that it\nwas past nine, called again,  Is there any one here?  There being still\nno answer, I went out at the door, irresolute what to do.\n\nIt was beginning to rain fast. Seeing nothing save what I had seen\nalready, I turned back into the house, and stood just within the\nshelter of the doorway, looking out into the night. While I was\nconsidering that some one must have been there lately and must soon be\ncoming back, or the candle would not be burning, it came into my head\nto look if the wick were long. I turned round to do so, and had taken\nup the candle in my hand, when it was extinguished by some violent\nshock; and the next thing I comprehended was, that I had been caught in\na strong running noose, thrown over my head from behind.\n\n Now,  said a suppressed voice with an oath,  I ve got you! \n\n What is this?  I cried, struggling.  Who is it? Help, help, help! \n\nNot only were my arms pulled close to my sides, but the pressure on my\nbad arm caused me exquisite pain. Sometimes, a strong man s hand,\nsometimes a strong man s breast, was set against my mouth to deaden my\ncries, and with a hot breath always close to me, I struggled\nineffectually in the dark, while I was fastened tight to the wall.  And\nnow,  said the suppressed voice with another oath,  call out again, and\nI ll make short work of you! \n\nFaint and sick with the pain of my injured arm, bewildered by the\nsurprise, and yet conscious how easily this threat could be put in\nexecution, I desisted, and tried to ease my arm were it ever so little.\nBut, it was bound too tight for that. I felt as if, having been burnt\nbefore, it were now being boiled.\n\nThe sudden exclusion of the night, and the substitution of black\ndarkness in its place, warned me that the man had closed a shutter.\nAfter groping about for a little, he found the flint and steel he\nwanted, and began to strike a light. I strained my sight upon the\nsparks that fell among the tinder, and upon which he breathed and\nbreathed, match in hand, but I could only see his lips, and the blue\npoint of the match; even those but fitfully. The tinder was damp, no\nwonder there, and one after another the sparks died out.\n\nThe man was in no hurry, and struck again with the flint and steel. As\nthe sparks fell thick and bright about him, I could see his hands, and\ntouches of his face, and could make out that he was seated and bending\nover the table; but nothing more. Presently I saw his blue lips again,\nbreathing on the tinder, and then a flare of light flashed up, and\nshowed me Orlick.\n\nWhom I had looked for, I don t know. I had not looked for him. Seeing\nhim, I felt that I was in a dangerous strait indeed, and I kept my eyes\nupon him.\n\nHe lighted the candle from the flaring match with great deliberation,\nand dropped the match, and trod it out. Then he put the candle away\nfrom him on the table, so that he could see me, and sat with his arms\nfolded on the table and looked at me. I made out that I was fastened to\na stout perpendicular ladder a few inches from the wall, a fixture\nthere, the means of ascent to the loft above.\n\n Now,  said he, when we had surveyed one another for some time,  I ve\ngot you. \n\n Unbind me. Let me go! \n\n Ah!  he returned,  _I_ ll let you go. I ll let you go to the moon,\nI ll let you go to the stars. All in good time. \n\n Why have you lured me here? \n\n Don t you know?  said he, with a deadly look.\n\n Why have you set upon me in the dark? \n\n Because I mean to do it all myself. One keeps a secret better than\ntwo. O you enemy, you enemy! \n\nHis enjoyment of the spectacle I furnished, as he sat with his arms\nfolded on the table, shaking his head at me and hugging himself, had a\nmalignity in it that made me tremble. As I watched him in silence, he\nput his hand into the corner at his side, and took up a gun with a\nbrass-bound stock.\n\n Do you know this?  said he, making as if he would take aim at me.  Do\nyou know where you saw it afore? Speak, wolf! \n\n Yes,  I answered.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n You cost me that place. You did. Speak! \n\n What else could I do? \n\n You did that, and that would be enough, without more. How dared you to\ncome betwixt me and a young woman I liked? \n\n When did I? \n\n When didn t you? It was you as always give Old Orlick a bad name to\nher. \n\n You gave it to yourself; you gained it for yourself. I could have done\nyou no harm, if you had done yourself none. \n\n You re a liar. And you ll take any pains, and spend any money, to\ndrive me out of this country, will you?  said he, repeating my words to\nBiddy in the last interview I had with her.  Now, I ll tell you a piece\nof information. It was never so well worth your while to get me out of\nthis country as it is to-night. Ah! If it was all your money twenty\ntimes told, to the last brass farden!  As he shook his heavy hand at\nme, with his mouth snarling like a tiger s, I felt that it was true.\n\n What are you going to do to me? \n\n I m a-going,  said he, bringing his fist down upon the table with a\nheavy blow, and rising as the blow fell to give it greater force, I m\na-going to have your life! \n\nHe leaned forward staring at me, slowly unclenched his hand and drew it\nacross his mouth as if his mouth watered for me, and sat down again.\n\n You was always in Old Orlick s way since ever you was a child. You\ngoes out of his way this present night. He ll have no more on you.\nYou re dead. \n\nI felt that I had come to the brink of my grave. For a moment I looked\nwildly round my trap for any chance of escape; but there was none.\n\n More than that,  said he, folding his arms on the table again,  I\nwon t have a rag of you, I won t have a bone of you, left on earth.\nI ll put your body in the kiln, I d carry two such to it, on my\nshoulders and, let people suppose what they may of you, they shall\nnever know nothing. \n\nMy mind, with inconceivable rapidity followed out all the consequences\nof such a death. Estella s father would believe I had deserted him,\nwould be taken, would die accusing me; even Herbert would doubt me,\nwhen he compared the letter I had left for him with the fact that I had\ncalled at Miss Havisham s gate for only a moment; Joe and Biddy would\nnever know how sorry I had been that night, none would ever know what I\nhad suffered, how true I had meant to be, what an agony I had passed\nthrough. The death close before me was terrible, but far more terrible\nthan death was the dread of being misremembered after death. And so\nquick were my thoughts, that I saw myself despised by unborn\ngenerations, Estella s children, and their children, while the wretch s\nwords were yet on his lips.\n\n Now, wolf,  said he,  afore I kill you like any other beast, which is\nwot I mean to do and wot I have tied you up for, I ll have a good look\nat you and a good goad at you. O you enemy! \n\nIt had passed through my thoughts to cry out for help again; though few\ncould know better than I, the solitary nature of the spot, and the\nhopelessness of aid. But as he sat gloating over me, I was supported by\na scornful detestation of him that sealed my lips. Above all things, I\nresolved that I would not entreat him, and that I would die making some\nlast poor resistance to him. Softened as my thoughts of all the rest of\nmen were in that dire extremity; humbly beseeching pardon, as I did, of\nHeaven; melted at heart, as I was, by the thought that I had taken no\nfarewell, and never now could take farewell of those who were dear to\nme, or could explain myself to them, or ask for their compassion on my\nmiserable errors, still, if I could have killed him, even in dying, I\nwould have done it.\n\nHe had been drinking, and his eyes were red and bloodshot. Around his\nneck was slung a tin bottle, as I had often seen his meat and drink\nslung about him in other days. He brought the bottle to his lips, and\ntook a fiery drink from it; and I smelt the strong spirits that I saw\nflash into his face.\n\n Wolf!  said he, folding his arms again,  Old Orlick s a-going to tell\nyou somethink. It was you as did for your shrew sister. \n\nAgain my mind, with its former inconceivable rapidity, had exhausted\nthe whole subject of the attack upon my sister, her illness, and her\ndeath, before his slow and hesitating speech had formed these words.\n\n It was you, villain,  said I.\n\n I tell you it was your doing, I tell you it was done through you,  he\nretorted, catching up the gun, and making a blow with the stock at the\nvacant air between us.  I come upon her from behind, as I come upon you\nto-night. _I_ giv  it her! I left her for dead, and if there had been a\nlimekiln as nigh her as there is now nigh you, she shouldn t have come\nto life again. But it warn t Old Orlick as did it; it was you. You was\nfavoured, and he was bullied and beat. Old Orlick bullied and beat, eh?\nNow you pays for it. You done it; now you pays for it. \n\nHe drank again, and became more ferocious. I saw by his tilting of the\nbottle that there was no great quantity left in it. I distinctly\nunderstood that he was working himself up with its contents to make an\nend of me. I knew that every drop it held was a drop of my life. I knew\nthat when I was changed into a part of the vapour that had crept\ntowards me but a little while before, like my own warning ghost, he\nwould do as he had done in my sister s case, make all haste to the\ntown, and be seen slouching about there drinking at the alehouses. My\nrapid mind pursued him to the town, made a picture of the street with\nhim in it, and contrasted its lights and life with the lonely marsh and\nthe white vapour creeping over it, into which I should have dissolved.\n\nIt was not only that I could have summed up years and years and years\nwhile he said a dozen words, but that what he did say presented\npictures to me, and not mere words. In the excited and exalted state of\nmy brain, I could not think of a place without seeing it, or of persons\nwithout seeing them. It is impossible to overstate the vividness of\nthese images, and yet I was so intent, all the time, upon him\nhimself, who would not be intent on the tiger crouching to spring! that\nI knew of the slightest action of his fingers.\n\nWhen he had drunk this second time, he rose from the bench on which he\nsat, and pushed the table aside. Then, he took up the candle, and,\nshading it with his murderous hand so as to throw its light on me,\nstood before me, looking at me and enjoying the sight.\n\n Wolf, I ll tell you something more. It was Old Orlick as you tumbled\nover on your stairs that night. \n\nI saw the staircase with its extinguished lamps. I saw the shadows of\nthe heavy stair-rails, thrown by the watchman s lantern on the wall. I\nsaw the rooms that I was never to see again; here, a door half open;\nthere, a door closed; all the articles of furniture around.\n\n And why was Old Orlick there? I ll tell you something more, wolf. You\nand her _have_ pretty well hunted me out of this country, so far as\ngetting a easy living in it goes, and I ve took up with new companions,\nand new masters. Some of  em writes my letters when I wants  em\nwrote, do you mind? writes my letters, wolf! They writes fifty hands;\nthey re not like sneaking you, as writes but one. I ve had a firm mind\nand a firm will to have your life, since you was down here at your\nsister s burying. I han t seen a way to get you safe, and I ve looked\narter you to know your ins and outs. For, says Old Orlick to himself,\n Somehow or another I ll have him!  What! When I looks for you, I finds\nyour uncle Provis, eh? \n\nMill Pond Bank, and Chinks s Basin, and the Old Green Copper Rope-walk,\nall so clear and plain! Provis in his rooms, the signal whose use was\nover, pretty Clara, the good motherly woman, old Bill Barley on his\nback, all drifting by, as on the swift stream of my life fast running\nout to sea!\n\n _You_ with a uncle too! Why, I know d you at Gargery s when you was so\nsmall a wolf that I could have took your weazen betwixt this finger and\nthumb and chucked you away dead (as I d thoughts o  doing, odd times,\nwhen I see you loitering amongst the pollards on a Sunday), and you\nhadn t found no uncles then. No, not you! But when Old Orlick come for\nto hear that your uncle Provis had most like wore the leg-iron wot Old\nOrlick had picked up, filed asunder, on these meshes ever so many year\nago, and wot he kep by him till he dropped your sister with it, like a\nbullock, as he means to drop you hey? when he come for to hear\nthat hey? \n\nIn his savage taunting, he flared the candle so close at me that I\nturned my face aside to save it from the flame.\n\n Ah!  he cried, laughing, after doing it again,  the burnt child dreads\nthe fire! Old Orlick knowed you was burnt, Old Orlick knowed you was\nsmuggling your uncle Provis away, Old Orlick s a match for you and\nknow d you d come to-night! Now I ll tell you something more, wolf, and\nthis ends it. There s them that s as good a match for your uncle Provis\nas Old Orlick has been for you. Let him  ware them, when he s lost his\nnevvy! Let him  ware them, when no man can t find a rag of his dear\nrelation s clothes, nor yet a bone of his body. There s them that can t\nand that won t have Magwitch, yes, _I_ know the name! alive in the same\nland with them, and that s had such sure information of him when he was\nalive in another land, as that he couldn t and shouldn t leave it\nunbeknown and put them in danger. P raps it s them that writes fifty\nhands, and that s not like sneaking you as writes but one.  Ware\nCompeyson, Magwitch, and the gallows! \n\nHe flared the candle at me again, smoking my face and hair, and for an\ninstant blinding me, and turned his powerful back as he replaced the\nlight on the table. I had thought a prayer, and had been with Joe and\nBiddy and Herbert, before he turned towards me again.\n\nThere was a clear space of a few feet between the table and the\nopposite wall. Within this space, he now slouched backwards and\nforwards. His great strength seemed to sit stronger upon him than ever\nbefore, as he did this with his hands hanging loose and heavy at his\nsides, and with his eyes scowling at me. I had no grain of hope left.\nWild as my inward hurry was, and wonderful the force of the pictures\nthat rushed by me instead of thoughts, I could yet clearly understand\nthat, unless he had resolved that I was within a few moments of surely\nperishing out of all human knowledge, he would never have told me what\nhe had told.\n\nOf a sudden, he stopped, took the cork out of his bottle, and tossed it\naway. Light as it was, I heard it fall like a plummet. He swallowed\nslowly, tilting up the bottle by little and little, and now he looked\nat me no more. The last few drops of liquor he poured into the palm of\nhis hand, and licked up. Then, with a sudden hurry of violence and\nswearing horribly, he threw the bottle from him, and stooped; and I saw\nin his hand a stone-hammer with a long heavy handle.\n\nThe resolution I had made did not desert me, for, without uttering one\nvain word of appeal to him, I shouted out with all my might, and\nstruggled with all my might. It was only my head and my legs that I\ncould move, but to that extent I struggled with all the force, until\nthen unknown, that was within me. In the same instant I heard\nresponsive shouts, saw figures and a gleam of light dash in at the\ndoor, heard voices and tumult, and saw Orlick emerge from a struggle of\nmen, as if it were tumbling water, clear the table at a leap, and fly\nout into the night.\n\nAfter a blank, I found that I was lying unbound, on the floor, in the\nsame place, with my head on some one s knee. My eyes were fixed on the\nladder against the wall, when I came to myself, had opened on it before\nmy mind saw it, and thus as I recovered consciousness, I knew that I\nwas in the place where I had lost it.\n\nToo indifferent at first, even to look round and ascertain who\nsupported me, I was lying looking at the ladder, when there came\nbetween me and it a face. The face of Trabb s boy!\n\n I think he s all right!  said Trabb s boy, in a sober voice;  but\nain t he just pale though! \n\nAt these words, the face of him who supported me looked over into mine,\nand I saw my supporter to be \n\n Herbert! Great Heaven! \n\n Softly,  said Herbert.  Gently, Handel. Don t be too eager. \n\n And our old comrade, Startop!  I cried, as he too bent over me.\n\n Remember what he is going to assist us in,  said Herbert,  and be\ncalm. \n\nThe allusion made me spring up; though I dropped again from the pain in\nmy arm.  The time has not gone by, Herbert, has it? What night is\nto-night? How long have I been here?  For, I had a strange and strong\nmisgiving that I had been lying there a long time a day and a\nnight, two days and nights, more.\n\n The time has not gone by. It is still Monday night. \n\n Thank God! \n\n And you have all to-morrow, Tuesday, to rest in,  said Herbert.  But\nyou can t help groaning, my dear Handel. What hurt have you got? Can\nyou stand? \n\n Yes, yes,  said I,  I can walk. I have no hurt but in this throbbing\narm. \n\nThey laid it bare, and did what they could. It was violently swollen\nand inflamed, and I could scarcely endure to have it touched. But, they\ntore up their handkerchiefs to make fresh bandages, and carefully\nreplaced it in the sling, until we could get to the town and obtain\nsome cooling lotion to put upon it. In a little while we had shut the\ndoor of the dark and empty sluice-house, and were passing through the\nquarry on our way back. Trabb s boy Trabb s overgrown young man\nnow went before us with a lantern, which was the light I had seen come\nin at the door. But, the moon was a good two hours higher than when I\nhad last seen the sky, and the night, though rainy, was much lighter.\nThe white vapour of the kiln was passing from us as we went by, and as\nI had thought a prayer before, I thought a thanksgiving now.\n\nEntreating Herbert to tell me how he had come to my rescue, which at\nfirst he had flatly refused to do, but had insisted on my remaining\nquiet, I learnt that I had in my hurry dropped the letter, open, in our\nchambers, where he, coming home to bring with him Startop whom he had\nmet in the street on his way to me, found it, very soon after I was\ngone. Its tone made him uneasy, and the more so because of the\ninconsistency between it and the hasty letter I had left for him. His\nuneasiness increasing instead of subsiding, after a quarter of an\nhour s consideration, he set off for the coach-office with Startop, who\nvolunteered his company, to make inquiry when the next coach went down.\nFinding that the afternoon coach was gone, and finding that his\nuneasiness grew into positive alarm, as obstacles came in his way, he\nresolved to follow in a post-chaise. So he and Startop arrived at the\nBlue Boar, fully expecting there to find me, or tidings of me; but,\nfinding neither, went on to Miss Havisham s, where they lost me.\nHereupon they went back to the hotel (doubtless at about the time when\nI was hearing the popular local version of my own story) to refresh\nthemselves and to get some one to guide them out upon the marshes.\nAmong the loungers under the Boar s archway happened to be Trabb s\nBoy, true to his ancient habit of happening to be everywhere where he\nhad no business, and Trabb s boy had seen me passing from Miss\nHavisham s in the direction of my dining-place. Thus Trabb s boy became\ntheir guide, and with him they went out to the sluice-house, though by\nthe town way to the marshes, which I had avoided. Now, as they went\nalong, Herbert reflected, that I might, after all, have been brought\nthere on some genuine and serviceable errand tending to Provis s\nsafety, and, bethinking himself that in that case interruption must be\nmischievous, left his guide and Startop on the edge of the quarry, and\nwent on by himself, and stole round the house two or three times,\nendeavouring to ascertain whether all was right within. As he could\nhear nothing but indistinct sounds of one deep rough voice (this was\nwhile my mind was so busy), he even at last began to doubt whether I\nwas there, when suddenly I cried out loudly, and he answered the cries,\nand rushed in, closely followed by the other two.\n\nWhen I told Herbert what had passed within the house, he was for our\nimmediately going before a magistrate in the town, late at night as it\nwas, and getting out a warrant. But, I had already considered that such\na course, by detaining us there, or binding us to come back, might be\nfatal to Provis. There was no gainsaying this difficulty, and we\nrelinquished all thoughts of pursuing Orlick at that time. For the\npresent, under the circumstances, we deemed it prudent to make rather\nlight of the matter to Trabb s boy; who, I am convinced, would have\nbeen much affected by disappointment, if he had known that his\nintervention saved me from the limekiln. Not that Trabb s boy was of a\nmalignant nature, but that he had too much spare vivacity, and that it\nwas in his constitution to want variety and excitement at anybody s\nexpense. When we parted, I presented him with two guineas (which seemed\nto meet his views), and told him that I was sorry ever to have had an\nill opinion of him (which made no impression on him at all).\n\nWednesday being so close upon us, we determined to go back to London\nthat night, three in the post-chaise; the rather, as we should then be\nclear away before the night s adventure began to be talked of. Herbert\ngot a large bottle of stuff for my arm; and by dint of having this\nstuff dropped over it all the night through, I was just able to bear\nits pain on the journey. It was daylight when we reached the Temple,\nand I went at once to bed, and lay in bed all day.\n\nMy terror, as I lay there, of falling ill, and being unfitted for\nto-morrow, was so besetting, that I wonder it did not disable me of\nitself. It would have done so, pretty surely, in conjunction with the\nmental wear and tear I had suffered, but for the unnatural strain upon\nme that to-morrow was. So anxiously looked forward to, charged with\nsuch consequences, its results so impenetrably hidden, though so near.\n\nNo precaution could have been more obvious than our refraining from\ncommunication with him that day; yet this again increased my\nrestlessness. I started at every footstep and every sound, believing\nthat he was discovered and taken, and this was the messenger to tell me\nso. I persuaded myself that I knew he was taken; that there was\nsomething more upon my mind than a fear or a presentiment; that the\nfact had occurred, and I had a mysterious knowledge of it. As the days\nwore on, and no ill news came, as the day closed in and darkness fell,\nmy overshadowing dread of being disabled by illness before to-morrow\nmorning altogether mastered me. My burning arm throbbed, and my burning\nhead throbbed, and I fancied I was beginning to wander. I counted up to\nhigh numbers, to make sure of myself, and repeated passages that I knew\nin prose and verse. It happened sometimes that in the mere escape of a\nfatigued mind, I dozed for some moments or forgot; then I would say to\nmyself with a start,  Now it has come, and I am turning delirious! \n\nThey kept me very quiet all day, and kept my arm constantly dressed,\nand gave me cooling drinks. Whenever I fell asleep, I awoke with the\nnotion I had had in the sluice-house, that a long time had elapsed and\nthe opportunity to save him was gone. About midnight I got out of bed\nand went to Herbert, with the conviction that I had been asleep for\nfour-and-twenty hours, and that Wednesday was past. It was the last\nself-exhausting effort of my fretfulness, for after that I slept\nsoundly.\n\nWednesday morning was dawning when I looked out of window. The winking\nlights upon the bridges were already pale, the coming sun was like a\nmarsh of fire on the horizon. The river, still dark and mysterious, was\nspanned by bridges that were turning coldly grey, with here and there\nat top a warm touch from the burning in the sky. As I looked along the\nclustered roofs, with church-towers and spires shooting into the\nunusually clear air, the sun rose up, and a veil seemed to be drawn\nfrom the river, and millions of sparkles burst out upon its waters.\nFrom me too, a veil seemed to be drawn, and I felt strong and well.\n\nHerbert lay asleep in his bed, and our old fellow-student lay asleep on\nthe sofa. I could not dress myself without help; but I made up the\nfire, which was still burning, and got some coffee ready for them. In\ngood time they too started up strong and well, and we admitted the\nsharp morning air at the windows, and looked at the tide that was still\nflowing towards us.\n\n When it turns at nine o clock,  said Herbert, cheerfully,  look out\nfor us, and stand ready, you over there at Mill Pond Bank! \n\n\n\n\nChapter LIV.\n\n\nIt was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind\nblows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade. We\nhad our pea-coats with us, and I took a bag. Of all my worldly\npossessions I took no more than the few necessaries that filled the\nbag. Where I might go, what I might do, or when I might return, were\nquestions utterly unknown to me; nor did I vex my mind with them, for\nit was wholly set on Provis s safety. I only wondered for the passing\nmoment, as I stopped at the door and looked back, under what altered\ncircumstances I should next see those rooms, if ever.\n\nWe loitered down to the Temple stairs, and stood loitering there, as if\nwe were not quite decided to go upon the water at all. Of course, I had\ntaken care that the boat should be ready and everything in order. After\na little show of indecision, which there were none to see but the two\nor three amphibious creatures belonging to our Temple stairs, we went\non board and cast off; Herbert in the bow, I steering. It was then\nabout high-water, half-past eight.\n\nOur plan was this. The tide, beginning to run down at nine, and being\nwith us until three, we intended still to creep on after it had turned,\nand row against it until dark. We should then be well in those long\nreaches below Gravesend, between Kent and Essex, where the river is\nbroad and solitary, where the water-side inhabitants are very few, and\nwhere lone public-houses are scattered here and there, of which we\ncould choose one for a resting-place. There, we meant to lie by all\nnight. The steamer for Hamburg and the steamer for Rotterdam would\nstart from London at about nine on Thursday morning. We should know at\nwhat time to expect them, according to where we were, and would hail\nthe first; so that, if by any accident we were not taken abroad, we\nshould have another chance. We knew the distinguishing marks of each\nvessel.\n\nThe relief of being at last engaged in the execution of the purpose was\nso great to me that I felt it difficult to realise the condition in\nwhich I had been a few hours before. The crisp air, the sunlight, the\nmovement on the river, and the moving river itself, the road that ran\nwith us, seeming to sympathise with us, animate us, and encourage us\non, freshened me with new hope. I felt mortified to be of so little use\nin the boat; but, there were few better oarsmen than my two friends,\nand they rowed with a steady stroke that was to last all day.\n\nAt that time, the steam-traffic on the Thames was far below its present\nextent, and watermen s boats were far more numerous. Of barges, sailing\ncolliers, and coasting-traders, there were perhaps, as many as now; but\nof steam-ships, great and small, not a tithe or a twentieth part so\nmany. Early as it was, there were plenty of scullers going here and\nthere that morning, and plenty of barges dropping down with the tide;\nthe navigation of the river between bridges, in an open boat, was a\nmuch easier and commoner matter in those days than it is in these; and\nwe went ahead among many skiffs and wherries briskly.\n\nOld London Bridge was soon passed, and old Billingsgate Market with its\noyster-boats and Dutchmen, and the White Tower and Traitor s Gate, and\nwe were in among the tiers of shipping. Here were the Leith, Aberdeen,\nand Glasgow steamers, loading and unloading goods, and looking\nimmensely high out of the water as we passed alongside; here, were\ncolliers by the score and score, with the coal-whippers plunging off\nstages on deck, as counterweights to measures of coal swinging up,\nwhich were then rattled over the side into barges; here, at her\nmoorings was to-morrow s steamer for Rotterdam, of which we took good\nnotice; and here to-morrow s for Hamburg, under whose bowsprit we\ncrossed. And now I, sitting in the stern, could see, with a faster\nbeating heart, Mill Pond Bank and Mill Pond stairs.\n\n Is he there?  said Herbert.\n\n Not yet. \n\n Right! He was not to come down till he saw us. Can you see his\nsignal? \n\n Not well from here; but I think I see it. Now I see him! Pull both.\nEasy, Herbert. Oars! \n\nWe touched the stairs lightly for a single moment, and he was on board,\nand we were off again. He had a boat-cloak with him, and a black canvas\nbag; and he looked as like a river-pilot as my heart could have wished.\n\n Dear boy!  he said, putting his arm on my shoulder, as he took his\nseat.  Faithful dear boy, well done. Thankye, thankye! \n\nAgain among the tiers of shipping, in and out, avoiding rusty\nchain-cables frayed hempen hawsers and bobbing buoys, sinking for the\nmoment floating broken baskets, scattering floating chips of wood and\nshaving, cleaving floating scum of coal, in and out, under the\nfigure-head of the _John of Sunderland_ making a speech to the winds\n(as is done by many Johns), and the _Betsy of Yarmouth_ with a firm\nformality of bosom and her knobby eyes starting two inches out of her\nhead; in and out, hammers going in ship-builders  yards, saws going at\ntimber, clashing engines going at things unknown, pumps going in leaky\nships, capstans going, ships going out to sea, and unintelligible\nsea-creatures roaring curses over the bulwarks at respondent\nlightermen, in and out, out at last upon the clearer river, where the\nships  boys might take their fenders in, no longer fishing in troubled\nwaters with them over the side, and where the festooned sails might fly\nout to the wind.\n\nAt the stairs where we had taken him abroad, and ever since, I had\nlooked warily for any token of our being suspected. I had seen none. We\ncertainly had not been, and at that time as certainly we were not\neither attended or followed by any boat. If we had been waited on by\nany boat, I should have run in to shore, and have obliged her to go on,\nor to make her purpose evident. But we held our own without any\nappearance of molestation.\n\nHe had his boat-cloak on him, and looked, as I have said, a natural\npart of the scene. It was remarkable (but perhaps the wretched life he\nhad led accounted for it) that he was the least anxious of any of us.\nHe was not indifferent, for he told me that he hoped to live to see his\ngentleman one of the best of gentlemen in a foreign country; he was not\ndisposed to be passive or resigned, as I understood it; but he had no\nnotion of meeting danger half way. When it came upon him, he confronted\nit, but it must come before he troubled himself.\n\n If you knowed, dear boy,  he said to me,  what it is to sit here\nalonger my dear boy and have my smoke, arter having been day by day\nbetwixt four walls, you d envy me. But you don t know what it is. \n\n I think I know the delights of freedom,  I answered.\n\n Ah,  said he, shaking his head gravely.  But you don t know it equal\nto me. You must have been under lock and key, dear boy, to know it\nequal to me, but I ain t a-going to be low. \n\nIt occurred to me as inconsistent, that, for any mastering idea, he\nshould have endangered his freedom, and even his life. But I reflected\nthat perhaps freedom without danger was too much apart from all the\nhabit of his existence to be to him what it would be to another man. I\nwas not far out, since he said, after smoking a little: \n\n You see, dear boy, when I was over yonder, t other side the world, I\nwas always a looking to this side; and it come flat to be there, for\nall I was a growing rich. Everybody knowed Magwitch, and Magwitch could\ncome, and Magwitch could go, and nobody s head would be troubled about\nhim. They ain t so easy concerning me here, dear boy, wouldn t be,\nleastwise, if they knowed where I was. \n\n If all goes well,  said I,  you will be perfectly free and safe again\nwithin a few hours. \n\n Well,  he returned, drawing a long breath,  I hope so. \n\n And think so? \n\nHe dipped his hand in the water over the boat s gunwale, and said,\nsmiling with that softened air upon him which was not new to me: \n\n Ay, I s pose I think so, dear boy. We d be puzzled to be more quiet\nand easy-going than we are at present. But it s a flowing so soft and\npleasant through the water, p raps, as makes me think it I was a\nthinking through my smoke just then, that we can no more see to the\nbottom of the next few hours than we can see to the bottom of this\nriver what I catches hold of. Nor yet we can t no more hold their tide\nthan I can hold this. And it s run through my fingers and gone, you\nsee!  holding up his dripping hand.\n\n But for your face I should think you were a little despondent,  said\nI.\n\n Not a bit on it, dear boy! It comes of flowing on so quiet, and of\nthat there rippling at the boat s head making a sort of a Sunday tune.\nMaybe I m a growing a trifle old besides. \n\nHe put his pipe back in his mouth with an undisturbed expression of\nface, and sat as composed and contented as if we were already out of\nEngland. Yet he was as submissive to a word of advice as if he had been\nin constant terror; for, when we ran ashore to get some bottles of beer\ninto the boat, and he was stepping out, I hinted that I thought he\nwould be safest where he was, and he said.  Do you, dear boy?  and\nquietly sat down again.\n\nThe air felt cold upon the river, but it was a bright day, and the\nsunshine was very cheering. The tide ran strong, I took care to lose\nnone of it, and our steady stroke carried us on thoroughly well. By\nimperceptible degrees, as the tide ran out, we lost more and more of\nthe nearer woods and hills, and dropped lower and lower between the\nmuddy banks, but the tide was yet with us when we were off Gravesend.\nAs our charge was wrapped in his cloak, I purposely passed within a\nboat or two s length of the floating Custom House, and so out to catch\nthe stream, alongside of two emigrant ships, and under the bows of a\nlarge transport with troops on the forecastle looking down at us. And\nsoon the tide began to slacken, and the craft lying at anchor to swing,\nand presently they had all swung round, and the ships that were taking\nadvantage of the new tide to get up to the Pool began to crowd upon us\nin a fleet, and we kept under the shore, as much out of the strength of\nthe tide now as we could, standing carefully off from low shallows and\nmudbanks.\n\nOur oarsmen were so fresh, by dint of having occasionally let her drive\nwith the tide for a minute or two, that a quarter of an hour s rest\nproved full as much as they wanted. We got ashore among some slippery\nstones while we ate and drank what we had with us, and looked about. It\nwas like my own marsh country, flat and monotonous, and with a dim\nhorizon; while the winding river turned and turned, and the great\nfloating buoys upon it turned and turned, and everything else seemed\nstranded and still. For now the last of the fleet of ships was round\nthe last low point we had headed; and the last green barge,\nstraw-laden, with a brown sail, had followed; and some\nballast-lighters, shaped like a child s first rude imitation of a boat,\nlay low in the mud; and a little squat shoal-lighthouse on open piles\nstood crippled in the mud on stilts and crutches; and slimy stakes\nstuck out of the mud, and slimy stones stuck out of the mud, and red\nlandmarks and tidemarks stuck out of the mud, and an old landing-stage\nand an old roofless building slipped into the mud, and all about us was\nstagnation and mud.\n\nWe pushed off again, and made what way we could. It was much harder\nwork now, but Herbert and Startop persevered, and rowed and rowed and\nrowed until the sun went down. By that time the river had lifted us a\nlittle, so that we could see above the bank. There was the red sun, on\nthe low level of the shore, in a purple haze, fast deepening into\nblack; and there was the solitary flat marsh; and far away there were\nthe rising grounds, between which and us there seemed to be no life,\nsave here and there in the foreground a melancholy gull.\n\nAs the night was fast falling, and as the moon, being past the full,\nwould not rise early, we held a little council; a short one, for\nclearly our course was to lie by at the first lonely tavern we could\nfind. So, they plied their oars once more, and I looked out for\nanything like a house. Thus we held on, speaking little, for four or\nfive dull miles. It was very cold, and, a collier coming by us, with\nher galley-fire smoking and flaring, looked like a comfortable home.\nThe night was as dark by this time as it would be until morning; and\nwhat light we had, seemed to come more from the river than the sky, as\nthe oars in their dipping struck at a few reflected stars.\n\nAt this dismal time we were evidently all possessed by the idea that we\nwere followed. As the tide made, it flapped heavily at irregular\nintervals against the shore; and whenever such a sound came, one or\nother of us was sure to start, and look in that direction. Here and\nthere, the set of the current had worn down the bank into a little\ncreek, and we were all suspicious of such places, and eyed them\nnervously. Sometimes,  What was that ripple?  one of us would say in a\nlow voice. Or another,  Is that a boat yonder?  And afterwards we would\nfall into a dead silence, and I would sit impatiently thinking with\nwhat an unusual amount of noise the oars worked in the thowels.\n\nAt length we descried a light and a roof, and presently afterwards ran\nalongside a little causeway made of stones that had been picked up hard\nby. Leaving the rest in the boat, I stepped ashore, and found the light\nto be in a window of a public-house. It was a dirty place enough, and I\ndare say not unknown to smuggling adventurers; but there was a good\nfire in the kitchen, and there were eggs and bacon to eat, and various\nliquors to drink. Also, there were two double-bedded rooms, such as\nthey were,  the landlord said. No other company was in the house than\nthe landlord, his wife, and a grizzled male creature, the  Jack  of the\nlittle causeway, who was as slimy and smeary as if he had been\nlow-water mark too.\n\nWith this assistant, I went down to the boat again, and we all came\nashore, and brought out the oars, and rudder and boat-hook, and all\nelse, and hauled her up for the night. We made a very good meal by the\nkitchen fire, and then apportioned the bedrooms: Herbert and Startop\nwere to occupy one; I and our charge the other. We found the air as\ncarefully excluded from both, as if air were fatal to life; and there\nwere more dirty clothes and bandboxes under the beds than I should have\nthought the family possessed. But we considered ourselves well off,\nnotwithstanding, for a more solitary place we could not have found.\n\nWhile we were comforting ourselves by the fire after our meal, the\nJack who was sitting in a corner, and who had a bloated pair of shoes\non, which he had exhibited while we were eating our eggs and bacon, as\ninteresting relics that he had taken a few days ago from the feet of a\ndrowned seaman washed ashore asked me if we had seen a four-oared\ngalley going up with the tide? When I told him No, he said she must\nhave gone down then, and yet she  took up too,  when she left there.\n\n They must ha  thought better on t for some reason or another,  said\nthe Jack,  and gone down. \n\n A four-oared galley, did you say?  said I.\n\n A four,  said the Jack,  and two sitters. \n\n Did they come ashore here? \n\n They put in with a stone two-gallon jar for some beer. I d ha  been\nglad to pison the beer myself,  said the Jack,  or put some rattling\nphysic in it. \n\n Why? \n\n _I_ know why,  said the Jack. He spoke in a slushy voice, as if much\nmud had washed into his throat.\n\n He thinks,  said the landlord, a weakly meditative man with a pale\neye, who seemed to rely greatly on his Jack, he thinks they was, what\nthey wasn t. \n\n _I_ knows what I thinks,  observed the Jack.\n\n _You_ thinks Custom  Us, Jack?  said the landlord.\n\n I do,  said the Jack.\n\n Then you re wrong, Jack. \n\n AM I! \n\nIn the infinite meaning of his reply and his boundless confidence in\nhis views, the Jack took one of his bloated shoes off, looked into it,\nknocked a few stones out of it on the kitchen floor, and put it on\nagain. He did this with the air of a Jack who was so right that he\ncould afford to do anything.\n\n Why, what do you make out that they done with their buttons then,\nJack?  asked the landlord, vacillating weakly.\n\n Done with their buttons?  returned the Jack.  Chucked  em overboard.\nSwallered  em. Sowed  em, to come up small salad. Done with their\nbuttons! \n\n Don t be cheeky, Jack,  remonstrated the landlord, in a melancholy and\npathetic way.\n\n A Custom  Us officer knows what to do with his Buttons,  said the\nJack, repeating the obnoxious word with the greatest contempt,  when\nthey comes betwixt him and his own light. A four and two sitters don t\ngo hanging and hovering, up with one tide and down with another, and\nboth with and against another, without there being Custom  Us at the\nbottom of it.  Saying which he went out in disdain; and the landlord,\nhaving no one to reply upon, found it impracticable to pursue the\nsubject.\n\nThis dialogue made us all uneasy, and me very uneasy. The dismal wind\nwas muttering round the house, the tide was flapping at the shore, and\nI had a feeling that we were caged and threatened. A four-oared galley\nhovering about in so unusual a way as to attract this notice was an\nugly circumstance that I could not get rid of. When I had induced\nProvis to go up to bed, I went outside with my two companions (Startop\nby this time knew the state of the case), and held another council.\nWhether we should remain at the house until near the steamer s time,\nwhich would be about one in the afternoon, or whether we should put off\nearly in the morning, was the question we discussed. On the whole we\ndeemed it the better course to lie where we were, until within an hour\nor so of the steamer s time, and then to get out in her track, and\ndrift easily with the tide. Having settled to do this, we returned into\nthe house and went to bed.\n\nI lay down with the greater part of my clothes on, and slept well for a\nfew hours. When I awoke, the wind had risen, and the sign of the house\n(the Ship) was creaking and banging about, with noises that startled\nme. Rising softly, for my charge lay fast asleep, I looked out of the\nwindow. It commanded the causeway where we had hauled up our boat, and,\nas my eyes adapted themselves to the light of the clouded moon, I saw\ntwo men looking into her. They passed by under the window, looking at\nnothing else, and they did not go down to the landing-place which I\ncould discern to be empty, but struck across the marsh in the direction\nof the Nore.\n\nMy first impulse was to call up Herbert, and show him the two men going\naway. But reflecting, before I got into his room, which was at the back\nof the house and adjoined mine, that he and Startop had had a harder\nday than I, and were fatigued, I forbore. Going back to my window, I\ncould see the two men moving over the marsh. In that light, however, I\nsoon lost them, and, feeling very cold, lay down to think of the\nmatter, and fell asleep again.\n\nWe were up early. As we walked to and fro, all four together, before\nbreakfast, I deemed it right to recount what I had seen. Again our\ncharge was the least anxious of the party. It was very likely that the\nmen belonged to the Custom House, he said quietly, and that they had no\nthought of us. I tried to persuade myself that it was so, as, indeed,\nit might easily be. However, I proposed that he and I should walk away\ntogether to a distant point we could see, and that the boat should take\nus aboard there, or as near there as might prove feasible, at about\nnoon. This being considered a good precaution, soon after breakfast he\nand I set forth, without saying anything at the tavern.\n\nHe smoked his pipe as we went along, and sometimes stopped to clap me\non the shoulder. One would have supposed that it was I who was in\ndanger, not he, and that he was reassuring me. We spoke very little. As\nwe approached the point, I begged him to remain in a sheltered place,\nwhile I went on to reconnoitre; for it was towards it that the men had\npassed in the night. He complied, and I went on alone. There was no\nboat off the point, nor any boat drawn up anywhere near it, nor were\nthere any signs of the men having embarked there. But, to be sure, the\ntide was high, and there might have been some footprints under water.\n\nWhen he looked out from his shelter in the distance, and saw that I\nwaved my hat to him to come up, he rejoined me, and there we waited;\nsometimes lying on the bank, wrapped in our coats, and sometimes moving\nabout to warm ourselves, until we saw our boat coming round. We got\naboard easily, and rowed out into the track of the steamer. By that\ntime it wanted but ten minutes of one o clock, and we began to look out\nfor her smoke.\n\nBut, it was half-past one before we saw her smoke, and soon afterwards\nwe saw behind it the smoke of another steamer. As they were coming on\nat full speed, we got the two bags ready, and took that opportunity of\nsaying good-bye to Herbert and Startop. We had all shaken hands\ncordially, and neither Herbert s eyes nor mine were quite dry, when I\nsaw a four-oared galley shoot out from under the bank but a little way\nahead of us, and row out into the same track.\n\nA stretch of shore had been as yet between us and the steamer s smoke,\nby reason of the bend and wind of the river; but now she was visible,\ncoming head on. I called to Herbert and Startop to keep before the\ntide, that she might see us lying by for her, and I adjured Provis to\nsit quite still, wrapped in his cloak. He answered cheerily,  Trust to\nme, dear boy,  and sat like a statue. Meantime the galley, which was\nvery skilfully handled, had crossed us, let us come up with her, and\nfallen alongside. Leaving just room enough for the play of the oars,\nshe kept alongside, drifting when we drifted, and pulling a stroke or\ntwo when we pulled. Of the two sitters one held the rudder-lines, and\nlooked at us attentively, as did all the rowers; the other sitter was\nwrapped up, much as Provis was, and seemed to shrink, and whisper some\ninstruction to the steerer as he looked at us. Not a word was spoken in\neither boat.\n\nStartop could make out, after a few minutes, which steamer was first,\nand gave me the word  Hamburg,  in a low voice, as we sat face to face.\nShe was nearing us very fast, and the beating of her peddles grew\nlouder and louder. I felt as if her shadow were absolutely upon us,\nwhen the galley hailed us. I answered.\n\n You have a returned Transport there,  said the man who held the lines.\n That s the man, wrapped in the cloak. His name is Abel Magwitch,\notherwise Provis. I apprehend that man, and call upon him to surrender,\nand you to assist. \n\nAt the same moment, without giving any audible direction to his crew,\nhe ran the galley abroad of us. They had pulled one sudden stroke\nahead, had got their oars in, had run athwart us, and were holding on\nto our gunwale, before we knew what they were doing. This caused great\nconfusion on board the steamer, and I heard them calling to us, and\nheard the order given to stop the paddles, and heard them stop, but\nfelt her driving down upon us irresistibly. In the same moment, I saw\nthe steersman of the galley lay his hand on his prisoner s shoulder,\nand saw that both boats were swinging round with the force of the tide,\nand saw that all hands on board the steamer were running forward quite\nfrantically. Still, in the same moment, I saw the prisoner start up,\nlean across his captor, and pull the cloak from the neck of the\nshrinking sitter in the galley. Still in the same moment, I saw that\nthe face disclosed, was the face of the other convict of long ago.\nStill, in the same moment, I saw the face tilt backward with a white\nterror on it that I shall never forget, and heard a great cry on board\nthe steamer, and a loud splash in the water, and felt the boat sink\nfrom under me.\n\nIt was but for an instant that I seemed to struggle with a thousand\nmill-weirs and a thousand flashes of light; that instant past, I was\ntaken on board the galley. Herbert was there, and Startop was there;\nbut our boat was gone, and the two convicts were gone.\n\nWhat with the cries aboard the steamer, and the furious blowing off of\nher steam, and her driving on, and our driving on, I could not at first\ndistinguish sky from water or shore from shore; but the crew of the\ngalley righted her with great speed, and, pulling certain swift strong\nstrokes ahead, lay upon their oars, every man looking silently and\neagerly at the water astern. Presently a dark object was seen in it,\nbearing towards us on the tide. No man spoke, but the steersman held up\nhis hand, and all softly backed water, and kept the boat straight and\ntrue before it. As it came nearer, I saw it to be Magwitch, swimming,\nbut not swimming freely. He was taken on board, and instantly manacled\nat the wrists and ankles.\n\nThe galley was kept steady, and the silent, eager look-out at the water\nwas resumed. But, the Rotterdam steamer now came up, and apparently not\nunderstanding what had happened, came on at speed. By the time she had\nbeen hailed and stopped, both steamers were drifting away from us, and\nwe were rising and falling in a troubled wake of water. The look-out\nwas kept, long after all was still again and the two steamers were\ngone; but everybody knew that it was hopeless now.\n\nAt length we gave it up, and pulled under the shore towards the tavern\nwe had lately left, where we were received with no little surprise.\nHere I was able to get some comforts for Magwitch, Provis no\nlonger, who had received some very severe injury in the chest, and a\ndeep cut in the head.\n\nHe told me that he believed himself to have gone under the keel of the\nsteamer, and to have been struck on the head in rising. The injury to\nhis chest (which rendered his breathing extremely painful) he thought\nhe had received against the side of the galley. He added that he did\nnot pretend to say what he might or might not have done to Compeyson,\nbut that, in the moment of his laying his hand on his cloak to identify\nhim, that villain had staggered up and staggered back, and they had\nboth gone overboard together, when the sudden wrenching of him\n(Magwitch) out of our boat, and the endeavour of his captor to keep him\nin it, had capsized us. He told me in a whisper that they had gone down\nfiercely locked in each other s arms, and that there had been a\nstruggle under water, and that he had disengaged himself, struck out,\nand swum away.\n\nI never had any reason to doubt the exact truth of what he thus told\nme. The officer who steered the galley gave the same account of their\ngoing overboard.\n\nWhen I asked this officer s permission to change the prisoner s wet\nclothes by purchasing any spare garments I could get at the\npublic-house, he gave it readily: merely observing that he must take\ncharge of everything his prisoner had about him. So the pocket-book\nwhich had once been in my hands passed into the officer s. He further\ngave me leave to accompany the prisoner to London; but declined to\naccord that grace to my two friends.\n\nThe Jack at the Ship was instructed where the drowned man had gone\ndown, and undertook to search for the body in the places where it was\nlikeliest to come ashore. His interest in its recovery seemed to me to\nbe much heightened when he heard that it had stockings on. Probably, it\ntook about a dozen drowned men to fit him out completely; and that may\nhave been the reason why the different articles of his dress were in\nvarious stages of decay.\n\nWe remained at the public-house until the tide turned, and then\nMagwitch was carried down to the galley and put on board. Herbert and\nStartop were to get to London by land, as soon as they could. We had a\ndoleful parting, and when I took my place by Magwitch s side, I felt\nthat that was my place henceforth while he lived.\n\nFor now, my repugnance to him had all melted away; and in the hunted,\nwounded, shackled creature who held my hand in his, I only saw a man\nwho had meant to be my benefactor, and who had felt affectionately,\ngratefully, and generously, towards me with great constancy through a\nseries of years. I only saw in him a much better man than I had been to\nJoe.\n\nHis breathing became more difficult and painful as the night drew on,\nand often he could not repress a groan. I tried to rest him on the arm\nI could use, in any easy position; but it was dreadful to think that I\ncould not be sorry at heart for his being badly hurt, since it was\nunquestionably best that he should die. That there were, still living,\npeople enough who were able and willing to identify him, I could not\ndoubt. That he would be leniently treated, I could not hope. He who had\nbeen presented in the worst light at his trial, who had since broken\nprison and had been tried again, who had returned from transportation\nunder a life sentence, and who had occasioned the death of the man who\nwas the cause of his arrest.\n\nAs we returned towards the setting sun we had yesterday left behind us,\nand as the stream of our hopes seemed all running back, I told him how\ngrieved I was to think that he had come home for my sake.\n\n Dear boy,  he answered,  I m quite content to take my chance. I ve\nseen my boy, and he can be a gentleman without me. \n\nNo. I had thought about that, while we had been there side by side. No.\nApart from any inclinations of my own, I understood Wemmick s hint now.\nI foresaw that, being convicted, his possessions would be forfeited to\nthe Crown.\n\n Lookee here, dear boy,  said he  It s best as a gentleman should not\nbe knowed to belong to me now. Only come to see me as if you come by\nchance alonger Wemmick. Sit where I can see you when I am swore to, for\nthe last o  many times, and I don t ask no more. \n\n I will never stir from your side,  said I,  when I am suffered to be\nnear you. Please God, I will be as true to you as you have been to me! \n\nI felt his hand tremble as it held mine, and he turned his face away as\nhe lay in the bottom of the boat, and I heard that old sound in his\nthroat, softened now, like all the rest of him. It was a good thing\nthat he had touched this point, for it put into my mind what I might\nnot otherwise have thought of until too late, that he need never know\nhow his hopes of enriching me had perished.\n\n\n\n\nChapter LV.\n\n\nHe was taken to the Police Court next day, and would have been\nimmediately committed for trial, but that it was necessary to send down\nfor an old officer of the prison-ship from which he had once escaped,\nto speak to his identity. Nobody doubted it; but Compeyson, who had\nmeant to depose to it, was tumbling on the tides, dead, and it happened\nthat there was not at that time any prison officer in London who could\ngive the required evidence. I had gone direct to Mr. Jaggers at his\nprivate house, on my arrival over night, to retain his assistance, and\nMr. Jaggers on the prisoner s behalf would admit nothing. It was the\nsole resource; for he told me that the case must be over in five\nminutes when the witness was there, and that no power on earth could\nprevent its going against us.\n\nI imparted to Mr. Jaggers my design of keeping him in ignorance of the\nfate of his wealth. Mr. Jaggers was querulous and angry with me for\nhaving  let it slip through my fingers,  and said we must memorialise\nby and by, and try at all events for some of it. But he did not conceal\nfrom me that, although there might be many cases in which the\nforfeiture would not be exacted, there were no circumstances in this\ncase to make it one of them. I understood that very well. I was not\nrelated to the outlaw, or connected with him by any recognisable tie;\nhe had put his hand to no writing or settlement in my favour before his\napprehension, and to do so now would be idle. I had no claim, and I\nfinally resolved, and ever afterwards abided by the resolution, that my\nheart should never be sickened with the hopeless task of attempting to\nestablish one.\n\nThere appeared to be reason for supposing that the drowned informer had\nhoped for a reward out of this forfeiture, and had obtained some\naccurate knowledge of Magwitch s affairs. When his body was found, many\nmiles from the scene of his death, and so horribly disfigured that he\nwas only recognisable by the contents of his pockets, notes were still\nlegible, folded in a case he carried. Among these were the name of a\nbanking-house in New South Wales, where a sum of money was, and the\ndesignation of certain lands of considerable value. Both these heads of\ninformation were in a list that Magwitch, while in prison, gave to Mr.\nJaggers, of the possessions he supposed I should inherit. His\nignorance, poor fellow, at last served him; he never mistrusted but\nthat my inheritance was quite safe, with Mr. Jaggers s aid.\n\nAfter three days  delay, during which the crown prosecution stood over\nfor the production of the witness from the prison-ship, the witness\ncame, and completed the easy case. He was committed to take his trial\nat the next Sessions, which would come on in a month.\n\nIt was at this dark time of my life that Herbert returned home one\nevening, a good deal cast down, and said, \n\n My dear Handel, I fear I shall soon have to leave you. \n\nHis partner having prepared me for that, I was less surprised than he\nthought.\n\n We shall lose a fine opportunity if I put off going to Cairo, and I am\nvery much afraid I must go, Handel, when you most need me. \n\n Herbert, I shall always need you, because I shall always love you; but\nmy need is no greater now than at another time. \n\n You will be so lonely. \n\n I have not leisure to think of that,  said I.  You know that I am\nalways with him to the full extent of the time allowed, and that I\nshould be with him all day long, if I could. And when I come away from\nhim, you know that my thoughts are with him. \n\nThe dreadful condition to which he was brought, was so appalling to\nboth of us, that we could not refer to it in plainer words.\n\n My dear fellow,  said Herbert,  let the near prospect of our\nseparation for, it is very near be my justification for troubling you\nabout yourself. Have you thought of your future? \n\n No, for I have been afraid to think of any future. \n\n But yours cannot be dismissed; indeed, my dear dear Handel, it must\nnot be dismissed. I wish you would enter on it now, as far as a few\nfriendly words go, with me. \n\n I will,  said I.\n\n In this branch house of ours, Handel, we must have a \n\nI saw that his delicacy was avoiding the right word, so I said,  A\nclerk. \n\n A clerk. And I hope it is not at all unlikely that he may expand (as a\nclerk of your acquaintance has expanded) into a partner. Now,\nHandel, in short, my dear boy, will you come to me? \n\nThere was something charmingly cordial and engaging in the manner in\nwhich after saying  Now, Handel,  as if it were the grave beginning of\na portentous business exordium, he had suddenly given up that tone,\nstretched out his honest hand, and spoken like a schoolboy.\n\n Clara and I have talked about it again and again,  Herbert pursued,\n and the dear little thing begged me only this evening, with tears in\nher eyes, to say to you that, if you will live with us when we come\ntogether, she will do her best to make you happy, and to convince her\nhusband s friend that he is her friend too. We should get on so well,\nHandel! \n\nI thanked her heartily, and I thanked him heartily, but said I could\nnot yet make sure of joining him as he so kindly offered. Firstly, my\nmind was too preoccupied to be able to take in the subject clearly.\nSecondly, Yes! Secondly, there was a vague something lingering in my\nthoughts that will come out very near the end of this slight narrative.\n\n But if you thought, Herbert, that you could, without doing any injury\nto your business, leave the question open for a little while \n\n For any while,  cried Herbert.  Six months, a year! \n\n Not so long as that,  said I.  Two or three months at most. \n\nHerbert was highly delighted when we shook hands on this arrangement,\nand said he could now take courage to tell me that he believed he must\ngo away at the end of the week.\n\n And Clara?  said I.\n\n The dear little thing,  returned Herbert,  holds dutifully to her\nfather as long as he lasts; but he won t last long. Mrs. Whimple\nconfides to me that he is certainly going. \n\n Not to say an unfeeling thing,  said I,  he cannot do better than go. \n\n I am afraid that must be admitted,  said Herbert;  and then I shall\ncome back for the dear little thing, and the dear little thing and I\nwill walk quietly into the nearest church. Remember! The blessed\ndarling comes of no family, my dear Handel, and never looked into the\nred book, and hasn t a notion about her grandpapa. What a fortune for\nthe son of my mother! \n\nOn the Saturday in that same week, I took my leave of Herbert, full of\nbright hope, but sad and sorry to leave me, as he sat on one of the\nseaport mail coaches. I went into a coffee-house to write a little note\nto Clara, telling her he had gone off, sending his love to her over and\nover again, and then went to my lonely home, if it deserved the name;\nfor it was now no home to me, and I had no home anywhere.\n\nOn the stairs I encountered Wemmick, who was coming down, after an\nunsuccessful application of his knuckles to my door. I had not seen him\nalone since the disastrous issue of the attempted flight; and he had\ncome, in his private and personal capacity, to say a few words of\nexplanation in reference to that failure.\n\n The late Compeyson,  said Wemmick,  had by little and little got at\nthe bottom of half of the regular business now transacted; and it was\nfrom the talk of some of his people in trouble (some of his people\nbeing always in trouble) that I heard what I did. I kept my ears open,\nseeming to have them shut, until I heard that he was absent, and I\nthought that would be the best time for making the attempt. I can only\nsuppose now, that it was a part of his policy, as a very clever man,\nhabitually to deceive his own instruments. You don t blame me, I hope,\nMr. Pip? I am sure I tried to serve you, with all my heart. \n\n I am as sure of that, Wemmick, as you can be, and I thank you most\nearnestly for all your interest and friendship. \n\n Thank you, thank you very much. It s a bad job,  said Wemmick,\nscratching his head,  and I assure you I haven t been so cut up for a\nlong time. What I look at is the sacrifice of so much portable\nproperty. Dear me! \n\n What _I_ think of, Wemmick, is the poor owner of the property. \n\n Yes, to be sure,  said Wemmick.  Of course, there can be no objection\nto your being sorry for him, and I d put down a five-pound note myself\nto get him out of it. But what I look at is this. The late Compeyson\nhaving been beforehand with him in intelligence of his return, and\nbeing so determined to bring him to book, I do not think he could have\nbeen saved. Whereas, the portable property certainly could have been\nsaved. That s the difference between the property and the owner, don t\nyou see? \n\nI invited Wemmick to come upstairs, and refresh himself with a glass of\ngrog before walking to Walworth. He accepted the invitation. While he\nwas drinking his moderate allowance, he said, with nothing to lead up\nto it, and after having appeared rather fidgety, \n\n What do you think of my meaning to take a holiday on Monday, Mr. Pip? \n\n Why, I suppose you have not done such a thing these twelve months. \n\n These twelve years, more likely,  said Wemmick.  Yes. I m going to\ntake a holiday. More than that; I m going to take a walk. More than\nthat; I m going to ask you to take a walk with me. \n\nI was about to excuse myself, as being but a bad companion just then,\nwhen Wemmick anticipated me.\n\n I know your engagements,  said he,  and I know you are out of sorts,\nMr. Pip. But if you _could_ oblige me, I should take it as a kindness.\nIt ain t a long walk, and it s an early one. Say it might occupy you\n(including breakfast on the walk) from eight to twelve. Couldn t you\nstretch a point and manage it? \n\nHe had done so much for me at various times, that this was very little\nto do for him. I said I could manage it, would manage it, and he was so\nvery much pleased by my acquiescence, that I was pleased too. At his\nparticular request, I appointed to call for him at the Castle at half\npast eight on Monday morning, and so we parted for the time.\n\nPunctual to my appointment, I rang at the Castle gate on the Monday\nmorning, and was received by Wemmick himself, who struck me as looking\ntighter than usual, and having a sleeker hat on. Within, there were two\nglasses of rum and milk prepared, and two biscuits. The Aged must have\nbeen stirring with the lark, for, glancing into the perspective of his\nbedroom, I observed that his bed was empty.\n\nWhen we had fortified ourselves with the rum and milk and biscuits, and\nwere going out for the walk with that training preparation on us, I was\nconsiderably surprised to see Wemmick take up a fishing-rod, and put it\nover his shoulder.  Why, we are not going fishing!  said I.  No, \nreturned Wemmick,  but I like to walk with one. \n\nI thought this odd; however, I said nothing, and we set off. We went\ntowards Camberwell Green, and when we were thereabouts, Wemmick said\nsuddenly, \n\n Halloa! Here s a church! \n\nThere was nothing very surprising in that; but again, I was rather\nsurprised, when he said, as if he were animated by a brilliant idea, \n\n Let s go in! \n\nWe went in, Wemmick leaving his fishing-rod in the porch, and looked\nall round. In the mean time, Wemmick was diving into his coat-pockets,\nand getting something out of paper there.\n\n Halloa!  said he.  Here s a couple of pair of gloves! Let s put  em\non! \n\nAs the gloves were white kid gloves, and as the post-office was widened\nto its utmost extent, I now began to have my strong suspicions. They\nwere strengthened into certainty when I beheld the Aged enter at a side\ndoor, escorting a lady.\n\n Halloa!  said Wemmick.  Here s Miss Skiffins! Let s have a wedding. \n\nThat discreet damsel was attired as usual, except that she was now\nengaged in substituting for her green kid gloves a pair of white. The\nAged was likewise occupied in preparing a similar sacrifice for the\naltar of Hymen. The old gentleman, however, experienced so much\ndifficulty in getting his gloves on, that Wemmick found it necessary to\nput him with his back against a pillar, and then to get behind the\npillar himself and pull away at them, while I for my part held the old\ngentleman round the waist, that he might present an equal and safe\nresistance. By dint of this ingenious scheme, his gloves were got on to\nperfection.\n\nThe clerk and clergyman then appearing, we were ranged in order at\nthose fatal rails. True to his notion of seeming to do it all without\npreparation, I heard Wemmick say to himself, as he took something out\nof his waistcoat-pocket before the service began,  Halloa! Here s a\nring! \n\nI acted in the capacity of backer, or best-man, to the bridegroom;\nwhile a little limp pew-opener in a soft bonnet like a baby s, made a\nfeint of being the bosom friend of Miss Skiffins. The responsibility of\ngiving the lady away devolved upon the Aged, which led to the\nclergyman s being unintentionally scandalised, and it happened thus.\nWhen he said,  Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?  the\nold gentleman, not in the least knowing what point of the ceremony we\nhad arrived at, stood most amiably beaming at the ten commandments.\nUpon which, the clergyman said again,  WHO giveth this woman to be\nmarried to this man?  The old gentleman being still in a state of most\nestimable unconsciousness, the bridegroom cried out in his accustomed\nvoice,  Now Aged P. you know; who giveth?  To which the Aged replied\nwith great briskness, before saying that _he_ gave,  All right, John,\nall right, my boy!  And the clergyman came to so gloomy a pause upon\nit, that I had doubts for the moment whether we should get completely\nmarried that day.\n\nIt was completely done, however, and when we were going out of church\nWemmick took the cover off the font, and put his white gloves in it,\nand put the cover on again. Mrs. Wemmick, more heedful of the future,\nput her white gloves in her pocket and assumed her green.  _Now_, Mr.\nPip,  said Wemmick, triumphantly shouldering the fishing-rod as we came\nout,  let me ask you whether anybody would suppose this to be a\nwedding-party! \n\nBreakfast had been ordered at a pleasant little tavern, a mile or so\naway upon the rising ground beyond the green; and there was a bagatelle\nboard in the room, in case we should desire to unbend our minds after\nthe solemnity. It was pleasant to observe that Mrs. Wemmick no longer\nunwound Wemmick s arm when it adapted itself to her figure, but sat in\na high-backed chair against the wall, like a violoncello in its case,\nand submitted to be embraced as that melodious instrument might have\ndone.\n\nWe had an excellent breakfast, and when any one declined anything on\ntable, Wemmick said,  Provided by contract, you know; don t be afraid\nof it!  I drank to the new couple, drank to the Aged, drank to the\nCastle, saluted the bride at parting, and made myself as agreeable as I\ncould.\n\nWemmick came down to the door with me, and I again shook hands with\nhim, and wished him joy.\n\n Thankee!  said Wemmick, rubbing his hands.  She s such a manager of\nfowls, you have no idea. You shall have some eggs, and judge for\nyourself. I say, Mr. Pip!  calling me back, and speaking low.  This is\naltogether a Walworth sentiment, please. \n\n I understand. Not to be mentioned in Little Britain,  said I.\n\nWemmick nodded.  After what you let out the other day, Mr. Jaggers may\nas well not know of it. He might think my brain was softening, or\nsomething of the kind. \n\n\n\n\nChapter LVI.\n\n\nHe lay in prison very ill, during the whole interval between his\ncommittal for trial and the coming round of the Sessions. He had broken\ntwo ribs, they had wounded one of his lungs, and he breathed with great\npain and difficulty, which increased daily. It was a consequence of his\nhurt that he spoke so low as to be scarcely audible; therefore he spoke\nvery little. But he was ever ready to listen to me; and it became the\nfirst duty of my life to say to him, and read to him, what I knew he\nought to hear.\n\nBeing far too ill to remain in the common prison, he was removed, after\nthe first day or so, into the infirmary. This gave me opportunities of\nbeing with him that I could not otherwise have had. And but for his\nillness he would have been put in irons, for he was regarded as a\ndetermined prison-breaker, and I know not what else.\n\nAlthough I saw him every day, it was for only a short time; hence, the\nregularly recurring spaces of our separation were long enough to record\non his face any slight changes that occurred in his physical state. I\ndo not recollect that I once saw any change in it for the better; he\nwasted, and became slowly weaker and worse, day by day, from the day\nwhen the prison door closed upon him.\n\nThe kind of submission or resignation that he showed was that of a man\nwho was tired out. I sometimes derived an impression, from his manner\nor from a whispered word or two which escaped him, that he pondered\nover the question whether he might have been a better man under better\ncircumstances. But he never justified himself by a hint tending that\nway, or tried to bend the past out of its eternal shape.\n\nIt happened on two or three occasions in my presence, that his\ndesperate reputation was alluded to by one or other of the people in\nattendance on him. A smile crossed his face then, and he turned his\neyes on me with a trustful look, as if he were confident that I had\nseen some small redeeming touch in him, even so long ago as when I was\na little child. As to all the rest, he was humble and contrite, and I\nnever knew him complain.\n\nWhen the Sessions came round, Mr. Jaggers caused an application to be\nmade for the postponement of his trial until the following Sessions. It\nwas obviously made with the assurance that he could not live so long,\nand was refused. The trial came on at once, and, when he was put to the\nbar, he was seated in a chair. No objection was made to my getting\nclose to the dock, on the outside of it, and holding the hand that he\nstretched forth to me.\n\nThe trial was very short and very clear. Such things as could be said\nfor him were said, how he had taken to industrious habits, and had\nthriven lawfully and reputably. But nothing could unsay the fact that\nhe had returned, and was there in presence of the Judge and Jury. It\nwas impossible to try him for that, and do otherwise than find him\nguilty.\n\nAt that time, it was the custom (as I learnt from my terrible\nexperience of that Sessions) to devote a concluding day to the passing\nof Sentences, and to make a finishing effect with the Sentence of\nDeath. But for the indelible picture that my remembrance now holds\nbefore me, I could scarcely believe, even as I write these words, that\nI saw two-and-thirty men and women put before the Judge to receive that\nsentence together. Foremost among the two-and-thirty was he; seated,\nthat he might get breath enough to keep life in him.\n\nThe whole scene starts out again in the vivid colours of the moment,\ndown to the drops of April rain on the windows of the court, glittering\nin the rays of April sun. Penned in the dock, as I again stood outside\nit at the corner with his hand in mine, were the two-and-thirty men and\nwomen; some defiant, some stricken with terror, some sobbing and\nweeping, some covering their faces, some staring gloomily about. There\nhad been shrieks from among the women convicts; but they had been\nstilled, and a hush had succeeded. The sheriffs with their great chains\nand nosegays, other civic gewgaws and monsters, criers, ushers, a great\ngallery full of people, a large theatrical audience, looked on, as the\ntwo-and-thirty and the Judge were solemnly confronted. Then the Judge\naddressed them. Among the wretched creatures before him whom he must\nsingle out for special address was one who almost from his infancy had\nbeen an offender against the laws; who, after repeated imprisonments\nand punishments, had been at length sentenced to exile for a term of\nyears; and who, under circumstances of great violence and daring, had\nmade his escape and been re-sentenced to exile for life. That miserable\nman would seem for a time to have become convinced of his errors, when\nfar removed from the scenes of his old offences, and to have lived a\npeaceable and honest life. But in a fatal moment, yielding to those\npropensities and passions, the indulgence of which had so long rendered\nhim a scourge to society, he had quitted his haven of rest and\nrepentance, and had come back to the country where he was proscribed.\nBeing here presently denounced, he had for a time succeeded in evading\nthe officers of Justice, but being at length seized while in the act of\nflight, he had resisted them, and had he best knew whether by express\ndesign, or in the blindness of his hardihood caused the death of his\ndenouncer, to whom his whole career was known. The appointed punishment\nfor his return to the land that had cast him out, being Death, and his\ncase being this aggravated case, he must prepare himself to Die.\n\nThe sun was striking in at the great windows of the court, through the\nglittering drops of rain upon the glass, and it made a broad shaft of\nlight between the two-and-thirty and the Judge, linking both together,\nand perhaps reminding some among the audience how both were passing on,\nwith absolute equality, to the greater Judgment that knoweth all\nthings, and cannot err. Rising for a moment, a distinct speck of face\nin this way of light, the prisoner said,  My Lord, I have received my\nsentence of Death from the Almighty, but I bow to yours,  and sat down\nagain. There was some hushing, and the Judge went on with what he had\nto say to the rest. Then they were all formally doomed, and some of\nthem were supported out, and some of them sauntered out with a haggard\nlook of bravery, and a few nodded to the gallery, and two or three\nshook hands, and others went out chewing the fragments of herb they had\ntaken from the sweet herbs lying about. He went last of all, because of\nhaving to be helped from his chair, and to go very slowly; and he held\nmy hand while all the others were removed, and while the audience got\nup (putting their dresses right, as they might at church or elsewhere),\nand pointed down at this criminal or at that, and most of all at him\nand me.\n\nI earnestly hoped and prayed that he might die before the Recorder s\nReport was made; but, in the dread of his lingering on, I began that\nnight to write out a petition to the Home Secretary of State, setting\nforth my knowledge of him, and how it was that he had come back for my\nsake. I wrote it as fervently and pathetically as I could; and when I\nhad finished it and sent it in, I wrote out other petitions to such men\nin authority as I hoped were the most merciful, and drew up one to the\nCrown itself. For several days and nights after he was sentenced I took\nno rest except when I fell asleep in my chair, but was wholly absorbed\nin these appeals. And after I had sent them in, I could not keep away\nfrom the places where they were, but felt as if they were more hopeful\nand less desperate when I was near them. In this unreasonable\nrestlessness and pain of mind I would roam the streets of an evening,\nwandering by those offices and houses where I had left the petitions.\nTo the present hour, the weary western streets of London on a cold,\ndusty spring night, with their ranges of stern, shut-up mansions, and\ntheir long rows of lamps, are melancholy to me from this association.\n\nThe daily visits I could make him were shortened now, and he was more\nstrictly kept. Seeing, or fancying, that I was suspected of an\nintention of carrying poison to him, I asked to be searched before I\nsat down at his bedside, and told the officer who was always there,\nthat I was willing to do anything that would assure him of the\nsingleness of my designs. Nobody was hard with him or with me. There\nwas duty to be done, and it was done, but not harshly. The officer\nalways gave me the assurance that he was worse, and some other sick\nprisoners in the room, and some other prisoners who attended on them as\nsick nurses, (malefactors, but not incapable of kindness, God be\nthanked!) always joined in the same report.\n\nAs the days went on, I noticed more and more that he would lie placidly\nlooking at the white ceiling, with an absence of light in his face\nuntil some word of mine brightened it for an instant, and then it would\nsubside again. Sometimes he was almost or quite unable to speak, then\nhe would answer me with slight pressures on my hand, and I grew to\nunderstand his meaning very well.\n\nThe number of the days had risen to ten, when I saw a greater change in\nhim than I had seen yet. His eyes were turned towards the door, and\nlighted up as I entered.\n\n Dear boy,  he said, as I sat down by his bed:  I thought you was late.\nBut I knowed you couldn t be that. \n\n It is just the time,  said I.  I waited for it at the gate. \n\n You always waits at the gate; don t you, dear boy? \n\n Yes. Not to lose a moment of the time. \n\n Thank ee dear boy, thank ee. God bless you! You ve never deserted me,\ndear boy. \n\nI pressed his hand in silence, for I could not forget that I had once\nmeant to desert him.\n\n And what s the best of all,  he said,  you ve been more comfortable\nalonger me, since I was under a dark cloud, than when the sun shone.\nThat s best of all. \n\nHe lay on his back, breathing with great difficulty. Do what he would,\nand love me though he did, the light left his face ever and again, and\na film came over the placid look at the white ceiling.\n\n Are you in much pain to-day? \n\n I don t complain of none, dear boy. \n\n You never do complain. \n\nHe had spoken his last words. He smiled, and I understood his touch to\nmean that he wished to lift my hand, and lay it on his breast. I laid\nit there, and he smiled again, and put both his hands upon it.\n\nThe allotted time ran out, while we were thus; but, looking round, I\nfound the governor of the prison standing near me, and he whispered,\n You needn t go yet.  I thanked him gratefully, and asked,  Might I\nspeak to him, if he can hear me? \n\nThe governor stepped aside, and beckoned the officer away. The change,\nthough it was made without noise, drew back the film from the placid\nlook at the white ceiling, and he looked most affectionately at me.\n\n Dear Magwitch, I must tell you now, at last. You understand what I\nsay? \n\nA gentle pressure on my hand.\n\n You had a child once, whom you loved and lost. \n\nA stronger pressure on my hand.\n\n She lived, and found powerful friends. She is living now. She is a\nlady and very beautiful. And I love her! \n\nWith a last faint effort, which would have been powerless but for my\nyielding to it and assisting it, he raised my hand to his lips. Then,\nhe gently let it sink upon his breast again, with his own hands lying\non it. The placid look at the white ceiling came back, and passed away,\nand his head dropped quietly on his breast.\n\nMindful, then, of what we had read together, I thought of the two men\nwho went up into the Temple to pray, and I knew there were no better\nwords that I could say beside his bed, than  O Lord, be merciful to him\na sinner! \n\n\n\n\nChapter LVII.\n\n\nNow that I was left wholly to myself, I gave notice of my intention to\nquit the chambers in the Temple as soon as my tenancy could legally\ndetermine, and in the meanwhile to underlet them. At once I put bills\nup in the windows; for, I was in debt, and had scarcely any money, and\nbegan to be seriously alarmed by the state of my affairs. I ought\nrather to write that I should have been alarmed if I had had energy and\nconcentration enough to help me to the clear perception of any truth\nbeyond the fact that I was falling very ill. The late stress upon me\nhad enabled me to put off illness, but not to put it away; I knew that\nit was coming on me now, and I knew very little else, and was even\ncareless as to that.\n\nFor a day or two, I lay on the sofa, or on the floor, anywhere,\naccording as I happened to sink down, with a heavy head and aching\nlimbs, and no purpose, and no power. Then there came, one night which\nappeared of great duration, and which teemed with anxiety and horror;\nand when in the morning I tried to sit up in my bed and think of it, I\nfound I could not do so.\n\nWhether I really had been down in Garden Court in the dead of the\nnight, groping about for the boat that I supposed to be there; whether\nI had two or three times come to myself on the staircase with great\nterror, not knowing how I had got out of bed; whether I had found\nmyself lighting the lamp, possessed by the idea that he was coming up\nthe stairs, and that the lights were blown out; whether I had been\ninexpressibly harassed by the distracted talking, laughing, and\ngroaning of some one, and had half suspected those sounds to be of my\nown making; whether there had been a closed iron furnace in a dark\ncorner of the room, and a voice had called out, over and over again,\nthat Miss Havisham was consuming within it, these were things that I\ntried to settle with myself and get into some order, as I lay that\nmorning on my bed. But the vapour of a limekiln would come between me\nand them, disordering them all, and it was through the vapour at last\nthat I saw two men looking at me.\n\n What do you want?  I asked, starting;  I don t know you. \n\n Well, sir,  returned one of them, bending down and touching me on the\nshoulder,  this is a matter that you ll soon arrange, I dare say, but\nyou re arrested. \n\n What is the debt? \n\n Hundred and twenty-three pound, fifteen, six. Jeweller s account, I\nthink. \n\n What is to be done? \n\n You had better come to my house,  said the man.  I keep a very nice\nhouse. \n\nI made some attempt to get up and dress myself. When I next attended to\nthem, they were standing a little off from the bed, looking at me. I\nstill lay there.\n\n You see my state,  said I.  I would come with you if I could; but\nindeed I am quite unable. If you take me from here, I think I shall die\nby the way. \n\nPerhaps they replied, or argued the point, or tried to encourage me to\nbelieve that I was better than I thought. Forasmuch as they hang in my\nmemory by only this one slender thread, I don t know what they did,\nexcept that they forbore to remove me.\n\nThat I had a fever and was avoided, that I suffered greatly, that I\noften lost my reason, that the time seemed interminable, that I\nconfounded impossible existences with my own identity; that I was a\nbrick in the house-wall, and yet entreating to be released from the\ngiddy place where the builders had set me; that I was a steel beam of a\nvast engine, clashing and whirling over a gulf, and yet that I implored\nin my own person to have the engine stopped, and my part in it hammered\noff; that I passed through these phases of disease, I know of my own\nremembrance, and did in some sort know at the time. That I sometimes\nstruggled with real people, in the belief that they were murderers, and\nthat I would all at once comprehend that they meant to do me good, and\nwould then sink exhausted in their arms, and suffer them to lay me\ndown, I also knew at the time. But, above all, I knew that there was a\nconstant tendency in all these people, who, when I was very ill, would\npresent all kinds of extraordinary transformations of the human face,\nand would be much dilated in size, above all, I say, I knew that there\nwas an extraordinary tendency in all these people, sooner or later, to\nsettle down into the likeness of Joe.\n\nAfter I had turned the worst point of my illness, I began to notice\nthat while all its other features changed, this one consistent feature\ndid not change. Whoever came about me, still settled down into Joe. I\nopened my eyes in the night, and I saw, in the great chair at the\nbedside, Joe. I opened my eyes in the day, and, sitting on the\nwindow-seat, smoking his pipe in the shaded open window, still I saw\nJoe. I asked for cooling drink, and the dear hand that gave it me was\nJoe s. I sank back on my pillow after drinking, and the face that\nlooked so hopefully and tenderly upon me was the face of Joe.\n\nAt last, one day, I took courage, and said,  _Is_ it Joe? \n\nAnd the dear old home-voice answered,  Which it air, old chap. \n\n O Joe, you break my heart! Look angry at me, Joe. Strike me, Joe. Tell\nme of my ingratitude. Don t be so good to me! \n\nFor Joe had actually laid his head down on the pillow at my side, and\nput his arm round my neck, in his joy that I knew him.\n\n Which dear old Pip, old chap,  said Joe,  you and me was ever friends.\nAnd when you re well enough to go out for a ride what larks! \n\nAfter which, Joe withdrew to the window, and stood with his back\ntowards me, wiping his eyes. And as my extreme weakness prevented me\nfrom getting up and going to him, I lay there, penitently whispering,\n O God bless him! O God bless this gentle Christian man! \n\nJoe s eyes were red when I next found him beside me; but I was holding\nhis hand, and we both felt happy.\n\n How long, dear Joe? \n\n Which you meantersay, Pip, how long have your illness lasted, dear old\nchap? \n\n Yes, Joe. \n\n It s the end of May, Pip. To-morrow is the first of June. \n\n And have you been here all that time, dear Joe? \n\n Pretty nigh, old chap. For, as I says to Biddy when the news of your\nbeing ill were brought by letter, which it were brought by the post,\nand being formerly single he is now married though underpaid for a deal\nof walking and shoe-leather, but wealth were not a object on his part,\nand marriage were the great wish of his hart \n\n It is so delightful to hear you, Joe! But I interrupt you in what you\nsaid to Biddy. \n\n Which it were,  said Joe,  that how you might be amongst strangers,\nand that how you and me having been ever friends, a wisit at such a\nmoment might not prove unacceptabobble. And Biddy, her word were,  Go\nto him, without loss of time.  That,  said Joe, summing up with his\njudicial air,  were the word of Biddy.  Go to him,  Biddy say,  without\nloss of time.  In short, I shouldn t greatly deceive you,  Joe added,\nafter a little grave reflection,  if I represented to you that the word\nof that young woman were,  without a minute s loss of time. \n\nThere Joe cut himself short, and informed me that I was to be talked to\nin great moderation, and that I was to take a little nourishment at\nstated frequent times, whether I felt inclined for it or not, and that\nI was to submit myself to all his orders. So I kissed his hand, and lay\nquiet, while he proceeded to indite a note to Biddy, with my love in\nit.\n\nEvidently Biddy had taught Joe to write. As I lay in bed looking at\nhim, it made me, in my weak state, cry again with pleasure to see the\npride with which he set about his letter. My bedstead, divested of its\ncurtains, had been removed, with me upon it, into the sitting-room, as\nthe airiest and largest, and the carpet had been taken away, and the\nroom kept always fresh and wholesome night and day. At my own\nwriting-table, pushed into a corner and cumbered with little bottles,\nJoe now sat down to his great work, first choosing a pen from the\npen-tray as if it were a chest of large tools, and tucking up his\nsleeves as if he were going to wield a crow-bar or sledgehammer. It was\nnecessary for Joe to hold on heavily to the table with his left elbow,\nand to get his right leg well out behind him, before he could begin;\nand when he did begin he made every downstroke so slowly that it might\nhave been six feet long, while at every upstroke I could hear his pen\nspluttering extensively. He had a curious idea that the inkstand was on\nthe side of him where it was not, and constantly dipped his pen into\nspace, and seemed quite satisfied with the result. Occasionally, he was\ntripped up by some orthographical stumbling-block; but on the whole he\ngot on very well indeed; and when he had signed his name, and had\nremoved a finishing blot from the paper to the crown of his head with\nhis two forefingers, he got up and hovered about the table, trying the\neffect of his performance from various points of view, as it lay there,\nwith unbounded satisfaction.\n\nNot to make Joe uneasy by talking too much, even if I had been able to\ntalk much, I deferred asking him about Miss Havisham until next day. He\nshook his head when I then asked him if she had recovered.\n\n Is she dead, Joe? \n\n Why you see, old chap,  said Joe, in a tone of remonstrance, and by\nway of getting at it by degrees,  I wouldn t go so far as to say that,\nfor that s a deal to say; but she ain t \n\n Living, Joe? \n\n That s nigher where it is,  said Joe;  she ain t living. \n\n Did she linger long, Joe? \n\n Arter you was took ill, pretty much about what you might call (if you\nwas put to it) a week,  said Joe; still determined, on my account, to\ncome at everything by degrees.\n\n Dear Joe, have you heard what becomes of her property? \n\n Well, old chap,  said Joe,  it do appear that she had settled the most\nof it, which I meantersay tied it up, on Miss Estella. But she had\nwrote out a little coddleshell in her own hand a day or two afore the\naccident, leaving a cool four thousand to Mr. Matthew Pocket. And why,\ndo you suppose, above all things, Pip, she left that cool four thousand\nunto him?  Because of Pip s account of him, the said Matthew.  I am\ntold by Biddy, that air the writing,  said Joe, repeating the legal\nturn as if it did him infinite good,  account of him the said\nMatthew.  And a cool four thousand, Pip! \n\nI never discovered from whom Joe derived the conventional temperature\nof the four thousand pounds; but it appeared to make the sum of money\nmore to him, and he had a manifest relish in insisting on its being\ncool.\n\nThis account gave me great joy, as it perfected the only good thing I\nhad done. I asked Joe whether he had heard if any of the other\nrelations had any legacies?\n\n Miss Sarah,  said Joe,  she have twenty-five pound perannium fur to\nbuy pills, on account of being bilious. Miss Georgiana, she have twenty\npound down. Mrs. what s the name of them wild beasts with humps, old\nchap? \n\n Camels?  said I, wondering why he could possibly want to know.\n\nJoe nodded.  Mrs. Camels,  by which I presently understood he meant\nCamilla,  she have five pound fur to buy rushlights to put her in\nspirits when she wake up in the night. \n\nThe accuracy of these recitals was sufficiently obvious to me, to give\nme great confidence in Joe s information.  And now,  said Joe,  you\nain t that strong yet, old chap, that you can take in more nor one\nadditional shovelful to-day. Old Orlick he s been a bustin  open a\ndwelling-ouse. \n\n Whose?  said I.\n\n Not, I grant you, but what his manners is given to blusterous,  said\nJoe, apologetically;  still, a Englishman s ouse is his Castle, and\ncastles must not be busted  cept when done in war time. And wotsume er\nthe failings on his part, he were a corn and seedsman in his hart. \n\n Is it Pumblechook s house that has been broken into, then? \n\n That s it, Pip,  said Joe;  and they took his till, and they took his\ncash-box, and they drinked his wine, and they partook of his wittles,\nand they slapped his face, and they pulled his nose, and they tied him\nup to his bedpust, and they giv  him a dozen, and they stuffed his\nmouth full of flowering annuals to prewent his crying out. But he\nknowed Orlick, and Orlick s in the county jail. \n\nBy these approaches we arrived at unrestricted conversation. I was slow\nto gain strength, but I did slowly and surely become less weak, and Joe\nstayed with me, and I fancied I was little Pip again.\n\nFor the tenderness of Joe was so beautifully proportioned to my need,\nthat I was like a child in his hands. He would sit and talk to me in\nthe old confidence, and with the old simplicity, and in the old\nunassertive protecting way, so that I would half believe that all my\nlife since the days of the old kitchen was one of the mental troubles\nof the fever that was gone. He did everything for me except the\nhousehold work, for which he had engaged a very decent woman, after\npaying off the laundress on his first arrival.  Which I do assure you,\nPip,  he would often say, in explanation of that liberty;  I found her\na tapping the spare bed, like a cask of beer, and drawing off the\nfeathers in a bucket, for sale. Which she would have tapped yourn next,\nand draw d it off with you a laying on it, and was then a carrying away\nthe coals gradiwally in the soup-tureen and wegetable-dishes, and the\nwine and spirits in your Wellington boots. \n\nWe looked forward to the day when I should go out for a ride, as we had\nonce looked forward to the day of my apprenticeship. And when the day\ncame, and an open carriage was got into the Lane, Joe wrapped me up,\ntook me in his arms, carried me down to it, and put me in, as if I were\nstill the small helpless creature to whom he had so abundantly given of\nthe wealth of his great nature.\n\nAnd Joe got in beside me, and we drove away together into the country,\nwhere the rich summer growth was already on the trees and on the grass,\nand sweet summer scents filled all the air. The day happened to be\nSunday, and when I looked on the loveliness around me, and thought how\nit had grown and changed, and how the little wild-flowers had been\nforming, and the voices of the birds had been strengthening, by day and\nby night, under the sun and under the stars, while poor I lay burning\nand tossing on my bed, the mere remembrance of having burned and tossed\nthere came like a check upon my peace. But when I heard the Sunday\nbells, and looked around a little more upon the outspread beauty, I\nfelt that I was not nearly thankful enough, that I was too weak yet to\nbe even that, and I laid my head on Joe s shoulder, as I had laid it\nlong ago when he had taken me to the Fair or where not, and it was too\nmuch for my young senses.\n\nMore composure came to me after a while, and we talked as we used to\ntalk, lying on the grass at the old Battery. There was no change\nwhatever in Joe. Exactly what he had been in my eyes then, he was in my\neyes still; just as simply faithful, and as simply right.\n\nWhen we got back again, and he lifted me out, and carried me so\neasily! across the court and up the stairs, I thought of that eventful\nChristmas Day when he had carried me over the marshes. We had not yet\nmade any allusion to my change of fortune, nor did I know how much of\nmy late history he was acquainted with. I was so doubtful of myself\nnow, and put so much trust in him, that I could not satisfy myself\nwhether I ought to refer to it when he did not.\n\n Have you heard, Joe,  I asked him that evening, upon further\nconsideration, as he smoked his pipe at the window,  who my patron\nwas? \n\n I heerd,  returned Joe,  as it were not Miss Havisham, old chap. \n\n Did you hear who it was, Joe? \n\n Well! I heerd as it were a person what sent the person what giv  you\nthe bank-notes at the Jolly Bargemen, Pip. \n\n So it was. \n\n Astonishing!  said Joe, in the placidest way.\n\n Did you hear that he was dead, Joe?  I presently asked, with\nincreasing diffidence.\n\n Which? Him as sent the bank-notes, Pip? \n\n Yes. \n\n I think,  said Joe, after meditating a long time, and looking rather\nevasively at the window-seat,  as I _did_ hear tell that how he were\nsomething or another in a general way in that direction. \n\n Did you hear anything of his circumstances, Joe? \n\n Not partickler, Pip. \n\n If you would like to hear, Joe  I was beginning, when Joe got up and\ncame to my sofa.\n\n Lookee here, old chap,  said Joe, bending over me.  Ever the best of\nfriends; ain t us, Pip? \n\nI was ashamed to answer him.\n\n Wery good, then,  said Joe, as if I _had_ answered;  that s all right;\nthat s agreed upon. Then why go into subjects, old chap, which as\nbetwixt two sech must be for ever onnecessary? There s subjects enough\nas betwixt two sech, without onnecessary ones. Lord! To think of your\npoor sister and her Rampages! And don t you remember Tickler? \n\n I do indeed, Joe. \n\n Lookee here, old chap,  said Joe.  I done what I could to keep you and\nTickler in sunders, but my power were not always fully equal to my\ninclinations. For when your poor sister had a mind to drop into you, it\nwere not so much,  said Joe, in his favourite argumentative way,  that\nshe dropped into me too, if I put myself in opposition to her, but that\nshe dropped into you always heavier for it. I noticed that. It ain t a\ngrab at a man s whisker, not yet a shake or two of a man (to which your\nsister was quite welcome), that  ud put a man off from getting a little\nchild out of punishment. But when that little child is dropped into\nheavier for that grab of whisker or shaking, then that man naterally up\nand says to himself,  Where is the good as you are a-doing? I grant you\nI see the  arm,  says the man,  but I don t see the good. I call upon\nyou, sir, therefore, to pint out the good. \n\n The man says?  I observed, as Joe waited for me to speak.\n\n The man says,  Joe assented.  Is he right, that man? \n\n Dear Joe, he is always right. \n\n Well, old chap,  said Joe,  then abide by your words. If he s always\nright (which in general he s more likely wrong), he s right when he\nsays this: Supposing ever you kep any little matter to yourself, when\nyou was a little child, you kep it mostly because you know d as J.\nGargery s power to part you and Tickler in sunders were not fully equal\nto his inclinations. Theerfore, think no more of it as betwixt two\nsech, and do not let us pass remarks upon onnecessary subjects. Biddy\ngiv  herself a deal o  trouble with me afore I left (for I am almost\nawful dull), as I should view it in this light, and, viewing it in this\nlight, as I should so put it. Both of which,  said Joe, quite charmed\nwith his logical arrangement,  being done, now this to you a true\nfriend, say. Namely. You mustn t go a overdoing on it, but you must\nhave your supper and your wine and water, and you must be put betwixt\nthe sheets. \n\nThe delicacy with which Joe dismissed this theme, and the sweet tact\nand kindness with which Biddy who with her woman s wit had found me out\nso soon had prepared him for it, made a deep impression on my mind. But\nwhether Joe knew how poor I was, and how my great expectations had all\ndissolved, like our own marsh mists before the sun, I could not\nunderstand.\n\nAnother thing in Joe that I could not understand when it first began to\ndevelop itself, but which I soon arrived at a sorrowful comprehension\nof, was this: As I became stronger and better, Joe became a little less\neasy with me. In my weakness and entire dependence on him, the dear\nfellow had fallen into the old tone, and called me by the old names,\nthe dear  old Pip, old chap,  that now were music in my ears. I too had\nfallen into the old ways, only happy and thankful that he let me. But,\nimperceptibly, though I held by them fast, Joe s hold upon them began\nto slacken; and whereas I wondered at this, at first, I soon began to\nunderstand that the cause of it was in me, and that the fault of it was\nall mine.\n\nAh! Had I given Joe no reason to doubt my constancy, and to think that\nin prosperity I should grow cold to him and cast him off? Had I given\nJoe s innocent heart no cause to feel instinctively that as I got\nstronger, his hold upon me would be weaker, and that he had better\nloosen it in time and let me go, before I plucked myself away?\n\nIt was on the third or fourth occasion of my going out walking in the\nTemple Gardens leaning on Joe s arm, that I saw this change in him very\nplainly. We had been sitting in the bright warm sunlight, looking at\nthe river, and I chanced to say as we got up, \n\n See, Joe! I can walk quite strongly. Now, you shall see me walk back\nby myself. \n\n Which do not overdo it, Pip,  said Joe;  but I shall be happy fur to\nsee you able, sir. \n\nThe last word grated on me; but how could I remonstrate! I walked no\nfurther than the gate of the gardens, and then pretended to be weaker\nthan I was, and asked Joe for his arm. Joe gave it me, but was\nthoughtful.\n\nI, for my part, was thoughtful too; for, how best to check this growing\nchange in Joe was a great perplexity to my remorseful thoughts. That I\nwas ashamed to tell him exactly how I was placed, and what I had come\ndown to, I do not seek to conceal; but I hope my reluctance was not\nquite an unworthy one. He would want to help me out of his little\nsavings, I knew, and I knew that he ought not to help me, and that I\nmust not suffer him to do it.\n\nIt was a thoughtful evening with both of us. But, before we went to\nbed, I had resolved that I would wait over to-morrow, to-morrow being\nSunday, and would begin my new course with the new week. On Monday\nmorning I would speak to Joe about this change, I would lay aside this\nlast vestige of reserve, I would tell him what I had in my thoughts\n(that Secondly, not yet arrived at), and why I had not decided to go\nout to Herbert, and then the change would be conquered for ever. As I\ncleared, Joe cleared, and it seemed as though he had sympathetically\narrived at a resolution too.\n\nWe had a quiet day on the Sunday, and we rode out into the country, and\nthen walked in the fields.\n\n I feel thankful that I have been ill, Joe,  I said.\n\n Dear old Pip, old chap, you re a most come round, sir. \n\n It has been a memorable time for me, Joe. \n\n Likeways for myself, sir,  Joe returned.\n\n We have had a time together, Joe, that I can never forget. There were\ndays once, I know, that I did for a while forget; but I never shall\nforget these. \n\n Pip,  said Joe, appearing a little hurried and troubled,  there has\nbeen larks. And, dear sir, what have been betwixt us have been. \n\nAt night, when I had gone to bed, Joe came into my room, as he had done\nall through my recovery. He asked me if I felt sure that I was as well\nas in the morning?\n\n Yes, dear Joe, quite. \n\n And are always a getting stronger, old chap? \n\n Yes, dear Joe, steadily. \n\nJoe patted the coverlet on my shoulder with his great good hand, and\nsaid, in what I thought a husky voice,  Good night! \n\nWhen I got up in the morning, refreshed and stronger yet, I was full of\nmy resolution to tell Joe all, without delay. I would tell him before\nbreakfast. I would dress at once and go to his room and surprise him;\nfor, it was the first day I had been up early. I went to his room, and\nhe was not there. Not only was he not there, but his box was gone.\n\nI hurried then to the breakfast-table, and on it found a letter. These\nwere its brief contents: \n\n Not wishful to intrude I have departured fur you are well again dear\nPip and will do better without\n\n\nJO.\n\n\n P.S. Ever the best of friends. \n\n\nEnclosed in the letter was a receipt for the debt and costs on which I\nhad been arrested. Down to that moment, I had vainly supposed that my\ncreditor had withdrawn, or suspended proceedings until I should be\nquite recovered. I had never dreamed of Joe s having paid the money;\nbut Joe had paid it, and the receipt was in his name.\n\nWhat remained for me now, but to follow him to the dear old forge, and\nthere to have out my disclosure to him, and my penitent remonstrance\nwith him, and there to relieve my mind and heart of that reserved\nSecondly, which had begun as a vague something lingering in my\nthoughts, and had formed into a settled purpose?\n\nThe purpose was, that I would go to Biddy, that I would show her how\nhumbled and repentant I came back, that I would tell her how I had lost\nall I once hoped for, that I would remind her of our old confidences in\nmy first unhappy time. Then I would say to her,  Biddy, I think you\nonce liked me very well, when my errant heart, even while it strayed\naway from you, was quieter and better with you than it ever has been\nsince. If you can like me only half as well once more, if you can take\nme with all my faults and disappointments on my head, if you can\nreceive me like a forgiven child (and indeed I am as sorry, Biddy, and\nhave as much need of a hushing voice and a soothing hand), I hope I am\na little worthier of you that I was, not much, but a little. And,\nBiddy, it shall rest with you to say whether I shall work at the forge\nwith Joe, or whether I shall try for any different occupation down in\nthis country, or whether we shall go away to a distant place where an\nopportunity awaits me which I set aside, when it was offered, until I\nknew your answer. And now, dear Biddy, if you can tell me that you will\ngo through the world with me, you will surely make it a better world\nfor me, and me a better man for it, and I will try hard to make it a\nbetter world for you. \n\nSuch was my purpose. After three days more of recovery, I went down to\nthe old place to put it in execution. And how I sped in it is all I\nhave left to tell.\n\n\n\n\nChapter LVIII.\n\n\nThe tidings of my high fortunes having had a heavy fall had got down to\nmy native place and its neighbourhood before I got there. I found the\nBlue Boar in possession of the intelligence, and I found that it made a\ngreat change in the Boar s demeanour. Whereas the Boar had cultivated\nmy good opinion with warm assiduity when I was coming into property,\nthe Boar was exceedingly cool on the subject now that I was going out\nof property.\n\nIt was evening when I arrived, much fatigued by the journey I had so\noften made so easily. The Boar could not put me into my usual bedroom,\nwhich was engaged (probably by some one who had expectations), and\ncould only assign me a very indifferent chamber among the pigeons and\npost-chaises up the yard. But I had as sound a sleep in that lodging as\nin the most superior accommodation the Boar could have given me, and\nthe quality of my dreams was about the same as in the best bedroom.\n\nEarly in the morning, while my breakfast was getting ready, I strolled\nround by Satis House. There were printed bills on the gate and on bits\nof carpet hanging out of the windows, announcing a sale by auction of\nthe Household Furniture and Effects, next week. The House itself was to\nbe sold as old building materials, and pulled down. LOT 1 was marked in\nwhitewashed knock-knee letters on the brew house; LOT 2 on that part of\nthe main building which had been so long shut up. Other lots were\nmarked off on other parts of the structure, and the ivy had been torn\ndown to make room for the inscriptions, and much of it trailed low in\nthe dust and was withered already. Stepping in for a moment at the open\ngate, and looking around me with the uncomfortable air of a stranger\nwho had no business there, I saw the auctioneer s clerk walking on the\ncasks and telling them off for the information of a catalogue-compiler,\npen in hand, who made a temporary desk of the wheeled chair I had so\noften pushed along to the tune of Old Clem.\n\nWhen I got back to my breakfast in the Boar s coffee-room, I found Mr.\nPumblechook conversing with the landlord. Mr. Pumblechook (not improved\nin appearance by his late nocturnal adventure) was waiting for me, and\naddressed me in the following terms: \n\n Young man, I am sorry to see you brought low. But what else could be\nexpected! what else could be expected! \n\nAs he extended his hand with a magnificently forgiving air, and as I\nwas broken by illness and unfit to quarrel, I took it.\n\n William,  said Mr. Pumblechook to the waiter,  put a muffin on table.\nAnd has it come to this! Has it come to this! \n\nI frowningly sat down to my breakfast. Mr. Pumblechook stood over me\nand poured out my tea before I could touch the teapot with the air of a\nbenefactor who was resolved to be true to the last.\n\n William,  said Mr. Pumblechook, mournfully,  put the salt on. In\nhappier times,  addressing me,  I think you took sugar? And did you\ntake milk? You did. Sugar and milk. William, bring a watercress. \n\n Thank you,  said I, shortly,  but I don t eat watercresses. \n\n You don t eat  em,  returned Mr. Pumblechook, sighing and nodding his\nhead several times, as if he might have expected that, and as if\nabstinence from watercresses were consistent with my downfall.  True.\nThe simple fruits of the earth. No. You needn t bring any, William. \n\nI went on with my breakfast, and Mr. Pumblechook continued to stand\nover me, staring fishily and breathing noisily, as he always did.\n\n Little more than skin and bone!  mused Mr. Pumblechook, aloud.  And\nyet when he went from here (I may say with my blessing), and I spread\nafore him my humble store, like the Bee, he was as plump as a Peach! \n\nThis reminded me of the wonderful difference between the servile manner\nin which he had offered his hand in my new prosperity, saying,  May I? \nand the ostentatious clemency with which he had just now exhibited the\nsame fat five fingers.\n\n Hah!  he went on, handing me the bread and butter.  And air you\na-going to Joseph? \n\n In heaven s name,  said I, firing in spite of myself,  what does it\nmatter to you where I am going? Leave that teapot alone. \n\nIt was the worst course I could have taken, because it gave Pumblechook\nthe opportunity he wanted.\n\n Yes, young man,  said he, releasing the handle of the article in\nquestion, retiring a step or two from my table, and speaking for the\nbehoof of the landlord and waiter at the door,  I _will_ leave that\nteapot alone. You are right, young man. For once you are right. I\nforgit myself when I take such an interest in your breakfast, as to\nwish your frame, exhausted by the debilitating effects of\nprodigygality, to be stimilated by the  olesome nourishment of your\nforefathers. And yet,  said Pumblechook, turning to the landlord and\nwaiter, and pointing me out at arm s length,  this is him as I ever\nsported with in his days of happy infancy! Tell me not it cannot be; I\ntell you this is him! \n\nA low murmur from the two replied. The waiter appeared to be\nparticularly affected.\n\n This is him,  said Pumblechook,  as I have rode in my shay-cart. This\nis him as I have seen brought up by hand. This is him untoe the sister\nof which I was uncle by marriage, as her name was Georgiana M ria from\nher own mother, let him deny it if he can! \n\nThe waiter seemed convinced that I could not deny it, and that it gave\nthe case a black look.\n\n Young man,  said Pumblechook, screwing his head at me in the old\nfashion,  you air a-going to Joseph. What does it matter to me, you ask\nme, where you air a-going? I say to you, Sir, you air a-going to\nJoseph. \n\nThe waiter coughed, as if he modestly invited me to get over that.\n\n Now,  said Pumblechook, and all this with a most exasperating air of\nsaying in the cause of virtue what was perfectly convincing and\nconclusive,  I will tell you what to say to Joseph. Here is Squires of\nthe Boar present, known and respected in this town, and here is\nWilliam, which his father s name was Potkins if I do not deceive\nmyself. \n\n You do not, sir,  said William.\n\n In their presence,  pursued Pumblechook,  I will tell you, young man,\nwhat to say to Joseph. Says you,  Joseph, I have this day seen my\nearliest benefactor and the founder of my fortun s. I will name no\nnames, Joseph, but so they are pleased to call him up town, and I have\nseen that man. \n\n I swear I don t see him here,  said I.\n\n Say that likewise,  retorted Pumblechook.  Say you said that, and even\nJoseph will probably betray surprise. \n\n There you quite mistake him,  said I.  I know better. \n\n Says you,  Pumblechook went on,  Joseph, I have seen that man, and\nthat man bears you no malice and bears me no malice. He knows your\ncharacter, Joseph, and is well acquainted with your pig-headedness and\nignorance; and he knows my character, Joseph, and he knows my want of\ngratitoode. Yes, Joseph,  says you,  here Pumblechook shook his head\nand hand at me,  he knows my total deficiency of common human\ngratitoode. _He_ knows it, Joseph, as none can. _You_ do not know it,\nJoseph, having no call to know it, but that man do. \n\nWindy donkey as he was, it really amazed me that he could have the face\nto talk thus to mine.\n\n Says you,  Joseph, he gave me a little message, which I will now\nrepeat. It was that, in my being brought low, he saw the finger of\nProvidence. He knowed that finger when he saw Joseph, and he saw it\nplain. It pinted out this writing, Joseph. _Reward of ingratitoode to\nhis earliest benefactor, and founder of fortun s_. But that man said he\ndid not repent of what he had done, Joseph. Not at all. It was right to\ndo it, it was kind to do it, it was benevolent to do it, and he would\ndo it again. \n\n It s pity,  said I, scornfully, as I finished my interrupted\nbreakfast,  that the man did not say what he had done and would do\nagain. \n\n Squires of the Boar!  Pumblechook was now addressing the landlord,\n and William! I have no objections to your mentioning, either up town\nor down town, if such should be your wishes, that it was right to do\nit, kind to do it, benevolent to do it, and that I would do it again. \n\nWith those words the Impostor shook them both by the hand, with an air,\nand left the house; leaving me much more astonished than delighted by\nthe virtues of that same indefinite  it.  I was not long after him in\nleaving the house too, and when I went down the High Street I saw him\nholding forth (no doubt to the same effect) at his shop door to a\nselect group, who honoured me with very unfavourable glances as I\npassed on the opposite side of the way.\n\nBut, it was only the pleasanter to turn to Biddy and to Joe, whose\ngreat forbearance shone more brightly than before, if that could be,\ncontrasted with this brazen pretender. I went towards them slowly, for\nmy limbs were weak, but with a sense of increasing relief as I drew\nnearer to them, and a sense of leaving arrogance and untruthfulness\nfurther and further behind.\n\nThe June weather was delicious. The sky was blue, the larks were\nsoaring high over the green corn, I thought all that countryside more\nbeautiful and peaceful by far than I had ever known it to be yet. Many\npleasant pictures of the life that I would lead there, and of the\nchange for the better that would come over my character when I had a\nguiding spirit at my side whose simple faith and clear home wisdom I\nhad proved, beguiled my way. They awakened a tender emotion in me; for\nmy heart was softened by my return, and such a change had come to pass,\nthat I felt like one who was toiling home barefoot from distant travel,\nand whose wanderings had lasted many years.\n\nThe schoolhouse where Biddy was mistress I had never seen; but, the\nlittle roundabout lane by which I entered the village, for quietness \nsake, took me past it. I was disappointed to find that the day was a\nholiday; no children were there, and Biddy s house was closed. Some\nhopeful notion of seeing her, busily engaged in her daily duties,\nbefore she saw me, had been in my mind and was defeated.\n\nBut the forge was a very short distance off, and I went towards it\nunder the sweet green limes, listening for the clink of Joe s hammer.\nLong after I ought to have heard it, and long after I had fancied I\nheard it and found it but a fancy, all was still. The limes were there,\nand the white thorns were there, and the chestnut-trees were there, and\ntheir leaves rustled harmoniously when I stopped to listen; but, the\nclink of Joe s hammer was not in the midsummer wind.\n\nAlmost fearing, without knowing why, to come in view of the forge, I\nsaw it at last, and saw that it was closed. No gleam of fire, no\nglittering shower of sparks, no roar of bellows; all shut up, and\nstill.\n\nBut the house was not deserted, and the best parlour seemed to be in\nuse, for there were white curtains fluttering in its window, and the\nwindow was open and gay with flowers. I went softly towards it, meaning\nto peep over the flowers, when Joe and Biddy stood before me, arm in\narm.\n\nAt first Biddy gave a cry, as if she thought it was my apparition, but\nin another moment she was in my embrace. I wept to see her, and she\nwept to see me; I, because she looked so fresh and pleasant; she,\nbecause I looked so worn and white.\n\n But dear Biddy, how smart you are! \n\n Yes, dear Pip. \n\n And Joe, how smart _you_ are! \n\n Yes, dear old Pip, old chap. \n\nI looked at both of them, from one to the other, and then \n\n It s my wedding-day!  cried Biddy, in a burst of happiness,  and I am\nmarried to Joe! \n\nThey had taken me into the kitchen, and I had laid my head down on the\nold deal table. Biddy held one of my hands to her lips, and Joe s\nrestoring touch was on my shoulder.  Which he warn t strong enough, my\ndear, fur to be surprised,  said Joe. And Biddy said,  I ought to have\nthought of it, dear Joe, but I was too happy.  They were both so\noverjoyed to see me, so proud to see me, so touched by my coming to\nthem, so delighted that I should have come by accident to make their\nday complete!\n\nMy first thought was one of great thankfulness that I had never\nbreathed this last baffled hope to Joe. How often, while he was with me\nin my illness, had it risen to my lips! How irrevocable would have been\nhis knowledge of it, if he had remained with me but another hour!\n\n Dear Biddy,  said I,  you have the best husband in the whole world,\nand if you could have seen him by my bed you would have But no, you\ncouldn t love him better than you do. \n\n No, I couldn t indeed,  said Biddy.\n\n And, dear Joe, you have the best wife in the whole world, and she will\nmake you as happy as even you deserve to be, you dear, good, noble\nJoe! \n\nJoe looked at me with a quivering lip, and fairly put his sleeve before\nhis eyes.\n\n And Joe and Biddy both, as you have been to church to-day, and are in\ncharity and love with all mankind, receive my humble thanks for all you\nhave done for me, and all I have so ill repaid! And when I say that I\nam going away within the hour, for I am soon going abroad, and that I\nshall never rest until I have worked for the money with which you have\nkept me out of prison, and have sent it to you, don t think, dear Joe\nand Biddy, that if I could repay it a thousand times over, I suppose I\ncould cancel a farthing of the debt I owe you, or that I would do so if\nI could! \n\nThey were both melted by these words, and both entreated me to say no\nmore.\n\n But I must say more. Dear Joe, I hope you will have children to love,\nand that some little fellow will sit in this chimney-corner of a winter\nnight, who may remind you of another little fellow gone out of it for\never. Don t tell him, Joe, that I was thankless; don t tell him, Biddy,\nthat I was ungenerous and unjust; only tell him that I honoured you\nboth, because you were both so good and true, and that, as your child,\nI said it would be natural to him to grow up a much better man than I\ndid. \n\n I ain t a-going,  said Joe, from behind his sleeve,  to tell him\nnothink o  that natur, Pip. Nor Biddy ain t. Nor yet no one ain t. \n\n And now, though I know you have already done it in your own kind\nhearts, pray tell me, both, that you forgive me! Pray let me hear you\nsay the words, that I may carry the sound of them away with me, and\nthen I shall be able to believe that you can trust me, and think better\nof me, in the time to come! \n\n O dear old Pip, old chap,  said Joe.  God knows as I forgive you, if I\nhave anythink to forgive! \n\n Amen! And God knows I do!  echoed Biddy.\n\n Now let me go up and look at my old little room, and rest there a few\nminutes by myself. And then, when I have eaten and drunk with you, go\nwith me as far as the finger-post, dear Joe and Biddy, before we say\ngood-bye! \n\n\n\n\nI sold all I had, and put aside as much as I could, for a composition\nwith my creditors, who gave me ample time to pay them in full, and I\nwent out and joined Herbert. Within a month, I had quitted England, and\nwithin two months I was clerk to Clarriker and Co., and within four\nmonths I assumed my first undivided responsibility. For the beam across\nthe parlour ceiling at Mill Pond Bank had then ceased to tremble under\nold Bill Barley s growls and was at peace, and Herbert had gone away to\nmarry Clara, and I was left in sole charge of the Eastern Branch until\nhe brought her back.\n\nMany a year went round before I was a partner in the House; but I lived\nhappily with Herbert and his wife, and lived frugally, and paid my\ndebts, and maintained a constant correspondence with Biddy and Joe. It\nwas not until I became third in the Firm, that Clarriker betrayed me to\nHerbert; but he then declared that the secret of Herbert s partnership\nhad been long enough upon his conscience, and he must tell it. So he\ntold it, and Herbert was as much moved as amazed, and the dear fellow\nand I were not the worse friends for the long concealment. I must not\nleave it to be supposed that we were ever a great House, or that we\nmade mints of money. We were not in a grand way of business, but we had\na good name, and worked for our profits, and did very well. We owed so\nmuch to Herbert s ever cheerful industry and readiness, that I often\nwondered how I had conceived that old idea of his inaptitude, until I\nwas one day enlightened by the reflection, that perhaps the inaptitude\nhad never been in him at all, but had been in me.\n\n\n\n\nChapter LIX.\n\n\nFor eleven years, I had not seen Joe nor Biddy with my bodily\neyes, though they had both been often before my fancy in the\nEast, when, upon an evening in December, an hour or two after dark, I\nlaid my hand softly on the latch of the old kitchen door. I touched it\nso softly that I was not heard, and looked in unseen. There, smoking\nhis pipe in the old place by the kitchen firelight, as hale and as\nstrong as ever, though a little grey, sat Joe; and there, fenced into\nthe corner with Joe s leg, and sitting on my own little stool looking\nat the fire, was I again!\n\n We giv  him the name of Pip for your sake, dear old chap,  said Joe,\ndelighted, when I took another stool by the child s side (but I did\n_not_ rumple his hair),  and we hoped he might grow a little bit like\nyou, and we think he do. \n\nI thought so too, and I took him out for a walk next morning, and we\ntalked immensely, understanding one another to perfection. And I took\nhim down to the churchyard, and set him on a certain tombstone there,\nand he showed me from that elevation which stone was sacred to the\nmemory of Philip Pirrip, late of this Parish, and Also Georgiana, Wife\nof the Above.\n\n Biddy,  said I, when I talked with her after dinner, as her little\ngirl lay sleeping in her lap,  you must give Pip to me one of these\ndays; or lend him, at all events. \n\n No, no,  said Biddy, gently.  You must marry. \n\n So Herbert and Clara say, but I don t think I shall, Biddy. I have so\nsettled down in their home, that it s not at all likely. I am already\nquite an old bachelor. \n\nBiddy looked down at her child, and put its little hand to her lips,\nand then put the good matronly hand with which she had touched it into\nmine. There was something in the action, and in the light pressure of\nBiddy s wedding-ring, that had a very pretty eloquence in it.\n\n Dear Pip,  said Biddy,  you are sure you don t fret for her? \n\n O no, I think not, Biddy. \n\n Tell me as an old, old friend. Have you quite forgotten her?\n\n My dear Biddy, I have forgotten nothing in my life that ever had a\nforemost place there, and little that ever had any place there. But\nthat poor dream, as I once used to call it, has all gone by, Biddy, all\ngone by! \n\nNevertheless, I knew, while I said those words, that I secretly\nintended to revisit the site of the old house that evening, alone, for\nher sake. Yes, even so. For Estella s sake.\n\nI had heard of her as leading a most unhappy life, and as being\nseparated from her husband, who had used her with great cruelty, and\nwho had become quite renowned as a compound of pride, avarice,\nbrutality, and meanness. And I had heard of the death of her husband,\nfrom an accident consequent on his ill-treatment of a horse. This\nrelease had befallen her some two years before; for anything I knew,\nshe was married again.\n\nThe early dinner hour at Joe s, left me abundance of time, without\nhurrying my talk with Biddy, to walk over to the old spot before dark.\nBut, what with loitering on the way to look at old objects and to think\nof old times, the day had quite declined when I came to the place.\n\nThere was no house now, no brewery, no building whatever left, but the\nwall of the old garden. The cleared space had been enclosed with a\nrough fence, and looking over it, I saw that some of the old ivy had\nstruck root anew, and was growing green on low quiet mounds of ruin. A\ngate in the fence standing ajar, I pushed it open, and went in.\n\nA cold silvery mist had veiled the afternoon, and the moon was not yet\nup to scatter it. But, the stars were shining beyond the mist, and the\nmoon was coming, and the evening was not dark. I could trace out where\nevery part of the old house had been, and where the brewery had been,\nand where the gates, and where the casks. I had done so, and was\nlooking along the desolate garden walk, when I beheld a solitary figure\nin it.\n\nThe figure showed itself aware of me, as I advanced. It had been moving\ntowards me, but it stood still. As I drew nearer, I saw it to be the\nfigure of a woman. As I drew nearer yet, it was about to turn away,\nwhen it stopped, and let me come up with it. Then, it faltered, as if\nmuch surprised, and uttered my name, and I cried out, \n\n Estella! \n\n I am greatly changed. I wonder you know me. \n\nThe freshness of her beauty was indeed gone, but its indescribable\nmajesty and its indescribable charm remained. Those attractions in it,\nI had seen before; what I had never seen before, was the saddened,\nsoftened light of the once proud eyes; what I had never felt before was\nthe friendly touch of the once insensible hand.\n\nWe sat down on a bench that was near, and I said,  After so many years,\nit is strange that we should thus meet again, Estella, here where our\nfirst meeting was! Do you often come back? \n\n I have never been here since. \n\n Nor I. \n\nThe moon began to rise, and I thought of the placid look at the white\nceiling, which had passed away. The moon began to rise, and I thought\nof the pressure on my hand when I had spoken the last words he had\nheard on earth.\n\nEstella was the next to break the silence that ensued between us.\n\n I have very often hoped and intended to come back, but have been\nprevented by many circumstances. Poor, poor old place! \n\nThe silvery mist was touched with the first rays of the moonlight, and\nthe same rays touched the tears that dropped from her eyes. Not knowing\nthat I saw them, and setting herself to get the better of them, she\nsaid quietly, \n\n Were you wondering, as you walked along, how it came to be left in\nthis condition? \n\n Yes, Estella. \n\n The ground belongs to me. It is the only possession I have not\nrelinquished. Everything else has gone from me, little by little, but I\nhave kept this. It was the subject of the only determined resistance I\nmade in all the wretched years. \n\n Is it to be built on? \n\n At last, it is. I came here to take leave of it before its change. And\nyou,  she said, in a voice of touching interest to a wanderer, you\nlive abroad still? \n\n Still. \n\n And do well, I am sure? \n\n I work pretty hard for a sufficient living, and therefore yes, I do\nwell. \n\n I have often thought of you,  said Estella.\n\n Have you? \n\n Of late, very often. There was a long hard time when I kept far from\nme the remembrance of what I had thrown away when I was quite ignorant\nof its worth. But since my duty has not been incompatible with the\nadmission of that remembrance, I have given it a place in my heart. \n\n You have always held your place in my heart,  I answered.\n\nAnd we were silent again until she spoke.\n\n I little thought,  said Estella,  that I should take leave of you in\ntaking leave of this spot. I am very glad to do so. \n\n Glad to part again, Estella? To me, parting is a painful thing. To me,\nthe remembrance of our last parting has been ever mournful and\npainful. \n\n But you said to me,  returned Estella, very earnestly,  God bless\nyou, God forgive you!  And if you could say that to me then, you will\nnot hesitate to say that to me now, now, when suffering has been\nstronger than all other teaching, and has taught me to understand what\nyour heart used to be. I have been bent and broken, but I hope into a\nbetter shape. Be as considerate and good to me as you were, and tell me\nwe are friends. \n\n We are friends,  said I, rising and bending over her, as she rose from\nthe bench.\n\n And will continue friends apart,  said Estella.\n\nI took her hand in mine, and we went out of the ruined place; and, as\nthe morning mists had risen long ago when I first left the forge, so\nthe evening mists were rising now, and in all the broad expanse of\ntranquil light they showed to me, I saw no shadow of another parting\nfrom her."
    },
    {
        "title": "The Hound of the Baskervilles",
        "author": "Arthur Conan Doyle",
        "category": "Mystery",
        "EN": "Chapter 1.\nMr. Sherlock Holmes\n\n\n      Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings,\n      save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all\n      night, was seated at the breakfast table. I stood upon the\n      hearth-rug and picked up the stick which our visitor had left\n      behind him the night before. It was a fine, thick piece of wood,\n      bulbous-headed, of the sort which is known as a  Penang lawyer. \n      Just under the head was a broad silver band nearly an inch\n      across.  To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of the\n      C.C.H.,  was engraved upon it, with the date  1884.  It was just\n      such a stick as the old-fashioned family practitioner used to\n      carry dignified, solid, and reassuring.\n\n       Well, Watson, what do you make of it? \n\n      Holmes was sitting with his back to me, and I had given him no\n      sign of my occupation.\n\n       How did you know what I was doing? I believe you have eyes in\n      the back of your head. \n\n       I have, at least, a well-polished, silver-plated coffee-pot in\n      front of me,  said he.  But, tell me, Watson, what do you make of\n      our visitor s stick? Since we have been so unfortunate as to miss\n      him and have no notion of his errand, this accidental souvenir\n      becomes of importance. Let me hear you reconstruct the man by an\n      examination of it. \n\n       I think,  said I, following as far as I could the methods of my\n      companion,  that Dr. Mortimer is a successful, elderly medical\n      man, well-esteemed since those who know him give him this mark of\n      their appreciation. \n\n       Good!  said Holmes.  Excellent! \n\n       I think also that the probability is in favour of his being a\n      country practitioner who does a great deal of his visiting on\n      foot. \n\n       Why so? \n\n       Because this stick, though originally a very handsome one has\n      been so knocked about that I can hardly imagine a town\n      practitioner carrying it. The thick-iron ferrule is worn down, so\n      it is evident that he has done a great amount of walking with\n      it. \n\n       Perfectly sound!  said Holmes.\n\n       And then again, there is the  friends of the C.C.H.  I should\n      guess that to be the Something Hunt, the local hunt to whose\n      members he has possibly given some surgical assistance, and which\n      has made him a small presentation in return. \n\n       Really, Watson, you excel yourself,  said Holmes, pushing back\n      his chair and lighting a cigarette.  I am bound to say that in\n      all the accounts which you have been so good as to give of my own\n      small achievements you have habitually underrated your own\n      abilities. It may be that you are not yourself luminous, but you\n      are a conductor of light. Some people without possessing genius\n      have a remarkable power of stimulating it. I confess, my dear\n      fellow, that I am very much in your debt. \n\n      He had never said as much before, and I must admit that his words\n      gave me keen pleasure, for I had often been piqued by his\n      indifference to my admiration and to the attempts which I had\n      made to give publicity to his methods. I was proud, too, to think\n      that I had so far mastered his system as to apply it in a way\n      which earned his approval. He now took the stick from my hands\n      and examined it for a few minutes with his naked eyes. Then with\n      an expression of interest he laid down his cigarette, and\n      carrying the cane to the window, he looked over it again with a\n      convex lens.\n\n       Interesting, though elementary,  said he as he returned to his\n      favourite corner of the settee.  There are certainly one or two\n      indications upon the stick. It gives us the basis for several\n      deductions. \n\n       Has anything escaped me?  I asked with some self-importance.  I\n      trust that there is nothing of consequence which I have\n      overlooked? \n\n       I am afraid, my dear Watson, that most of your conclusions were\n      erroneous. When I said that you stimulated me I meant, to be\n      frank, that in noting your fallacies I was occasionally guided\n      towards the truth. Not that you are entirely wrong in this\n      instance. The man is certainly a country practitioner. And he\n      walks a good deal. \n\n       Then I was right. \n\n       To that extent. \n\n       But that was all. \n\n       No, no, my dear Watson, not all by no means all. I would\n      suggest, for example, that a presentation to a doctor is more\n      likely to come from a hospital than from a hunt, and that when\n      the initials  C.C.  are placed before that hospital the words\n       Charing Cross  very naturally suggest themselves. \n\n       You may be right. \n\n       The probability lies in that direction. And if we take this as a\n      working hypothesis we have a fresh basis from which to start our\n      construction of this unknown visitor. \n\n       Well, then, supposing that  C.C.H.  does stand for  Charing\n      Cross Hospital,  what further inferences may we draw? \n\n       Do none suggest themselves? You know my methods. Apply them! \n\n       I can only think of the obvious conclusion that the man has\n      practised in town before going to the country. \n\n       I think that we might venture a little farther than this. Look\n      at it in this light. On what occasion would it be most probable\n      that such a presentation would be made? When would his friends\n      unite to give him a pledge of their good will? Obviously at the\n      moment when Dr. Mortimer withdrew from the service of the\n      hospital in order to start a practice for himself. We know there\n      has been a presentation. We believe there has been a change from\n      a town hospital to a country practice. Is it, then, stretching\n      our inference too far to say that the presentation was on the\n      occasion of the change? \n\n       It certainly seems probable. \n\n       Now, you will observe that he could not have been on the _staff_\n      of the hospital, since only a man well-established in a London\n      practice could hold such a position, and such a one would not\n      drift into the country. What was he, then? If he was in the\n      hospital and yet not on the staff he could only have been a\n      house-surgeon or a house-physician little more than a senior\n      student. And he left five years ago the date is on the stick. So\n      your grave, middle-aged family practitioner vanishes into thin\n      air, my dear Watson, and there emerges a young fellow under\n      thirty, amiable, unambitious, absent-minded, and the possessor of\n      a favourite dog, which I should describe roughly as being larger\n      than a terrier and smaller than a mastiff. \n\n      I laughed incredulously as Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his\n      settee and blew little wavering rings of smoke up to the ceiling.\n\n       As to the latter part, I have no means of checking you,  said I,\n       but at least it is not difficult to find out a few particulars\n      about the man s age and professional career.  From my small\n      medical shelf I took down the Medical Directory and turned up the\n      name. There were several Mortimers, but only one who could be our\n      visitor. I read his record aloud.\n\n         Mortimer, James, M.R.C.S., 1882, Grimpen, Dartmoor, Devon.\n        House-surgeon, from 1882 to 1884, at Charing Cross Hospital.\n        Winner of the Jackson prize for Comparative Pathology, with\n        essay entitled  Is Disease a Reversion?   Corresponding member\n        of the Swedish Pathological Society.  Author of  Some Freaks of\n        Atavism  (_Lancet_ 1882).   Do We Progress?  (_Journal of\n        Psychology_, March, 1883). Medical Officer for the parishes of\n        Grimpen, Thorsley, and High Barrow. \n\n       No mention of that local hunt, Watson,  said Holmes with a\n      mischievous smile,  but a country doctor, as you very astutely\n      observed. I think that I am fairly justified in my inferences. As\n      to the adjectives, I said, if I remember right, amiable,\n      unambitious, and absent-minded. It is my experience that it is\n      only an amiable man in this world who receives testimonials, only\n      an unambitious one who abandons a London career for the country,\n      and only an absent-minded one who leaves his stick and not his\n      visiting-card after waiting an hour in your room. \n\n       And the dog? \n\n       Has been in the habit of carrying this stick behind his master.\n      Being a heavy stick the dog has held it tightly by the middle,\n      and the marks of his teeth are very plainly visible. The dog s\n      jaw, as shown in the space between these marks, is too broad in\n      my opinion for a terrier and not broad enough for a mastiff. It\n      may have been yes, by Jove, it _is_ a curly-haired spaniel. \n\n      He had risen and paced the room as he spoke. Now he halted in the\n      recess of the window. There was such a ring of conviction in his\n      voice that I glanced up in surprise.\n\n       My dear fellow, how can you possibly be so sure of that? \n\n       For the very simple reason that I see the dog himself on our\n      very door-step, and there is the ring of its owner. Don t move, I\n      beg you, Watson. He is a professional brother of yours, and your\n      presence may be of assistance to me. Now is the dramatic moment\n      of fate, Watson, when you hear a step upon the stair which is\n      walking into your life, and you know not whether for good or ill.\n      What does Dr. James Mortimer, the man of science, ask of Sherlock\n      Holmes, the specialist in crime? Come in! \n\n      The appearance of our visitor was a surprise to me, since I had\n      expected a typical country practitioner. He was a very tall, thin\n      man, with a long nose like a beak, which jutted out between two\n      keen, grey eyes, set closely together and sparkling brightly from\n      behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He was clad in a\n      professional but rather slovenly fashion, for his frock-coat was\n      dingy and his trousers frayed. Though young, his long back was\n      already bowed, and he walked with a forward thrust of his head\n      and a general air of peering benevolence. As he entered his eyes\n      fell upon the stick in Holmes s hand, and he ran towards it with\n      an exclamation of joy.  I am so very glad,  said he.  I was not\n      sure whether I had left it here or in the Shipping Office. I\n      would not lose that stick for the world. \n\n       A presentation, I see,  said Holmes.\n\n       Yes, sir. \n\n       From Charing Cross Hospital? \n\n       From one or two friends there on the occasion of my marriage. \n\n       Dear, dear, that s bad!  said Holmes, shaking his head.\n\n      Dr. Mortimer blinked through his glasses in mild astonishment.\n       Why was it bad? \n\n       Only that you have disarranged our little deductions. Your\n      marriage, you say? \n\n       Yes, sir. I married, and so left the hospital, and with it all\n      hopes of a consulting practice. It was necessary to make a home\n      of my own. \n\n       Come, come, we are not so far wrong, after all,  said Holmes.\n       And now, Dr. James Mortimer \n\n       Mister, sir, Mister a humble M.R.C.S. \n\n       And a man of precise mind, evidently. \n\n       A dabbler in science, Mr. Holmes, a picker up of shells on the\n      shores of the great unknown ocean. I presume that it is Mr.\n      Sherlock Holmes whom I am addressing and not \n\n       No, this is my friend Dr. Watson. \n\n       Glad to meet you, sir. I have heard your name mentioned in\n      connection with that of your friend. You interest me very much,\n      Mr. Holmes. I had hardly expected so dolichocephalic a skull or\n      such well-marked supra-orbital development. Would you have any\n      objection to my running my finger along your parietal fissure? A\n      cast of your skull, sir, until the original is available, would\n      be an ornament to any anthropological museum. It is not my\n      intention to be fulsome, but I confess that I covet your skull. \n\n      Sherlock Holmes waved our strange visitor into a chair.  You are\n      an enthusiast in your line of thought, I perceive, sir, as I am\n      in mine,  said he.  I observe from your forefinger that you make\n      your own cigarettes. Have no hesitation in lighting one. \n\n      The man drew out paper and tobacco and twirled the one up in the\n      other with surprising dexterity. He had long, quivering fingers\n      as agile and restless as the antenn  of an insect.\n\n      Holmes was silent, but his little darting glances showed me the\n      interest which he took in our curious companion.  I presume,\n      sir,  said he at last,  that it was not merely for the purpose of\n      examining my skull that you have done me the honour to call here\n      last night and again today? \n\n       No, sir, no; though I am happy to have had the opportunity of\n      doing that as well. I came to you, Mr. Holmes, because I\n      recognized that I am myself an unpractical man and because I am\n      suddenly confronted with a most serious and extraordinary\n      problem. Recognizing, as I do, that you are the second highest\n      expert in Europe \n\n       Indeed, sir! May I inquire who has the honour to be the first? \n      asked Holmes with some asperity.\n\n       To the man of precisely scientific mind the work of Monsieur\n      Bertillon must always appeal strongly. \n\n       Then had you not better consult him? \n\n       I said, sir, to the precisely scientific mind. But as a\n      practical man of affairs it is acknowledged that you stand alone.\n      I trust, sir, that I have not inadvertently \n\n       Just a little,  said Holmes.  I think, Dr. Mortimer, you would\n      do wisely if without more ado you would kindly tell me plainly\n      what the exact nature of the problem is in which you demand my\n      assistance. \n\n\n\n\nChapter 2.\nThe Curse of the Baskervilles\n\n\n       I have in my pocket a manuscript,  said Dr. James Mortimer.\n\n       I observed it as you entered the room,  said Holmes.\n\n       It is an old manuscript. \n\n       Early eighteenth century, unless it is a forgery. \n\n       How can you say that, sir? \n\n       You have presented an inch or two of it to my examination all\n      the time that you have been talking. It would be a poor expert\n      who could not give the date of a document within a decade or so.\n      You may possibly have read my little monograph upon the subject.\n      I put that at 1730. \n\n       The exact date is 1742.  Dr. Mortimer drew it from his\n      breast-pocket.  This family paper was committed to my care by Sir\n      Charles Baskerville, whose sudden and tragic death some three\n      months ago created so much excitement in Devonshire. I may say\n      that I was his personal friend as well as his medical attendant.\n      He was a strong-minded man, sir, shrewd, practical, and as\n      unimaginative as I am myself. Yet he took this document very\n      seriously, and his mind was prepared for just such an end as did\n      eventually overtake him. \n\n      Holmes stretched out his hand for the manuscript and flattened it\n      upon his knee.  You will observe, Watson, the alternative use of\n      the long _s_ and the short. It is one of several indications\n      which enabled me to fix the date. \n\n      I looked over his shoulder at the yellow paper and the faded\n      script. At the head was written:  Baskerville Hall,  and below in\n      large, scrawling figures:  1742. \n\n       It appears to be a statement of some sort. \n\n       Yes, it is a statement of a certain legend which runs in the\n      Baskerville family. \n\n       But I understand that it is something more modern and practical\n      upon which you wish to consult me? \n\n       Most modern. A most practical, pressing matter, which must be\n      decided within twenty-four hours. But the manuscript is short and\n      is intimately connected with the affair. With your permission I\n      will read it to you. \n\n      Holmes leaned back in his chair, placed his finger-tips together,\n      and closed his eyes, with an air of resignation. Dr. Mortimer\n      turned the manuscript to the light and read in a high, cracking\n      voice the following curious, old-world narrative:\n\n         Of the origin of the Hound of the Baskervilles there have been\n        many statements, yet as I come in a direct line from Hugo\n        Baskerville, and as I had the story from my father, who also\n        had it from his, I have set it down with all belief that it\n        occurred even as is here set forth. And I would have you\n        believe, my sons, that the same Justice which punishes sin may\n        also most graciously forgive it, and that no ban is so heavy\n        but that by prayer and repentance it may be removed.  Learn\n        then from this story not to fear the fruits of the past, but\n        rather to be circumspect in the future, that those foul\n        passions whereby our family has suffered so grievously may not\n        again be loosed to our undoing.\n\n             Know then that in the time of the Great Rebellion (the\n            history of which by the learned Lord Clarendon I most\n            earnestly commend to your attention) this Manor of\n            Baskerville was held by Hugo of that name, nor can it be\n            gainsaid that he was a most wild, profane, and godless man.\n             This, in truth, his neighbours might have pardoned, seeing\n            that saints have never flourished in those parts, but there\n            was in him a certain wanton and cruel humour which made his\n            name a by-word through the West.  It chanced that this Hugo\n            came to love (if, indeed, so dark a passion may be known\n            under so bright a name) the daughter of a yeoman who held\n            lands near the Baskerville estate. But the young maiden,\n            being discreet and of good repute, would ever avoid him,\n            for she feared his evil name.  So it came to pass that one\n            Michaelmas this Hugo, with five or six of his idle and\n            wicked companions, stole down upon the farm and carried off\n            the maiden, her father and brothers being from home, as he\n            well knew.  When they had brought her to the Hall the\n            maiden was placed in an upper chamber, while Hugo and his\n            friends sat down to a long carouse, as was their nightly\n            custom.  Now, the poor lass upstairs was like to have her\n            wits turned at the singing and shouting and terrible oaths\n            which came up to her from below, for they say that the\n            words used by Hugo Baskerville, when he was in wine, were\n            such as might blast the man who said them.  At last in the\n            stress of her fear she did that which might have daunted\n            the bravest or most active man, for by the aid of the\n            growth of ivy which covered (and still covers) the south\n            wall she came down from under the eaves, and so homeward\n            across the moor, there being three leagues betwixt the Hall\n            and her father s farm.\n\n             It chanced that some little time later Hugo left his\n            guests to carry food and drink with other worse things,\n            perchance to his captive, and so found the cage empty and\n            the bird escaped.  Then, as it would seem, he became as one\n            that hath a devil, for, rushing down the stairs into the\n            dining-hall, he sprang upon the great table, flagons and\n            trenchers flying before him, and he cried aloud before all\n            the company that he would that very night render his body\n            and soul to the Powers of Evil if he might but overtake the\n            wench.  And while the revellers stood aghast at the fury of\n            the man, one more wicked or, it may be, more drunken than\n            the rest, cried out that they should put the hounds upon\n            her.  Whereat Hugo ran from the house, crying to his grooms\n            that they should saddle his mare and unkennel the pack, and\n            giving the hounds a kerchief of the maid s, he swung them\n            to the line, and so off full cry in the moonlight over the\n            moor.\n\n             Now, for some space the revellers stood agape, unable to\n            understand all that had been done in such haste.  But anon\n            their bemused wits awoke to the nature of the deed which\n            was like to be done upon the moorlands.  Everything was now\n            in an uproar, some calling for their pistols, some for\n            their horses, and some for another flask of wine.  But at\n            length some sense came back to their crazed minds, and the\n            whole of them, thirteen in number, took horse and started\n            in pursuit.  The moon shone clear above them, and they rode\n            swiftly abreast, taking that course which the maid must\n            needs have taken if she were to reach her own home.\n\n             They had gone a mile or two when they passed one of the\n            night shepherds upon the moorlands, and they cried to him\n            to know if he had seen the hunt.  And the man, as the story\n            goes, was so crazed with fear that he could scarce speak,\n            but at last he said that he had indeed seen the unhappy\n            maiden, with the hounds upon her track.   But I have seen\n            more than that,  said he,  for Hugo Baskerville passed me\n            upon his black mare, and there ran mute behind him such a\n            hound of hell as God forbid should ever be at my heels. \n            So the drunken squires cursed the shepherd and rode onward.\n             But soon their skins turned cold, for there came a\n            galloping across the moor, and the black mare, dabbled with\n            white froth, went past with trailing bridle and empty\n            saddle.  Then the revellers rode close together, for a\n            great fear was on them, but they still followed over the\n            moor, though each, had he been alone, would have been right\n            glad to have turned his horse s head.  Riding slowly in\n            this fashion they came at last upon the hounds.  These,\n            though known for their valour and their breed, were\n            whimpering in a cluster at the head of a deep dip or goyal,\n            as we call it, upon the moor, some slinking away and some,\n            with starting hackles and staring eyes, gazing down the\n            narrow valley before them.\n\n             The company had come to a halt, more sober men, as you may\n            guess, than when they started.  The most of them would by\n            no means advance, but three of them, the boldest, or it may\n            be the most drunken, rode forward down the goyal. Now, it\n            opened into a broad space in which stood two of those great\n            stones, still to be seen there, which were set by certain\n            forgotten peoples in the days of old. The moon was shining\n            bright upon the clearing, and there in the centre lay the\n            unhappy maid where she had fallen, dead of fear and of\n            fatigue.  But it was not the sight of her body, nor yet was\n            it that of the body of Hugo Baskerville lying near her,\n            which raised the hair upon the heads of these three\n            dare-devil roysterers, but it was that, standing over Hugo,\n            and plucking at his throat, there stood a foul thing, a\n            great, black beast, shaped like a hound, yet larger than\n            any hound that ever mortal eye has rested upon.  And even\n            as they looked the thing tore the throat out of Hugo\n            Baskerville, on which, as it turned its blazing eyes and\n            dripping jaws upon them, the three shrieked with fear and\n            rode for dear life, still screaming, across the moor.  One,\n            it is said, died that very night of what he had seen, and\n            the other twain were but broken men for the rest of their\n            days.\n\n             Such is the tale, my sons, of the coming of the hound\n            which is said to have plagued the family so sorely ever\n            since.  If I have set it down it is because that which is\n            clearly known hath less terror than that which is but\n            hinted at and guessed.  Nor can it be denied that many of\n            the family have been unhappy in their deaths, which have\n            been sudden, bloody, and mysterious.  Yet may we shelter\n            ourselves in the infinite goodness of Providence, which\n            would not forever punish the innocent beyond that third or\n            fourth generation which is threatened in Holy Writ.  To\n            that Providence, my sons, I hereby commend you, and I\n            counsel you by way of caution to forbear from crossing the\n            moor in those dark hours when the powers of evil are\n            exalted.\n\n             [This from Hugo Baskerville to his sons Rodger and John,\n            with instructions that they say nothing thereof to their\n            sister Elizabeth.] \n\n      When Dr. Mortimer had finished reading this singular narrative he\n      pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and stared across at Mr.\n      Sherlock Holmes. The latter yawned and tossed the end of his\n      cigarette into the fire.\n\n       Well?  said he.\n\n       Do you not find it interesting? \n\n       To a collector of fairy tales. \n\n      Dr. Mortimer drew a folded newspaper out of his pocket.\n\n       Now, Mr. Holmes, we will give you something a little more\n      recent. This is the _Devon County Chronicle_ of May 14th of this\n      year. It is a short account of the facts elicited at the death of\n      Sir Charles Baskerville which occurred a few days before that\n      date. \n\n      My friend leaned a little forward and his expression became\n      intent. Our visitor readjusted his glasses and began:\n\n         The recent sudden death of Sir Charles Baskerville, whose name\n        has been mentioned as the probable Liberal candidate for\n        Mid-Devon at the next election, has cast a gloom over the\n        county.  Though Sir Charles had resided at Baskerville Hall for\n        a comparatively short period his amiability of character and\n        extreme generosity had won the affection and respect of all who\n        had been brought into contact with him.  In these days of\n        _nouveaux riches_ it is refreshing to find a case where the\n        scion of an old county family which has fallen upon evil days\n        is able to make his own fortune and to bring it back with him\n        to restore the fallen grandeur of his line.  Sir Charles, as is\n        well known, made large sums of money in South African\n        speculation. More wise than those who go on until the wheel\n        turns against them, he realised his gains and returned to\n        England with them.  It is only two years since he took up his\n        residence at Baskerville Hall, and it is common talk how large\n        were those schemes of reconstruction and improvement which have\n        been interrupted by his death.  Being himself childless, it was\n        his openly expressed desire that the whole countryside should,\n        within his own lifetime, profit by his good fortune, and many\n        will have personal reasons for bewailing his untimely end.  His\n        generous donations to local and county charities have been\n        frequently chronicled in these columns.\n\n             The circumstances connected with the death of Sir Charles\n            cannot be said to have been entirely cleared up by the\n            inquest, but at least enough has been done to dispose of\n            those rumours to which local superstition has given rise.\n            There is no reason whatever to suspect foul play, or to\n            imagine that death could be from any but natural causes.\n            Sir Charles was a widower, and a man who may be said to\n            have been in some ways of an eccentric habit of mind. In\n            spite of his considerable wealth he was simple in his\n            personal tastes, and his indoor servants at Baskerville\n            Hall consisted of a married couple named Barrymore, the\n            husband acting as butler and the wife as housekeeper. Their\n            evidence, corroborated by that of several friends, tends to\n            show that Sir Charles s health has for some time been\n            impaired, and points especially to some affection of the\n            heart, manifesting itself in changes of colour,\n            breathlessness, and acute attacks of nervous depression.\n            Dr. James Mortimer, the friend and medical attendant of the\n            deceased, has given evidence to the same effect.\n\n             The facts of the case are simple.  Sir Charles Baskerville\n            was in the habit every night before going to bed of walking\n            down the famous yew alley of Baskerville Hall.  The\n            evidence of the Barrymores shows that this had been his\n            custom. On the fourth of May Sir Charles had declared his\n            intention of starting next day for London, and had ordered\n            Barrymore to prepare his luggage.  That night he went out\n            as usual for his nocturnal walk, in the course of which he\n            was in the habit of smoking a cigar.  He never returned.\n            At twelve o clock Barrymore, finding the hall door still\n            open, became alarmed, and, lighting a lantern, went in\n            search of his master.  The day had been wet, and Sir\n            Charles s footmarks were easily traced down the alley.\n            Halfway down this walk there is a gate which leads out on\n            to the moor. There were indications that Sir Charles had\n            stood for some little time here.  He then proceeded down\n            the alley, and it was at the far end of it that his body\n            was discovered. One fact which has not been explained is\n            the statement of Barrymore that his master s footprints\n            altered their character from the time that he passed the\n            moor-gate, and that he appeared from thence onward to have\n            been walking upon his toes.  One Murphy, a gipsy\n            horse-dealer, was on the moor at no great distance at the\n            time, but he appears by his own confession to have been the\n            worse for drink. He declares that he heard cries but is\n            unable to state from what direction they came.  No signs of\n            violence were to be discovered upon Sir Charles s person,\n            and though the doctor s evidence pointed to an almost\n            incredible facial distortion so great that Dr. Mortimer\n            refused at first to believe that it was indeed his friend\n            and patient who lay before him it was explained that that\n            is a symptom which is not unusual in cases of dyspn a and\n            death from cardiac exhaustion.  This explanation was borne\n            out by the post-mortem examination, which showed\n            long-standing organic disease, and the coroner s jury\n            returned a verdict in accordance with the medical evidence.\n             It is well that this is so, for it is obviously of the\n            utmost importance that Sir Charles s heir should settle at\n            the Hall and continue the good work which has been so sadly\n            interrupted.  Had the prosaic finding of the coroner not\n            finally put an end to the romantic stories which have been\n            whispered in connection with the affair, it might have been\n            difficult to find a tenant for Baskerville Hall.  It is\n            understood that the next of kin is Mr. Henry Baskerville,\n            if he be still alive, the son of Sir Charles Baskerville s\n            younger brother.  The young man when last heard of was in\n            America, and inquiries are being instituted with a view to\n            informing him of his good fortune. \n\n      Dr. Mortimer refolded his paper and replaced it in his pocket.\n       Those are the public facts, Mr. Holmes, in connection with the\n      death of Sir Charles Baskerville. \n\n       I must thank you,  said Sherlock Holmes,  for calling my\n      attention to a case which certainly presents some features of\n      interest. I had observed some newspaper comment at the time, but\n      I was exceedingly preoccupied by that little affair of the\n      Vatican cameos, and in my anxiety to oblige the Pope I lost touch\n      with several interesting English cases. This article, you say,\n      contains all the public facts? \n\n       It does. \n\n       Then let me have the private ones.  He leaned back, put his\n      finger-tips together, and assumed his most impassive and judicial\n      expression.\n\n       In doing so,  said Dr. Mortimer, who had begun to show signs of\n      some strong emotion,  I am telling that which I have not confided\n      to anyone. My motive for withholding it from the coroner s\n      inquiry is that a man of science shrinks from placing himself in\n      the public position of seeming to indorse a popular superstition.\n      I had the further motive that Baskerville Hall, as the paper\n      says, would certainly remain untenanted if anything were done to\n      increase its already rather grim reputation. For both these\n      reasons I thought that I was justified in telling rather less\n      than I knew, since no practical good could result from it, but\n      with you there is no reason why I should not be perfectly frank.\n\n       The moor is very sparsely inhabited, and those who live near\n      each other are thrown very much together. For this reason I saw a\n      good deal of Sir Charles Baskerville. With the exception of Mr.\n      Frankland, of Lafter Hall, and Mr. Stapleton, the naturalist,\n      there are no other men of education within many miles. Sir\n      Charles was a retiring man, but the chance of his illness brought\n      us together, and a community of interests in science kept us so.\n      He had brought back much scientific information from South\n      Africa, and many a charming evening we have spent together\n      discussing the comparative anatomy of the Bushman and the\n      Hottentot.\n\n       Within the last few months it became increasingly plain to me\n      that Sir Charles s nervous system was strained to the breaking\n      point. He had taken this legend which I have read you exceedingly\n      to heart so much so that, although he would walk in his own\n      grounds, nothing would induce him to go out upon the moor at\n      night. Incredible as it may appear to you, Mr. Holmes, he was\n      honestly convinced that a dreadful fate overhung his family, and\n      certainly the records which he was able to give of his ancestors\n      were not encouraging. The idea of some ghastly presence\n      constantly haunted him, and on more than one occasion he has\n      asked me whether I had on my medical journeys at night ever seen\n      any strange creature or heard the baying of a hound. The latter\n      question he put to me several times, and always with a voice\n      which vibrated with excitement.\n\n       I can well remember driving up to his house in the evening some\n      three weeks before the fatal event. He chanced to be at his hall\n      door. I had descended from my gig and was standing in front of\n      him, when I saw his eyes fix themselves over my shoulder and\n      stare past me with an expression of the most dreadful horror. I\n      whisked round and had just time to catch a glimpse of something\n      which I took to be a large black calf passing at the head of the\n      drive. So excited and alarmed was he that I was compelled to go\n      down to the spot where the animal had been and look around for\n      it. It was gone, however, and the incident appeared to make the\n      worst impression upon his mind. I stayed with him all the\n      evening, and it was on that occasion, to explain the emotion\n      which he had shown, that he confided to my keeping that narrative\n      which I read to you when first I came. I mention this small\n      episode because it assumes some importance in view of the tragedy\n      which followed, but I was convinced at the time that the matter\n      was entirely trivial and that his excitement had no\n      justification.\n\n       It was at my advice that Sir Charles was about to go to London.\n      His heart was, I knew, affected, and the constant anxiety in\n      which he lived, however chimerical the cause of it might be, was\n      evidently having a serious effect upon his health. I thought that\n      a few months among the distractions of town would send him back a\n      new man. Mr. Stapleton, a mutual friend who was much concerned at\n      his state of health, was of the same opinion. At the last instant\n      came this terrible catastrophe.\n\n       On the night of Sir Charles s death Barrymore the butler, who\n      made the discovery, sent Perkins the groom on horseback to me,\n      and as I was sitting up late I was able to reach Baskerville Hall\n      within an hour of the event. I checked and corroborated all the\n      facts which were mentioned at the inquest. I followed the\n      footsteps down the yew alley, I saw the spot at the moor-gate\n      where he seemed to have waited, I remarked the change in the\n      shape of the prints after that point, I noted that there were no\n      other footsteps save those of Barrymore on the soft gravel, and\n      finally I carefully examined the body, which had not been touched\n      until my arrival. Sir Charles lay on his face, his arms out, his\n      fingers dug into the ground, and his features convulsed with some\n      strong emotion to such an extent that I could hardly have sworn\n      to his identity. There was certainly no physical injury of any\n      kind. But one false statement was made by Barrymore at the\n      inquest. He said that there were no traces upon the ground round\n      the body. He did not observe any. But I did some little distance\n      off, but fresh and clear. \n\n       Footprints? \n\n       Footprints. \n\n       A man s or a woman s? \n\n      Dr. Mortimer looked strangely at us for an instant, and his voice\n      sank almost to a whisper as he answered.\n\n       Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound! \n\n\n\n\nChapter 3.\nThe Problem\n\n\n      I confess at these words a shudder passed through me. There was a\n      thrill in the doctor s voice which showed that he was himself\n      deeply moved by that which he told us. Holmes leaned forward in\n      his excitement and his eyes had the hard, dry glitter which shot\n      from them when he was keenly interested.\n\n       You saw this? \n\n       As clearly as I see you. \n\n       And you said nothing? \n\n       What was the use? \n\n       How was it that no one else saw it? \n\n       The marks were some twenty yards from the body and no one gave\n      them a thought. I don t suppose I should have done so had I not\n      known this legend. \n\n       There are many sheep-dogs on the moor? \n\n       No doubt, but this was no sheep-dog. \n\n       You say it was large? \n\n       Enormous. \n\n       But it had not approached the body? \n\n       No. \n\n       What sort of night was it? \n\n       Damp and raw. \n\n       But not actually raining? \n\n       No. \n\n       What is the alley like? \n\n       There are two lines of old yew hedge, twelve feet high and\n      impenetrable. The walk in the centre is about eight feet across. \n\n       Is there anything between the hedges and the walk? \n\n       Yes, there is a strip of grass about six feet broad on either\n      side. \n\n       I understand that the yew hedge is penetrated at one point by a\n      gate? \n\n       Yes, the wicket-gate which leads on to the moor. \n\n       Is there any other opening? \n\n       None. \n\n       So that to reach the yew alley one either has to come down it\n      from the house or else to enter it by the moor-gate? \n\n       There is an exit through a summer-house at the far end. \n\n       Had Sir Charles reached this? \n\n       No; he lay about fifty yards from it. \n\n       Now, tell me, Dr. Mortimer and this is important the marks which\n      you saw were on the path and not on the grass? \n\n       No marks could show on the grass. \n\n       Were they on the same side of the path as the moor-gate? \n\n       Yes; they were on the edge of the path on the same side as the\n      moor-gate. \n\n       You interest me exceedingly. Another point. Was the wicket-gate\n      closed? \n\n       Closed and padlocked. \n\n       How high was it? \n\n       About four feet high. \n\n       Then anyone could have got over it? \n\n       Yes. \n\n       And what marks did you see by the wicket-gate? \n\n       None in particular. \n\n       Good heaven! Did no one examine? \n\n       Yes, I examined, myself. \n\n       And found nothing? \n\n       It was all very confused. Sir Charles had evidently stood there\n      for five or ten minutes. \n\n       How do you know that? \n\n       Because the ash had twice dropped from his cigar. \n\n       Excellent! This is a colleague, Watson, after our own heart. But\n      the marks? \n\n       He had left his own marks all over that small patch of gravel. I\n      could discern no others. \n\n      Sherlock Holmes struck his hand against his knee with an\n      impatient gesture.\n\n       If I had only been there!  he cried.  It is evidently a case of\n      extraordinary interest, and one which presented immense\n      opportunities to the scientific expert. That gravel page upon\n      which I might have read so much has been long ere this smudged by\n      the rain and defaced by the clogs of curious peasants. Oh, Dr.\n      Mortimer, Dr. Mortimer, to think that you should not have called\n      me in! You have indeed much to answer for. \n\n       I could not call you in, Mr. Holmes, without disclosing these\n      facts to the world, and I have already given my reasons for not\n      wishing to do so. Besides, besides \n\n       Why do you hesitate? \n\n       There is a realm in which the most acute and most experienced of\n      detectives is helpless. \n\n       You mean that the thing is supernatural? \n\n       I did not positively say so. \n\n       No, but you evidently think it. \n\n       Since the tragedy, Mr. Holmes, there have come to my ears\n      several incidents which are hard to reconcile with the settled\n      order of Nature. \n\n       For example? \n\n       I find that before the terrible event occurred several people\n      had seen a creature upon the moor which corresponds with this\n      Baskerville demon, and which could not possibly be any animal\n      known to science. They all agreed that it was a huge creature,\n      luminous, ghastly, and spectral. I have cross-examined these men,\n      one of them a hard-headed countryman, one a farrier, and one a\n      moorland farmer, who all tell the same story of this dreadful\n      apparition, exactly corresponding to the hell-hound of the\n      legend. I assure you that there is a reign of terror in the\n      district, and that it is a hardy man who will cross the moor at\n      night. \n\n       And you, a trained man of science, believe it to be\n      supernatural? \n\n       I do not know what to believe. \n\n      Holmes shrugged his shoulders.  I have hitherto confined my\n      investigations to this world,  said he.  In a modest way I have\n      combated evil, but to take on the Father of Evil himself would,\n      perhaps, be too ambitious a task. Yet you must admit that the\n      footmark is material. \n\n       The original hound was material enough to tug a man s throat\n      out, and yet he was diabolical as well. \n\n       I see that you have quite gone over to the supernaturalists. But\n      now, Dr. Mortimer, tell me this. If you hold these views, why\n      have you come to consult me at all? You tell me in the same\n      breath that it is useless to investigate Sir Charles s death, and\n      that you desire me to do it. \n\n       I did not say that I desired you to do it. \n\n       Then, how can I assist you? \n\n       By advising me as to what I should do with Sir Henry\n      Baskerville, who arrives at Waterloo Station Dr. Mortimer looked\n      at his watch in exactly one hour and a quarter. \n\n       He being the heir? \n\n       Yes. On the death of Sir Charles we inquired for this young\n      gentleman and found that he had been farming in Canada. From the\n      accounts which have reached us he is an excellent fellow in every\n      way. I speak now not as a medical man but as a trustee and\n      executor of Sir Charles s will. \n\n       There is no other claimant, I presume? \n\n       None. The only other kinsman whom we have been able to trace was\n      Rodger Baskerville, the youngest of three brothers of whom poor\n      Sir Charles was the elder. The second brother, who died young, is\n      the father of this lad Henry. The third, Rodger, was the black\n      sheep of the family. He came of the old masterful Baskerville\n      strain and was the very image, they tell me, of the family\n      picture of old Hugo. He made England too hot to hold him, fled to\n      Central America, and died there in 1876 of yellow fever. Henry is\n      the last of the Baskervilles. In one hour and five minutes I meet\n      him at Waterloo Station. I have had a wire that he arrived at\n      Southampton this morning. Now, Mr. Holmes, what would you advise\n      me to do with him? \n\n       Why should he not go to the home of his fathers? \n\n       It seems natural, does it not? And yet, consider that every\n      Baskerville who goes there meets with an evil fate. I feel sure\n      that if Sir Charles could have spoken with me before his death he\n      would have warned me against bringing this, the last of the old\n      race, and the heir to great wealth, to that deadly place. And yet\n      it cannot be denied that the prosperity of the whole poor, bleak\n      countryside depends upon his presence. All the good work which\n      has been done by Sir Charles will crash to the ground if there is\n      no tenant of the Hall. I fear lest I should be swayed too much by\n      my own obvious interest in the matter, and that is why I bring\n      the case before you and ask for your advice. \n\n      Holmes considered for a little time.\n\n       Put into plain words, the matter is this,  said he.  In your\n      opinion there is a diabolical agency which makes Dartmoor an\n      unsafe abode for a Baskerville that is your opinion? \n\n       At least I might go the length of saying that there is some\n      evidence that this may be so. \n\n       Exactly. But surely, if your supernatural theory be correct, it\n      could work the young man evil in London as easily as in\n      Devonshire. A devil with merely local powers like a parish vestry\n      would be too inconceivable a thing. \n\n       You put the matter more flippantly, Mr. Holmes, than you would\n      probably do if you were brought into personal contact with these\n      things. Your advice, then, as I understand it, is that the young\n      man will be as safe in Devonshire as in London. He comes in fifty\n      minutes. What would you recommend? \n\n       I recommend, sir, that you take a cab, call off your spaniel who\n      is scratching at my front door, and proceed to Waterloo to meet\n      Sir Henry Baskerville. \n\n       And then? \n\n       And then you will say nothing to him at all until I have made up\n      my mind about the matter. \n\n       How long will it take you to make up your mind? \n\n       Twenty-four hours. At ten o clock tomorrow, Dr. Mortimer, I will\n      be much obliged to you if you will call upon me here, and it will\n      be of help to me in my plans for the future if you will bring Sir\n      Henry Baskerville with you. \n\n       I will do so, Mr. Holmes.  He scribbled the appointment on his\n      shirt-cuff and hurried off in his strange, peering, absent-minded\n      fashion. Holmes stopped him at the head of the stair.\n\n       Only one more question, Dr. Mortimer. You say that before Sir\n      Charles Baskerville s death several people saw this apparition\n      upon the moor? \n\n       Three people did. \n\n       Did any see it after? \n\n       I have not heard of any. \n\n       Thank you. Good-morning. \n\n      Holmes returned to his seat with that quiet look of inward\n      satisfaction which meant that he had a congenial task before him.\n\n       Going out, Watson? \n\n       Unless I can help you. \n\n       No, my dear fellow, it is at the hour of action that I turn to\n      you for aid. But this is splendid, really unique from some points\n      of view. When you pass Bradley s, would you ask him to send up a\n      pound of the strongest shag tobacco? Thank you. It would be as\n      well if you could make it convenient not to return before\n      evening. Then I should be very glad to compare impressions as to\n      this most interesting problem which has been submitted to us this\n      morning. \n\n      I knew that seclusion and solitude were very necessary for my\n      friend in those hours of intense mental concentration during\n      which he weighed every particle of evidence, constructed\n      alternative theories, balanced one against the other, and made up\n      his mind as to which points were essential and which immaterial.\n      I therefore spent the day at my club and did not return to Baker\n      Street until evening. It was nearly nine o clock when I found\n      myself in the sitting-room once more.\n\n      My first impression as I opened the door was that a fire had\n      broken out, for the room was so filled with smoke that the light\n      of the lamp upon the table was blurred by it. As I entered,\n      however, my fears were set at rest, for it was the acrid fumes of\n      strong coarse tobacco which took me by the throat and set me\n      coughing. Through the haze I had a vague vision of Holmes in his\n      dressing-gown coiled up in an armchair with his black clay pipe\n      between his lips. Several rolls of paper lay around him.\n\n       Caught cold, Watson?  said he.\n\n       No, it s this poisonous atmosphere. \n\n       I suppose it _is_ pretty thick, now that you mention it. \n\n       Thick! It is intolerable. \n\n       Open the window, then! You have been at your club all day, I\n      perceive. \n\n       My dear Holmes! \n\n       Am I right? \n\n       Certainly, but how? \n\n      He laughed at my bewildered expression.  There is a delightful\n      freshness about you, Watson, which makes it a pleasure to\n      exercise any small powers which I possess at your expense. A\n      gentleman goes forth on a showery and miry day. He returns\n      immaculate in the evening with the gloss still on his hat and his\n      boots. He has been a fixture therefore all day. He is not a man\n      with intimate friends. Where, then, could he have been? Is it not\n      obvious? \n\n       Well, it is rather obvious. \n\n       The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance\n      ever observes. Where do you think that I have been? \n\n       A fixture also. \n\n       On the contrary, I have been to Devonshire. \n\n       In spirit? \n\n       Exactly. My body has remained in this armchair and has, I regret\n      to observe, consumed in my absence two large pots of coffee and\n      an incredible amount of tobacco. After you left I sent down to\n      Stamford s for the Ordnance map of this portion of the moor, and\n      my spirit has hovered over it all day. I flatter myself that I\n      could find my way about. \n\n       A large-scale map, I presume? \n\n       Very large. \n\n      He unrolled one section and held it over his knee.  Here you have\n      the particular district which concerns us. That is Baskerville\n      Hall in the middle. \n\n       With a wood round it? \n\n       Exactly. I fancy the yew alley, though not marked under that\n      name, must stretch along this line, with the moor, as you\n      perceive, upon the right of it. This small clump of buildings\n      here is the hamlet of Grimpen, where our friend Dr. Mortimer has\n      his headquarters. Within a radius of five miles there are, as you\n      see, only a very few scattered dwellings. Here is Lafter Hall,\n      which was mentioned in the narrative. There is a house indicated\n      here which may be the residence of the naturalist Stapleton, if I\n      remember right, was his name. Here are two moorland farmhouses,\n      High Tor and Foulmire. Then fourteen miles away the great convict\n      prison of Princetown. Between and around these scattered points\n      extends the desolate, lifeless moor. This, then, is the stage\n      upon which tragedy has been played, and upon which we may help to\n      play it again. \n\n       It must be a wild place. \n\n       Yes, the setting is a worthy one. If the devil did desire to\n      have a hand in the affairs of men \n\n       Then you are yourself inclining to the supernatural\n      explanation. \n\n       The devil s agents may be of flesh and blood, may they not?\n      There are two questions waiting for us at the outset. The one is\n      whether any crime has been committed at all; the second is, what\n      is the crime and how was it committed? Of course, if Dr.\n      Mortimer s surmise should be correct, and we are dealing with\n      forces outside the ordinary laws of Nature, there is an end of\n      our investigation. But we are bound to exhaust all other\n      hypotheses before falling back upon this one. I think we ll shut\n      that window again, if you don t mind. It is a singular thing, but\n      I find that a concentrated atmosphere helps a concentration of\n      thought. I have not pushed it to the length of getting into a box\n      to think, but that is the logical outcome of my convictions. Have\n      you turned the case over in your mind? \n\n       Yes, I have thought a good deal of it in the course of the day. \n\n       What do you make of it? \n\n       It is very bewildering. \n\n       It has certainly a character of its own. There are points of\n      distinction about it. That change in the footprints, for example.\n      What do you make of that? \n\n       Mortimer said that the man had walked on tiptoe down that\n      portion of the alley. \n\n       He only repeated what some fool had said at the inquest. Why\n      should a man walk on tiptoe down the alley? \n\n       What then? \n\n       He was running, Watson running desperately, running for his\n      life, running until he burst his heart and fell dead upon his\n      face. \n\n       Running from what? \n\n       There lies our problem. There are indications that the man was\n      crazed with fear before ever he began to run. \n\n       How can you say that? \n\n       I am presuming that the cause of his fears came to him across\n      the moor. If that were so, and it seems most probable, only a man\n      who had lost his wits would have run _from_ the house instead of\n      towards it. If the gipsy s evidence may be taken as true, he ran\n      with cries for help in the direction where help was least likely\n      to be. Then, again, whom was he waiting for that night, and why\n      was he waiting for him in the yew alley rather than in his own\n      house? \n\n       You think that he was waiting for someone? \n\n       The man was elderly and infirm. We can understand his taking an\n      evening stroll, but the ground was damp and the night inclement.\n      Is it natural that he should stand for five or ten minutes, as\n      Dr. Mortimer, with more practical sense than I should have given\n      him credit for, deduced from the cigar ash? \n\n       But he went out every evening. \n\n       I think it unlikely that he waited at the moor-gate every\n      evening. On the contrary, the evidence is that he avoided the\n      moor. That night he waited there. It was the night before he made\n      his departure for London. The thing takes shape, Watson. It\n      becomes coherent. Might I ask you to hand me my violin, and we\n      will postpone all further thought upon this business until we\n      have had the advantage of meeting Dr. Mortimer and Sir Henry\n      Baskerville in the morning. \n\n\n\n\nChapter 4.\nSir Henry Baskerville\n\n\n      Our breakfast table was cleared early, and Holmes waited in his\n      dressing-gown for the promised interview. Our clients were\n      punctual to their appointment, for the clock had just struck ten\n      when Dr. Mortimer was shown up, followed by the young baronet.\n      The latter was a small, alert, dark-eyed man about thirty years\n      of age, very sturdily built, with thick black eyebrows and a\n      strong, pugnacious face. He wore a ruddy-tinted tweed suit and\n      had the weather-beaten appearance of one who has spent most of\n      his time in the open air, and yet there was something in his\n      steady eye and the quiet assurance of his bearing which indicated\n      the gentleman.\n\n       This is Sir Henry Baskerville,  said Dr. Mortimer.\n\n       Why, yes,  said he,  and the strange thing is, Mr. Sherlock\n      Holmes, that if my friend here had not proposed coming round to\n      you this morning I should have come on my own account. I\n      understand that you think out little puzzles, and I ve had one\n      this morning which wants more thinking out than I am able to give\n      it. \n\n       Pray take a seat, Sir Henry. Do I understand you to say that you\n      have yourself had some remarkable experience since you arrived in\n      London? \n\n       Nothing of much importance, Mr. Holmes. Only a joke, as like as\n      not. It was this letter, if you can call it a letter, which\n      reached me this morning. \n\n      He laid an envelope upon the table, and we all bent over it. It\n      was of common quality, greyish in colour. The address,  Sir Henry\n      Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel,  was printed in rough\n      characters; the post-mark  Charing Cross,  and the date of\n      posting the preceding evening.\n\n       Who knew that you were going to the Northumberland Hotel?  asked\n      Holmes, glancing keenly across at our visitor.\n\n       No one could have known. We only decided after I met Dr.\n      Mortimer. \n\n       But Dr. Mortimer was no doubt already stopping there? \n\n       No, I had been staying with a friend,  said the doctor.\n\n       There was no possible indication that we intended to go to this\n      hotel. \n\n       Hum! Someone seems to be very deeply interested in your\n      movements.  Out of the envelope he took a half-sheet of foolscap\n      paper folded into four. This he opened and spread flat upon the\n      table. Across the middle of it a single sentence had been formed\n      by the expedient of pasting printed words upon it. It ran:\n\n        As you value your life or your reason keep away from the moor.\n\n      The word  moor  only was printed in ink.\n\n       Now,  said Sir Henry Baskerville,  perhaps you will tell me, Mr.\n      Holmes, what in thunder is the meaning of that, and who it is\n      that takes so much interest in my affairs? \n\n       What do you make of it, Dr. Mortimer? You must allow that there\n      is nothing supernatural about this, at any rate? \n\n       No, sir, but it might very well come from someone who was\n      convinced that the business is supernatural. \n\n       What business?  asked Sir Henry sharply.  It seems to me that\n      all you gentlemen know a great deal more than I do about my own\n      affairs. \n\n       You shall share our knowledge before you leave this room, Sir\n      Henry. I promise you that,  said Sherlock Holmes.  We will\n      confine ourselves for the present with your permission to this\n      very interesting document, which must have been put together and\n      posted yesterday evening. Have you yesterday s _Times_, Watson? \n\n       It is here in the corner. \n\n       Might I trouble you for it the inside page, please, with the\n      leading articles?  He glanced swiftly over it, running his eyes\n      up and down the columns.  Capital article this on free trade.\n      Permit me to give you an extract from it.\n\n      You may be cajoled into imagining that your own special trade or\n     your own industry will be encouraged by a protective tariff, but\n     it stands to reason that such legislation must in the long run\n     keep away wealth from the country, diminish the value of our\n     imports, and lower the general conditions of life in this island. \n\n       What do you think of that, Watson?  cried Holmes in high glee,\n      rubbing his hands together with satisfaction.  Don t you think\n      that is an admirable sentiment? \n\n      Dr. Mortimer looked at Holmes with an air of professional\n      interest, and Sir Henry Baskerville turned a pair of puzzled dark\n      eyes upon me.\n\n       I don t know much about the tariff and things of that kind, \n      said he,  but it seems to me we ve got a bit off the trail so far\n      as that note is concerned. \n\n       On the contrary, I think we are particularly hot upon the trail,\n      Sir Henry. Watson here knows more about my methods than you do,\n      but I fear that even he has not quite grasped the significance of\n      this sentence. \n\n       No, I confess that I see no connection. \n\n       And yet, my dear Watson, there is so very close a connection\n      that the one is extracted out of the other.  You,   your, \n       your,   life,   reason,   value,   keep away,   from the.  Don t\n      you see now whence these words have been taken? \n\n       By thunder, you re right! Well, if that isn t smart!  cried Sir\n      Henry.\n\n       If any possible doubt remained it is settled by the fact that\n       keep away  and  from the  are cut out in one piece. \n\n       Well, now so it is! \n\n       Really, Mr. Holmes, this exceeds anything which I could have\n      imagined,  said Dr. Mortimer, gazing at my friend in amazement.\n       I could understand anyone saying that the words were from a\n      newspaper; but that you should name which, and add that it came\n      from the leading article, is really one of the most remarkable\n      things which I have ever known. How did you do it? \n\n       I presume, Doctor, that you could tell the skull of a negro from\n      that of an Esquimau? \n\n       Most certainly. \n\n       But how? \n\n       Because that is my special hobby. The differences are obvious.\n      The supra-orbital crest, the facial angle, the maxillary curve,\n      the \n\n       But this is my special hobby, and the differences are equally\n      obvious. There is as much difference to my eyes between the\n      leaded bourgeois type of a _Times_ article and the slovenly print\n      of an evening half-penny paper as there could be between your\n      negro and your Esquimau. The detection of types is one of the\n      most elementary branches of knowledge to the special expert in\n      crime, though I confess that once when I was very young I\n      confused the _Leeds Mercury_ with the _Western Morning News_. But\n      a _Times_ leader is entirely distinctive, and these words could\n      have been taken from nothing else. As it was done yesterday the\n      strong probability was that we should find the words in\n      yesterday s issue. \n\n       So far as I can follow you, then, Mr. Holmes,  said Sir Henry\n      Baskerville,  someone cut out this message with a scissors \n\n       Nail-scissors,  said Holmes.  You can see that it was a very\n      short-bladed scissors, since the cutter had to take two snips\n      over  keep away. \n\n       That is so. Someone, then, cut out the message with a pair of\n      short-bladed scissors, pasted it with paste \n\n       Gum,  said Holmes.\n\n       With gum on to the paper. But I want to know why the word  moor \n      should have been written? \n\n       Because he could not find it in print. The other words were all\n      simple and might be found in any issue, but  moor  would be less\n      common. \n\n       Why, of course, that would explain it. Have you read anything\n      else in this message, Mr. Holmes? \n\n       There are one or two indications, and yet the utmost pains have\n      been taken to remove all clues. The address, you observe is\n      printed in rough characters. But the _Times_ is a paper which is\n      seldom found in any hands but those of the highly educated. We\n      may take it, therefore, that the letter was composed by an\n      educated man who wished to pose as an uneducated one, and his\n      effort to conceal his own writing suggests that that writing\n      might be known, or come to be known, by you. Again, you will\n      observe that the words are not gummed on in an accurate line, but\n      that some are much higher than others.  Life,  for example is\n      quite out of its proper place. That may point to carelessness or\n      it may point to agitation and hurry upon the part of the cutter.\n      On the whole I incline to the latter view, since the matter was\n      evidently important, and it is unlikely that the composer of such\n      a letter would be careless. If he were in a hurry it opens up the\n      interesting question why he should be in a hurry, since any\n      letter posted up to early morning would reach Sir Henry before he\n      would leave his hotel. Did the composer fear an interruption and\n      from whom? \n\n       We are coming now rather into the region of guesswork,  said Dr.\n      Mortimer.\n\n       Say, rather, into the region where we balance probabilities and\n      choose the most likely. It is the scientific use of the\n      imagination, but we have always some material basis on which to\n      start our speculation. Now, you would call it a guess, no doubt,\n      but I am almost certain that this address has been written in a\n      hotel. \n\n       How in the world can you say that? \n\n       If you examine it carefully you will see that both the pen and\n      the ink have given the writer trouble. The pen has spluttered\n      twice in a single word and has run dry three times in a short\n      address, showing that there was very little ink in the bottle.\n      Now, a private pen or ink-bottle is seldom allowed to be in such\n      a state, and the combination of the two must be quite rare. But\n      you know the hotel ink and the hotel pen, where it is rare to get\n      anything else. Yes, I have very little hesitation in saying that\n      could we examine the waste-paper baskets of the hotels around\n      Charing Cross until we found the remains of the mutilated _Times_\n      leader we could lay our hands straight upon the person who sent\n      this singular message. Halloa! Halloa! What s this? \n\n      He was carefully examining the foolscap, upon which the words\n      were pasted, holding it only an inch or two from his eyes.\n\n       Well? \n\n       Nothing,  said he, throwing it down.  It is a blank half-sheet\n      of paper, without even a water-mark upon it. I think we have\n      drawn as much as we can from this curious letter; and now, Sir\n      Henry, has anything else of interest happened to you since you\n      have been in London? \n\n       Why, no, Mr. Holmes. I think not. \n\n       You have not observed anyone follow or watch you? \n\n       I seem to have walked right into the thick of a dime novel, \n      said our visitor.  Why in thunder should anyone follow or watch\n      me? \n\n       We are coming to that. You have nothing else to report to us\n      before we go into this matter? \n\n       Well, it depends upon what you think worth reporting. \n\n       I think anything out of the ordinary routine of life well worth\n      reporting. \n\n      Sir Henry smiled.  I don t know much of British life yet, for I\n      have spent nearly all my time in the States and in Canada. But I\n      hope that to lose one of your boots is not part of the ordinary\n      routine of life over here. \n\n       You have lost one of your boots? \n\n       My dear sir,  cried Dr. Mortimer,  it is only mislaid. You will\n      find it when you return to the hotel. What is the use of\n      troubling Mr. Holmes with trifles of this kind? \n\n       Well, he asked me for anything outside the ordinary routine. \n\n       Exactly,  said Holmes,  however foolish the incident may seem.\n      You have lost one of your boots, you say? \n\n       Well, mislaid it, anyhow. I put them both outside my door last\n      night, and there was only one in the morning. I could get no\n      sense out of the chap who cleans them. The worst of it is that I\n      only bought the pair last night in the Strand, and I have never\n      had them on. \n\n       If you have never worn them, why did you put them out to be\n      cleaned? \n\n       They were tan boots and had never been varnished. That was why I\n      put them out. \n\n       Then I understand that on your arrival in London yesterday you\n      went out at once and bought a pair of boots? \n\n       I did a good deal of shopping. Dr. Mortimer here went round with\n      me. You see, if I am to be squire down there I must dress the\n      part, and it may be that I have got a little careless in my ways\n      out West. Among other things I bought these brown boots gave six\n      dollars for them and had one stolen before ever I had them on my\n      feet. \n\n       It seems a singularly useless thing to steal,  said Sherlock\n      Holmes.  I confess that I share Dr. Mortimer s belief that it\n      will not be long before the missing boot is found. \n\n       And, now, gentlemen,  said the baronet with decision,  it seems\n      to me that I have spoken quite enough about the little that I\n      know. It is time that you kept your promise and gave me a full\n      account of what we are all driving at. \n\n       Your request is a very reasonable one,  Holmes answered.  Dr.\n      Mortimer, I think you could not do better than to tell your story\n      as you told it to us. \n\n      Thus encouraged, our scientific friend drew his papers from his\n      pocket and presented the whole case as he had done upon the\n      morning before. Sir Henry Baskerville listened with the deepest\n      attention and with an occasional exclamation of surprise.\n\n       Well, I seem to have come into an inheritance with a vengeance, \n      said he when the long narrative was finished.  Of course, I ve\n      heard of the hound ever since I was in the nursery. It s the pet\n      story of the family, though I never thought of taking it\n      seriously before. But as to my uncle s death well, it all seems\n      boiling up in my head, and I can t get it clear yet. You don t\n      seem quite to have made up your mind whether it s a case for a\n      policeman or a clergyman. \n\n       Precisely. \n\n       And now there s this affair of the letter to me at the hotel. I\n      suppose that fits into its place. \n\n       It seems to show that someone knows more than we do about what\n      goes on upon the moor,  said Dr. Mortimer.\n\n       And also,  said Holmes,  that someone is not ill-disposed\n      towards you, since they warn you of danger. \n\n       Or it may be that they wish, for their own purposes, to scare me\n      away. \n\n       Well, of course, that is possible also. I am very much indebted\n      to you, Dr. Mortimer, for introducing me to a problem which\n      presents several interesting alternatives. But the practical\n      point which we now have to decide, Sir Henry, is whether it is or\n      is not advisable for you to go to Baskerville Hall. \n\n       Why should I not go? \n\n       There seems to be danger. \n\n       Do you mean danger from this family fiend or do you mean danger\n      from human beings? \n\n       Well, that is what we have to find out. \n\n       Whichever it is, my answer is fixed. There is no devil in hell,\n      Mr. Holmes, and there is no man upon earth who can prevent me\n      from going to the home of my own people, and you may take that to\n      be my final answer.  His dark brows knitted and his face flushed\n      to a dusky red as he spoke. It was evident that the fiery temper\n      of the Baskervilles was not extinct in this their last\n      representative.  Meanwhile,  said he,  I have hardly had time to\n      think over all that you have told me. It s a big thing for a man\n      to have to understand and to decide at one sitting. I should like\n      to have a quiet hour by myself to make up my mind. Now, look\n      here, Mr. Holmes, it s half-past eleven now and I am going back\n      right away to my hotel. Suppose you and your friend, Dr. Watson,\n      come round and lunch with us at two. I ll be able to tell you\n      more clearly then how this thing strikes me. \n\n       Is that convenient to you, Watson? \n\n       Perfectly. \n\n       Then you may expect us. Shall I have a cab called? \n\n       I d prefer to walk, for this affair has flurried me rather. \n\n       I ll join you in a walk, with pleasure,  said his companion.\n\n       Then we meet again at two o clock. Au revoir, and good-morning! \n\n      We heard the steps of our visitors descend the stair and the bang\n      of the front door. In an instant Holmes had changed from the\n      languid dreamer to the man of action.\n\n       Your hat and boots, Watson, quick! Not a moment to lose!  He\n      rushed into his room in his dressing-gown and was back again in a\n      few seconds in a frock-coat. We hurried together down the stairs\n      and into the street. Dr. Mortimer and Baskerville were still\n      visible about two hundred yards ahead of us in the direction of\n      Oxford Street.\n\n       Shall I run on and stop them? \n\n       Not for the world, my dear Watson. I am perfectly satisfied with\n      your company if you will tolerate mine. Our friends are wise, for\n      it is certainly a very fine morning for a walk. \n\n      He quickened his pace until we had decreased the distance which\n      divided us by about half. Then, still keeping a hundred yards\n      behind, we followed into Oxford Street and so down Regent Street.\n      Once our friends stopped and stared into a shop window, upon\n      which Holmes did the same. An instant afterwards he gave a little\n      cry of satisfaction, and, following the direction of his eager\n      eyes, I saw that a hansom cab with a man inside which had halted\n      on the other side of the street was now proceeding slowly onward\n      again.\n\n       There s our man, Watson! Come along! We ll have a good look at\n      him, if we can do no more. \n\n      At that instant I was aware of a bushy black beard and a pair of\n      piercing eyes turned upon us through the side window of the cab.\n      Instantly the trapdoor at the top flew up, something was screamed\n      to the driver, and the cab flew madly off down Regent Street.\n      Holmes looked eagerly round for another, but no empty one was in\n      sight. Then he dashed in wild pursuit amid the stream of the\n      traffic, but the start was too great, and already the cab was out\n      of sight.\n\n       There now!  said Holmes bitterly as he emerged panting and white\n      with vexation from the tide of vehicles.  Was ever such bad luck\n      and such bad management, too? Watson, Watson, if you are an\n      honest man you will record this also and set it against my\n      successes! \n\n       Who was the man? \n\n       I have not an idea. \n\n       A spy? \n\n       Well, it was evident from what we have heard that Baskerville\n      has been very closely shadowed by someone since he has been in\n      town. How else could it be known so quickly that it was the\n      Northumberland Hotel which he had chosen? If they had followed\n      him the first day I argued that they would follow him also the\n      second. You may have observed that I twice strolled over to the\n      window while Dr. Mortimer was reading his legend. \n\n       Yes, I remember. \n\n       I was looking out for loiterers in the street, but I saw none.\n      We are dealing with a clever man, Watson. This matter cuts very\n      deep, and though I have not finally made up my mind whether it is\n      a benevolent or a malevolent agency which is in touch with us, I\n      am conscious always of power and design. When our friends left I\n      at once followed them in the hopes of marking down their\n      invisible attendant. So wily was he that he had not trusted\n      himself upon foot, but he had availed himself of a cab so that he\n      could loiter behind or dash past them and so escape their notice.\n      His method had the additional advantage that if they were to take\n      a cab he was all ready to follow them. It has, however, one\n      obvious disadvantage. \n\n       It puts him in the power of the cabman. \n\n       Exactly. \n\n       What a pity we did not get the number! \n\n       My dear Watson, clumsy as I have been, you surely do not\n      seriously imagine that I neglected to get the number? No. 2704 is\n      our man. But that is no use to us for the moment. \n\n       I fail to see how you could have done more. \n\n       On observing the cab I should have instantly turned and walked\n      in the other direction. I should then at my leisure have hired a\n      second cab and followed the first at a respectful distance, or,\n      better still, have driven to the Northumberland Hotel and waited\n      there. When our unknown had followed Baskerville home we should\n      have had the opportunity of playing his own game upon himself and\n      seeing where he made for. As it is, by an indiscreet eagerness,\n      which was taken advantage of with extraordinary quickness and\n      energy by our opponent, we have betrayed ourselves and lost our\n      man. \n\n      We had been sauntering slowly down Regent Street during this\n      conversation, and Dr. Mortimer, with his companion, had long\n      vanished in front of us.\n\n       There is no object in our following them,  said Holmes.  The\n      shadow has departed and will not return. We must see what further\n      cards we have in our hands and play them with decision. Could you\n      swear to that man s face within the cab? \n\n       I could swear only to the beard. \n\n       And so could I from which I gather that in all probability it\n      was a false one. A clever man upon so delicate an errand has no\n      use for a beard save to conceal his features. Come in here,\n      Watson! \n\n      He turned into one of the district messenger offices, where he\n      was warmly greeted by the manager.\n\n       Ah, Wilson, I see you have not forgotten the little case in\n      which I had the good fortune to help you? \n\n       No, sir, indeed I have not. You saved my good name, and perhaps\n      my life. \n\n       My dear fellow, you exaggerate. I have some recollection,\n      Wilson, that you had among your boys a lad named Cartwright, who\n      showed some ability during the investigation. \n\n       Yes, sir, he is still with us. \n\n       Could you ring him up? thank you! And I should be glad to have\n      change of this five-pound note. \n\n      A lad of fourteen, with a bright, keen face, had obeyed the\n      summons of the manager. He stood now gazing with great reverence\n      at the famous detective.\n\n       Let me have the Hotel Directory,  said Holmes.  Thank you! Now,\n      Cartwright, there are the names of twenty-three hotels here, all\n      in the immediate neighbourhood of Charing Cross. Do you see? \n\n       Yes, sir. \n\n       You will visit each of these in turn. \n\n       Yes, sir. \n\n       You will begin in each case by giving the outside porter one\n      shilling. Here are twenty-three shillings. \n\n       Yes, sir. \n\n       You will tell him that you want to see the waste-paper of\n      yesterday. You will say that an important telegram has miscarried\n      and that you are looking for it. You understand? \n\n       Yes, sir. \n\n       But what you are really looking for is the centre page of the\n      _Times_ with some holes cut in it with scissors. Here is a copy\n      of the _Times_. It is this page. You could easily recognize it,\n      could you not? \n\n       Yes, sir. \n\n       In each case the outside porter will send for the hall porter,\n      to whom also you will give a shilling. Here are twenty-three\n      shillings. You will then learn in possibly twenty cases out of\n      the twenty-three that the waste of the day before has been burned\n      or removed. In the three other cases you will be shown a heap of\n      paper and you will look for this page of the _Times_ among it.\n      The odds are enormously against your finding it. There are ten\n      shillings over in case of emergencies. Let me have a report by\n      wire at Baker Street before evening. And now, Watson, it only\n      remains for us to find out by wire the identity of the cabman,\n      No. 2704, and then we will drop into one of the Bond Street\n      picture galleries and fill in the time until we are due at the\n      hotel. \n\n\n\n\nChapter 5.\nThree Broken Threads\n\n\n      Sherlock Holmes had, in a very remarkable degree, the power of\n      detaching his mind at will. For two hours the strange business in\n      which we had been involved appeared to be forgotten, and he was\n      entirely absorbed in the pictures of the modern Belgian masters.\n      He would talk of nothing but art, of which he had the crudest\n      ideas, from our leaving the gallery until we found ourselves at\n      the Northumberland Hotel.\n\n       Sir Henry Baskerville is upstairs expecting you,  said the\n      clerk.  He asked me to show you up at once when you came. \n\n       Have you any objection to my looking at your register?  said\n      Holmes.\n\n       Not in the least. \n\n      The book showed that two names had been added after that of\n      Baskerville. One was Theophilus Johnson and family, of Newcastle;\n      the other Mrs. Oldmore and maid, of High Lodge, Alton.\n\n       Surely that must be the same Johnson whom I used to know,  said\n      Holmes to the porter.  A lawyer, is he not, grey-headed, and\n      walks with a limp? \n\n       No, sir, this is Mr. Johnson, the coal-owner, a very active\n      gentleman, not older than yourself. \n\n       Surely you are mistaken about his trade? \n\n       No, sir! he has used this hotel for many years, and he is very\n      well known to us. \n\n       Ah, that settles it. Mrs. Oldmore, too; I seem to remember the\n      name. Excuse my curiosity, but often in calling upon one friend\n      one finds another. \n\n       She is an invalid lady, sir. Her husband was once mayor of\n      Gloucester. She always comes to us when she is in town. \n\n       Thank you; I am afraid I cannot claim her acquaintance. We have\n      established a most important fact by these questions, Watson,  he\n      continued in a low voice as we went upstairs together.  We know\n      now that the people who are so interested in our friend have not\n      settled down in his own hotel. That means that while they are, as\n      we have seen, very anxious to watch him, they are equally anxious\n      that he should not see them. Now, this is a most suggestive\n      fact. \n\n       What does it suggest? \n\n       It suggests halloa, my dear fellow, what on earth is the\n      matter? \n\n      As we came round the top of the stairs we had run up against Sir\n      Henry Baskerville himself. His face was flushed with anger, and\n      he held an old and dusty boot in one of his hands. So furious was\n      he that he was hardly articulate, and when he did speak it was in\n      a much broader and more Western dialect than any which we had\n      heard from him in the morning.\n\n       Seems to me they are playing me for a sucker in this hotel,  he\n      cried.  They ll find they ve started in to monkey with the wrong\n      man unless they are careful. By thunder, if that chap can t find\n      my missing boot there will be trouble. I can take a joke with the\n      best, Mr. Holmes, but they ve got a bit over the mark this time. \n\n       Still looking for your boot? \n\n       Yes, sir, and mean to find it. \n\n       But, surely, you said that it was a new brown boot? \n\n       So it was, sir. And now it s an old black one. \n\n       What! you don t mean to say ? \n\n       That s just what I do mean to say. I only had three pairs in the\n      world the new brown, the old black, and the patent leathers,\n      which I am wearing. Last night they took one of my brown ones,\n      and today they have sneaked one of the black. Well, have you got\n      it? Speak out, man, and don t stand staring! \n\n      An agitated German waiter had appeared upon the scene.\n\n       No, sir; I have made inquiry all over the hotel, but I can hear\n      no word of it. \n\n       Well, either that boot comes back before sundown or I ll see the\n      manager and tell him that I go right straight out of this hotel. \n\n       It shall be found, sir I promise you that if you will have a\n      little patience it will be found. \n\n       Mind it is, for it s the last thing of mine that I ll lose in\n      this den of thieves. Well, well, Mr. Holmes, you ll excuse my\n      troubling you about such a trifle \n\n       I think it s well worth troubling about. \n\n       Why, you look very serious over it. \n\n       How do you explain it? \n\n       I just don t attempt to explain it. It seems the very maddest,\n      queerest thing that ever happened to me. \n\n       The queerest perhaps  said Holmes thoughtfully.\n\n       What do you make of it yourself? \n\n       Well, I don t profess to understand it yet. This case of yours\n      is very complex, Sir Henry. When taken in conjunction with your\n      uncle s death I am not sure that of all the five hundred cases of\n      capital importance which I have handled there is one which cuts\n      so deep. But we hold several threads in our hands, and the odds\n      are that one or other of them guides us to the truth. We may\n      waste time in following the wrong one, but sooner or later we\n      must come upon the right. \n\n      We had a pleasant luncheon in which little was said of the\n      business which had brought us together. It was in the private\n      sitting-room to which we afterwards repaired that Holmes asked\n      Baskerville what were his intentions.\n\n       To go to Baskerville Hall. \n\n       And when? \n\n       At the end of the week. \n\n       On the whole,  said Holmes,  I think that your decision is a\n      wise one. I have ample evidence that you are being dogged in\n      London, and amid the millions of this great city it is difficult\n      to discover who these people are or what their object can be. If\n      their intentions are evil they might do you a mischief, and we\n      should be powerless to prevent it. You did not know, Dr.\n      Mortimer, that you were followed this morning from my house? \n\n      Dr. Mortimer started violently.  Followed! By whom? \n\n       That, unfortunately, is what I cannot tell you. Have you among\n      your neighbours or acquaintances on Dartmoor any man with a\n      black, full beard? \n\n       No or, let me see why, yes. Barrymore, Sir Charles s butler, is\n      a man with a full, black beard. \n\n       Ha! Where is Barrymore? \n\n       He is in charge of the Hall. \n\n       We had best ascertain if he is really there, or if by any\n      possibility he might be in London. \n\n       How can you do that? \n\n       Give me a telegraph form.  Is all ready for Sir Henry?  That\n      will do. Address to Mr. Barrymore, Baskerville Hall. What is the\n      nearest telegraph-office? Grimpen. Very good, we will send a\n      second wire to the postmaster, Grimpen:  Telegram to Mr.\n      Barrymore to be delivered into his own hand. If absent, please\n      return wire to Sir Henry Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel.  That\n      should let us know before evening whether Barrymore is at his\n      post in Devonshire or not. \n\n       That s so,  said Baskerville.  By the way, Dr. Mortimer, who is\n      this Barrymore, anyhow? \n\n       He is the son of the old caretaker, who is dead. They have\n      looked after the Hall for four generations now. So far as I know,\n      he and his wife are as respectable a couple as any in the\n      county. \n\n       At the same time,  said Baskerville,  it s clear enough that so\n      long as there are none of the family at the Hall these people\n      have a mighty fine home and nothing to do. \n\n       That is true. \n\n       Did Barrymore profit at all by Sir Charles s will?  asked\n      Holmes.\n\n       He and his wife had five hundred pounds each. \n\n       Ha! Did they know that they would receive this? \n\n       Yes; Sir Charles was very fond of talking about the provisions\n      of his will. \n\n       That is very interesting. \n\n       I hope,  said Dr. Mortimer,  that you do not look with\n      suspicious eyes upon everyone who received a legacy from Sir\n      Charles, for I also had a thousand pounds left to me. \n\n       Indeed! And anyone else? \n\n       There were many insignificant sums to individuals, and a large\n      number of public charities. The residue all went to Sir Henry. \n\n       And how much was the residue? \n\n       Seven hundred and forty thousand pounds. \n\n      Holmes raised his eyebrows in surprise.  I had no idea that so\n      gigantic a sum was involved,  said he.\n\n       Sir Charles had the reputation of being rich, but we did not\n      know how very rich he was until we came to examine his\n      securities. The total value of the estate was close on to a\n      million. \n\n       Dear me! It is a stake for which a man might well play a\n      desperate game. And one more question, Dr. Mortimer. Supposing\n      that anything happened to our young friend here you will forgive\n      the unpleasant hypothesis! who would inherit the estate? \n\n       Since Rodger Baskerville, Sir Charles s younger brother died\n      unmarried, the estate would descend to the Desmonds, who are\n      distant cousins. James Desmond is an elderly clergyman in\n      Westmoreland. \n\n       Thank you. These details are all of great interest. Have you met\n      Mr. James Desmond? \n\n       Yes; he once came down to visit Sir Charles. He is a man of\n      venerable appearance and of saintly life. I remember that he\n      refused to accept any settlement from Sir Charles, though he\n      pressed it upon him. \n\n       And this man of simple tastes would be the heir to Sir Charles s\n      thousands. \n\n       He would be the heir to the estate because that is entailed. He\n      would also be the heir to the money unless it were willed\n      otherwise by the present owner, who can, of course, do what he\n      likes with it. \n\n       And have you made your will, Sir Henry? \n\n       No, Mr. Holmes, I have not. I ve had no time, for it was only\n      yesterday that I learned how matters stood. But in any case I\n      feel that the money should go with the title and estate. That was\n      my poor uncle s idea. How is the owner going to restore the\n      glories of the Baskervilles if he has not money enough to keep up\n      the property? House, land, and dollars must go together. \n\n       Quite so. Well, Sir Henry, I am of one mind with you as to the\n      advisability of your going down to Devonshire without delay.\n      There is only one provision which I must make. You certainly must\n      not go alone. \n\n       Dr. Mortimer returns with me. \n\n       But Dr. Mortimer has his practice to attend to, and his house is\n      miles away from yours. With all the goodwill in the world he may\n      be unable to help you. No, Sir Henry, you must take with you\n      someone, a trusty man, who will be always by your side. \n\n       Is it possible that you could come yourself, Mr. Holmes? \n\n       If matters came to a crisis I should endeavour to be present in\n      person; but you can understand that, with my extensive consulting\n      practice and with the constant appeals which reach me from many\n      quarters, it is impossible for me to be absent from London for an\n      indefinite time. At the present instant one of the most revered\n      names in England is being besmirched by a blackmailer, and only I\n      can stop a disastrous scandal. You will see how impossible it is\n      for me to go to Dartmoor. \n\n       Whom would you recommend, then? \n\n      Holmes laid his hand upon my arm.  If my friend would undertake\n      it there is no man who is better worth having at your side when\n      you are in a tight place. No one can say so more confidently than\n      I. \n\n      The proposition took me completely by surprise, but before I had\n      time to answer, Baskerville seized me by the hand and wrung it\n      heartily.\n\n       Well, now, that is real kind of you, Dr. Watson,  said he.  You\n      see how it is with me, and you know just as much about the matter\n      as I do. If you will come down to Baskerville Hall and see me\n      through I ll never forget it. \n\n      The promise of adventure had always a fascination for me, and I\n      was complimented by the words of Holmes and by the eagerness with\n      which the baronet hailed me as a companion.\n\n       I will come, with pleasure,  said I.  I do not know how I could\n      employ my time better. \n\n       And you will report very carefully to me,  said Holmes.  When a\n      crisis comes, as it will do, I will direct how you shall act. I\n      suppose that by Saturday all might be ready? \n\n       Would that suit Dr. Watson? \n\n       Perfectly. \n\n       Then on Saturday, unless you hear to the contrary, we shall meet\n      at the ten-thirty train from Paddington. \n\n      We had risen to depart when Baskerville gave a cry of triumph,\n      and diving into one of the corners of the room he drew a brown\n      boot from under a cabinet.\n\n       My missing boot!  he cried.\n\n       May all our difficulties vanish as easily!  said Sherlock\n      Holmes.\n\n       But it is a very singular thing,  Dr. Mortimer remarked.  I\n      searched this room carefully before lunch. \n\n       And so did I,  said Baskerville.  Every inch of it. \n\n       There was certainly no boot in it then. \n\n       In that case the waiter must have placed it there while we were\n      lunching. \n\n      The German was sent for but professed to know nothing of the\n      matter, nor could any inquiry clear it up. Another item had been\n      added to that constant and apparently purposeless series of small\n      mysteries which had succeeded each other so rapidly. Setting\n      aside the whole grim story of Sir Charles s death, we had a line\n      of inexplicable incidents all within the limits of two days,\n      which included the receipt of the printed letter, the\n      black-bearded spy in the hansom, the loss of the new brown boot,\n      the loss of the old black boot, and now the return of the new\n      brown boot. Holmes sat in silence in the cab as we drove back to\n      Baker Street, and I knew from his drawn brows and keen face that\n      his mind, like my own, was busy in endeavouring to frame some\n      scheme into which all these strange and apparently disconnected\n      episodes could be fitted. All afternoon and late into the evening\n      he sat lost in tobacco and thought.\n\n      Just before dinner two telegrams were handed in. The first ran:\n\n      Have just heard that Barrymore is at the Hall. BASKERVILLE.\n\n      The second:\n\n      Visited twenty-three hotels as directed, but sorry to report\n      unable to trace cut sheet of _Times_. CARTWRIGHT.\n\n       There go two of my threads, Watson. There is nothing more\n      stimulating than a case where everything goes against you. We\n      must cast round for another scent. \n\n       We have still the cabman who drove the spy. \n\n       Exactly. I have wired to get his name and address from the\n      Official Registry. I should not be surprised if this were an\n      answer to my question. \n\n      The ring at the bell proved to be something even more\n      satisfactory than an answer, however, for the door opened and a\n      rough-looking fellow entered who was evidently the man himself.\n\n       I got a message from the head office that a gent at this address\n      had been inquiring for No. 2704,  said he.  I ve driven my cab\n      this seven years and never a word of complaint. I came here\n      straight from the Yard to ask you to your face what you had\n      against me. \n\n       I have nothing in the world against you, my good man,  said\n      Holmes.  On the contrary, I have half a sovereign for you if you\n      will give me a clear answer to my questions. \n\n       Well, I ve had a good day and no mistake,  said the cabman with\n      a grin.  What was it you wanted to ask, sir? \n\n       First of all your name and address, in case I want you again. \n\n       John Clayton, 3 Turpey Street, the Borough. My cab is out of\n      Shipley s Yard, near Waterloo Station. \n\n      Sherlock Holmes made a note of it.\n\n       Now, Clayton, tell me all about the fare who came and watched\n      this house at ten o clock this morning and afterwards followed\n      the two gentlemen down Regent Street. \n\n      The man looked surprised and a little embarrassed.  Why, there s\n      no good my telling you things, for you seem to know as much as I\n      do already,  said he.  The truth is that the gentleman told me\n      that he was a detective and that I was to say nothing about him\n      to anyone. \n\n       My good fellow; this is a very serious business, and you may\n      find yourself in a pretty bad position if you try to hide\n      anything from me. You say that your fare told you that he was a\n      detective? \n\n       Yes, he did. \n\n       When did he say this? \n\n       When he left me. \n\n       Did he say anything more? \n\n       He mentioned his name. \n\n      Holmes cast a swift glance of triumph at me.  Oh, he mentioned\n      his name, did he? That was imprudent. What was the name that he\n      mentioned? \n\n       His name,  said the cabman,  was Mr. Sherlock Holmes. \n\n      Never have I seen my friend more completely taken aback than by\n      the cabman s reply. For an instant he sat in silent amazement.\n      Then he burst into a hearty laugh.\n\n       A touch, Watson an undeniable touch!  said he.  I feel a foil as\n      quick and supple as my own. He got home upon me very prettily\n      that time. So his name was Sherlock Holmes, was it? \n\n       Yes, sir, that was the gentleman s name. \n\n       Excellent! Tell me where you picked him up and all that\n      occurred. \n\n       He hailed me at half-past nine in Trafalgar Square. He said that\n      he was a detective, and he offered me two guineas if I would do\n      exactly what he wanted all day and ask no questions. I was glad\n      enough to agree. First we drove down to the Northumberland Hotel\n      and waited there until two gentlemen came out and took a cab from\n      the rank. We followed their cab until it pulled up somewhere near\n      here. \n\n       This very door,  said Holmes.\n\n       Well, I couldn t be sure of that, but I dare say my fare knew\n      all about it. We pulled up halfway down the street and waited an\n      hour and a half. Then the two gentlemen passed us, walking, and\n      we followed down Baker Street and along \n\n       I know,  said Holmes.\n\n       Until we got three-quarters down Regent Street. Then my\n      gentleman threw up the trap, and he cried that I should drive\n      right away to Waterloo Station as hard as I could go. I whipped\n      up the mare and we were there under the ten minutes. Then he paid\n      up his two guineas, like a good one, and away he went into the\n      station. Only just as he was leaving he turned round and he said:\n       It might interest you to know that you have been driving Mr.\n      Sherlock Holmes.  That s how I come to know the name. \n\n       I see. And you saw no more of him? \n\n       Not after he went into the station. \n\n       And how would you describe Mr. Sherlock Holmes? \n\n      The cabman scratched his head.  Well, he wasn t altogether such\n      an easy gentleman to describe. I d put him at forty years of age,\n      and he was of a middle height, two or three inches shorter than\n      you, sir. He was dressed like a toff, and he had a black beard,\n      cut square at the end, and a pale face. I don t know as I could\n      say more than that. \n\n       Colour of his eyes? \n\n       No, I can t say that. \n\n       Nothing more that you can remember? \n\n       No, sir; nothing. \n\n       Well, then, here is your half-sovereign. There s another one\n      waiting for you if you can bring any more information.\n      Good-night! \n\n       Good-night, sir, and thank you! \n\n      John Clayton departed chuckling, and Holmes turned to me with a\n      shrug of his shoulders and a rueful smile.\n\n       Snap goes our third thread, and we end where we began,  said he.\n       The cunning rascal! He knew our number, knew that Sir Henry\n      Baskerville had consulted me, spotted who I was in Regent Street,\n      conjectured that I had got the number of the cab and would lay my\n      hands on the driver, and so sent back this audacious message. I\n      tell you, Watson, this time we have got a foeman who is worthy of\n      our steel. I ve been checkmated in London. I can only wish you\n      better luck in Devonshire. But I m not easy in my mind about it. \n\n       About what? \n\n       About sending you. It s an ugly business, Watson, an ugly\n      dangerous business, and the more I see of it the less I like it.\n      Yes, my dear fellow, you may laugh, but I give you my word that I\n      shall be very glad to have you back safe and sound in Baker\n      Street once more. \n\n\n\n\nChapter 6.\nBaskerville Hall\n\n\n      Sir Henry Baskerville and Dr. Mortimer were ready upon the\n      appointed day, and we started as arranged for Devonshire. Mr.\n      Sherlock Holmes drove with me to the station and gave me his last\n      parting injunctions and advice.\n\n       I will not bias your mind by suggesting theories or suspicions,\n      Watson,  said he;  I wish you simply to report facts in the\n      fullest possible manner to me, and you can leave me to do the\n      theorizing. \n\n       What sort of facts?  I asked.\n\n       Anything which may seem to have a bearing however indirect upon\n      the case, and especially the relations between young Baskerville\n      and his neighbours or any fresh particulars concerning the death\n      of Sir Charles. I have made some inquiries myself in the last few\n      days, but the results have, I fear, been negative. One thing only\n      appears to be certain, and that is that Mr. James Desmond, who is\n      the next heir, is an elderly gentleman of a very amiable\n      disposition, so that this persecution does not arise from him. I\n      really think that we may eliminate him entirely from our\n      calculations. There remain the people who will actually surround\n      Sir Henry Baskerville upon the moor. \n\n       Would it not be well in the first place to get rid of this\n      Barrymore couple? \n\n       By no means. You could not make a greater mistake. If they are\n      innocent it would be a cruel injustice, and if they are guilty we\n      should be giving up all chance of bringing it home to them. No,\n      no, we will preserve them upon our list of suspects. Then there\n      is a groom at the Hall, if I remember right. There are two\n      moorland farmers. There is our friend Dr. Mortimer, whom I\n      believe to be entirely honest, and there is his wife, of whom we\n      know nothing. There is this naturalist, Stapleton, and there is\n      his sister, who is said to be a young lady of attractions. There\n      is Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, who is also an unknown factor,\n      and there are one or two other neighbours. These are the folk who\n      must be your very special study. \n\n       I will do my best. \n\n       You have arms, I suppose? \n\n       Yes, I thought it as well to take them. \n\n       Most certainly. Keep your revolver near you night and day, and\n      never relax your precautions. \n\n      Our friends had already secured a first-class carriage and were\n      waiting for us upon the platform.\n\n       No, we have no news of any kind,  said Dr. Mortimer in answer to\n      my friend s questions.  I can swear to one thing, and that is\n      that we have not been shadowed during the last two days. We have\n      never gone out without keeping a sharp watch, and no one could\n      have escaped our notice. \n\n       You have always kept together, I presume? \n\n       Except yesterday afternoon. I usually give up one day to pure\n      amusement when I come to town, so I spent it at the Museum of the\n      College of Surgeons. \n\n       And I went to look at the folk in the park,  said Baskerville.\n\n       But we had no trouble of any kind. \n\n       It was imprudent, all the same,  said Holmes, shaking his head\n      and looking very grave.  I beg, Sir Henry, that you will not go\n      about alone. Some great misfortune will befall you if you do. Did\n      you get your other boot? \n\n       No, sir, it is gone forever. \n\n       Indeed. That is very interesting. Well, good-bye,  he added as\n      the train began to glide down the platform.  Bear in mind, Sir\n      Henry, one of the phrases in that queer old legend which Dr.\n      Mortimer has read to us, and avoid the moor in those hours of\n      darkness when the powers of evil are exalted. \n\n      I looked back at the platform when we had left it far behind and\n      saw the tall, austere figure of Holmes standing motionless and\n      gazing after us.\n\n      The journey was a swift and pleasant one, and I spent it in\n      making the more intimate acquaintance of my two companions and in\n      playing with Dr. Mortimer s spaniel. In a very few hours the\n      brown earth had become ruddy, the brick had changed to granite,\n      and red cows grazed in well-hedged fields where the lush grasses\n      and more luxuriant vegetation spoke of a richer, if a damper,\n      climate. Young Baskerville stared eagerly out of the window and\n      cried aloud with delight as he recognized the familiar features\n      of the Devon scenery.\n\n       I ve been over a good part of the world since I left it, Dr.\n      Watson,  said he;  but I have never seen a place to compare with\n      it. \n\n       I never saw a Devonshire man who did not swear by his county,  I\n      remarked.\n\n       It depends upon the breed of men quite as much as on the\n      county,  said Dr. Mortimer.  A glance at our friend here reveals\n      the rounded head of the Celt, which carries inside it the Celtic\n      enthusiasm and power of attachment. Poor Sir Charles s head was\n      of a very rare type, half Gaelic, half Ivernian in its\n      characteristics. But you were very young when you last saw\n      Baskerville Hall, were you not? \n\n       I was a boy in my teens at the time of my father s death and had\n      never seen the Hall, for he lived in a little cottage on the\n      South Coast. Thence I went straight to a friend in America. I\n      tell you it is all as new to me as it is to Dr. Watson, and I m\n      as keen as possible to see the moor. \n\n       Are you? Then your wish is easily granted, for there is your\n      first sight of the moor,  said Dr. Mortimer, pointing out of the\n      carriage window.\n\n      Over the green squares of the fields and the low curve of a wood\n      there rose in the distance a grey, melancholy hill, with a\n      strange jagged summit, dim and vague in the distance, like some\n      fantastic landscape in a dream. Baskerville sat for a long time,\n      his eyes fixed upon it, and I read upon his eager face how much\n      it meant to him, this first sight of that strange spot where the\n      men of his blood had held sway so long and left their mark so\n      deep. There he sat, with his tweed suit and his American accent,\n      in the corner of a prosaic railway-carriage, and yet as I looked\n      at his dark and expressive face I felt more than ever how true a\n      descendant he was of that long line of high-blooded, fiery, and\n      masterful men. There were pride, valour, and strength in his\n      thick brows, his sensitive nostrils, and his large hazel eyes. If\n      on that forbidding moor a difficult and dangerous quest should\n      lie before us, this was at least a comrade for whom one might\n      venture to take a risk with the certainty that he would bravely\n      share it.\n\n      The train pulled up at a small wayside station and we all\n      descended. Outside, beyond the low, white fence, a wagonette with\n      a pair of cobs was waiting. Our coming was evidently a great\n      event, for station-master and porters clustered round us to carry\n      out our luggage. It was a sweet, simple country spot, but I was\n      surprised to observe that by the gate there stood two soldierly\n      men in dark uniforms who leaned upon their short rifles and\n      glanced keenly at us as we passed. The coachman, a hard-faced,\n      gnarled little fellow, saluted Sir Henry Baskerville, and in a\n      few minutes we were flying swiftly down the broad, white road.\n      Rolling pasture lands curved upward on either side of us, and old\n      gabled houses peeped out from amid the thick green foliage, but\n      behind the peaceful and sunlit countryside there rose ever, dark\n      against the evening sky, the long, gloomy curve of the moor,\n      broken by the jagged and sinister hills.\n\n      The wagonette swung round into a side road, and we curved upward\n      through deep lanes worn by centuries of wheels, high banks on\n      either side, heavy with dripping moss and fleshy hart s-tongue\n      ferns. Bronzing bracken and mottled bramble gleamed in the light\n      of the sinking sun. Still steadily rising, we passed over a\n      narrow granite bridge and skirted a noisy stream which gushed\n      swiftly down, foaming and roaring amid the grey boulders. Both\n      road and stream wound up through a valley dense with scrub oak\n      and fir. At every turn Baskerville gave an exclamation of\n      delight, looking eagerly about him and asking countless\n      questions. To his eyes all seemed beautiful, but to me a tinge of\n      melancholy lay upon the countryside, which bore so clearly the\n      mark of the waning year. Yellow leaves carpeted the lanes and\n      fluttered down upon us as we passed. The rattle of our wheels\n      died away as we drove through drifts of rotting vegetation sad\n      gifts, as it seemed to me, for Nature to throw before the\n      carriage of the returning heir of the Baskervilles.\n\n       Halloa!  cried Dr. Mortimer,  what is this? \n\n      A steep curve of heath-clad land, an outlying spur of the moor,\n      lay in front of us. On the summit, hard and clear like an\n      equestrian statue upon its pedestal, was a mounted soldier, dark\n      and stern, his rifle poised ready over his forearm. He was\n      watching the road along which we travelled.\n\n       What is this, Perkins?  asked Dr. Mortimer.\n\n      Our driver half turned in his seat.  There s a convict escaped\n      from Princetown, sir. He s been out three days now, and the\n      warders watch every road and every station, but they ve had no\n      sight of him yet. The farmers about here don t like it, sir, and\n      that s a fact. \n\n       Well, I understand that they get five pounds if they can give\n      information. \n\n       Yes, sir, but the chance of five pounds is but a poor thing\n      compared to the chance of having your throat cut. You see, it\n      isn t like any ordinary convict. This is a man that would stick\n      at nothing. \n\n       Who is he, then? \n\n       It is Selden, the Notting Hill murderer. \n\n      I remembered the case well, for it was one in which Holmes had\n      taken an interest on account of the peculiar ferocity of the\n      crime and the wanton brutality which had marked all the actions\n      of the assassin. The commutation of his death sentence had been\n      due to some doubts as to his complete sanity, so atrocious was\n      his conduct. Our wagonette had topped a rise and in front of us\n      rose the huge expanse of the moor, mottled with gnarled and\n      craggy cairns and tors. A cold wind swept down from it and set us\n      shivering. Somewhere there, on that desolate plain, was lurking\n      this fiendish man, hiding in a burrow like a wild beast, his\n      heart full of malignancy against the whole race which had cast\n      him out. It needed but this to complete the grim suggestiveness\n      of the barren waste, the chilling wind, and the darkling sky.\n      Even Baskerville fell silent and pulled his overcoat more closely\n      around him.\n\n      We had left the fertile country behind and beneath us. We looked\n      back on it now, the slanting rays of a low sun turning the\n      streams to threads of gold and glowing on the red earth new\n      turned by the plough and the broad tangle of the woodlands. The\n      road in front of us grew bleaker and wilder over huge russet and\n      olive slopes, sprinkled with giant boulders. Now and then we\n      passed a moorland cottage, walled and roofed with stone, with no\n      creeper to break its harsh outline. Suddenly we looked down into\n      a cuplike depression, patched with stunted oaks and firs which\n      had been twisted and bent by the fury of years of storm. Two\n      high, narrow towers rose over the trees. The driver pointed with\n      his whip.\n\n       Baskerville Hall,  said he.\n\n      Its master had risen and was staring with flushed cheeks and\n      shining eyes. A few minutes later we had reached the lodge-gates,\n      a maze of fantastic tracery in wrought iron, with weather-bitten\n      pillars on either side, blotched with lichens, and surmounted by\n      the boars  heads of the Baskervilles. The lodge was a ruin of\n      black granite and bared ribs of rafters, but facing it was a new\n      building, half constructed, the first fruit of Sir Charles s\n      South African gold.\n\n      Through the gateway we passed into the avenue, where the wheels\n      were again hushed amid the leaves, and the old trees shot their\n      branches in a sombre tunnel over our heads. Baskerville shuddered\n      as he looked up the long, dark drive to where the house glimmered\n      like a ghost at the farther end.\n\n       Was it here?  he asked in a low voice.\n\n       No, no, the yew alley is on the other side. \n\n      The young heir glanced round with a gloomy face.\n\n       It s no wonder my uncle felt as if trouble were coming on him in\n      such a place as this,  said he.  It s enough to scare any man.\n      I ll have a row of electric lamps up here inside of six months,\n      and you won t know it again, with a thousand candle-power Swan\n      and Edison right here in front of the hall door. \n\n      The avenue opened into a broad expanse of turf, and the house lay\n      before us. In the fading light I could see that the centre was a\n      heavy block of building from which a porch projected. The whole\n      front was draped in ivy, with a patch clipped bare here and there\n      where a window or a coat of arms broke through the dark veil.\n      From this central block rose the twin towers, ancient,\n      crenelated, and pierced with many loopholes. To right and left of\n      the turrets were more modern wings of black granite. A dull light\n      shone through heavy mullioned windows, and from the high chimneys\n      which rose from the steep, high-angled roof there sprang a single\n      black column of smoke.\n\n       Welcome, Sir Henry! Welcome to Baskerville Hall! \n\n      A tall man had stepped from the shadow of the porch to open the\n      door of the wagonette. The figure of a woman was silhouetted\n      against the yellow light of the hall. She came out and helped the\n      man to hand down our bags.\n\n       You don t mind my driving straight home, Sir Henry?  said Dr.\n      Mortimer.  My wife is expecting me. \n\n       Surely you will stay and have some dinner? \n\n       No, I must go. I shall probably find some work awaiting me. I\n      would stay to show you over the house, but Barrymore will be a\n      better guide than I. Good-bye, and never hesitate night or day to\n      send for me if I can be of service. \n\n      The wheels died away down the drive while Sir Henry and I turned\n      into the hall, and the door clanged heavily behind us. It was a\n      fine apartment in which we found ourselves, large, lofty, and\n      heavily raftered with huge baulks of age-blackened oak. In the\n      great old-fashioned fireplace behind the high iron dogs a\n      log-fire crackled and snapped. Sir Henry and I held out our hands\n      to it, for we were numb from our long drive. Then we gazed round\n      us at the high, thin window of old stained glass, the oak\n      panelling, the stags  heads, the coats of arms upon the walls,\n      all dim and sombre in the subdued light of the central lamp.\n\n       It s just as I imagined it,  said Sir Henry.  Is it not the very\n      picture of an old family home? To think that this should be the\n      same hall in which for five hundred years my people have lived.\n      It strikes me solemn to think of it. \n\n      I saw his dark face lit up with a boyish enthusiasm as he gazed\n      about him. The light beat upon him where he stood, but long\n      shadows trailed down the walls and hung like a black canopy above\n      him. Barrymore had returned from taking our luggage to our rooms.\n      He stood in front of us now with the subdued manner of a\n      well-trained servant. He was a remarkable-looking man, tall,\n      handsome, with a square black beard and pale, distinguished\n      features.\n\n       Would you wish dinner to be served at once, sir? \n\n       Is it ready? \n\n       In a very few minutes, sir. You will find hot water in your\n      rooms. My wife and I will be happy, Sir Henry, to stay with you\n      until you have made your fresh arrangements, but you will\n      understand that under the new conditions this house will require\n      a considerable staff. \n\n       What new conditions? \n\n       I only meant, sir, that Sir Charles led a very retired life, and\n      we were able to look after his wants. You would, naturally, wish\n      to have more company, and so you will need changes in your\n      household. \n\n       Do you mean that your wife and you wish to leave? \n\n       Only when it is quite convenient to you, sir. \n\n       But your family have been with us for several generations, have\n      they not? I should be sorry to begin my life here by breaking an\n      old family connection. \n\n      I seemed to discern some signs of emotion upon the butler s white\n      face.\n\n       I feel that also, sir, and so does my wife. But to tell the\n      truth, sir, we were both very much attached to Sir Charles, and\n      his death gave us a shock and made these surroundings very\n      painful to us. I fear that we shall never again be easy in our\n      minds at Baskerville Hall. \n\n       But what do you intend to do? \n\n       I have no doubt, sir, that we shall succeed in establishing\n      ourselves in some business. Sir Charles s generosity has given us\n      the means to do so. And now, sir, perhaps I had best show you to\n      your rooms. \n\n      A square balustraded gallery ran round the top of the old hall,\n      approached by a double stair. From this central point two long\n      corridors extended the whole length of the building, from which\n      all the bedrooms opened. My own was in the same wing as\n      Baskerville s and almost next door to it. These rooms appeared to\n      be much more modern than the central part of the house, and the\n      bright paper and numerous candles did something to remove the\n      sombre impression which our arrival had left upon my mind.\n\n      But the dining-room which opened out of the hall was a place of\n      shadow and gloom. It was a long chamber with a step separating\n      the dais where the family sat from the lower portion reserved for\n      their dependents. At one end a minstrel s gallery overlooked it.\n      Black beams shot across above our heads, with a smoke-darkened\n      ceiling beyond them. With rows of flaring torches to light it up,\n      and the colour and rude hilarity of an old-time banquet, it might\n      have softened; but now, when two black-clothed gentlemen sat in\n      the little circle of light thrown by a shaded lamp, one s voice\n      became hushed and one s spirit subdued. A dim line of ancestors,\n      in every variety of dress, from the Elizabethan knight to the\n      buck of the Regency, stared down upon us and daunted us by their\n      silent company. We talked little, and I for one was glad when the\n      meal was over and we were able to retire into the modern\n      billiard-room and smoke a cigarette.\n\n       My word, it isn t a very cheerful place,  said Sir Henry.  I\n      suppose one can tone down to it, but I feel a bit out of the\n      picture at present. I don t wonder that my uncle got a little\n      jumpy if he lived all alone in such a house as this. However, if\n      it suits you, we will retire early tonight, and perhaps things\n      may seem more cheerful in the morning. \n\n      I drew aside my curtains before I went to bed and looked out from\n      my window. It opened upon the grassy space which lay in front of\n      the hall door. Beyond, two copses of trees moaned and swung in a\n      rising wind. A half moon broke through the rifts of racing\n      clouds. In its cold light I saw beyond the trees a broken fringe\n      of rocks, and the long, low curve of the melancholy moor. I\n      closed the curtain, feeling that my last impression was in\n      keeping with the rest.\n\n      And yet it was not quite the last. I found myself weary and yet\n      wakeful, tossing restlessly from side to side, seeking for the\n      sleep which would not come. Far away a chiming clock struck out\n      the quarters of the hours, but otherwise a deathly silence lay\n      upon the old house. And then suddenly, in the very dead of the\n      night, there came a sound to my ears, clear, resonant, and\n      unmistakable. It was the sob of a woman, the muffled, strangling\n      gasp of one who is torn by an uncontrollable sorrow. I sat up in\n      bed and listened intently. The noise could not have been far away\n      and was certainly in the house. For half an hour I waited with\n      every nerve on the alert, but there came no other sound save the\n      chiming clock and the rustle of the ivy on the wall.\n\n\n\n\nChapter 7.\nThe Stapletons of Merripit House\n\n\n      The fresh beauty of the following morning did something to efface\n      from our minds the grim and grey impression which had been left\n      upon both of us by our first experience of Baskerville Hall. As\n      Sir Henry and I sat at breakfast the sunlight flooded in through\n      the high mullioned windows, throwing watery patches of colour\n      from the coats of arms which covered them. The dark panelling\n      glowed like bronze in the golden rays, and it was hard to realise\n      that this was indeed the chamber which had struck such a gloom\n      into our souls upon the evening before.\n\n       I guess it is ourselves and not the house that we have to\n      blame!  said the baronet.  We were tired with our journey and\n      chilled by our drive, so we took a grey view of the place. Now we\n      are fresh and well, so it is all cheerful once more. \n\n       And yet it was not entirely a question of imagination,  I\n      answered.  Did you, for example, happen to hear someone, a woman\n      I think, sobbing in the night? \n\n       That is curious, for I did when I was half asleep fancy that I\n      heard something of the sort. I waited quite a time, but there was\n      no more of it, so I concluded that it was all a dream. \n\n       I heard it distinctly, and I am sure that it was really the sob\n      of a woman. \n\n       We must ask about this right away.  He rang the bell and asked\n      Barrymore whether he could account for our experience. It seemed\n      to me that the pallid features of the butler turned a shade paler\n      still as he listened to his master s question.\n\n       There are only two women in the house, Sir Henry,  he answered.\n       One is the scullery-maid, who sleeps in the other wing. The\n      other is my wife, and I can answer for it that the sound could\n      not have come from her. \n\n      And yet he lied as he said it, for it chanced that after\n      breakfast I met Mrs. Barrymore in the long corridor with the sun\n      full upon her face. She was a large, impassive, heavy-featured\n      woman with a stern set expression of mouth. But her telltale eyes\n      were red and glanced at me from between swollen lids. It was she,\n      then, who wept in the night, and if she did so her husband must\n      know it. Yet he had taken the obvious risk of discovery in\n      declaring that it was not so. Why had he done this? And why did\n      she weep so bitterly? Already round this pale-faced, handsome,\n      black-bearded man there was gathering an atmosphere of mystery\n      and of gloom. It was he who had been the first to discover the\n      body of Sir Charles, and we had only his word for all the\n      circumstances which led up to the old man s death. Was it\n      possible that it was Barrymore, after all, whom we had seen in\n      the cab in Regent Street? The beard might well have been the\n      same. The cabman had described a somewhat shorter man, but such\n      an impression might easily have been erroneous. How could I\n      settle the point forever? Obviously the first thing to do was to\n      see the Grimpen postmaster and find whether the test telegram had\n      really been placed in Barrymore s own hands. Be the answer what\n      it might, I should at least have something to report to Sherlock\n      Holmes.\n\n      Sir Henry had numerous papers to examine after breakfast, so that\n      the time was propitious for my excursion. It was a pleasant walk\n      of four miles along the edge of the moor, leading me at last to a\n      small grey hamlet, in which two larger buildings, which proved to\n      be the inn and the house of Dr. Mortimer, stood high above the\n      rest. The postmaster, who was also the village grocer, had a\n      clear recollection of the telegram.\n\n       Certainly, sir,  said he,  I had the telegram delivered to Mr.\n      Barrymore exactly as directed. \n\n       Who delivered it? \n\n       My boy here. James, you delivered that telegram to Mr. Barrymore\n      at the Hall last week, did you not? \n\n       Yes, father, I delivered it. \n\n       Into his own hands?  I asked.\n\n       Well, he was up in the loft at the time, so that I could not put\n      it into his own hands, but I gave it into Mrs. Barrymore s hands,\n      and she promised to deliver it at once. \n\n       Did you see Mr. Barrymore? \n\n       No, sir; I tell you he was in the loft. \n\n       If you didn t see him, how do you know he was in the loft? \n\n       Well, surely his own wife ought to know where he is,  said the\n      postmaster testily.  Didn t he get the telegram? If there is any\n      mistake it is for Mr. Barrymore himself to complain. \n\n      It seemed hopeless to pursue the inquiry any farther, but it was\n      clear that in spite of Holmes s ruse we had no proof that\n      Barrymore had not been in London all the time. Suppose that it\n      were so suppose that the same man had been the last who had seen\n      Sir Charles alive, and the first to dog the new heir when he\n      returned to England. What then? Was he the agent of others or had\n      he some sinister design of his own? What interest could he have\n      in persecuting the Baskerville family? I thought of the strange\n      warning clipped out of the leading article of the _Times_. Was\n      that his work or was it possibly the doing of someone who was\n      bent upon counteracting his schemes? The only conceivable motive\n      was that which had been suggested by Sir Henry, that if the\n      family could be scared away a comfortable and permanent home\n      would be secured for the Barrymores. But surely such an\n      explanation as that would be quite inadequate to account for the\n      deep and subtle scheming which seemed to be weaving an invisible\n      net round the young baronet. Holmes himself had said that no more\n      complex case had come to him in all the long series of his\n      sensational investigations. I prayed, as I walked back along the\n      grey, lonely road, that my friend might soon be freed from his\n      preoccupations and able to come down to take this heavy burden of\n      responsibility from my shoulders.\n\n      Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of running\n      feet behind me and by a voice which called me by name. I turned,\n      expecting to see Dr. Mortimer, but to my surprise it was a\n      stranger who was pursuing me. He was a small, slim, clean-shaven,\n      prim-faced man, flaxen-haired and lean-jawed, between thirty and\n      forty years of age, dressed in a grey suit and wearing a straw\n      hat. A tin box for botanical specimens hung over his shoulder and\n      he carried a green butterfly-net in one of his hands.\n\n       You will, I am sure, excuse my presumption, Dr. Watson,  said he\n      as he came panting up to where I stood.  Here on the moor we are\n      homely folk and do not wait for formal introductions. You may\n      possibly have heard my name from our mutual friend, Mortimer. I\n      am Stapleton, of Merripit House. \n\n       Your net and box would have told me as much,  said I,  for I\n      knew that Mr. Stapleton was a naturalist. But how did you know\n      me? \n\n       I have been calling on Mortimer, and he pointed you out to me\n      from the window of his surgery as you passed. As our road lay the\n      same way I thought that I would overtake you and introduce\n      myself. I trust that Sir Henry is none the worse for his\n      journey? \n\n       He is very well, thank you. \n\n       We were all rather afraid that after the sad death of Sir\n      Charles the new baronet might refuse to live here. It is asking\n      much of a wealthy man to come down and bury himself in a place of\n      this kind, but I need not tell you that it means a very great\n      deal to the countryside. Sir Henry has, I suppose, no\n      superstitious fears in the matter? \n\n       I do not think that it is likely. \n\n       Of course you know the legend of the fiend dog which haunts the\n      family? \n\n       I have heard it. \n\n       It is extraordinary how credulous the peasants are about here!\n      Any number of them are ready to swear that they have seen such a\n      creature upon the moor.  He spoke with a smile, but I seemed to\n      read in his eyes that he took the matter more seriously.  The\n      story took a great hold upon the imagination of Sir Charles, and\n      I have no doubt that it led to his tragic end. \n\n       But how? \n\n       His nerves were so worked up that the appearance of any dog\n      might have had a fatal effect upon his diseased heart. I fancy\n      that he really did see something of the kind upon that last night\n      in the yew alley. I feared that some disaster might occur, for I\n      was very fond of the old man, and I knew that his heart was\n      weak. \n\n       How did you know that? \n\n       My friend Mortimer told me. \n\n       You think, then, that some dog pursued Sir Charles, and that he\n      died of fright in consequence? \n\n       Have you any better explanation? \n\n       I have not come to any conclusion. \n\n       Has Mr. Sherlock Holmes? \n\n      The words took away my breath for an instant but a glance at the\n      placid face and steadfast eyes of my companion showed that no\n      surprise was intended.\n\n       It is useless for us to pretend that we do not know you, Dr.\n      Watson,  said he.  The records of your detective have reached us\n      here, and you could not celebrate him without being known\n      yourself. When Mortimer told me your name he could not deny your\n      identity. If you are here, then it follows that Mr. Sherlock\n      Holmes is interesting himself in the matter, and I am naturally\n      curious to know what view he may take. \n\n       I am afraid that I cannot answer that question. \n\n       May I ask if he is going to honour us with a visit himself? \n\n       He cannot leave town at present. He has other cases which engage\n      his attention. \n\n       What a pity! He might throw some light on that which is so dark\n      to us. But as to your own researches, if there is any possible\n      way in which I can be of service to you I trust that you will\n      command me. If I had any indication of the nature of your\n      suspicions or how you propose to investigate the case, I might\n      perhaps even now give you some aid or advice. \n\n       I assure you that I am simply here upon a visit to my friend,\n      Sir Henry, and that I need no help of any kind. \n\n       Excellent!  said Stapleton.  You are perfectly right to be wary\n      and discreet. I am justly reproved for what I feel was an\n      unjustifiable intrusion, and I promise you that I will not\n      mention the matter again. \n\n      We had come to a point where a narrow grassy path struck off from\n      the road and wound away across the moor. A steep,\n      boulder-sprinkled hill lay upon the right which had in bygone\n      days been cut into a granite quarry. The face which was turned\n      towards us formed a dark cliff, with ferns and brambles growing\n      in its niches. From over a distant rise there floated a grey\n      plume of smoke.\n\n       A moderate walk along this moor-path brings us to Merripit\n      House,  said he.  Perhaps you will spare an hour that I may have\n      the pleasure of introducing you to my sister. \n\n      My first thought was that I should be by Sir Henry s side. But\n      then I remembered the pile of papers and bills with which his\n      study table was littered. It was certain that I could not help\n      with those. And Holmes had expressly said that I should study the\n      neighbours upon the moor. I accepted Stapleton s invitation, and\n      we turned together down the path.\n\n       It is a wonderful place, the moor,  said he, looking round over\n      the undulating downs, long green rollers, with crests of jagged\n      granite foaming up into fantastic surges.  You never tire of the\n      moor. You cannot think the wonderful secrets which it contains.\n      It is so vast, and so barren, and so mysterious. \n\n       You know it well, then? \n\n       I have only been here two years. The residents would call me a\n      newcomer. We came shortly after Sir Charles settled. But my\n      tastes led me to explore every part of the country round, and I\n      should think that there are few men who know it better than I\n      do. \n\n       Is it hard to know? \n\n       Very hard. You see, for example, this great plain to the north\n      here with the queer hills breaking out of it. Do you observe\n      anything remarkable about that? \n\n       It would be a rare place for a gallop. \n\n       You would naturally think so and the thought has cost several\n      their lives before now. You notice those bright green spots\n      scattered thickly over it? \n\n       Yes, they seem more fertile than the rest. \n\n      Stapleton laughed.  That is the great Grimpen Mire,  said he.  A\n      false step yonder means death to man or beast. Only yesterday I\n      saw one of the moor ponies wander into it. He never came out. I\n      saw his head for quite a long time craning out of the bog-hole,\n      but it sucked him down at last. Even in dry seasons it is a\n      danger to cross it, but after these autumn rains it is an awful\n      place. And yet I can find my way to the very heart of it and\n      return alive. By George, there is another of those miserable\n      ponies! \n\n      Something brown was rolling and tossing among the green sedges.\n      Then a long, agonised, writhing neck shot upward and a dreadful\n      cry echoed over the moor. It turned me cold with horror, but my\n      companion s nerves seemed to be stronger than mine.\n\n       It s gone!  said he.  The mire has him. Two in two days, and\n      many more, perhaps, for they get in the way of going there in the\n      dry weather and never know the difference until the mire has them\n      in its clutches. It s a bad place, the great Grimpen Mire. \n\n       And you say you can penetrate it? \n\n       Yes, there are one or two paths which a very active man can\n      take. I have found them out. \n\n       But why should you wish to go into so horrible a place? \n\n       Well, you see the hills beyond? They are really islands cut off\n      on all sides by the impassable mire, which has crawled round them\n      in the course of years. That is where the rare plants and the\n      butterflies are, if you have the wit to reach them. \n\n       I shall try my luck some day. \n\n      He looked at me with a surprised face.  For God s sake put such\n      an idea out of your mind,  said he.  Your blood would be upon my\n      head. I assure you that there would not be the least chance of\n      your coming back alive. It is only by remembering certain complex\n      landmarks that I am able to do it. \n\n       Halloa!  I cried.  What is that? \n\n      A long, low moan, indescribably sad, swept over the moor. It\n      filled the whole air, and yet it was impossible to say whence it\n      came. From a dull murmur it swelled into a deep roar, and then\n      sank back into a melancholy, throbbing murmur once again.\n      Stapleton looked at me with a curious expression in his face.\n\n       Queer place, the moor!  said he.\n\n       But what is it? \n\n       The peasants say it is the Hound of the Baskervilles calling for\n      its prey. I ve heard it once or twice before, but never quite so\n      loud. \n\n      I looked round, with a chill of fear in my heart, at the huge\n      swelling plain, mottled with the green patches of rushes. Nothing\n      stirred over the vast expanse save a pair of ravens, which\n      croaked loudly from a tor behind us.\n\n       You are an educated man. You don t believe such nonsense as\n      that?  said I.  What do you think is the cause of so strange a\n      sound? \n\n       Bogs make queer noises sometimes. It s the mud settling, or the\n      water rising, or something. \n\n       No, no, that was a living voice. \n\n       Well, perhaps it was. Did you ever hear a bittern booming? \n\n       No, I never did. \n\n       It s a very rare bird practically extinct in England now, but\n      all things are possible upon the moor. Yes, I should not be\n      surprised to learn that what we have heard is the cry of the last\n      of the bitterns. \n\n       It s the weirdest, strangest thing that ever I heard in my\n      life. \n\n       Yes, it s rather an uncanny place altogether. Look at the\n      hillside yonder. What do you make of those? \n\n      The whole steep slope was covered with grey circular rings of\n      stone, a score of them at least.\n\n       What are they? Sheep-pens? \n\n       No, they are the homes of our worthy ancestors. Prehistoric man\n      lived thickly on the moor, and as no one in particular has lived\n      there since, we find all his little arrangements exactly as he\n      left them. These are his wigwams with the roofs off. You can even\n      see his hearth and his couch if you have the curiosity to go\n      inside.\n\n       But it is quite a town. When was it inhabited? \n\n       Neolithic man no date. \n\n       What did he do? \n\n       He grazed his cattle on these slopes, and he learned to dig for\n      tin when the bronze sword began to supersede the stone axe. Look\n      at the great trench in the opposite hill. That is his mark. Yes,\n      you will find some very singular points about the moor, Dr.\n      Watson. Oh, excuse me an instant! It is surely Cyclopides. \n\n      A small fly or moth had fluttered across our path, and in an\n      instant Stapleton was rushing with extraordinary energy and speed\n      in pursuit of it. To my dismay the creature flew straight for the\n      great mire, and my acquaintance never paused for an instant,\n      bounding from tuft to tuft behind it, his green net waving in the\n      air. His grey clothes and jerky, zigzag, irregular progress made\n      him not unlike some huge moth himself. I was standing watching\n      his pursuit with a mixture of admiration for his extraordinary\n      activity and fear lest he should lose his footing in the\n      treacherous mire, when I heard the sound of steps and, turning\n      round, found a woman near me upon the path. She had come from the\n      direction in which the plume of smoke indicated the position of\n      Merripit House, but the dip of the moor had hid her until she was\n      quite close.\n\n      I could not doubt that this was the Miss Stapleton of whom I had\n      been told, since ladies of any sort must be few upon the moor,\n      and I remembered that I had heard someone describe her as being a\n      beauty. The woman who approached me was certainly that, and of a\n      most uncommon type. There could not have been a greater contrast\n      between brother and sister, for Stapleton was neutral tinted,\n      with light hair and grey eyes, while she was darker than any\n      brunette whom I have seen in England slim, elegant, and tall. She\n      had a proud, finely cut face, so regular that it might have\n      seemed impassive were it not for the sensitive mouth and the\n      beautiful dark, eager eyes. With her perfect figure and elegant\n      dress she was, indeed, a strange apparition upon a lonely\n      moorland path. Her eyes were on her brother as I turned, and then\n      she quickened her pace towards me. I had raised my hat and was\n      about to make some explanatory remark when her own words turned\n      all my thoughts into a new channel.\n\n       Go back!  she said.  Go straight back to London, instantly. \n\n      I could only stare at her in stupid surprise. Her eyes blazed at\n      me, and she tapped the ground impatiently with her foot.\n\n       Why should I go back?  I asked.\n\n       I cannot explain.  She spoke in a low, eager voice, with a\n      curious lisp in her utterance.  But for God s sake do what I ask\n      you. Go back and never set foot upon the moor again. \n\n       But I have only just come. \n\n       Man, man!  she cried.  Can you not tell when a warning is for\n      your own good? Go back to London! Start tonight! Get away from\n      this place at all costs! Hush, my brother is coming! Not a word\n      of what I have said. Would you mind getting that orchid for me\n      among the mare s-tails yonder? We are very rich in orchids on the\n      moor, though, of course, you are rather late to see the beauties\n      of the place. \n\n      Stapleton had abandoned the chase and came back to us breathing\n      hard and flushed with his exertions.\n\n       Halloa, Beryl!  said he, and it seemed to me that the tone of\n      his greeting was not altogether a cordial one.\n\n       Well, Jack, you are very hot. \n\n       Yes, I was chasing a Cyclopides. He is very rare and seldom\n      found in the late autumn. What a pity that I should have missed\n      him!  He spoke unconcernedly, but his small light eyes glanced\n      incessantly from the girl to me.\n\n       You have introduced yourselves, I can see. \n\n       Yes. I was telling Sir Henry that it was rather late for him to\n      see the true beauties of the moor. \n\n       Why, who do you think this is? \n\n       I imagine that it must be Sir Henry Baskerville. \n\n       No, no,  said I.  Only a humble commoner, but his friend. My\n      name is Dr. Watson. \n\n      A flush of vexation passed over her expressive face.  We have\n      been talking at cross purposes,  said she.\n\n       Why, you had not very much time for talk,  her brother remarked\n      with the same questioning eyes.\n\n       I talked as if Dr. Watson were a resident instead of being\n      merely a visitor,  said she.  It cannot much matter to him\n      whether it is early or late for the orchids. But you will come\n      on, will you not, and see Merripit House? \n\n      A short walk brought us to it, a bleak moorland house, once the\n      farm of some grazier in the old prosperous days, but now put into\n      repair and turned into a modern dwelling. An orchard surrounded\n      it, but the trees, as is usual upon the moor, were stunted and\n      nipped, and the effect of the whole place was mean and\n      melancholy. We were admitted by a strange, wizened, rusty-coated\n      old manservant, who seemed in keeping with the house. Inside,\n      however, there were large rooms furnished with an elegance in\n      which I seemed to recognize the taste of the lady. As I looked\n      from their windows at the interminable granite-flecked moor\n      rolling unbroken to the farthest horizon I could not but marvel\n      at what could have brought this highly educated man and this\n      beautiful woman to live in such a place.\n\n       Queer spot to choose, is it not?  said he as if in answer to my\n      thought.  And yet we manage to make ourselves fairly happy, do we\n      not, Beryl? \n\n       Quite happy,  said she, but there was no ring of conviction in\n      her words.\n\n       I had a school,  said Stapleton.  It was in the north country.\n      The work to a man of my temperament was mechanical and\n      uninteresting, but the privilege of living with youth, of helping\n      to mould those young minds, and of impressing them with one s own\n      character and ideals was very dear to me. However, the fates were\n      against us. A serious epidemic broke out in the school and three\n      of the boys died. It never recovered from the blow, and much of\n      my capital was irretrievably swallowed up. And yet, if it were\n      not for the loss of the charming companionship of the boys, I\n      could rejoice over my own misfortune, for, with my strong tastes\n      for botany and zoology, I find an unlimited field of work here,\n      and my sister is as devoted to Nature as I am. All this, Dr.\n      Watson, has been brought upon your head by your expression as you\n      surveyed the moor out of our window. \n\n       It certainly did cross my mind that it might be a little\n      dull less for you, perhaps, than for your sister. \n\n       No, no, I am never dull,  said she quickly.\n\n       We have books, we have our studies, and we have interesting\n      neighbours. Dr. Mortimer is a most learned man in his own line.\n      Poor Sir Charles was also an admirable companion. We knew him\n      well and miss him more than I can tell. Do you think that I\n      should intrude if I were to call this afternoon and make the\n      acquaintance of Sir Henry? \n\n       I am sure that he would be delighted. \n\n       Then perhaps you would mention that I propose to do so. We may\n      in our humble way do something to make things more easy for him\n      until he becomes accustomed to his new surroundings. Will you\n      come upstairs, Dr. Watson, and inspect my collection of\n      Lepidoptera? I think it is the most complete one in the\n      south-west of England. By the time that you have looked through\n      them lunch will be almost ready. \n\n      But I was eager to get back to my charge. The melancholy of the\n      moor, the death of the unfortunate pony, the weird sound which\n      had been associated with the grim legend of the Baskervilles, all\n      these things tinged my thoughts with sadness. Then on the top of\n      these more or less vague impressions there had come the definite\n      and distinct warning of Miss Stapleton, delivered with such\n      intense earnestness that I could not doubt that some grave and\n      deep reason lay behind it. I resisted all pressure to stay for\n      lunch, and I set off at once upon my return journey, taking the\n      grass-grown path by which we had come.\n\n      It seems, however, that there must have been some short cut for\n      those who knew it, for before I had reached the road I was\n      astounded to see Miss Stapleton sitting upon a rock by the side\n      of the track. Her face was beautifully flushed with her exertions\n      and she held her hand to her side.\n\n       I have run all the way in order to cut you off, Dr. Watson, \n      said she.  I had not even time to put on my hat. I must not stop,\n      or my brother may miss me. I wanted to say to you how sorry I am\n      about the stupid mistake I made in thinking that you were Sir\n      Henry. Please forget the words I said, which have no application\n      whatever to you. \n\n       But I can t forget them, Miss Stapleton,  said I.  I am Sir\n      Henry s friend, and his welfare is a very close concern of mine.\n      Tell me why it was that you were so eager that Sir Henry should\n      return to London. \n\n       A woman s whim, Dr. Watson. When you know me better you will\n      understand that I cannot always give reasons for what I say or\n      do. \n\n       No, no. I remember the thrill in your voice. I remember the look\n      in your eyes. Please, please, be frank with me, Miss Stapleton,\n      for ever since I have been here I have been conscious of shadows\n      all round me. Life has become like that great Grimpen Mire, with\n      little green patches everywhere into which one may sink and with\n      no guide to point the track. Tell me then what it was that you\n      meant, and I will promise to convey your warning to Sir Henry. \n\n      An expression of irresolution passed for an instant over her\n      face, but her eyes had hardened again when she answered me.\n\n       You make too much of it, Dr. Watson,  said she.  My brother and\n      I were very much shocked by the death of Sir Charles. We knew him\n      very intimately, for his favourite walk was over the moor to our\n      house. He was deeply impressed with the curse which hung over the\n      family, and when this tragedy came I naturally felt that there\n      must be some grounds for the fears which he had expressed. I was\n      distressed therefore when another member of the family came down\n      to live here, and I felt that he should be warned of the danger\n      which he will run. That was all which I intended to convey.\n\n       But what is the danger? \n\n       You know the story of the hound? \n\n       I do not believe in such nonsense. \n\n       But I do. If you have any influence with Sir Henry, take him\n      away from a place which has always been fatal to his family. The\n      world is wide. Why should he wish to live at the place of\n      danger? \n\n       Because it _is_ the place of danger. That is Sir Henry s nature.\n      I fear that unless you can give me some more definite information\n      than this it would be impossible to get him to move. \n\n       I cannot say anything definite, for I do not know anything\n      definite. \n\n       I would ask you one more question, Miss Stapleton. If you meant\n      no more than this when you first spoke to me, why should you not\n      wish your brother to overhear what you said? There is nothing to\n      which he, or anyone else, could object. \n\n       My brother is very anxious to have the Hall inhabited, for he\n      thinks it is for the good of the poor folk upon the moor. He\n      would be very angry if he knew that I have said anything which\n      might induce Sir Henry to go away. But I have done my duty now\n      and I will say no more. I must go back, or he will miss me and\n      suspect that I have seen you. Good-bye!  She turned and had\n      disappeared in a few minutes among the scattered boulders, while\n      I, with my soul full of vague fears, pursued my way to\n      Baskerville Hall.\n\n\n\n\nChapter 8.\nFirst Report of Dr. Watson\n\n\n      From this point onward I will follow the course of events by\n      transcribing my own letters to Mr. Sherlock Holmes which lie\n      before me on the table. One page is missing, but otherwise they\n      are exactly as written and show my feelings and suspicions of the\n      moment more accurately than my memory, clear as it is upon these\n      tragic events, can possibly do.\n\n      Baskerville Hall, October 13th.\n\n      MY DEAR HOLMES,\n\n      My previous letters and telegrams have kept you pretty well up to\n      date as to all that has occurred in this most God-forsaken corner\n      of the world. The longer one stays here the more does the spirit\n      of the moor sink into one s soul, its vastness, and also its grim\n      charm. When you are once out upon its bosom you have left all\n      traces of modern England behind you, but, on the other hand, you\n      are conscious everywhere of the homes and the work of the\n      prehistoric people. On all sides of you as you walk are the\n      houses of these forgotten folk, with their graves and the huge\n      monoliths which are supposed to have marked their temples. As you\n      look at their grey stone huts against the scarred hillsides you\n      leave your own age behind you, and if you were to see a\n      skin-clad, hairy man crawl out from the low door fitting a\n      flint-tipped arrow on to the string of his bow, you would feel\n      that his presence there was more natural than your own. The\n      strange thing is that they should have lived so thickly on what\n      must always have been most unfruitful soil. I am no antiquarian,\n      but I could imagine that they were some unwarlike and harried\n      race who were forced to accept that which none other would\n      occupy.\n\n      All this, however, is foreign to the mission on which you sent me\n      and will probably be very uninteresting to your severely\n      practical mind. I can still remember your complete indifference\n      as to whether the sun moved round the earth or the earth round\n      the sun. Let me, therefore, return to the facts concerning Sir\n      Henry Baskerville.\n\n      If you have not had any report within the last few days it is\n      because up to today there was nothing of importance to relate.\n      Then a very surprising circumstance occurred, which I shall tell\n      you in due course. But, first of all, I must keep you in touch\n      with some of the other factors in the situation.\n\n      One of these, concerning which I have said little, is the escaped\n      convict upon the moor. There is strong reason now to believe that\n      he has got right away, which is a considerable relief to the\n      lonely householders of this district. A fortnight has passed\n      since his flight, during which he has not been seen and nothing\n      has been heard of him. It is surely inconceivable that he could\n      have held out upon the moor during all that time. Of course, so\n      far as his concealment goes there is no difficulty at all. Any\n      one of these stone huts would give him a hiding-place. But there\n      is nothing to eat unless he were to catch and slaughter one of\n      the moor sheep. We think, therefore, that he has gone, and the\n      outlying farmers sleep the better in consequence.\n\n      We are four able-bodied men in this household, so that we could\n      take good care of ourselves, but I confess that I have had uneasy\n      moments when I have thought of the Stapletons. They live miles\n      from any help. There are one maid, an old manservant, the sister,\n      and the brother, the latter not a very strong man. They would be\n      helpless in the hands of a desperate fellow like this Notting\n      Hill criminal if he could once effect an entrance. Both Sir Henry\n      and I were concerned at their situation, and it was suggested\n      that Perkins the groom should go over to sleep there, but\n      Stapleton would not hear of it.\n\n      The fact is that our friend, the baronet, begins to display a\n      considerable interest in our fair neighbour. It is not to be\n      wondered at, for time hangs heavily in this lonely spot to an\n      active man like him, and she is a very fascinating and beautiful\n      woman. There is something tropical and exotic about her which\n      forms a singular contrast to her cool and unemotional brother.\n      Yet he also gives the idea of hidden fires. He has certainly a\n      very marked influence over her, for I have seen her continually\n      glance at him as she talked as if seeking approbation for what\n      she said. I trust that he is kind to her. There is a dry glitter\n      in his eyes and a firm set of his thin lips, which goes with a\n      positive and possibly a harsh nature. You would find him an\n      interesting study.\n\n      He came over to call upon Baskerville on that first day, and the\n      very next morning he took us both to show us the spot where the\n      legend of the wicked Hugo is supposed to have had its origin. It\n      was an excursion of some miles across the moor to a place which\n      is so dismal that it might have suggested the story. We found a\n      short valley between rugged tors which led to an open, grassy\n      space flecked over with the white cotton grass. In the middle of\n      it rose two great stones, worn and sharpened at the upper end\n      until they looked like the huge corroding fangs of some monstrous\n      beast. In every way it corresponded with the scene of the old\n      tragedy. Sir Henry was much interested and asked Stapleton more\n      than once whether he did really believe in the possibility of the\n      interference of the supernatural in the affairs of men. He spoke\n      lightly, but it was evident that he was very much in earnest.\n      Stapleton was guarded in his replies, but it was easy to see that\n      he said less than he might, and that he would not express his\n      whole opinion out of consideration for the feelings of the\n      baronet. He told us of similar cases, where families had suffered\n      from some evil influence, and he left us with the impression that\n      he shared the popular view upon the matter.\n\n      On our way back we stayed for lunch at Merripit House, and it was\n      there that Sir Henry made the acquaintance of Miss Stapleton.\n      From the first moment that he saw her he appeared to be strongly\n      attracted by her, and I am much mistaken if the feeling was not\n      mutual. He referred to her again and again on our walk home, and\n      since then hardly a day has passed that we have not seen\n      something of the brother and sister. They dine here tonight, and\n      there is some talk of our going to them next week. One would\n      imagine that such a match would be very welcome to Stapleton, and\n      yet I have more than once caught a look of the strongest\n      disapprobation in his face when Sir Henry has been paying some\n      attention to his sister. He is much attached to her, no doubt,\n      and would lead a lonely life without her, but it would seem the\n      height of selfishness if he were to stand in the way of her\n      making so brilliant a marriage. Yet I am certain that he does not\n      wish their intimacy to ripen into love, and I have several times\n      observed that he has taken pains to prevent them from being\n      _t te- -t te_. By the way, your instructions to me never to allow\n      Sir Henry to go out alone will become very much more onerous if a\n      love affair were to be added to our other difficulties. My\n      popularity would soon suffer if I were to carry out your orders\n      to the letter.\n\n      The other day Thursday, to be more exact Dr. Mortimer lunched\n      with us. He has been excavating a barrow at Long Down and has got\n      a prehistoric skull which fills him with great joy. Never was\n      there such a single-minded enthusiast as he! The Stapletons came\n      in afterwards, and the good doctor took us all to the yew alley\n      at Sir Henry s request to show us exactly how everything occurred\n      upon that fatal night. It is a long, dismal walk, the yew alley,\n      between two high walls of clipped hedge, with a narrow band of\n      grass upon either side. At the far end is an old tumble-down\n      summer-house. Halfway down is the moor-gate, where the old\n      gentleman left his cigar-ash. It is a white wooden gate with a\n      latch. Beyond it lies the wide moor. I remembered your theory of\n      the affair and tried to picture all that had occurred. As the old\n      man stood there he saw something coming across the moor,\n      something which terrified him so that he lost his wits and ran\n      and ran until he died of sheer horror and exhaustion. There was\n      the long, gloomy tunnel down which he fled. And from what? A\n      sheep-dog of the moor? Or a spectral hound, black, silent, and\n      monstrous? Was there a human agency in the matter? Did the pale,\n      watchful Barrymore know more than he cared to say? It was all dim\n      and vague, but always there is the dark shadow of crime behind\n      it.\n\n      One other neighbour I have met since I wrote last. This is Mr.\n      Frankland, of Lafter Hall, who lives some four miles to the south\n      of us. He is an elderly man, red-faced, white-haired, and\n      choleric. His passion is for the British law, and he has spent a\n      large fortune in litigation. He fights for the mere pleasure of\n      fighting and is equally ready to take up either side of a\n      question, so that it is no wonder that he has found it a costly\n      amusement. Sometimes he will shut up a right of way and defy the\n      parish to make him open it. At others he will with his own hands\n      tear down some other man s gate and declare that a path has\n      existed there from time immemorial, defying the owner to\n      prosecute him for trespass. He is learned in old manorial and\n      communal rights, and he applies his knowledge sometimes in favour\n      of the villagers of Fernworthy and sometimes against them, so\n      that he is periodically either carried in triumph down the\n      village street or else burned in effigy, according to his latest\n      exploit. He is said to have about seven lawsuits upon his hands\n      at present, which will probably swallow up the remainder of his\n      fortune and so draw his sting and leave him harmless for the\n      future. Apart from the law he seems a kindly, good-natured\n      person, and I only mention him because you were particular that I\n      should send some description of the people who surround us. He is\n      curiously employed at present, for, being an amateur astronomer,\n      he has an excellent telescope, with which he lies upon the roof\n      of his own house and sweeps the moor all day in the hope of\n      catching a glimpse of the escaped convict. If he would confine\n      his energies to this all would be well, but there are rumours\n      that he intends to prosecute Dr. Mortimer for opening a grave\n      without the consent of the next of kin because he dug up the\n      Neolithic skull in the barrow on Long Down. He helps to keep our\n      lives from being monotonous and gives a little comic relief where\n      it is badly needed.\n\n      And now, having brought you up to date in the escaped convict,\n      the Stapletons, Dr. Mortimer, and Frankland, of Lafter Hall, let\n      me end on that which is most important and tell you more about\n      the Barrymores, and especially about the surprising development\n      of last night.\n\n      First of all about the test telegram, which you sent from London\n      in order to make sure that Barrymore was really here. I have\n      already explained that the testimony of the postmaster shows that\n      the test was worthless and that we have no proof one way or the\n      other. I told Sir Henry how the matter stood, and he at once, in\n      his downright fashion, had Barrymore up and asked him whether he\n      had received the telegram himself. Barrymore said that he had.\n\n       Did the boy deliver it into your own hands?  asked Sir Henry.\n\n      Barrymore looked surprised, and considered for a little time.\n\n       No,  said he,  I was in the box-room at the time, and my wife\n      brought it up to me. \n\n       Did you answer it yourself? \n\n       No; I told my wife what to answer and she went down to write\n      it. \n\n      In the evening he recurred to the subject of his own accord.\n\n       I could not quite understand the object of your questions this\n      morning, Sir Henry,  said he.  I trust that they do not mean that\n      I have done anything to forfeit your confidence? \n\n      Sir Henry had to assure him that it was not so and pacify him by\n      giving him a considerable part of his old wardrobe, the London\n      outfit having now all arrived.\n\n      Mrs. Barrymore is of interest to me. She is a heavy, solid\n      person, very limited, intensely respectable, and inclined to be\n      puritanical. You could hardly conceive a less emotional subject.\n      Yet I have told you how, on the first night here, I heard her\n      sobbing bitterly, and since then I have more than once observed\n      traces of tears upon her face. Some deep sorrow gnaws ever at her\n      heart. Sometimes I wonder if she has a guilty memory which haunts\n      her, and sometimes I suspect Barrymore of being a domestic\n      tyrant. I have always felt that there was something singular and\n      questionable in this man s character, but the adventure of last\n      night brings all my suspicions to a head.\n\n      And yet it may seem a small matter in itself. You are aware that\n      I am not a very sound sleeper, and since I have been on guard in\n      this house my slumbers have been lighter than ever. Last night,\n      about two in the morning, I was aroused by a stealthy step\n      passing my room. I rose, opened my door, and peeped out. A long\n      black shadow was trailing down the corridor. It was thrown by a\n      man who walked softly down the passage with a candle held in his\n      hand. He was in shirt and trousers, with no covering to his feet.\n      I could merely see the outline, but his height told me that it\n      was Barrymore. He walked very slowly and circumspectly, and there\n      was something indescribably guilty and furtive in his whole\n      appearance.\n\n      I have told you that the corridor is broken by the balcony which\n      runs round the hall, but that it is resumed upon the farther\n      side. I waited until he had passed out of sight and then I\n      followed him. When I came round the balcony he had reached the\n      end of the farther corridor, and I could see from the glimmer of\n      light through an open door that he had entered one of the rooms.\n      Now, all these rooms are unfurnished and unoccupied so that his\n      expedition became more mysterious than ever. The light shone\n      steadily as if he were standing motionless. I crept down the\n      passage as noiselessly as I could and peeped round the corner of\n      the door.\n\n      Barrymore was crouching at the window with the candle held\n      against the glass. His profile was half turned towards me, and\n      his face seemed to be rigid with expectation as he stared out\n      into the blackness of the moor. For some minutes he stood\n      watching intently. Then he gave a deep groan and with an\n      impatient gesture he put out the light. Instantly I made my way\n      back to my room, and very shortly came the stealthy steps passing\n      once more upon their return journey. Long afterwards when I had\n      fallen into a light sleep I heard a key turn somewhere in a lock,\n      but I could not tell whence the sound came. What it all means I\n      cannot guess, but there is some secret business going on in this\n      house of gloom which sooner or later we shall get to the bottom\n      of. I do not trouble you with my theories, for you asked me to\n      furnish you only with facts. I have had a long talk with Sir\n      Henry this morning, and we have made a plan of campaign founded\n      upon my observations of last night. I will not speak about it\n      just now, but it should make my next report interesting reading.\n\n\n\n\nChapter 9.\nThe Light upon the Moor [Second Report of Dr. Watson]\n\n\n      Baskerville Hall, Oct. 15th.\n\n      MY DEAR HOLMES,\n\n      If I was compelled to leave you without much news during the\n      early days of my mission you must acknowledge that I am making up\n      for lost time, and that events are now crowding thick and fast\n      upon us. In my last report I ended upon my top note with\n      Barrymore at the window, and now I have quite a budget already\n      which will, unless I am much mistaken, considerably surprise you.\n      Things have taken a turn which I could not have anticipated. In\n      some ways they have within the last forty-eight hours become much\n      clearer and in some ways they have become more complicated. But I\n      will tell you all and you shall judge for yourself.\n\n      Before breakfast on the morning following my adventure I went\n      down the corridor and examined the room in which Barrymore had\n      been on the night before. The western window through which he had\n      stared so intently has, I noticed, one peculiarity above all\n      other windows in the house it commands the nearest outlook on to\n      the moor. There is an opening between two trees which enables one\n      from this point of view to look right down upon it, while from\n      all the other windows it is only a distant glimpse which can be\n      obtained. It follows, therefore, that Barrymore, since only this\n      window would serve the purpose, must have been looking out for\n      something or somebody upon the moor. The night was very dark, so\n      that I can hardly imagine how he could have hoped to see anyone.\n      It had struck me that it was possible that some love intrigue was\n      on foot. That would have accounted for his stealthy movements and\n      also for the uneasiness of his wife. The man is a\n      striking-looking fellow, very well equipped to steal the heart of\n      a country girl, so that this theory seemed to have something to\n      support it. That opening of the door which I had heard after I\n      had returned to my room might mean that he had gone out to keep\n      some clandestine appointment. So I reasoned with myself in the\n      morning, and I tell you the direction of my suspicions, however\n      much the result may have shown that they were unfounded.\n\n      But whatever the true explanation of Barrymore s movements might\n      be, I felt that the responsibility of keeping them to myself\n      until I could explain them was more than I could bear. I had an\n      interview with the baronet in his study after breakfast, and I\n      told him all that I had seen. He was less surprised than I had\n      expected.\n\n       I knew that Barrymore walked about nights, and I had a mind to\n      speak to him about it,  said he.  Two or three times I have heard\n      his steps in the passage, coming and going, just about the hour\n      you name. \n\n       Perhaps then he pays a visit every night to that particular\n      window,  I suggested.\n\n       Perhaps he does. If so, we should be able to shadow him and see\n      what it is that he is after. I wonder what your friend Holmes\n      would do if he were here. \n\n       I believe that he would do exactly what you now suggest,  said\n      I.  He would follow Barrymore and see what he did. \n\n       Then we shall do it together. \n\n       But surely he would hear us. \n\n       The man is rather deaf, and in any case we must take our chance\n      of that. We ll sit up in my room tonight and wait until he\n      passes.  Sir Henry rubbed his hands with pleasure, and it was\n      evident that he hailed the adventure as a relief to his somewhat\n      quiet life upon the moor.\n\n      The baronet has been in communication with the architect who\n      prepared the plans for Sir Charles, and with a contractor from\n      London, so that we may expect great changes to begin here soon.\n      There have been decorators and furnishers up from Plymouth, and\n      it is evident that our friend has large ideas and means to spare\n      no pains or expense to restore the grandeur of his family. When\n      the house is renovated and refurnished, all that he will need\n      will be a wife to make it complete. Between ourselves there are\n      pretty clear signs that this will not be wanting if the lady is\n      willing, for I have seldom seen a man more infatuated with a\n      woman than he is with our beautiful neighbour, Miss Stapleton.\n      And yet the course of true love does not run quite as smoothly as\n      one would under the circumstances expect. Today, for example, its\n      surface was broken by a very unexpected ripple, which has caused\n      our friend considerable perplexity and annoyance.\n\n      After the conversation which I have quoted about Barrymore, Sir\n      Henry put on his hat and prepared to go out. As a matter of\n      course I did the same.\n\n       What, are _you_ coming, Watson?  he asked, looking at me in a\n      curious way.\n\n       That depends on whether you are going on the moor,  said I.\n\n       Yes, I am. \n\n       Well, you know what my instructions are. I am sorry to intrude,\n      but you heard how earnestly Holmes insisted that I should not\n      leave you, and especially that you should not go alone upon the\n      moor. \n\n      Sir Henry put his hand upon my shoulder with a pleasant smile.\n\n       My dear fellow,  said he,  Holmes, with all his wisdom, did not\n      foresee some things which have happened since I have been on the\n      moor. You understand me? I am sure that you are the last man in\n      the world who would wish to be a spoil-sport. I must go out\n      alone. \n\n      It put me in a most awkward position. I was at a loss what to say\n      or what to do, and before I had made up my mind he picked up his\n      cane and was gone.\n\n      But when I came to think the matter over my conscience reproached\n      me bitterly for having on any pretext allowed him to go out of my\n      sight. I imagined what my feelings would be if I had to return to\n      you and to confess that some misfortune had occurred through my\n      disregard for your instructions. I assure you my cheeks flushed\n      at the very thought. It might not even now be too late to\n      overtake him, so I set off at once in the direction of Merripit\n      House.\n\n      I hurried along the road at the top of my speed without seeing\n      anything of Sir Henry, until I came to the point where the moor\n      path branches off. There, fearing that perhaps I had come in the\n      wrong direction after all, I mounted a hill from which I could\n      command a view the same hill which is cut into the dark quarry.\n      Thence I saw him at once. He was on the moor path about a quarter\n      of a mile off, and a lady was by his side who could only be Miss\n      Stapleton. It was clear that there was already an understanding\n      between them and that they had met by appointment. They were\n      walking slowly along in deep conversation, and I saw her making\n      quick little movements of her hands as if she were very earnest\n      in what she was saying, while he listened intently, and once or\n      twice shook his head in strong dissent. I stood among the rocks\n      watching them, very much puzzled as to what I should do next. To\n      follow them and break into their intimate conversation seemed to\n      be an outrage, and yet my clear duty was never for an instant to\n      let him out of my sight. To act the spy upon a friend was a\n      hateful task. Still, I could see no better course than to observe\n      him from the hill, and to clear my conscience by confessing to\n      him afterwards what I had done. It is true that if any sudden\n      danger had threatened him I was too far away to be of use, and\n      yet I am sure that you will agree with me that the position was\n      very difficult, and that there was nothing more which I could do.\n\n      Our friend, Sir Henry, and the lady had halted on the path and\n      were standing deeply absorbed in their conversation, when I was\n      suddenly aware that I was not the only witness of their\n      interview. A wisp of green floating in the air caught my eye, and\n      another glance showed me that it was carried on a stick by a man\n      who was moving among the broken ground. It was Stapleton with his\n      butterfly-net. He was very much closer to the pair than I was,\n      and he appeared to be moving in their direction. At this instant\n      Sir Henry suddenly drew Miss Stapleton to his side. His arm was\n      round her, but it seemed to me that she was straining away from\n      him with her face averted. He stooped his head to hers, and she\n      raised one hand as if in protest. Next moment I saw them spring\n      apart and turn hurriedly round. Stapleton was the cause of the\n      interruption. He was running wildly towards them, his absurd net\n      dangling behind him. He gesticulated and almost danced with\n      excitement in front of the lovers. What the scene meant I could\n      not imagine, but it seemed to me that Stapleton was abusing Sir\n      Henry, who offered explanations, which became more angry as the\n      other refused to accept them. The lady stood by in haughty\n      silence. Finally Stapleton turned upon his heel and beckoned in a\n      peremptory way to his sister, who, after an irresolute glance at\n      Sir Henry, walked off by the side of her brother. The\n      naturalist s angry gestures showed that the lady was included in\n      his displeasure. The baronet stood for a minute looking after\n      them, and then he walked slowly back the way that he had come,\n      his head hanging, the very picture of dejection.\n\n      What all this meant I could not imagine, but I was deeply ashamed\n      to have witnessed so intimate a scene without my friend s\n      knowledge. I ran down the hill therefore and met the baronet at\n      the bottom. His face was flushed with anger and his brows were\n      wrinkled, like one who is at his wit s ends what to do.\n\n       Halloa, Watson! Where have you dropped from?  said he.  You\n      don t mean to say that you came after me in spite of all? \n\n      I explained everything to him: how I had found it impossible to\n      remain behind, how I had followed him, and how I had witnessed\n      all that had occurred. For an instant his eyes blazed at me, but\n      my frankness disarmed his anger, and he broke at last into a\n      rather rueful laugh.\n\n       You would have thought the middle of that prairie a fairly safe\n      place for a man to be private,  said he,  but, by thunder, the\n      whole countryside seems to have been out to see me do my\n      wooing and a mighty poor wooing at that! Where had you engaged a\n      seat? \n\n       I was on that hill. \n\n       Quite in the back row, eh? But her brother was well up to the\n      front. Did you see him come out on us? \n\n       Yes, I did. \n\n       Did he ever strike you as being crazy this brother of hers? \n\n       I can t say that he ever did. \n\n       I dare say not. I always thought him sane enough until today,\n      but you can take it from me that either he or I ought to be in a\n      straitjacket. What s the matter with me, anyhow? You ve lived\n      near me for some weeks, Watson. Tell me straight, now! Is there\n      anything that would prevent me from making a good husband to a\n      woman that I loved? \n\n       I should say not. \n\n       He can t object to my worldly position, so it must be myself\n      that he has this down on. What has he against me? I never hurt\n      man or woman in my life that I know of. And yet he would not so\n      much as let me touch the tips of her fingers. \n\n       Did he say so? \n\n       That, and a deal more. I tell you, Watson, I ve only known her\n      these few weeks, but from the first I just felt that she was made\n      for me, and she, too she was happy when she was with me, and that\n      I ll swear. There s a light in a woman s eyes that speaks louder\n      than words. But he has never let us get together and it was only\n      today for the first time that I saw a chance of having a few\n      words with her alone. She was glad to meet me, but when she did\n      it was not love that she would talk about, and she wouldn t have\n      let me talk about it either if she could have stopped it. She\n      kept coming back to it that this was a place of danger, and that\n      she would never be happy until I had left it. I told her that\n      since I had seen her I was in no hurry to leave it, and that if\n      she really wanted me to go, the only way to work it was for her\n      to arrange to go with me. With that I offered in as many words to\n      marry her, but before she could answer, down came this brother of\n      hers, running at us with a face on him like a madman. He was just\n      white with rage, and those light eyes of his were blazing with\n      fury. What was I doing with the lady? How dared I offer her\n      attentions which were distasteful to her? Did I think that\n      because I was a baronet I could do what I liked? If he had not\n      been her brother I should have known better how to answer him. As\n      it was I told him that my feelings towards his sister were such\n      as I was not ashamed of, and that I hoped that she might honour\n      me by becoming my wife. That seemed to make the matter no better,\n      so then I lost my temper too, and I answered him rather more\n      hotly than I should perhaps, considering that she was standing\n      by. So it ended by his going off with her, as you saw, and here\n      am I as badly puzzled a man as any in this county. Just tell me\n      what it all means, Watson, and I ll owe you more than ever I can\n      hope to pay. \n\n      I tried one or two explanations, but, indeed, I was completely\n      puzzled myself. Our friend s title, his fortune, his age, his\n      character, and his appearance are all in his favour, and I know\n      nothing against him unless it be this dark fate which runs in his\n      family. That his advances should be rejected so brusquely without\n      any reference to the lady s own wishes and that the lady should\n      accept the situation without protest is very amazing. However,\n      our conjectures were set at rest by a visit from Stapleton\n      himself that very afternoon. He had come to offer apologies for\n      his rudeness of the morning, and after a long private interview\n      with Sir Henry in his study the upshot of their conversation was\n      that the breach is quite healed, and that we are to dine at\n      Merripit House next Friday as a sign of it.\n\n       I don t say now that he isn t a crazy man,  said Sir Henry;  I\n      can t forget the look in his eyes when he ran at me this morning,\n      but I must allow that no man could make a more handsome apology\n      than he has done. \n\n       Did he give any explanation of his conduct? \n\n       His sister is everything in his life, he says. That is natural\n      enough, and I am glad that he should understand her value. They\n      have always been together, and according to his account he has\n      been a very lonely man with only her as a companion, so that the\n      thought of losing her was really terrible to him. He had not\n      understood, he said, that I was becoming attached to her, but\n      when he saw with his own eyes that it was really so, and that she\n      might be taken away from him, it gave him such a shock that for a\n      time he was not responsible for what he said or did. He was very\n      sorry for all that had passed, and he recognized how foolish and\n      how selfish it was that he should imagine that he could hold a\n      beautiful woman like his sister to himself for her whole life. If\n      she had to leave him he had rather it was to a neighbour like\n      myself than to anyone else. But in any case it was a blow to him\n      and it would take him some time before he could prepare himself\n      to meet it. He would withdraw all opposition upon his part if I\n      would promise for three months to let the matter rest and to be\n      content with cultivating the lady s friendship during that time\n      without claiming her love. This I promised, and so the matter\n      rests. \n\n      So there is one of our small mysteries cleared up. It is\n      something to have touched bottom anywhere in this bog in which we\n      are floundering. We know now why Stapleton looked with disfavour\n      upon his sister s suitor even when that suitor was so eligible a\n      one as Sir Henry. And now I pass on to another thread which I\n      have extricated out of the tangled skein, the mystery of the sobs\n      in the night, of the tear-stained face of Mrs. Barrymore, of the\n      secret journey of the butler to the western lattice window.\n      Congratulate me, my dear Holmes, and tell me that I have not\n      disappointed you as an agent that you do not regret the\n      confidence which you showed in me when you sent me down. All\n      these things have by one night s work been thoroughly cleared.\n\n      I have said  by one night s work,  but, in truth, it was by two\n      nights  work, for on the first we drew entirely blank. I sat up\n      with Sir Henry in his rooms until nearly three o clock in the\n      morning, but no sound of any sort did we hear except the chiming\n      clock upon the stairs. It was a most melancholy vigil and ended\n      by each of us falling asleep in our chairs. Fortunately we were\n      not discouraged, and we determined to try again. The next night\n      we lowered the lamp and sat smoking cigarettes without making the\n      least sound. It was incredible how slowly the hours crawled by,\n      and yet we were helped through it by the same sort of patient\n      interest which the hunter must feel as he watches the trap into\n      which he hopes the game may wander. One struck, and two, and we\n      had almost for the second time given it up in despair when in an\n      instant we both sat bolt upright in our chairs with all our weary\n      senses keenly on the alert once more. We had heard the creak of a\n      step in the passage.\n\n      Very stealthily we heard it pass along until it died away in the\n      distance. Then the baronet gently opened his door and we set out\n      in pursuit. Already our man had gone round the gallery and the\n      corridor was all in darkness. Softly we stole along until we had\n      come into the other wing. We were just in time to catch a glimpse\n      of the tall, black-bearded figure, his shoulders rounded as he\n      tiptoed down the passage. Then he passed through the same door as\n      before, and the light of the candle framed it in the darkness and\n      shot one single yellow beam across the gloom of the corridor. We\n      shuffled cautiously towards it, trying every plank before we\n      dared to put our whole weight upon it. We had taken the\n      precaution of leaving our boots behind us, but, even so, the old\n      boards snapped and creaked beneath our tread. Sometimes it seemed\n      impossible that he should fail to hear our approach. However, the\n      man is fortunately rather deaf, and he was entirely preoccupied\n      in that which he was doing. When at last we reached the door and\n      peeped through we found him crouching at the window, candle in\n      hand, his white, intent face pressed against the pane, exactly as\n      I had seen him two nights before.\n\n      We had arranged no plan of campaign, but the baronet is a man to\n      whom the most direct way is always the most natural. He walked\n      into the room, and as he did so Barrymore sprang up from the\n      window with a sharp hiss of his breath and stood, livid and\n      trembling, before us. His dark eyes, glaring out of the white\n      mask of his face, were full of horror and astonishment as he\n      gazed from Sir Henry to me.\n\n       What are you doing here, Barrymore? \n\n       Nothing, sir.  His agitation was so great that he could hardly\n      speak, and the shadows sprang up and down from the shaking of his\n      candle.  It was the window, sir. I go round at night to see that\n      they are fastened. \n\n       On the second floor? \n\n       Yes, sir, all the windows. \n\n       Look here, Barrymore,  said Sir Henry sternly,  we have made up\n      our minds to have the truth out of you, so it will save you\n      trouble to tell it sooner rather than later. Come, now! No lies!\n      What were you doing at that window? \n\n      The fellow looked at us in a helpless way, and he wrung his hands\n      together like one who is in the last extremity of doubt and\n      misery.\n\n       I was doing no harm, sir. I was holding a candle to the window. \n\n       And why were you holding a candle to the window? \n\n       Don t ask me, Sir Henry don t ask me! I give you my word, sir,\n      that it is not my secret, and that I cannot tell it. If it\n      concerned no one but myself I would not try to keep it from you. \n\n      A sudden idea occurred to me, and I took the candle from the\n      trembling hand of the butler.\n\n       He must have been holding it as a signal,  said I.  Let us see\n      if there is any answer.  I held it as he had done, and stared out\n      into the darkness of the night. Vaguely I could discern the black\n      bank of the trees and the lighter expanse of the moor, for the\n      moon was behind the clouds. And then I gave a cry of exultation,\n      for a tiny pinpoint of yellow light had suddenly transfixed the\n      dark veil, and glowed steadily in the centre of the black square\n      framed by the window.\n\n       There it is!  I cried.\n\n       No, no, sir, it is nothing nothing at all!  the butler broke in;\n       I assure you, sir \n\n       Move your light across the window, Watson!  cried the baronet.\n       See, the other moves also! Now, you rascal, do you deny that it\n      is a signal? Come, speak up! Who is your confederate out yonder,\n      and what is this conspiracy that is going on? \n\n      The man s face became openly defiant.  It is my business, and not\n      yours. I will not tell. \n\n       Then you leave my employment right away. \n\n       Very good, sir. If I must I must. \n\n       And you go in disgrace. By thunder, you may well be ashamed of\n      yourself. Your family has lived with mine for over a hundred\n      years under this roof, and here I find you deep in some dark plot\n      against me. \n\n       No, no, sir; no, not against you!  It was a woman s voice, and\n      Mrs. Barrymore, paler and more horror-struck than her husband,\n      was standing at the door. Her bulky figure in a shawl and skirt\n      might have been comic were it not for the intensity of feeling\n      upon her face.\n\n       We have to go, Eliza. This is the end of it. You can pack our\n      things,  said the butler.\n\n       Oh, John, John, have I brought you to this? It is my doing, Sir\n      Henry all mine. He has done nothing except for my sake and\n      because I asked him. \n\n       Speak out, then! What does it mean? \n\n       My unhappy brother is starving on the moor. We cannot let him\n      perish at our very gates. The light is a signal to him that food\n      is ready for him, and his light out yonder is to show the spot to\n      which to bring it. \n\n       Then your brother is \n\n       The escaped convict, sir Selden, the criminal. \n\n       That s the truth, sir,  said Barrymore.  I said that it was not\n      my secret and that I could not tell it to you. But now you have\n      heard it, and you will see that if there was a plot it was not\n      against you. \n\n      This, then, was the explanation of the stealthy expeditions at\n      night and the light at the window. Sir Henry and I both stared at\n      the woman in amazement. Was it possible that this stolidly\n      respectable person was of the same blood as one of the most\n      notorious criminals in the country?\n\n       Yes, sir, my name was Selden, and he is my younger brother. We\n      humoured him too much when he was a lad and gave him his own way\n      in everything until he came to think that the world was made for\n      his pleasure, and that he could do what he liked in it. Then as\n      he grew older he met wicked companions, and the devil entered\n      into him until he broke my mother s heart and dragged our name in\n      the dirt. From crime to crime he sank lower and lower until it is\n      only the mercy of God which has snatched him from the scaffold;\n      but to me, sir, he was always the little curly-headed boy that I\n      had nursed and played with as an elder sister would. That was why\n      he broke prison, sir. He knew that I was here and that we could\n      not refuse to help him. When he dragged himself here one night,\n      weary and starving, with the warders hard at his heels, what\n      could we do? We took him in and fed him and cared for him. Then\n      you returned, sir, and my brother thought he would be safer on\n      the moor than anywhere else until the hue and cry was over, so he\n      lay in hiding there. But every second night we made sure if he\n      was still there by putting a light in the window, and if there\n      was an answer my husband took out some bread and meat to him.\n      Every day we hoped that he was gone, but as long as he was there\n      we could not desert him. That is the whole truth, as I am an\n      honest Christian woman and you will see that if there is blame in\n      the matter it does not lie with my husband but with me, for whose\n      sake he has done all that he has. \n\n      The woman s words came with an intense earnestness which carried\n      conviction with them.\n\n       Is this true, Barrymore? \n\n       Yes, Sir Henry. Every word of it. \n\n       Well, I cannot blame you for standing by your own wife. Forget\n      what I have said. Go to your room, you two, and we shall talk\n      further about this matter in the morning. \n\n      When they were gone we looked out of the window again. Sir Henry\n      had flung it open, and the cold night wind beat in upon our\n      faces. Far away in the black distance there still glowed that one\n      tiny point of yellow light.\n\n       I wonder he dares,  said Sir Henry.\n\n       It may be so placed as to be only visible from here. \n\n       Very likely. How far do you think it is? \n\n       Out by the Cleft Tor, I think. \n\n       Not more than a mile or two off. \n\n       Hardly that. \n\n       Well, it cannot be far if Barrymore had to carry out the food to\n      it. And he is waiting, this villain, beside that candle. By\n      thunder, Watson, I am going out to take that man! \n\n      The same thought had crossed my own mind. It was not as if the\n      Barrymores had taken us into their confidence. Their secret had\n      been forced from them. The man was a danger to the community, an\n      unmitigated scoundrel for whom there was neither pity nor excuse.\n      We were only doing our duty in taking this chance of putting him\n      back where he could do no harm. With his brutal and violent\n      nature, others would have to pay the price if we held our hands.\n      Any night, for example, our neighbours the Stapletons might be\n      attacked by him, and it may have been the thought of this which\n      made Sir Henry so keen upon the adventure.\n\n       I will come,  said I.\n\n       Then get your revolver and put on your boots. The sooner we\n      start the better, as the fellow may put out his light and be\n      off. \n\n      In five minutes we were outside the door, starting upon our\n      expedition. We hurried through the dark shrubbery, amid the dull\n      moaning of the autumn wind and the rustle of the falling leaves.\n      The night air was heavy with the smell of damp and decay. Now and\n      again the moon peeped out for an instant, but clouds were driving\n      over the face of the sky, and just as we came out on the moor a\n      thin rain began to fall. The light still burned steadily in\n      front.\n\n       Are you armed?  I asked.\n\n       I have a hunting-crop. \n\n       We must close in on him rapidly, for he is said to be a\n      desperate fellow. We shall take him by surprise and have him at\n      our mercy before he can resist. \n\n       I say, Watson,  said the baronet,  what would Holmes say to\n      this? How about that hour of darkness in which the power of evil\n      is exalted? \n\n      As if in answer to his words there rose suddenly out of the vast\n      gloom of the moor that strange cry which I had already heard upon\n      the borders of the great Grimpen Mire. It came with the wind\n      through the silence of the night, a long, deep mutter, then a\n      rising howl, and then the sad moan in which it died away. Again\n      and again it sounded, the whole air throbbing with it, strident,\n      wild, and menacing. The baronet caught my sleeve and his face\n      glimmered white through the darkness.\n\n       My God, what s that, Watson? \n\n       I don t know. It s a sound they have on the moor. I heard it\n      once before. \n\n      It died away, and an absolute silence closed in upon us. We stood\n      straining our ears, but nothing came.\n\n       Watson,  said the baronet,  it was the cry of a hound. \n\n      My blood ran cold in my veins, for there was a break in his voice\n      which told of the sudden horror which had seized him.\n\n       What do they call this sound?  he asked.\n\n       Who? \n\n       The folk on the countryside. \n\n       Oh, they are ignorant people. Why should you mind what they call\n      it? \n\n       Tell me, Watson. What do they say of it? \n\n      I hesitated but could not escape the question.\n\n       They say it is the cry of the Hound of the Baskervilles. \n\n      He groaned and was silent for a few moments.\n\n       A hound it was,  he said at last,  but it seemed to come from\n      miles away, over yonder, I think. \n\n       It was hard to say whence it came. \n\n       It rose and fell with the wind. Isn t that the direction of the\n      great Grimpen Mire? \n\n       Yes, it is. \n\n       Well, it was up there. Come now, Watson, didn t you think\n      yourself that it was the cry of a hound? I am not a child. You\n      need not fear to speak the truth. \n\n       Stapleton was with me when I heard it last. He said that it\n      might be the calling of a strange bird. \n\n       No, no, it was a hound. My God, can there be some truth in all\n      these stories? Is it possible that I am really in danger from so\n      dark a cause? You don t believe it, do you, Watson? \n\n       No, no. \n\n       And yet it was one thing to laugh about it in London, and it is\n      another to stand out here in the darkness of the moor and to hear\n      such a cry as that. And my uncle! There was the footprint of the\n      hound beside him as he lay. It all fits together. I don t think\n      that I am a coward, Watson, but that sound seemed to freeze my\n      very blood. Feel my hand! \n\n      It was as cold as a block of marble.\n\n       You ll be all right tomorrow. \n\n       I don t think I ll get that cry out of my head. What do you\n      advise that we do now? \n\n       Shall we turn back? \n\n       No, by thunder; we have come out to get our man, and we will do\n      it. We after the convict, and a hell-hound, as likely as not,\n      after us. Come on! We ll see it through if all the fiends of the\n      pit were loose upon the moor. \n\n      We stumbled slowly along in the darkness, with the black loom of\n      the craggy hills around us, and the yellow speck of light burning\n      steadily in front. There is nothing so deceptive as the distance\n      of a light upon a pitch-dark night, and sometimes the glimmer\n      seemed to be far away upon the horizon and sometimes it might\n      have been within a few yards of us. But at last we could see\n      whence it came, and then we knew that we were indeed very close.\n      A guttering candle was stuck in a crevice of the rocks which\n      flanked it on each side so as to keep the wind from it and also\n      to prevent it from being visible, save in the direction of\n      Baskerville Hall. A boulder of granite concealed our approach,\n      and crouching behind it we gazed over it at the signal light. It\n      was strange to see this single candle burning there in the middle\n      of the moor, with no sign of life near it just the one straight\n      yellow flame and the gleam of the rock on each side of it.\n\n       What shall we do now?  whispered Sir Henry.\n\n       Wait here. He must be near his light. Let us see if we can get a\n      glimpse of him. \n\n      The words were hardly out of my mouth when we both saw him. Over\n      the rocks, in the crevice of which the candle burned, there was\n      thrust out an evil yellow face, a terrible animal face, all\n      seamed and scored with vile passions. Foul with mire, with a\n      bristling beard, and hung with matted hair, it might well have\n      belonged to one of those old savages who dwelt in the burrows on\n      the hillsides. The light beneath him was reflected in his small,\n      cunning eyes which peered fiercely to right and left through the\n      darkness like a crafty and savage animal who has heard the steps\n      of the hunters.\n\n      Something had evidently aroused his suspicions. It may have been\n      that Barrymore had some private signal which we had neglected to\n      give, or the fellow may have had some other reason for thinking\n      that all was not well, but I could read his fears upon his wicked\n      face. Any instant he might dash out the light and vanish in the\n      darkness. I sprang forward therefore, and Sir Henry did the same.\n      At the same moment the convict screamed out a curse at us and\n      hurled a rock which splintered up against the boulder which had\n      sheltered us. I caught one glimpse of his short, squat, strongly\n      built figure as he sprang to his feet and turned to run. At the\n      same moment by a lucky chance the moon broke through the clouds.\n      We rushed over the brow of the hill, and there was our man\n      running with great speed down the other side, springing over the\n      stones in his way with the activity of a mountain goat. A lucky\n      long shot of my revolver might have crippled him, but I had\n      brought it only to defend myself if attacked and not to shoot an\n      unarmed man who was running away.\n\n      We were both swift runners and in fairly good training, but we\n      soon found that we had no chance of overtaking him. We saw him\n      for a long time in the moonlight until he was only a small speck\n      moving swiftly among the boulders upon the side of a distant\n      hill. We ran and ran until we were completely blown, but the\n      space between us grew ever wider. Finally we stopped and sat\n      panting on two rocks, while we watched him disappearing in the\n      distance.\n\n      And it was at this moment that there occurred a most strange and\n      unexpected thing. We had risen from our rocks and were turning to\n      go home, having abandoned the hopeless chase. The moon was low\n      upon the right, and the jagged pinnacle of a granite tor stood up\n      against the lower curve of its silver disc. There, outlined as\n      black as an ebony statue on that shining background, I saw the\n      figure of a man upon the tor. Do not think that it was a\n      delusion, Holmes. I assure you that I have never in my life seen\n      anything more clearly. As far as I could judge, the figure was\n      that of a tall, thin man. He stood with his legs a little\n      separated, his arms folded, his head bowed, as if he were\n      brooding over that enormous wilderness of peat and granite which\n      lay before him. He might have been the very spirit of that\n      terrible place. It was not the convict. This man was far from the\n      place where the latter had disappeared. Besides, he was a much\n      taller man. With a cry of surprise I pointed him out to the\n      baronet, but in the instant during which I had turned to grasp\n      his arm the man was gone. There was the sharp pinnacle of granite\n      still cutting the lower edge of the moon, but its peak bore no\n      trace of that silent and motionless figure.\n\n      I wished to go in that direction and to search the tor, but it\n      was some distance away. The baronet s nerves were still quivering\n      from that cry, which recalled the dark story of his family, and\n      he was not in the mood for fresh adventures. He had not seen this\n      lonely man upon the tor and could not feel the thrill which his\n      strange presence and his commanding attitude had given to me.  A\n      warder, no doubt,  said he.  The moor has been thick with them\n      since this fellow escaped.  Well, perhaps his explanation may be\n      the right one, but I should like to have some further proof of\n      it. Today we mean to communicate to the Princetown people where\n      they should look for their missing man, but it is hard lines that\n      we have not actually had the triumph of bringing him back as our\n      own prisoner. Such are the adventures of last night, and you must\n      acknowledge, my dear Holmes, that I have done you very well in\n      the matter of a report. Much of what I tell you is no doubt quite\n      irrelevant, but still I feel that it is best that I should let\n      you have all the facts and leave you to select for yourself those\n      which will be of most service to you in helping you to your\n      conclusions. We are certainly making some progress. So far as the\n      Barrymores go we have found the motive of their actions, and that\n      has cleared up the situation very much. But the moor with its\n      mysteries and its strange inhabitants remains as inscrutable as\n      ever. Perhaps in my next I may be able to throw some light upon\n      this also. Best of all would it be if you could come down to us.\n      In any case you will hear from me again in the course of the next\n      few days.\n\n\n\n\nChapter 10.\nExtract from the Diary of Dr. Watson\n\n\n      So far I have been able to quote from the reports which I have\n      forwarded during these early days to Sherlock Holmes. Now,\n      however, I have arrived at a point in my narrative where I am\n      compelled to abandon this method and to trust once more to my\n      recollections, aided by the diary which I kept at the time. A few\n      extracts from the latter will carry me on to those scenes which\n      are indelibly fixed in every detail upon my memory. I proceed,\n      then, from the morning which followed our abortive chase of the\n      convict and our other strange experiences upon the moor.\n\n      _October_ 16_th_. A dull and foggy day with a drizzle of rain.\n      The house is banked in with rolling clouds, which rise now and\n      then to show the dreary curves of the moor, with thin, silver\n      veins upon the sides of the hills, and the distant boulders\n      gleaming where the light strikes upon their wet faces. It is\n      melancholy outside and in. The baronet is in a black reaction\n      after the excitements of the night. I am conscious myself of a\n      weight at my heart and a feeling of impending danger ever present\n      danger, which is the more terrible because I am unable to define\n      it.\n\n      And have I not cause for such a feeling? Consider the long\n      sequence of incidents which have all pointed to some sinister\n      influence which is at work around us. There is the death of the\n      last occupant of the Hall, fulfilling so exactly the conditions\n      of the family legend, and there are the repeated reports from\n      peasants of the appearance of a strange creature upon the moor.\n      Twice I have with my own ears heard the sound which resembled the\n      distant baying of a hound. It is incredible, impossible, that it\n      should really be outside the ordinary laws of nature. A spectral\n      hound which leaves material footmarks and fills the air with its\n      howling is surely not to be thought of. Stapleton may fall in\n      with such a superstition, and Mortimer also, but if I have one\n      quality upon earth it is common sense, and nothing will persuade\n      me to believe in such a thing. To do so would be to descend to\n      the level of these poor peasants, who are not content with a mere\n      fiend dog but must needs describe him with hell-fire shooting\n      from his mouth and eyes. Holmes would not listen to such fancies,\n      and I am his agent. But facts are facts, and I have twice heard\n      this crying upon the moor. Suppose that there were really some\n      huge hound loose upon it; that would go far to explain\n      everything. But where could such a hound lie concealed, where did\n      it get its food, where did it come from, how was it that no one\n      saw it by day? It must be confessed that the natural explanation\n      offers almost as many difficulties as the other. And always,\n      apart from the hound, there is the fact of the human agency in\n      London, the man in the cab, and the letter which warned Sir Henry\n      against the moor. This at least was real, but it might have been\n      the work of a protecting friend as easily as of an enemy. Where\n      is that friend or enemy now? Has he remained in London, or has he\n      followed us down here? Could he could he be the stranger whom I\n      saw upon the tor?\n\n      It is true that I have had only the one glance at him, and yet\n      there are some things to which I am ready to swear. He is no one\n      whom I have seen down here, and I have now met all the\n      neighbours. The figure was far taller than that of Stapleton, far\n      thinner than that of Frankland. Barrymore it might possibly have\n      been, but we had left him behind us, and I am certain that he\n      could not have followed us. A stranger then is still dogging us,\n      just as a stranger dogged us in London. We have never shaken him\n      off. If I could lay my hands upon that man, then at last we might\n      find ourselves at the end of all our difficulties. To this one\n      purpose I must now devote all my energies.\n\n      My first impulse was to tell Sir Henry all my plans. My second\n      and wisest one is to play my own game and speak as little as\n      possible to anyone. He is silent and distrait. His nerves have\n      been strangely shaken by that sound upon the moor. I will say\n      nothing to add to his anxieties, but I will take my own steps to\n      attain my own end.\n\n      We had a small scene this morning after breakfast. Barrymore\n      asked leave to speak with Sir Henry, and they were closeted in\n      his study some little time. Sitting in the billiard-room I more\n      than once heard the sound of voices raised, and I had a pretty\n      good idea what the point was which was under discussion. After a\n      time the baronet opened his door and called for me.  Barrymore\n      considers that he has a grievance,  he said.  He thinks that it\n      was unfair on our part to hunt his brother-in-law down when he,\n      of his own free will, had told us the secret. \n\n      The butler was standing very pale but very collected before us.\n\n       I may have spoken too warmly, sir,  said he,  and if I have, I\n      am sure that I beg your pardon. At the same time, I was very much\n      surprised when I heard you two gentlemen come back this morning\n      and learned that you had been chasing Selden. The poor fellow has\n      enough to fight against without my putting more upon his track. \n\n       If you had told us of your own free will it would have been a\n      different thing,  said the baronet,  you only told us, or rather\n      your wife only told us, when it was forced from you and you could\n      not help yourself. \n\n       I didn t think you would have taken advantage of it, Sir\n      Henry indeed I didn t. \n\n       The man is a public danger. There are lonely houses scattered\n      over the moor, and he is a fellow who would stick at nothing. You\n      only want to get a glimpse of his face to see that. Look at Mr.\n      Stapleton s house, for example, with no one but himself to defend\n      it. There s no safety for anyone until he is under lock and key. \n\n       He ll break into no house, sir. I give you my solemn word upon\n      that. But he will never trouble anyone in this country again. I\n      assure you, Sir Henry, that in a very few days the necessary\n      arrangements will have been made and he will be on his way to\n      South America. For God s sake, sir, I beg of you not to let the\n      police know that he is still on the moor. They have given up the\n      chase there, and he can lie quiet until the ship is ready for\n      him. You can t tell on him without getting my wife and me into\n      trouble. I beg you, sir, to say nothing to the police. \n\n       What do you say, Watson? \n\n      I shrugged my shoulders.  If he were safely out of the country it\n      would relieve the tax-payer of a burden. \n\n       But how about the chance of his holding someone up before he\n      goes? \n\n       He would not do anything so mad, sir. We have provided him with\n      all that he can want. To commit a crime would be to show where he\n      was hiding. \n\n       That is true,  said Sir Henry.  Well, Barrymore \n\n       God bless you, sir, and thank you from my heart! It would have\n      killed my poor wife had he been taken again. \n\n       I guess we are aiding and abetting a felony, Watson? But, after\n      what we have heard I don t feel as if I could give the man up, so\n      there is an end of it. All right, Barrymore, you can go. \n\n      With a few broken words of gratitude the man turned, but he\n      hesitated and then came back.\n\n       You ve been so kind to us, sir, that I should like to do the\n      best I can for you in return. I know something, Sir Henry, and\n      perhaps I should have said it before, but it was long after the\n      inquest that I found it out. I ve never breathed a word about it\n      yet to mortal man. It s about poor Sir Charles s death. \n\n      The baronet and I were both upon our feet.  Do you know how he\n      died? \n\n       No, sir, I don t know that. \n\n       What then? \n\n       I know why he was at the gate at that hour. It was to meet a\n      woman. \n\n       To meet a woman! He? \n\n       Yes, sir. \n\n       And the woman s name? \n\n       I can t give you the name, sir, but I can give you the initials.\n      Her initials were L. L. \n\n       How do you know this, Barrymore? \n\n       Well, Sir Henry, your uncle had a letter that morning. He had\n      usually a great many letters, for he was a public man and well\n      known for his kind heart, so that everyone who was in trouble was\n      glad to turn to him. But that morning, as it chanced, there was\n      only this one letter, so I took the more notice of it. It was\n      from Coombe Tracey, and it was addressed in a woman s hand. \n\n       Well? \n\n       Well, sir, I thought no more of the matter, and never would have\n      done had it not been for my wife. Only a few weeks ago she was\n      cleaning out Sir Charles s study it had never been touched since\n      his death and she found the ashes of a burned letter in the back\n      of the grate. The greater part of it was charred to pieces, but\n      one little slip, the end of a page, hung together, and the\n      writing could still be read, though it was grey on a black\n      ground. It seemed to us to be a postscript at the end of the\n      letter and it said:  Please, please, as you are a gentleman, burn\n      this letter, and be at the gate by ten o clock. Beneath it were\n      signed the initials L. L. \n\n       Have you got that slip? \n\n       No, sir, it crumbled all to bits after we moved it. \n\n       Had Sir Charles received any other letters in the same writing? \n\n       Well, sir, I took no particular notice of his letters. I should\n      not have noticed this one, only it happened to come alone. \n\n       And you have no idea who L. L. is? \n\n       No, sir. No more than you have. But I expect if we could lay our\n      hands upon that lady we should know more about Sir Charles s\n      death. \n\n       I cannot understand, Barrymore, how you came to conceal this\n      important information. \n\n       Well, sir, it was immediately after that our own trouble came to\n      us. And then again, sir, we were both of us very fond of Sir\n      Charles, as we well might be considering all that he has done for\n      us. To rake this up couldn t help our poor master, and it s well\n      to go carefully when there s a lady in the case. Even the best of\n      us \n\n       You thought it might injure his reputation? \n\n       Well, sir, I thought no good could come of it. But now you have\n      been kind to us, and I feel as if it would be treating you\n      unfairly not to tell you all that I know about the matter. \n\n       Very good, Barrymore; you can go.  When the butler had left us\n      Sir Henry turned to me.  Well, Watson, what do you think of this\n      new light? \n\n       It seems to leave the darkness rather blacker than before. \n\n       So I think. But if we can only trace L. L. it should clear up\n      the whole business. We have gained that much. We know that there\n      is someone who has the facts if we can only find her. What do you\n      think we should do? \n\n       Let Holmes know all about it at once. It will give him the clue\n      for which he has been seeking. I am much mistaken if it does not\n      bring him down. \n\n      I went at once to my room and drew up my report of the morning s\n      conversation for Holmes. It was evident to me that he had been\n      very busy of late, for the notes which I had from Baker Street\n      were few and short, with no comments upon the information which I\n      had supplied and hardly any reference to my mission. No doubt his\n      blackmailing case is absorbing all his faculties. And yet this\n      new factor must surely arrest his attention and renew his\n      interest. I wish that he were here.\n\n      _October_ 17_th_. All day today the rain poured down, rustling on\n      the ivy and dripping from the eaves. I thought of the convict out\n      upon the bleak, cold, shelterless moor. Poor devil! Whatever his\n      crimes, he has suffered something to atone for them. And then I\n      thought of that other one the face in the cab, the figure against\n      the moon. Was he also out in that deluged the unseen watcher, the\n      man of darkness? In the evening I put on my waterproof and I\n      walked far upon the sodden moor, full of dark imaginings, the\n      rain beating upon my face and the wind whistling about my ears.\n      God help those who wander into the great mire now, for even the\n      firm uplands are becoming a morass. I found the black tor upon\n      which I had seen the solitary watcher, and from its craggy summit\n      I looked out myself across the melancholy downs. Rain squalls\n      drifted across their russet face, and the heavy, slate-coloured\n      clouds hung low over the landscape, trailing in grey wreaths down\n      the sides of the fantastic hills. In the distant hollow on the\n      left, half hidden by the mist, the two thin towers of Baskerville\n      Hall rose above the trees. They were the only signs of human life\n      which I could see, save only those prehistoric huts which lay\n      thickly upon the slopes of the hills. Nowhere was there any trace\n      of that lonely man whom I had seen on the same spot two nights\n      before.\n\n      As I walked back I was overtaken by Dr. Mortimer driving in his\n      dog-cart over a rough moorland track which led from the outlying\n      farmhouse of Foulmire. He has been very attentive to us, and\n      hardly a day has passed that he has not called at the Hall to see\n      how we were getting on. He insisted upon my climbing into his\n      dog-cart, and he gave me a lift homeward. I found him much\n      troubled over the disappearance of his little spaniel. It had\n      wandered on to the moor and had never come back. I gave him such\n      consolation as I might, but I thought of the pony on the Grimpen\n      Mire, and I do not fancy that he will see his little dog again.\n\n       By the way, Mortimer,  said I as we jolted along the rough road,\n       I suppose there are few people living within driving distance of\n      this whom you do not know? \n\n       Hardly any, I think. \n\n       Can you, then, tell me the name of any woman whose initials are\n      L. L.? \n\n      He thought for a few minutes.\n\n       No,  said he.  There are a few gipsies and labouring folk for\n      whom I can t answer, but among the farmers or gentry there is no\n      one whose initials are those. Wait a bit though,  he added after\n      a pause.  There is Laura Lyons her initials are L. L. but she\n      lives in Coombe Tracey. \n\n       Who is she?  I asked.\n\n       She is Frankland s daughter. \n\n       What! Old Frankland the crank? \n\n       Exactly. She married an artist named Lyons, who came sketching\n      on the moor. He proved to be a blackguard and deserted her. The\n      fault from what I hear may not have been entirely on one side.\n      Her father refused to have anything to do with her because she\n      had married without his consent and perhaps for one or two other\n      reasons as well. So, between the old sinner and the young one the\n      girl has had a pretty bad time. \n\n       How does she live? \n\n       I fancy old Frankland allows her a pittance, but it cannot be\n      more, for his own affairs are considerably involved. Whatever she\n      may have deserved one could not allow her to go hopelessly to the\n      bad. Her story got about, and several of the people here did\n      something to enable her to earn an honest living. Stapleton did\n      for one, and Sir Charles for another. I gave a trifle myself. It\n      was to set her up in a typewriting business. \n\n      He wanted to know the object of my inquiries, but I managed to\n      satisfy his curiosity without telling him too much, for there is\n      no reason why we should take anyone into our confidence. Tomorrow\n      morning I shall find my way to Coombe Tracey, and if I can see\n      this Mrs. Laura Lyons, of equivocal reputation, a long step will\n      have been made towards clearing one incident in this chain of\n      mysteries. I am certainly developing the wisdom of the serpent,\n      for when Mortimer pressed his questions to an inconvenient extent\n      I asked him casually to what type Frankland s skull belonged, and\n      so heard nothing but craniology for the rest of our drive. I have\n      not lived for years with Sherlock Holmes for nothing.\n\n      I have only one other incident to record upon this tempestuous\n      and melancholy day. This was my conversation with Barrymore just\n      now, which gives me one more strong card which I can play in due\n      time.\n\n      Mortimer had stayed to dinner, and he and the baronet played\n       cart  afterwards. The butler brought me my coffee into the\n      library, and I took the chance to ask him a few questions.\n\n       Well,  said I,  has this precious relation of yours departed, or\n      is he still lurking out yonder? \n\n       I don t know, sir. I hope to heaven that he has gone, for he has\n      brought nothing but trouble here! I ve not heard of him since I\n      left out food for him last, and that was three days ago. \n\n       Did you see him then? \n\n       No, sir, but the food was gone when next I went that way. \n\n       Then he was certainly there? \n\n       So you would think, sir, unless it was the other man who took\n      it. \n\n      I sat with my coffee-cup halfway to my lips and stared at\n      Barrymore.\n\n       You know that there is another man then? \n\n       Yes, sir; there is another man upon the moor. \n\n       Have you seen him? \n\n       No, sir. \n\n       How do you know of him then? \n\n       Selden told me of him, sir, a week ago or more. He s in hiding,\n      too, but he s not a convict as far as I can make out. I don t\n      like it, Dr. Watson I tell you straight, sir, that I don t like\n      it.  He spoke with a sudden passion of earnestness.\n\n       Now, listen to me, Barrymore! I have no interest in this matter\n      but that of your master. I have come here with no object except\n      to help him. Tell me, frankly, what it is that you don t like. \n\n      Barrymore hesitated for a moment, as if he regretted his outburst\n      or found it difficult to express his own feelings in words.\n\n       It s all these goings-on, sir,  he cried at last, waving his\n      hand towards the rain-lashed window which faced the moor.\n       There s foul play somewhere, and there s black villainy brewing,\n      to that I ll swear! Very glad I should be, sir, to see Sir Henry\n      on his way back to London again! \n\n       But what is it that alarms you? \n\n       Look at Sir Charles s death! That was bad enough, for all that\n      the coroner said. Look at the noises on the moor at night.\n      There s not a man would cross it after sundown if he was paid for\n      it. Look at this stranger hiding out yonder, and watching and\n      waiting! What s he waiting for? What does it mean? It means no\n      good to anyone of the name of Baskerville, and very glad I shall\n      be to be quit of it all on the day that Sir Henry s new servants\n      are ready to take over the Hall. \n\n       But about this stranger,  said I.  Can you tell me anything\n      about him? What did Selden say? Did he find out where he hid, or\n      what he was doing? \n\n       He saw him once or twice, but he is a deep one and gives nothing\n      away. At first he thought that he was the police, but soon he\n      found that he had some lay of his own. A kind of gentleman he\n      was, as far as he could see, but what he was doing he could not\n      make out. \n\n       And where did he say that he lived? \n\n       Among the old houses on the hillside the stone huts where the\n      old folk used to live. \n\n       But how about his food? \n\n       Selden found out that he has got a lad who works for him and\n      brings all he needs. I dare say he goes to Coombe Tracey for what\n      he wants. \n\n       Very good, Barrymore. We may talk further of this some other\n      time.  When the butler had gone I walked over to the black\n      window, and I looked through a blurred pane at the driving clouds\n      and at the tossing outline of the wind-swept trees. It is a wild\n      night indoors, and what must it be in a stone hut upon the moor.\n      What passion of hatred can it be which leads a man to lurk in\n      such a place at such a time! And what deep and earnest purpose\n      can he have which calls for such a trial! There, in that hut upon\n      the moor, seems to lie the very centre of that problem which has\n      vexed me so sorely. I swear that another day shall not have\n      passed before I have done all that man can do to reach the heart\n      of the mystery.\n\n\n\n\nChapter 11.\nThe Man on the Tor\n\n\n      The extract from my private diary which forms the last chapter\n      has brought my narrative up to the eighteenth of October, a time\n      when these strange events began to move swiftly towards their\n      terrible conclusion. The incidents of the next few days are\n      indelibly graven upon my recollection, and I can tell them\n      without reference to the notes made at the time. I start them\n      from the day which succeeded that upon which I had established\n      two facts of great importance, the one that Mrs. Laura Lyons of\n      Coombe Tracey had written to Sir Charles Baskerville and made an\n      appointment with him at the very place and hour that he met his\n      death, the other that the lurking man upon the moor was to be\n      found among the stone huts upon the hillside. With these two\n      facts in my possession I felt that either my intelligence or my\n      courage must be deficient if I could not throw some further light\n      upon these dark places.\n\n      I had no opportunity to tell the baronet what I had learned about\n      Mrs. Lyons upon the evening before, for Dr. Mortimer remained\n      with him at cards until it was very late. At breakfast, however,\n      I informed him about my discovery and asked him whether he would\n      care to accompany me to Coombe Tracey. At first he was very eager\n      to come, but on second thoughts it seemed to both of us that if I\n      went alone the results might be better. The more formal we made\n      the visit the less information we might obtain. I left Sir Henry\n      behind, therefore, not without some prickings of conscience, and\n      drove off upon my new quest.\n\n      When I reached Coombe Tracey I told Perkins to put up the horses,\n      and I made inquiries for the lady whom I had come to interrogate.\n      I had no difficulty in finding her rooms, which were central and\n      well appointed. A maid showed me in without ceremony, and as I\n      entered the sitting-room a lady, who was sitting before a\n      Remington typewriter, sprang up with a pleasant smile of welcome.\n      Her face fell, however, when she saw that I was a stranger, and\n      she sat down again and asked me the object of my visit.\n\n      The first impression left by Mrs. Lyons was one of extreme\n      beauty. Her eyes and hair were of the same rich hazel colour, and\n      her cheeks, though considerably freckled, were flushed with the\n      exquisite bloom of the brunette, the dainty pink which lurks at\n      the heart of the sulphur rose. Admiration was, I repeat, the\n      first impression. But the second was criticism. There was\n      something subtly wrong with the face, some coarseness of\n      expression, some hardness, perhaps, of eye, some looseness of lip\n      which marred its perfect beauty. But these, of course, are\n      afterthoughts. At the moment I was simply conscious that I was in\n      the presence of a very handsome woman, and that she was asking me\n      the reasons for my visit. I had not quite understood until that\n      instant how delicate my mission was.\n\n       I have the pleasure,  said I,  of knowing your father. \n\n      It was a clumsy introduction, and the lady made me feel it.\n       There is nothing in common between my father and me,  she said.\n       I owe him nothing, and his friends are not mine. If it were not\n      for the late Sir Charles Baskerville and some other kind hearts I\n      might have starved for all that my father cared. \n\n       It was about the late Sir Charles Baskerville that I have come\n      here to see you. \n\n      The freckles started out on the lady s face.\n\n       What can I tell you about him?  she asked, and her fingers\n      played nervously over the stops of her typewriter.\n\n       You knew him, did you not? \n\n       I have already said that I owe a great deal to his kindness. If\n      I am able to support myself it is largely due to the interest\n      which he took in my unhappy situation. \n\n       Did you correspond with him? \n\n      The lady looked quickly up with an angry gleam in her hazel eyes.\n\n       What is the object of these questions?  she asked sharply.\n\n       The object is to avoid a public scandal. It is better that I\n      should ask them here than that the matter should pass outside our\n      control. \n\n      She was silent and her face was still very pale. At last she\n      looked up with something reckless and defiant in her manner.\n\n       Well, I ll answer,  she said.  What are your questions? \n\n       Did you correspond with Sir Charles? \n\n       I certainly wrote to him once or twice to acknowledge his\n      delicacy and his generosity. \n\n       Have you the dates of those letters? \n\n       No. \n\n       Have you ever met him? \n\n       Yes, once or twice, when he came into Coombe Tracey. He was a\n      very retiring man, and he preferred to do good by stealth. \n\n       But if you saw him so seldom and wrote so seldom, how did he\n      know enough about your affairs to be able to help you, as you say\n      that he has done? \n\n      She met my difficulty with the utmost readiness.\n\n       There were several gentlemen who knew my sad history and united\n      to help me. One was Mr. Stapleton, a neighbour and intimate\n      friend of Sir Charles s. He was exceedingly kind, and it was\n      through him that Sir Charles learned about my affairs. \n\n      I knew already that Sir Charles Baskerville had made Stapleton\n      his almoner upon several occasions, so the lady s statement bore\n      the impress of truth upon it.\n\n       Did you ever write to Sir Charles asking him to meet you?  I\n      continued.\n\n      Mrs. Lyons flushed with anger again.  Really, sir, this is a very\n      extraordinary question. \n\n       I am sorry, madam, but I must repeat it. \n\n       Then I answer, certainly not. \n\n       Not on the very day of Sir Charles s death? \n\n      The flush had faded in an instant, and a deathly face was before\n      me. Her dry lips could not speak the  No  which I saw rather than\n      heard.\n\n       Surely your memory deceives you,  said I.  I could even quote a\n      passage of your letter. It ran  Please, please, as you are a\n      gentleman, burn this letter, and be at the gate by ten o clock. \n\n      I thought that she had fainted, but she recovered herself by a\n      supreme effort.\n\n       Is there no such thing as a gentleman?  she gasped.\n\n       You do Sir Charles an injustice. He _did_ burn the letter. But\n      sometimes a letter may be legible even when burned. You\n      acknowledge now that you wrote it? \n\n       Yes, I did write it,  she cried, pouring out her soul in a\n      torrent of words.  I did write it. Why should I deny it? I have\n      no reason to be ashamed of it. I wished him to help me. I\n      believed that if I had an interview I could gain his help, so I\n      asked him to meet me. \n\n       But why at such an hour? \n\n       Because I had only just learned that he was going to London next\n      day and might be away for months. There were reasons why I could\n      not get there earlier. \n\n       But why a rendezvous in the garden instead of a visit to the\n      house? \n\n       Do you think a woman could go alone at that hour to a bachelor s\n      house? \n\n       Well, what happened when you did get there? \n\n       I never went. \n\n       Mrs. Lyons! \n\n       No, I swear it to you on all I hold sacred. I never went.\n      Something intervened to prevent my going. \n\n       What was that? \n\n       That is a private matter. I cannot tell it. \n\n       You acknowledge then that you made an appointment with Sir\n      Charles at the very hour and place at which he met his death, but\n      you deny that you kept the appointment. \n\n       That is the truth. \n\n      Again and again I cross-questioned her, but I could never get\n      past that point.\n\n       Mrs. Lyons,  said I as I rose from this long and inconclusive\n      interview,  you are taking a very great responsibility and\n      putting yourself in a very false position by not making an\n      absolutely clean breast of all that you know. If I have to call\n      in the aid of the police you will find how seriously you are\n      compromised. If your position is innocent, why did you in the\n      first instance deny having written to Sir Charles upon that\n      date? \n\n       Because I feared that some false conclusion might be drawn from\n      it and that I might find myself involved in a scandal. \n\n       And why were you so pressing that Sir Charles should destroy\n      your letter? \n\n       If you have read the letter you will know. \n\n       I did not say that I had read all the letter. \n\n       You quoted some of it. \n\n       I quoted the postscript. The letter had, as I said, been burned\n      and it was not all legible. I ask you once again why it was that\n      you were so pressing that Sir Charles should destroy this letter\n      which he received on the day of his death. \n\n       The matter is a very private one. \n\n       The more reason why you should avoid a public investigation. \n\n       I will tell you, then. If you have heard anything of my unhappy\n      history you will know that I made a rash marriage and had reason\n      to regret it. \n\n       I have heard so much. \n\n       My life has been one incessant persecution from a husband whom I\n      abhor. The law is upon his side, and every day I am faced by the\n      possibility that he may force me to live with him. At the time\n      that I wrote this letter to Sir Charles I had learned that there\n      was a prospect of my regaining my freedom if certain expenses\n      could be met. It meant everything to me peace of mind, happiness,\n      self-respect everything. I knew Sir Charles s generosity, and I\n      thought that if he heard the story from my own lips he would help\n      me. \n\n       Then how is it that you did not go? \n\n       Because I received help in the interval from another source. \n\n       Why then, did you not write to Sir Charles and explain this? \n\n       So I should have done had I not seen his death in the paper next\n      morning. \n\n      The woman s story hung coherently together, and all my questions\n      were unable to shake it. I could only check it by finding if she\n      had, indeed, instituted divorce proceedings against her husband\n      at or about the time of the tragedy.\n\n      It was unlikely that she would dare to say that she had not been\n      to Baskerville Hall if she really had been, for a trap would be\n      necessary to take her there, and could not have returned to\n      Coombe Tracey until the early hours of the morning. Such an\n      excursion could not be kept secret. The probability was,\n      therefore, that she was telling the truth, or, at least, a part\n      of the truth. I came away baffled and disheartened. Once again I\n      had reached that dead wall which seemed to be built across every\n      path by which I tried to get at the object of my mission. And yet\n      the more I thought of the lady s face and of her manner the more\n      I felt that something was being held back from me. Why should she\n      turn so pale? Why should she fight against every admission until\n      it was forced from her? Why should she have been so reticent at\n      the time of the tragedy? Surely the explanation of all this could\n      not be as innocent as she would have me believe. For the moment I\n      could proceed no farther in that direction, but must turn back to\n      that other clue which was to be sought for among the stone huts\n      upon the moor.\n\n      And that was a most vague direction. I realised it as I drove\n      back and noted how hill after hill showed traces of the ancient\n      people. Barrymore s only indication had been that the stranger\n      lived in one of these abandoned huts, and many hundreds of them\n      are scattered throughout the length and breadth of the moor. But\n      I had my own experience for a guide since it had shown me the man\n      himself standing upon the summit of the Black Tor. That, then,\n      should be the centre of my search. From there I should explore\n      every hut upon the moor until I lighted upon the right one. If\n      this man were inside it I should find out from his own lips, at\n      the point of my revolver if necessary, who he was and why he had\n      dogged us so long. He might slip away from us in the crowd of\n      Regent Street, but it would puzzle him to do so upon the lonely\n      moor. On the other hand, if I should find the hut and its tenant\n      should not be within it I must remain there, however long the\n      vigil, until he returned. Holmes had missed him in London. It\n      would indeed be a triumph for me if I could run him to earth\n      where my master had failed.\n\n      Luck had been against us again and again in this inquiry, but now\n      at last it came to my aid. And the messenger of good fortune was\n      none other than Mr. Frankland, who was standing, grey-whiskered\n      and red-faced, outside the gate of his garden, which opened on to\n      the highroad along which I travelled.\n\n       Good-day, Dr. Watson,  cried he with unwonted good humour,  you\n      must really give your horses a rest and come in to have a glass\n      of wine and to congratulate me. \n\n      My feelings towards him were very far from being friendly after\n      what I had heard of his treatment of his daughter, but I was\n      anxious to send Perkins and the wagonette home, and the\n      opportunity was a good one. I alighted and sent a message to Sir\n      Henry that I should walk over in time for dinner. Then I followed\n      Frankland into his dining-room.\n\n       It is a great day for me, sir one of the red-letter days of my\n      life,  he cried with many chuckles.  I have brought off a double\n      event. I mean to teach them in these parts that law is law, and\n      that there is a man here who does not fear to invoke it. I have\n      established a right of way through the centre of old Middleton s\n      park, slap across it, sir, within a hundred yards of his own\n      front door. What do you think of that? We ll teach these magnates\n      that they cannot ride roughshod over the rights of the commoners,\n      confound them! And I ve closed the wood where the Fernworthy folk\n      used to picnic. These infernal people seem to think that there\n      are no rights of property, and that they can swarm where they\n      like with their papers and their bottles. Both cases decided, Dr.\n      Watson, and both in my favour. I haven t had such a day since I\n      had Sir John Morland for trespass because he shot in his own\n      warren. \n\n       How on earth did you do that? \n\n       Look it up in the books, sir. It will repay reading Frankland\n      _v_. Morland, Court of Queen s Bench. It cost me  200, but I got\n      my verdict. \n\n       Did it do you any good? \n\n       None, sir, none. I am proud to say that I had no interest in the\n      matter. I act entirely from a sense of public duty. I have no\n      doubt, for example, that the Fernworthy people will burn me in\n      effigy tonight. I told the police last time they did it that they\n      should stop these disgraceful exhibitions. The County\n      Constabulary is in a scandalous state, sir, and it has not\n      afforded me the protection to which I am entitled. The case of\n      Frankland _v_. Regina will bring the matter before the attention\n      of the public. I told them that they would have occasion to\n      regret their treatment of me, and already my words have come\n      true. \n\n       How so?  I asked.\n\n      The old man put on a very knowing expression.  Because I could\n      tell them what they are dying to know; but nothing would induce\n      me to help the rascals in any way. \n\n      I had been casting round for some excuse by which I could get\n      away from his gossip, but now I began to wish to hear more of it.\n      I had seen enough of the contrary nature of the old sinner to\n      understand that any strong sign of interest would be the surest\n      way to stop his confidences.\n\n       Some poaching case, no doubt?  said I with an indifferent\n      manner.\n\n       Ha, ha, my boy, a very much more important matter than that!\n      What about the convict on the moor? \n\n      I stared.  You don t mean that you know where he is?  said I.\n\n       I may not know exactly where he is, but I am quite sure that I\n      could help the police to lay their hands on him. Has it never\n      struck you that the way to catch that man was to find out where\n      he got his food and so trace it to him? \n\n      He certainly seemed to be getting uncomfortably near the truth.\n       No doubt,  said I;  but how do you know that he is anywhere upon\n      the moor? \n\n       I know it because I have seen with my own eyes the messenger who\n      takes him his food. \n\n      My heart sank for Barrymore. It was a serious thing to be in the\n      power of this spiteful old busybody. But his next remark took a\n      weight from my mind.\n\n       You ll be surprised to hear that his food is taken to him by a\n      child. I see him every day through my telescope upon the roof. He\n      passes along the same path at the same hour, and to whom should\n      he be going except to the convict? \n\n      Here was luck indeed! And yet I suppressed all appearance of\n      interest. A child! Barrymore had said that our unknown was\n      supplied by a boy. It was on his track, and not upon the\n      convict s, that Frankland had stumbled. If I could get his\n      knowledge it might save me a long and weary hunt. But incredulity\n      and indifference were evidently my strongest cards.\n\n       I should say that it was much more likely that it was the son of\n      one of the moorland shepherds taking out his father s dinner. \n\n      The least appearance of opposition struck fire out of the old\n      autocrat. His eyes looked malignantly at me, and his grey\n      whiskers bristled like those of an angry cat.\n\n       Indeed, sir!  said he, pointing out over the wide-stretching\n      moor.  Do you see that Black Tor over yonder? Well, do you see\n      the low hill beyond with the thornbush upon it? It is the\n      stoniest part of the whole moor. Is that a place where a shepherd\n      would be likely to take his station? Your suggestion, sir, is a\n      most absurd one. \n\n      I meekly answered that I had spoken without knowing all the\n      facts. My submission pleased him and led him to further\n      confidences.\n\n       You may be sure, sir, that I have very good grounds before I\n      come to an opinion. I have seen the boy again and again with his\n      bundle. Every day, and sometimes twice a day, I have been\n      able but wait a moment, Dr. Watson. Do my eyes deceive me, or is\n      there at the present moment something moving upon that hillside? \n\n      It was several miles off, but I could distinctly see a small dark\n      dot against the dull green and grey.\n\n       Come, sir, come!  cried Frankland, rushing upstairs.  You will\n      see with your own eyes and judge for yourself. \n\n      The telescope, a formidable instrument mounted upon a tripod,\n      stood upon the flat leads of the house. Frankland clapped his eye\n      to it and gave a cry of satisfaction.\n\n       Quick, Dr. Watson, quick, before he passes over the hill! \n\n      There he was, sure enough, a small urchin with a little bundle\n      upon his shoulder, toiling slowly up the hill. When he reached\n      the crest I saw the ragged uncouth figure outlined for an instant\n      against the cold blue sky. He looked round him with a furtive and\n      stealthy air, as one who dreads pursuit. Then he vanished over\n      the hill.\n\n       Well! Am I right? \n\n       Certainly, there is a boy who seems to have some secret errand. \n\n       And what the errand is even a county constable could guess. But\n      not one word shall they have from me, and I bind you to secrecy\n      also, Dr. Watson. Not a word! You understand! \n\n       Just as you wish. \n\n       They have treated me shamefully shamefully. When the facts come\n      out in Frankland _v_. Regina I venture to think that a thrill of\n      indignation will run through the country. Nothing would induce me\n      to help the police in any way. For all they cared it might have\n      been me, instead of my effigy, which these rascals burned at the\n      stake. Surely you are not going! You will help me to empty the\n      decanter in honour of this great occasion! \n\n      But I resisted all his solicitations and succeeded in dissuading\n      him from his announced intention of walking home with me. I kept\n      the road as long as his eye was on me, and then I struck off\n      across the moor and made for the stony hill over which the boy\n      had disappeared. Everything was working in my favour, and I swore\n      that it should not be through lack of energy or perseverance that\n      I should miss the chance which fortune had thrown in my way.\n\n      The sun was already sinking when I reached the summit of the\n      hill, and the long slopes beneath me were all golden-green on one\n      side and grey shadow on the other. A haze lay low upon the\n      farthest sky-line, out of which jutted the fantastic shapes of\n      Belliver and Vixen Tor. Over the wide expanse there was no sound\n      and no movement. One great grey bird, a gull or curlew, soared\n      aloft in the blue heaven. He and I seemed to be the only living\n      things between the huge arch of the sky and the desert beneath\n      it. The barren scene, the sense of loneliness, and the mystery\n      and urgency of my task all struck a chill into my heart. The boy\n      was nowhere to be seen. But down beneath me in a cleft of the\n      hills there was a circle of the old stone huts, and in the middle\n      of them there was one which retained sufficient roof to act as a\n      screen against the weather. My heart leaped within me as I saw\n      it. This must be the burrow where the stranger lurked. At last my\n      foot was on the threshold of his hiding place his secret was\n      within my grasp.\n\n      As I approached the hut, walking as warily as Stapleton would do\n      when with poised net he drew near the settled butterfly, I\n      satisfied myself that the place had indeed been used as a\n      habitation. A vague pathway among the boulders led to the\n      dilapidated opening which served as a door. All was silent\n      within. The unknown might be lurking there, or he might be\n      prowling on the moor. My nerves tingled with the sense of\n      adventure. Throwing aside my cigarette, I closed my hand upon the\n      butt of my revolver and, walking swiftly up to the door, I looked\n      in. The place was empty.\n\n      But there were ample signs that I had not come upon a false\n      scent. This was certainly where the man lived. Some blankets\n      rolled in a waterproof lay upon that very stone slab upon which\n      Neolithic man had once slumbered. The ashes of a fire were heaped\n      in a rude grate. Beside it lay some cooking utensils and a bucket\n      half-full of water. A litter of empty tins showed that the place\n      had been occupied for some time, and I saw, as my eyes became\n      accustomed to the checkered light, a pannikin and a half-full\n      bottle of spirits standing in the corner. In the middle of the\n      hut a flat stone served the purpose of a table, and upon this\n      stood a small cloth bundle the same, no doubt, which I had seen\n      through the telescope upon the shoulder of the boy. It contained\n      a loaf of bread, a tinned tongue, and two tins of preserved\n      peaches. As I set it down again, after having examined it, my\n      heart leaped to see that beneath it there lay a sheet of paper\n      with writing upon it. I raised it, and this was what I read,\n      roughly scrawled in pencil:  Dr. Watson has gone to Coombe\n      Tracey. \n\n      For a minute I stood there with the paper in my hands thinking\n      out the meaning of this curt message. It was I, then, and not Sir\n      Henry, who was being dogged by this secret man. He had not\n      followed me himself, but he had set an agent the boy,\n      perhaps upon my track, and this was his report. Possibly I had\n      taken no step since I had been upon the moor which had not been\n      observed and reported. Always there was this feeling of an unseen\n      force, a fine net drawn round us with infinite skill and\n      delicacy, holding us so lightly that it was only at some supreme\n      moment that one realised that one was indeed entangled in its\n      meshes.\n\n      If there was one report there might be others, so I looked round\n      the hut in search of them. There was no trace, however, of\n      anything of the kind, nor could I discover any sign which might\n      indicate the character or intentions of the man who lived in this\n      singular place, save that he must be of Spartan habits and cared\n      little for the comforts of life. When I thought of the heavy\n      rains and looked at the gaping roof I understood how strong and\n      immutable must be the purpose which had kept him in that\n      inhospitable abode. Was he our malignant enemy, or was he by\n      chance our guardian angel? I swore that I would not leave the hut\n      until I knew.\n\n      Outside the sun was sinking low and the west was blazing with\n      scarlet and gold. Its reflection was shot back in ruddy patches\n      by the distant pools which lay amid the great Grimpen Mire. There\n      were the two towers of Baskerville Hall, and there a distant blur\n      of smoke which marked the village of Grimpen. Between the two,\n      behind the hill, was the house of the Stapletons. All was sweet\n      and mellow and peaceful in the golden evening light, and yet as I\n      looked at them my soul shared none of the peace of Nature but\n      quivered at the vagueness and the terror of that interview which\n      every instant was bringing nearer. With tingling nerves but a\n      fixed purpose, I sat in the dark recess of the hut and waited\n      with sombre patience for the coming of its tenant.\n\n      And then at last I heard him. Far away came the sharp clink of a\n      boot striking upon a stone. Then another and yet another, coming\n      nearer and nearer. I shrank back into the darkest corner and\n      cocked the pistol in my pocket, determined not to discover myself\n      until I had an opportunity of seeing something of the stranger.\n      There was a long pause which showed that he had stopped. Then\n      once more the footsteps approached and a shadow fell across the\n      opening of the hut.\n\n       It is a lovely evening, my dear Watson,  said a well-known\n      voice.  I really think that you will be more comfortable outside\n      than in. \n\n\n\n\nChapter 12.\nDeath on the Moor\n\n\n      For a moment or two I sat breathless, hardly able to believe my\n      ears. Then my senses and my voice came back to me, while a\n      crushing weight of responsibility seemed in an instant to be\n      lifted from my soul. That cold, incisive, ironical voice could\n      belong to but one man in all the world.\n\n       Holmes!  I cried Holmes! \n\n       Come out,  said he,  and please be careful with the revolver. \n\n      I stooped under the rude lintel, and there he sat upon a stone\n      outside, his grey eyes dancing with amusement as they fell upon\n      my astonished features. He was thin and worn, but clear and\n      alert, his keen face bronzed by the sun and roughened by the\n      wind. In his tweed suit and cloth cap he looked like any other\n      tourist upon the moor, and he had contrived, with that catlike\n      love of personal cleanliness which was one of his\n      characteristics, that his chin should be as smooth and his linen\n      as perfect as if he were in Baker Street.\n\n       I never was more glad to see anyone in my life,  said I as I\n      wrung him by the hand.\n\n       Or more astonished, eh? \n\n       Well, I must confess to it. \n\n       The surprise was not all on one side, I assure you. I had no\n      idea that you had found my occasional retreat, still less that\n      you were inside it, until I was within twenty paces of the door. \n\n       My footprint, I presume? \n\n       No, Watson, I fear that I could not undertake to recognize your\n      footprint amid all the footprints of the world. If you seriously\n      desire to deceive me you must change your tobacconist; for when I\n      see the stub of a cigarette marked Bradley, Oxford Street, I know\n      that my friend Watson is in the neighbourhood. You will see it\n      there beside the path. You threw it down, no doubt, at that\n      supreme moment when you charged into the empty hut. \n\n       Exactly. \n\n       I thought as much and knowing your admirable tenacity I was\n      convinced that you were sitting in ambush, a weapon within reach,\n      waiting for the tenant to return. So you actually thought that I\n      was the criminal? \n\n       I did not know who you were, but I was determined to find out. \n\n       Excellent, Watson! And how did you localise me? You saw me,\n      perhaps, on the night of the convict hunt, when I was so\n      imprudent as to allow the moon to rise behind me? \n\n       Yes, I saw you then. \n\n       And have no doubt searched all the huts until you came to this\n      one? \n\n       No, your boy had been observed, and that gave me a guide where\n      to look. \n\n       The old gentleman with the telescope, no doubt. I could not make\n      it out when first I saw the light flashing upon the lens.  He\n      rose and peeped into the hut.  Ha, I see that Cartwright has\n      brought up some supplies. What s this paper? So you have been to\n      Coombe Tracey, have you? \n\n       Yes. \n\n       To see Mrs. Laura Lyons? \n\n       Exactly. \n\n       Well done! Our researches have evidently been running on\n      parallel lines, and when we unite our results I expect we shall\n      have a fairly full knowledge of the case. \n\n       Well, I am glad from my heart that you are here, for indeed the\n      responsibility and the mystery were both becoming too much for my\n      nerves. But how in the name of wonder did you come here, and what\n      have you been doing? I thought that you were in Baker Street\n      working out that case of blackmailing. \n\n       That was what I wished you to think. \n\n       Then you use me, and yet do not trust me!  I cried with some\n      bitterness.  I think that I have deserved better at your hands,\n      Holmes. \n\n       My dear fellow, you have been invaluable to me in this as in\n      many other cases, and I beg that you will forgive me if I have\n      seemed to play a trick upon you. In truth, it was partly for your\n      own sake that I did it, and it was my appreciation of the danger\n      which you ran which led me to come down and examine the matter\n      for myself. Had I been with Sir Henry and you it is confident\n      that my point of view would have been the same as yours, and my\n      presence would have warned our very formidable opponents to be on\n      their guard. As it is, I have been able to get about as I could\n      not possibly have done had I been living in the Hall, and I\n      remain an unknown factor in the business, ready to throw in all\n      my weight at a critical moment. \n\n       But why keep me in the dark? \n\n       For you to know could not have helped us and might possibly have\n      led to my discovery. You would have wished to tell me something,\n      or in your kindness you would have brought me out some comfort or\n      other, and so an unnecessary risk would be run. I brought\n      Cartwright down with me you remember the little chap at the\n      express office and he has seen after my simple wants: a loaf of\n      bread and a clean collar. What does man want more? He has given\n      me an extra pair of eyes upon a very active pair of feet, and\n      both have been invaluable. \n\n       Then my reports have all been wasted! My voice trembled as I\n      recalled the pains and the pride with which I had composed them.\n\n      Holmes took a bundle of papers from his pocket.\n\n       Here are your reports, my dear fellow, and very well thumbed, I\n      assure you. I made excellent arrangements, and they are only\n      delayed one day upon their way. I must compliment you exceedingly\n      upon the zeal and the intelligence which you have shown over an\n      extraordinarily difficult case. \n\n      I was still rather raw over the deception which had been\n      practised upon me, but the warmth of Holmes s praise drove my\n      anger from my mind. I felt also in my heart that he was right in\n      what he said and that it was really best for our purpose that I\n      should not have known that he was upon the moor.\n\n       That s better,  said he, seeing the shadow rise from my face.\n       And now tell me the result of your visit to Mrs. Laura Lyons it\n      was not difficult for me to guess that it was to see her that you\n      had gone, for I am already aware that she is the one person in\n      Coombe Tracey who might be of service to us in the matter. In\n      fact, if you had not gone today it is exceedingly probable that I\n      should have gone tomorrow. \n\n      The sun had set and dusk was settling over the moor. The air had\n      turned chill and we withdrew into the hut for warmth. There,\n      sitting together in the twilight, I told Holmes of my\n      conversation with the lady. So interested was he that I had to\n      repeat some of it twice before he was satisfied.\n\n       This is most important,  said he when I had concluded.  It fills\n      up a gap which I had been unable to bridge in this most complex\n      affair. You are aware, perhaps, that a close intimacy exists\n      between this lady and the man Stapleton? \n\n       I did not know of a close intimacy. \n\n       There can be no doubt about the matter. They meet, they write,\n      there is a complete understanding between them. Now, this puts a\n      very powerful weapon into our hands. If I could only use it to\n      detach his wife \n\n       His wife? \n\n       I am giving you some information now, in return for all that you\n      have given me. The lady who has passed here as Miss Stapleton is\n      in reality his wife. \n\n       Good heavens, Holmes! Are you sure of what you say? How could he\n      have permitted Sir Henry to fall in love with her? \n\n       Sir Henry s falling in love could do no harm to anyone except\n      Sir Henry. He took particular care that Sir Henry did not make\n      love to her, as you have yourself observed. I repeat that the\n      lady is his wife and not his sister. \n\n       But why this elaborate deception? \n\n       Because he foresaw that she would be very much more useful to\n      him in the character of a free woman. \n\n      All my unspoken instincts, my vague suspicions, suddenly took\n      shape and centred upon the naturalist. In that impassive\n      colourless man, with his straw hat and his butterfly-net, I\n      seemed to see something terrible a creature of infinite patience\n      and craft, with a smiling face and a murderous heart.\n\n       It is he, then, who is our enemy it is he who dogged us in\n      London? \n\n       So I read the riddle. \n\n       And the warning it must have come from her! \n\n       Exactly. \n\n      The shape of some monstrous villainy, half seen, half guessed,\n      loomed through the darkness which had girt me so long.\n\n       But are you sure of this, Holmes? How do you know that the woman\n      is his wife? \n\n       Because he so far forgot himself as to tell you a true piece of\n      autobiography upon the occasion when he first met you, and I dare\n      say he has many a time regretted it since. He was once a\n      schoolmaster in the north of England. Now, there is no one more\n      easy to trace than a schoolmaster. There are scholastic agencies\n      by which one may identify any man who has been in the profession.\n      A little investigation showed me that a school had come to grief\n      under atrocious circumstances, and that the man who had owned\n      it the name was different had disappeared with his wife. The\n      descriptions agreed. When I learned that the missing man was\n      devoted to entomology the identification was complete. \n\n      The darkness was rising, but much was still hidden by the\n      shadows.\n\n       If this woman is in truth his wife, where does Mrs. Laura Lyons\n      come in?  I asked.\n\n       That is one of the points upon which your own researches have\n      shed a light. Your interview with the lady has cleared the\n      situation very much. I did not know about a projected divorce\n      between herself and her husband. In that case, regarding\n      Stapleton as an unmarried man, she counted no doubt upon becoming\n      his wife. \n\n       And when she is undeceived? \n\n       Why, then we may find the lady of service. It must be our first\n      duty to see her both of us tomorrow. Don t you think, Watson,\n      that you are away from your charge rather long? Your place should\n      be at Baskerville Hall. \n\n      The last red streaks had faded away in the west and night had\n      settled upon the moor. A few faint stars were gleaming in a\n      violet sky.\n\n       One last question, Holmes,  I said as I rose.  Surely there is\n      no need of secrecy between you and me. What is the meaning of it\n      all? What is he after? \n\n      Holmes s voice sank as he answered:\n\n       It is murder, Watson refined, cold-blooded, deliberate murder.\n      Do not ask me for particulars. My nets are closing upon him, even\n      as his are upon Sir Henry, and with your help he is already\n      almost at my mercy. There is but one danger which can threaten\n      us. It is that he should strike before we are ready to do so.\n      Another day two at the most and I have my case complete, but\n      until then guard your charge as closely as ever a fond mother\n      watched her ailing child. Your mission today has justified\n      itself, and yet I could almost wish that you had not left his\n      side. Hark! \n\n      A terrible scream a prolonged yell of horror and anguish burst\n      out of the silence of the moor. That frightful cry turned the\n      blood to ice in my veins.\n\n       Oh, my God!  I gasped.  What is it? What does it mean? \n\n      Holmes had sprung to his feet, and I saw his dark, athletic\n      outline at the door of the hut, his shoulders stooping, his head\n      thrust forward, his face peering into the darkness.\n\n       Hush!  he whispered.  Hush! \n\n      The cry had been loud on account of its vehemence, but it had\n      pealed out from somewhere far off on the shadowy plain. Now it\n      burst upon our ears, nearer, louder, more urgent than before.\n\n       Where is it?  Holmes whispered; and I knew from the thrill of\n      his voice that he, the man of iron, was shaken to the soul.\n       Where is it, Watson? \n\n       There, I think.  I pointed into the darkness.\n\n       No, there! \n\n      Again the agonised cry swept through the silent night, louder and\n      much nearer than ever. And a new sound mingled with it, a deep,\n      muttered rumble, musical and yet menacing, rising and falling\n      like the low, constant murmur of the sea.\n\n       The hound!  cried Holmes.  Come, Watson, come! Great heavens, if\n      we are too late! \n\n      He had started running swiftly over the moor, and I had followed\n      at his heels. But now from somewhere among the broken ground\n      immediately in front of us there came one last despairing yell,\n      and then a dull, heavy thud. We halted and listened. Not another\n      sound broke the heavy silence of the windless night.\n\n      I saw Holmes put his hand to his forehead like a man distracted.\n      He stamped his feet upon the ground.\n\n       He has beaten us, Watson. We are too late. \n\n       No, no, surely not! \n\n       Fool that I was to hold my hand. And you, Watson, see what comes\n      of abandoning your charge! But, by Heaven, if the worst has\n      happened we ll avenge him! \n\n      Blindly we ran through the gloom, blundering against boulders,\n      forcing our way through gorse bushes, panting up hills and\n      rushing down slopes, heading always in the direction whence those\n      dreadful sounds had come. At every rise Holmes looked eagerly\n      round him, but the shadows were thick upon the moor, and nothing\n      moved upon its dreary face.\n\n       Can you see anything? \n\n       Nothing. \n\n       But, hark, what is that? \n\n      A low moan had fallen upon our ears. There it was again upon our\n      left! On that side a ridge of rocks ended in a sheer cliff which\n      overlooked a stone-strewn slope. On its jagged face was\n      spread-eagled some dark, irregular object. As we ran towards it\n      the vague outline hardened into a definite shape. It was a\n      prostrate man face downward upon the ground, the head doubled\n      under him at a horrible angle, the shoulders rounded and the body\n      hunched together as if in the act of throwing a somersault. So\n      grotesque was the attitude that I could not for the instant\n      realise that that moan had been the passing of his soul. Not a\n      whisper, not a rustle, rose now from the dark figure over which\n      we stooped. Holmes laid his hand upon him and held it up again\n      with an exclamation of horror. The gleam of the match which he\n      struck shone upon his clotted fingers and upon the ghastly pool\n      which widened slowly from the crushed skull of the victim. And it\n      shone upon something else which turned our hearts sick and faint\n      within us the body of Sir Henry Baskerville!\n\n      There was no chance of either of us forgetting that peculiar\n      ruddy tweed suit the very one which he had worn on the first\n      morning that we had seen him in Baker Street. We caught the one\n      clear glimpse of it, and then the match flickered and went out,\n      even as the hope had gone out of our souls. Holmes groaned, and\n      his face glimmered white through the darkness.\n\n       The brute! The brute!  I cried with clenched hands.  Oh Holmes,\n      I shall never forgive myself for having left him to his fate. \n\n       I am more to blame than you, Watson. In order to have my case\n      well rounded and complete, I have thrown away the life of my\n      client. It is the greatest blow which has befallen me in my\n      career. But how could I know how _could_ I know that he would\n      risk his life alone upon the moor in the face of all my\n      warnings? \n\n       That we should have heard his screams my God, those screams! and\n      yet have been unable to save him! Where is this brute of a hound\n      which drove him to his death? It may be lurking among these rocks\n      at this instant. And Stapleton, where is he? He shall answer for\n      this deed. \n\n       He shall. I will see to that. Uncle and nephew have been\n      murdered the one frightened to death by the very sight of a beast\n      which he thought to be supernatural, the other driven to his end\n      in his wild flight to escape from it. But now we have to prove\n      the connection between the man and the beast. Save from what we\n      heard, we cannot even swear to the existence of the latter, since\n      Sir Henry has evidently died from the fall. But, by heavens,\n      cunning as he is, the fellow shall be in my power before another\n      day is past! \n\n      We stood with bitter hearts on either side of the mangled body,\n      overwhelmed by this sudden and irrevocable disaster which had\n      brought all our long and weary labours to so piteous an end. Then\n      as the moon rose we climbed to the top of the rocks over which\n      our poor friend had fallen, and from the summit we gazed out over\n      the shadowy moor, half silver and half gloom. Far away, miles\n      off, in the direction of Grimpen, a single steady yellow light\n      was shining. It could only come from the lonely abode of the\n      Stapletons. With a bitter curse I shook my fist at it as I gazed.\n\n       Why should we not seize him at once? \n\n       Our case is not complete. The fellow is wary and cunning to the\n      last degree. It is not what we know, but what we can prove. If we\n      make one false move the villain may escape us yet. \n\n       What can we do? \n\n       There will be plenty for us to do tomorrow. Tonight we can only\n      perform the last offices to our poor friend. \n\n      Together we made our way down the precipitous slope and\n      approached the body, black and clear against the silvered stones.\n      The agony of those contorted limbs struck me with a spasm of pain\n      and blurred my eyes with tears.\n\n       We must send for help, Holmes! We cannot carry him all the way\n      to the Hall. Good heavens, are you mad? \n\n      He had uttered a cry and bent over the body. Now he was dancing\n      and laughing and wringing my hand. Could this be my stern,\n      self-contained friend? These were hidden fires, indeed!\n\n       A beard! A beard! The man has a beard! \n\n       A beard? \n\n       It is not the baronet it is why, it is my neighbour, the\n      convict! \n\n      With feverish haste we had turned the body over, and that\n      dripping beard was pointing up to the cold, clear moon. There\n      could be no doubt about the beetling forehead, the sunken animal\n      eyes. It was indeed the same face which had glared upon me in the\n      light of the candle from over the rock the face of Selden, the\n      criminal.\n\n      Then in an instant it was all clear to me. I remembered how the\n      baronet had told me that he had handed his old wardrobe to\n      Barrymore. Barrymore had passed it on in order to help Selden in\n      his escape. Boots, shirt, cap it was all Sir Henry s. The tragedy\n      was still black enough, but this man had at least deserved death\n      by the laws of his country. I told Holmes how the matter stood,\n      my heart bubbling over with thankfulness and joy.\n\n       Then the clothes have been the poor devil s death,  said he.  It\n      is clear enough that the hound has been laid on from some article\n      of Sir Henry s the boot which was abstracted in the hotel, in all\n      probability and so ran this man down. There is one very singular\n      thing, however: How came Selden, in the darkness, to know that\n      the hound was on his trail? \n\n       He heard him. \n\n       To hear a hound upon the moor would not work a hard man like\n      this convict into such a paroxysm of terror that he would risk\n      recapture by screaming wildly for help. By his cries he must have\n      run a long way after he knew the animal was on his track. How did\n      he know? \n\n       A greater mystery to me is why this hound, presuming that all\n      our conjectures are correct \n\n       I presume nothing. \n\n       Well, then, why this hound should be loose tonight. I suppose\n      that it does not always run loose upon the moor. Stapleton would\n      not let it go unless he had reason to think that Sir Henry would\n      be there. \n\n       My difficulty is the more formidable of the two, for I think\n      that we shall very shortly get an explanation of yours, while\n      mine may remain forever a mystery. The question now is, what\n      shall we do with this poor wretch s body? We cannot leave it here\n      to the foxes and the ravens. \n\n       I suggest that we put it in one of the huts until we can\n      communicate with the police. \n\n       Exactly. I have no doubt that you and I could carry it so far.\n      Halloa, Watson, what s this? It s the man himself, by all that s\n      wonderful and audacious! Not a word to show your suspicions not a\n      word, or my plans crumble to the ground. \n\n      A figure was approaching us over the moor, and I saw the dull red\n      glow of a cigar. The moon shone upon him, and I could distinguish\n      the dapper shape and jaunty walk of the naturalist. He stopped\n      when he saw us, and then came on again.\n\n       Why, Dr. Watson, that s not you, is it? You are the last man\n      that I should have expected to see out on the moor at this time\n      of night. But, dear me, what s this? Somebody hurt? Not don t\n      tell me that it is our friend Sir Henry!  He hurried past me and\n      stooped over the dead man. I heard a sharp intake of his breath\n      and the cigar fell from his fingers.\n\n       Who who s this?  he stammered.\n\n       It is Selden, the man who escaped from Princetown. \n\n      Stapleton turned a ghastly face upon us, but by a supreme effort\n      he had overcome his amazement and his disappointment. He looked\n      sharply from Holmes to me.  Dear me! What a very shocking affair!\n      How did he die? \n\n       He appears to have broken his neck by falling over these rocks.\n      My friend and I were strolling on the moor when we heard a cry. \n\n       I heard a cry also. That was what brought me out. I was uneasy\n      about Sir Henry. \n\n       Why about Sir Henry in particular?  I could not help asking.\n\n       Because I had suggested that he should come over. When he did\n      not come I was surprised, and I naturally became alarmed for his\n      safety when I heard cries upon the moor. By the way his eyes\n      darted again from my face to Holmes s did you hear anything else\n      besides a cry? \n\n       No,  said Holmes;  did you? \n\n       No. \n\n       What do you mean, then? \n\n       Oh, you know the stories that the peasants tell about a phantom\n      hound, and so on. It is said to be heard at night upon the moor.\n      I was wondering if there were any evidence of such a sound\n      tonight. \n\n       We heard nothing of the kind,  said I.\n\n       And what is your theory of this poor fellow s death? \n\n       I have no doubt that anxiety and exposure have driven him off\n      his head. He has rushed about the moor in a crazy state and\n      eventually fallen over here and broken his neck. \n\n       That seems the most reasonable theory,  said Stapleton, and he\n      gave a sigh which I took to indicate his relief.  What do you\n      think about it, Mr. Sherlock Holmes? \n\n      My friend bowed his compliments.  You are quick at\n      identification,  said he.\n\n       We have been expecting you in these parts since Dr. Watson came\n      down. You are in time to see a tragedy. \n\n       Yes, indeed. I have no doubt that my friend s explanation will\n      cover the facts. I will take an unpleasant remembrance back to\n      London with me tomorrow. \n\n       Oh, you return tomorrow? \n\n       That is my intention. \n\n       I hope your visit has cast some light upon those occurrences\n      which have puzzled us? \n\n      Holmes shrugged his shoulders.\n\n       One cannot always have the success for which one hopes. An\n      investigator needs facts and not legends or rumours. It has not\n      been a satisfactory case. \n\n      My friend spoke in his frankest and most unconcerned manner.\n      Stapleton still looked hard at him. Then he turned to me.\n\n       I would suggest carrying this poor fellow to my house, but it\n      would give my sister such a fright that I do not feel justified\n      in doing it. I think that if we put something over his face he\n      will be safe until morning. \n\n      And so it was arranged. Resisting Stapleton s offer of\n      hospitality, Holmes and I set off to Baskerville Hall, leaving\n      the naturalist to return alone. Looking back we saw the figure\n      moving slowly away over the broad moor, and behind him that one\n      black smudge on the silvered slope which showed where the man was\n      lying who had come so horribly to his end.\n\n       We re at close grips at last,  said Holmes as we walked together\n      across the moor.  What a nerve the fellow has! How he pulled\n      himself together in the face of what must have been a paralyzing\n      shock when he found that the wrong man had fallen a victim to his\n      plot. I told you in London, Watson, and I tell you now again,\n      that we have never had a foeman more worthy of our steel. \n\n       I am sorry that he has seen you. \n\n       And so was I at first. But there was no getting out of it. \n\n       What effect do you think it will have upon his plans now that he\n      knows you are here? \n\n       It may cause him to be more cautious, or it may drive him to\n      desperate measures at once. Like most clever criminals, he may be\n      too confident in his own cleverness and imagine that he has\n      completely deceived us. \n\n       Why should we not arrest him at once? \n\n       My dear Watson, you were born to be a man of action. Your\n      instinct is always to do something energetic. But supposing, for\n      argument s sake, that we had him arrested tonight, what on earth\n      the better off should we be for that? We could prove nothing\n      against him. There s the devilish cunning of it! If he were\n      acting through a human agent we could get some evidence, but if\n      we were to drag this great dog to the light of day it would not\n      help us in putting a rope round the neck of its master. \n\n       Surely we have a case. \n\n       Not a shadow of one only surmise and conjecture. We should be\n      laughed out of court if we came with such a story and such\n      evidence. \n\n       There is Sir Charles s death. \n\n       Found dead without a mark upon him. You and I know that he died\n      of sheer fright, and we know also what frightened him, but how\n      are we to get twelve stolid jurymen to know it? What signs are\n      there of a hound? Where are the marks of its fangs? Of course we\n      know that a hound does not bite a dead body and that Sir Charles\n      was dead before ever the brute overtook him. But we have to prove\n      all this, and we are not in a position to do it. \n\n       Well, then, tonight? \n\n       We are not much better off tonight. Again, there was no direct\n      connection between the hound and the man s death. We never saw\n      the hound. We heard it, but we could not prove that it was\n      running upon this man s trail. There is a complete absence of\n      motive. No, my dear fellow; we must reconcile ourselves to the\n      fact that we have no case at present, and that it is worth our\n      while to run any risk in order to establish one. \n\n       And how do you propose to do so? \n\n       I have great hopes of what Mrs. Laura Lyons may do for us when\n      the position of affairs is made clear to her. And I have my own\n      plan as well. Sufficient for tomorrow is the evil thereof; but I\n      hope before the day is past to have the upper hand at last. \n\n      I could draw nothing further from him, and he walked, lost in\n      thought, as far as the Baskerville gates.\n\n       Are you coming up? \n\n       Yes; I see no reason for further concealment. But one last word,\n      Watson. Say nothing of the hound to Sir Henry. Let him think that\n      Selden s death was as Stapleton would have us believe. He will\n      have a better nerve for the ordeal which he will have to undergo\n      tomorrow, when he is engaged, if I remember your report aright,\n      to dine with these people. \n\n       And so am I. \n\n       Then you must excuse yourself and he must go alone. That will be\n      easily arranged. And now, if we are too late for dinner, I think\n      that we are both ready for our suppers. \n\n\n\n\nChapter 13.\nFixing the Nets\n\n\n      Sir Henry was more pleased than surprised to see Sherlock Holmes,\n      for he had for some days been expecting that recent events would\n      bring him down from London. He did raise his eyebrows, however,\n      when he found that my friend had neither any luggage nor any\n      explanations for its absence. Between us we soon supplied his\n      wants, and then over a belated supper we explained to the baronet\n      as much of our experience as it seemed desirable that he should\n      know. But first I had the unpleasant duty of breaking the news to\n      Barrymore and his wife. To him it may have been an unmitigated\n      relief, but she wept bitterly in her apron. To all the world he\n      was the man of violence, half animal and half demon; but to her\n      he always remained the little wilful boy of her own girlhood, the\n      child who had clung to her hand. Evil indeed is the man who has\n      not one woman to mourn him.\n\n       I ve been moping in the house all day since Watson went off in\n      the morning,  said the baronet.  I guess I should have some\n      credit, for I have kept my promise. If I hadn t sworn not to go\n      about alone I might have had a more lively evening, for I had a\n      message from Stapleton asking me over there. \n\n       I have no doubt that you would have had a more lively evening, \n      said Holmes drily.  By the way, I don t suppose you appreciate\n      that we have been mourning over you as having broken your neck? \n\n      Sir Henry opened his eyes.  How was that? \n\n       This poor wretch was dressed in your clothes. I fear your\n      servant who gave them to him may get into trouble with the\n      police. \n\n       That is unlikely. There was no mark on any of them, as far as I\n      know. \n\n       That s lucky for him in fact, it s lucky for all of you, since\n      you are all on the wrong side of the law in this matter. I am not\n      sure that as a conscientious detective my first duty is not to\n      arrest the whole household. Watson s reports are most\n      incriminating documents. \n\n       But how about the case?  asked the baronet.  Have you made\n      anything out of the tangle? I don t know that Watson and I are\n      much the wiser since we came down. \n\n       I think that I shall be in a position to make the situation\n      rather more clear to you before long. It has been an exceedingly\n      difficult and most complicated business. There are several points\n      upon which we still want light but it is coming all the same. \n\n       We ve had one experience, as Watson has no doubt told you. We\n      heard the hound on the moor, so I can swear that it is not all\n      empty superstition. I had something to do with dogs when I was\n      out West, and I know one when I hear one. If you can muzzle that\n      one and put him on a chain I ll be ready to swear you are the\n      greatest detective of all time. \n\n       I think I will muzzle him and chain him all right if you will\n      give me your help. \n\n       Whatever you tell me to do I will do. \n\n       Very good; and I will ask you also to do it blindly, without\n      always asking the reason. \n\n       Just as you like. \n\n       If you will do this I think the chances are that our little\n      problem will soon be solved. I have no doubt \n\n      He stopped suddenly and stared fixedly up over my head into the\n      air. The lamp beat upon his face, and so intent was it and so\n      still that it might have been that of a clear-cut classical\n      statue, a personification of alertness and expectation.\n\n       What is it?  we both cried.\n\n      I could see as he looked down that he was repressing some\n      internal emotion. His features were still composed, but his eyes\n      shone with amused exultation.\n\n       Excuse the admiration of a connoisseur,  said he as he waved his\n      hand towards the line of portraits which covered the opposite\n      wall.  Watson won t allow that I know anything of art but that is\n      mere jealousy because our views upon the subject differ. Now,\n      these are a really very fine series of portraits. \n\n       Well, I m glad to hear you say so,  said Sir Henry, glancing\n      with some surprise at my friend.  I don t pretend to know much\n      about these things, and I d be a better judge of a horse or a\n      steer than of a picture. I didn t know that you found time for\n      such things. \n\n       I know what is good when I see it, and I see it now. That s a\n      Kneller, I ll swear, that lady in the blue silk over yonder, and\n      the stout gentleman with the wig ought to be a Reynolds. They are\n      all family portraits, I presume? \n\n       Every one. \n\n       Do you know the names? \n\n       Barrymore has been coaching me in them, and I think I can say my\n      lessons fairly well. \n\n       Who is the gentleman with the telescope? \n\n       That is Rear-Admiral Baskerville, who served under Rodney in the\n      West Indies. The man with the blue coat and the roll of paper is\n      Sir William Baskerville, who was Chairman of Committees of the\n      House of Commons under Pitt. \n\n       And this Cavalier opposite to me the one with the black velvet\n      and the lace? \n\n       Ah, you have a right to know about him. That is the cause of all\n      the mischief, the wicked Hugo, who started the Hound of the\n      Baskervilles. We re not likely to forget him. \n\n      I gazed with interest and some surprise upon the portrait.\n\n       Dear me!  said Holmes,  he seems a quiet, meek-mannered man\n      enough, but I dare say that there was a lurking devil in his\n      eyes. I had pictured him as a more robust and ruffianly person. \n\n       There s no doubt about the authenticity, for the name and the\n      date, 1647, are on the back of the canvas. \n\n      Holmes said little more, but the picture of the old roysterer\n      seemed to have a fascination for him, and his eyes were\n      continually fixed upon it during supper. It was not until later,\n      when Sir Henry had gone to his room, that I was able to follow\n      the trend of his thoughts. He led me back into the\n      banqueting-hall, his bedroom candle in his hand, and he held it\n      up against the time-stained portrait on the wall.\n\n       Do you see anything there? \n\n      I looked at the broad plumed hat, the curling love-locks, the\n      white lace collar, and the straight, severe face which was framed\n      between them. It was not a brutal countenance, but it was prim,\n      hard, and stern, with a firm-set, thin-lipped mouth, and a coldly\n      intolerant eye.\n\n       Is it like anyone you know? \n\n       There is something of Sir Henry about the jaw. \n\n       Just a suggestion, perhaps. But wait an instant!  He stood upon\n      a chair, and, holding up the light in his left hand, he curved\n      his right arm over the broad hat and round the long ringlets.\n\n       Good heavens!  I cried in amazement.\n\n      The face of Stapleton had sprung out of the canvas.\n\n       Ha, you see it now. My eyes have been trained to examine faces\n      and not their trimmings. It is the first quality of a criminal\n      investigator that he should see through a disguise. \n\n       But this is marvellous. It might be his portrait. \n\n       Yes, it is an interesting instance of a throwback, which appears\n      to be both physical and spiritual. A study of family portraits is\n      enough to convert a man to the doctrine of reincarnation. The\n      fellow is a Baskerville that is evident. \n\n       With designs upon the succession. \n\n       Exactly. This chance of the picture has supplied us with one of\n      our most obvious missing links. We have him, Watson, we have him,\n      and I dare swear that before tomorrow night he will be fluttering\n      in our net as helpless as one of his own butterflies. A pin, a\n      cork, and a card, and we add him to the Baker Street collection! \n      He burst into one of his rare fits of laughter as he turned away\n      from the picture. I have not heard him laugh often, and it has\n      always boded ill to somebody.\n\n      I was up betimes in the morning, but Holmes was afoot earlier\n      still, for I saw him as I dressed, coming up the drive.\n\n       Yes, we should have a full day today,  he remarked, and he\n      rubbed his hands with the joy of action.  The nets are all in\n      place, and the drag is about to begin. We ll know before the day\n      is out whether we have caught our big, lean-jawed pike, or\n      whether he has got through the meshes. \n\n       Have you been on the moor already? \n\n       I have sent a report from Grimpen to Princetown as to the death\n      of Selden. I think I can promise that none of you will be\n      troubled in the matter. And I have also communicated with my\n      faithful Cartwright, who would certainly have pined away at the\n      door of my hut, as a dog does at his master s grave, if I had not\n      set his mind at rest about my safety. \n\n       What is the next move? \n\n       To see Sir Henry. Ah, here he is! \n\n       Good-morning, Holmes,  said the baronet.  You look like a\n      general who is planning a battle with his chief of the staff. \n\n       That is the exact situation. Watson was asking for orders. \n\n       And so do I. \n\n       Very good. You are engaged, as I understand, to dine with our\n      friends the Stapletons tonight. \n\n       I hope that you will come also. They are very hospitable people,\n      and I am sure that they would be very glad to see you. \n\n       I fear that Watson and I must go to London. \n\n       To London? \n\n       Yes, I think that we should be more useful there at the present\n      juncture. \n\n      The baronet s face perceptibly lengthened.\n\n       I hoped that you were going to see me through this business. The\n      Hall and the moor are not very pleasant places when one is\n      alone. \n\n       My dear fellow, you must trust me implicitly and do exactly what\n      I tell you. You can tell your friends that we should have been\n      happy to have come with you, but that urgent business required us\n      to be in town. We hope very soon to return to Devonshire. Will\n      you remember to give them that message? \n\n       If you insist upon it. \n\n       There is no alternative, I assure you. \n\n      I saw by the baronet s clouded brow that he was deeply hurt by\n      what he regarded as our desertion.\n\n       When do you desire to go?  he asked coldly.\n\n       Immediately after breakfast. We will drive in to Coombe Tracey,\n      but Watson will leave his things as a pledge that he will come\n      back to you. Watson, you will send a note to Stapleton to tell\n      him that you regret that you cannot come. \n\n       I have a good mind to go to London with you,  said the baronet.\n       Why should I stay here alone? \n\n       Because it is your post of duty. Because you gave me your word\n      that you would do as you were told, and I tell you to stay. \n\n       All right, then, I ll stay. \n\n       One more direction! I wish you to drive to Merripit House. Send\n      back your trap, however, and let them know that you intend to\n      walk home. \n\n       To walk across the moor? \n\n       Yes. \n\n       But that is the very thing which you have so often cautioned me\n      not to do. \n\n       This time you may do it with safety. If I had not every\n      confidence in your nerve and courage I would not suggest it, but\n      it is essential that you should do it. \n\n       Then I will do it. \n\n       And as you value your life do not go across the moor in any\n      direction save along the straight path which leads from Merripit\n      House to the Grimpen Road, and is your natural way home. \n\n       I will do just what you say. \n\n       Very good. I should be glad to get away as soon after breakfast\n      as possible, so as to reach London in the afternoon. \n\n      I was much astounded by this programme, though I remembered that\n      Holmes had said to Stapleton on the night before that his visit\n      would terminate next day. It had not crossed my mind however,\n      that he would wish me to go with him, nor could I understand how\n      we could both be absent at a moment which he himself declared to\n      be critical. There was nothing for it, however, but implicit\n      obedience; so we bade good-bye to our rueful friend, and a couple\n      of hours afterwards we were at the station of Coombe Tracey and\n      had dispatched the trap upon its return journey. A small boy was\n      waiting upon the platform.\n\n       Any orders, sir? \n\n       You will take this train to town, Cartwright. The moment you\n      arrive you will send a wire to Sir Henry Baskerville, in my name,\n      to say that if he finds the pocketbook which I have dropped he is\n      to send it by registered post to Baker Street. \n\n       Yes, sir. \n\n       And ask at the station office if there is a message for me. \n\n      The boy returned with a telegram, which Holmes handed to me. It\n      ran:\n\n      Wire received. Coming down with unsigned warrant. Arrive\n      five-forty. Lestrade.\n\n       That is in answer to mine of this morning. He is the best of the\n      professionals, I think, and we may need his assistance. Now,\n      Watson, I think that we cannot employ our time better than by\n      calling upon your acquaintance, Mrs. Laura Lyons. \n\n      His plan of campaign was beginning to be evident. He would use\n      the baronet in order to convince the Stapletons that we were\n      really gone, while we should actually return at the instant when\n      we were likely to be needed. That telegram from London, if\n      mentioned by Sir Henry to the Stapletons, must remove the last\n      suspicions from their minds. Already I seemed to see our nets\n      drawing closer around that lean-jawed pike.\n\n      Mrs. Laura Lyons was in her office, and Sherlock Holmes opened\n      his interview with a frankness and directness which considerably\n      amazed her.\n\n       I am investigating the circumstances which attended the death of\n      the late Sir Charles Baskerville,  said he.  My friend here, Dr.\n      Watson, has informed me of what you have communicated, and also\n      of what you have withheld in connection with that matter. \n\n       What have I withheld?  she asked defiantly.\n\n       You have confessed that you asked Sir Charles to be at the gate\n      at ten o clock. We know that that was the place and hour of his\n      death. You have withheld what the connection is between these\n      events. \n\n       There is no connection. \n\n       In that case the coincidence must indeed be an extraordinary\n      one. But I think that we shall succeed in establishing a\n      connection, after all. I wish to be perfectly frank with you,\n      Mrs. Lyons. We regard this case as one of murder, and the\n      evidence may implicate not only your friend Mr. Stapleton but his\n      wife as well. \n\n      The lady sprang from her chair.\n\n       His wife!  she cried.\n\n       The fact is no longer a secret. The person who has passed for\n      his sister is really his wife. \n\n      Mrs. Lyons had resumed her seat. Her hands were grasping the arms\n      of her chair, and I saw that the pink nails had turned white with\n      the pressure of her grip.\n\n       His wife!  she said again.  His wife! He is not a married man. \n\n      Sherlock Holmes shrugged his shoulders.\n\n       Prove it to me! Prove it to me! And if you can do so ! \n\n      The fierce flash of her eyes said more than any words.\n\n       I have come prepared to do so,  said Holmes, drawing several\n      papers from his pocket.  Here is a photograph of the couple taken\n      in York four years ago. It is indorsed  Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur, \n      but you will have no difficulty in recognizing him, and her also,\n      if you know her by sight. Here are three written descriptions by\n      trustworthy witnesses of Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur, who at that time\n      kept St. Oliver s private school. Read them and see if you can\n      doubt the identity of these people. \n\n      She glanced at them, and then looked up at us with the set, rigid\n      face of a desperate woman.\n\n       Mr. Holmes,  she said,  this man had offered me marriage on\n      condition that I could get a divorce from my husband. He has lied\n      to me, the villain, in every conceivable way. Not one word of\n      truth has he ever told me. And why why? I imagined that all was\n      for my own sake. But now I see that I was never anything but a\n      tool in his hands. Why should I preserve faith with him who never\n      kept any with me? Why should I try to shield him from the\n      consequences of his own wicked acts? Ask me what you like, and\n      there is nothing which I shall hold back. One thing I swear to\n      you, and that is that when I wrote the letter I never dreamed of\n      any harm to the old gentleman, who had been my kindest friend. \n\n       I entirely believe you, madam,  said Sherlock Holmes.  The\n      recital of these events must be very painful to you, and perhaps\n      it will make it easier if I tell you what occurred, and you can\n      check me if I make any material mistake. The sending of this\n      letter was suggested to you by Stapleton? \n\n       He dictated it. \n\n       I presume that the reason he gave was that you would receive\n      help from Sir Charles for the legal expenses connected with your\n      divorce? \n\n       Exactly. \n\n       And then after you had sent the letter he dissuaded you from\n      keeping the appointment? \n\n       He told me that it would hurt his self-respect that any other\n      man should find the money for such an object, and that though he\n      was a poor man himself he would devote his last penny to removing\n      the obstacles which divided us. \n\n       He appears to be a very consistent character. And then you heard\n      nothing until you read the reports of the death in the paper? \n\n       No. \n\n       And he made you swear to say nothing about your appointment with\n      Sir Charles? \n\n       He did. He said that the death was a very mysterious one, and\n      that I should certainly be suspected if the facts came out. He\n      frightened me into remaining silent. \n\n       Quite so. But you had your suspicions? \n\n      She hesitated and looked down.\n\n       I knew him,  she said.  But if he had kept faith with me I\n      should always have done so with him. \n\n       I think that on the whole you have had a fortunate escape,  said\n      Sherlock Holmes.  You have had him in your power and he knew it,\n      and yet you are alive. You have been walking for some months very\n      near to the edge of a precipice. We must wish you good-morning\n      now, Mrs. Lyons, and it is probable that you will very shortly\n      hear from us again. \n\n       Our case becomes rounded off, and difficulty after difficulty\n      thins away in front of us,  said Holmes as we stood waiting for\n      the arrival of the express from town.  I shall soon be in the\n      position of being able to put into a single connected narrative\n      one of the most singular and sensational crimes of modern times.\n      Students of criminology will remember the analogous incidents in\n      Godno, in Little Russia, in the year  66, and of course there are\n      the Anderson murders in North Carolina, but this case possesses\n      some features which are entirely its own. Even now we have no\n      clear case against this very wily man. But I shall be very much\n      surprised if it is not clear enough before we go to bed this\n      night. \n\n      The London express came roaring into the station, and a small,\n      wiry bulldog of a man had sprung from a first-class carriage. We\n      all three shook hands, and I saw at once from the reverential way\n      in which Lestrade gazed at my companion that he had learned a\n      good deal since the days when they had first worked together. I\n      could well remember the scorn which the theories of the reasoner\n      used then to excite in the practical man.\n\n       Anything good?  he asked.\n\n       The biggest thing for years,  said Holmes.  We have two hours\n      before we need think of starting. I think we might employ it in\n      getting some dinner and then, Lestrade, we will take the London\n      fog out of your throat by giving you a breath of the pure night\n      air of Dartmoor. Never been there? Ah, well, I don t suppose you\n      will forget your first visit. \n\n\n\n\nChapter 14.\nThe Hound of the Baskervilles\n\n\n      One of Sherlock Holmes s defects if, indeed, one may call it a\n      defect was that he was exceedingly loath to communicate his full\n      plans to any other person until the instant of their fulfilment.\n      Partly it came no doubt from his own masterful nature, which\n      loved to dominate and surprise those who were around him. Partly\n      also from his professional caution, which urged him never to take\n      any chances. The result, however, was very trying for those who\n      were acting as his agents and assistants. I had often suffered\n      under it, but never more so than during that long drive in the\n      darkness. The great ordeal was in front of us; at last we were\n      about to make our final effort, and yet Holmes had said nothing,\n      and I could only surmise what his course of action would be. My\n      nerves thrilled with anticipation when at last the cold wind upon\n      our faces and the dark, void spaces on either side of the narrow\n      road told me that we were back upon the moor once again. Every\n      stride of the horses and every turn of the wheels was taking us\n      nearer to our supreme adventure.\n\n      Our conversation was hampered by the presence of the driver of\n      the hired wagonette, so that we were forced to talk of trivial\n      matters when our nerves were tense with emotion and anticipation.\n      It was a relief to me, after that unnatural restraint, when we at\n      last passed Frankland s house and knew that we were drawing near\n      to the Hall and to the scene of action. We did not drive up to\n      the door but got down near the gate of the avenue. The wagonette\n      was paid off and ordered to return to Coombe Tracey forthwith,\n      while we started to walk to Merripit House.\n\n       Are you armed, Lestrade? \n\n      The little detective smiled.  As long as I have my trousers I\n      have a hip-pocket, and as long as I have my hip-pocket I have\n      something in it. \n\n       Good! My friend and I are also ready for emergencies. \n\n       You re mighty close about this affair, Mr. Holmes. What s the\n      game now? \n\n       A waiting game. \n\n       My word, it does not seem a very cheerful place,  said the\n      detective with a shiver, glancing round him at the gloomy slopes\n      of the hill and at the huge lake of fog which lay over the\n      Grimpen Mire.  I see the lights of a house ahead of us. \n\n       That is Merripit House and the end of our journey. I must\n      request you to walk on tiptoe and not to talk above a whisper. \n\n      We moved cautiously along the track as if we were bound for the\n      house, but Holmes halted us when we were about two hundred yards\n      from it.\n\n       This will do,  said he.  These rocks upon the right make an\n      admirable screen. \n\n       We are to wait here? \n\n       Yes, we shall make our little ambush here. Get into this hollow,\n      Lestrade. You have been inside the house, have you not, Watson?\n      Can you tell the position of the rooms? What are those latticed\n      windows at this end? \n\n       I think they are the kitchen windows. \n\n       And the one beyond, which shines so brightly? \n\n       That is certainly the dining-room. \n\n       The blinds are up. You know the lie of the land best. Creep\n      forward quietly and see what they are doing but for heaven s sake\n      don t let them know that they are watched! \n\n      I tiptoed down the path and stooped behind the low wall which\n      surrounded the stunted orchard. Creeping in its shadow I reached\n      a point whence I could look straight through the uncurtained\n      window.\n\n      There were only two men in the room, Sir Henry and Stapleton.\n      They sat with their profiles towards me on either side of the\n      round table. Both of them were smoking cigars, and coffee and\n      wine were in front of them. Stapleton was talking with animation,\n      but the baronet looked pale and distrait. Perhaps the thought of\n      that lonely walk across the ill-omened moor was weighing heavily\n      upon his mind.\n\n      As I watched them Stapleton rose and left the room, while Sir\n      Henry filled his glass again and leaned back in his chair,\n      puffing at his cigar. I heard the creak of a door and the crisp\n      sound of boots upon gravel. The steps passed along the path on\n      the other side of the wall under which I crouched. Looking over,\n      I saw the naturalist pause at the door of an out-house in the\n      corner of the orchard. A key turned in a lock, and as he passed\n      in there was a curious scuffling noise from within. He was only a\n      minute or so inside, and then I heard the key turn once more and\n      he passed me and reentered the house. I saw him rejoin his guest,\n      and I crept quietly back to where my companions were waiting to\n      tell them what I had seen.\n\n       You say, Watson, that the lady is not there?  Holmes asked when\n      I had finished my report.\n\n       No. \n\n       Where can she be, then, since there is no light in any other\n      room except the kitchen? \n\n       I cannot think where she is. \n\n      I have said that over the great Grimpen Mire there hung a dense,\n      white fog. It was drifting slowly in our direction and banked\n      itself up like a wall on that side of us, low but thick and well\n      defined. The moon shone on it, and it looked like a great\n      shimmering ice-field, with the heads of the distant tors as rocks\n      borne upon its surface. Holmes s face was turned towards it, and\n      he muttered impatiently as he watched its sluggish drift.\n\n       It s moving towards us, Watson. \n\n       Is that serious? \n\n       Very serious, indeed the one thing upon earth which could have\n      disarranged my plans. He can t be very long, now. It is already\n      ten o clock. Our success and even his life may depend upon his\n      coming out before the fog is over the path. \n\n      The night was clear and fine above us. The stars shone cold and\n      bright, while a half-moon bathed the whole scene in a soft,\n      uncertain light. Before us lay the dark bulk of the house, its\n      serrated roof and bristling chimneys hard outlined against the\n      silver-spangled sky. Broad bars of golden light from the lower\n      windows stretched across the orchard and the moor. One of them\n      was suddenly shut off. The servants had left the kitchen. There\n      only remained the lamp in the dining-room where the two men, the\n      murderous host and the unconscious guest, still chatted over\n      their cigars.\n\n      Every minute that white woolly plain which covered one-half of\n      the moor was drifting closer and closer to the house. Already the\n      first thin wisps of it were curling across the golden square of\n      the lighted window. The farther wall of the orchard was already\n      invisible, and the trees were standing out of a swirl of white\n      vapour. As we watched it the fog-wreaths came crawling round both\n      corners of the house and rolled slowly into one dense bank on\n      which the upper floor and the roof floated like a strange ship\n      upon a shadowy sea. Holmes struck his hand passionately upon the\n      rock in front of us and stamped his feet in his impatience.\n\n       If he isn t out in a quarter of an hour the path will be\n      covered. In half an hour we won t be able to see our hands in\n      front of us. \n\n       Shall we move farther back upon higher ground? \n\n       Yes, I think it would be as well. \n\n      So as the fog-bank flowed onward we fell back before it until we\n      were half a mile from the house, and still that dense white sea,\n      with the moon silvering its upper edge, swept slowly and\n      inexorably on.\n\n       We are going too far,  said Holmes.  We dare not take the chance\n      of his being overtaken before he can reach us. At all costs we\n      must hold our ground where we are.  He dropped on his knees and\n      clapped his ear to the ground.  Thank God, I think that I hear\n      him coming. \n\n      A sound of quick steps broke the silence of the moor. Crouching\n      among the stones we stared intently at the silver-tipped bank in\n      front of us. The steps grew louder, and through the fog, as\n      through a curtain, there stepped the man whom we were awaiting.\n      He looked round him in surprise as he emerged into the clear,\n      starlit night. Then he came swiftly along the path, passed close\n      to where we lay, and went on up the long slope behind us. As he\n      walked he glanced continually over either shoulder, like a man\n      who is ill at ease.\n\n       Hist!  cried Holmes, and I heard the sharp click of a cocking\n      pistol.  Look out! It s coming! \n\n      There was a thin, crisp, continuous patter from somewhere in the\n      heart of that crawling bank. The cloud was within fifty yards of\n      where we lay, and we glared at it, all three, uncertain what\n      horror was about to break from the heart of it. I was at Holmes s\n      elbow, and I glanced for an instant at his face. It was pale and\n      exultant, his eyes shining brightly in the moonlight. But\n      suddenly they started forward in a rigid, fixed stare, and his\n      lips parted in amazement. At the same instant Lestrade gave a\n      yell of terror and threw himself face downward upon the ground. I\n      sprang to my feet, my inert hand grasping my pistol, my mind\n      paralyzed by the dreadful shape which had sprung out upon us from\n      the shadows of the fog. A hound it was, an enormous coal-black\n      hound, but not such a hound as mortal eyes have ever seen. Fire\n      burst from its open mouth, its eyes glowed with a smouldering\n      glare, its muzzle and hackles and dewlap were outlined in\n      flickering flame. Never in the delirious dream of a disordered\n      brain could anything more savage, more appalling, more hellish be\n      conceived than that dark form and savage face which broke upon us\n      out of the wall of fog.\n\n      With long bounds the huge black creature was leaping down the\n      track, following hard upon the footsteps of our friend. So\n      paralyzed were we by the apparition that we allowed him to pass\n      before we had recovered our nerve. Then Holmes and I both fired\n      together, and the creature gave a hideous howl, which showed that\n      one at least had hit him. He did not pause, however, but bounded\n      onward. Far away on the path we saw Sir Henry looking back, his\n      face white in the moonlight, his hands raised in horror, glaring\n      helplessly at the frightful thing which was hunting him down. But\n      that cry of pain from the hound had blown all our fears to the\n      winds. If he was vulnerable he was mortal, and if we could wound\n      him we could kill him. Never have I seen a man run as Holmes ran\n      that night. I am reckoned fleet of foot, but he outpaced me as\n      much as I outpaced the little professional. In front of us as we\n      flew up the track we heard scream after scream from Sir Henry and\n      the deep roar of the hound. I was in time to see the beast spring\n      upon its victim, hurl him to the ground, and worry at his throat.\n      But the next instant Holmes had emptied five barrels of his\n      revolver into the creature s flank. With a last howl of agony and\n      a vicious snap in the air, it rolled upon its back, four feet\n      pawing furiously, and then fell limp upon its side. I stooped,\n      panting, and pressed my pistol to the dreadful, shimmering head,\n      but it was useless to press the trigger. The giant hound was\n      dead.\n\n      Sir Henry lay insensible where he had fallen. We tore away his\n      collar, and Holmes breathed a prayer of gratitude when we saw\n      that there was no sign of a wound and that the rescue had been in\n      time. Already our friend s eyelids shivered and he made a feeble\n      effort to move. Lestrade thrust his brandy-flask between the\n      baronet s teeth, and two frightened eyes were looking up at us.\n\n       My God!  he whispered.  What was it? What, in heaven s name, was\n      it? \n\n       It s dead, whatever it is,  said Holmes.  We ve laid the family\n      ghost once and forever. \n\n      In mere size and strength it was a terrible creature which was\n      lying stretched before us. It was not a pure bloodhound and it\n      was not a pure mastiff; but it appeared to be a combination of\n      the two gaunt, savage, and as large as a small lioness. Even now\n      in the stillness of death, the huge jaws seemed to be dripping\n      with a bluish flame and the small, deep-set, cruel eyes were\n      ringed with fire. I placed my hand upon the glowing muzzle, and\n      as I held them up my own fingers smouldered and gleamed in the\n      darkness.\n\n       Phosphorus,  I said.\n\n       A cunning preparation of it,  said Holmes, sniffing at the dead\n      animal.  There is no smell which might have interfered with his\n      power of scent. We owe you a deep apology, Sir Henry, for having\n      exposed you to this fright. I was prepared for a hound, but not\n      for such a creature as this. And the fog gave us little time to\n      receive him. \n\n       You have saved my life. \n\n       Having first endangered it. Are you strong enough to stand? \n\n       Give me another mouthful of that brandy and I shall be ready for\n      anything. So! Now, if you will help me up. What do you propose to\n      do? \n\n       To leave you here. You are not fit for further adventures\n      tonight. If you will wait, one or other of us will go back with\n      you to the Hall. \n\n      He tried to stagger to his feet; but he was still ghastly pale\n      and trembling in every limb. We helped him to a rock, where he\n      sat shivering with his face buried in his hands.\n\n       We must leave you now,  said Holmes.  The rest of our work must\n      be done, and every moment is of importance. We have our case, and\n      now we only want our man.\n\n       It s a thousand to one against our finding him at the house,  he\n      continued as we retraced our steps swiftly down the path.  Those\n      shots must have told him that the game was up. \n\n       We were some distance off, and this fog may have deadened them. \n\n       He followed the hound to call him off of that you may be\n      certain. No, no, he s gone by this time! But we ll search the\n      house and make sure. \n\n      The front door was open, so we rushed in and hurried from room to\n      room to the amazement of a doddering old manservant, who met us\n      in the passage. There was no light save in the dining-room, but\n      Holmes caught up the lamp and left no corner of the house\n      unexplored. No sign could we see of the man whom we were chasing.\n      On the upper floor, however, one of the bedroom doors was locked.\n\n       There s someone in here,  cried Lestrade.  I can hear a\n      movement. Open this door! \n\n      A faint moaning and rustling came from within. Holmes struck the\n      door just over the lock with the flat of his foot and it flew\n      open. Pistol in hand, we all three rushed into the room.\n\n      But there was no sign within it of that desperate and defiant\n      villain whom we expected to see. Instead we were faced by an\n      object so strange and so unexpected that we stood for a moment\n      staring at it in amazement.\n\n      The room had been fashioned into a small museum, and the walls\n      were lined by a number of glass-topped cases full of that\n      collection of butterflies and moths the formation of which had\n      been the relaxation of this complex and dangerous man. In the\n      centre of this room there was an upright beam, which had been\n      placed at some period as a support for the old worm-eaten baulk\n      of timber which spanned the roof. To this post a figure was tied,\n      so swathed and muffled in the sheets which had been used to\n      secure it that one could not for the moment tell whether it was\n      that of a man or a woman. One towel passed round the throat and\n      was secured at the back of the pillar. Another covered the lower\n      part of the face, and over it two dark eyes eyes full of grief\n      and shame and a dreadful questioning stared back at us. In a\n      minute we had torn off the gag, unswathed the bonds, and Mrs.\n      Stapleton sank upon the floor in front of us. As her beautiful\n      head fell upon her chest I saw the clear red weal of a whiplash\n      across her neck.\n\n       The brute!  cried Holmes.  Here, Lestrade, your brandy-bottle!\n      Put her in the chair! She has fainted from ill-usage and\n      exhaustion. \n\n      She opened her eyes again.\n\n       Is he safe?  she asked.  Has he escaped? \n\n       He cannot escape us, madam. \n\n       No, no, I did not mean my husband. Sir Henry? Is he safe? \n\n       Yes. \n\n       And the hound? \n\n       It is dead. \n\n      She gave a long sigh of satisfaction.\n\n       Thank God! Thank God! Oh, this villain! See how he has treated\n      me!  She shot her arms out from her sleeves, and we saw with\n      horror that they were all mottled with bruises.  But this is\n      nothing nothing! It is my mind and soul that he has tortured and\n      defiled. I could endure it all, ill-usage, solitude, a life of\n      deception, everything, as long as I could still cling to the hope\n      that I had his love, but now I know that in this also I have been\n      his dupe and his tool.  She broke into passionate sobbing as she\n      spoke.\n\n       You bear him no good will, madam,  said Holmes.  Tell us then\n      where we shall find him. If you have ever aided him in evil, help\n      us now and so atone. \n\n       There is but one place where he can have fled,  she answered.\n       There is an old tin mine on an island in the heart of the mire.\n      It was there that he kept his hound and there also he had made\n      preparations so that he might have a refuge. That is where he\n      would fly. \n\n      The fog-bank lay like white wool against the window. Holmes held\n      the lamp towards it.\n\n       See,  said he.  No one could find his way into the Grimpen Mire\n      tonight. \n\n      She laughed and clapped her hands. Her eyes and teeth gleamed\n      with fierce merriment.\n\n       He may find his way in, but never out,  she cried.  How can he\n      see the guiding wands tonight? We planted them together, he and\n      I, to mark the pathway through the mire. Oh, if I could only have\n      plucked them out today. Then indeed you would have had him at\n      your mercy! \n\n      It was evident to us that all pursuit was in vain until the fog\n      had lifted. Meanwhile we left Lestrade in possession of the house\n      while Holmes and I went back with the baronet to Baskerville\n      Hall. The story of the Stapletons could no longer be withheld\n      from him, but he took the blow bravely when he learned the truth\n      about the woman whom he had loved. But the shock of the night s\n      adventures had shattered his nerves, and before morning he lay\n      delirious in a high fever under the care of Dr. Mortimer. The two\n      of them were destined to travel together round the world before\n      Sir Henry had become once more the hale, hearty man that he had\n      been before he became master of that ill-omened estate.\n\n      And now I come rapidly to the conclusion of this singular\n      narrative, in which I have tried to make the reader share those\n      dark fears and vague surmises which clouded our lives so long and\n      ended in so tragic a manner. On the morning after the death of\n      the hound the fog had lifted and we were guided by Mrs. Stapleton\n      to the point where they had found a pathway through the bog. It\n      helped us to realise the horror of this woman s life when we saw\n      the eagerness and joy with which she laid us on her husband s\n      track. We left her standing upon the thin peninsula of firm,\n      peaty soil which tapered out into the widespread bog. From the\n      end of it a small wand planted here and there showed where the\n      path zigzagged from tuft to tuft of rushes among those\n      green-scummed pits and foul quagmires which barred the way to the\n      stranger. Rank reeds and lush, slimy water-plants sent an odour\n      of decay and a heavy miasmatic vapour onto our faces, while a\n      false step plunged us more than once thigh-deep into the dark,\n      quivering mire, which shook for yards in soft undulations around\n      our feet. Its tenacious grip plucked at our heels as we walked,\n      and when we sank into it it was as if some malignant hand was\n      tugging us down into those obscene depths, so grim and purposeful\n      was the clutch in which it held us. Once only we saw a trace that\n      someone had passed that perilous way before us. From amid a tuft\n      of cotton grass which bore it up out of the slime some dark thing\n      was projecting. Holmes sank to his waist as he stepped from the\n      path to seize it, and had we not been there to drag him out he\n      could never have set his foot upon firm land again. He held an\n      old black boot in the air.  Meyers, Toronto,  was printed on the\n      leather inside.\n\n       It is worth a mud bath,  said he.  It is our friend Sir Henry s\n      missing boot. \n\n       Thrown there by Stapleton in his flight. \n\n       Exactly. He retained it in his hand after using it to set the\n      hound upon the track. He fled when he knew the game was up, still\n      clutching it. And he hurled it away at this point of his flight.\n      We know at least that he came so far in safety. \n\n      But more than that we were never destined to know, though there\n      was much which we might surmise. There was no chance of finding\n      footsteps in the mire, for the rising mud oozed swiftly in upon\n      them, but as we at last reached firmer ground beyond the morass\n      we all looked eagerly for them. But no slightest sign of them\n      ever met our eyes. If the earth told a true story, then Stapleton\n      never reached that island of refuge towards which he struggled\n      through the fog upon that last night. Somewhere in the heart of\n      the great Grimpen Mire, down in the foul slime of the huge morass\n      which had sucked him in, this cold and cruel-hearted man is\n      forever buried.\n\n      Many traces we found of him in the bog-girt island where he had\n      hid his savage ally. A huge driving-wheel and a shaft half-filled\n      with rubbish showed the position of an abandoned mine. Beside it\n      were the crumbling remains of the cottages of the miners, driven\n      away no doubt by the foul reek of the surrounding swamp. In one\n      of these a staple and chain with a quantity of gnawed bones\n      showed where the animal had been confined. A skeleton with a\n      tangle of brown hair adhering to it lay among the _d bris_.\n\n       A dog!  said Holmes.  By Jove, a curly-haired spaniel. Poor\n      Mortimer will never see his pet again. Well, I do not know that\n      this place contains any secret which we have not already\n      fathomed. He could hide his hound, but he could not hush its\n      voice, and hence came those cries which even in daylight were not\n      pleasant to hear. On an emergency he could keep the hound in the\n      out-house at Merripit, but it was always a risk, and it was only\n      on the supreme day, which he regarded as the end of all his\n      efforts, that he dared do it. This paste in the tin is no doubt\n      the luminous mixture with which the creature was daubed. It was\n      suggested, of course, by the story of the family hell-hound, and\n      by the desire to frighten old Sir Charles to death. No wonder the\n      poor devil of a convict ran and screamed, even as our friend did,\n      and as we ourselves might have done, when he saw such a creature\n      bounding through the darkness of the moor upon his track. It was\n      a cunning device, for, apart from the chance of driving your\n      victim to his death, what peasant would venture to inquire too\n      closely into such a creature should he get sight of it, as many\n      have done, upon the moor? I said it in London, Watson, and I say\n      it again now, that never yet have we helped to hunt down a more\n      dangerous man than he who is lying yonder he swept his long arm\n      towards the huge mottled expanse of green-splotched bog which\n      stretched away until it merged into the russet slopes of the\n      moor.\n\n\n\n\nChapter 15.\nA Retrospection\n\n\n      It was the end of November, and Holmes and I sat, upon a raw and\n      foggy night, on either side of a blazing fire in our sitting-room\n      in Baker Street. Since the tragic upshot of our visit to\n      Devonshire he had been engaged in two affairs of the utmost\n      importance, in the first of which he had exposed the atrocious\n      conduct of Colonel Upwood in connection with the famous card\n      scandal of the Nonpareil Club, while in the second he had\n      defended the unfortunate Mme. Montpensier from the charge of\n      murder which hung over her in connection with the death of her\n      step-daughter, Mlle. Car re, the young lady who, as it will be\n      remembered, was found six months later alive and married in New\n      York. My friend was in excellent spirits over the success which\n      had attended a succession of difficult and important cases, so\n      that I was able to induce him to discuss the details of the\n      Baskerville mystery. I had waited patiently for the opportunity\n      for I was aware that he would never permit cases to overlap, and\n      that his clear and logical mind would not be drawn from its\n      present work to dwell upon memories of the past. Sir Henry and\n      Dr. Mortimer were, however, in London, on their way to that long\n      voyage which had been recommended for the restoration of his\n      shattered nerves. They had called upon us that very afternoon, so\n      that it was natural that the subject should come up for\n      discussion.\n\n       The whole course of events,  said Holmes,  from the point of\n      view of the man who called himself Stapleton was simple and\n      direct, although to us, who had no means in the beginning of\n      knowing the motives of his actions and could only learn part of\n      the facts, it all appeared exceedingly complex. I have had the\n      advantage of two conversations with Mrs. Stapleton, and the case\n      has now been so entirely cleared up that I am not aware that\n      there is anything which has remained a secret to us. You will\n      find a few notes upon the matter under the heading B in my\n      indexed list of cases. \n\n       Perhaps you would kindly give me a sketch of the course of\n      events from memory. \n\n       Certainly, though I cannot guarantee that I carry all the facts\n      in my mind. Intense mental concentration has a curious way of\n      blotting out what has passed. The barrister who has his case at\n      his fingers  ends and is able to argue with an expert upon his\n      own subject finds that a week or two of the courts will drive it\n      all out of his head once more. So each of my cases displaces the\n      last, and Mlle. Car re has blurred my recollection of Baskerville\n      Hall. Tomorrow some other little problem may be submitted to my\n      notice which will in turn dispossess the fair French lady and the\n      infamous Upwood. So far as the case of the hound goes, however, I\n      will give you the course of events as nearly as I can, and you\n      will suggest anything which I may have forgotten.\n\n       My inquiries show beyond all question that the family portrait\n      did not lie, and that this fellow was indeed a Baskerville. He\n      was a son of that Rodger Baskerville, the younger brother of Sir\n      Charles, who fled with a sinister reputation to South America,\n      where he was said to have died unmarried. He did, as a matter of\n      fact, marry, and had one child, this fellow, whose real name is\n      the same as his father s. He married Beryl Garcia, one of the\n      beauties of Costa Rica, and, having purloined a considerable sum\n      of public money, he changed his name to Vandeleur and fled to\n      England, where he established a school in the east of Yorkshire.\n      His reason for attempting this special line of business was that\n      he had struck up an acquaintance with a consumptive tutor upon\n      the voyage home, and that he had used this man s ability to make\n      the undertaking a success. Fraser, the tutor, died however, and\n      the school which had begun well sank from disrepute into infamy.\n      The Vandeleurs found it convenient to change their name to\n      Stapleton, and he brought the remains of his fortune, his schemes\n      for the future, and his taste for entomology to the south of\n      England. I learned at the British Museum that he was a recognized\n      authority upon the subject, and that the name of Vandeleur has\n      been permanently attached to a certain moth which he had, in his\n      Yorkshire days, been the first to describe.\n\n       We now come to that portion of his life which has proved to be\n      of such intense interest to us. The fellow had evidently made\n      inquiry and found that only two lives intervened between him and\n      a valuable estate. When he went to Devonshire his plans were, I\n      believe, exceedingly hazy, but that he meant mischief from the\n      first is evident from the way in which he took his wife with him\n      in the character of his sister. The idea of using her as a decoy\n      was clearly already in his mind, though he may not have been\n      certain how the details of his plot were to be arranged. He meant\n      in the end to have the estate, and he was ready to use any tool\n      or run any risk for that end. His first act was to establish\n      himself as near to his ancestral home as he could, and his second\n      was to cultivate a friendship with Sir Charles Baskerville and\n      with the neighbours.\n\n       The baronet himself told him about the family hound, and so\n      prepared the way for his own death. Stapleton, as I will continue\n      to call him, knew that the old man s heart was weak and that a\n      shock would kill him. So much he had learned from Dr. Mortimer.\n      He had heard also that Sir Charles was superstitious and had\n      taken this grim legend very seriously. His ingenious mind\n      instantly suggested a way by which the baronet could be done to\n      death, and yet it would be hardly possible to bring home the\n      guilt to the real murderer.\n\n       Having conceived the idea he proceeded to carry it out with\n      considerable finesse. An ordinary schemer would have been content\n      to work with a savage hound. The use of artificial means to make\n      the creature diabolical was a flash of genius upon his part. The\n      dog he bought in London from Ross and Mangles, the dealers in\n      Fulham Road. It was the strongest and most savage in their\n      possession. He brought it down by the North Devon line and walked\n      a great distance over the moor so as to get it home without\n      exciting any remarks. He had already on his insect hunts learned\n      to penetrate the Grimpen Mire, and so had found a safe\n      hiding-place for the creature. Here he kennelled it and waited\n      his chance.\n\n       But it was some time coming. The old gentleman could not be\n      decoyed outside of his grounds at night. Several times Stapleton\n      lurked about with his hound, but without avail. It was during\n      these fruitless quests that he, or rather his ally, was seen by\n      peasants, and that the legend of the demon dog received a new\n      confirmation. He had hoped that his wife might lure Sir Charles\n      to his ruin, but here she proved unexpectedly independent. She\n      would not endeavour to entangle the old gentleman in a\n      sentimental attachment which might deliver him over to his enemy.\n      Threats and even, I am sorry to say, blows refused to move her.\n      She would have nothing to do with it, and for a time Stapleton\n      was at a deadlock.\n\n       He found a way out of his difficulties through the chance that\n      Sir Charles, who had conceived a friendship for him, made him the\n      minister of his charity in the case of this unfortunate woman,\n      Mrs. Laura Lyons. By representing himself as a single man he\n      acquired complete influence over her, and he gave her to\n      understand that in the event of her obtaining a divorce from her\n      husband he would marry her. His plans were suddenly brought to a\n      head by his knowledge that Sir Charles was about to leave the\n      Hall on the advice of Dr. Mortimer, with whose opinion he himself\n      pretended to coincide. He must act at once, or his victim might\n      get beyond his power. He therefore put pressure upon Mrs. Lyons\n      to write this letter, imploring the old man to give her an\n      interview on the evening before his departure for London. He\n      then, by a specious argument, prevented her from going, and so\n      had the chance for which he had waited.\n\n       Driving back in the evening from Coombe Tracey he was in time to\n      get his hound, to treat it with his infernal paint, and to bring\n      the beast round to the gate at which he had reason to expect that\n      he would find the old gentleman waiting. The dog, incited by its\n      master, sprang over the wicket-gate and pursued the unfortunate\n      baronet, who fled screaming down the yew alley. In that gloomy\n      tunnel it must indeed have been a dreadful sight to see that huge\n      black creature, with its flaming jaws and blazing eyes, bounding\n      after its victim. He fell dead at the end of the alley from heart\n      disease and terror. The hound had kept upon the grassy border\n      while the baronet had run down the path, so that no track but the\n      man s was visible. On seeing him lying still the creature had\n      probably approached to sniff at him, but finding him dead had\n      turned away again. It was then that it left the print which was\n      actually observed by Dr. Mortimer. The hound was called off and\n      hurried away to its lair in the Grimpen Mire, and a mystery was\n      left which puzzled the authorities, alarmed the countryside, and\n      finally brought the case within the scope of our observation.\n\n       So much for the death of Sir Charles Baskerville. You perceive\n      the devilish cunning of it, for really it would be almost\n      impossible to make a case against the real murderer. His only\n      accomplice was one who could never give him away, and the\n      grotesque, inconceivable nature of the device only served to make\n      it more effective. Both of the women concerned in the case, Mrs.\n      Stapleton and Mrs. Laura Lyons, were left with a strong suspicion\n      against Stapleton. Mrs. Stapleton knew that he had designs upon\n      the old man, and also of the existence of the hound. Mrs. Lyons\n      knew neither of these things, but had been impressed by the death\n      occurring at the time of an uncancelled appointment which was\n      only known to him. However, both of them were under his\n      influence, and he had nothing to fear from them. The first half\n      of his task was successfully accomplished but the more difficult\n      still remained.\n\n       It is possible that Stapleton did not know of the existence of\n      an heir in Canada. In any case he would very soon learn it from\n      his friend Dr. Mortimer, and he was told by the latter all\n      details about the arrival of Henry Baskerville. Stapleton s first\n      idea was that this young stranger from Canada might possibly be\n      done to death in London without coming down to Devonshire at all.\n      He distrusted his wife ever since she had refused to help him in\n      laying a trap for the old man, and he dared not leave her long\n      out of his sight for fear he should lose his influence over her.\n      It was for this reason that he took her to London with him. They\n      lodged, I find, at the Mexborough Private Hotel, in Craven\n      Street, which was actually one of those called upon by my agent\n      in search of evidence. Here he kept his wife imprisoned in her\n      room while he, disguised in a beard, followed Dr. Mortimer to\n      Baker Street and afterwards to the station and to the\n      Northumberland Hotel. His wife had some inkling of his plans; but\n      she had such a fear of her husband a fear founded upon brutal\n      ill-treatment that she dare not write to warn the man whom she\n      knew to be in danger. If the letter should fall into Stapleton s\n      hands her own life would not be safe. Eventually, as we know, she\n      adopted the expedient of cutting out the words which would form\n      the message, and addressing the letter in a disguised hand. It\n      reached the baronet, and gave him the first warning of his\n      danger.\n\n       It was very essential for Stapleton to get some article of Sir\n      Henry s attire so that, in case he was driven to use the dog, he\n      might always have the means of setting him upon his track. With\n      characteristic promptness and audacity he set about this at once,\n      and we cannot doubt that the boots or chamber-maid of the hotel\n      was well bribed to help him in his design. By chance, however,\n      the first boot which was procured for him was a new one and,\n      therefore, useless for his purpose. He then had it returned and\n      obtained another a most instructive incident, since it proved\n      conclusively to my mind that we were dealing with a real hound,\n      as no other supposition could explain this anxiety to obtain an\n      old boot and this indifference to a new one. The more _outr _ and\n      grotesque an incident is the more carefully it deserves to be\n      examined, and the very point which appears to complicate a case\n      is, when duly considered and scientifically handled, the one\n      which is most likely to elucidate it.\n\n       Then we had the visit from our friends next morning, shadowed\n      always by Stapleton in the cab. From his knowledge of our rooms\n      and of my appearance, as well as from his general conduct, I am\n      inclined to think that Stapleton s career of crime has been by no\n      means limited to this single Baskerville affair. It is suggestive\n      that during the last three years there have been four\n      considerable burglaries in the west country, for none of which\n      was any criminal ever arrested. The last of these, at Folkestone\n      Court, in May, was remarkable for the cold-blooded pistolling of\n      the page, who surprised the masked and solitary burglar. I cannot\n      doubt that Stapleton recruited his waning resources in this\n      fashion, and that for years he has been a desperate and dangerous\n      man.\n\n       We had an example of his readiness of resource that morning when\n      he got away from us so successfully, and also of his audacity in\n      sending back my own name to me through the cabman. From that\n      moment he understood that I had taken over the case in London,\n      and that therefore there was no chance for him there. He returned\n      to Dartmoor and awaited the arrival of the baronet. \n\n       One moment!  said I.  You have, no doubt, described the sequence\n      of events correctly, but there is one point which you have left\n      unexplained. What became of the hound when its master was in\n      London? \n\n       I have given some attention to this matter and it is undoubtedly\n      of importance. There can be no question that Stapleton had a\n      confidant, though it is unlikely that he ever placed himself in\n      his power by sharing all his plans with him. There was an old\n      manservant at Merripit House, whose name was Anthony. His\n      connection with the Stapletons can be traced for several years,\n      as far back as the school-mastering days, so that he must have\n      been aware that his master and mistress were really husband and\n      wife. This man has disappeared and has escaped from the country.\n      It is suggestive that Anthony is not a common name in England,\n      while Antonio is so in all Spanish or Spanish-American countries.\n      The man, like Mrs. Stapleton herself, spoke good English, but\n      with a curious lisping accent. I have myself seen this old man\n      cross the Grimpen Mire by the path which Stapleton had marked\n      out. It is very probable, therefore, that in the absence of his\n      master it was he who cared for the hound, though he may never\n      have known the purpose for which the beast was used.\n\n       The Stapletons then went down to Devonshire, whither they were\n      soon followed by Sir Henry and you. One word now as to how I\n      stood myself at that time. It may possibly recur to your memory\n      that when I examined the paper upon which the printed words were\n      fastened I made a close inspection for the water-mark. In doing\n      so I held it within a few inches of my eyes, and was conscious of\n      a faint smell of the scent known as white jessamine. There are\n      seventy-five perfumes, which it is very necessary that a criminal\n      expert should be able to distinguish from each other, and cases\n      have more than once within my own experience depended upon their\n      prompt recognition. The scent suggested the presence of a lady,\n      and already my thoughts began to turn towards the Stapletons.\n      Thus I had made certain of the hound, and had guessed at the\n      criminal before ever we went to the west country.\n\n       It was my game to watch Stapleton. It was evident, however, that\n      I could not do this if I were with you, since he would be keenly\n      on his guard. I deceived everybody, therefore, yourself included,\n      and I came down secretly when I was supposed to be in London. My\n      hardships were not so great as you imagined, though such trifling\n      details must never interfere with the investigation of a case. I\n      stayed for the most part at Coombe Tracey, and only used the hut\n      upon the moor when it was necessary to be near the scene of\n      action. Cartwright had come down with me, and in his disguise as\n      a country boy he was of great assistance to me. I was dependent\n      upon him for food and clean linen. When I was watching Stapleton,\n      Cartwright was frequently watching you, so that I was able to\n      keep my hand upon all the strings.\n\n       I have already told you that your reports reached me rapidly,\n      being forwarded instantly from Baker Street to Coombe Tracey.\n      They were of great service to me, and especially that one\n      incidentally truthful piece of biography of Stapleton s. I was\n      able to establish the identity of the man and the woman and knew\n      at last exactly how I stood. The case had been considerably\n      complicated through the incident of the escaped convict and the\n      relations between him and the Barrymores. This also you cleared\n      up in a very effective way, though I had already come to the same\n      conclusions from my own observations.\n\n       By the time that you discovered me upon the moor I had a\n      complete knowledge of the whole business, but I had not a case\n      which could go to a jury. Even Stapleton s attempt upon Sir Henry\n      that night which ended in the death of the unfortunate convict\n      did not help us much in proving murder against our man. There\n      seemed to be no alternative but to catch him red-handed, and to\n      do so we had to use Sir Henry, alone and apparently unprotected,\n      as a bait. We did so, and at the cost of a severe shock to our\n      client we succeeded in completing our case and driving Stapleton\n      to his destruction. That Sir Henry should have been exposed to\n      this is, I must confess, a reproach to my management of the case,\n      but we had no means of foreseeing the terrible and paralyzing\n      spectacle which the beast presented, nor could we predict the fog\n      which enabled him to burst upon us at such short notice. We\n      succeeded in our object at a cost which both the specialist and\n      Dr. Mortimer assure me will be a temporary one. A long journey\n      may enable our friend to recover not only from his shattered\n      nerves but also from his wounded feelings. His love for the lady\n      was deep and sincere, and to him the saddest part of all this\n      black business was that he should have been deceived by her.\n\n       It only remains to indicate the part which she had played\n      throughout. There can be no doubt that Stapleton exercised an\n      influence over her which may have been love or may have been\n      fear, or very possibly both, since they are by no means\n      incompatible emotions. It was, at least, absolutely effective. At\n      his command she consented to pass as his sister, though he found\n      the limits of his power over her when he endeavoured to make her\n      the direct accessory to murder. She was ready to warn Sir Henry\n      so far as she could without implicating her husband, and again\n      and again she tried to do so. Stapleton himself seems to have\n      been capable of jealousy, and when he saw the baronet paying\n      court to the lady, even though it was part of his own plan, still\n      he could not help interrupting with a passionate outburst which\n      revealed the fiery soul which his self-contained manner so\n      cleverly concealed. By encouraging the intimacy he made it\n      certain that Sir Henry would frequently come to Merripit House\n      and that he would sooner or later get the opportunity which he\n      desired. On the day of the crisis, however, his wife turned\n      suddenly against him. She had learned something of the death of\n      the convict, and she knew that the hound was being kept in the\n      outhouse on the evening that Sir Henry was coming to dinner. She\n      taxed her husband with his intended crime, and a furious scene\n      followed in which he showed her for the first time that she had a\n      rival in his love. Her fidelity turned in an instant to bitter\n      hatred, and he saw that she would betray him. He tied her up,\n      therefore, that she might have no chance of warning Sir Henry,\n      and he hoped, no doubt, that when the whole countryside put down\n      the baronet s death to the curse of his family, as they certainly\n      would do, he could win his wife back to accept an accomplished\n      fact and to keep silent upon what she knew. In this I fancy that\n      in any case he made a miscalculation, and that, if we had not\n      been there, his doom would none the less have been sealed. A\n      woman of Spanish blood does not condone such an injury so\n      lightly. And now, my dear Watson, without referring to my notes,\n      I cannot give you a more detailed account of this curious case. I\n      do not know that anything essential has been left unexplained. \n\n       He could not hope to frighten Sir Henry to death as he had done\n      the old uncle with his bogie hound. \n\n       The beast was savage and half-starved. If its appearance did not\n      frighten its victim to death, at least it would paralyze the\n      resistance which might be offered. \n\n       No doubt. There only remains one difficulty. If Stapleton came\n      into the succession, how could he explain the fact that he, the\n      heir, had been living unannounced under another name so close to\n      the property? How could he claim it without causing suspicion and\n      inquiry? \n\n       It is a formidable difficulty, and I fear that you ask too much\n      when you expect me to solve it. The past and the present are\n      within the field of my inquiry, but what a man may do in the\n      future is a hard question to answer. Mrs. Stapleton has heard her\n      husband discuss the problem on several occasions. There were\n      three possible courses. He might claim the property from South\n      America, establish his identity before the British authorities\n      there and so obtain the fortune without ever coming to England at\n      all, or he might adopt an elaborate disguise during the short\n      time that he need be in London; or, again, he might furnish an\n      accomplice with the proofs and papers, putting him in as heir,\n      and retaining a claim upon some proportion of his income. We\n      cannot doubt from what we know of him that he would have found\n      some way out of the difficulty. And now, my dear Watson, we have\n      had some weeks of severe work, and for one evening, I think, we\n      may turn our thoughts into more pleasant channels. I have a box\n      for _Les Huguenots_. Have you heard the De Reszkes? Might I\n      trouble you then to be ready in half an hour, and we can stop at\n      Marcini s for a little dinner on the way? \n\n\nTHE END"
    },
    {
        "title": "Sense and Sensibility",
        "author": "Jane Austen",
        "category": "Romance",
        "EN": "CHAPTER I.\n\n\nThe family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex. Their estate\nwas large, and their residence was at Norland Park, in the centre of\ntheir property, where, for many generations, they had lived in so\nrespectable a manner as to engage the general good opinion of their\nsurrounding acquaintance. The late owner of this estate was a single\nman, who lived to a very advanced age, and who for many years of his\nlife, had a constant companion and housekeeper in his sister. But her\ndeath, which happened ten years before his own, produced a great\nalteration in his home; for to supply her loss, he invited and received\ninto his house the family of his nephew Mr. Henry Dashwood, the legal\ninheritor of the Norland estate, and the person to whom he intended to\nbequeath it. In the society of his nephew and niece, and their\nchildren, the old Gentleman s days were comfortably spent. His\nattachment to them all increased. The constant attention of Mr. and\nMrs. Henry Dashwood to his wishes, which proceeded not merely from\ninterest, but from goodness of heart, gave him every degree of solid\ncomfort which his age could receive; and the cheerfulness of the\nchildren added a relish to his existence.\n\nBy a former marriage, Mr. Henry Dashwood had one son: by his present\nlady, three daughters. The son, a steady respectable young man, was\namply provided for by the fortune of his mother, which had been large,\nand half of which devolved on him on his coming of age. By his own\nmarriage, likewise, which happened soon afterwards, he added to his\nwealth. To him therefore the succession to the Norland estate was not\nso really important as to his sisters; for their fortune, independent\nof what might arise to them from their father s inheriting that\nproperty, could be but small. Their mother had nothing, and their\nfather only seven thousand pounds in his own disposal; for the\nremaining moiety of his first wife s fortune was also secured to her\nchild, and he had only a life-interest in it.\n\nThe old gentleman died: his will was read, and like almost every other\nwill, gave as much disappointment as pleasure. He was neither so\nunjust, nor so ungrateful, as to leave his estate from his nephew; but\nhe left it to him on such terms as destroyed half the value of the\nbequest. Mr. Dashwood had wished for it more for the sake of his wife\nand daughters than for himself or his son; but to his son, and his\nson s son, a child of four years old, it was secured, in such a way, as\nto leave to himself no power of providing for those who were most dear\nto him, and who most needed a provision by any charge on the estate, or\nby any sale of its valuable woods. The whole was tied up for the\nbenefit of this child, who, in occasional visits with his father and\nmother at Norland, had so far gained on the affections of his uncle, by\nsuch attractions as are by no means unusual in children of two or three\nyears old; an imperfect articulation, an earnest desire of having his\nown way, many cunning tricks, and a great deal of noise, as to outweigh\nall the value of all the attention which, for years, he had received\nfrom his niece and her daughters. He meant not to be unkind, however,\nand, as a mark of his affection for the three girls, he left them a\nthousand pounds a-piece.\n\nMr. Dashwood s disappointment was, at first, severe; but his temper was\ncheerful and sanguine; and he might reasonably hope to live many years,\nand by living economically, lay by a considerable sum from the produce\nof an estate already large, and capable of almost immediate\nimprovement. But the fortune, which had been so tardy in coming, was\nhis only one twelvemonth. He survived his uncle no longer; and ten\nthousand pounds, including the late legacies, was all that remained for\nhis widow and daughters.\n\nHis son was sent for as soon as his danger was known, and to him Mr.\nDashwood recommended, with all the strength and urgency which illness\ncould command, the interest of his mother-in-law and sisters.\n\nMr. John Dashwood had not the strong feelings of the rest of the\nfamily; but he was affected by a recommendation of such a nature at\nsuch a time, and he promised to do every thing in his power to make\nthem comfortable. His father was rendered easy by such an assurance,\nand Mr. John Dashwood had then leisure to consider how much there might\nprudently be in his power to do for them.\n\nHe was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to be rather cold hearted\nand rather selfish is to be ill-disposed: but he was, in general, well\nrespected; for he conducted himself with propriety in the discharge of\nhis ordinary duties. Had he married a more amiable woman, he might have\nbeen made still more respectable than he was: he might even have been\nmade amiable himself; for he was very young when he married, and very\nfond of his wife. But Mrs. John Dashwood was a strong caricature of\nhimself; more narrow-minded and selfish.\n\nWhen he gave his promise to his father, he meditated within himself to\nincrease the fortunes of his sisters by the present of a thousand\npounds a-piece. He then really thought himself equal to it. The\nprospect of four thousand a-year, in addition to his present income,\nbesides the remaining half of his own mother s fortune, warmed his\nheart, and made him feel capable of generosity.  Yes, he would give\nthem three thousand pounds: it would be liberal and handsome! It would\nbe enough to make them completely easy. Three thousand pounds! he could\nspare so considerable a sum with little inconvenience.  He thought of\nit all day long, and for many days successively, and he did not repent.\n\nNo sooner was his father s funeral over, than Mrs. John Dashwood,\nwithout sending any notice of her intention to her mother-in-law,\narrived with her child and their attendants. No one could dispute her\nright to come; the house was her husband s from the moment of his\nfather s decease; but the indelicacy of her conduct was so much the\ngreater, and to a woman in Mrs. Dashwood s situation, with only common\nfeelings, must have been highly unpleasing; but in _her_ mind there was\na sense of honor so keen, a generosity so romantic, that any offence of\nthe kind, by whomsoever given or received, was to her a source of\nimmovable disgust. Mrs. John Dashwood had never been a favourite with\nany of her husband s family; but she had had no opportunity, till the\npresent, of showing them with how little attention to the comfort of\nother people she could act when occasion required it.\n\nSo acutely did Mrs. Dashwood feel this ungracious behaviour, and so\nearnestly did she despise her daughter-in-law for it, that, on the\narrival of the latter, she would have quitted the house for ever, had\nnot the entreaty of her eldest girl induced her first to reflect on the\npropriety of going, and her own tender love for all her three children\ndetermined her afterwards to stay, and for their sakes avoid a breach\nwith their brother.\n\nElinor, this eldest daughter, whose advice was so effectual, possessed\na strength of understanding, and coolness of judgment, which qualified\nher, though only nineteen, to be the counsellor of her mother, and\nenabled her frequently to counteract, to the advantage of them all,\nthat eagerness of mind in Mrs. Dashwood which must generally have led\nto imprudence. She had an excellent heart; her disposition was\naffectionate, and her feelings were strong; but she knew how to govern\nthem: it was a knowledge which her mother had yet to learn; and which\none of her sisters had resolved never to be taught.\n\nMarianne s abilities were, in many respects, quite equal to Elinor s.\nShe was sensible and clever; but eager in everything: her sorrows, her\njoys, could have no moderation. She was generous, amiable, interesting:\nshe was everything but prudent. The resemblance between her and her\nmother was strikingly great.\n\nElinor saw, with concern, the excess of her sister s sensibility; but\nby Mrs. Dashwood it was valued and cherished. They encouraged each\nother now in the violence of their affliction. The agony of grief which\noverpowered them at first, was voluntarily renewed, was sought for, was\ncreated again and again. They gave themselves up wholly to their\nsorrow, seeking increase of wretchedness in every reflection that could\nafford it, and resolved against ever admitting consolation in future.\nElinor, too, was deeply afflicted; but still she could struggle, she\ncould exert herself. She could consult with her brother, could receive\nher sister-in-law on her arrival, and treat her with proper attention;\nand could strive to rouse her mother to similar exertion, and encourage\nher to similar forbearance.\n\nMargaret, the other sister, was a good-humored, well-disposed girl; but\nas she had already imbibed a good deal of Marianne s romance, without\nhaving much of her sense, she did not, at thirteen, bid fair to equal\nher sisters at a more advanced period of life.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n\nMrs. John Dashwood now installed herself mistress of Norland; and her\nmother and sisters-in-law were degraded to the condition of visitors.\nAs such, however, they were treated by her with quiet civility; and by\nher husband with as much kindness as he could feel towards anybody\nbeyond himself, his wife, and their child. He really pressed them, with\nsome earnestness, to consider Norland as their home; and, as no plan\nappeared so eligible to Mrs. Dashwood as remaining there till she could\naccommodate herself with a house in the neighbourhood, his invitation\nwas accepted.\n\nA continuance in a place where everything reminded her of former\ndelight, was exactly what suited her mind. In seasons of cheerfulness,\nno temper could be more cheerful than hers, or possess, in a greater\ndegree, that sanguine expectation of happiness which is happiness\nitself. But in sorrow she must be equally carried away by her fancy,\nand as far beyond consolation as in pleasure she was beyond alloy.\n\nMrs. John Dashwood did not at all approve of what her husband intended\nto do for his sisters. To take three thousand pounds from the fortune\nof their dear little boy would be impoverishing him to the most\ndreadful degree. She begged him to think again on the subject. How\ncould he answer it to himself to rob his child, and his only child too,\nof so large a sum? And what possible claim could the Miss Dashwoods,\nwho were related to him only by half blood, which she considered as no\nrelationship at all, have on his generosity to so large an amount. It\nwas very well known that no affection was ever supposed to exist\nbetween the children of any man by different marriages; and why was he\nto ruin himself, and their poor little Harry, by giving away all his\nmoney to his half sisters?\n\n It was my father s last request to me,  replied her husband,  that I\nshould assist his widow and daughters. \n\n He did not know what he was talking of, I dare say; ten to one but he\nwas light-headed at the time. Had he been in his right senses, he could\nnot have thought of such a thing as begging you to give away half your\nfortune from your own child. \n\n He did not stipulate for any particular sum, my dear Fanny; he only\nrequested me, in general terms, to assist them, and make their\nsituation more comfortable than it was in his power to do. Perhaps it\nwould have been as well if he had left it wholly to myself. He could\nhardly suppose I should neglect them. But as he required the promise, I\ncould not do less than give it; at least I thought so at the time. The\npromise, therefore, was given, and must be performed. Something must be\ndone for them whenever they leave Norland and settle in a new home. \n\n Well, then, _let_ something be done for them; but _that_ something\nneed not be three thousand pounds. Consider,  she added,  that when the\nmoney is once parted with, it never can return. Your sisters will\nmarry, and it will be gone for ever. If, indeed, it could be restored\nto our poor little boy \n\n Why, to be sure,  said her husband, very gravely,  that would make\ngreat difference. The time may come when Harry will regret that so\nlarge a sum was parted with. If he should have a numerous family, for\ninstance, it would be a very convenient addition. \n\n To be sure it would. \n\n Perhaps, then, it would be better for all parties, if the sum were\ndiminished one half. Five hundred pounds would be a prodigious increase\nto their fortunes! \n\n Oh! beyond anything great! What brother on earth would do half so much\nfor his sisters, even if _really_ his sisters! And as it is only half\nblood! But you have such a generous spirit! \n\n I would not wish to do any thing mean,  he replied.  One had rather,\non such occasions, do too much than too little. No one, at least, can\nthink I have not done enough for them: even themselves, they can hardly\nexpect more. \n\n There is no knowing what _they_ may expect,  said the lady,  but we\nare not to think of their expectations: the question is, what you can\nafford to do. \n\n Certainly and I think I may afford to give them five hundred pounds\na-piece. As it is, without any addition of mine, they will each have\nabout three thousand pounds on their mother s death a very comfortable\nfortune for any young woman. \n\n To be sure it is; and, indeed, it strikes me that they can want no\naddition at all. They will have ten thousand pounds divided amongst\nthem. If they marry, they will be sure of doing well, and if they do\nnot, they may all live very comfortably together on the interest of ten\nthousand pounds. \n\n That is very true, and, therefore, I do not know whether, upon the\nwhole, it would not be more advisable to do something for their mother\nwhile she lives, rather than for them something of the annuity kind I\nmean. My sisters would feel the good effects of it as well as herself.\nA hundred a year would make them all perfectly comfortable. \n\nHis wife hesitated a little, however, in giving her consent to this\nplan.\n\n To be sure,  said she,  it is better than parting with fifteen hundred\npounds at once. But, then, if Mrs. Dashwood should live fifteen years\nwe shall be completely taken in. \n\n Fifteen years! my dear Fanny; her life cannot be worth half that\npurchase. \n\n Certainly not; but if you observe, people always live for ever when\nthere is an annuity to be paid them; and she is very stout and healthy,\nand hardly forty. An annuity is a very serious business; it comes over\nand over every year, and there is no getting rid of it. You are not\naware of what you are doing. I have known a great deal of the trouble\nof annuities; for my mother was clogged with the payment of three to\nold superannuated servants by my father s will, and it is amazing how\ndisagreeable she found it. Twice every year these annuities were to be\npaid; and then there was the trouble of getting it to them; and then\none of them was said to have died, and afterwards it turned out to be\nno such thing. My mother was quite sick of it. Her income was not her\nown, she said, with such perpetual claims on it; and it was the more\nunkind in my father, because, otherwise, the money would have been\nentirely at my mother s disposal, without any restriction whatever. It\nhas given me such an abhorrence of annuities, that I am sure I would\nnot pin myself down to the payment of one for all the world. \n\n It is certainly an unpleasant thing,  replied Mr. Dashwood,  to have\nthose kind of yearly drains on one s income. One s fortune, as your\nmother justly says, is _not_ one s own. To be tied down to the regular\npayment of such a sum, on every rent day, is by no means desirable: it\ntakes away one s independence. \n\n Undoubtedly; and after all you have no thanks for it. They think\nthemselves secure, you do no more than what is expected, and it raises\nno gratitude at all. If I were you, whatever I did should be done at my\nown discretion entirely. I would not bind myself to allow them any\nthing yearly. It may be very inconvenient some years to spare a\nhundred, or even fifty pounds from our own expenses. \n\n I believe you are right, my love; it will be better that there should\nbe no annuity in the case; whatever I may give them occasionally will\nbe of far greater assistance than a yearly allowance, because they\nwould only enlarge their style of living if they felt sure of a larger\nincome, and would not be sixpence the richer for it at the end of the\nyear. It will certainly be much the best way. A present of fifty\npounds, now and then, will prevent their ever being distressed for\nmoney, and will, I think, be amply discharging my promise to my\nfather. \n\n To be sure it will. Indeed, to say the truth, I am convinced within\nmyself that your father had no idea of your giving them any money at\nall. The assistance he thought of, I dare say, was only such as might\nbe reasonably expected of you; for instance, such as looking out for a\ncomfortable small house for them, helping them to move their things,\nand sending them presents of fish and game, and so forth, whenever they\nare in season. I ll lay my life that he meant nothing farther; indeed,\nit would be very strange and unreasonable if he did. Do but consider,\nmy dear Mr. Dashwood, how excessively comfortable your mother-in-law\nand her daughters may live on the interest of seven thousand pounds,\nbesides the thousand pounds belonging to each of the girls, which\nbrings them in fifty pounds a year a-piece, and, of course, they will\npay their mother for their board out of it. Altogether, they will have\nfive hundred a-year amongst them, and what on earth can four women want\nfor more than that? They will live so cheap! Their housekeeping will be\nnothing at all. They will have no carriage, no horses, and hardly any\nservants; they will keep no company, and can have no expenses of any\nkind! Only conceive how comfortable they will be! Five hundred a year!\nI am sure I cannot imagine how they will spend half of it; and as to\nyour giving them more, it is quite absurd to think of it. They will be\nmuch more able to give _you_ something. \n\n Upon my word,  said Mr. Dashwood,  I believe you are perfectly right.\nMy father certainly could mean nothing more by his request to me than\nwhat you say. I clearly understand it now, and I will strictly fulfil\nmy engagement by such acts of assistance and kindness to them as you\nhave described. When my mother removes into another house my services\nshall be readily given to accommodate her as far as I can. Some little\npresent of furniture too may be acceptable then. \n\n Certainly,  returned Mrs. John Dashwood.  But, however, _one_ thing\nmust be considered. When your father and mother moved to Norland,\nthough the furniture of Stanhill was sold, all the china, plate, and\nlinen was saved, and is now left to your mother. Her house will\ntherefore be almost completely fitted up as soon as she takes it. \n\n That is a material consideration undoubtedly. A valuable legacy\nindeed! And yet some of the plate would have been a very pleasant\naddition to our own stock here. \n\n Yes; and the set of breakfast china is twice as handsome as what\nbelongs to this house. A great deal too handsome, in my opinion, for\nany place _they_ can ever afford to live in. But, however, so it is.\nYour father thought only of _them_. And I must say this: that you owe\nno particular gratitude to him, nor attention to his wishes; for we\nvery well know that if he could, he would have left almost everything\nin the world to _them_. \n\nThis argument was irresistible. It gave to his intentions whatever of\ndecision was wanting before; and he finally resolved, that it would be\nabsolutely unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to do more for the\nwidow and children of his father, than such kind of neighbourly acts as\nhis own wife pointed out.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n\nMrs. Dashwood remained at Norland several months; not from any\ndisinclination to move when the sight of every well known spot ceased\nto raise the violent emotion which it produced for a while; for when\nher spirits began to revive, and her mind became capable of some other\nexertion than that of heightening its affliction by melancholy\nremembrances, she was impatient to be gone, and indefatigable in her\ninquiries for a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood of Norland; for\nto remove far from that beloved spot was impossible. But she could hear\nof no situation that at once answered her notions of comfort and ease,\nand suited the prudence of her eldest daughter, whose steadier judgment\nrejected several houses as too large for their income, which her mother\nwould have approved.\n\nMrs. Dashwood had been informed by her husband of the solemn promise on\nthe part of his son in their favour, which gave comfort to his last\nearthly reflections. She doubted the sincerity of this assurance no\nmore than he had doubted it himself, and she thought of it for her\ndaughters  sake with satisfaction, though as for herself she was\npersuaded that a much smaller provision than 7000  would support her in\naffluence. For their brother s sake, too, for the sake of his own\nheart, she rejoiced; and she reproached herself for being unjust to his\nmerit before, in believing him incapable of generosity. His attentive\nbehaviour to herself and his sisters convinced her that their welfare\nwas dear to him, and, for a long time, she firmly relied on the\nliberality of his intentions.\n\nThe contempt which she had, very early in their acquaintance, felt for\nher daughter-in-law, was very much increased by the farther knowledge\nof her character, which half a year s residence in her family afforded;\nand perhaps in spite of every consideration of politeness or maternal\naffection on the side of the former, the two ladies might have found it\nimpossible to have lived together so long, had not a particular\ncircumstance occurred to give still greater eligibility, according to\nthe opinions of Mrs. Dashwood, to her daughters  continuance at\nNorland.\n\nThis circumstance was a growing attachment between her eldest girl and\nthe brother of Mrs. John Dashwood, a gentleman-like and pleasing young\nman, who was introduced to their acquaintance soon after his sister s\nestablishment at Norland, and who had since spent the greatest part of\nhis time there.\n\nSome mothers might have encouraged the intimacy from motives of\ninterest, for Edward Ferrars was the eldest son of a man who had died\nvery rich; and some might have repressed it from motives of prudence,\nfor, except a trifling sum, the whole of his fortune depended on the\nwill of his mother. But Mrs. Dashwood was alike uninfluenced by either\nconsideration. It was enough for her that he appeared to be amiable,\nthat he loved her daughter, and that Elinor returned the partiality. It\nwas contrary to every doctrine of hers that difference of fortune\nshould keep any couple asunder who were attracted by resemblance of\ndisposition; and that Elinor s merit should not be acknowledged by\nevery one who knew her, was to her comprehension impossible.\n\nEdward Ferrars was not recommended to their good opinion by any\npeculiar graces of person or address. He was not handsome, and his\nmanners required intimacy to make them pleasing. He was too diffident\nto do justice to himself; but when his natural shyness was overcome,\nhis behaviour gave every indication of an open, affectionate heart. His\nunderstanding was good, and his education had given it solid\nimprovement. But he was neither fitted by abilities nor disposition to\nanswer the wishes of his mother and sister, who longed to see him\ndistinguished as they hardly knew what. They wanted him to make a fine\nfigure in the world in some manner or other. His mother wished to\ninterest him in political concerns, to get him into parliament, or to\nsee him connected with some of the great men of the day. Mrs. John\nDashwood wished it likewise; but in the mean while, till one of these\nsuperior blessings could be attained, it would have quieted her\nambition to see him driving a barouche. But Edward had no turn for\ngreat men or barouches. All his wishes centered in domestic comfort and\nthe quiet of private life. Fortunately he had a younger brother who was\nmore promising.\n\nEdward had been staying several weeks in the house before he engaged\nmuch of Mrs. Dashwood s attention; for she was, at that time, in such\naffliction as rendered her careless of surrounding objects. She saw\nonly that he was quiet and unobtrusive, and she liked him for it. He\ndid not disturb the wretchedness of her mind by ill-timed conversation.\nShe was first called to observe and approve him farther, by a\nreflection which Elinor chanced one day to make on the difference\nbetween him and his sister. It was a contrast which recommended him\nmost forcibly to her mother.\n\n It is enough,  said she;  to say that he is unlike Fanny is enough. It\nimplies everything amiable. I love him already. \n\n I think you will like him,  said Elinor,  when you know more of him. \n\n Like him!  replied her mother with a smile.  I feel no sentiment of\napprobation inferior to love. \n\n You may esteem him. \n\n I have never yet known what it was to separate esteem and love. \n\nMrs. Dashwood now took pains to get acquainted with him. Her manners\nwere attaching, and soon banished his reserve. She speedily\ncomprehended all his merits; the persuasion of his regard for Elinor\nperhaps assisted her penetration; but she really felt assured of his\nworth: and even that quietness of manner, which militated against all\nher established ideas of what a young man s address ought to be, was no\nlonger uninteresting when she knew his heart to be warm and his temper\naffectionate.\n\nNo sooner did she perceive any symptom of love in his behaviour to\nElinor, than she considered their serious attachment as certain, and\nlooked forward to their marriage as rapidly approaching.\n\n In a few months, my dear Marianne,  said she,  Elinor will, in all\nprobability be settled for life. We shall miss her; but _she_ will be\nhappy. \n\n Oh! Mama, how shall we do without her? \n\n My love, it will be scarcely a separation. We shall live within a few\nmiles of each other, and shall meet every day of our lives. You will\ngain a brother, a real, affectionate brother. I have the highest\nopinion in the world of Edward s heart. But you look grave, Marianne;\ndo you disapprove your sister s choice? \n\n Perhaps,  said Marianne,  I may consider it with some surprise. Edward\nis very amiable, and I love him tenderly. But yet he is not the kind of\nyoung man there is something wanting his figure is not striking; it has\nnone of that grace which I should expect in the man who could seriously\nattach my sister. His eyes want all that spirit, that fire, which at\nonce announce virtue and intelligence. And besides all this, I am\nafraid, Mama, he has no real taste. Music seems scarcely to attract\nhim, and though he admires Elinor s drawings very much, it is not the\nadmiration of a person who can understand their worth. It is evident,\nin spite of his frequent attention to her while she draws, that in fact\nhe knows nothing of the matter. He admires as a lover, not as a\nconnoisseur. To satisfy me, those characters must be united. I could\nnot be happy with a man whose taste did not in every point coincide\nwith my own. He must enter into all my feelings; the same books, the\nsame music must charm us both. Oh! mama, how spiritless, how tame was\nEdward s manner in reading to us last night! I felt for my sister most\nseverely. Yet she bore it with so much composure, she seemed scarcely\nto notice it. I could hardly keep my seat. To hear those beautiful\nlines which have frequently almost driven me wild, pronounced with such\nimpenetrable calmness, such dreadful indifference! \n\n\n He would certainly have done more justice to simple and elegant prose.\nI thought so at the time; but you _would_ give him Cowper. \n\n Nay, Mama, if he is not to be animated by Cowper! but we must allow\nfor difference of taste. Elinor has not my feelings, and therefore she\nmay overlook it, and be happy with him. But it would have broke _my_\nheart, had I loved him, to hear him read with so little sensibility.\nMama, the more I know of the world, the more am I convinced that I\nshall never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much! He\nmust have all Edward s virtues, and his person and manners must\nornament his goodness with every possible charm. \n\n Remember, my love, that you are not seventeen. It is yet too early in\nlife to despair of such a happiness. Why should you be less fortunate\nthan your mother? In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may your\ndestiny be different from hers! \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n\n What a pity it is, Elinor,  said Marianne,  that Edward should have no\ntaste for drawing. \n\n No taste for drawing!  replied Elinor,  why should you think so? He\ndoes not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the\nperformances of other people, and I assure you he is by no means\ndeficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of\nimproving it. Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he would\nhave drawn very well. He distrusts his own judgment in such matters so\nmuch, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on any picture;\nbut he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste, which in\ngeneral direct him perfectly right. \n\nMarianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but\nthe kind of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by the\ndrawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous delight,\nwhich, in her opinion, could alone be called taste. Yet, though smiling\nwithin herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that blind\npartiality to Edward which produced it.\n\n I hope, Marianne,  continued Elinor,  you do not consider him as\ndeficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot,\nfor your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if _that_ were your\nopinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him. \n\nMarianne hardly knew what to say. She would not wound the feelings of\nher sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was\nimpossible. At length she replied:\n\n Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing\nequal to your sense of his merits. I have not had so many opportunities\nof estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his inclinations\nand tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion in the world of\nhis goodness and sense. I think him every thing that is worthy and\namiable. \n\n I am sure,  replied Elinor, with a smile,  that his dearest friends\ncould not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not\nperceive how you could express yourself more warmly. \n\nMarianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.\n\n Of his sense and his goodness,  continued Elinor,  no one can, I\nthink, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in\nunreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his\nprinciples can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps\nhim silent. You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth.\nBut of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from\npeculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself. He and I\nhave been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been\nwholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother. I\nhave seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard\nhis opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I\nventure to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of books\nexceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just and\ncorrect, and his taste delicate and pure. His abilities in every\nrespect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person. At\nfirst sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person can\nhardly be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which are\nuncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, is\nperceived. At present, I know him so well, that I think him really\nhandsome; or at least, almost so. What say you, Marianne? \n\n I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do not now. When\nyou tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see imperfection\nin his face, than I now do in his heart. \n\nElinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she\nhad been betrayed into, in speaking of him. She felt that Edward stood\nvery high in her opinion. She believed the regard to be mutual; but she\nrequired greater certainty of it to make Marianne s conviction of their\nattachment agreeable to her. She knew that what Marianne and her mother\nconjectured one moment, they believed the next that with them, to wish\nwas to hope, and to hope was to expect. She tried to explain the real\nstate of the case to her sister.\n\n I do not attempt to deny,  said she,  that I think very highly of\nhim that I greatly esteem, that I like him. \n\nMarianne here burst forth with indignation \n\n Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! worse than\ncold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again, and I\nwill leave the room this moment. \n\nElinor could not help laughing.  Excuse me,  said she;  and be assured\nthat I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, of my\nown feelings. Believe them to be stronger than I have declared; believe\nthem, in short, to be such as his merit, and the suspicion the hope of\nhis affection for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly. But\nfarther than this you must _not_ believe. I am by no means assured of\nhis regard for me. There are moments when the extent of it seems\ndoubtful; and till his sentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder at\nmy wishing to avoid any encouragement of my own partiality, by\nbelieving or calling it more than it is. In my heart I feel\nlittle scarcely any doubt of his preference. But there are other points\nto be considered besides his inclination. He is very far from being\nindependent. What his mother really is we cannot know; but, from\nFanny s occasional mention of her conduct and opinions, we have never\nbeen disposed to think her amiable; and I am very much mistaken if\nEdward is not himself aware that there would be many difficulties in\nhis way, if he were to wish to marry a woman who had not either a great\nfortune or high rank. \n\nMarianne was astonished to find how much the imagination of her mother\nand herself had outstripped the truth.\n\n And you really are not engaged to him!  said she.  Yet it certainly\nsoon will happen. But two advantages will proceed from this delay. _I_\nshall not lose you so soon, and Edward will have greater opportunity of\nimproving that natural taste for your favourite pursuit which must be\nso indispensably necessary to your future felicity. Oh! if he should be\nso far stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw himself, how\ndelightful it would be! \n\nElinor had given her real opinion to her sister. She could not consider\nher partiality for Edward in so prosperous a state as Marianne had\nbelieved it. There was, at times, a want of spirits about him which, if\nit did not denote indifference, spoke of something almost as\nunpromising. A doubt of her regard, supposing him to feel it, need not\ngive him more than inquietude. It would not be likely to produce that\ndejection of mind which frequently attended him. A more reasonable\ncause might be found in the dependent situation which forbade the\nindulgence of his affection. She knew that his mother neither behaved\nto him so as to make his home comfortable at present, nor to give him\nany assurance that he might form a home for himself, without strictly\nattending to her views for his aggrandizement. With such a knowledge as\nthis, it was impossible for Elinor to feel easy on the subject. She was\nfar from depending on that result of his preference of her, which her\nmother and sister still considered as certain. Nay, the longer they\nwere together the more doubtful seemed the nature of his regard; and\nsometimes, for a few painful minutes, she believed it to be no more\nthan friendship.\n\nBut, whatever might really be its limits, it was enough, when perceived\nby his sister, to make her uneasy, and at the same time, (which was\nstill more common,) to make her uncivil. She took the first opportunity\nof affronting her mother-in-law on the occasion, talking to her so\nexpressively of her brother s great expectations, of Mrs. Ferrars s\nresolution that both her sons should marry well, and of the danger\nattending any young woman who attempted to _draw him in;_ that Mrs.\nDashwood could neither pretend to be unconscious, nor endeavor to be\ncalm. She gave her an answer which marked her contempt, and instantly\nleft the room, resolving that, whatever might be the inconvenience or\nexpense of so sudden a removal, her beloved Elinor should not be\nexposed another week to such insinuations.\n\nIn this state of her spirits, a letter was delivered to her from the\npost, which contained a proposal particularly well timed. It was the\noffer of a small house, on very easy terms, belonging to a relation of\nher own, a gentleman of consequence and property in Devonshire. The\nletter was from this gentleman himself, and written in the true spirit\nof friendly accommodation. He understood that she was in need of a\ndwelling; and though the house he now offered her was merely a cottage,\nhe assured her that everything should be done to it which she might\nthink necessary, if the situation pleased her. He earnestly pressed\nher, after giving the particulars of the house and garden, to come with\nher daughters to Barton Park, the place of his own residence, from\nwhence she might judge, herself, whether Barton Cottage, for the houses\nwere in the same parish, could, by any alteration, be made comfortable\nto her. He seemed really anxious to accommodate them and the whole of\nhis letter was written in so friendly a style as could not fail of\ngiving pleasure to his cousin; more especially at a moment when she was\nsuffering under the cold and unfeeling behaviour of her nearer\nconnections. She needed no time for deliberation or inquiry. Her\nresolution was formed as she read. The situation of Barton, in a county\nso far distant from Sussex as Devonshire, which, but a few hours\nbefore, would have been a sufficient objection to outweigh every\npossible advantage belonging to the place, was now its first\nrecommendation. To quit the neighbourhood of Norland was no longer an\nevil; it was an object of desire; it was a blessing, in comparison of\nthe misery of continuing her daughter-in-law s guest; and to remove for\never from that beloved place would be less painful than to inhabit or\nvisit it while such a woman was its mistress. She instantly wrote Sir\nJohn Middleton her acknowledgment of his kindness, and her acceptance\nof his proposal; and then hastened to show both letters to her\ndaughters, that she might be secure of their approbation before her\nanswer were sent.\n\nElinor had always thought it would be more prudent for them to settle\nat some distance from Norland, than immediately amongst their present\nacquaintance. On _that_ head, therefore, it was not for her to oppose\nher mother s intention of removing into Devonshire. The house, too, as\ndescribed by Sir John, was on so simple a scale, and the rent so\nuncommonly moderate, as to leave her no right of objection on either\npoint; and, therefore, though it was not a plan which brought any charm\nto her fancy, though it was a removal from the vicinity of Norland\nbeyond her wishes, she made no attempt to dissuade her mother from\nsending a letter of acquiescence.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n\nNo sooner was her answer dispatched, than Mrs. Dashwood indulged\nherself in the pleasure of announcing to her son-in-law and his wife\nthat she was provided with a house, and should incommode them no longer\nthan till every thing were ready for her inhabiting it. They heard her\nwith surprise. Mrs. John Dashwood said nothing; but her husband civilly\nhoped that she would not be settled far from Norland. She had great\nsatisfaction in replying that she was going into Devonshire. Edward\nturned hastily towards her, on hearing this, and, in a voice of\nsurprise and concern, which required no explanation to her, repeated,\n Devonshire! Are you, indeed, going there? So far from hence! And to\nwhat part of it?  She explained the situation. It was within four miles\nnorthward of Exeter.\n\n It is but a cottage,  she continued,  but I hope to see many of my\nfriends in it. A room or two can easily be added; and if my friends\nfind no difficulty in travelling so far to see me, I am sure I will\nfind none in accommodating them. \n\nShe concluded with a very kind invitation to Mr. and Mrs. John Dashwood\nto visit her at Barton; and to Edward she gave one with still greater\naffection. Though her late conversation with her daughter-in-law had\nmade her resolve on remaining at Norland no longer than was\nunavoidable, it had not produced the smallest effect on her in that\npoint to which it principally tended. To separate Edward and Elinor was\nas far from being her object as ever; and she wished to show Mrs. John\nDashwood, by this pointed invitation to her brother, how totally she\ndisregarded her disapprobation of the match.\n\nMr. John Dashwood told his mother again and again how exceedingly sorry\nhe was that she had taken a house at such a distance from Norland as to\nprevent his being of any service to her in removing her furniture. He\nreally felt conscientiously vexed on the occasion; for the very\nexertion to which he had limited the performance of his promise to his\nfather was by this arrangement rendered impracticable. The furniture\nwas all sent around by water. It chiefly consisted of household linen,\nplate, china, and books, with a handsome pianoforte of Marianne s. Mrs.\nJohn Dashwood saw the packages depart with a sigh: she could not help\nfeeling it hard that as Mrs. Dashwood s income would be so trifling in\ncomparison with their own, she should have any handsome article of\nfurniture.\n\nMrs. Dashwood took the house for a twelvemonth; it was ready furnished,\nand she might have immediate possession. No difficulty arose on either\nside in the agreement; and she waited only for the disposal of her\neffects at Norland, and to determine her future household, before she\nset off for the west; and this, as she was exceedingly rapid in the\nperformance of everything that interested her, was soon done. The\nhorses which were left her by her husband had been sold soon after his\ndeath, and an opportunity now offering of disposing of her carriage,\nshe agreed to sell that likewise at the earnest advice of her eldest\ndaughter. For the comfort of her children, had she consulted only her\nown wishes, she would have kept it; but the discretion of Elinor\nprevailed. _Her_ wisdom too limited the number of their servants to\nthree; two maids and a man, with whom they were speedily provided from\namongst those who had formed their establishment at Norland.\n\nThe man and one of the maids were sent off immediately into Devonshire,\nto prepare the house for their mistress s arrival; for as Lady\nMiddleton was entirely unknown to Mrs. Dashwood, she preferred going\ndirectly to the cottage to being a visitor at Barton Park; and she\nrelied so undoubtingly on Sir John s description of the house, as to\nfeel no curiosity to examine it herself till she entered it as her own.\nHer eagerness to be gone from Norland was preserved from diminution by\nthe evident satisfaction of her daughter-in-law in the prospect of her\nremoval; a satisfaction which was but feebly attempted to be concealed\nunder a cold invitation to her to defer her departure. Now was the time\nwhen her son-in-law s promise to his father might with particular\npropriety be fulfilled. Since he had neglected to do it on first coming\nto the estate, their quitting his house might be looked on as the most\nsuitable period for its accomplishment. But Mrs. Dashwood began shortly\nto give over every hope of the kind, and to be convinced, from the\ngeneral drift of his discourse, that his assistance extended no farther\nthan their maintenance for six months at Norland. He so frequently\ntalked of the increasing expenses of housekeeping, and of the perpetual\ndemands upon his purse, which a man of any consequence in the world was\nbeyond calculation exposed to, that he seemed rather to stand in need\nof more money himself than to have any design of giving money away.\n\nIn a very few weeks from the day which brought Sir John Middleton s\nfirst letter to Norland, every thing was so far settled in their future\nabode as to enable Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters to begin their\njourney.\n\nMany were the tears shed by them in their last adieus to a place so\nmuch beloved.  Dear, dear Norland!  said Marianne, as she wandered\nalone before the house, on the last evening of their being there;  when\nshall I cease to regret you! when learn to feel a home elsewhere! Oh!\nhappy house, could you know what I suffer in now viewing you from this\nspot, from whence perhaps I may view you no more! And you, ye\nwell-known trees! but you will continue the same. No leaf will decay\nbecause we are removed, nor any branch become motionless although we\ncan observe you no longer! No; you will continue the same; unconscious\nof the pleasure or the regret you occasion, and insensible of any\nchange in those who walk under your shade! But who will remain to enjoy\nyou? \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n\nThe first part of their journey was performed in too melancholy a\ndisposition to be otherwise than tedious and unpleasant. But as they\ndrew towards the end of it, their interest in the appearance of a\ncountry which they were to inhabit overcame their dejection, and a view\nof Barton Valley as they entered it gave them cheerfulness. It was a\npleasant fertile spot, well wooded, and rich in pasture. After winding\nalong it for more than a mile, they reached their own house. A small\ngreen court was the whole of its demesne in front; and a neat wicket\ngate admitted them into it.\n\nAs a house, Barton Cottage, though small, was comfortable and compact;\nbut as a cottage it was defective, for the building was regular, the\nroof was tiled, the window shutters were not painted green, nor were\nthe walls covered with honeysuckles. A narrow passage led directly\nthrough the house into the garden behind. On each side of the entrance\nwas a sitting room, about sixteen feet square; and beyond them were the\noffices and the stairs. Four bed-rooms and two garrets formed the rest\nof the house. It had not been built many years and was in good repair.\nIn comparison of Norland, it was poor and small indeed! but the tears\nwhich recollection called forth as they entered the house were soon\ndried away. They were cheered by the joy of the servants on their\narrival, and each for the sake of the others resolved to appear happy.\nIt was very early in September; the season was fine, and from first\nseeing the place under the advantage of good weather, they received an\nimpression in its favour which was of material service in recommending\nit to their lasting approbation.\n\nThe situation of the house was good. High hills rose immediately\nbehind, and at no great distance on each side; some of which were open\ndowns, the others cultivated and woody. The village of Barton was\nchiefly on one of these hills, and formed a pleasant view from the\ncottage windows. The prospect in front was more extensive; it commanded\nthe whole of the valley, and reached into the country beyond. The hills\nwhich surrounded the cottage terminated the valley in that direction;\nunder another name, and in another course, it branched out again\nbetween two of the steepest of them.\n\nWith the size and furniture of the house Mrs. Dashwood was upon the\nwhole well satisfied; for though her former style of life rendered many\nadditions to the latter indispensable, yet to add and improve was a\ndelight to her; and she had at this time ready money enough to supply\nall that was wanted of greater elegance to the apartments.  As for the\nhouse itself, to be sure,  said she,  it is too small for our family,\nbut we will make ourselves tolerably comfortable for the present, as it\nis too late in the year for improvements. Perhaps in the spring, if I\nhave plenty of money, as I dare say I shall, we may think about\nbuilding. These parlors are both too small for such parties of our\nfriends as I hope to see often collected here; and I have some thoughts\nof throwing the passage into one of them with perhaps a part of the\nother, and so leave the remainder of that other for an entrance; this,\nwith a new drawing room which may be easily added, and a bed-chamber\nand garret above, will make it a very snug little cottage. I could wish\nthe stairs were handsome. But one must not expect every thing; though I\nsuppose it would be no difficult matter to widen them. I shall see how\nmuch I am before-hand with the world in the spring, and we will plan\nour improvements accordingly. \n\nIn the mean time, till all these alterations could be made from the\nsavings of an income of five hundred a-year by a woman who never saved\nin her life, they were wise enough to be contented with the house as it\nwas; and each of them was busy in arranging their particular concerns,\nand endeavoring, by placing around them books and other possessions, to\nform themselves a home. Marianne s pianoforte was unpacked and properly\ndisposed of; and Elinor s drawings were affixed to the walls of their\nsitting room.\n\nIn such employments as these they were interrupted soon after breakfast\nthe next day by the entrance of their landlord, who called to welcome\nthem to Barton, and to offer them every accommodation from his own\nhouse and garden in which theirs might at present be deficient. Sir\nJohn Middleton was a good looking man about forty. He had formerly\nvisited at Stanhill, but it was too long for his young cousins to\nremember him. His countenance was thoroughly good-humoured; and his\nmanners were as friendly as the style of his letter. Their arrival\nseemed to afford him real satisfaction, and their comfort to be an\nobject of real solicitude to him. He said much of his earnest desire of\ntheir living in the most sociable terms with his family, and pressed\nthem so cordially to dine at Barton Park every day till they were\nbetter settled at home, that, though his entreaties were carried to a\npoint of perseverance beyond civility, they could not give offence. His\nkindness was not confined to words; for within an hour after he left\nthem, a large basket full of garden stuff and fruit arrived from the\npark, which was followed before the end of the day by a present of\ngame. He insisted, moreover, on conveying all their letters to and from\nthe post for them, and would not be denied the satisfaction of sending\nthem his newspaper every day.\n\nLady Middleton had sent a very civil message by him, denoting her\nintention of waiting on Mrs. Dashwood as soon as she could be assured\nthat her visit would be no inconvenience; and as this message was\nanswered by an invitation equally polite, her ladyship was introduced\nto them the next day.\n\nThey were, of course, very anxious to see a person on whom so much of\ntheir comfort at Barton must depend; and the elegance of her appearance\nwas favourable to their wishes. Lady Middleton was not more than six or\nseven and twenty; her face was handsome, her figure tall and striking,\nand her address graceful. Her manners had all the elegance which her\nhusband s wanted. But they would have been improved by some share of\nhis frankness and warmth; and her visit was long enough to detract\nsomething from their first admiration, by showing that, though\nperfectly well-bred, she was reserved, cold, and had nothing to say for\nherself beyond the most common-place inquiry or remark.\n\nConversation however was not wanted, for Sir John was very chatty, and\nLady Middleton had taken the wise precaution of bringing with her their\neldest child, a fine little boy about six years old, by which means\nthere was one subject always to be recurred to by the ladies in case of\nextremity, for they had to enquire his name and age, admire his beauty,\nand ask him questions which his mother answered for him, while he hung\nabout her and held down his head, to the great surprise of her\nladyship, who wondered at his being so shy before company, as he could\nmake noise enough at home. On every formal visit a child ought to be of\nthe party, by way of provision for discourse. In the present case it\ntook up ten minutes to determine whether the boy were most like his\nfather or mother, and in what particular he resembled either, for of\ncourse every body differed, and every body was astonished at the\nopinion of the others.\n\nAn opportunity was soon to be given to the Dashwoods of debating on the\nrest of the children, as Sir John would not leave the house without\nsecuring their promise of dining at the park the next day.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n\nBarton Park was about half a mile from the cottage. The ladies had\npassed near it in their way along the valley, but it was screened from\ntheir view at home by the projection of a hill. The house was large and\nhandsome; and the Middletons lived in a style of equal hospitality and\nelegance. The former was for Sir John s gratification, the latter for\nthat of his lady. They were scarcely ever without some friends staying\nwith them in the house, and they kept more company of every kind than\nany other family in the neighbourhood. It was necessary to the\nhappiness of both; for however dissimilar in temper and outward\nbehaviour, they strongly resembled each other in that total want of\ntalent and taste which confined their employments, unconnected with\nsuch as society produced, within a very narrow compass. Sir John was a\nsportsman, Lady Middleton a mother. He hunted and shot, and she\nhumoured her children; and these were their only resources. Lady\nMiddleton had the advantage of being able to spoil her children all the\nyear round, while Sir John s independent employments were in existence\nonly half the time. Continual engagements at home and abroad, however,\nsupplied all the deficiencies of nature and education; supported the\ngood spirits of Sir John, and gave exercise to the good breeding of his\nwife.\n\nLady Middleton piqued herself upon the elegance of her table, and of\nall her domestic arrangements; and from this kind of vanity was her\ngreatest enjoyment in any of their parties. But Sir John s satisfaction\nin society was much more real; he delighted in collecting about him\nmore young people than his house would hold, and the noisier they were\nthe better was he pleased. He was a blessing to all the juvenile part\nof the neighbourhood, for in summer he was for ever forming parties to\neat cold ham and chicken out of doors, and in winter his private balls\nwere numerous enough for any young lady who was not suffering under the\nunsatiable appetite of fifteen.\n\nThe arrival of a new family in the country was always a matter of joy\nto him, and in every point of view he was charmed with the inhabitants\nhe had now procured for his cottage at Barton. The Miss Dashwoods were\nyoung, pretty, and unaffected. It was enough to secure his good\nopinion; for to be unaffected was all that a pretty girl could want to\nmake her mind as captivating as her person. The friendliness of his\ndisposition made him happy in accommodating those, whose situation\nmight be considered, in comparison with the past, as unfortunate. In\nshowing kindness to his cousins therefore he had the real satisfaction\nof a good heart; and in settling a family of females only in his\ncottage, he had all the satisfaction of a sportsman; for a sportsman,\nthough he esteems only those of his sex who are sportsmen likewise, is\nnot often desirous of encouraging their taste by admitting them to a\nresidence within his own manor.\n\nMrs. Dashwood and her daughters were met at the door of the house by\nSir John, who welcomed them to Barton Park with unaffected sincerity;\nand as he attended them to the drawing room repeated to the young\nladies the concern which the same subject had drawn from him the day\nbefore, at being unable to get any smart young men to meet them. They\nwould see, he said, only one gentleman there besides himself; a\nparticular friend who was staying at the park, but who was neither very\nyoung nor very gay. He hoped they would all excuse the smallness of the\nparty, and could assure them it should never happen so again. He had\nbeen to several families that morning in hopes of procuring some\naddition to their number, but it was moonlight and every body was full\nof engagements. Luckily Lady Middleton s mother had arrived at Barton\nwithin the last hour, and as she was a very cheerful agreeable woman,\nhe hoped the young ladies would not find it so very dull as they might\nimagine. The young ladies, as well as their mother, were perfectly\nsatisfied with having two entire strangers of the party, and wished for\nno more.\n\nMrs. Jennings, Lady Middleton s mother, was a good-humoured, merry,\nfat, elderly woman, who talked a great deal, seemed very happy, and\nrather vulgar. She was full of jokes and laughter, and before dinner\nwas over had said many witty things on the subject of lovers and\nhusbands; hoped they had not left their hearts behind them in Sussex,\nand pretended to see them blush whether they did or not. Marianne was\nvexed at it for her sister s sake, and turned her eyes towards Elinor\nto see how she bore these attacks, with an earnestness which gave\nElinor far more pain than could arise from such common-place raillery\nas Mrs. Jennings s.\n\nColonel Brandon, the friend of Sir John, seemed no more adapted by\nresemblance of manner to be his friend, than Lady Middleton was to be\nhis wife, or Mrs. Jennings to be Lady Middleton s mother. He was silent\nand grave. His appearance however was not unpleasing, in spite of his\nbeing in the opinion of Marianne and Margaret an absolute old bachelor,\nfor he was on the wrong side of five and thirty; but though his face\nwas not handsome, his countenance was sensible, and his address was\nparticularly gentlemanlike.\n\nThere was nothing in any of the party which could recommend them as\ncompanions to the Dashwoods; but the cold insipidity of Lady Middleton\nwas so particularly repulsive, that in comparison of it the gravity of\nColonel Brandon, and even the boisterous mirth of Sir John and his\nmother-in-law was interesting. Lady Middleton seemed to be roused to\nenjoyment only by the entrance of her four noisy children after dinner,\nwho pulled her about, tore her clothes, and put an end to every kind of\ndiscourse except what related to themselves.\n\nIn the evening, as Marianne was discovered to be musical, she was\ninvited to play. The instrument was unlocked, every body prepared to be\ncharmed, and Marianne, who sang very well, at their request went\nthrough the chief of the songs which Lady Middleton had brought into\nthe family on her marriage, and which perhaps had lain ever since in\nthe same position on the pianoforte, for her ladyship had celebrated\nthat event by giving up music, although by her mother s account, she\nhad played extremely well, and by her own was very fond of it.\n\nMarianne s performance was highly applauded. Sir John was loud in his\nadmiration at the end of every song, and as loud in his conversation\nwith the others while every song lasted. Lady Middleton frequently\ncalled him to order, wondered how any one s attention could be diverted\nfrom music for a moment, and asked Marianne to sing a particular song\nwhich Marianne had just finished. Colonel Brandon alone, of all the\nparty, heard her without being in raptures. He paid her only the\ncompliment of attention; and she felt a respect for him on the\noccasion, which the others had reasonably forfeited by their shameless\nwant of taste. His pleasure in music, though it amounted not to that\necstatic delight which alone could sympathize with her own, was\nestimable when contrasted against the horrible insensibility of the\nothers; and she was reasonable enough to allow that a man of five and\nthirty might well have outlived all acuteness of feeling and every\nexquisite power of enjoyment. She was perfectly disposed to make every\nallowance for the colonel s advanced state of life which humanity\nrequired.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n\nMrs. Jennings was a widow with an ample jointure. She had only two\ndaughters, both of whom she had lived to see respectably married, and\nshe had now therefore nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the\nworld. In the promotion of this object she was zealously active, as far\nas her ability reached; and missed no opportunity of projecting\nweddings among all the young people of her acquaintance. She was\nremarkably quick in the discovery of attachments, and had enjoyed the\nadvantage of raising the blushes and the vanity of many a young lady by\ninsinuations of her power over such a young man; and this kind of\ndiscernment enabled her soon after her arrival at Barton decisively to\npronounce that Colonel Brandon was very much in love with Marianne\nDashwood. She rather suspected it to be so, on the very first evening\nof their being together, from his listening so attentively while she\nsang to them; and when the visit was returned by the Middletons  dining\nat the cottage, the fact was ascertained by his listening to her again.\nIt must be so. She was perfectly convinced of it. It would be an\nexcellent match, for _he_ was rich, and _she_ was handsome. Mrs.\nJennings had been anxious to see Colonel Brandon well married, ever\nsince her connection with Sir John first brought him to her knowledge;\nand she was always anxious to get a good husband for every pretty girl.\n\nThe immediate advantage to herself was by no means inconsiderable, for\nit supplied her with endless jokes against them both. At the park she\nlaughed at the colonel, and in the cottage at Marianne. To the former\nher raillery was probably, as far as it regarded only himself,\nperfectly indifferent; but to the latter it was at first\nincomprehensible; and when its object was understood, she hardly knew\nwhether most to laugh at its absurdity, or censure its impertinence,\nfor she considered it as an unfeeling reflection on the colonel s\nadvanced years, and on his forlorn condition as an old bachelor.\n\nMrs. Dashwood, who could not think a man five years younger than\nherself, so exceedingly ancient as he appeared to the youthful fancy of\nher daughter, ventured to clear Mrs. Jennings from the probability of\nwishing to throw ridicule on his age.\n\n But at least, Mama, you cannot deny the absurdity of the accusation,\nthough you may not think it intentionally ill-natured. Colonel Brandon\nis certainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but he is old enough to be\n_my_ father; and if he were ever animated enough to be in love, must\nhave long outlived every sensation of the kind. It is too ridiculous!\nWhen is a man to be safe from such wit, if age and infirmity will not\nprotect him? \n\n Infirmity!  said Elinor,  do you call Colonel Brandon infirm? I can\neasily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to my\nmother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the use of\nhis limbs! \n\n Did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism? and is not that the\ncommonest infirmity of declining life? \n\n My dearest child,  said her mother, laughing,  at this rate you must\nbe in continual terror of _my_ decay; and it must seem to you a miracle\nthat my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty. \n\n Mama, you are not doing me justice. I know very well that Colonel\nBrandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of\nlosing him in the course of nature. He may live twenty years longer.\nBut thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony. \n\n Perhaps,  said Elinor,  thirty-five and seventeen had better not have\nany thing to do with matrimony together. But if there should by any\nchance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, I should\nnot think Colonel Brandon s being thirty-five any objection to his\nmarrying _her_. \n\n A woman of seven and twenty,  said Marianne, after pausing a moment,\n can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be\nuncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might bring\nherself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the\nprovision and security of a wife. In his marrying such a woman\ntherefore there would be nothing unsuitable. It would be a compact of\nconvenience, and the world would be satisfied. In my eyes it would be\nno marriage at all, but that would be nothing. To me it would seem only\na commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at the\nexpense of the other. \n\n It would be impossible, I know,  replied Elinor,  to convince you that\na woman of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five\nanything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to her.\nBut I must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to the\nconstant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced to\ncomplain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight rheumatic feel in\none of his shoulders. \n\n But he talked of flannel waistcoats,  said Marianne;  and with me a\nflannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps,\nrheumatisms, and every species of ailment that can afflict the old and\nthe feeble. \n\n Had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have despised him\nhalf so much. Confess, Marianne, is not there something interesting to\nyou in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever? \n\nSoon after this, upon Elinor s leaving the room,  Mama,  said Marianne,\n I have an alarm on the subject of illness which I cannot conceal from\nyou. I am sure Edward Ferrars is not well. We have now been here almost\na fortnight, and yet he does not come. Nothing but real indisposition\ncould occasion this extraordinary delay. What else can detain him at\nNorland? \n\n Had you any idea of his coming so soon?  said Mrs. Dashwood.  _I_ had\nnone. On the contrary, if I have felt any anxiety at all on the\nsubject, it has been in recollecting that he sometimes showed a want of\npleasure and readiness in accepting my invitation, when I talked of his\ncoming to Barton. Does Elinor expect him already? \n\n I have never mentioned it to her, but of course she must. \n\n I rather think you are mistaken, for when I was talking to her\nyesterday of getting a new grate for the spare bedchamber, she observed\nthat there was no immediate hurry for it, as it was not likely that the\nroom would be wanted for some time. \n\n How strange this is! what can be the meaning of it! But the whole of\ntheir behaviour to each other has been unaccountable! How cold, how\ncomposed were their last adieus! How languid their conversation the\nlast evening of their being together! In Edward s farewell there was no\ndistinction between Elinor and me: it was the good wishes of an\naffectionate brother to both. Twice did I leave them purposely together\nin the course of the last morning, and each time did he most\nunaccountably follow me out of the room. And Elinor, in quitting\nNorland and Edward, cried not as I did. Even now her self-command is\ninvariable. When is she dejected or melancholy? When does she try to\navoid society, or appear restless and dissatisfied in it? \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\n\nThe Dashwoods were now settled at Barton with tolerable comfort to\nthemselves. The house and the garden, with all the objects surrounding\nthem, were now become familiar, and the ordinary pursuits which had\ngiven to Norland half its charms were engaged in again with far greater\nenjoyment than Norland had been able to afford, since the loss of their\nfather. Sir John Middleton, who called on them every day for the first\nfortnight, and who was not in the habit of seeing much occupation at\nhome, could not conceal his amazement on finding them always employed.\n\nTheir visitors, except those from Barton Park, were not many; for, in\nspite of Sir John s urgent entreaties that they would mix more in the\nneighbourhood, and repeated assurances of his carriage being always at\ntheir service, the independence of Mrs. Dashwood s spirit overcame the\nwish of society for her children; and she was resolute in declining to\nvisit any family beyond the distance of a walk. There were but few who\ncould be so classed; and it was not all of them that were attainable.\nAbout a mile and a half from the cottage, along the narrow winding\nvalley of Allenham, which issued from that of Barton, as formerly\ndescribed, the girls had, in one of their earliest walks, discovered an\nancient respectable looking mansion which, by reminding them a little\nof Norland, interested their imagination and made them wish to be\nbetter acquainted with it. But they learnt, on enquiry, that its\npossessor, an elderly lady of very good character, was unfortunately\ntoo infirm to mix with the world, and never stirred from home.\n\nThe whole country about them abounded in beautiful walks. The high\ndowns which invited them from almost every window of the cottage to\nseek the exquisite enjoyment of air on their summits, were a happy\nalternative when the dirt of the valleys beneath shut up their superior\nbeauties; and towards one of these hills did Marianne and Margaret one\nmemorable morning direct their steps, attracted by the partial sunshine\nof a showery sky, and unable longer to bear the confinement which the\nsettled rain of the two preceding days had occasioned. The weather was\nnot tempting enough to draw the two others from their pencil and their\nbook, in spite of Marianne s declaration that the day would be\nlastingly fair, and that every threatening cloud would be drawn off\nfrom their hills; and the two girls set off together.\n\nThey gaily ascended the downs, rejoicing in their own penetration at\nevery glimpse of blue sky; and when they caught in their faces the\nanimating gales of a high south-westerly wind, they pitied the fears\nwhich had prevented their mother and Elinor from sharing such\ndelightful sensations.\n\n Is there a felicity in the world,  said Marianne,  superior to\nthis? Margaret, we will walk here at least two hours. \n\nMargaret agreed, and they pursued their way against the wind, resisting\nit with laughing delight for about twenty minutes longer, when suddenly\nthe clouds united over their heads, and a driving rain set full in\ntheir face. Chagrined and surprised, they were obliged, though\nunwillingly, to turn back, for no shelter was nearer than their own\nhouse. One consolation however remained for them, to which the exigence\nof the moment gave more than usual propriety, it was that of running\nwith all possible speed down the steep side of the hill which led\nimmediately to their garden gate.\n\nThey set off. Marianne had at first the advantage, but a false step\nbrought her suddenly to the ground; and Margaret, unable to stop\nherself to assist her, was involuntarily hurried along, and reached the\nbottom in safety.\n\nA gentleman carrying a gun, with two pointers playing round him, was\npassing up the hill and within a few yards of Marianne, when her\naccident happened. He put down his gun and ran to her assistance. She\nhad raised herself from the ground, but her foot had been twisted in\nher fall, and she was scarcely able to stand. The gentleman offered his\nservices; and perceiving that her modesty declined what her situation\nrendered necessary, took her up in his arms without farther delay, and\ncarried her down the hill. Then passing through the garden, the gate of\nwhich had been left open by Margaret, he bore her directly into the\nhouse, whither Margaret was just arrived, and quitted not his hold till\nhe had seated her in a chair in the parlour.\n\nElinor and her mother rose up in amazement at their entrance, and while\nthe eyes of both were fixed on him with an evident wonder and a secret\nadmiration which equally sprung from his appearance, he apologized for\nhis intrusion by relating its cause, in a manner so frank and so\ngraceful that his person, which was uncommonly handsome, received\nadditional charms from his voice and expression. Had he been even old,\nugly, and vulgar, the gratitude and kindness of Mrs. Dashwood would\nhave been secured by any act of attention to her child; but the\ninfluence of youth, beauty, and elegance, gave an interest to the\naction which came home to her feelings.\n\nShe thanked him again and again; and, with a sweetness of address which\nalways attended her, invited him to be seated. But this he declined, as\nhe was dirty and wet. Mrs. Dashwood then begged to know to whom she was\nobliged. His name, he replied, was Willoughby, and his present home was\nat Allenham, from whence he hoped she would allow him the honour of\ncalling tomorrow to enquire after Miss Dashwood. The honour was readily\ngranted, and he then departed, to make himself still more interesting,\nin the midst of a heavy rain.\n\nHis manly beauty and more than common gracefulness were instantly the\ntheme of general admiration, and the laugh which his gallantry raised\nagainst Marianne received particular spirit from his exterior\nattractions. Marianne herself had seen less of his person than the\nrest, for the confusion which crimsoned over her face, on his lifting\nher up, had robbed her of the power of regarding him after their\nentering the house. But she had seen enough of him to join in all the\nadmiration of the others, and with an energy which always adorned her\npraise. His person and air were equal to what her fancy had ever drawn\nfor the hero of a favourite story; and in his carrying her into the\nhouse with so little previous formality, there was a rapidity of\nthought which particularly recommended the action to her. Every\ncircumstance belonging to him was interesting. His name was good, his\nresidence was in their favourite village, and she soon found out that\nof all manly dresses a shooting-jacket was the most becoming. Her\nimagination was busy, her reflections were pleasant, and the pain of a\nsprained ankle was disregarded.\n\nSir John called on them as soon as the next interval of fair weather\nthat morning allowed him to get out of doors; and Marianne s accident\nbeing related to him, he was eagerly asked whether he knew any\ngentleman of the name of Willoughby at Allenham.\n\n Willoughby!  cried Sir John;  what, is _he_ in the country? That is\ngood news however; I will ride over tomorrow, and ask him to dinner on\nThursday. \n\n You know him then,  said Mrs. Dashwood.\n\n Know him! to be sure I do. Why, he is down here every year. \n\n And what sort of a young man is he? \n\n As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you. A very decent\nshot, and there is not a bolder rider in England. \n\n And is _that_ all you can say for him?  cried Marianne, indignantly.\n But what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance? What his\npursuits, his talents, and genius? \n\nSir John was rather puzzled.\n\n Upon my soul,  said he,  I do not know much about him as to all\n_that_. But he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow, and has got the\nnicest little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw. Was she out with him\ntoday? \n\nBut Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr.\nWilloughby s pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of his\nmind.\n\n But who is he?  said Elinor.  Where does he come from? Has he a house\nat Allenham? \n\nOn this point Sir John could give more certain intelligence; and he\ntold them that Mr. Willoughby had no property of his own in the\ncountry; that he resided there only while he was visiting the old lady\nat Allenham Court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he was\nto inherit; adding,  Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching I can\ntell you, Miss Dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of his own in\nSomersetshire besides; and if I were you, I would not give him up to my\nyounger sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills. Miss Marianne\nmust not expect to have all the men to herself. Brandon will be\njealous, if she does not take care. \n\n I do not believe,  said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good humoured smile,\n that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of either of\n_my_ daughters towards what you call _catching him_. It is not an\nemployment to which they have been brought up. Men are very safe with\nus, let them be ever so rich. I am glad to find, however, from what you\nsay, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose acquaintance\nwill not be ineligible. \n\n He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived,  repeated\nSir John.  I remember last Christmas at a little hop at the park, he\ndanced from eight o clock till four, without once sitting down. \n\n Did he indeed?  cried Marianne with sparkling eyes,  and with\nelegance, with spirit? \n\n Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert. \n\n That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be. Whatever be\nhis pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and\nleave him no sense of fatigue. \n\n Aye, aye, I see how it will be,  said Sir John,  I see how it will be.\nYou will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor\nBrandon. \n\n That is an expression, Sir John,  said Marianne, warmly,  which I\nparticularly dislike. I abhor every common-place phrase by which wit is\nintended; and  setting one s cap at a man,  or  making a conquest,  are\nthe most odious of all. Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and if\ntheir construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago\ndestroyed all its ingenuity. \n\nSir John did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as\nheartily as if he did, and then replied,\n\n Ay, you will make conquests enough, I dare say, one way or other. Poor\nBrandon! he is quite smitten already, and he is very well worth setting\nyour cap at, I can tell you, in spite of all this tumbling about and\nspraining of ankles. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\n\nMarianne s preserver, as Margaret, with more elegance than precision,\nstyled Willoughby, called at the cottage early the next morning to make\nhis personal enquiries. He was received by Mrs. Dashwood with more than\npoliteness; with a kindness which Sir John s account of him and her own\ngratitude prompted; and every thing that passed during the visit tended\nto assure him of the sense, elegance, mutual affection, and domestic\ncomfort of the family to whom accident had now introduced him. Of their\npersonal charms he had not required a second interview to be convinced.\n\nMiss Dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular features, and a\nremarkably pretty figure. Marianne was still handsomer. Her form,\nthough not so correct as her sister s, in having the advantage of\nheight, was more striking; and her face was so lovely, that when in the\ncommon cant of praise, she was called a beautiful girl, truth was less\nviolently outraged than usually happens. Her skin was very brown, but,\nfrom its transparency, her complexion was uncommonly brilliant; her\nfeatures were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive; and in her\neyes, which were very dark, there was a life, a spirit, an eagerness,\nwhich could hardly be seen without delight. From Willoughby their\nexpression was at first held back, by the embarrassment which the\nremembrance of his assistance created. But when this passed away, when\nher spirits became collected, when she saw that to the perfect\ngood-breeding of the gentleman, he united frankness and vivacity, and\nabove all, when she heard him declare, that of music and dancing he was\npassionately fond, she gave him such a look of approbation as secured\nthe largest share of his discourse to herself for the rest of his stay.\n\nIt was only necessary to mention any favourite amusement to engage her\nto talk. She could not be silent when such points were introduced, and\nshe had neither shyness nor reserve in their discussion. They speedily\ndiscovered that their enjoyment of dancing and music was mutual, and\nthat it arose from a general conformity of judgment in all that related\nto either. Encouraged by this to a further examination of his opinions,\nshe proceeded to question him on the subject of books; her favourite\nauthors were brought forward and dwelt upon with so rapturous a\ndelight, that any young man of five and twenty must have been\ninsensible indeed, not to become an immediate convert to the excellence\nof such works, however disregarded before. Their taste was strikingly\nalike. The same books, the same passages were idolized by each or if\nany difference appeared, any objection arose, it lasted no longer than\ntill the force of her arguments and the brightness of her eyes could be\ndisplayed. He acquiesced in all her decisions, caught all her\nenthusiasm; and long before his visit concluded, they conversed with\nthe familiarity of a long-established acquaintance.\n\n Well, Marianne,  said Elinor, as soon as he had left them,  for _one_\nmorning I think you have done pretty well. You have already ascertained\nMr. Willoughby s opinion in almost every matter of importance. You know\nwhat he thinks of Cowper and Scott; you are certain of his estimating\ntheir beauties as he ought, and you have received every assurance of\nhis admiring Pope no more than is proper. But how is your acquaintance\nto be long supported, under such extraordinary despatch of every\nsubject for discourse? You will soon have exhausted each favourite\ntopic. Another meeting will suffice to explain his sentiments on\npicturesque beauty, and second marriages, and then you can have nothing\nfarther to ask. \n\n Elinor,  cried Marianne,  is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so\nscanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease, too\nhappy, too frank. I have erred against every common-place notion of\ndecorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been\nreserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful had I talked only of the\nweather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this\nreproach would have been spared. \n\n My love,  said her mother,  you must not be offended with Elinor she\nwas only in jest. I should scold her myself, if she were capable of\nwishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new friend. \nMarianne was softened in a moment.\n\nWilloughby, on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in their\nacquaintance, which an evident wish of improving it could offer. He\ncame to them every day. To enquire after Marianne was at first his\nexcuse; but the encouragement of his reception, to which every day gave\ngreater kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it had ceased\nto be possible, by Marianne s perfect recovery. She was confined for\nsome days to the house; but never had any confinement been less\nirksome. Willoughby was a young man of good abilities, quick\nimagination, lively spirits, and open, affectionate manners. He was\nexactly formed to engage Marianne s heart, for with all this, he joined\nnot only a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mind which was\nnow roused and increased by the example of her own, and which\nrecommended him to her affection beyond every thing else.\n\nHis society became gradually her most exquisite enjoyment. They read,\nthey talked, they sang together; his musical talents were considerable;\nand he read with all the sensibility and spirit which Edward had\nunfortunately wanted.\n\nIn Mrs. Dashwood s estimation he was as faultless as in Marianne s; and\nElinor saw nothing to censure in him but a propensity, in which he\nstrongly resembled and peculiarly delighted her sister, of saying too\nmuch what he thought on every occasion, without attention to persons or\ncircumstances. In hastily forming and giving his opinion of other\npeople, in sacrificing general politeness to the enjoyment of undivided\nattention where his heart was engaged, and in slighting too easily the\nforms of worldly propriety, he displayed a want of caution which Elinor\ncould not approve, in spite of all that he and Marianne could say in\nits support.\n\nMarianne began now to perceive that the desperation which had seized\nher at sixteen and a half, of ever seeing a man who could satisfy her\nideas of perfection, had been rash and unjustifiable. Willoughby was\nall that her fancy had delineated in that unhappy hour and in every\nbrighter period, as capable of attaching her; and his behaviour\ndeclared his wishes to be in that respect as earnest, as his abilities\nwere strong.\n\nHer mother too, in whose mind not one speculative thought of their\nmarriage had been raised, by his prospect of riches, was led before the\nend of a week to hope and expect it; and secretly to congratulate\nherself on having gained two such sons-in-law as Edward and Willoughby.\n\nColonel Brandon s partiality for Marianne, which had so early been\ndiscovered by his friends, now first became perceptible to Elinor, when\nit ceased to be noticed by them. Their attention and wit were drawn off\nto his more fortunate rival; and the raillery which the other had\nincurred before any partiality arose, was removed when his feelings\nbegan really to call for the ridicule so justly annexed to sensibility.\nElinor was obliged, though unwillingly, to believe that the sentiments\nwhich Mrs. Jennings had assigned him for her own satisfaction, were now\nactually excited by her sister; and that however a general resemblance\nof disposition between the parties might forward the affection of Mr.\nWilloughby, an equally striking opposition of character was no\nhindrance to the regard of Colonel Brandon. She saw it with concern;\nfor what could a silent man of five and thirty hope, when opposed to a\nvery lively one of five and twenty? and as she could not even wish him\nsuccessful, she heartily wished him indifferent. She liked him in spite\nof his gravity and reserve, she beheld in him an object of interest.\nHis manners, though serious, were mild; and his reserve appeared rather\nthe result of some oppression of spirits than of any natural gloominess\nof temper. Sir John had dropped hints of past injuries and\ndisappointments, which justified her belief of his being an unfortunate\nman, and she regarded him with respect and compassion.\n\nPerhaps she pitied and esteemed him the more because he was slighted by\nWilloughby and Marianne, who, prejudiced against him for being neither\nlively nor young, seemed resolved to undervalue his merits.\n\n Brandon is just the kind of man,  said Willoughby one day, when they\nwere talking of him together,  whom every body speaks well of, and\nnobody cares about; whom all are delighted to see, and nobody remembers\nto talk to. \n\n That is exactly what I think of him,  cried Marianne.\n\n Do not boast of it, however,  said Elinor,  for it is injustice in\nboth of you. He is highly esteemed by all the family at the park, and I\nnever see him myself without taking pains to converse with him. \n\n That he is patronised by _you_,  replied Willoughby,  is certainly in\nhis favour; but as for the esteem of the others, it is a reproach in\nitself. Who would submit to the indignity of being approved by such a\nwoman as Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings, that could command the\nindifference of any body else? \n\n But perhaps the abuse of such people as yourself and Marianne will\nmake amends for the regard of Lady Middleton and her mother. If their\npraise is censure, your censure may be praise, for they are not more\nundiscerning, than you are prejudiced and unjust. \n\n In defence of your _prot g _ you can even be saucy. \n\n My _prot g _, as you call him, is a sensible man; and sense will\nalways have attractions for me. Yes, Marianne, even in a man between\nthirty and forty. He has seen a great deal of the world; has been\nabroad, has read, and has a thinking mind. I have found him capable of\ngiving me much information on various subjects; and he has always\nanswered my inquiries with readiness of good-breeding and good nature. \n\n That is to say,  cried Marianne contemptuously,  he has told you, that\nin the East Indies the climate is hot, and the mosquitoes are\ntroublesome. \n\n He _would_ have told me so, I doubt not, had I made any such\ninquiries, but they happened to be points on which I had been\npreviously informed. \n\n Perhaps,  said Willoughby,  his observations may have extended to the\nexistence of nabobs, gold mohrs, and palanquins. \n\n I may venture to say that _his_ observations have stretched much\nfurther than _your_ candour. But why should you dislike him? \n\n I do not dislike him. I consider him, on the contrary, as a very\nrespectable man, who has every body s good word, and nobody s notice;\nwho has more money than he can spend, more time than he knows how to\nemploy, and two new coats every year. \n\n Add to which,  cried Marianne,  that he has neither genius, taste, nor\nspirit. That his understanding has no brilliancy, his feelings no\nardour, and his voice no expression. \n\n You decide on his imperfections so much in the mass,  replied Elinor,\n and so much on the strength of your own imagination, that the\ncommendation _I_ am able to give of him is comparatively cold and\ninsipid. I can only pronounce him to be a sensible man, well-bred,\nwell-informed, of gentle address, and, I believe, possessing an amiable\nheart. \n\n Miss Dashwood,  cried Willoughby,  you are now using me unkindly. You\nare endeavouring to disarm me by reason, and to convince me against my\nwill. But it will not do. You shall find me as stubborn as you can be\nartful. I have three unanswerable reasons for disliking Colonel\nBrandon; he threatened me with rain when I wanted it to be fine; he has\nfound fault with the hanging of my curricle, and I cannot persuade him\nto buy my brown mare. If it will be any satisfaction to you, however,\nto be told, that I believe his character to be in other respects\nirreproachable, I am ready to confess it. And in return for an\nacknowledgment, which must give me some pain, you cannot deny me the\nprivilege of disliking him as much as ever. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\n\nLittle had Mrs. Dashwood or her daughters imagined when they first came\ninto Devonshire, that so many engagements would arise to occupy their\ntime as shortly presented themselves, or that they should have such\nfrequent invitations and such constant visitors as to leave them little\nleisure for serious employment. Yet such was the case. When Marianne\nwas recovered, the schemes of amusement at home and abroad, which Sir\nJohn had been previously forming, were put into execution. The private\nballs at the park then began; and parties on the water were made and\naccomplished as often as a showery October would allow. In every\nmeeting of the kind Willoughby was included; and the ease and\nfamiliarity which naturally attended these parties were exactly\ncalculated to give increasing intimacy to his acquaintance with the\nDashwoods, to afford him opportunity of witnessing the excellencies of\nMarianne, of marking his animated admiration of her, and of receiving,\nin her behaviour to himself, the most pointed assurance of her\naffection.\n\nElinor could not be surprised at their attachment. She only wished that\nit were less openly shown; and once or twice did venture to suggest the\npropriety of some self-command to Marianne. But Marianne abhorred all\nconcealment where no real disgrace could attend unreserve; and to aim\nat the restraint of sentiments which were not in themselves illaudable,\nappeared to her not merely an unnecessary effort, but a disgraceful\nsubjection of reason to common-place and mistaken notions. Willoughby\nthought the same; and their behaviour at all times, was an illustration\nof their opinions.\n\nWhen he was present she had no eyes for any one else. Every thing he\ndid, was right. Every thing he said, was clever. If their evenings at\nthe park were concluded with cards, he cheated himself and all the rest\nof the party to get her a good hand. If dancing formed the amusement of\nthe night, they were partners for half the time; and when obliged to\nseparate for a couple of dances, were careful to stand together and\nscarcely spoke a word to any body else. Such conduct made them of\ncourse most exceedingly laughed at; but ridicule could not shame, and\nseemed hardly to provoke them.\n\nMrs. Dashwood entered into all their feelings with a warmth which left\nher no inclination for checking this excessive display of them. To her\nit was but the natural consequence of a strong affection in a young and\nardent mind.\n\nThis was the season of happiness to Marianne. Her heart was devoted to\nWilloughby, and the fond attachment to Norland, which she brought with\nher from Sussex, was more likely to be softened than she had thought it\npossible before, by the charms which his society bestowed on her\npresent home.\n\nElinor s happiness was not so great. Her heart was not so much at ease,\nnor her satisfaction in their amusements so pure. They afforded her no\ncompanion that could make amends for what she had left behind, nor that\ncould teach her to think of Norland with less regret than ever. Neither\nLady Middleton nor Mrs. Jennings could supply to her the conversation\nshe missed; although the latter was an everlasting talker, and from the\nfirst had regarded her with a kindness which ensured her a large share\nof her discourse. She had already repeated her own history to Elinor\nthree or four times; and had Elinor s memory been equal to her means of\nimprovement, she might have known very early in their acquaintance all\nthe particulars of Mr. Jennings s last illness, and what he said to his\nwife a few minutes before he died. Lady Middleton was more agreeable\nthan her mother only in being more silent. Elinor needed little\nobservation to perceive that her reserve was a mere calmness of manner\nwith which sense had nothing to do. Towards her husband and mother she\nwas the same as to them; and intimacy was therefore neither to be\nlooked for nor desired. She had nothing to say one day that she had not\nsaid the day before. Her insipidity was invariable, for even her\nspirits were always the same; and though she did not oppose the parties\narranged by her husband, provided every thing were conducted in style\nand her two eldest children attended her, she never appeared to receive\nmore enjoyment from them than she might have experienced in sitting at\nhome; and so little did her presence add to the pleasure of the others,\nby any share in their conversation, that they were sometimes only\nreminded of her being amongst them by her solicitude about her\ntroublesome boys.\n\nIn Colonel Brandon alone, of all her new acquaintance, did Elinor find\na person who could in any degree claim the respect of abilities, excite\nthe interest of friendship, or give pleasure as a companion. Willoughby\nwas out of the question. Her admiration and regard, even her sisterly\nregard, was all his own; but he was a lover; his attentions were wholly\nMarianne s, and a far less agreeable man might have been more generally\npleasing. Colonel Brandon, unfortunately for himself, had no such\nencouragement to think only of Marianne, and in conversing with Elinor\nhe found the greatest consolation for the indifference of her sister.\n\nElinor s compassion for him increased, as she had reason to suspect\nthat the misery of disappointed love had already been known to him.\nThis suspicion was given by some words which accidentally dropped from\nhim one evening at the park, when they were sitting down together by\nmutual consent, while the others were dancing. His eyes were fixed on\nMarianne, and, after a silence of some minutes, he said, with a faint\nsmile,  Your sister, I understand, does not approve of second\nattachments. \n\n No,  replied Elinor,  her opinions are all romantic. \n\n Or rather, as I believe, she considers them impossible to exist. \n\n I believe she does. But how she contrives it without reflecting on the\ncharacter of her own father, who had himself two wives, I know not. A\nfew years however will settle her opinions on the reasonable basis of\ncommon sense and observation; and then they may be more easy to define\nand to justify than they now are, by any body but herself. \n\n This will probably be the case,  he replied;  and yet there is\nsomething so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind, that one is\nsorry to see them give way to the reception of more general opinions. \n\n I cannot agree with you there,  said Elinor.  There are inconveniences\nattending such feelings as Marianne s, which all the charms of\nenthusiasm and ignorance of the world cannot atone for. Her systems\nhave all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety at nought; and a\nbetter acquaintance with the world is what I look forward to as her\ngreatest possible advantage. \n\nAfter a short pause he resumed the conversation by saying, \n\n Does your sister make no distinction in her objections against a\nsecond attachment? or is it equally criminal in every body? Are those\nwho have been disappointed in their first choice, whether from the\ninconstancy of its object, or the perverseness of circumstances, to be\nequally indifferent during the rest of their lives? \n\n Upon my word, I am not acquainted with the minutiae of her principles.\nI only know that I never yet heard her admit any instance of a second\nattachment s being pardonable. \n\n This,  said he,  cannot hold; but a change, a total change of\nsentiments No, no, do not desire it; for when the romantic refinements\nof a young mind are obliged to give way, how frequently are they\nsucceeded by such opinions as are but too common, and too dangerous! I\nspeak from experience. I once knew a lady who in temper and mind\ngreatly resembled your sister, who thought and judged like her, but who\nfrom an enforced change from a series of unfortunate circumstances \nHere he stopt suddenly; appeared to think that he had said too much,\nand by his countenance gave rise to conjectures, which might not\notherwise have entered Elinor s head. The lady would probably have\npassed without suspicion, had he not convinced Miss Dashwood that what\nconcerned her ought not to escape his lips. As it was, it required but\na slight effort of fancy to connect his emotion with the tender\nrecollection of past regard. Elinor attempted no more. But Marianne, in\nher place, would not have done so little. The whole story would have\nbeen speedily formed under her active imagination; and every thing\nestablished in the most melancholy order of disastrous love.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\n\nAs Elinor and Marianne were walking together the next morning the\nlatter communicated a piece of news to her sister, which in spite of\nall that she knew before of Marianne s imprudence and want of thought,\nsurprised her by its extravagant testimony of both. Marianne told her,\nwith the greatest delight, that Willoughby had given her a horse, one\nthat he had bred himself on his estate in Somersetshire, and which was\nexactly calculated to carry a woman. Without considering that it was\nnot in her mother s plan to keep any horse, that if she were to alter\nher resolution in favour of this gift, she must buy another for the\nservant, and keep a servant to ride it, and after all, build a stable\nto receive them, she had accepted the present without hesitation, and\ntold her sister of it in raptures.\n\n He intends to send his groom into Somersetshire immediately for it, \nshe added,  and when it arrives we will ride every day. You shall share\nits use with me. Imagine to yourself, my dear Elinor, the delight of a\ngallop on some of these downs. \n\nMost unwilling was she to awaken from such a dream of felicity to\ncomprehend all the unhappy truths which attended the affair; and for\nsome time she refused to submit to them. As to an additional servant,\nthe expense would be a trifle; Mama she was sure would never object to\nit; and any horse would do for _him;_ he might always get one at the\npark; as to a stable, the merest shed would be sufficient. Elinor then\nventured to doubt the propriety of her receiving such a present from a\nman so little, or at least so lately known to her. This was too much.\n\n You are mistaken, Elinor,  said she warmly,  in supposing I know very\nlittle of Willoughby. I have not known him long indeed, but I am much\nbetter acquainted with him, than I am with any other creature in the\nworld, except yourself and mama. It is not time or opportunity that is\nto determine intimacy; it is disposition alone. Seven years would be\ninsufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven\ndays are more than enough for others. I should hold myself guilty of\ngreater impropriety in accepting a horse from my brother, than from\nWilloughby. Of John I know very little, though we have lived together\nfor years; but of Willoughby my judgment has long been formed. \n\nElinor thought it wisest to touch that point no more. She knew her\nsister s temper. Opposition on so tender a subject would only attach\nher the more to her own opinion. But by an appeal to her affection for\nher mother, by representing the inconveniences which that indulgent\nmother must draw on herself, if (as would probably be the case) she\nconsented to this increase of establishment, Marianne was shortly\nsubdued; and she promised not to tempt her mother to such imprudent\nkindness by mentioning the offer, and to tell Willoughby when she saw\nhim next, that it must be declined.\n\nShe was faithful to her word; and when Willoughby called at the\ncottage, the same day, Elinor heard her express her disappointment to\nhim in a low voice, on being obliged to forego the acceptance of his\npresent. The reasons for this alteration were at the same time related,\nand they were such as to make further entreaty on his side impossible.\nHis concern however was very apparent; and after expressing it with\nearnestness, he added, in the same low voice, But, Marianne, the horse\nis still yours, though you cannot use it now. I shall keep it only till\nyou can claim it. When you leave Barton to form your own establishment\nin a more lasting home, Queen Mab shall receive you. \n\nThis was all overheard by Miss Dashwood; and in the whole of the\nsentence, in his manner of pronouncing it, and in his addressing her\nsister by her Christian name alone, she instantly saw an intimacy so\ndecided, a meaning so direct, as marked a perfect agreement between\nthem. From that moment she doubted not of their being engaged to each\nother; and the belief of it created no other surprise than that she, or\nany of their friends, should be left by tempers so frank, to discover\nit by accident.\n\nMargaret related something to her the next day, which placed this\nmatter in a still clearer light. Willoughby had spent the preceding\nevening with them, and Margaret, by being left some time in the parlour\nwith only him and Marianne, had had opportunity for observations,\nwhich, with a most important face, she communicated to her eldest\nsister, when they were next by themselves.\n\n Oh, Elinor!  she cried,  I have such a secret to tell you about\nMarianne. I am sure she will be married to Mr. Willoughby very soon. \n\n You have said so,  replied Elinor,  almost every day since they first\nmet on High-church Down; and they had not known each other a week, I\nbelieve, before you were certain that Marianne wore his picture round\nher neck; but it turned out to be only the miniature of our great\nuncle. \n\n But indeed this is quite another thing. I am sure they will be married\nvery soon, for he has got a lock of her hair. \n\n Take care, Margaret. It may be only the hair of some great uncle of\n_his_. \n\n But, indeed, Elinor, it is Marianne s. I am almost sure it is, for I\nsaw him cut it off. Last night after tea, when you and mama went out of\nthe room, they were whispering and talking together as fast as could\nbe, and he seemed to be begging something of her, and presently he took\nup her scissors and cut off a long lock of her hair, for it was all\ntumbled down her back; and he kissed it, and folded it up in a piece of\nwhite paper; and put it into his pocket-book. \n\nFor such particulars, stated on such authority, Elinor could not\nwithhold her credit; nor was she disposed to it, for the circumstance\nwas in perfect unison with what she had heard and seen herself.\n\nMargaret s sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory\nto her sister. When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one evening at the park,\nto give the name of the young man who was Elinor s particular\nfavourite, which had been long a matter of great curiosity to her,\nMargaret answered by looking at her sister, and saying,  I must not\ntell, may I, Elinor? \n\nThis of course made every body laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too.\nBut the effort was painful. She was convinced that Margaret had fixed\non a person whose name she could not bear with composure to become a\nstanding joke with Mrs. Jennings.\n\nMarianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than good\nto the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to\nMargaret,\n\n Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to\nrepeat them. \n\n I never had any conjectures about it,  replied Margaret;  it was you\nwho told me of it yourself. \n\nThis increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly\npressed to say something more.\n\n Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it,  said Mrs.\nJennings.  What is the gentleman s name? \n\n I must not tell, ma am. But I know very well what it is; and I know\nwhere he is too. \n\n Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland to be\nsure. He is the curate of the parish I dare say. \n\n No, _that_ he is not. He is of no profession at all. \n\n Margaret,  said Marianne with great warmth,  you know that all this is\nan invention of your own, and that there is no such person in\nexistence. \n\n Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such\na man once, and his name begins with an F. \n\nMost grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing, at this\nmoment,  that it rained very hard,  though she believed the\ninterruption to proceed less from any attention to her, than from her\nladyship s great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as\ndelighted her husband and mother. The idea however started by her, was\nimmediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion\nmindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on the subject of\nrain by both of them. Willoughby opened the piano-forte, and asked\nMarianne to sit down to it; and thus amidst the various endeavours of\ndifferent people to quit the topic, it fell to the ground. But not so\neasily did Elinor recover from the alarm into which it had thrown her.\n\nA party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see a\nvery fine place about twelve miles from Barton, belonging to a\nbrother-in-law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest it could not\nbe seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict orders\non that head. The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful, and Sir\nJohn, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be allowed to be\na tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit them, at least,\ntwice every summer for the last ten years. They contained a noble piece\nof water; a sail on which was to form a great part of the morning s\namusement; cold provisions were to be taken, open carriages only to be\nemployed, and every thing conducted in the usual style of a complete\nparty of pleasure.\n\nTo some few of the company it appeared rather a bold undertaking,\nconsidering the time of year, and that it had rained every day for the\nlast fortnight; and Mrs. Dashwood, who had already a cold, was\npersuaded by Elinor to stay at home.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\n\nTheir intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very different from\nwhat Elinor had expected. She was prepared to be wet through, fatigued,\nand frightened; but the event was still more unfortunate, for they did\nnot go at all.\n\nBy ten o clock the whole party was assembled at the park, where they\nwere to breakfast. The morning was rather favourable, though it had\nrained all night, as the clouds were then dispersing across the sky,\nand the sun frequently appeared. They were all in high spirits and good\nhumour, eager to be happy, and determined to submit to the greatest\ninconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise.\n\nWhile they were at breakfast the letters were brought in. Among the\nrest there was one for Colonel Brandon; he took it, looked at the\ndirection, changed colour, and immediately left the room.\n\n What is the matter with Brandon?  said Sir John.\n\nNobody could tell.\n\n I hope he has had no bad news,  said Lady Middleton.  It must be\nsomething extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave my\nbreakfast table so suddenly. \n\nIn about five minutes he returned.\n\n No bad news, Colonel, I hope;  said Mrs. Jennings, as soon as he\nentered the room.\n\n None at all, ma am, I thank you. \n\n Was it from Avignon? I hope it is not to say that your sister is\nworse. \n\n No, ma am. It came from town, and is merely a letter of business. \n\n But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a\nletter of business? Come, come, this won t do, Colonel; so let us hear\nthe truth of it. \n\n My dear madam,  said Lady Middleton,  recollect what you are saying. \n\n Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?  said\nMrs. Jennings, without attending to her daughter s reproof.\n\n No, indeed, it is not. \n\n Well, then, I know who it is from, Colonel. And I hope she is well. \n\n Whom do you mean, ma am?  said he, colouring a little.\n\n Oh! you know who I mean. \n\n I am particularly sorry, ma am,  said he, addressing Lady Middleton,\n that I should receive this letter today, for it is on business which\nrequires my immediate attendance in town. \n\n In town!  cried Mrs. Jennings.  What can you have to do in town at\nthis time of year? \n\n My own loss is great,  he continued,  in being obliged to leave so\nagreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my presence\nis necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell. \n\nWhat a blow upon them all was this!\n\n But if you write a note to the housekeeper, Mr. Brandon,  said\nMarianne, eagerly,  will it not be sufficient? \n\nHe shook his head.\n\n We must go,  said Sir John. It shall not be put off when we are so\nnear it. You cannot go to town till tomorrow, Brandon, that is all. \n\n I wish it could be so easily settled. But it is not in my power to\ndelay my journey for one day! \n\n If you would but let us know what your business is,  said Mrs.\nJennings,  we might see whether it could be put off or not. \n\n You would not be six hours later,  said Willoughby,  if you were to\ndefer your journey till our return. \n\n I cannot afford to lose _one_ hour. \n\nElinor then heard Willoughby say, in a low voice to Marianne,  There\nare some people who cannot bear a party of pleasure. Brandon is one of\nthem. He was afraid of catching cold I dare say, and invented this\ntrick for getting out of it. I would lay fifty guineas the letter was\nof his own writing. \n\n I have no doubt of it,  replied Marianne.\n\n There is no persuading you to change your mind, Brandon, I know of\nold,  said Sir John,  when once you are determined on anything. But,\nhowever, I hope you will think better of it. Consider, here are the two\nMiss Careys come over from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods walked up\nfrom the cottage, and Mr. Willoughby got up two hours before his usual\ntime, on purpose to go to Whitwell. \n\nColonel Brandon again repeated his sorrow at being the cause of\ndisappointing the party; but at the same time declared it to be\nunavoidable.\n\n Well, then, when will you come back again? \n\n I hope we shall see you at Barton,  added her ladyship,  as soon as\nyou can conveniently leave town; and we must put off the party to\nWhitwell till you return. \n\n You are very obliging. But it is so uncertain, when I may have it in\nmy power to return, that I dare not engage for it at all. \n\n Oh! he must and shall come back,  cried Sir John.  If he is not here\nby the end of the week, I shall go after him. \n\n Ay, so do, Sir John,  cried Mrs. Jennings,  and then perhaps you may\nfind out what his business is. \n\n I do not want to pry into other men s concerns. I suppose it is\nsomething he is ashamed of. \n\nColonel Brandon s horses were announced.\n\n You do not go to town on horseback, do you?  added Sir John.\n\n No. Only to Honiton. I shall then go post. \n\n Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good journey. But you\nhad better change your mind. \n\n I assure you it is not in my power. \n\nHe then took leave of the whole party.\n\n Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this\nwinter, Miss Dashwood? \n\n I am afraid, none at all. \n\n Then I must bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish to\ndo. \n\nTo Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing.\n\n Come Colonel,  said Mrs. Jennings,  before you go, do let us know what\nyou are going about. \n\nHe wished her a good morning, and, attended by Sir John, left the room.\n\nThe complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto\nrestrained, now burst forth universally; and they all agreed again and\nagain how provoking it was to be so disappointed.\n\n I can guess what his business is, however,  said Mrs. Jennings\nexultingly.\n\n Can you, ma am?  said almost every body.\n\n Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure. \n\n And who is Miss Williams?  asked Marianne.\n\n What! do not you know who Miss Williams is? I am sure you must have\nheard of her before. She is a relation of the Colonel s, my dear; a\nvery near relation. We will not say how near, for fear of shocking the\nyoung ladies.  Then, lowering her voice a little, she said to Elinor,\n She is his natural daughter. \n\n Indeed! \n\n Oh, yes; and as like him as she can stare. I dare say the Colonel will\nleave her all his fortune. \n\nWhen Sir John returned, he joined most heartily in the general regret\non so unfortunate an event; concluding however by observing, that as\nthey were all got together, they must do something by way of being\nhappy; and after some consultation it was agreed, that although\nhappiness could only be enjoyed at Whitwell, they might procure a\ntolerable composure of mind by driving about the country. The carriages\nwere then ordered; Willoughby s was first, and Marianne never looked\nhappier than when she got into it. He drove through the park very fast,\nand they were soon out of sight; and nothing more of them was seen till\ntheir return, which did not happen till after the return of all the\nrest. They both seemed delighted with their drive; but said only in\ngeneral terms that they had kept in the lanes, while the others went on\nthe downs.\n\nIt was settled that there should be a dance in the evening, and that\nevery body should be extremely merry all day long. Some more of the\nCareys came to dinner, and they had the pleasure of sitting down nearly\ntwenty to table, which Sir John observed with great contentment.\nWilloughby took his usual place between the two elder Miss Dashwoods.\nMrs. Jennings sat on Elinor s right hand; and they had not been long\nseated, before she leant behind her and Willoughby, and said to\nMarianne, loud enough for them both to hear,  I have found you out in\nspite of all your tricks. I know where you spent the morning. \n\nMarianne coloured, and replied very hastily,  Where, pray? \n\n Did not you know,  said Willoughby,  that we had been out in my\ncurricle? \n\n Yes, yes, Mr. Impudence, I know that very well, and I was determined\nto find out _where_ you had been to. I hope you like your house, Miss\nMarianne. It is a very large one, I know; and when I come to see you, I\nhope you will have new-furnished it, for it wanted it very much when I\nwas there six years ago. \n\nMarianne turned away in great confusion. Mrs. Jennings laughed\nheartily; and Elinor found that in her resolution to know where they\nhad been, she had actually made her own woman enquire of Mr.\nWilloughby s groom; and that she had by that method been informed that\nthey had gone to Allenham, and spent a considerable time there in\nwalking about the garden and going all over the house.\n\nElinor could hardly believe this to be true, as it seemed very unlikely\nthat Willoughby should propose, or Marianne consent, to enter the house\nwhile Mrs. Smith was in it, with whom Marianne had not the smallest\nacquaintance.\n\nAs soon as they left the dining-room, Elinor enquired of her about it;\nand great was her surprise when she found that every circumstance\nrelated by Mrs. Jennings was perfectly true. Marianne was quite angry\nwith her for doubting it.\n\n Why should you imagine, Elinor, that we did not go there, or that we\ndid not see the house? Is not it what you have often wished to do\nyourself? \n\n Yes, Marianne, but I would not go while Mrs. Smith was there, and with\nno other companion than Mr. Willoughby. \n\n Mr. Willoughby however is the only person who can have a right to show\nthat house; and as he went in an open carriage, it was impossible to\nhave any other companion. I never spent a pleasanter morning in my\nlife. \n\n I am afraid,  replied Elinor,  that the pleasantness of an employment\ndoes not always evince its propriety. \n\n On the contrary, nothing can be a stronger proof of it, Elinor; for if\nthere had been any real impropriety in what I did, I should have been\nsensible of it at the time, for we always know when we are acting\nwrong, and with such a conviction I could have had no pleasure. \n\n But, my dear Marianne, as it has already exposed you to some very\nimpertinent remarks, do you not now begin to doubt the discretion of\nyour own conduct? \n\n If the impertinent remarks of Mrs. Jennings are to be the proof of\nimpropriety in conduct, we are all offending every moment of our lives.\nI value not her censure any more than I should do her commendation. I\nam not sensible of having done anything wrong in walking over Mrs.\nSmith s grounds, or in seeing her house. They will one day be Mr.\nWilloughby s, and \n\n If they were one day to be your own, Marianne, you would not be\njustified in what you have done. \n\nShe blushed at this hint; but it was even visibly gratifying to her;\nand after a ten minutes  interval of earnest thought, she came to her\nsister again, and said with great good humour,  Perhaps, Elinor, it\n_was_ rather ill-judged in me to go to Allenham; but Mr. Willoughby\nwanted particularly to show me the place; and it is a charming house, I\nassure you. There is one remarkably pretty sitting room up stairs; of a\nnice comfortable size for constant use, and with modern furniture it\nwould be delightful. It is a corner room, and has windows on two sides.\nOn one side you look across the bowling-green, behind the house, to a\nbeautiful hanging wood, and on the other you have a view of the church\nand village, and, beyond them, of those fine bold hills that we have so\noften admired. I did not see it to advantage, for nothing could be more\nforlorn than the furniture, but if it were newly fitted up a couple of\nhundred pounds, Willoughby says, would make it one of the pleasantest\nsummer-rooms in England. \n\nCould Elinor have listened to her without interruption from the others,\nshe would have described every room in the house with equal delight.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\n\nThe sudden termination of Colonel Brandon s visit at the park, with his\nsteadiness in concealing its cause, filled the mind, and raised the\nwonder of Mrs. Jennings for two or three days; she was a great\nwonderer, as every one must be who takes a very lively interest in all\nthe comings and goings of all their acquaintance. She wondered, with\nlittle intermission what could be the reason of it; was sure there must\nbe some bad news, and thought over every kind of distress that could\nhave befallen him, with a fixed determination that he should not escape\nthem all.\n\n Something very melancholy must be the matter, I am sure,  said she.  I\ncould see it in his face. Poor man! I am afraid his circumstances may\nbe bad. The estate at Delaford was never reckoned more than two\nthousand a year, and his brother left everything sadly involved. I do\nthink he must have been sent for about money matters, for what else can\nit be? I wonder whether it is so. I would give anything to know the\ntruth of it. Perhaps it is about Miss Williams and, by the bye, I dare\nsay it is, because he looked so conscious when I mentioned her. May be\nshe is ill in town; nothing in the world more likely, for I have a\nnotion she is always rather sickly. I would lay any wager it is about\nMiss Williams. It is not so very likely he should be distressed in his\ncircumstances _now_, for he is a very prudent man, and to be sure must\nhave cleared the estate by this time. I wonder what it can be! May be\nhis sister is worse at Avignon, and has sent for him over. His setting\noff in such a hurry seems very like it. Well, I wish him out of all his\ntrouble with all my heart, and a good wife into the bargain. \n\nSo wondered, so talked Mrs. Jennings. Her opinion varying with every\nfresh conjecture, and all seeming equally probable as they arose.\nElinor, though she felt really interested in the welfare of Colonel\nBrandon, could not bestow all the wonder on his going so suddenly away,\nwhich Mrs. Jennings was desirous of her feeling; for besides that the\ncircumstance did not in her opinion justify such lasting amazement or\nvariety of speculation, her wonder was otherwise disposed of. It was\nengrossed by the extraordinary silence of her sister and Willoughby on\nthe subject, which they must know to be peculiarly interesting to them\nall. As this silence continued, every day made it appear more strange\nand more incompatible with the disposition of both. Why they should not\nopenly acknowledge to her mother and herself, what their constant\nbehaviour to each other declared to have taken place, Elinor could not\nimagine.\n\nShe could easily conceive that marriage might not be immediately in\ntheir power; for though Willoughby was independent, there was no reason\nto believe him rich. His estate had been rated by Sir John at about six\nor seven hundred a year; but he lived at an expense to which that\nincome could hardly be equal, and he had himself often complained of\nhis poverty. But for this strange kind of secrecy maintained by them\nrelative to their engagement, which in fact concealed nothing at all,\nshe could not account; and it was so wholly contradictory to their\ngeneral opinions and practice, that a doubt sometimes entered her mind\nof their being really engaged, and this doubt was enough to prevent her\nmaking any inquiry of Marianne.\n\nNothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all, than\nWilloughby s behaviour. To Marianne it had all the distinguishing\ntenderness which a lover s heart could give, and to the rest of the\nfamily it was the affectionate attention of a son and a brother. The\ncottage seemed to be considered and loved by him as his home; many more\nof his hours were spent there than at Allenham; and if no general\nengagement collected them at the park, the exercise which called him\nout in the morning was almost certain of ending there, where the rest\nof the day was spent by himself at the side of Marianne, and by his\nfavourite pointer at her feet.\n\nOne evening in particular, about a week after Colonel Brandon left the\ncountry, his heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling of\nattachment to the objects around him; and on Mrs. Dashwood s happening\nto mention her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he warmly\nopposed every alteration of a place which affection had established as\nperfect with him.\n\n What!  he exclaimed Improve this dear cottage! No. _That_ I will\nnever consent to. Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch\nto its size, if my feelings are regarded. \n\n Do not be alarmed,  said Miss Dashwood,  nothing of the kind will be\ndone; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it. \n\n I am heartily glad of it,  he cried.  May she always be poor, if she\ncan employ her riches no better. \n\n Thank you, Willoughby. But you may be assured that I would not\nsacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one\nwhom I loved, for all the improvements in the world. Depend upon it\nthat whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in\nthe spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it\nin a manner so painful to you. But are you really so attached to this\nplace as to see no defect in it? \n\n I am,  said he.  To me it is faultless. Nay, more, I consider it as\nthe only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I\nrich enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in\nthe exact plan of this cottage. \n\n With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose,  said\nElinor.\n\n Yes,  cried he in the same eager tone,  with all and every thing\nbelonging to it; in no one convenience or inconvenience about it,\nshould the least variation be perceptible. Then, and then only, under\nsuch a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at\nBarton. \n\n I flatter myself,  replied Elinor,  that even under the disadvantage\nof better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your\nown house as faultless as you now do this. \n\n There certainly are circumstances,  said Willoughby,  which might\ngreatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of\nmy affection, which no other can possibly share. \n\nMrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were\nfixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she\nunderstood him.\n\n How often did I wish,  added he,  when I was at Allenham this time\ntwelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited! I never passed within\nview of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one\nshould live in it. How little did I then think that the very first news\nI should hear from Mrs. Smith, when I next came into the country, would\nbe that Barton cottage was taken: and I felt an immediate satisfaction\nand interest in the event, which nothing but a kind of prescience of\nwhat happiness I should experience from it, can account for. Must it\nnot have been so, Marianne?  speaking to her in a lowered voice. Then\ncontinuing his former tone, he said,  And yet this house you would\nspoil, Mrs. Dashwood? You would rob it of its simplicity by imaginary\nimprovement! and this dear parlour in which our acquaintance first\nbegan, and in which so many happy hours have been since spent by us\ntogether, you would degrade to the condition of a common entrance, and\nevery body would be eager to pass through the room which has hitherto\ncontained within itself more real accommodation and comfort than any\nother apartment of the handsomest dimensions in the world could\npossibly afford. \n\nMrs. Dashwood again assured him that no alteration of the kind should\nbe attempted.\n\n You are a good woman,  he warmly replied.  Your promise makes me easy.\nExtend it a little farther, and it will make me happy. Tell me that not\nonly your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever find you\nand yours as unchanged as your dwelling; and that you will always\nconsider me with the kindness which has made everything belonging to\nyou so dear to me. \n\nThe promise was readily given, and Willoughby s behaviour during the\nwhole of the evening declared at once his affection and happiness.\n\n Shall we see you tomorrow to dinner?  said Mrs. Dashwood, when he was\nleaving them.  I do not ask you to come in the morning, for we must\nwalk to the park, to call on Lady Middleton. \n\nHe engaged to be with them by four o clock.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\n\nMrs. Dashwood s visit to Lady Middleton took place the next day, and\ntwo of her daughters went with her; but Marianne excused herself from\nbeing of the party, under some trifling pretext of employment; and her\nmother, who concluded that a promise had been made by Willoughby the\nnight before of calling on her while they were absent, was perfectly\nsatisfied with her remaining at home.\n\nOn their return from the park they found Willoughby s curricle and\nservant in waiting at the cottage, and Mrs. Dashwood was convinced that\nher conjecture had been just. So far it was all as she had foreseen;\nbut on entering the house she beheld what no foresight had taught her\nto expect. They were no sooner in the passage than Marianne came\nhastily out of the parlour apparently in violent affliction, with her\nhandkerchief at her eyes; and without noticing them ran up stairs.\nSurprised and alarmed they proceeded directly into the room she had\njust quitted, where they found only Willoughby, who was leaning against\nthe mantel-piece with his back towards them. He turned round on their\ncoming in, and his countenance showed that he strongly partook of the\nemotion which over-powered Marianne.\n\n Is anything the matter with her?  cried Mrs. Dashwood as she\nentered is she ill? \n\n I hope not,  he replied, trying to look cheerful; and with a forced\nsmile presently added,  It is I who may rather expect to be ill for I\nam now suffering under a very heavy disappointment! \n\n Disappointment? \n\n Yes, for I am unable to keep my engagement with you. Mrs. Smith has\nthis morning exercised the privilege of riches upon a poor dependent\ncousin, by sending me on business to London. I have just received my\ndispatches, and taken my farewell of Allenham; and by way of\nexhilaration I am now come to take my farewell of you. \n\n To London! and are you going this morning? \n\n Almost this moment. \n\n This is very unfortunate. But Mrs. Smith must be obliged; and her\nbusiness will not detain you from us long I hope. \n\nHe coloured as he replied,  You are very kind, but I have no idea of\nreturning into Devonshire immediately. My visits to Mrs. Smith are\nnever repeated within the twelvemonth. \n\n And is Mrs. Smith your only friend? Is Allenham the only house in the\nneighbourhood to which you will be welcome? For shame, Willoughby, can\nyou wait for an invitation here? \n\nHis colour increased; and with his eyes fixed on the ground he only\nreplied,  You are too good. \n\nMrs. Dashwood looked at Elinor with surprise. Elinor felt equal\namazement. For a few moments every one was silent. Mrs. Dashwood first\nspoke.\n\n I have only to add, my dear Willoughby, that at Barton cottage you\nwill always be welcome; for I will not press you to return here\nimmediately, because you only can judge how far _that_ might be\npleasing to Mrs. Smith; and on this head I shall be no more disposed to\nquestion your judgment than to doubt your inclination. \n\n My engagements at present,  replied Willoughby, confusedly,  are of\nsuch a nature that I dare not flatter myself \n\nHe stopped. Mrs. Dashwood was too much astonished to speak, and another\npause succeeded. This was broken by Willoughby, who said with a faint\nsmile,  It is folly to linger in this manner. I will not torment myself\nany longer by remaining among friends whose society it is impossible\nfor me now to enjoy. \n\nHe then hastily took leave of them all and left the room. They saw him\nstep into his carriage, and in a minute it was out of sight.\n\nMrs. Dashwood felt too much for speech, and instantly quitted the\nparlour to give way in solitude to the concern and alarm which this\nsudden departure occasioned.\n\nElinor s uneasiness was at least equal to her mother s. She thought of\nwhat had just passed with anxiety and distrust. Willoughby s behaviour\nin taking leave of them, his embarrassment, and affectation of\ncheerfulness, and, above all, his unwillingness to accept her mother s\ninvitation, a backwardness so unlike a lover, so unlike himself,\ngreatly disturbed her. One moment she feared that no serious design had\never been formed on his side; and the next that some unfortunate\nquarrel had taken place between him and her sister; the distress in\nwhich Marianne had quitted the room was such as a serious quarrel could\nmost reasonably account for, though when she considered what Marianne s\nlove for him was, a quarrel seemed almost impossible.\n\nBut whatever might be the particulars of their separation, her sister s\naffliction was indubitable; and she thought with the tenderest\ncompassion of that violent sorrow which Marianne was in all probability\nnot merely giving way to as a relief, but feeding and encouraging as a\nduty.\n\nIn about half an hour her mother returned, and though her eyes were\nred, her countenance was not uncheerful.\n\n Our dear Willoughby is now some miles from Barton, Elinor,  said she,\nas she sat down to work,  and with how heavy a heart does he travel? \n\n It is all very strange. So suddenly to be gone! It seems but the work\nof a moment. And last night he was with us so happy, so cheerful, so\naffectionate? And now, after only ten minutes notice Gone too without\nintending to return! Something more than what he owned to us must have\nhappened. He did not speak, he did not behave like himself. _You_ must\nhave seen the difference as well as I. What can it be? Can they have\nquarrelled? Why else should he have shown such unwillingness to accept\nyour invitation here? \n\n It was not inclination that he wanted, Elinor; I could plainly see\n_that_. He had not the power of accepting it. I have thought it all\nover I assure you, and I can perfectly account for every thing that at\nfirst seemed strange to me as well as to you. \n\n Can you, indeed! \n\n Yes. I have explained it to myself in the most satisfactory way; but\nyou, Elinor, who love to doubt where you can it will not satisfy _you_,\nI know; but you shall not talk _me_ out of my trust in it. I am\npersuaded that Mrs. Smith suspects his regard for Marianne, disapproves\nof it, (perhaps because she has other views for him,) and on that\naccount is eager to get him away; and that the business which she sends\nhim off to transact is invented as an excuse to dismiss him. This is\nwhat I believe to have happened. He is, moreover, aware that she _does_\ndisapprove the connection, he dares not therefore at present confess to\nher his engagement with Marianne, and he feels himself obliged, from\nhis dependent situation, to give into her schemes, and absent himself\nfrom Devonshire for a while. You will tell me, I know, that this may or\nmay _not_ have happened; but I will listen to no cavil, unless you can\npoint out any other method of understanding the affair as satisfactory\nat this. And now, Elinor, what have you to say? \n\n Nothing, for you have anticipated my answer. \n\n Then you would have told me, that it might or might not have happened.\nOh, Elinor, how incomprehensible are your feelings! You had rather take\nevil upon credit than good. You had rather look out for misery for\nMarianne, and guilt for poor Willoughby, than an apology for the\nlatter. You are resolved to think him blameable, because he took leave\nof us with less affection than his usual behaviour has shown. And is no\nallowance to be made for inadvertence, or for spirits depressed by\nrecent disappointment? Are no probabilities to be accepted, merely\nbecause they are not certainties? Is nothing due to the man whom we\nhave all such reason to love, and no reason in the world to think ill\nof? To the possibility of motives unanswerable in themselves, though\nunavoidably secret for a while? And, after all, what is it you suspect\nhim of? \n\n I can hardly tell myself. But suspicion of something unpleasant is the\ninevitable consequence of such an alteration as we just witnessed in\nhim. There is great truth, however, in what you have now urged of the\nallowances which ought to be made for him, and it is my wish to be\ncandid in my judgment of every body. Willoughby may undoubtedly have\nvery sufficient reasons for his conduct, and I will hope that he has.\nBut it would have been more like Willoughby to acknowledge them at\nonce. Secrecy may be advisable; but still I cannot help wondering at\nits being practiced by him. \n\n Do not blame him, however, for departing from his character, where the\ndeviation is necessary. But you really do admit the justice of what I\nhave said in his defence? I am happy and he is acquitted. \n\n Not entirely. It may be proper to conceal their engagement (if they\n_are_ engaged) from Mrs. Smith and if that is the case, it must be\nhighly expedient for Willoughby to be but little in Devonshire at\npresent. But this is no excuse for their concealing it from us. \n\n Concealing it from us! my dear child, do you accuse Willoughby and\nMarianne of concealment? This is strange indeed, when your eyes have\nbeen reproaching them every day for incautiousness. \n\n I want no proof of their affection,  said Elinor;  but of their\nengagement I do. \n\n I am perfectly satisfied of both. \n\n Yet not a syllable has been said to you on the subject, by either of\nthem. \n\n I have not wanted syllables where actions have spoken so plainly. Has\nnot his behaviour to Marianne and to all of us, for at least the last\nfortnight, declared that he loved and considered her as his future\nwife, and that he felt for us the attachment of the nearest relation?\nHave we not perfectly understood each other? Has not my consent been\ndaily asked by his looks, his manner, his attentive and affectionate\nrespect? My Elinor, is it possible to doubt their engagement? How could\nsuch a thought occur to you? How is it to be supposed that Willoughby,\npersuaded as he must be of your sister s love, should leave her, and\nleave her perhaps for months, without telling her of his\naffection; that they should part without a mutual exchange of\nconfidence? \n\n I confess,  replied Elinor,  that every circumstance except _one_ is\nin favour of their engagement; but that _one_ is the total silence of\nboth on the subject, and with me it almost outweighs every other. \n\n How strange this is! You must think wretchedly indeed of Willoughby,\nif, after all that has openly passed between them, you can doubt the\nnature of the terms on which they are together. Has he been acting a\npart in his behaviour to your sister all this time? Do you suppose him\nreally indifferent to her? \n\n No, I cannot think that. He must and does love her I am sure. \n\n But with a strange kind of tenderness, if he can leave her with such\nindifference, such carelessness of the future, as you attribute to\nhim. \n\n You must remember, my dear mother, that I have never considered this\nmatter as certain. I have had my doubts, I confess; but they are\nfainter than they were, and they may soon be entirely done away. If we\nfind they correspond, every fear of mine will be removed. \n\n A mighty concession indeed! If you were to see them at the altar, you\nwould suppose they were going to be married. Ungracious girl! But _I_\nrequire no such proof. Nothing in my opinion has ever passed to justify\ndoubt; no secrecy has been attempted; all has been uniformly open and\nunreserved. You cannot doubt your sister s wishes. It must be\nWilloughby therefore whom you suspect. But why? Is he not a man of\nhonour and feeling? Has there been any inconsistency on his side to\ncreate alarm? can he be deceitful? \n\n I hope not, I believe not,  cried Elinor.  I love Willoughby,\nsincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more\npainful to yourself than to me. It has been involuntary, and I will not\nencourage it. I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his\nmanners this morning; he did not speak like himself, and did not return\nyour kindness with any cordiality. But all this may be explained by\nsuch a situation of his affairs as you have supposed. He had just\nparted from my sister, had seen her leave him in the greatest\naffliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Mrs.\nSmith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet aware\nthat by declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away for\nsome time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part by\nour family, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed. In such a case,\na plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been more to his\nhonour I think, as well as more consistent with his general\ncharacter; but I will not raise objections against any one s conduct on\nso illiberal a foundation, as a difference in judgment from myself, or\na deviation from what I may think right and consistent. \n\n You speak very properly. Willoughby certainly does not deserve to be\nsuspected. Though _we_ have not known him long, he is no stranger in\nthis part of the world; and who has ever spoken to his disadvantage?\nHad he been in a situation to act independently and marry immediately,\nit might have been odd that he should leave us without acknowledging\neverything to me at once: but this is not the case. It is an engagement\nin some respects not prosperously begun, for their marriage must be at\na very uncertain distance; and even secrecy, as far as it can be\nobserved, may now be very advisable. \n\nThey were interrupted by the entrance of Margaret; and Elinor was then\nat liberty to think over the representations of her mother, to\nacknowledge the probability of many, and hope for the justice of all.\n\nThey saw nothing of Marianne till dinner time, when she entered the\nroom and took her place at the table without saying a word. Her eyes\nwere red and swollen; and it seemed as if her tears were even then\nrestrained with difficulty. She avoided the looks of them all, could\nneither eat nor speak, and after some time, on her mother s silently\npressing her hand with tender compassion, her small degree of fortitude\nwas quite overcome, she burst into tears and left the room.\n\nThis violent oppression of spirits continued the whole evening. She was\nwithout any power, because she was without any desire of command over\nherself. The slightest mention of anything relative to Willoughby\noverpowered her in an instant; and though her family were most\nanxiously attentive to her comfort, it was impossible for them, if they\nspoke at all, to keep clear of every subject which her feelings\nconnected with him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\n\nMarianne would have thought herself very inexcusable had she been able\nto sleep at all the first night after parting from Willoughby. She\nwould have been ashamed to look her family in the face the next\nmorning, had she not risen from her bed in more need of repose than\nwhen she lay down in it. But the feelings which made such composure a\ndisgrace, left her in no danger of incurring it. She was awake the\nwhole night, and she wept the greatest part of it. She got up with a\nheadache, was unable to talk, and unwilling to take any nourishment;\ngiving pain every moment to her mother and sisters, and forbidding all\nattempt at consolation from either. Her sensibility was potent enough!\n\nWhen breakfast was over she walked out by herself, and wandered about\nthe village of Allenham, indulging the recollection of past enjoyment\nand crying over the present reverse for the chief of the morning.\n\nThe evening passed off in the equal indulgence of feeling. She played\nover every favourite song that she had been used to play to Willoughby,\nevery air in which their voices had been oftenest joined, and sat at\nthe instrument gazing on every line of music that he had written out\nfor her, till her heart was so heavy that no farther sadness could be\ngained; and this nourishment of grief was every day applied. She spent\nwhole hours at the pianoforte alternately singing and crying; her voice\noften totally suspended by her tears. In books too, as well as in\nmusic, she courted the misery which a contrast between the past and\npresent was certain of giving. She read nothing but what they had been\nused to read together.\n\nSuch violence of affliction indeed could not be supported for ever; it\nsunk within a few days into a calmer melancholy; but these employments,\nto which she daily recurred, her solitary walks and silent meditations,\nstill produced occasional effusions of sorrow as lively as ever.\n\nNo letter from Willoughby came; and none seemed expected by Marianne.\nHer mother was surprised, and Elinor again became uneasy. But Mrs.\nDashwood could find explanations whenever she wanted them, which at\nleast satisfied herself.\n\n Remember, Elinor,  said she,  how very often Sir John fetches our\nletters himself from the post, and carries them to it. We have already\nagreed that secrecy may be necessary, and we must acknowledge that it\ncould not be maintained if their correspondence were to pass through\nSir John s hands. \n\nElinor could not deny the truth of this, and she tried to find in it a\nmotive sufficient for their silence. But there was one method so\ndirect, so simple, and in her opinion so eligible of knowing the real\nstate of the affair, and of instantly removing all mystery, that she\ncould not help suggesting it to her mother.\n\n Why do you not ask Marianne at once,  said she,  whether she is or she\nis not engaged to Willoughby? From you, her mother, and so kind, so\nindulgent a mother, the question could not give offence. It would be\nthe natural result of your affection for her. She used to be all\nunreserve, and to you more especially. \n\n I would not ask such a question for the world. Supposing it possible\nthat they are not engaged, what distress would not such an enquiry\ninflict! At any rate it would be most ungenerous. I should never\ndeserve her confidence again, after forcing from her a confession of\nwhat is meant at present to be unacknowledged to any one. I know\nMarianne s heart: I know that she dearly loves me, and that I shall not\nbe the last to whom the affair is made known, when circumstances make\nthe revealment of it eligible. I would not attempt to force the\nconfidence of any one; of a child much less; because a sense of duty\nwould prevent the denial which her wishes might direct. \n\nElinor thought this generosity overstrained, considering her sister s\nyouth, and urged the matter farther, but in vain; common sense, common\ncare, common prudence, were all sunk in Mrs. Dashwood s romantic\ndelicacy.\n\nIt was several days before Willoughby s name was mentioned before\nMarianne by any of her family; Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, indeed, were\nnot so nice; their witticisms added pain to many a painful hour; but\none evening, Mrs. Dashwood, accidentally taking up a volume of\nShakespeare, exclaimed,\n\n We have never finished Hamlet, Marianne; our dear Willoughby went away\nbefore we could get through it. We will put it by, that when he comes\nagain...But it may be months, perhaps, before _that_ happens. \n\n Months!  cried Marianne, with strong surprise.  No nor many weeks. \n\nMrs. Dashwood was sorry for what she had said; but it gave Elinor\npleasure, as it produced a reply from Marianne so expressive of\nconfidence in Willoughby and knowledge of his intentions.\n\nOne morning, about a week after his leaving the country, Marianne was\nprevailed on to join her sisters in their usual walk, instead of\nwandering away by herself. Hitherto she had carefully avoided every\ncompanion in her rambles. If her sisters intended to walk on the downs,\nshe directly stole away towards the lanes; if they talked of the\nvalley, she was as speedy in climbing the hills, and could never be\nfound when the others set off. But at length she was secured by the\nexertions of Elinor, who greatly disapproved such continual seclusion.\nThey walked along the road through the valley, and chiefly in silence,\nfor Marianne s _mind_ could not be controlled, and Elinor, satisfied\nwith gaining one point, would not then attempt more. Beyond the\nentrance of the valley, where the country, though still rich, was less\nwild and more open, a long stretch of the road which they had travelled\non first coming to Barton, lay before them; and on reaching that point,\nthey stopped to look around them, and examine a prospect which formed\nthe distance of their view from the cottage, from a spot which they had\nnever happened to reach in any of their walks before.\n\nAmongst the objects in the scene, they soon discovered an animated one;\nit was a man on horseback riding towards them. In a few minutes they\ncould distinguish him to be a gentleman; and in a moment afterwards\nMarianne rapturously exclaimed,\n\n It is he; it is indeed; I know it is! and was hastening to meet him,\nwhen Elinor cried out,\n\n Indeed, Marianne, I think you are mistaken. It is not Willoughby. The\nperson is not tall enough for him, and has not his air. \n\n He has, he has,  cried Marianne,  I am sure he has. His air, his coat,\nhis horse. I knew how soon he would come. \n\nShe walked eagerly on as she spoke; and Elinor, to screen Marianne from\nparticularity, as she felt almost certain of its not being Willoughby,\nquickened her pace and kept up with her. They were soon within thirty\nyards of the gentleman. Marianne looked again; her heart sunk within\nher; and abruptly turning round, she was hurrying back, when the voices\nof both her sisters were raised to detain her; a third, almost as well\nknown as Willoughby s, joined them in begging her to stop, and she\nturned round with surprise to see and welcome Edward Ferrars.\n\nHe was the only person in the world who could at that moment be\nforgiven for not being Willoughby; the only one who could have gained a\nsmile from her; but she dispersed her tears to smile on _him_, and in\nher sister s happiness forgot for a time her own disappointment.\n\nHe dismounted, and giving his horse to his servant, walked back with\nthem to Barton, whither he was purposely coming to visit them.\n\nHe was welcomed by them all with great cordiality, but especially by\nMarianne, who showed more warmth of regard in her reception of him than\neven Elinor herself. To Marianne, indeed, the meeting between Edward\nand her sister was but a continuation of that unaccountable coldness\nwhich she had often observed at Norland in their mutual behaviour. On\nEdward s side, more particularly, there was a deficiency of all that a\nlover ought to look and say on such an occasion. He was confused,\nseemed scarcely sensible of pleasure in seeing them, looked neither\nrapturous nor gay, said little but what was forced from him by\nquestions, and distinguished Elinor by no mark of affection. Marianne\nsaw and listened with increasing surprise. She began almost to feel a\ndislike of Edward; and it ended, as every feeling must end with her, by\ncarrying back her thoughts to Willoughby, whose manners formed a\ncontrast sufficiently striking to those of his brother elect.\n\nAfter a short silence which succeeded the first surprise and enquiries\nof meeting, Marianne asked Edward if he came directly from London. No,\nhe had been in Devonshire a fortnight.\n\n A fortnight!  she repeated, surprised at his being so long in the same\ncounty with Elinor without seeing her before.\n\nHe looked rather distressed as he added, that he had been staying with\nsome friends near Plymouth.\n\n Have you been lately in Sussex?  said Elinor.\n\n I was at Norland about a month ago. \n\n And how does dear, dear Norland look?  cried Marianne.\n\n Dear, dear Norland,  said Elinor,  probably looks much as it always\ndoes at this time of the year. The woods and walks thickly covered with\ndead leaves. \n\n Oh,  cried Marianne,  with what transporting sensation have I formerly\nseen them fall! How have I delighted, as I walked, to see them driven\nin showers about me by the wind! What feelings have they, the season,\nthe air altogether inspired! Now there is no one to regard them. They\nare seen only as a nuisance, swept hastily off, and driven as much as\npossible from the sight. \n\n It is not every one,  said Elinor,  who has your passion for dead\nleaves. \n\n No; my feelings are not often shared, not often understood. But\n_sometimes_ they are. As she said this, she sunk into a reverie for a\nfew moments; but rousing herself again,  Now, Edward,  said she,\ncalling his attention to the prospect,  here is Barton valley. Look up\nto it, and be tranquil if you can. Look at those hills! Did you ever\nsee their equals? To the left is Barton park, amongst those woods and\nplantations. You may see the end of the house. And there, beneath that\nfarthest hill, which rises with such grandeur, is our cottage. \n\n It is a beautiful country,  he replied;  but these bottoms must be\ndirty in winter. \n\n How can you think of dirt, with such objects before you? \n\n Because,  replied he, smiling,  among the rest of the objects before\nme, I see a very dirty lane. \n\n How strange!  said Marianne to herself as she walked on.\n\n Have you an agreeable neighbourhood here? Are the Middletons pleasant\npeople? \n\n No, not all,  answered Marianne;  we could not be more unfortunately\nsituated. \n\n Marianne,  cried her sister,  how can you say so? How can you be so\nunjust? They are a very respectable family, Mr. Ferrars; and towards us\nhave behaved in the friendliest manner. Have you forgot, Marianne, how\nmany pleasant days we have owed to them? \n\n No,  said Marianne, in a low voice,  nor how many painful moments. \n\nElinor took no notice of this; and directing her attention to their\nvisitor, endeavoured to support something like discourse with him, by\ntalking of their present residence, its conveniences, &c. extorting\nfrom him occasional questions and remarks. His coldness and reserve\nmortified her severely; she was vexed and half angry; but resolving to\nregulate her behaviour to him by the past rather than the present, she\navoided every appearance of resentment or displeasure, and treated him\nas she thought he ought to be treated from the family connection.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\n\nMrs. Dashwood was surprised only for a moment at seeing him; for his\ncoming to Barton was, in her opinion, of all things the most natural.\nHer joy and expression of regard long outlived her wonder. He received\nthe kindest welcome from her; and shyness, coldness, reserve could not\nstand against such a reception. They had begun to fail him before he\nentered the house, and they were quite overcome by the captivating\nmanners of Mrs. Dashwood. Indeed a man could not very well be in love\nwith either of her daughters, without extending the passion to her; and\nElinor had the satisfaction of seeing him soon become more like\nhimself. His affections seemed to reanimate towards them all, and his\ninterest in their welfare again became perceptible. He was not in\nspirits, however; he praised their house, admired its prospect, was\nattentive, and kind; but still he was not in spirits. The whole family\nperceived it, and Mrs. Dashwood, attributing it to some want of\nliberality in his mother, sat down to table indignant against all\nselfish parents.\n\n What are Mrs. Ferrars s views for you at present, Edward?  said she,\nwhen dinner was over and they had drawn round the fire;  are you still\nto be a great orator in spite of yourself? \n\n No. I hope my mother is now convinced that I have no more talents than\ninclination for a public life! \n\n But how is your fame to be established? for famous you must be to\nsatisfy all your family; and with no inclination for expense, no\naffection for strangers, no profession, and no assurance, you may find\nit a difficult matter. \n\n I shall not attempt it. I have no wish to be distinguished; and have\nevery reason to hope I never shall. Thank Heaven! I cannot be forced\ninto genius and eloquence. \n\n You have no ambition, I well know. Your wishes are all moderate. \n\n As moderate as those of the rest of the world, I believe. I wish as\nwell as every body else to be perfectly happy; but, like every body\nelse it must be in my own way. Greatness will not make me so. \n\n Strange that it would!  cried Marianne.  What have wealth or grandeur\nto do with happiness? \n\n Grandeur has but little,  said Elinor,  but wealth has much to do with\nit. \n\n Elinor, for shame!  said Marianne,  money can only give happiness\nwhere there is nothing else to give it. Beyond a competence, it can\nafford no real satisfaction, as far as mere self is concerned. \n\n Perhaps,  said Elinor, smiling,  we may come to the same point. _Your_\ncompetence and _my_ wealth are very much alike, I dare say; and without\nthem, as the world goes now, we shall both agree that every kind of\nexternal comfort must be wanting. Your ideas are only more noble than\nmine. Come, what is your competence? \n\n About eighteen hundred or two thousand a year; not more than _that_. \n\nElinor laughed.  _two_ thousand a year! _one_ is my wealth! I guessed\nhow it would end. \n\n And yet two thousand a-year is a very moderate income,  said Marianne.\n A family cannot well be maintained on a smaller. I am sure I am not\nextravagant in my demands. A proper establishment of servants, a\ncarriage, perhaps two, and hunters, cannot be supported on less. \n\nElinor smiled again, to hear her sister describing so accurately their\nfuture expenses at Combe Magna.\n\n Hunters!  repeated Edward but why must you have hunters? Every body\ndoes not hunt. \n\nMarianne coloured as she replied,  But most people do. \n\n I wish,  said Margaret, striking out a novel thought,  that somebody\nwould give us all a large fortune apiece! \n\n Oh that they would!  cried Marianne, her eyes sparkling with\nanimation, and her cheeks glowing with the delight of such imaginary\nhappiness.\n\n We are all unanimous in that wish, I suppose,  said Elinor,  in spite\nof the insufficiency of wealth. \n\n Oh dear!  cried Margaret,  how happy I should be! I wonder what I\nshould do with it! \n\nMarianne looked as if she had no doubt on that point.\n\n I should be puzzled to spend so large a fortune myself,  said Mrs.\nDashwood,  if my children were all to be rich without my help. \n\n You must begin your improvements on this house,  observed Elinor,  and\nyour difficulties will soon vanish. \n\n What magnificent orders would travel from this family to London,  said\nEdward,  in such an event! What a happy day for booksellers,\nmusic-sellers, and print-shops! You, Miss Dashwood, would give a\ngeneral commission for every new print of merit to be sent you and as\nfor Marianne, I know her greatness of soul, there would not be music\nenough in London to content her. And books! Thomson, Cowper, Scott she\nwould buy them all over and over again: she would buy up every copy, I\nbelieve, to prevent their falling into unworthy hands; and she would\nhave every book that tells her how to admire an old twisted tree.\nShould not you, Marianne? Forgive me, if I am very saucy. But I was\nwilling to show you that I had not forgot our old disputes. \n\n I love to be reminded of the past, Edward whether it be melancholy or\ngay, I love to recall it and you will never offend me by talking of\nformer times. You are very right in supposing how my money would be\nspent some of it, at least my loose cash would certainly be employed in\nimproving my collection of music and books. \n\n And the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annuities on the\nauthors or their heirs. \n\n No, Edward, I should have something else to do with it. \n\n Perhaps, then, you would bestow it as a reward on that person who\nwrote the ablest defence of your favourite maxim, that no one can ever\nbe in love more than once in their life your opinion on that point is\nunchanged, I presume? \n\n Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed. It is\nnot likely that I should now see or hear any thing to change them. \n\n Marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see,  said Elinor,  she is not\nat all altered. \n\n She is only grown a little more grave than she was. \n\n Nay, Edward,  said Marianne,  _you_ need not reproach me. You are not\nvery gay yourself. \n\n Why should you think so!  replied he, with a sigh.  But gaiety never\nwas a part of _my_ character. \n\n Nor do I think it a part of Marianne s,  said Elinor;  I should hardly\ncall her a lively girl she is very earnest, very eager in all she\ndoes sometimes talks a great deal and always with animation but she is\nnot often really merry. \n\n I believe you are right,  he replied,  and yet I have always set her\ndown as a lively girl. \n\n I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes,  said\nElinor,  in a total misapprehension of character in some point or\nother: fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or\nstupid than they really are, and I can hardly tell why or in what the\ndeception originated. Sometimes one is guided by what they say of\nthemselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them,\nwithout giving oneself time to deliberate and judge. \n\n But I thought it was right, Elinor,  said Marianne,  to be guided\nwholly by the opinion of other people. I thought our judgments were\ngiven us merely to be subservient to those of neighbours. This has\nalways been your doctrine, I am sure. \n\n No, Marianne, never. My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of\nthe understanding. All I have ever attempted to influence has been the\nbehaviour. You must not confound my meaning. I am guilty, I confess, of\nhaving often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with\ngreater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their\nsentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters? \n\n You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of\ngeneral civility,  said Edward to Elinor,  Do you gain no ground? \n\n Quite the contrary,  replied Elinor, looking expressively at Marianne.\n\n My judgment,  he returned,  is all on your side of the question; but I\nam afraid my practice is much more on your sister s. I never wish to\noffend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I\nam only kept back by my natural awkwardness. I have frequently thought\nthat I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I\nam so little at my ease among strangers of gentility! \n\n Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers,  said\nElinor.\n\n She knows her own worth too well for false shame,  replied Edward.\n Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or\nother. If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy\nand graceful, I should not be shy. \n\n But you would still be reserved,  said Marianne,  and that is worse. \n\nEdward started Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne? \n\n Yes, very. \n\n I do not understand you,  replied he, colouring.  Reserved! how, in\nwhat manner? What am I to tell you? What can you suppose? \n\nElinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the\nsubject, she said to him,  Do not you know my sister well enough to\nunderstand what she means? Do not you know she calls every one reserved\nwho does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as rapturously\nas herself? \n\nEdward made no answer. His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him\nin their fullest extent and he sat for some time silent and dull.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\n\nElinor saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend. His\nvisit afforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own\nenjoyment in it appeared so imperfect. It was evident that he was\nunhappy; she wished it were equally evident that he still distinguished\nher by the same affection which once she had felt no doubt of\ninspiring; but hitherto the continuance of his preference seemed very\nuncertain; and the reservedness of his manner towards her contradicted\none moment what a more animated look had intimated the preceding one.\n\nHe joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning\nbefore the others were down; and Marianne, who was always eager to\npromote their happiness as far as she could, soon left them to\nthemselves. But before she was half way upstairs she heard the parlour\ndoor open, and, turning round, was astonished to see Edward himself\ncome out.\n\n I am going into the village to see my horses,  said he,  as you are\nnot yet ready for breakfast; I shall be back again presently. \n\n\nEdward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding\ncountry; in his walk to the village, he had seen many parts of the\nvalley to advantage; and the village itself, in a much higher situation\nthan the cottage, afforded a general view of the whole, which had\nexceedingly pleased him. This was a subject which ensured Marianne s\nattention, and she was beginning to describe her own admiration of\nthese scenes, and to question him more minutely on the objects that had\nparticularly struck him, when Edward interrupted her by saying,  You\nmust not enquire too far, Marianne remember I have no knowledge in the\npicturesque, and I shall offend you by my ignorance and want of taste\nif we come to particulars. I shall call hills steep, which ought to be\nbold; surfaces strange and uncouth, which ought to be irregular and\nrugged; and distant objects out of sight, which ought only to be\nindistinct through the soft medium of a hazy atmosphere. You must be\nsatisfied with such admiration as I can honestly give. I call it a very\nfine country the hills are steep, the woods seem full of fine timber,\nand the valley looks comfortable and snug with rich meadows and several\nneat farm houses scattered here and there. It exactly answers my idea\nof a fine country, because it unites beauty with utility and I dare say\nit is a picturesque one too, because you admire it; I can easily\nbelieve it to be full of rocks and promontories, grey moss and brush\nwood, but these are all lost on me. I know nothing of the picturesque. \n\n I am afraid it is but too true,  said Marianne;  but why should you\nboast of it? \n\n I suspect,  said Elinor,  that to avoid one kind of affectation,\nEdward here falls into another. Because he believes many people pretend\nto more admiration of the beauties of nature than they really feel, and\nis disgusted with such pretensions, he affects greater indifference and\nless discrimination in viewing them himself than he possesses. He is\nfastidious and will have an affectation of his own. \n\n It is very true,  said Marianne,  that admiration of landscape scenery\nis become a mere jargon. Every body pretends to feel and tries to\ndescribe with the taste and elegance of him who first defined what\npicturesque beauty was. I detest jargon of every kind, and sometimes I\nhave kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to\ndescribe them in but what was worn and hackneyed out of all sense and\nmeaning. \n\n I am convinced,  said Edward,  that you really feel all the delight in\na fine prospect which you profess to feel. But, in return, your sister\nmust allow me to feel no more than I profess. I like a fine prospect,\nbut not on picturesque principles. I do not like crooked, twisted,\nblasted trees. I admire them much more if they are tall, straight, and\nflourishing. I do not like ruined, tattered cottages. I am not fond of\nnettles or thistles, or heath blossoms. I have more pleasure in a snug\nfarm-house than a watch-tower and a troop of tidy, happy villagers\nplease me better than the finest banditti in the world. \n\nMarianne looked with amazement at Edward, with compassion at her\nsister. Elinor only laughed.\n\nThe subject was continued no farther; and Marianne remained\nthoughtfully silent, till a new object suddenly engaged her attention.\nShe was sitting by Edward, and in taking his tea from Mrs. Dashwood,\nhis hand passed so directly before her, as to make a ring, with a plait\nof hair in the centre, very conspicuous on one of his fingers.\n\n I never saw you wear a ring before, Edward,  she cried.  Is that\nFanny s hair? I remember her promising to give you some. But I should\nhave thought her hair had been darker. \n\nMarianne spoke inconsiderately what she really felt but when she saw\nhow much she had pained Edward, her own vexation at her want of thought\ncould not be surpassed by his. He coloured very deeply, and giving a\nmomentary glance at Elinor, replied,  Yes; it is my sister s hair. The\nsetting always casts a different shade on it, you know. \n\nElinor had met his eye, and looked conscious likewise. That the hair\nwas her own, she instantaneously felt as well satisfied as Marianne;\nthe only difference in their conclusions was, that what Marianne\nconsidered as a free gift from her sister, Elinor was conscious must\nhave been procured by some theft or contrivance unknown to herself. She\nwas not in a humour, however, to regard it as an affront, and affecting\nto take no notice of what passed, by instantly talking of something\nelse, she internally resolved henceforward to catch every opportunity\nof eyeing the hair and of satisfying herself, beyond all doubt, that it\nwas exactly the shade of her own.\n\nEdward s embarrassment lasted some time, and it ended in an absence of\nmind still more settled. He was particularly grave the whole morning.\nMarianne severely censured herself for what she had said; but her own\nforgiveness might have been more speedy, had she known how little\noffence it had given her sister.\n\nBefore the middle of the day, they were visited by Sir John and Mrs.\nJennings, who, having heard of the arrival of a gentleman at the\ncottage, came to take a survey of the guest. With the assistance of his\nmother-in-law, Sir John was not long in discovering that the name of\nFerrars began with an F. and this prepared a future mine of raillery\nagainst the devoted Elinor, which nothing but the newness of their\nacquaintance with Edward could have prevented from being immediately\nsprung. But, as it was, she only learned, from some very significant\nlooks, how far their penetration, founded on Margaret s instructions,\nextended.\n\nSir John never came to the Dashwoods without either inviting them to\ndine at the park the next day, or to drink tea with them that evening.\nOn the present occasion, for the better entertainment of their visitor,\ntowards whose amusement he felt himself bound to contribute, he wished\nto engage them for both.\n\n You _must_ drink tea with us to night,  said he,  for we shall be\nquite alone and tomorrow you must absolutely dine with us, for we shall\nbe a large party. \n\nMrs. Jennings enforced the necessity.  And who knows but you may raise\na dance,  said she.  And that will tempt _you_, Miss Marianne. \n\n A dance!  cried Marianne.  Impossible! Who is to dance? \n\n Who! why yourselves, and the Careys, and Whitakers to be sure. What!\nyou thought nobody could dance because a certain person that shall be\nnameless is gone! \n\n I wish with all my soul,  cried Sir John,  that Willoughby were among\nus again. \n\nThis, and Marianne s blushing, gave new suspicions to Edward.  And who\nis Willoughby?  said he, in a low voice, to Miss Dashwood, by whom he\nwas sitting.\n\nShe gave him a brief reply. Marianne s countenance was more\ncommunicative. Edward saw enough to comprehend, not only the meaning of\nothers, but such of Marianne s expressions as had puzzled him before;\nand when their visitors left them, he went immediately round her, and\nsaid, in a whisper,  I have been guessing. Shall I tell you my guess? \n\n What do you mean? \n\n Shall I tell you? \n\n Certainly. \n\n Well then; I guess that Mr. Willoughby hunts. \n\nMarianne was surprised and confused, yet she could not help smiling at\nthe quiet archness of his manner, and after a moment s silence, said,\n\n Oh, Edward! How can you? But the time will come I hope...I am sure you\nwill like him. \n\n I do not doubt it,  replied he, rather astonished at her earnestness\nand warmth; for had he not imagined it to be a joke for the good of her\nacquaintance in general, founded only on a something or a nothing\nbetween Mr. Willoughby and herself, he would not have ventured to\nmention it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\n\nEdward remained a week at the cottage; he was earnestly pressed by Mrs.\nDashwood to stay longer; but, as if he were bent only on\nself-mortification, he seemed resolved to be gone when his enjoyment\namong his friends was at the height. His spirits, during the last two\nor three days, though still very unequal, were greatly improved he grew\nmore and more partial to the house and environs never spoke of going\naway without a sigh declared his time to be wholly disengaged even\ndoubted to what place he should go when he left them but still, go he\nmust. Never had any week passed so quickly he could hardly believe it\nto be gone. He said so repeatedly; other things he said too, which\nmarked the turn of his feelings and gave the lie to his actions. He had\nno pleasure at Norland; he detested being in town; but either to\nNorland or London, he must go. He valued their kindness beyond any\nthing, and his greatest happiness was in being with them. Yet, he must\nleave them at the end of a week, in spite of their wishes and his own,\nand without any restraint on his time.\n\nElinor placed all that was astonishing in this way of acting to his\nmother s account; and it was happy for her that he had a mother whose\ncharacter was so imperfectly known to her, as to be the general excuse\nfor every thing strange on the part of her son. Disappointed, however,\nand vexed as she was, and sometimes displeased with his uncertain\nbehaviour to herself, she was very well disposed on the whole to regard\nhis actions with all the candid allowances and generous qualifications,\nwhich had been rather more painfully extorted from her, for\nWilloughby s service, by her mother. His want of spirits, of openness,\nand of consistency, were most usually attributed to his want of\nindependence, and his better knowledge of Mrs. Ferrars s disposition\nand designs. The shortness of his visit, the steadiness of his purpose\nin leaving them, originated in the same fettered inclination, the same\ninevitable necessity of temporizing with his mother. The old\nwell-established grievance of duty against will, parent against child,\nwas the cause of all. She would have been glad to know when these\ndifficulties were to cease, this opposition was to yield, when Mrs.\nFerrars would be reformed, and her son be at liberty to be happy. But\nfrom such vain wishes she was forced to turn for comfort to the renewal\nof her confidence in Edward s affection, to the remembrance of every\nmark of regard in look or word which fell from him while at Barton, and\nabove all to that flattering proof of it which he constantly wore round\nhis finger.\n\n I think, Edward,  said Mrs. Dashwood, as they were at breakfast the\nlast morning,  you would be a happier man if you had any profession to\nengage your time and give an interest to your plans and actions. Some\ninconvenience to your friends, indeed, might result from it you would\nnot be able to give them so much of your time. But (with a smile) you\nwould be materially benefited in one particular at least you would know\nwhere to go when you left them. \n\n I do assure you,  he replied,  that I have long thought on this point,\nas you think now. It has been, and is, and probably will always be a\nheavy misfortune to me, that I have had no necessary business to engage\nme, no profession to give me employment, or afford me any thing like\nindependence. But unfortunately my own nicety, and the nicety of my\nfriends, have made me what I am, an idle, helpless being. We never\ncould agree in our choice of a profession. I always preferred the\nchurch, as I still do. But that was not smart enough for my family.\nThey recommended the army. That was a great deal too smart for me. The\nlaw was allowed to be genteel enough; many young men, who had chambers\nin the Temple, made a very good appearance in the first circles, and\ndrove about town in very knowing gigs. But I had no inclination for the\nlaw, even in this less abstruse study of it, which my family approved.\nAs for the navy, it had fashion on its side, but I was too old when the\nsubject was first started to enter it and, at length, as there was no\nnecessity for my having any profession at all, as I might be as dashing\nand expensive without a red coat on my back as with one, idleness was\npronounced on the whole to be most advantageous and honourable, and a\nyoung man of eighteen is not in general so earnestly bent on being busy\nas to resist the solicitations of his friends to do nothing. I was\ntherefore entered at Oxford and have been properly idle ever since. \n\n The consequence of which, I suppose, will be,  said Mrs. Dashwood,\n since leisure has not promoted your own happiness, that your sons will\nbe brought up to as many pursuits, employments, professions, and trades\nas Columella s. \n\n They will be brought up,  said he, in a serious accent,  to be as\nunlike myself as is possible. In feeling, in action, in condition, in\nevery thing. \n\n Come, come; this is all an effusion of immediate want of spirits,\nEdward. You are in a melancholy humour, and fancy that any one unlike\nyourself must be happy. But remember that the pain of parting from\nfriends will be felt by every body at times, whatever be their\neducation or state. Know your own happiness. You want nothing but\npatience or give it a more fascinating name, call it hope. Your mother\nwill secure to you, in time, that independence you are so anxious for;\nit is her duty, and it will, it must ere long become her happiness to\nprevent your whole youth from being wasted in discontent. How much may\nnot a few months do? \n\n I think,  replied Edward,  that I may defy many months to produce any\ngood to me. \n\nThis desponding turn of mind, though it could not be communicated to\nMrs. Dashwood, gave additional pain to them all in the parting, which\nshortly took place, and left an uncomfortable impression on Elinor s\nfeelings especially, which required some trouble and time to subdue.\nBut as it was her determination to subdue it, and to prevent herself\nfrom appearing to suffer more than what all her family suffered on his\ngoing away, she did not adopt the method so judiciously employed by\nMarianne, on a similar occasion, to augment and fix her sorrow, by\nseeking silence, solitude and idleness. Their means were as different\nas their objects, and equally suited to the advancement of each.\n\nElinor sat down to her drawing-table as soon as he was out of the\nhouse, busily employed herself the whole day, neither sought nor\navoided the mention of his name, appeared to interest herself almost as\nmuch as ever in the general concerns of the family, and if, by this\nconduct, she did not lessen her own grief, it was at least prevented\nfrom unnecessary increase, and her mother and sisters were spared much\nsolicitude on her account.\n\nSuch behaviour as this, so exactly the reverse of her own, appeared no\nmore meritorious to Marianne, than her own had seemed faulty to her.\nThe business of self-command she settled very easily; with strong\naffections it was impossible, with calm ones it could have no merit.\nThat her sister s affections _were_ calm, she dared not deny, though\nshe blushed to acknowledge it; and of the strength of her own, she gave\na very striking proof, by still loving and respecting that sister, in\nspite of this mortifying conviction.\n\nWithout shutting herself up from her family, or leaving the house in\ndetermined solitude to avoid them, or lying awake the whole night to\nindulge meditation, Elinor found every day afforded her leisure enough\nto think of Edward, and of Edward s behaviour, in every possible\nvariety which the different state of her spirits at different times\ncould produce, with tenderness, pity, approbation, censure, and doubt.\nThere were moments in abundance, when, if not by the absence of her\nmother and sisters, at least by the nature of their employments,\nconversation was forbidden among them, and every effect of solitude was\nproduced. Her mind was inevitably at liberty; her thoughts could not be\nchained elsewhere; and the past and the future, on a subject so\ninteresting, must be before her, must force her attention, and engross\nher memory, her reflection, and her fancy.\n\nFrom a reverie of this kind, as she sat at her drawing-table, she was\nroused one morning, soon after Edward s leaving them, by the arrival of\ncompany. She happened to be quite alone. The closing of the little\ngate, at the entrance of the green court in front of the house, drew\nher eyes to the window, and she saw a large party walking up to the\ndoor. Amongst them were Sir John and Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings,\nbut there were two others, a gentleman and lady, who were quite unknown\nto her. She was sitting near the window, and as soon as Sir John\nperceived her, he left the rest of the party to the ceremony of\nknocking at the door, and stepping across the turf, obliged her to open\nthe casement to speak to him, though the space was so short between the\ndoor and the window, as to make it hardly possible to speak at one\nwithout being heard at the other.\n\n Well,  said he,  we have brought you some strangers. How do you like\nthem? \n\n Hush! they will hear you. \n\n Never mind if they do. It is only the Palmers. Charlotte is very\npretty, I can tell you. You may see her if you look this way. \n\nAs Elinor was certain of seeing her in a couple of minutes, without\ntaking that liberty, she begged to be excused.\n\n Where is Marianne? Has she run away because we are come? I see her\ninstrument is open. \n\n She is walking, I believe. \n\nThey were now joined by Mrs. Jennings, who had not patience enough to\nwait till the door was opened before she told _her_ story. She came\nhallooing to the window,  How do you do, my dear? How does Mrs.\nDashwood do? And where are your sisters? What! all alone! you will be\nglad of a little company to sit with you. I have brought my other son\nand daughter to see you. Only think of their coming so suddenly! I\nthought I heard a carriage last night, while we were drinking our tea,\nbut it never entered my head that it could be them. I thought of\nnothing but whether it might not be Colonel Brandon come back again; so\nI said to Sir John, I do think I hear a carriage; perhaps it is Colonel\nBrandon come back again \n\nElinor was obliged to turn from her, in the middle of her story, to\nreceive the rest of the party; Lady Middleton introduced the two\nstrangers; Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret came down stairs at the same\ntime, and they all sat down to look at one another, while Mrs. Jennings\ncontinued her story as she walked through the passage into the parlour,\nattended by Sir John.\n\nMrs. Palmer was several years younger than Lady Middleton, and totally\nunlike her in every respect. She was short and plump, had a very pretty\nface, and the finest expression of good humour in it that could\npossibly be. Her manners were by no means so elegant as her sister s,\nbut they were much more prepossessing. She came in with a smile, smiled\nall the time of her visit, except when she laughed, and smiled when she\nwent away. Her husband was a grave looking young man of five or six and\ntwenty, with an air of more fashion and sense than his wife, but of\nless willingness to please or be pleased. He entered the room with a\nlook of self-consequence, slightly bowed to the ladies, without\nspeaking a word, and, after briefly surveying them and their\napartments, took up a newspaper from the table, and continued to read\nit as long as he staid.\n\nMrs. Palmer, on the contrary, who was strongly endowed by nature with a\nturn for being uniformly civil and happy, was hardly seated before her\nadmiration of the parlour and every thing in it burst forth.\n\n Well! what a delightful room this is! I never saw anything so\ncharming! Only think, Mama, how it is improved since I was here last! I\nalways thought it such a sweet place, ma am! (turning to Mrs. Dashwood)\nbut you have made it so charming! Only look, sister, how delightful\nevery thing is! How I should like such a house for myself! Should not\nyou, Mr. Palmer? \n\nMr. Palmer made her no answer, and did not even raise his eyes from the\nnewspaper.\n\n Mr. Palmer does not hear me,  said she, laughing;  he never does\nsometimes. It is so ridiculous! \n\nThis was quite a new idea to Mrs. Dashwood; she had never been used to\nfind wit in the inattention of any one, and could not help looking with\nsurprise at them both.\n\nMrs. Jennings, in the meantime, talked on as loud as she could, and\ncontinued her account of their surprise, the evening before, on seeing\ntheir friends, without ceasing till every thing was told. Mrs. Palmer\nlaughed heartily at the recollection of their astonishment, and every\nbody agreed, two or three times over, that it had been quite an\nagreeable surprise.\n\n You may believe how glad we all were to see them,  added Mrs.\nJennings, leaning forward towards Elinor, and speaking in a low voice\nas if she meant to be heard by no one else, though they were seated on\ndifferent sides of the room;  but, however, I can t help wishing they\nhad not travelled quite so fast, nor made such a long journey of it,\nfor they came all round by London upon account of some business, for\nyou know (nodding significantly and pointing to her daughter) it was\nwrong in her situation. I wanted her to stay at home and rest this\nmorning, but she would come with us; she longed so much to see you\nall! \n\nMrs. Palmer laughed, and said it would not do her any harm.\n\n She expects to be confined in February,  continued Mrs. Jennings.\n\nLady Middleton could no longer endure such a conversation, and\ntherefore exerted herself to ask Mr. Palmer if there was any news in\nthe paper.\n\n No, none at all,  he replied, and read on.\n\n Here comes Marianne,  cried Sir John.  Now, Palmer, you shall see a\nmonstrous pretty girl. \n\nHe immediately went into the passage, opened the front door, and\nushered her in himself. Mrs. Jennings asked her, as soon as she\nappeared, if she had not been to Allenham; and Mrs. Palmer laughed so\nheartily at the question, as to show she understood it. Mr. Palmer\nlooked up on her entering the room, stared at her some minutes, and\nthen returned to his newspaper. Mrs. Palmer s eye was now caught by the\ndrawings which hung round the room. She got up to examine them.\n\n Oh! dear, how beautiful these are! Well! how delightful! Do but look,\nmama, how sweet! I declare they are quite charming; I could look at\nthem for ever.  And then sitting down again, she very soon forgot that\nthere were any such things in the room.\n\nWhen Lady Middleton rose to go away, Mr. Palmer rose also, laid down\nthe newspaper, stretched himself and looked at them all around.\n\n My love, have you been asleep?  said his wife, laughing.\n\nHe made her no answer; and only observed, after again examining the\nroom, that it was very low pitched, and that the ceiling was crooked.\nHe then made his bow, and departed with the rest.\n\nSir John had been very urgent with them all to spend the next day at\nthe park. Mrs. Dashwood, who did not chuse to dine with them oftener\nthan they dined at the cottage, absolutely refused on her own account;\nher daughters might do as they pleased. But they had no curiosity to\nsee how Mr. and Mrs. Palmer ate their dinner, and no expectation of\npleasure from them in any other way. They attempted, therefore,\nlikewise, to excuse themselves; the weather was uncertain, and not\nlikely to be good. But Sir John would not be satisfied the carriage\nshould be sent for them and they must come. Lady Middleton too, though\nshe did not press their mother, pressed them. Mrs. Jennings and Mrs.\nPalmer joined their entreaties, all seemed equally anxious to avoid a\nfamily party; and the young ladies were obliged to yield.\n\n Why should they ask us?  said Marianne, as soon as they were gone.\n The rent of this cottage is said to be low; but we have it on very\nhard terms, if we are to dine at the park whenever any one is staying\neither with them, or with us. \n\n They mean no less to be civil and kind to us now,  said Elinor,  by\nthese frequent invitations, than by those which we received from them a\nfew weeks ago. The alteration is not in them, if their parties are\ngrown tedious and dull. We must look for the change elsewhere. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n\n\nAs the Miss Dashwoods entered the drawing-room of the park the next\nday, at one door, Mrs. Palmer came running in at the other, looking as\ngood humoured and merry as before. She took them all most\naffectionately by the hand, and expressed great delight in seeing them\nagain.\n\n I am so glad to see you!  said she, seating herself between Elinor and\nMarianne,  for it is so bad a day I was afraid you might not come,\nwhich would be a shocking thing, as we go away again tomorrow. We must\ngo, for the Westons come to us next week you know. It was quite a\nsudden thing our coming at all, and I knew nothing of it till the\ncarriage was coming to the door, and then Mr. Palmer asked me if I\nwould go with him to Barton. He is so droll! He never tells me any\nthing! I am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall meet again\nin town very soon, I hope. \n\nThey were obliged to put an end to such an expectation.\n\n Not go to town!  cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh,  I shall be quite\ndisappointed if you do not. I could get the nicest house in the world\nfor you, next door to ours, in Hanover-square. You must come, indeed. I\nam sure I shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till I am\nconfined, if Mrs. Dashwood should not like to go into public. \n\nThey thanked her; but were obliged to resist all her entreaties.\n\n Oh, my love,  cried Mrs. Palmer to her husband, who just then entered\nthe room you must help me to persuade the Miss Dashwoods to go to town\nthis winter. \n\nHer love made no answer; and after slightly bowing to the ladies, began\ncomplaining of the weather.\n\n How horrid all this is!  said he.  Such weather makes every thing and\nevery body disgusting. Dullness is as much produced within doors as\nwithout, by rain. It makes one detest all one s acquaintance. What the\ndevil does Sir John mean by not having a billiard room in his house?\nHow few people know what comfort is! Sir John is as stupid as the\nweather. \n\nThe rest of the company soon dropt in.\n\n I am afraid, Miss Marianne,  said Sir John,  you have not been able to\ntake your usual walk to Allenham today. \n\nMarianne looked very grave and said nothing.\n\n Oh, don t be so sly before us,  said Mrs. Palmer;  for we know all\nabout it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much, for I think\nhe is extremely handsome. We do not live a great way from him in the\ncountry, you know. Not above ten miles, I dare say. \n\n Much nearer thirty,  said her husband.\n\n Ah, well! there is not much difference. I never was at his house; but\nthey say it is a sweet pretty place. \n\n As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life,  said Mr. Palmer.\n\nMarianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed her\ninterest in what was said.\n\n Is it very ugly?  continued Mrs. Palmer then it must be some other\nplace that is so pretty I suppose. \n\nWhen they were seated in the dining room, Sir John observed with regret\nthat they were only eight all together.\n\n My dear,  said he to his lady,  it is very provoking that we should be\nso few. Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us today? \n\n Did not I tell you, Sir John, when you spoke to me about it before,\nthat it could not be done? They dined with us last. \n\n You and I, Sir John,  said Mrs. Jennings,  should not stand upon such\nceremony. \n\n Then you would be very ill-bred,  cried Mr. Palmer.\n\n My love you contradict every body,  said his wife with her usual\nlaugh.  Do you know that you are quite rude? \n\n I did not know I contradicted any body in calling your mother\nill-bred. \n\n Ay, you may abuse me as you please,  said the good-natured old lady,\n you have taken Charlotte off my hands, and cannot give her back again.\nSo there I have the whip hand of you. \n\nCharlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband could not get rid\nof her; and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was to her,\nas they must live together. It was impossible for any one to be more\nthoroughly good-natured, or more determined to be happy than Mrs.\nPalmer. The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her\nhusband gave her no pain; and when he scolded or abused her, she was\nhighly diverted.\n\n Mr. Palmer is so droll!  said she, in a whisper, to Elinor.  He is\nalways out of humour. \n\nElinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him credit\nfor being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred as he\nwished to appear. His temper might perhaps be a little soured by\nfinding, like many others of his sex, that through some unaccountable\nbias in favour of beauty, he was the husband of a very silly woman but\nshe knew that this kind of blunder was too common for any sensible man\nto be lastingly hurt by it. It was rather a wish of distinction, she\nbelieved, which produced his contemptuous treatment of every body, and\nhis general abuse of every thing before him. It was the desire of\nappearing superior to other people. The motive was too common to be\nwondered at; but the means, however they might succeed by establishing\nhis superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to attach any one to\nhim except his wife.\n\n Oh, my dear Miss Dashwood,  said Mrs. Palmer soon afterwards,  I have\ngot such a favour to ask of you and your sister. Will you come and\nspend some time at Cleveland this Christmas? Now, pray do, and come\nwhile the Westons are with us. You cannot think how happy I shall be!\nIt will be quite delightful! My love,  applying to her husband,  don t\nyou long to have the Miss Dashwoods come to Cleveland? \n\n Certainly,  he replied, with a sneer I came into Devonshire with no\nother view. \n\n There now, said his lady,  you see Mr. Palmer expects you; so you\ncannot refuse to come. \n\nThey both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation.\n\n But indeed you must and shall come. I am sure you will like it of all\nthings. The Westons will be with us, and it will be quite delightful.\nYou cannot think what a sweet place Cleveland is; and we are so gay\nnow, for Mr. Palmer is always going about the country canvassing\nagainst the election; and so many people came to dine with us that I\nnever saw before, it is quite charming! But, poor fellow! it is very\nfatiguing to him! for he is forced to make every body like him. \n\nElinor could hardly keep her countenance as she assented to the\nhardship of such an obligation.\n\n How charming it will be,  said Charlotte,  when he is in\nParliament! won t it? How I shall laugh! It will be so ridiculous to\nsee all his letters directed to him with an M.P. But do you know, he\nsays, he will never frank for me? He declares he won t. Don t you, Mr.\nPalmer? \n\nMr. Palmer took no notice of her.\n\n He cannot bear writing, you know,  she continued he says it is quite\nshocking. \n\n No,  said he,  I never said any thing so irrational. Don t palm all\nyour abuses of language upon me. \n\n There now; you see how droll he is. This is always the way with him!\nSometimes he won t speak to me for half a day together, and then he\ncomes out with something so droll all about any thing in the world. \n\nShe surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-room,\nby asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively.\n\n Certainly,  said Elinor;  he seems very agreeable. \n\n Well I am so glad you do. I thought you would, he is so pleasant; and\nMr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters I can tell\nyou, and you can t think how disappointed he will be if you don t come\nto Cleveland. I can t imagine why you should object to it. \n\nElinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and by changing the\nsubject, put a stop to her entreaties. She thought it probable that as\nthey lived in the same county, Mrs. Palmer might be able to give some\nmore particular account of Willoughby s general character, than could\nbe gathered from the Middletons  partial acquaintance with him; and she\nwas eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of his merits as\nmight remove the possibility of fear from Marianne. She began by\ninquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether\nthey were intimately acquainted with him.\n\n Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well,  replied Mrs. Palmer; Not\nthat I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in town.\nSomehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was\nat Allenham. Mama saw him here once before; but I was with my uncle at\nWeymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of him\nin Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we should\nnever have been in the country together. He is very little at Combe, I\nbelieve; but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr. Palmer\nwould visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and besides it\nis such a way off. I know why you inquire about him, very well; your\nsister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I shall\nhave her for a neighbour you know. \n\n Upon my word,  replied Elinor,  you know much more of the matter than\nI do, if you have any reason to expect such a match. \n\n Don t pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body talks\nof. I assure you I heard of it in my way through town. \n\n My dear Mrs. Palmer! \n\n Upon my honour I did. I met Colonel Brandon Monday morning in\nBond-street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly. \n\n You surprise me very much. Colonel Brandon tell you of it! Surely you\nmust be mistaken. To give such intelligence to a person who could not\nbe interested in it, even if it were true, is not what I should expect\nColonel Brandon to do. \n\n But I do assure you it was so, for all that, and I will tell you how\nit happened. When we met him, he turned back and walked with us; and so\nwe began talking of my brother and sister, and one thing and another,\nand I said to him,  So, Colonel, there is a new family come to Barton\ncottage, I hear, and mama sends me word they are very pretty, and that\none of them is going to be married to Mr. Willoughby of Combe Magna. Is\nit true, pray? for of course you must know, as you have been in\nDevonshire so lately. \n\n And what did the Colonel say? \n\n Oh he did not say much; but he looked as if he knew it to be true, so\nfrom that moment I set it down as certain. It will be quite delightful,\nI declare! When is it to take place? \n\n Mr. Brandon was very well I hope? \n\n Oh! yes, quite well; and so full of your praises, he did nothing but\nsay fine things of you. \n\n I am flattered by his commendation. He seems an excellent man; and I\nthink him uncommonly pleasing. \n\n So do I. He is such a charming man, that it is quite a pity he should\nbe so grave and so dull. Mama says _he_ was in love with your sister\ntoo. I assure you it was a great compliment if he was, for he hardly\never falls in love with any body. \n\n Is Mr. Willoughby much known in your part of Somersetshire?  said\nElinor.\n\n Oh! yes, extremely well; that is, I do not believe many people are\nacquainted with him, because Combe Magna is so far off; but they all\nthink him extremely agreeable I assure you. Nobody is more liked than\nMr. Willoughby wherever he goes, and so you may tell your sister. She\nis a monstrous lucky girl to get him, upon my honour; not but that he\nis much more lucky in getting her, because she is so very handsome and\nagreeable, that nothing can be good enough for her. However, I don t\nthink her hardly at all handsomer than you, I assure you; for I think\nyou both excessively pretty, and so does Mr. Palmer too I am sure,\nthough we could not get him to own it last night. \n\nMrs. Palmer s information respecting Willoughby was not very material;\nbut any testimony in his favour, however small, was pleasing to her.\n\n I am so glad we are got acquainted at last,  continued Charlotte. And\nnow I hope we shall always be great friends. You can t think how much I\nlonged to see you! It is so delightful that you should live at the\ncottage! Nothing can be like it, to be sure! And I am so glad your\nsister is going to be well married! I hope you will be a great deal at\nCombe Magna. It is a sweet place, by all accounts. \n\n You have been long acquainted with Colonel Brandon, have not you? \n\n Yes, a great while; ever since my sister married. He was a particular\nfriend of Sir John s. I believe,  she added in a low voice,  he would\nhave been very glad to have had me, if he could. Sir John and Lady\nMiddleton wished it very much. But mama did not think the match good\nenough for me, otherwise Sir John would have mentioned it to the\nColonel, and we should have been married immediately. \n\n Did not Colonel Brandon know of Sir John s proposal to your mother\nbefore it was made? Had he never owned his affection to yourself? \n\n Oh, no; but if mama had not objected to it, I dare say he would have\nliked it of all things. He had not seen me then above twice, for it was\nbefore I left school. However, I am much happier as I am. Mr. Palmer is\nthe kind of man I like. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI.\n\n\nThe Palmers returned to Cleveland the next day, and the two families at\nBarton were again left to entertain each other. But this did not last\nlong; Elinor had hardly got their last visitors out of her head, had\nhardly done wondering at Charlotte s being so happy without a cause, at\nMr. Palmer s acting so simply, with good abilities, and at the strange\nunsuitableness which often existed between husband and wife, before Sir\nJohn s and Mrs. Jennings s active zeal in the cause of society,\nprocured her some other new acquaintance to see and observe.\n\nIn a morning s excursion to Exeter, they had met with two young ladies,\nwhom Mrs. Jennings had the satisfaction of discovering to be her\nrelations, and this was enough for Sir John to invite them directly to\nthe park, as soon as their present engagements at Exeter were over.\nTheir engagements at Exeter instantly gave way before such an\ninvitation, and Lady Middleton was thrown into no little alarm on the\nreturn of Sir John, by hearing that she was very soon to receive a\nvisit from two girls whom she had never seen in her life, and of whose\nelegance, whose tolerable gentility even, she could have no proof; for\nthe assurances of her husband and mother on that subject went for\nnothing at all. Their being her relations too made it so much the\nworse; and Mrs. Jennings s attempts at consolation were therefore\nunfortunately founded, when she advised her daughter not to care about\ntheir being so fashionable; because they were all cousins and must put\nup with one another. As it was impossible, however, now to prevent\ntheir coming, Lady Middleton resigned herself to the idea of it, with\nall the philosophy of a well-bred woman, contenting herself with merely\ngiving her husband a gentle reprimand on the subject five or six times\nevery day.\n\nThe young ladies arrived: their appearance was by no means ungenteel or\nunfashionable. Their dress was very smart, their manners very civil,\nthey were delighted with the house, and in raptures with the furniture,\nand they happened to be so doatingly fond of children that Lady\nMiddleton s good opinion was engaged in their favour before they had\nbeen an hour at the Park. She declared them to be very agreeable girls\nindeed, which for her ladyship was enthusiastic admiration. Sir John s\nconfidence in his own judgment rose with this animated praise, and he\nset off directly for the cottage to tell the Miss Dashwoods of the Miss\nSteeles  arrival, and to assure them of their being the sweetest girls\nin the world. From such commendation as this, however, there was not\nmuch to be learned; Elinor well knew that the sweetest girls in the\nworld were to be met with in every part of England, under every\npossible variation of form, face, temper and understanding. Sir John\nwanted the whole family to walk to the Park directly and look at his\nguests. Benevolent, philanthropic man! It was painful to him even to\nkeep a third cousin to himself.\n\n Do come now,  said he pray come you must come I declare you shall\ncome You can t think how you will like them. Lucy is monstrous pretty,\nand so good humoured and agreeable! The children are all hanging about\nher already, as if she was an old acquaintance. And they both long to\nsee you of all things, for they have heard at Exeter that you are the\nmost beautiful creatures in the world; and I have told them it is all\nvery true, and a great deal more. You will be delighted with them I am\nsure. They have brought the whole coach full of playthings for the\nchildren. How can you be so cross as not to come? Why they are your\ncousins, you know, after a fashion. _You_ are my cousins, and they are\nmy wife s, so you must be related. \n\nBut Sir John could not prevail. He could only obtain a promise of their\ncalling at the Park within a day or two, and then left them in\namazement at their indifference, to walk home and boast anew of their\nattractions to the Miss Steeles, as he had been already boasting of the\nMiss Steeles to them.\n\nWhen their promised visit to the Park and consequent introduction to\nthese young ladies took place, they found in the appearance of the\neldest, who was nearly thirty, with a very plain and not a sensible\nface, nothing to admire; but in the other, who was not more than two or\nthree and twenty, they acknowledged considerable beauty; her features\nwere pretty, and she had a sharp quick eye, and a smartness of air,\nwhich though it did not give actual elegance or grace, gave distinction\nto her person. Their manners were particularly civil, and Elinor soon\nallowed them credit for some kind of sense, when she saw with what\nconstant and judicious attention they were making themselves agreeable\nto Lady Middleton. With her children they were in continual raptures,\nextolling their beauty, courting their notice, and humouring their\nwhims; and such of their time as could be spared from the importunate\ndemands which this politeness made on it, was spent in admiration of\nwhatever her ladyship was doing, if she happened to be doing any thing,\nor in taking patterns of some elegant new dress, in which her\nappearance the day before had thrown them into unceasing delight.\nFortunately for those who pay their court through such foibles, a fond\nmother, though, in pursuit of praise for her children, the most\nrapacious of human beings, is likewise the most credulous; her demands\nare exorbitant; but she will swallow any thing; and the excessive\naffection and endurance of the Miss Steeles towards her offspring were\nviewed therefore by Lady Middleton without the smallest surprise or\ndistrust. She saw with maternal complacency all the impertinent\nencroachments and mischievous tricks to which her cousins submitted.\nShe saw their sashes untied, their hair pulled about their ears, their\nwork-bags searched, and their knives and scissors stolen away, and felt\nno doubt of its being a reciprocal enjoyment. It suggested no other\nsurprise than that Elinor and Marianne should sit so composedly by,\nwithout claiming a share in what was passing.\n\n John is in such spirits today!  said she, on his taking Miss Steeles s\npocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of window He is full of\nmonkey tricks. \n\nAnd soon afterwards, on the second boy s violently pinching one of the\nsame lady s fingers, she fondly observed,  How playful William is! \n\n And here is my sweet little Annamaria,  she added, tenderly caressing\na little girl of three years old, who had not made a noise for the last\ntwo minutes;  And she is always so gentle and quiet Never was there\nsuch a quiet little thing! \n\nBut unfortunately in bestowing these embraces, a pin in her ladyship s\nhead dress slightly scratching the child s neck, produced from this\npattern of gentleness such violent screams, as could hardly be outdone\nby any creature professedly noisy. The mother s consternation was\nexcessive; but it could not surpass the alarm of the Miss Steeles, and\nevery thing was done by all three, in so critical an emergency, which\naffection could suggest as likely to assuage the agonies of the little\nsufferer. She was seated in her mother s lap, covered with kisses, her\nwound bathed with lavender-water, by one of the Miss Steeles, who was\non her knees to attend her, and her mouth stuffed with sugar plums by\nthe other. With such a reward for her tears, the child was too wise to\ncease crying. She still screamed and sobbed lustily, kicked her two\nbrothers for offering to touch her, and all their united soothings were\nineffectual till Lady Middleton luckily remembering that in a scene of\nsimilar distress last week, some apricot marmalade had been\nsuccessfully applied for a bruised temple, the same remedy was eagerly\nproposed for this unfortunate scratch, and a slight intermission of\nscreams in the young lady on hearing it, gave them reason to hope that\nit would not be rejected. She was carried out of the room therefore in\nher mother s arms, in quest of this medicine, and as the two boys chose\nto follow, though earnestly entreated by their mother to stay behind,\nthe four young ladies were left in a quietness which the room had not\nknown for many hours.\n\n Poor little creatures!  said Miss Steele, as soon as they were gone.\n It might have been a very sad accident. \n\n Yet I hardly know how,  cried Marianne,  unless it had been under\ntotally different circumstances. But this is the usual way of\nheightening alarm, where there is nothing to be alarmed at in reality. \n\n What a sweet woman Lady Middleton is!  said Lucy Steele.\n\nMarianne was silent; it was impossible for her to say what she did not\nfeel, however trivial the occasion; and upon Elinor therefore the whole\ntask of telling lies when politeness required it, always fell. She did\nher best when thus called on, by speaking of Lady Middleton with more\nwarmth than she felt, though with far less than Miss Lucy.\n\n And Sir John too,  cried the elder sister,  what a charming man he\nis! \n\nHere too, Miss Dashwood s commendation, being only simple and just,\ncame in without any eclat. She merely observed that he was perfectly\ngood humoured and friendly.\n\n And what a charming little family they have! I never saw such fine\nchildren in my life. I declare I quite doat upon them already, and\nindeed I am always distractedly fond of children. \n\n I should guess so,  said Elinor, with a smile,  from what I have\nwitnessed this morning. \n\n I have a notion,  said Lucy,  you think the little Middletons rather\ntoo much indulged; perhaps they may be the outside of enough; but it is\nso natural in Lady Middleton; and for my part, I love to see children\nfull of life and spirits; I cannot bear them if they are tame and\nquiet. \n\n I confess,  replied Elinor,  that while I am at Barton Park, I never\nthink of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence. \n\nA short pause succeeded this speech, which was first broken by Miss\nSteele, who seemed very much disposed for conversation, and who now\nsaid rather abruptly,  And how do you like Devonshire, Miss Dashwood? I\nsuppose you were very sorry to leave Sussex. \n\nIn some surprise at the familiarity of this question, or at least of\nthe manner in which it was spoken, Elinor replied that she was.\n\n Norland is a prodigious beautiful place, is not it?  added Miss\nSteele.\n\n We have heard Sir John admire it excessively,  said Lucy, who seemed\nto think some apology necessary for the freedom of her sister.\n\n I think every one _must_ admire it,  replied Elinor,  who ever saw the\nplace; though it is not to be supposed that any one can estimate its\nbeauties as we do. \n\n And had you a great many smart beaux there? I suppose you have not so\nmany in this part of the world; for my part, I think they are a vast\naddition always. \n\n But why should you think,  said Lucy, looking ashamed of her sister,\n that there are not as many genteel young men in Devonshire as Sussex? \n\n Nay, my dear, I m sure I don t pretend to say that there an t. I m\nsure there s a vast many smart beaux in Exeter; but you know, how could\nI tell what smart beaux there might be about Norland; and I was only\nafraid the Miss Dashwoods might find it dull at Barton, if they had not\nso many as they used to have. But perhaps you young ladies may not care\nabout the beaux, and had as lief be without them as with them. For my\npart, I think they are vastly agreeable, provided they dress smart and\nbehave civil. But I can t bear to see them dirty and nasty. Now there s\nMr. Rose at Exeter, a prodigious smart young man, quite a beau, clerk\nto Mr. Simpson, you know, and yet if you do but meet him of a morning,\nhe is not fit to be seen. I suppose your brother was quite a beau, Miss\nDashwood, before he married, as he was so rich? \n\n Upon my word,  replied Elinor,  I cannot tell you, for I do not\nperfectly comprehend the meaning of the word. But this I can say, that\nif he ever was a beau before he married, he is one still for there is\nnot the smallest alteration in him. \n\n Oh! dear! one never thinks of married men s being beaux they have\nsomething else to do. \n\n Lord! Anne,  cried her sister,  you can talk of nothing but beaux; you\nwill make Miss Dashwood believe you think of nothing else.  And then to\nturn the discourse, she began admiring the house and the furniture.\n\nThis specimen of the Miss Steeles was enough. The vulgar freedom and\nfolly of the eldest left her no recommendation, and as Elinor was not\nblinded by the beauty, or the shrewd look of the youngest, to her want\nof real elegance and artlessness, she left the house without any wish\nof knowing them better.\n\nNot so the Miss Steeles. They came from Exeter, well provided with\nadmiration for the use of Sir John Middleton, his family, and all his\nrelations, and no niggardly proportion was now dealt out to his fair\ncousins, whom they declared to be the most beautiful, elegant,\naccomplished, and agreeable girls they had ever beheld, and with whom\nthey were particularly anxious to be better acquainted. And to be\nbetter acquainted therefore, Elinor soon found was their inevitable\nlot, for as Sir John was entirely on the side of the Miss Steeles,\ntheir party would be too strong for opposition, and that kind of\nintimacy must be submitted to, which consists of sitting an hour or two\ntogether in the same room almost every day. Sir John could do no more;\nbut he did not know that any more was required: to be together was, in\nhis opinion, to be intimate, and while his continual schemes for their\nmeeting were effectual, he had not a doubt of their being established\nfriends.\n\nTo do him justice, he did every thing in his power to promote their\nunreserve, by making the Miss Steeles acquainted with whatever he knew\nor supposed of his cousins  situations in the most delicate\nparticulars; and Elinor had not seen them more than twice, before the\neldest of them wished her joy on her sister s having been so lucky as\nto make a conquest of a very smart beau since she came to Barton.\n\n Twill be a fine thing to have her married so young to be sure,  said\nshe,  and I hear he is quite a beau, and prodigious handsome. And I\nhope you may have as good luck yourself soon, but perhaps you may have\na friend in the corner already. \n\nElinor could not suppose that Sir John would be more nice in\nproclaiming his suspicions of her regard for Edward, than he had been\nwith respect to Marianne; indeed it was rather his favourite joke of\nthe two, as being somewhat newer and more conjectural; and since\nEdward s visit, they had never dined together without his drinking to\nher best affections with so much significancy and so many nods and\nwinks, as to excite general attention. The letter F had been likewise\ninvariably brought forward, and found productive of such countless\njokes, that its character as the wittiest letter in the alphabet had\nbeen long established with Elinor.\n\nThe Miss Steeles, as she expected, had now all the benefit of these\njokes, and in the eldest of them they raised a curiosity to know the\nname of the gentleman alluded to, which, though often impertinently\nexpressed, was perfectly of a piece with her general inquisitiveness\ninto the concerns of their family. But Sir John did not sport long with\nthe curiosity which he delighted to raise, for he had at least as much\npleasure in telling the name, as Miss Steele had in hearing it.\n\n His name is Ferrars,  said he, in a very audible whisper;  but pray do\nnot tell it, for it s a great secret. \n\n Ferrars!  repeated Miss Steele;  Mr. Ferrars is the happy man, is he?\nWhat! your sister-in-law s brother, Miss Dashwood? a very agreeable\nyoung man to be sure; I know him very well. \n\n How can you say so, Anne?  cried Lucy, who generally made an amendment\nto all her sister s assertions.  Though we have seen him once or twice\nat my uncle s, it is rather too much to pretend to know him very well. \n\nElinor heard all this with attention and surprise.  And who was this\nuncle? Where did he live? How came they acquainted?  She wished very\nmuch to have the subject continued, though she did not chuse to join in\nit herself; but nothing more of it was said, and for the first time in\nher life, she thought Mrs. Jennings deficient either in curiosity after\npetty information, or in a disposition to communicate it. The manner in\nwhich Miss Steele had spoken of Edward, increased her curiosity; for it\nstruck her as being rather ill-natured, and suggested the suspicion of\nthat lady s knowing, or fancying herself to know something to his\ndisadvantage. But her curiosity was unavailing, for no farther notice\nwas taken of Mr. Ferrars s name by Miss Steele when alluded to, or even\nopenly mentioned by Sir John.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII.\n\n\nMarianne, who had never much toleration for any thing like\nimpertinence, vulgarity, inferiority of parts, or even difference of\ntaste from herself, was at this time particularly ill-disposed, from\nthe state of her spirits, to be pleased with the Miss Steeles, or to\nencourage their advances; and to the invariable coldness of her\nbehaviour towards them, which checked every endeavour at intimacy on\ntheir side, Elinor principally attributed that preference of herself\nwhich soon became evident in the manners of both, but especially of\nLucy, who missed no opportunity of engaging her in conversation, or of\nstriving to improve their acquaintance by an easy and frank\ncommunication of her sentiments.\n\nLucy was naturally clever; her remarks were often just and amusing; and\nas a companion for half an hour Elinor frequently found her agreeable;\nbut her powers had received no aid from education: she was ignorant and\nilliterate; and her deficiency of all mental improvement, her want of\ninformation in the most common particulars, could not be concealed from\nMiss Dashwood, in spite of her constant endeavour to appear to\nadvantage. Elinor saw, and pitied her for, the neglect of abilities\nwhich education might have rendered so respectable; but she saw, with\nless tenderness of feeling, the thorough want of delicacy, of\nrectitude, and integrity of mind, which her attentions, her\nassiduities, her flatteries at the Park betrayed; and she could have no\nlasting satisfaction in the company of a person who joined insincerity\nwith ignorance; whose want of instruction prevented their meeting in\nconversation on terms of equality, and whose conduct toward others made\nevery show of attention and deference towards herself perfectly\nvalueless.\n\n You will think my question an odd one, I dare say,  said Lucy to her\none day, as they were walking together from the park to the\ncottage but pray, are you personally acquainted with your\nsister-in-law s mother, Mrs. Ferrars? \n\nElinor _did_ think the question a very odd one, and her countenance\nexpressed it, as she answered that she had never seen Mrs. Ferrars.\n\n Indeed!  replied Lucy;  I wonder at that, for I thought you must have\nseen her at Norland sometimes. Then, perhaps, you cannot tell me what\nsort of a woman she is? \n\n No,  returned Elinor, cautious of giving her real opinion of Edward s\nmother, and not very desirous of satisfying what seemed impertinent\ncuriosity;  I know nothing of her. \n\n I am sure you think me very strange, for enquiring about her in such a\nway,  said Lucy, eyeing Elinor attentively as she spoke;  but perhaps\nthere may be reasons I wish I might venture; but however I hope you\nwill do me the justice of believing that I do not mean to be\nimpertinent. \n\nElinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a few minutes in\nsilence. It was broken by Lucy, who renewed the subject again by\nsaying, with some hesitation,\n\n I cannot bear to have you think me impertinently curious. I am sure I\nwould rather do any thing in the world than be thought so by a person\nwhose good opinion is so well worth having as yours. And I am sure I\nshould not have the smallest fear of trusting _you;_ indeed, I should\nbe very glad of your advice how to manage in such an uncomfortable\nsituation as I am; but, however, there is no occasion to trouble _you_.\nI am sorry you do not happen to know Mrs. Ferrars. \n\n I am sorry I do _not_,  said Elinor, in great astonishment,  if it\ncould be of any use to YOU to know my opinion of her. But really I\nnever understood that you were at all connected with that family, and\ntherefore I am a little surprised, I confess, at so serious an inquiry\ninto her character. \n\n I dare say you are, and I am sure I do not at all wonder at it. But if\nI dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. Mrs. Ferrars\nis certainly nothing to me at present but the time _may_ come how soon\nit will come must depend upon herself when we may be very intimately\nconnected. \n\nShe looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one side\nglance at her companion to observe its effect on her.\n\n Good heavens!  cried Elinor,  what do you mean? Are you acquainted\nwith Mr. Robert Ferrars? Can you be?  And she did not feel much\ndelighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law.\n\n No,  replied Lucy,  not to Mr. _Robert_ Ferrars I never saw him in my\nlife; but,  fixing her eyes upon Elinor,  to his eldest brother. \n\nWhat felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been as\npainful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the\nassertion attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement,\nunable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and though\nher complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no\ndanger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon.\n\n You may well be surprised,  continued Lucy;  for to be sure you could\nhave had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the\nsmallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always\nmeant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so\nby me to this hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it but Anne,\nand I never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not felt the\ngreatest dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and I really\nthought my behaviour in asking so many questions about Mrs. Ferrars\nmust seem so odd, that it ought to be explained. And I do not think Mr.\nFerrars can be displeased, when he knows I have trusted you, because I\nknow he has the highest opinion in the world of all your family, and\nlooks upon yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods quite as his own\nsisters. She paused.\n\nElinor for a few moments remained silent. Her astonishment at what she\nheard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself\nto speak, and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness of manner,\nwhich tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude May I ask\nif your engagement is of long standing? \n\n We have been engaged these four years. \n\n Four years! \n\n Yes. \n\nElinor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it.\n\n I did not know,  said she,  that you were even acquainted till the\nother day. \n\n Our acquaintance, however, is of many years date. He was under my\nuncle s care, you know, a considerable while. \n\n Your uncle! \n\n Yes; Mr. Pratt. Did you never hear him talk of Mr. Pratt? \n\n I think I have,  replied Elinor, with an exertion of spirits, which\nincreased with her increase of emotion.\n\n He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Longstaple, near\nPlymouth. It was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me was\noften staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was\nformed, though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he\nwas almost always with us afterwards. I was very unwilling to enter\ninto it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge and approbation of\nhis mother; but I was too young, and loved him too well, to be so\nprudent as I ought to have been. Though you do not know him so well as\nme, Miss Dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be sensible he\nis very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to him. \n\n Certainly,  answered Elinor, without knowing what she said; but after\na moment s reflection, she added, with revived security of Edward s\nhonour and love, and her companion s falsehood Engaged to Mr. Edward\nFerrars! I confess myself so totally surprised at what you tell me,\nthat really I beg your pardon; but surely there must be some mistake of\nperson or name. We cannot mean the same Mr. Ferrars. \n\n We can mean no other,  cried Lucy, smiling.  Mr. Edward Ferrars, the\neldest son of Mrs. Ferrars, of Park Street, and brother of your\nsister-in-law, Mrs. John Dashwood, is the person I mean; you must allow\nthat I am not likely to be deceived as to the name of the man on who\nall my happiness depends. \n\n It is strange,  replied Elinor, in a most painful perplexity,  that I\nshould never have heard him even mention your name. \n\n No; considering our situation, it was not strange. Our first care has\nbeen to keep the matter secret. You knew nothing of me, or my family,\nand, therefore, there could be no _occasion_ for ever mentioning my\nname to you; and, as he was always particularly afraid of his sister s\nsuspecting any thing, _that_ was reason enough for his not mentioning\nit. \n\nShe was silent. Elinor s security sunk; but her self-command did not\nsink with it.\n\n Four years you have been engaged,  said she with a firm voice.\n\n Yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait. Poor\nEdward! It puts him quite out of heart.  Then taking a small miniature\nfrom her pocket, she added,  To prevent the possibility of mistake, be\nso good as to look at this face. It does not do him justice, to be\nsure, but yet I think you cannot be deceived as to the person it was\ndrew for. I have had it above these three years. \n\nShe put it into her hands as she spoke; and when Elinor saw the\npainting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or\nher wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind, she\ncould have none of its being Edward s face. She returned it almost\ninstantly, acknowledging the likeness.\n\n I have never been able,  continued Lucy,  to give him my picture in\nreturn, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so\nanxious to get it! But I am determined to set for it the very first\nopportunity. \n\n You are quite in the right,  replied Elinor calmly. They then\nproceeded a few paces in silence. Lucy spoke first.\n\n I am sure,  said she,  I have no doubt in the world of your faithfully\nkeeping this secret, because you must know of what importance it is to\nus, not to have it reach his mother; for she would never approve of it,\nI dare say. I shall have no fortune, and I fancy she is an exceeding\nproud woman. \n\n I certainly did not seek your confidence,  said Elinor;  but you do me\nno more than justice in imagining that I may be depended on. Your\nsecret is safe with me; but pardon me if I express some surprise at so\nunnecessary a communication. You must at least have felt that my being\nacquainted with it could not add to its safety. \n\nAs she said this, she looked earnestly at Lucy, hoping to discover\nsomething in her countenance; perhaps the falsehood of the greatest\npart of what she had been saying; but Lucy s countenance suffered no\nchange.\n\n I was afraid you would think I was taking a great liberty with you, \nsaid she,  in telling you all this. I have not known you long to be\nsure, personally at least, but I have known you and all your family by\ndescription a great while; and as soon as I saw you, I felt almost as\nif you was an old acquaintance. Besides in the present case, I really\nthought some explanation was due to you after my making such particular\ninquiries about Edward s mother; and I am so unfortunate, that I have\nnot a creature whose advice I can ask. Anne is the only person that\nknows of it, and she has no judgment at all; indeed, she does me a\ngreat deal more harm than good, for I am in constant fear of her\nbetraying me. She does not know how to hold her tongue, as you must\nperceive, and I am sure I was in the greatest fright in the world\nt other day, when Edward s name was mentioned by Sir John, lest she\nshould out with it all. You can t think how much I go through in my\nmind from it altogether. I only wonder that I am alive after what I\nhave suffered for Edward s sake these last four years. Every thing in\nsuch suspense and uncertainty; and seeing him so seldom we can hardly\nmeet above twice a-year. I am sure I wonder my heart is not quite\nbroke. \n\nHere she took out her handkerchief; but Elinor did not feel very\ncompassionate.\n\n Sometimes.  continued Lucy, after wiping her eyes,  I think whether it\nwould not be better for us both to break off the matter entirely.  As\nshe said this, she looked directly at her companion.  But then at other\ntimes I have not resolution enough for it. I cannot bear the thoughts\nof making him so miserable, as I know the very mention of such a thing\nwould do. And on my own account too so dear as he is to me I don t\nthink I could be equal to it. What would you advise me to do in such a\ncase, Miss Dashwood? What would you do yourself? \n\n Pardon me,  replied Elinor, startled by the question;  but I can give\nyou no advice under such circumstances. Your own judgment must direct\nyou. \n\n To be sure,  continued Lucy, after a few minutes silence on both\nsides,  his mother must provide for him sometime or other; but poor\nEdward is so cast down by it! Did you not think him dreadful\nlow-spirited when he was at Barton? He was so miserable when he left us\nat Longstaple, to go to you, that I was afraid you would think him\nquite ill. \n\n Did he come from your uncle s, then, when he visited us? \n\n Oh, yes; he had been staying a fortnight with us. Did you think he\ncame directly from town? \n\n No,  replied Elinor, most feelingly sensible of every fresh\ncircumstance in favour of Lucy s veracity;  I remember he told us, that\nhe had been staying a fortnight with some friends near Plymouth.  She\nremembered too, her own surprise at the time, at his mentioning nothing\nfarther of those friends, at his total silence with respect even to\ntheir names.\n\n Did not you think him sadly out of spirits?  repeated Lucy.\n\n We did, indeed, particularly so when he first arrived. \n\n I begged him to exert himself for fear you should suspect what was the\nmatter; but it made him so melancholy, not being able to stay more than\na fortnight with us, and seeing me so much affected. Poor fellow! I am\nafraid it is just the same with him now; for he writes in wretched\nspirits. I heard from him just before I left Exeter;  taking a letter\nfrom her pocket and carelessly showing the direction to Elinor.  You\nknow his hand, I dare say, a charming one it is; but that is not\nwritten so well as usual. He was tired, I dare say, for he had just\nfilled the sheet to me as full as possible. \n\nElinor saw that it _was_ his hand, and she could doubt no longer. This\npicture, she had allowed herself to believe, might have been\naccidentally obtained; it might not have been Edward s gift; but a\ncorrespondence between them by letter, could subsist only under a\npositive engagement, could be authorised by nothing else; for a few\nmoments, she was almost overcome her heart sunk within her, and she\ncould hardly stand; but exertion was indispensably necessary; and she\nstruggled so resolutely against the oppression of her feelings, that\nher success was speedy, and for the time complete.\n\n Writing to each other,  said Lucy, returning the letter into her\npocket,  is the only comfort we have in such long separations. Yes, _I_\nhave one other comfort in his picture, but poor Edward has not even\n_that_. If he had but my picture, he says he should be easy. I gave him\na lock of my hair set in a ring when he was at Longstaple last, and\nthat was some comfort to him, he said, but not equal to a picture.\nPerhaps you might notice the ring when you saw him? \n\n I did,  said Elinor, with a composure of voice, under which was\nconcealed an emotion and distress beyond any thing she had ever felt\nbefore. She was mortified, shocked, confounded.\n\nFortunately for her, they had now reached the cottage, and the\nconversation could be continued no farther. After sitting with them a\nfew minutes, the Miss Steeles returned to the Park, and Elinor was then\nat liberty to think and be wretched.\n\nEND OF THE FIRST VOLUME\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII.\n\n\nHowever small Elinor s general dependence on Lucy s veracity might be,\nit was impossible for her on serious reflection to suspect it in the\npresent case, where no temptation could be answerable to the folly of\ninventing a falsehood of such a description. What Lucy had asserted to\nbe true, therefore, Elinor could not, dared not longer doubt; supported\nas it was too on every side by such probabilities and proofs, and\ncontradicted by nothing but her own wishes. Their opportunity of\nacquaintance in the house of Mr. Pratt was a foundation for the rest,\nat once indisputable and alarming; and Edward s visit near Plymouth,\nhis melancholy state of mind, his dissatisfaction at his own prospects,\nhis uncertain behaviour towards herself, the intimate knowledge of the\nMiss Steeles as to Norland and their family connections, which had\noften surprised her, the picture, the letter, the ring, formed\naltogether such a body of evidence, as overcame every fear of\ncondemning him unfairly, and established as a fact, which no partiality\ncould set aside, his ill-treatment of herself. Her resentment of such\nbehaviour, her indignation at having been its dupe, for a short time\nmade her feel only for herself; but other ideas, other considerations,\nsoon arose. Had Edward been intentionally deceiving her? Had he feigned\na regard for her which he did not feel? Was his engagement to Lucy an\nengagement of the heart? No; whatever it might once have been, she\ncould not believe it such at present. His affection was all her own.\nShe could not be deceived in that. Her mother, sisters, Fanny, all had\nbeen conscious of his regard for her at Norland; it was not an illusion\nof her own vanity. He certainly loved her. What a softener of the heart\nwas this persuasion! How much could it not tempt her to forgive! He had\nbeen blamable, highly blamable, in remaining at Norland after he first\nfelt her influence over him to be more than it ought to be. In that, he\ncould not be defended; but if he had injured her, how much more had he\ninjured himself; if her case were pitiable, his was hopeless. His\nimprudence had made her miserable for a while; but it seemed to have\ndeprived himself of all chance of ever being otherwise. She might in\ntime regain tranquillity; but _he_, what had he to look forward to?\nCould he ever be tolerably happy with Lucy Steele; could he, were his\naffection for herself out of the question, with his integrity, his\ndelicacy, and well-informed mind, be satisfied with a wife like\nher illiterate, artful, and selfish?\n\nThe youthful infatuation of nineteen would naturally blind him to every\nthing but her beauty and good nature; but the four succeeding\nyears years, which if rationally spent, give such improvement to the\nunderstanding, must have opened his eyes to her defects of education,\nwhile the same period of time, spent on her side in inferior society\nand more frivolous pursuits, had perhaps robbed her of that simplicity\nwhich might once have given an interesting character to her beauty.\n\nIf in the supposition of his seeking to marry herself, his difficulties\nfrom his mother had seemed great, how much greater were they now likely\nto be, when the object of his engagement was undoubtedly inferior in\nconnections, and probably inferior in fortune to herself. These\ndifficulties, indeed, with a heart so alienated from Lucy, might not\npress very hard upon his patience; but melancholy was the state of the\nperson by whom the expectation of family opposition and unkindness,\ncould be felt as a relief!\n\nAs these considerations occurred to her in painful succession, she wept\nfor him, more than for herself. Supported by the conviction of having\ndone nothing to merit her present unhappiness, and consoled by the\nbelief that Edward had done nothing to forfeit her esteem, she thought\nshe could even now, under the first smart of the heavy blow, command\nherself enough to guard every suspicion of the truth from her mother\nand sisters. And so well was she able to answer her own expectations,\nthat when she joined them at dinner only two hours after she had first\nsuffered the extinction of all her dearest hopes, no one would have\nsupposed from the appearance of the sisters, that Elinor was mourning\nin secret over obstacles which must divide her for ever from the object\nof her love, and that Marianne was internally dwelling on the\nperfections of a man, of whose whole heart she felt thoroughly\npossessed, and whom she expected to see in every carriage which drove\nnear their house.\n\nThe necessity of concealing from her mother and Marianne, what had been\nentrusted in confidence to herself, though it obliged her to unceasing\nexertion, was no aggravation of Elinor s distress. On the contrary it\nwas a relief to her, to be spared the communication of what would give\nsuch affliction to them, and to be saved likewise from hearing that\ncondemnation of Edward, which would probably flow from the excess of\ntheir partial affection for herself, and which was more than she felt\nequal to support.\n\nFrom their counsel, or their conversation, she knew she could receive\nno assistance, their tenderness and sorrow must add to her distress,\nwhile her self-command would neither receive encouragement from their\nexample nor from their praise. She was stronger alone, and her own good\nsense so well supported her, that her firmness was as unshaken, her\nappearance of cheerfulness as invariable, as with regrets so poignant\nand so fresh, it was possible for them to be.\n\nMuch as she had suffered from her first conversation with Lucy on the\nsubject, she soon felt an earnest wish of renewing it; and this for\nmore reasons than one. She wanted to hear many particulars of their\nengagement repeated again, she wanted more clearly to understand what\nLucy really felt for Edward, whether there were any sincerity in her\ndeclaration of tender regard for him, and she particularly wanted to\nconvince Lucy, by her readiness to enter on the matter again, and her\ncalmness in conversing on it, that she was no otherwise interested in\nit than as a friend, which she very much feared her involuntary\nagitation, in their morning discourse, must have left at least\ndoubtful. That Lucy was disposed to be jealous of her appeared very\nprobable: it was plain that Edward had always spoken highly in her\npraise, not merely from Lucy s assertion, but from her venturing to\ntrust her on so short a personal acquaintance, with a secret so\nconfessedly and evidently important. And even Sir John s joking\nintelligence must have had some weight. But indeed, while Elinor\nremained so well assured within herself of being really beloved by\nEdward, it required no other consideration of probabilities to make it\nnatural that Lucy should be jealous; and that she was so, her very\nconfidence was a proof. What other reason for the disclosure of the\naffair could there be, but that Elinor might be informed by it of\nLucy s superior claims on Edward, and be taught to avoid him in future?\nShe had little difficulty in understanding thus much of her rival s\nintentions, and while she was firmly resolved to act by her as every\nprinciple of honour and honesty directed, to combat her own affection\nfor Edward and to see him as little as possible; she could not deny\nherself the comfort of endeavouring to convince Lucy that her heart was\nunwounded. And as she could now have nothing more painful to hear on\nthe subject than had already been told, she did not mistrust her own\nability of going through a repetition of particulars with composure.\n\nBut it was not immediately that an opportunity of doing so could be\ncommanded, though Lucy was as well disposed as herself to take\nadvantage of any that occurred; for the weather was not often fine\nenough to allow of their joining in a walk, where they might most\neasily separate themselves from the others; and though they met at\nleast every other evening either at the park or cottage, and chiefly at\nthe former, they could not be supposed to meet for the sake of\nconversation. Such a thought would never enter either Sir John or Lady\nMiddleton s head; and therefore very little leisure was ever given for\na general chat, and none at all for particular discourse. They met for\nthe sake of eating, drinking, and laughing together, playing at cards,\nor consequences, or any other game that was sufficiently noisy.\n\nOne or two meetings of this kind had taken place, without affording\nElinor any chance of engaging Lucy in private, when Sir John called at\nthe cottage one morning, to beg, in the name of charity, that they\nwould all dine with Lady Middleton that day, as he was obliged to\nattend the club at Exeter, and she would otherwise be quite alone,\nexcept her mother and the two Miss Steeles. Elinor, who foresaw a\nfairer opening for the point she had in view, in such a party as this\nwas likely to be, more at liberty among themselves under the tranquil\nand well-bred direction of Lady Middleton than when her husband united\nthem together in one noisy purpose, immediately accepted the\ninvitation; Margaret, with her mother s permission, was equally\ncompliant, and Marianne, though always unwilling to join any of their\nparties, was persuaded by her mother, who could not bear to have her\nseclude herself from any chance of amusement, to go likewise.\n\nThe young ladies went, and Lady Middleton was happily preserved from\nthe frightful solitude which had threatened her. The insipidity of the\nmeeting was exactly such as Elinor had expected; it produced not one\nnovelty of thought or expression, and nothing could be less interesting\nthan the whole of their discourse both in the dining parlour and\ndrawing room: to the latter, the children accompanied them, and while\nthey remained there, she was too well convinced of the impossibility of\nengaging Lucy s attention to attempt it. They quitted it only with the\nremoval of the tea-things. The card-table was then placed, and Elinor\nbegan to wonder at herself for having ever entertained a hope of\nfinding time for conversation at the park. They all rose up in\npreparation for a round game.\n\n I am glad,  said Lady Middleton to Lucy,  you are not going to finish\npoor little Annamaria s basket this evening; for I am sure it must hurt\nyour eyes to work filigree by candlelight. And we will make the dear\nlittle love some amends for her disappointment to-morrow, and then I\nhope she will not much mind it. \n\nThis hint was enough, Lucy recollected herself instantly and replied,\n Indeed you are very much mistaken, Lady Middleton; I am only waiting\nto know whether you can make your party without me, or I should have\nbeen at my filigree already. I would not disappoint the little angel\nfor all the world: and if you want me at the card-table now, I am\nresolved to finish the basket after supper. \n\n You are very good, I hope it won t hurt your eyes will you ring the\nbell for some working candles? My poor little girl would be sadly\ndisappointed, I know, if the basket was not finished tomorrow, for\nthough I told her it certainly would not, I am sure she depends upon\nhaving it done. \n\nLucy directly drew her work table near her and reseated herself with an\nalacrity and cheerfulness which seemed to infer that she could taste no\ngreater delight than in making a filigree basket for a spoilt child.\n\nLady Middleton proposed a rubber of Casino to the others. No one made\nany objection but Marianne, who with her usual inattention to the forms\nof general civility, exclaimed,  Your Ladyship will have the goodness\nto excuse _me_ you know I detest cards. I shall go to the piano-forte;\nI have not touched it since it was tuned.  And without farther\nceremony, she turned away and walked to the instrument.\n\nLady Middleton looked as if she thanked heaven that _she_ had never\nmade so rude a speech.\n\n Marianne can never keep long from that instrument you know, ma am, \nsaid Elinor, endeavouring to smooth away the offence;  and I do not\nmuch wonder at it; for it is the very best toned piano-forte I ever\nheard. \n\nThe remaining five were now to draw their cards.\n\n Perhaps,  continued Elinor,  if I should happen to cut out, I may be\nof some use to Miss Lucy Steele, in rolling her papers for her; and\nthere is so much still to be done to the basket, that it must be\nimpossible I think for her labour singly, to finish it this evening. I\nshould like the work exceedingly, if she would allow me a share in it. \n\n Indeed I shall be very much obliged to you for your help,  cried Lucy,\n for I find there is more to be done to it than I thought there was;\nand it would be a shocking thing to disappoint dear Annamaria after\nall. \n\n Oh! that would be terrible, indeed,  said Miss Steele.  Dear little\nsoul, how I do love her! \n\n You are very kind,  said Lady Middleton to Elinor;  and as you really\nlike the work, perhaps you will be as well pleased not to cut in till\nanother rubber, or will you take your chance now? \n\nElinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, and thus by a\nlittle of that address which Marianne could never condescend to\npractise, gained her own end, and pleased Lady Middleton at the same\ntime. Lucy made room for her with ready attention, and the two fair\nrivals were thus seated side by side at the same table, and, with the\nutmost harmony, engaged in forwarding the same work. The pianoforte at\nwhich Marianne, wrapped up in her own music and her own thoughts, had\nby this time forgotten that any body was in the room besides herself,\nwas luckily so near them that Miss Dashwood now judged she might\nsafely, under the shelter of its noise, introduce the interesting\nsubject, without any risk of being heard at the card-table.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV.\n\n\nIn a firm, though cautious tone, Elinor thus began.\n\n I should be undeserving of the confidence you have honoured me with,\nif I felt no desire for its continuance, or no farther curiosity on its\nsubject. I will not apologize therefore for bringing it forward again. \n\n Thank you,  cried Lucy warmly,  for breaking the ice; you have set my\nheart at ease by it; for I was somehow or other afraid I had offended\nyou by what I told you that Monday. \n\n Offended me! How could you suppose so? Believe me,  and Elinor spoke\nit with the truest sincerity,  nothing could be farther from my\nintention than to give you such an idea. Could you have a motive for\nthe trust, that was not honourable and flattering to me? \n\n And yet I do assure you,  replied Lucy, her little sharp eyes full of\nmeaning,  there seemed to me to be a coldness and displeasure in your\nmanner that made me quite uncomfortable. I felt sure that you was angry\nwith me; and have been quarrelling with myself ever since, for having\ntook such a liberty as to trouble you with my affairs. But I am very\nglad to find it was only my own fancy, and that you really do not blame\nme. If you knew what a consolation it was to me to relieve my heart\nspeaking to you of what I am always thinking of every moment of my\nlife, your compassion would make you overlook every thing else I am\nsure. \n\n Indeed, I can easily believe that it was a very great relief to you,\nto acknowledge your situation to me, and be assured that you shall\nnever have reason to repent it. Your case is a very unfortunate one;\nyou seem to me to be surrounded with difficulties, and you will have\nneed of all your mutual affection to support you under them. Mr.\nFerrars, I believe, is entirely dependent on his mother. \n\n He has only two thousand pounds of his own; it would be madness to\nmarry upon that, though for my own part, I could give up every prospect\nof more without a sigh. I have been always used to a very small income,\nand could struggle with any poverty for him; but I love him too well to\nbe the selfish means of robbing him, perhaps, of all that his mother\nmight give him if he married to please her. We must wait, it may be for\nmany years. With almost every other man in the world, it would be an\nalarming prospect; but Edward s affection and constancy nothing can\ndeprive me of I know. \n\n That conviction must be every thing to you; and he is undoubtedly\nsupported by the same trust in your s. If the strength of your\nreciprocal attachment had failed, as between many people, and under\nmany circumstances it naturally would during a four years  engagement,\nyour situation would have been pitiable, indeed. \n\nLucy here looked up; but Elinor was careful in guarding her countenance\nfrom every expression that could give her words a suspicious tendency.\n\n Edward s love for me,  said Lucy,  has been pretty well put to the\ntest, by our long, very long absence since we were first engaged, and\nit has stood the trial so well, that I should be unpardonable to doubt\nit now. I can safely say that he has never gave me one moment s alarm\non that account from the first. \n\nElinor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this assertion.\n\nLucy went on.  I am rather of a jealous temper too by nature, and from\nour different situations in life, from his being so much more in the\nworld than me, and our continual separation, I was enough inclined for\nsuspicion, to have found out the truth in an instant, if there had been\nthe slightest alteration in his behaviour to me when we met, or any\nlowness of spirits that I could not account for, or if he had talked\nmore of one lady than another, or seemed in any respect less happy at\nLongstaple than he used to be. I do not mean to say that I am\nparticularly observant or quick-sighted in general, but in such a case\nI am sure I could not be deceived. \n\n All this,  thought Elinor,  is very pretty; but it can impose upon\nneither of us. \n\n But what,  said she after a short silence,  are your views? or have\nyou none but that of waiting for Mrs. Ferrars s death, which is a\nmelancholy and shocking extremity? Is her son determined to submit to\nthis, and to all the tediousness of the many years of suspense in which\nit may involve you, rather than run the risk of her displeasure for a\nwhile by owning the truth? \n\n If we could be certain that it would be only for a while! But Mrs.\nFerrars is a very headstrong proud woman, and in her first fit of anger\nupon hearing it, would very likely secure every thing to Robert, and\nthe idea of that, for Edward s sake, frightens away all my inclination\nfor hasty measures. \n\n And for your own sake too, or you are carrying your disinterestedness\nbeyond reason. \n\nLucy looked at Elinor again, and was silent.\n\n Do you know Mr. Robert Ferrars?  asked Elinor.\n\n Not at all I never saw him; but I fancy he is very unlike his\nbrother silly and a great coxcomb. \n\n A great coxcomb!  repeated Miss Steele, whose ear had caught those\nwords by a sudden pause in Marianne s music.  Oh, they are talking of\ntheir favourite beaux, I dare say. \n\n No sister,  cried Lucy,  you are mistaken there, our favourite beaux\nare _not_ great coxcombs. \n\n I can answer for it that Miss Dashwood s is not,  said Mrs. Jennings,\nlaughing heartily;  for he is one of the modestest, prettiest behaved\nyoung men I ever saw; but as for Lucy, she is such a sly little\ncreature, there is no finding out who _she_ likes. \n\n Oh,  cried Miss Steele, looking significantly round at them,  I dare\nsay Lucy s beau is quite as modest and pretty behaved as Miss\nDashwood s. \n\nElinor blushed in spite of herself. Lucy bit her lip, and looked\nangrily at her sister. A mutual silence took place for some time. Lucy\nfirst put an end to it by saying in a lower tone, though Marianne was\nthen giving them the powerful protection of a very magnificent\nconcerto, \n\n I will honestly tell you of one scheme which has lately come into my\nhead, for bringing matters to bear; indeed I am bound to let you into\nthe secret, for you are a party concerned. I dare say you have seen\nenough of Edward to know that he would prefer the church to every other\nprofession; now my plan is that he should take orders as soon as he\ncan, and then through your interest, which I am sure you would be kind\nenough to use out of friendship for him, and I hope out of some regard\nto me, your brother might be persuaded to give him Norland living;\nwhich I understand is a very good one, and the present incumbent not\nlikely to live a great while. That would be enough for us to marry\nupon, and we might trust to time and chance for the rest. \n\n I should always be happy,  replied Elinor,  to show any mark of my\nesteem and friendship for Mr. Ferrars; but do you not perceive that my\ninterest on such an occasion would be perfectly unnecessary? He is\nbrother to Mrs. John Dashwood _that_ must be recommendation enough to\nher husband. \n\n But Mrs. John Dashwood would not much approve of Edward s going into\norders. \n\n Then I rather suspect that my interest would do very little. \n\nThey were again silent for many minutes. At length Lucy exclaimed with\na deep sigh,\n\n I believe it would be the wisest way to put an end to the business at\nonce by dissolving the engagement. We seem so beset with difficulties\non every side, that though it would make us miserable for a time, we\nshould be happier perhaps in the end. But you will not give me your\nadvice, Miss Dashwood? \n\n No,  answered Elinor, with a smile, which concealed very agitated\nfeelings,  on such a subject I certainly will not. You know very well\nthat my opinion would have no weight with you, unless it were on the\nside of your wishes. \n\n Indeed you wrong me,  replied Lucy, with great solemnity;  I know\nnobody of whose judgment I think so highly as I do of yours; and I do\nreally believe, that if you was to say to me,  I advise you by all\nmeans to put an end to your engagement with Edward Ferrars, it will be\nmore for the happiness of both of you,  I should resolve upon doing it\nimmediately. \n\nElinor blushed for the insincerity of Edward s future wife, and\nreplied,  This compliment would effectually frighten me from giving any\nopinion on the subject had I formed one. It raises my influence much\ntoo high; the power of dividing two people so tenderly attached is too\nmuch for an indifferent person. \n\n Tis because you are an indifferent person,  said Lucy, with some\npique, and laying a particular stress on those words,  that your\njudgment might justly have such weight with me. If you could be\nsupposed to be biased in any respect by your own feelings, your opinion\nwould not be worth having. \n\nElinor thought it wisest to make no answer to this, lest they might\nprovoke each other to an unsuitable increase of ease and unreserve; and\nwas even partly determined never to mention the subject again. Another\npause therefore of many minutes  duration, succeeded this speech, and\nLucy was still the first to end it.\n\n Shall you be in town this winter, Miss Dashwood?  said she with all\nher accustomary complacency.\n\n Certainly not. \n\n I am sorry for that,  returned the other, while her eyes brightened at\nthe information,  it would have gave me such pleasure to meet you\nthere! But I dare say you will go for all that. To be sure, your\nbrother and sister will ask you to come to them. \n\n It will not be in my power to accept their invitation if they do. \n\n How unlucky that is! I had quite depended upon meeting you there. Anne\nand me are to go the latter end of January to some relations who have\nbeen wanting us to visit them these several years! But I only go for\nthe sake of seeing Edward. He will be there in February, otherwise\nLondon would have no charms for me; I have not spirits for it. \n\nElinor was soon called to the card-table by the conclusion of the first\nrubber, and the confidential discourse of the two ladies was therefore\nat an end, to which both of them submitted without any reluctance, for\nnothing had been said on either side to make them dislike each other\nless than they had done before; and Elinor sat down to the card table\nwith the melancholy persuasion that Edward was not only without\naffection for the person who was to be his wife; but that he had not\neven the chance of being tolerably happy in marriage, which sincere\naffection on _her_ side would have given, for self-interest alone could\ninduce a woman to keep a man to an engagement, of which she seemed so\nthoroughly aware that he was weary.\n\nFrom this time the subject was never revived by Elinor, and when\nentered on by Lucy, who seldom missed an opportunity of introducing it,\nand was particularly careful to inform her confidante, of her happiness\nwhenever she received a letter from Edward, it was treated by the\nformer with calmness and caution, and dismissed as soon as civility\nwould allow; for she felt such conversations to be an indulgence which\nLucy did not deserve, and which were dangerous to herself.\n\nThe visit of the Miss Steeles at Barton Park was lengthened far beyond\nwhat the first invitation implied. Their favour increased; they could\nnot be spared; Sir John would not hear of their going; and in spite of\ntheir numerous and long arranged engagements in Exeter, in spite of the\nabsolute necessity of returning to fulfill them immediately, which was\nin full force at the end of every week, they were prevailed on to stay\nnearly two months at the park, and to assist in the due celebration of\nthat festival which requires a more than ordinary share of private\nballs and large dinners to proclaim its importance.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV.\n\n\nThough Mrs. Jennings was in the habit of spending a large portion of\nthe year at the houses of her children and friends, she was not without\na settled habitation of her own. Since the death of her husband, who\nhad traded with success in a less elegant part of the town, she had\nresided every winter in a house in one of the streets near Portman\nSquare. Towards this home, she began on the approach of January to turn\nher thoughts, and thither she one day abruptly, and very unexpectedly\nby them, asked the elder Misses Dashwood to accompany her. Elinor,\nwithout observing the varying complexion of her sister, and the\nanimated look which spoke no indifference to the plan, immediately gave\na grateful but absolute denial for both, in which she believed herself\nto be speaking their united inclinations. The reason alleged was their\ndetermined resolution of not leaving their mother at that time of the\nyear. Mrs. Jennings received the refusal with some surprise, and\nrepeated her invitation immediately.\n\n Oh, Lord! I am sure your mother can spare you very well, and I _do_\nbeg you will favour me with your company, for I ve quite set my heart\nupon it. Don t fancy that you will be any inconvenience to me, for I\nshan t put myself at all out of my way for you. It will only be sending\nBetty by the coach, and I hope I can afford _that_. We three shall be\nable to go very well in my chaise; and when we are in town, if you do\nnot like to go wherever I do, well and good, you may always go with one\nof my daughters. I am sure your mother will not object to it; for I\nhave had such good luck in getting my own children off my hands that\nshe will think me a very fit person to have the charge of you; and if I\ndon t get one of you at least well married before I have done with you,\nit shall not be my fault. I shall speak a good word for you to all the\nyoung men, you may depend upon it. \n\n I have a notion,  said Sir John,  that Miss Marianne would not object\nto such a scheme, if her elder sister would come into it. It is very\nhard indeed that she should not have a little pleasure, because Miss\nDashwood does not wish it. So I would advise you two, to set off for\ntown, when you are tired of Barton, without saying a word to Miss\nDashwood about it. \n\n Nay,  cried Mrs. Jennings,  I am sure I shall be monstrous glad of\nMiss Marianne s company, whether Miss Dashwood will go or not, only the\nmore the merrier say I, and I thought it would be more comfortable for\nthem to be together; because, if they got tired of me, they might talk\nto one another, and laugh at my odd ways behind my back. But one or the\nother, if not both of them, I must have. Lord bless me! how do you\nthink I can live poking by myself, I who have been always used till\nthis winter to have Charlotte with me. Come, Miss Marianne, let us\nstrike hands upon the bargain, and if Miss Dashwood will change her\nmind by and bye, why so much the better. \n\n I thank you, ma am, sincerely thank you,  said Marianne, with warmth:\n your invitation has insured my gratitude for ever, and it would give\nme such happiness, yes, almost the greatest happiness I am capable of,\nto be able to accept it. But my mother, my dearest, kindest mother, I\nfeel the justice of what Elinor has urged, and if she were to be made\nless happy, less comfortable by our absence Oh! no, nothing should\ntempt me to leave her. It should not, must not be a struggle. \n\nMrs. Jennings repeated her assurance that Mrs. Dashwood could spare\nthem perfectly well; and Elinor, who now understood her sister, and saw\nto what indifference to almost every thing else she was carried by her\neagerness to be with Willoughby again, made no farther direct\nopposition to the plan, and merely referred it to her mother s\ndecision, from whom however she scarcely expected to receive any\nsupport in her endeavour to prevent a visit, which she could not\napprove of for Marianne, and which on her own account she had\nparticular reasons to avoid. Whatever Marianne was desirous of, her\nmother would be eager to promote she could not expect to influence the\nlatter to cautiousness of conduct in an affair respecting which she had\nnever been able to inspire her with distrust; and she dared not explain\nthe motive of her own disinclination for going to London. That\nMarianne, fastidious as she was, thoroughly acquainted with Mrs.\nJennings  manners, and invariably disgusted by them, should overlook\nevery inconvenience of that kind, should disregard whatever must be\nmost wounding to her irritable feelings, in her pursuit of one object,\nwas such a proof, so strong, so full, of the importance of that object\nto her, as Elinor, in spite of all that had passed, was not prepared to\nwitness.\n\nOn being informed of the invitation, Mrs. Dashwood, persuaded that such\nan excursion would be productive of much amusement to both her\ndaughters, and perceiving through all her affectionate attention to\nherself, how much the heart of Marianne was in it, would not hear of\ntheir declining the offer upon _her_ account; insisted on their both\naccepting it directly; and then began to foresee, with her usual\ncheerfulness, a variety of advantages that would accrue to them all,\nfrom this separation.\n\n I am delighted with the plan,  she cried,  it is exactly what I could\nwish. Margaret and I shall be as much benefited by it as yourselves.\nWhen you and the Middletons are gone, we shall go on so quietly and\nhappily together with our books and our music! You will find Margaret\nso improved when you come back again! I have a little plan of\nalteration for your bedrooms too, which may now be performed without\nany inconvenience to any one. It is very right that you _should_ go to\ntown; I would have every young woman of your condition in life\nacquainted with the manners and amusements of London. You will be under\nthe care of a motherly good sort of woman, of whose kindness to you I\ncan have no doubt. And in all probability you will see your brother,\nand whatever may be his faults, or the faults of his wife, when I\nconsider whose son he is, I cannot bear to have you so wholly estranged\nfrom each other. \n\n Though with your usual anxiety for our happiness,  said Elinor,  you\nhave been obviating every impediment to the present scheme which\noccurred to you, there is still one objection which, in my opinion,\ncannot be so easily removed. \n\nMarianne s countenance sunk.\n\n And what,  said Mrs. Dashwood,  is my dear prudent Elinor going to\nsuggest? What formidable obstacle is she now to bring forward? Do not\nlet me hear a word about the expense of it. \n\n My objection is this; though I think very well of Mrs. Jennings s\nheart, she is not a woman whose society can afford us pleasure, or\nwhose protection will give us consequence. \n\n That is very true,  replied her mother,  but of her society,\nseparately from that of other people, you will scarcely have any thing\nat all, and you will almost always appear in public with Lady\nMiddleton. \n\n If Elinor is frightened away by her dislike of Mrs. Jennings,  said\nMarianne,  at least it need not prevent MY accepting her invitation. I\nhave no such scruples, and I am sure I could put up with every\nunpleasantness of that kind with very little effort. \n\nElinor could not help smiling at this display of indifference towards\nthe manners of a person, to whom she had often had difficulty in\npersuading Marianne to behave with tolerable politeness; and resolved\nwithin herself, that if her sister persisted in going, she would go\nlikewise, as she did not think it proper that Marianne should be left\nto the sole guidance of her own judgment, or that Mrs. Jennings should\nbe abandoned to the mercy of Marianne for all the comfort of her\ndomestic hours. To this determination she was the more easily\nreconciled, by recollecting that Edward Ferrars, by Lucy s account, was\nnot to be in town before February; and that their visit, without any\nunreasonable abridgement, might be previously finished.\n\n I will have you _both_ go,  said Mrs. Dashwood;  these objections are\nnonsensical. You will have much pleasure in being in London, and\nespecially in being together; and if Elinor would ever condescend to\nanticipate enjoyment, she would foresee it there from a variety of\nsources; she would, perhaps, expect some from improving her\nacquaintance with her sister-in-law s family. \n\nElinor had often wished for an opportunity of attempting to weaken her\nmother s dependence on the attachment of Edward and herself, that the\nshock might be less when the whole truth were revealed, and now on this\nattack, though almost hopeless of success, she forced herself to begin\nher design by saying, as calmly as she could,  I like Edward Ferrars\nvery much, and shall always be glad to see him; but as to the rest of\nthe family, it is a matter of perfect indifference to me, whether I am\never known to them or not. \n\nMrs. Dashwood smiled, and said nothing. Marianne lifted up her eyes in\nastonishment, and Elinor conjectured that she might as well have held\nher tongue.\n\nAfter very little farther discourse, it was finally settled that the\ninvitation should be fully accepted. Mrs. Jennings received the\ninformation with a great deal of joy, and many assurances of kindness\nand care; nor was it a matter of pleasure merely to her. Sir John was\ndelighted; for to a man, whose prevailing anxiety was the dread of\nbeing alone, the acquisition of two, to the number of inhabitants in\nLondon, was something. Even Lady Middleton took the trouble of being\ndelighted, which was putting herself rather out of her way; and as for\nthe Miss Steeles, especially Lucy, they had never been so happy in\ntheir lives as this intelligence made them.\n\nElinor submitted to the arrangement which counteracted her wishes with\nless reluctance than she had expected to feel. With regard to herself,\nit was now a matter of unconcern whether she went to town or not, and\nwhen she saw her mother so thoroughly pleased with the plan, and her\nsister exhilarated by it in look, voice, and manner, restored to all\nher usual animation, and elevated to more than her usual gaiety, she\ncould not be dissatisfied with the cause, and would hardly allow\nherself to distrust the consequence.\n\nMarianne s joy was almost a degree beyond happiness, so great was the\nperturbation of her spirits and her impatience to be gone. Her\nunwillingness to quit her mother was her only restorative to calmness;\nand at the moment of parting her grief on that score was excessive. Her\nmother s affliction was hardly less, and Elinor was the only one of the\nthree, who seemed to consider the separation as any thing short of\neternal.\n\nTheir departure took place in the first week in January. The Middletons\nwere to follow in about a week. The Miss Steeles kept their station at\nthe park, and were to quit it only with the rest of the family.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI.\n\n\nElinor could not find herself in the carriage with Mrs. Jennings, and\nbeginning a journey to London under her protection, and as her guest,\nwithout wondering at her own situation, so short had their acquaintance\nwith that lady been, so wholly unsuited were they in age and\ndisposition, and so many had been her objections against such a measure\nonly a few days before! But these objections had all, with that happy\nardour of youth which Marianne and her mother equally shared, been\novercome or overlooked; and Elinor, in spite of every occasional doubt\nof Willoughby s constancy, could not witness the rapture of delightful\nexpectation which filled the whole soul and beamed in the eyes of\nMarianne, without feeling how blank was her own prospect, how cheerless\nher own state of mind in the comparison, and how gladly she would\nengage in the solicitude of Marianne s situation to have the same\nanimating object in view, the same possibility of hope. A short, a very\nshort time however must now decide what Willoughby s intentions were;\nin all probability he was already in town. Marianne s eagerness to be\ngone declared her dependence on finding him there; and Elinor was\nresolved not only upon gaining every new light as to his character\nwhich her own observation or the intelligence of others could give her,\nbut likewise upon watching his behaviour to her sister with such\nzealous attention, as to ascertain what he was and what he meant,\nbefore many meetings had taken place. Should the result of her\nobservations be unfavourable, she was determined at all events to open\nthe eyes of her sister; should it be otherwise, her exertions would be\nof a different nature she must then learn to avoid every selfish\ncomparison, and banish every regret which might lessen her satisfaction\nin the happiness of Marianne.\n\nThey were three days on their journey, and Marianne s behaviour as they\ntravelled was a happy specimen of what future complaisance and\ncompanionableness to Mrs. Jennings might be expected to be. She sat in\nsilence almost all the way, wrapt in her own meditations, and scarcely\never voluntarily speaking, except when any object of picturesque beauty\nwithin their view drew from her an exclamation of delight exclusively\naddressed to her sister. To atone for this conduct therefore, Elinor\ntook immediate possession of the post of civility which she had\nassigned herself, behaved with the greatest attention to Mrs. Jennings,\ntalked with her, laughed with her, and listened to her whenever she\ncould; and Mrs. Jennings on her side treated them both with all\npossible kindness, was solicitous on every occasion for their ease and\nenjoyment, and only disturbed that she could not make them choose their\nown dinners at the inn, nor extort a confession of their preferring\nsalmon to cod, or boiled fowls to veal cutlets. They reached town by\nthree o clock the third day, glad to be released, after such a journey,\nfrom the confinement of a carriage, and ready to enjoy all the luxury\nof a good fire.\n\nThe house was handsome, and handsomely fitted up, and the young ladies\nwere immediately put in possession of a very comfortable apartment. It\nhad formerly been Charlotte s, and over the mantelpiece still hung a\nlandscape in coloured silks of her performance, in proof of her having\nspent seven years at a great school in town to some effect.\n\nAs dinner was not to be ready in less than two hours from their\narrival, Elinor determined to employ the interval in writing to her\nmother, and sat down for that purpose. In a few moments Marianne did\nthe same.  _I_ am writing home, Marianne,  said Elinor;  had not you\nbetter defer your letter for a day or two? \n\n I am _not_ going to write to my mother,  replied Marianne, hastily,\nand as if wishing to avoid any farther inquiry. Elinor said no more; it\nimmediately struck her that she must then be writing to Willoughby; and\nthe conclusion which as instantly followed was, that, however\nmysteriously they might wish to conduct the affair, they must be\nengaged. This conviction, though not entirely satisfactory, gave her\npleasure, and she continued her letter with greater alacrity.\nMarianne s was finished in a very few minutes; in length it could be no\nmore than a note; it was then folded up, sealed, and directed with\neager rapidity. Elinor thought she could distinguish a large W in the\ndirection; and no sooner was it complete than Marianne, ringing the\nbell, requested the footman who answered it to get that letter conveyed\nfor her to the two-penny post. This decided the matter at once.\n\nHer spirits still continued very high; but there was a flutter in them\nwhich prevented their giving much pleasure to her sister, and this\nagitation increased as the evening drew on. She could scarcely eat any\ndinner, and when they afterwards returned to the drawing room, seemed\nanxiously listening to the sound of every carriage.\n\nIt was a great satisfaction to Elinor that Mrs. Jennings, by being much\nengaged in her own room, could see little of what was passing. The tea\nthings were brought in, and already had Marianne been disappointed more\nthan once by a rap at a neighbouring door, when a loud one was suddenly\nheard which could not be mistaken for one at any other house, Elinor\nfelt secure of its announcing Willoughby s approach, and Marianne,\nstarting up, moved towards the door. Every thing was silent; this could\nnot be borne many seconds; she opened the door, advanced a few steps\ntowards the stairs, and after listening half a minute, returned into\nthe room in all the agitation which a conviction of having heard him\nwould naturally produce; in the ecstasy of her feelings at that instant\nshe could not help exclaiming,  Oh, Elinor, it is Willoughby, indeed it\nis!  and seemed almost ready to throw herself into his arms, when\nColonel Brandon appeared.\n\nIt was too great a shock to be borne with calmness, and she immediately\nleft the room. Elinor was disappointed too; but at the same time her\nregard for Colonel Brandon ensured his welcome with her; and she felt\nparticularly hurt that a man so partial to her sister should perceive\nthat she experienced nothing but grief and disappointment in seeing\nhim. She instantly saw that it was not unnoticed by him, that he even\nobserved Marianne as she quitted the room, with such astonishment and\nconcern, as hardly left him the recollection of what civility demanded\ntowards herself.\n\n Is your sister ill?  said he.\n\nElinor answered in some distress that she was, and then talked of\nhead-aches, low spirits, and over fatigues; and of every thing to which\nshe could decently attribute her sister s behaviour.\n\nHe heard her with the most earnest attention, but seeming to recollect\nhimself, said no more on the subject, and began directly to speak of\nhis pleasure at seeing them in London, making the usual inquiries about\ntheir journey, and the friends they had left behind.\n\nIn this calm kind of way, with very little interest on either side,\nthey continued to talk, both of them out of spirits, and the thoughts\nof both engaged elsewhere. Elinor wished very much to ask whether\nWilloughby were then in town, but she was afraid of giving him pain by\nany enquiry after his rival; and at length, by way of saying something,\nshe asked if he had been in London ever since she had seen him last.\n Yes,  he replied, with some embarrassment,  almost ever since; I have\nbeen once or twice at Delaford for a few days, but it has never been in\nmy power to return to Barton. \n\nThis, and the manner in which it was said, immediately brought back to\nher remembrance all the circumstances of his quitting that place, with\nthe uneasiness and suspicions they had caused to Mrs. Jennings, and she\nwas fearful that her question had implied much more curiosity on the\nsubject than she had ever felt.\n\nMrs. Jennings soon came in.  Oh! Colonel,  said she, with her usual\nnoisy cheerfulness,  I am monstrous glad to see you sorry I could not\ncome before beg your pardon, but I have been forced to look about me a\nlittle, and settle my matters; for it is a long while since I have been\nat home, and you know one has always a world of little odd things to do\nafter one has been away for any time; and then I have had Cartwright to\nsettle with. Lord, I have been as busy as a bee ever since dinner! But\npray, Colonel, how came you to conjure out that I should be in town\ntoday? \n\n I had the pleasure of hearing it at Mr. Palmer s, where I have been\ndining. \n\n Oh, you did; well, and how do they all do at their house? How does\nCharlotte do? I warrant you she is a fine size by this time. \n\n Mrs. Palmer appeared quite well, and I am commissioned to tell you,\nthat you will certainly see her to-morrow. \n\n Ay, to be sure, I thought as much. Well, Colonel, I have brought two\nyoung ladies with me, you see that is, you see but one of them now, but\nthere is another somewhere. Your friend, Miss Marianne, too which you\nwill not be sorry to hear. I do not know what you and Mr. Willoughby\nwill do between you about her. Ay, it is a fine thing to be young and\nhandsome. Well! I was young once, but I never was very handsome worse\nluck for me. However, I got a very good husband, and I don t know what\nthe greatest beauty can do more. Ah! poor man! he has been dead these\neight years and better. But Colonel, where have you been to since we\nparted? And how does your business go on? Come, come, let s have no\nsecrets among friends. \n\nHe replied with his accustomary mildness to all her inquiries, but\nwithout satisfying her in any. Elinor now began to make the tea, and\nMarianne was obliged to appear again.\n\nAfter her entrance, Colonel Brandon became more thoughtful and silent\nthan he had been before, and Mrs. Jennings could not prevail on him to\nstay long. No other visitor appeared that evening, and the ladies were\nunanimous in agreeing to go early to bed.\n\nMarianne rose the next morning with recovered spirits and happy looks.\nThe disappointment of the evening before seemed forgotten in the\nexpectation of what was to happen that day. They had not long finished\ntheir breakfast before Mrs. Palmer s barouche stopped at the door, and\nin a few minutes she came laughing into the room: so delighted to see\nthem all, that it was hard to say whether she received most pleasure\nfrom meeting her mother or the Miss Dashwoods again. So surprised at\ntheir coming to town, though it was what she had rather expected all\nalong; so angry at their accepting her mother s invitation after having\ndeclined her own, though at the same time she would never have forgiven\nthem if they had not come!\n\n Mr. Palmer will be so happy to see you,  said she;  What do you think\nhe said when he heard of your coming with Mama? I forget what it was\nnow, but it was something so droll! \n\nAfter an hour or two spent in what her mother called comfortable chat,\nor in other words, in every variety of inquiry concerning all their\nacquaintance on Mrs. Jennings s side, and in laughter without cause on\nMrs. Palmer s, it was proposed by the latter that they should all\naccompany her to some shops where she had business that morning, to\nwhich Mrs. Jennings and Elinor readily consented, as having likewise\nsome purchases to make themselves; and Marianne, though declining it at\nfirst was induced to go likewise.\n\nWherever they went, she was evidently always on the watch. In Bond\nStreet especially, where much of their business lay, her eyes were in\nconstant inquiry; and in whatever shop the party were engaged, her mind\nwas equally abstracted from every thing actually before them, from all\nthat interested and occupied the others. Restless and dissatisfied\nevery where, her sister could never obtain her opinion of any article\nof purchase, however it might equally concern them both: she received\nno pleasure from anything; was only impatient to be at home again, and\ncould with difficulty govern her vexation at the tediousness of Mrs.\nPalmer, whose eye was caught by every thing pretty, expensive, or new;\nwho was wild to buy all, could determine on none, and dawdled away her\ntime in rapture and indecision.\n\nIt was late in the morning before they returned home; and no sooner had\nthey entered the house than Marianne flew eagerly up stairs, and when\nElinor followed, she found her turning from the table with a sorrowful\ncountenance, which declared that no Willoughby had been there.\n\n Has no letter been left here for me since we went out?  said she to\nthe footman who then entered with the parcels. She was answered in the\nnegative.  Are you quite sure of it?  she replied.  Are you certain\nthat no servant, no porter has left any letter or note? \n\nThe man replied that none had.\n\n How very odd!  said she, in a low and disappointed voice, as she\nturned away to the window.\n\n How odd, indeed!  repeated Elinor within herself, regarding her sister\nwith uneasiness.  If she had not known him to be in town she would not\nhave written to him, as she did; she would have written to Combe Magna;\nand if he is in town, how odd that he should neither come nor write!\nOh! my dear mother, you must be wrong in permitting an engagement\nbetween a daughter so young, a man so little known, to be carried on in\nso doubtful, so mysterious a manner! _I_ long to inquire; and how will\n_my_ interference be borne. \n\nShe determined, after some consideration, that if appearances continued\nmany days longer as unpleasant as they now were, she would represent in\nthe strongest manner to her mother the necessity of some serious\nenquiry into the affair.\n\nMrs. Palmer and two elderly ladies of Mrs. Jennings s intimate\nacquaintance, whom she had met and invited in the morning, dined with\nthem. The former left them soon after tea to fulfill her evening\nengagements; and Elinor was obliged to assist in making a whist table\nfor the others. Marianne was of no use on these occasions, as she would\nnever learn the game; but though her time was therefore at her own\ndisposal, the evening was by no means more productive of pleasure to\nher than to Elinor, for it was spent in all the anxiety of expectation\nand the pain of disappointment. She sometimes endeavoured for a few\nminutes to read; but the book was soon thrown aside, and she returned\nto the more interesting employment of walking backwards and forwards\nacross the room, pausing for a moment whenever she came to the window,\nin hopes of distinguishing the long-expected rap.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII.\n\n\n If this open weather holds much longer,  said Mrs. Jennings, when they\nmet at breakfast the following morning,  Sir John will not like leaving\nBarton next week;  tis a sad thing for sportsmen to lose a day s\npleasure. Poor souls! I always pity them when they do; they seem to\ntake it so much to heart. \n\n That is true,  cried Marianne, in a cheerful voice, and walking to the\nwindow as she spoke, to examine the day.  I had not thought of _that_.\nThis weather will keep many sportsmen in the country. \n\nIt was a lucky recollection, all her good spirits were restored by it.\n It is charming weather for _them_ indeed,  she continued, as she sat\ndown to the breakfast table with a happy countenance.  How much they\nmust enjoy it! But  (with a little return of anxiety)  it cannot be\nexpected to last long. At this time of the year, and after such a\nseries of rain, we shall certainly have very little more of it. Frosts\nwill soon set in, and in all probability with severity. In another day\nor two perhaps; this extreme mildness can hardly last longer nay,\nperhaps it may freeze tonight! \n\n At any rate,  said Elinor, wishing to prevent Mrs. Jennings from\nseeing her sister s thoughts as clearly as she did,  I dare say we\nshall have Sir John and Lady Middleton in town by the end of next\nweek. \n\n Ay, my dear, I ll warrant you we do. Mary always has her own way. \n\n And now,  silently conjectured Elinor,  she will write to Combe by\nthis day s post. \n\nBut if she _did_, the letter was written and sent away with a privacy\nwhich eluded all her watchfulness to ascertain the fact. Whatever the\ntruth of it might be, and far as Elinor was from feeling thorough\ncontentment about it, yet while she saw Marianne in spirits, she could\nnot be very uncomfortable herself. And Marianne was in spirits; happy\nin the mildness of the weather, and still happier in her expectation of\na frost.\n\nThe morning was chiefly spent in leaving cards at the houses of Mrs.\nJennings s acquaintance to inform them of her being in town; and\nMarianne was all the time busy in observing the direction of the wind,\nwatching the variations of the sky and imagining an alteration in the\nair.\n\n Don t you find it colder than it was in the morning, Elinor? There\nseems to me a very decided difference. I can hardly keep my hands warm\neven in my muff. It was not so yesterday, I think. The clouds seem\nparting too, the sun will be out in a moment, and we shall have a clear\nafternoon. \n\nElinor was alternately diverted and pained; but Marianne persevered,\nand saw every night in the brightness of the fire, and every morning in\nthe appearance of the atmosphere, the certain symptoms of approaching\nfrost.\n\nThe Miss Dashwoods had no greater reason to be dissatisfied with Mrs.\nJennings s style of living, and set of acquaintance, than with her\nbehaviour to themselves, which was invariably kind. Every thing in her\nhousehold arrangements was conducted on the most liberal plan, and\nexcepting a few old city friends, whom, to Lady Middleton s regret, she\nhad never dropped, she visited no one to whom an introduction could at\nall discompose the feelings of her young companions. Pleased to find\nherself more comfortably situated in that particular than she had\nexpected, Elinor was very willing to compound for the want of much real\nenjoyment from any of their evening parties, which, whether at home or\nabroad, formed only for cards, could have little to amuse her.\n\nColonel Brandon, who had a general invitation to the house, was with\nthem almost every day; he came to look at Marianne and talk to Elinor,\nwho often derived more satisfaction from conversing with him than from\nany other daily occurrence, but who saw at the same time with much\nconcern his continued regard for her sister. She feared it was a\nstrengthening regard. It grieved her to see the earnestness with which\nhe often watched Marianne, and his spirits were certainly worse than\nwhen at Barton.\n\nAbout a week after their arrival, it became certain that Willoughby was\nalso arrived. His card was on the table when they came in from the\nmorning s drive.\n\n Good God!  cried Marianne,  he has been here while we were out. \nElinor, rejoiced to be assured of his being in London, now ventured to\nsay,  Depend upon it, he will call again tomorrow.  But Marianne seemed\nhardly to hear her, and on Mrs. Jennings s entrance, escaped with the\nprecious card.\n\nThis event, while it raised the spirits of Elinor, restored to those of\nher sister all, and more than all, their former agitation. From this\nmoment her mind was never quiet; the expectation of seeing him every\nhour of the day, made her unfit for any thing. She insisted on being\nleft behind, the next morning, when the others went out.\n\nElinor s thoughts were full of what might be passing in Berkeley Street\nduring their absence; but a moment s glance at her sister when they\nreturned was enough to inform her, that Willoughby had paid no second\nvisit there. A note was just then brought in, and laid on the table.\n\n For me!  cried Marianne, stepping hastily forward.\n\n No, ma am, for my mistress. \n\nBut Marianne, not convinced, took it instantly up.\n\n It is indeed for Mrs. Jennings; how provoking! \n\n You are expecting a letter, then?  said Elinor, unable to be longer\nsilent.\n\n Yes, a little not much. \n\nAfter a short pause.  You have no confidence in me, Marianne. \n\n Nay, Elinor, this reproach from _you_ you who have confidence in no\none! \n\n Me!  returned Elinor in some confusion;  indeed, Marianne, I have\nnothing to tell. \n\n Nor I,  answered Marianne with energy,  our situations then are alike.\nWe have neither of us any thing to tell; you, because you do not\ncommunicate, and I, because I conceal nothing. \n\nElinor, distressed by this charge of reserve in herself, which she was\nnot at liberty to do away, knew not how, under such circumstances, to\npress for greater openness in Marianne.\n\nMrs. Jennings soon appeared, and the note being given her, she read it\naloud. It was from Lady Middleton, announcing their arrival in Conduit\nStreet the night before, and requesting the company of her mother and\ncousins the following evening. Business on Sir John s part, and a\nviolent cold on her own, prevented their calling in Berkeley Street.\nThe invitation was accepted; but when the hour of appointment drew\nnear, necessary as it was in common civility to Mrs. Jennings, that\nthey should both attend her on such a visit, Elinor had some difficulty\nin persuading her sister to go, for still she had seen nothing of\nWilloughby; and therefore was not more indisposed for amusement abroad,\nthan unwilling to run the risk of his calling again in her absence.\n\nElinor found, when the evening was over, that disposition is not\nmaterially altered by a change of abode, for although scarcely settled\nin town, Sir John had contrived to collect around him, nearly twenty\nyoung people, and to amuse them with a ball. This was an affair,\nhowever, of which Lady Middleton did not approve. In the country, an\nunpremeditated dance was very allowable; but in London, where the\nreputation of elegance was more important and less easily attained, it\nwas risking too much for the gratification of a few girls, to have it\nknown that Lady Middleton had given a small dance of eight or nine\ncouple, with two violins, and a mere side-board collation.\n\nMr. and Mrs. Palmer were of the party; from the former, whom they had\nnot seen before since their arrival in town, as he was careful to avoid\nthe appearance of any attention to his mother-in-law, and therefore\nnever came near her, they received no mark of recognition on their\nentrance. He looked at them slightly, without seeming to know who they\nwere, and merely nodded to Mrs. Jennings from the other side of the\nroom. Marianne gave one glance round the apartment as she entered: it\nwas enough _he_ was not there and she sat down, equally ill-disposed to\nreceive or communicate pleasure. After they had been assembled about an\nhour, Mr. Palmer sauntered towards the Miss Dashwoods to express his\nsurprise on seeing them in town, though Colonel Brandon had been first\ninformed of their arrival at his house, and he had himself said\nsomething very droll on hearing that they were to come.\n\n I thought you were both in Devonshire,  said he.\n\n Did you?  replied Elinor.\n\n When do you go back again? \n\n I do not know.  And thus ended their discourse.\n\nNever had Marianne been so unwilling to dance in her life, as she was\nthat evening, and never so much fatigued by the exercise. She\ncomplained of it as they returned to Berkeley Street.\n\n Aye, aye,  said Mrs. Jennings,  we know the reason of all that very\nwell; if a certain person who shall be nameless, had been there, you\nwould not have been a bit tired: and to say the truth it was not very\npretty of him not to give you the meeting when he was invited. \n\n Invited!  cried Marianne.\n\n So my daughter Middleton told me, for it seems Sir John met him\nsomewhere in the street this morning.  Marianne said no more, but\nlooked exceedingly hurt. Impatient in this situation to be doing\nsomething that might lead to her sister s relief, Elinor resolved to\nwrite the next morning to her mother, and hoped by awakening her fears\nfor the health of Marianne, to procure those inquiries which had been\nso long delayed; and she was still more eagerly bent on this measure by\nperceiving after breakfast on the morrow, that Marianne was again\nwriting to Willoughby, for she could not suppose it to be to any other\nperson.\n\nAbout the middle of the day, Mrs. Jennings went out by herself on\nbusiness, and Elinor began her letter directly, while Marianne, too\nrestless for employment, too anxious for conversation, walked from one\nwindow to the other, or sat down by the fire in melancholy meditation.\nElinor was very earnest in her application to her mother, relating all\nthat had passed, her suspicions of Willoughby s inconstancy, urging her\nby every plea of duty and affection to demand from Marianne an account\nof her real situation with respect to him.\n\nHer letter was scarcely finished, when a rap foretold a visitor, and\nColonel Brandon was announced. Marianne, who had seen him from the\nwindow, and who hated company of any kind, left the room before he\nentered it. He looked more than usually grave, and though expressing\nsatisfaction at finding Miss Dashwood alone, as if he had somewhat in\nparticular to tell her, sat for some time without saying a word.\nElinor, persuaded that he had some communication to make in which her\nsister was concerned, impatiently expected its opening. It was not the\nfirst time of her feeling the same kind of conviction; for, more than\nonce before, beginning with the observation of  your sister looks\nunwell to-day,  or  your sister seems out of spirits,  he had appeared\non the point, either of disclosing, or of inquiring, something\nparticular about her. After a pause of several minutes, their silence\nwas broken, by his asking her in a voice of some agitation, when he was\nto congratulate her on the acquisition of a brother? Elinor was not\nprepared for such a question, and having no answer ready, was obliged\nto adopt the simple and common expedient, of asking what he meant? He\ntried to smile as he replied,  your sister s engagement to Mr.\nWilloughby is very generally known. \n\n It cannot be generally known,  returned Elinor,  for her own family do\nnot know it. \n\nHe looked surprised and said,  I beg your pardon, I am afraid my\ninquiry has been impertinent; but I had not supposed any secrecy\nintended, as they openly correspond, and their marriage is universally\ntalked of. \n\n How can that be? By whom can you have heard it mentioned? \n\n By many by some of whom you know nothing, by others with whom you are\nmost intimate, Mrs. Jennings, Mrs. Palmer, and the Middletons. But\nstill I might not have believed it, for where the mind is perhaps\nrather unwilling to be convinced, it will always find something to\nsupport its doubts, if I had not, when the servant let me in today,\naccidentally seen a letter in his hand, directed to Mr. Willoughby in\nyour sister s writing. I came to inquire, but I was convinced before I\ncould ask the question. Is every thing finally settled? Is it\nimpossible to ? But I have no right, and I could have no chance of\nsucceeding. Excuse me, Miss Dashwood. I believe I have been wrong in\nsaying so much, but I hardly know what to do, and on your prudence I\nhave the strongest dependence. Tell me that it is all absolutely\nresolved on, that any attempt, that in short concealment, if\nconcealment be possible, is all that remains. \n\nThese words, which conveyed to Elinor a direct avowal of his love for\nher sister, affected her very much. She was not immediately able to say\nanything, and even when her spirits were recovered, she debated for a\nshort time, on the answer it would be most proper to give. The real\nstate of things between Willoughby and her sister was so little known\nto herself, that in endeavouring to explain it, she might be as liable\nto say too much as too little. Yet as she was convinced that Marianne s\naffection for Willoughby, could leave no hope of Colonel Brandon s\nsuccess, whatever the event of that affection might be, and at the same\ntime wished to shield her conduct from censure, she thought it most\nprudent and kind, after some consideration, to say more than she really\nknew or believed. She acknowledged, therefore, that though she had\nnever been informed by themselves of the terms on which they stood with\neach other, of their mutual affection she had no doubt, and of their\ncorrespondence she was not astonished to hear.\n\nHe listened to her with silent attention, and on her ceasing to speak,\nrose directly from his seat, and after saying in a voice of emotion,\n to your sister I wish all imaginable happiness; to Willoughby that he\nmay endeavour to deserve her, took leave, and went away.\n\nElinor derived no comfortable feelings from this conversation, to\nlessen the uneasiness of her mind on other points; she was left, on the\ncontrary, with a melancholy impression of Colonel Brandon s\nunhappiness, and was prevented even from wishing it removed, by her\nanxiety for the very event that must confirm it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII.\n\n\nNothing occurred during the next three or four days, to make Elinor\nregret what she had done, in applying to her mother; for Willoughby\nneither came nor wrote. They were engaged about the end of that time to\nattend Lady Middleton to a party, from which Mrs. Jennings was kept\naway by the indisposition of her youngest daughter; and for this party,\nMarianne, wholly dispirited, careless of her appearance, and seeming\nequally indifferent whether she went or staid, prepared, without one\nlook of hope or one expression of pleasure. She sat by the drawing-room\nfire after tea, till the moment of Lady Middleton s arrival, without\nonce stirring from her seat, or altering her attitude, lost in her own\nthoughts, and insensible of her sister s presence; and when at last\nthey were told that Lady Middleton waited for them at the door, she\nstarted as if she had forgotten that any one was expected.\n\nThey arrived in due time at the place of destination, and as soon as\nthe string of carriages before them would allow, alighted, ascended the\nstairs, heard their names announced from one landing-place to another\nin an audible voice, and entered a room splendidly lit up, quite full\nof company, and insufferably hot. When they had paid their tribute of\npoliteness by curtsying to the lady of the house, they were permitted\nto mingle in the crowd, and take their share of the heat and\ninconvenience, to which their arrival must necessarily add. After some\ntime spent in saying little or doing less, Lady Middleton sat down to\nCassino, and as Marianne was not in spirits for moving about, she and\nElinor luckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no great\ndistance from the table.\n\nThey had not remained in this manner long, before Elinor perceived\nWilloughby, standing within a few yards of them, in earnest\nconversation with a very fashionable looking young woman. She soon\ncaught his eye, and he immediately bowed, but without attempting to\nspeak to her, or to approach Marianne, though he could not but see her;\nand then continued his discourse with the same lady. Elinor turned\ninvoluntarily to Marianne, to see whether it could be unobserved by\nher. At that moment she first perceived him, and her whole countenance\nglowing with sudden delight, she would have moved towards him\ninstantly, had not her sister caught hold of her.\n\n Good heavens!  she exclaimed,  he is there he is there Oh! why does he\nnot look at me? why cannot I speak to him? \n\n Pray, pray be composed,  cried Elinor,  and do not betray what you\nfeel to every body present. Perhaps he has not observed you yet. \n\nThis however was more than she could believe herself; and to be\ncomposed at such a moment was not only beyond the reach of Marianne, it\nwas beyond her wish. She sat in an agony of impatience which affected\nevery feature.\n\nAt last he turned round again, and regarded them both; she started up,\nand pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand to\nhim. He approached, and addressing himself rather to Elinor than\nMarianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe\nher attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs. Dashwood, and\nasked how long they had been in town. Elinor was robbed of all presence\nof mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word. But the\nfeelings of her sister were instantly expressed. Her face was crimsoned\nover, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest emotion,  Good God!\nWilloughby, what is the meaning of this? Have you not received my\nletters? Will you not shake hands with me? \n\nHe could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he\nheld her hand only for a moment. During all this time he was evidently\nstruggling for composure. Elinor watched his countenance and saw its\nexpression becoming more tranquil. After a moment s pause, he spoke\nwith calmness.\n\n I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday,\nand very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find\nyourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home. My card was not lost, I hope. \n\n But have you not received my notes?  cried Marianne in the wildest\nanxiety.  Here is some mistake I am sure some dreadful mistake. What\ncan be the meaning of it? Tell me, Willoughby; for heaven s sake tell\nme, what is the matter? \n\nHe made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment\nreturned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young lady with whom he\nhad been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant exertion,\nhe recovered himself again, and after saying,  Yes, I had the pleasure\nof receiving the information of your arrival in town, which you were so\ngood as to send me,  turned hastily away with a slight bow and joined\nhis friend.\n\nMarianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into\nher chair, and Elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried\nto screen her from the observation of others, while reviving her with\nlavender water.\n\n Go to him, Elinor,  she cried, as soon as she could speak,  and force\nhim to come to me. Tell him I must see him again must speak to him\ninstantly. I cannot rest I shall not have a moment s peace till this is\nexplained some dreadful misapprehension or other. Oh, go to him this\nmoment. \n\n How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you must wait. This is\nnot the place for explanations. Wait only till tomorrow. \n\nWith difficulty however could she prevent her from following him\nherself; and to persuade her to check her agitation, to wait, at least,\nwith the appearance of composure, till she might speak to him with more\nprivacy and more effect, was impossible; for Marianne continued\nincessantly to give way in a low voice to the misery of her feelings,\nby exclamations of wretchedness. In a short time Elinor saw Willoughby\nquit the room by the door towards the staircase, and telling Marianne\nthat he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking to him again that\nevening, as a fresh argument for her to be calm. She instantly begged\nher sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them home, as she was\ntoo miserable to stay a minute longer.\n\nLady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed\nthat Marianne was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to her\nwish of going away, and making over her cards to a friend, they\ndeparted as soon as the carriage could be found. Scarcely a word was\nspoken during their return to Berkeley Street. Marianne was in a silent\nagony, too much oppressed even for tears; but as Mrs. Jennings was\nluckily not come home, they could go directly to their own room, where\nhartshorn restored her a little to herself. She was soon undressed and\nin bed, and as she seemed desirous of being alone, her sister then left\nher, and while she waited the return of Mrs. Jennings, had leisure\nenough for thinking over the past.\n\nThat some kind of engagement had subsisted between Willoughby and\nMarianne she could not doubt, and that Willoughby was weary of it,\nseemed equally clear; for however Marianne might still feed her own\nwishes, _she_ could not attribute such behaviour to mistake or\nmisapprehension of any kind. Nothing but a thorough change of sentiment\ncould account for it. Her indignation would have been still stronger\nthan it was, had she not witnessed that embarrassment which seemed to\nspeak a consciousness of his own misconduct, and prevented her from\nbelieving him so unprincipled as to have been sporting with the\naffections of her sister from the first, without any design that would\nbear investigation. Absence might have weakened his regard, and\nconvenience might have determined him to overcome it, but that such a\nregard had formerly existed she could not bring herself to doubt.\n\nAs for Marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must already\nhave given her, and on those still more severe which might await her in\nits probable consequence, she could not reflect without the deepest\nconcern. Her own situation gained in the comparison; for while she\ncould _esteem_ Edward as much as ever, however they might be divided in\nfuture, her mind might be always supported. But every circumstance that\ncould embitter such an evil seemed uniting to heighten the misery of\nMarianne in a final separation from Willoughby in an immediate and\nirreconcilable rupture with him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX.\n\n\nBefore the housemaid had lit their fire the next day, or the sun gained\nany power over a cold, gloomy morning in January, Marianne, only half\ndressed, was kneeling against one of the window-seats for the sake of\nall the little light she could command from it, and writing as fast as\na continual flow of tears would permit her. In this situation, Elinor,\nroused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first perceived her; and\nafter observing her for a few moments with silent anxiety, said, in a\ntone of the most considerate gentleness,\n\n Marianne, may I ask ? \n\n No, Elinor,  she replied,  ask nothing; you will soon know all. \n\nThe sort of desperate calmness with which this was said, lasted no\nlonger than while she spoke, and was immediately followed by a return\nof the same excessive affliction. It was some minutes before she could\ngo on with her letter, and the frequent bursts of grief which still\nobliged her, at intervals, to withhold her pen, were proofs enough of\nher feeling how more than probable it was that she was writing for the\nlast time to Willoughby.\n\nElinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in her power; and\nshe would have tried to sooth and tranquilize her still more, had not\nMarianne entreated her, with all the eagerness of the most nervous\nirritability, not to speak to her for the world. In such circumstances,\nit was better for both that they should not be long together; and the\nrestless state of Marianne s mind not only prevented her from remaining\nin the room a moment after she was dressed, but requiring at once\nsolitude and continual change of place, made her wander about the house\ntill breakfast time, avoiding the sight of every body.\n\nAt breakfast she neither ate, nor attempted to eat any thing; and\nElinor s attention was then all employed, not in urging her, not in\npitying her, nor in appearing to regard her, but in endeavouring to\nengage Mrs. Jennings s notice entirely to herself.\n\nAs this was a favourite meal with Mrs. Jennings, it lasted a\nconsiderable time, and they were just setting themselves, after it,\nround the common working table, when a letter was delivered to\nMarianne, which she eagerly caught from the servant, and, turning of a\ndeath-like paleness, instantly ran out of the room. Elinor, who saw as\nplainly by this, as if she had seen the direction, that it must come\nfrom Willoughby, felt immediately such a sickness at heart as made her\nhardly able to hold up her head, and sat in such a general tremour as\nmade her fear it impossible to escape Mrs. Jennings s notice. That good\nlady, however, saw only that Marianne had received a letter from\nWilloughby, which appeared to her a very good joke, and which she\ntreated accordingly, by hoping, with a laugh, that she would find it to\nher liking. Of Elinor s distress, she was too busily employed in\nmeasuring lengths of worsted for her rug, to see any thing at all; and\ncalmly continuing her talk, as soon as Marianne disappeared, she said,\n\n Upon my word, I never saw a young woman so desperately in love in my\nlife! _My_ girls were nothing to her, and yet they used to be foolish\nenough; but as for Miss Marianne, she is quite an altered creature. I\nhope, from the bottom of my heart, he won t keep her waiting much\nlonger, for it is quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn.\nPray, when are they to be married? \n\nElinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment,\nobliged herself to answer such an attack as this, and, therefore,\ntrying to smile, replied,  And have you really, Ma am, talked yourself\ninto a persuasion of my sister s being engaged to Mr. Willoughby? I\nthought it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to\nimply more; and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive\nyourself any longer. I do assure you that nothing would surprise me\nmore than to hear of their being going to be married. \n\n For shame, for shame, Miss Dashwood! how can you talk so? Don t we all\nknow that it must be a match, that they were over head and ears in love\nwith each other from the first moment they met? Did not I see them\ntogether in Devonshire every day, and all day long; and did not I know\nthat your sister came to town with me on purpose to buy wedding\nclothes? Come, come, this won t do. Because you are so sly about it\nyourself, you think nobody else has any senses; but it is no such\nthing, I can tell you, for it has been known all over town this ever so\nlong. I tell every body of it and so does Charlotte. \n\n Indeed, Ma am,  said Elinor, very seriously,  you are mistaken.\nIndeed, you are doing a very unkind thing in spreading the report, and\nyou will find that you have though you will not believe me now. \n\nMrs. Jennings laughed again, but Elinor had not spirits to say more,\nand eager at all events to know what Willoughby had written, hurried\naway to their room, where, on opening the door, she saw Marianne\nstretched on the bed, almost choked by grief, one letter in her hand,\nand two or three others lying by her. Elinor drew near, but without\nsaying a word; and seating herself on the bed, took her hand, kissed\nher affectionately several times, and then gave way to a burst of\ntears, which at first was scarcely less violent than Marianne s. The\nlatter, though unable to speak, seemed to feel all the tenderness of\nthis behaviour, and after some time thus spent in joint affliction, she\nput all the letters into Elinor s hands; and then covering her face\nwith her handkerchief, almost screamed with agony. Elinor, who knew\nthat such grief, shocking as it was to witness it, must have its\ncourse, watched by her till this excess of suffering had somewhat spent\nitself, and then turning eagerly to Willoughby s letter, read as\nfollows:\n\n                                     Bond Street, January.\n\n\n        MY DEAR MADAM,\n     I have just had the honour of receiving your letter, for which I\n    beg to return my sincere acknowledgments. I am much concerned to\n    find there was anything in my behaviour last night that did not\n    meet your approbation; and though I am quite at a loss to discover\n    in what point I could be so unfortunate as to offend you, I entreat\n    your forgiveness of what I can assure you to have been perfectly\n    unintentional. I shall never reflect on my former acquaintance with\n    your family in Devonshire without the most grateful pleasure, and\n    flatter myself it will not be broken by any mistake or\n    misapprehension of my actions. My esteem for your whole family is\n    very sincere; but if I have been so unfortunate as to give rise to\n    a belief of more than I felt, or meant to express, I shall reproach\n    myself for not having been more guarded in my professions of that\n    esteem. That I should ever have meant more you will allow to be\n    impossible, when you understand that my affections have been long\n    engaged elsewhere, and it will not be many weeks, I believe, before\n    this engagement is fulfilled. It is with great regret that I obey\n    your commands in returning the letters with which I have been\n    honoured from you, and the lock of hair, which you so obligingly\n    bestowed on me.\n\n\n I am, dear Madam,\n Your most obedient\n humble servant,\n JOHN WILLOUGHBY. \n\n\nWith what indignation such a letter as this must be read by Miss\nDashwood, may be imagined. Though aware, before she began it, that it\nmust bring a confession of his inconstancy, and confirm their\nseparation for ever, she was not aware that such language could be\nsuffered to announce it; nor could she have supposed Willoughby capable\nof departing so far from the appearance of every honourable and\ndelicate feeling so far from the common decorum of a gentleman, as to\nsend a letter so impudently cruel: a letter which, instead of bringing\nwith his desire of a release any professions of regret, acknowledged no\nbreach of faith, denied all peculiar affection whatever a letter of\nwhich every line was an insult, and which proclaimed its writer to be\ndeep in hardened villainy.\n\nShe paused over it for some time with indignant astonishment; then read\nit again and again; but every perusal only served to increase her\nabhorrence of the man, and so bitter were her feelings against him,\nthat she dared not trust herself to speak, lest she might wound\nMarianne still deeper by treating their disengagement, not as a loss to\nher of any possible good but as an escape from the worst and most\nirremediable of all evils, a connection, for life, with an unprincipled\nman, as a deliverance the most real, a blessing the most important.\n\nIn her earnest meditations on the contents of the letter, on the\ndepravity of that mind which could dictate it, and probably, on the\nvery different mind of a very different person, who had no other\nconnection whatever with the affair than what her heart gave him with\nevery thing that passed, Elinor forgot the immediate distress of her\nsister, forgot that she had three letters on her lap yet unread, and so\nentirely forgot how long she had been in the room, that when on hearing\na carriage drive up to the door, she went to the window to see who\ncould be coming so unreasonably early, she was all astonishment to\nperceive Mrs. Jennings s chariot, which she knew had not been ordered\ntill one. Determined not to quit Marianne, though hopeless of\ncontributing, at present, to her ease, she hurried away to excuse\nherself from attending Mrs. Jennings, on account of her sister being\nindisposed. Mrs. Jennings, with a thoroughly good-humoured concern for\nits cause, admitted the excuse most readily, and Elinor, after seeing\nher safe off, returned to Marianne, whom she found attempting to rise\nfrom the bed, and whom she reached just in time to prevent her from\nfalling on the floor, faint and giddy from a long want of proper rest\nand food; for it was many days since she had any appetite, and many\nnights since she had really slept; and now, when her mind was no longer\nsupported by the fever of suspense, the consequence of all this was\nfelt in an aching head, a weakened stomach, and a general nervous\nfaintness. A glass of wine, which Elinor procured for her directly,\nmade her more comfortable, and she was at last able to express some\nsense of her kindness, by saying,\n\n Poor Elinor! how unhappy I make you! \n\n I only wish,  replied her sister,  there were any thing I _could_ do,\nwhich might be of comfort to you. \n\nThis, as every thing else would have been, was too much for Marianne,\nwho could only exclaim, in the anguish of her heart,  Oh! Elinor, I am\nmiserable, indeed,  before her voice was entirely lost in sobs.\n\nElinor could no longer witness this torrent of unresisted grief in\nsilence.\n\n Exert yourself, dear Marianne,  she cried,  if you would not kill\nyourself and all who love you. Think of your mother; think of her\nmisery while _you_ suffer: for her sake you must exert yourself. \n\n I cannot, I cannot,  cried Marianne;  leave me, leave me, if I\ndistress you; leave me, hate me, forget me! but do not torture me so.\nOh! how easy for those, who have no sorrow of their own to talk of\nexertion! Happy, happy Elinor, _you_ cannot have an idea of what I\nsuffer. \n\n Do you call _me_ happy, Marianne? Ah! if you knew! And can you believe\nme to be so, while I see you so wretched! \n\n Forgive me, forgive me,  throwing her arms round her sister s neck;  I\nknow you feel for me; I know what a heart you have; but yet you are you\nmust be happy; Edward loves you what, oh what, can do away such\nhappiness as that? \n\n Many, many circumstances,  said Elinor, solemnly.\n\n No, no, no,  cried Marianne wildly,  he loves you, and only you. You\n_can_ have no grief. \n\n I can have no pleasure while I see you in this state. \n\n And you will never see me otherwise. Mine is a misery which nothing\ncan do away. \n\n You must not talk so, Marianne. Have you no comforts? no friends? Is\nyour loss such as leaves no opening for consolation? Much as you suffer\nnow, think of what you would have suffered if the discovery of his\ncharacter had been delayed to a later period if your engagement had\nbeen carried on for months and months, as it might have been, before he\nchose to put an end to it. Every additional day of unhappy confidence,\non your side, would have made the blow more dreadful. \n\n Engagement!  cried Marianne,  there has been no engagement. \n\n No engagement! \n\n No, he is not so unworthy as you believe him. He has broken no faith\nwith me. \n\n But he told you that he loved you. \n\n Yes no never absolutely. It was every day implied, but never\nprofessedly declared. Sometimes I thought it had been, but it never\nwas. \n\n Yet you wrote to him? \n\n Yes: could that be wrong after all that had passed? But I cannot\ntalk. \n\nElinor said no more, and turning again to the three letters which now\nraised a much stronger curiosity than before, directly ran over the\ncontents of all. The first, which was what her sister had sent him on\ntheir arrival in town, was to this effect.\n\nBerkeley Street, January.\n\n\n How surprised you will be, Willoughby, on receiving this; and I think\nyou will feel something more than surprise, when you know that I am in\ntown. An opportunity of coming hither, though with Mrs. Jennings, was a\ntemptation we could not resist. I wish you may receive this in time to\ncome here to-night, but I will not depend on it. At any rate I shall\nexpect you to-morrow. For the present, adieu.\n\n\n M.D. \n\n\nHer second note, which had been written on the morning after the dance\nat the Middletons , was in these words: \n\n I cannot express my disappointment in having missed you the day before\nyesterday, nor my astonishment at not having received any answer to a\nnote which I sent you above a week ago. I have been expecting to hear\nfrom you, and still more to see you, every hour of the day. Pray call\nagain as soon as possible, and explain the reason of my having expected\nthis in vain. You had better come earlier another time, because we are\ngenerally out by one. We were last night at Lady Middleton s, where\nthere was a dance. I have been told that you were asked to be of the\nparty. But could it be so? You must be very much altered indeed since\nwe parted, if that could be the case, and you not there. But I will not\nsuppose this possible, and I hope very soon to receive your personal\nassurance of its being otherwise.\n\n\n M.D. \n\n\nThe contents of her last note to him were these: \n\n What am I to imagine, Willoughby, by your behaviour last night? Again\nI demand an explanation of it. I was prepared to meet you with the\npleasure which our separation naturally produced, with the familiarity\nwhich our intimacy at Barton appeared to me to justify. I was repulsed\nindeed! I have passed a wretched night in endeavouring to excuse a\nconduct which can scarcely be called less than insulting; but though I\nhave not yet been able to form any reasonable apology for your\nbehaviour, I am perfectly ready to hear your justification of it. You\nhave perhaps been misinformed, or purposely deceived, in something\nconcerning me, which may have lowered me in your opinion. Tell me what\nit is, explain the grounds on which you acted, and I shall be\nsatisfied, in being able to satisfy you. It would grieve me indeed to\nbe obliged to think ill of you; but if I am to do it, if I am to learn\nthat you are not what we have hitherto believed you, that your regard\nfor us all was insincere, that your behaviour to me was intended only\nto deceive, let it be told as soon as possible. My feelings are at\npresent in a state of dreadful indecision; I wish to acquit you, but\ncertainty on either side will be ease to what I now suffer. If your\nsentiments are no longer what they were, you will return my notes, and\nthe lock of my hair which is in your possession.\n\n\n M.D. \n\n\nThat such letters, so full of affection and confidence, could have been\nso answered, Elinor, for Willoughby s sake, would have been unwilling\nto believe. But her condemnation of him did not blind her to the\nimpropriety of their having been written at all; and she was silently\ngrieving over the imprudence which had hazarded such unsolicited proofs\nof tenderness, not warranted by anything preceding, and most severely\ncondemned by the event, when Marianne, perceiving that she had finished\nthe letters, observed to her that they contained nothing but what any\none would have written in the same situation.\n\n I felt myself,  she added,  to be as solemnly engaged to him, as if\nthe strictest legal covenant had bound us to each other. \n\n I can believe it,  said Elinor;  but unfortunately he did not feel the\nsame. \n\n He _did_ feel the same, Elinor for weeks and weeks he felt it. I know\nhe did. Whatever may have changed him now, (and nothing but the\nblackest art employed against me can have done it), I was once as dear\nto him as my own soul could wish. This lock of hair, which now he can\nso readily give up, was begged of me with the most earnest\nsupplication. Had you seen his look, his manner, had you heard his\nvoice at that moment! Have you forgot the last evening of our being\ntogether at Barton? The morning that we parted too! When he told me\nthat it might be many weeks before we met again his distress can I ever\nforget his distress? \n\nFor a moment or two she could say no more; but when this emotion had\npassed away, she added, in a firmer tone,\n\n Elinor, I have been cruelly used; but not by Willoughby. \n\n Dearest Marianne, who but himself? By whom can he have been\ninstigated? \n\n By all the world, rather than by his own heart. I could rather believe\nevery creature of my acquaintance leagued together to ruin me in his\nopinion, than believe his nature capable of such cruelty. This woman of\nwhom he writes whoever she be or any one, in short, but your own dear\nself, mama, and Edward, may have been so barbarous to bely me. Beyond\nyou three, is there a creature in the world whom I would not rather\nsuspect of evil than Willoughby, whose heart I know so well? \n\nElinor would not contend, and only replied,  Whoever may have been so\ndetestably your enemy, let them be cheated of their malignant triumph,\nmy dear sister, by seeing how nobly the consciousness of your own\ninnocence and good intentions supports your spirits. It is a reasonable\nand laudable pride which resists such malevolence. \n\n No, no,  cried Marianne,  misery such as mine has no pride. I care not\nwho knows that I am wretched. The triumph of seeing me so may be open\nto all the world. Elinor, Elinor, they who suffer little may be proud\nand independent as they like may resist insult, or return\nmortification but I cannot. I must feel I must be wretched and they are\nwelcome to enjoy the consciousness of it that can. \n\n But for my mother s sake and mine \n\n I would do more than for my own. But to appear happy when I am so\nmiserable Oh! who can require it? \n\nAgain they were both silent. Elinor was employed in walking\nthoughtfully from the fire to the window, from the window to the fire,\nwithout knowing that she received warmth from one, or discerning\nobjects through the other; and Marianne, seated at the foot of the bed,\nwith her head leaning against one of its posts, again took up\nWilloughby s letter, and, after shuddering over every sentence,\nexclaimed, \n\n It is too much! Oh, Willoughby, Willoughby, could this be yours!\nCruel, cruel nothing can acquit you. Elinor, nothing can. Whatever he\nmight have heard against me ought he not to have suspended his belief?\nought he not to have told me of it, to have given me the power of\nclearing myself?  The lock of hair, (repeating it from the letter,)\nwhich you so obligingly bestowed on me That is unpardonable.\nWilloughby, where was your heart when you wrote those words? Oh,\nbarbarously insolent! Elinor, can he be justified? \n\n No, Marianne, in no possible way. \n\n And yet this woman who knows what her art may have been? how long it\nmay have been premeditated, and how deeply contrived by her! Who is\nshe? Who can she be? Whom did I ever hear him talk of as young and\nattractive among his female acquaintance? Oh! no one, no one he talked\nto me only of myself. \n\nAnother pause ensued; Marianne was greatly agitated, and it ended thus.\n\n Elinor, I must go home. I must go and comfort mama. Can not we be gone\nto-morrow? \n\n To-morrow, Marianne! \n\n Yes, why should I stay here? I came only for Willoughby s sake and now\nwho cares for me? Who regards me? \n\n It would be impossible to go to-morrow. We owe Mrs. Jennings much more\nthan civility; and civility of the commonest kind must prevent such a\nhasty removal as that. \n\n Well then, another day or two, perhaps; but I cannot stay here long, I\ncannot stay to endure the questions and remarks of all these people.\nThe Middletons and Palmers how am I to bear their pity? The pity of\nsuch a woman as Lady Middleton! Oh, what would _he_ say to that! \n\nElinor advised her to lie down again, and for a moment she did so; but\nno attitude could give her ease; and in restless pain of mind and body\nshe moved from one posture to another, till growing more and more\nhysterical, her sister could with difficulty keep her on the bed at\nall, and for some time was fearful of being constrained to call for\nassistance. Some lavender drops, however, which she was at length\npersuaded to take, were of use; and from that time till Mrs. Jennings\nreturned, she continued on the bed quiet and motionless.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX.\n\n\nMrs. Jennings came immediately to their room on her return, and without\nwaiting to have her request of admittance answered, opened the door and\nwalked in with a look of real concern.\n\n How do you do my dear? said she in a voice of great compassion to\nMarianne, who turned away her face without attempting to answer.\n\n How is she, Miss Dashwood? Poor thing! she looks very bad. No wonder.\nAy, it is but too true. He is to be married very soon a\ngood-for-nothing fellow! I have no patience with him. Mrs. Taylor told\nme of it half an hour ago, and she was told it by a particular friend\nof Miss Grey herself, else I am sure I should not have believed it; and\nI was almost ready to sink as it was. Well, said I, all I can say is,\nthat if this be true, he has used a young lady of my acquaintance\nabominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his wife may plague his\nheart out. And so I shall always say, my dear, you may depend on it. I\nhave no notion of men s going on in this way; and if ever I meet him\nagain, I will give him such a dressing as he has not had this many a\nday. But there is one comfort, my dear Miss Marianne; he is not the\nonly young man in the world worth having; and with your pretty face you\nwill never want admirers. Well, poor thing! I won t disturb her any\nlonger, for she had better have her cry out at once and have done with.\nThe Parrys and Sandersons luckily are coming tonight you know, and that\nwill amuse her. \n\nShe then went away, walking on tiptoe out of the room, as if she\nsupposed her young friend s affliction could be increased by noise.\n\nMarianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on dining with\nthem. Elinor even advised her against it. But  no, she would go down;\nshe could bear it very well, and the bustle about her would be less. \nElinor, pleased to have her governed for a moment by such a motive,\nthough believing it hardly possible that she could sit out the dinner,\nsaid no more; and adjusting her dress for her as well as she could,\nwhile Marianne still remained on the bed, was ready to assist her into\nthe dining room as soon as they were summoned to it.\n\nWhen there, though looking most wretchedly, she ate more and was calmer\nthan her sister had expected. Had she tried to speak, or had she been\nconscious of half Mrs. Jennings s well-meant but ill-judged attentions\nto her, this calmness could not have been maintained; but not a\nsyllable escaped her lips; and the abstraction of her thoughts\npreserved her in ignorance of every thing that was passing before her.\n\nElinor, who did justice to Mrs. Jennings s kindness, though its\neffusions were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous, made\nher those acknowledgments, and returned her those civilities, which her\nsister could not make or return for herself. Their good friend saw that\nMarianne was unhappy, and felt that every thing was due to her which\nmight make her at all less so. She treated her therefore, with all the\nindulgent fondness of a parent towards a favourite child on the last\nday of its holidays. Marianne was to have the best place by the fire,\nwas to be tempted to eat by every delicacy in the house, and to be\namused by the relation of all the news of the day. Had not Elinor, in\nthe sad countenance of her sister, seen a check to all mirth, she could\nhave been entertained by Mrs. Jennings s endeavours to cure a\ndisappointment in love, by a variety of sweetmeats and olives, and a\ngood fire. As soon, however, as the consciousness of all this was\nforced by continual repetition on Marianne, she could stay no longer.\nWith a hasty exclamation of Misery, and a sign to her sister not to\nfollow her, she directly got up and hurried out of the room.\n\n Poor soul!  cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon as she was gone,  how it\ngrieves me to see her! And I declare if she is not gone away without\nfinishing her wine! And the dried cherries too! Lord! nothing seems to\ndo her any good. I am sure if I knew of any thing she would like, I\nwould send all over the town for it. Well, it is the oddest thing to\nme, that a man should use such a pretty girl so ill! But when there is\nplenty of money on one side, and next to none on the other, Lord bless\nyou! they care no more about such things! \n\n The lady then Miss Grey I think you called her is very rich? \n\n Fifty thousand pounds, my dear. Did you ever see her? a smart, stylish\ngirl they say, but not handsome. I remember her aunt very well, Biddy\nHenshawe; she married a very wealthy man. But the family are all rich\ntogether. Fifty thousand pounds! and by all accounts, it won t come\nbefore it s wanted; for they say he is all to pieces. No wonder!\ndashing about with his curricle and hunters! Well, it don t signify\ntalking; but when a young man, be who he will, comes and makes love to\na pretty girl, and promises marriage, he has no business to fly off\nfrom his word only because he grows poor, and a richer girl is ready to\nhave him. Why don t he, in such a case, sell his horses, let his house,\nturn off his servants, and make a thorough reform at once? I warrant\nyou, Miss Marianne would have been ready to wait till matters came\nround. But that won t do now-a-days; nothing in the way of pleasure can\never be given up by the young men of this age. \n\n Do you know what kind of a girl Miss Grey is? Is she said to be\namiable? \n\n I never heard any harm of her; indeed I hardly ever heard her\nmentioned; except that Mrs. Taylor did say this morning, that one day\nMiss Walker hinted to her, that she believed Mr. and Mrs. Ellison would\nnot be sorry to have Miss Grey married, for she and Mrs. Ellison could\nnever agree. \n\n And who are the Ellisons? \n\n Her guardians, my dear. But now she is of age and may choose for\nherself; and a pretty choice she has made! What now,  after pausing a\nmoment your poor sister is gone to her own room, I suppose, to moan by\nherself. Is there nothing one can get to comfort her? Poor dear, it\nseems quite cruel to let her be alone. Well, by-and-by we shall have a\nfew friends, and that will amuse her a little. What shall we play at?\nShe hates whist I know; but is there no round game she cares for? \n\n Dear ma am, this kindness is quite unnecessary. Marianne, I dare say,\nwill not leave her room again this evening. I shall persuade her if I\ncan to go early to bed, for I am sure she wants rest. \n\n Aye, I believe that will be best for her. Let her name her own supper,\nand go to bed. Lord! no wonder she has been looking so bad and so cast\ndown this last week or two, for this matter I suppose has been hanging\nover her head as long as that. And so the letter that came today\nfinished it! Poor soul! I am sure if I had had a notion of it, I would\nnot have joked her about it for all my money. But then you know, how\nshould I guess such a thing? I made sure of its being nothing but a\ncommon love letter, and you know young people like to be laughed at\nabout them. Lord! how concerned Sir John and my daughters will be when\nthey hear it! If I had my senses about me I might have called in\nConduit Street in my way home, and told them of it. But I shall see\nthem tomorrow. \n\n It would be unnecessary I am sure, for you to caution Mrs. Palmer and\nSir John against ever naming Mr. Willoughby, or making the slightest\nallusion to what has passed, before my sister. Their own good-nature\nmust point out to them the real cruelty of appearing to know any thing\nabout it when she is present; and the less that may ever be said to\nmyself on the subject, the more my feelings will be spared, as you my\ndear madam will easily believe. \n\n Oh! Lord! yes, that I do indeed. It must be terrible for you to hear\nit talked of; and as for your sister, I am sure I would not mention a\nword about it to her for the world. You saw I did not all dinner time.\nNo more would Sir John, nor my daughters, for they are all very\nthoughtful and considerate; especially if I give them a hint, as I\ncertainly will. For my part, I think the less that is said about such\nthings, the better, the sooner  tis blown over and forgot. And what\ngood does talking ever do you know? \n\n In this affair it can only do harm; more so perhaps than in many cases\nof a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances which, for\nthe sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to become the\npublic conversation. I must do _this_ justice to Mr. Willoughby he has\nbroken no positive engagement with my sister. \n\n Law, my dear! Don t pretend to defend him. No positive engagement\nindeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the\nvery rooms they were to live in hereafter! \n\nElinor, for her sister s sake, could not press the subject farther, and\nshe hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby s; since, though\nMarianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the enforcement\nof the real truth. After a short silence on both sides, Mrs. Jennings,\nwith all her natural hilarity, burst forth again.\n\n Well, my dear,  tis a true saying about an ill-wind, for it will be\nall the better for Colonel Brandon. He will have her at last; aye, that\nhe will. Mind me, now, if they an t married by Mid-summer. Lord! how\nhe ll chuckle over this news! I hope he will come tonight. It will be\nall to one a better match for your sister. Two thousand a year without\ndebt or drawback except the little love-child, indeed; aye, I had\nforgot her; but she may be  prenticed out at a small cost, and then\nwhat does it signify? Delaford is a nice place, I can tell you; exactly\nwhat I call a nice old fashioned place, full of comforts and\nconveniences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered\nwith the best fruit-trees in the country; and such a mulberry tree in\none corner! Lord! how Charlotte and I did stuff the only time we were\nthere! Then, there is a dove-cote, some delightful stew-ponds, and a\nvery pretty canal; and every thing, in short, that one could wish for;\nand, moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter of a mile\nfrom the turnpike-road, so  tis never dull, for if you only go and sit\nup in an old yew arbour behind the house, you may see all the carriages\nthat pass along. Oh!  tis a nice place! A butcher hard by in the\nvillage, and the parsonage-house within a stone s throw. To my fancy, a\nthousand times prettier than Barton Park, where they are forced to send\nthree miles for their meat, and have not a neighbour nearer than your\nmother. Well, I shall spirit up the Colonel as soon as I can. One\nshoulder of mutton, you know, drives another down. If we _can_ but put\nWilloughby out of her head! \n\n Ay, if we can do _that_, Ma am,  said Elinor,  we shall do very well\nwith or without Colonel Brandon.  And then rising, she went away to\njoin Marianne, whom she found, as she expected, in her own room,\nleaning, in silent misery, over the small remains of a fire, which,\ntill Elinor s entrance, had been her only light.\n\n You had better leave me,  was all the notice that her sister received\nfrom her.\n\n I will leave you,  said Elinor,  if you will go to bed.  But this,\nfrom the momentary perverseness of impatient suffering, she at first\nrefused to do. Her sister s earnest, though gentle persuasion, however,\nsoon softened her to compliance, and Elinor saw her lay her aching head\non the pillow, and as she hoped, in a way to get some quiet rest before\nshe left her.\n\nIn the drawing-room, whither she then repaired, she was soon joined by\nMrs. Jennings, with a wine-glass, full of something, in her hand.\n\n My dear,  said she, entering,  I have just recollected that I have\nsome of the finest old Constantia wine in the house that ever was\ntasted, so I have brought a glass of it for your sister. My poor\nhusband! how fond he was of it! Whenever he had a touch of his old\ncolicky gout, he said it did him more good than any thing else in the\nworld. Do take it to your sister. \n\n Dear Ma am,  replied Elinor, smiling at the difference of the\ncomplaints for which it was recommended,  how good you are! But I have\njust left Marianne in bed, and, I hope, almost asleep; and as I think\nnothing will be of so much service to her as rest, if you will give me\nleave, I will drink the wine myself. \n\nMrs. Jennings, though regretting that she had not been five minutes\nearlier, was satisfied with the compromise; and Elinor, as she\nswallowed the chief of it, reflected, that though its effects on a\ncolicky gout were, at present, of little importance to her, its healing\npowers, on a disappointed heart might be as reasonably tried on herself\nas on her sister.\n\nColonel Brandon came in while the party were at tea, and by his manner\nof looking round the room for Marianne, Elinor immediately fancied that\nhe neither expected nor wished to see her there, and, in short, that he\nwas already aware of what occasioned her absence. Mrs. Jennings was not\nstruck by the same thought; for soon after his entrance, she walked\nacross the room to the tea-table where Elinor presided, and whispered,\n The Colonel looks as grave as ever you see. He knows nothing of it; do\ntell him, my dear. \n\nHe shortly afterwards drew a chair close to hers, and, with a look\nwhich perfectly assured her of his good information, inquired after her\nsister.\n\n Marianne is not well,  said she.  She has been indisposed all day, and\nwe have persuaded her to go to bed. \n\n Perhaps, then,  he hesitatingly replied,  what I heard this morning\nmay be there may be more truth in it than I could believe possible at\nfirst. \n\n What did you hear? \n\n That a gentleman, whom I had reason to think in short, that a man,\nwhom I _knew_ to be engaged but how shall I tell you? If you know it\nalready, as surely you must, I may be spared. \n\n You mean,  answered Elinor, with forced calmness,  Mr. Willoughby s\nmarriage with Miss Grey. Yes, we _do_ know it all. This seems to have\nbeen a day of general elucidation, for this very morning first unfolded\nit to us. Mr. Willoughby is unfathomable! Where did you hear it? \n\n In a stationer s shop in Pall Mall, where I had business. Two ladies\nwere waiting for their carriage, and one of them was giving the other\nan account of the intended match, in a voice so little attempting\nconcealment, that it was impossible for me not to hear all. The name of\nWilloughby, John Willoughby, frequently repeated, first caught my\nattention; and what followed was a positive assertion that every thing\nwas now finally settled respecting his marriage with Miss Grey it was\nno longer to be a secret it would take place even within a few weeks,\nwith many particulars of preparations and other matters. One thing,\nespecially, I remember, because it served to identify the man still\nmore: as soon as the ceremony was over, they were to go to Combe Magna,\nhis seat in Somersetshire. My astonishment! but it would be impossible\nto describe what I felt. The communicative lady I learnt, on inquiry,\nfor I stayed in the shop till they were gone, was a Mrs. Ellison, and\nthat, as I have been since informed, is the name of Miss Grey s\nguardian. \n\n It is. But have you likewise heard that Miss Grey has fifty thousand\npounds? In that, if in any thing, we may find an explanation. \n\n It may be so; but Willoughby is capable at least I think he stopped a\nmoment; then added in a voice which seemed to distrust itself,  And\nyour sister how did she \n\n Her sufferings have been very severe. I have only to hope that they\nmay be proportionately short. It has been, it is a most cruel\naffliction. Till yesterday, I believe, she never doubted his regard;\nand even now, perhaps but _I_ am almost convinced that he never was\nreally attached to her. He has been very deceitful! and, in some\npoints, there seems a hardness of heart about him. \n\n Ah!  said Colonel Brandon,  there is, indeed! But your sister does\nnot I think you said so she does not consider quite as you do? \n\n You know her disposition, and may believe how eagerly she would still\njustify him if she could. \n\nHe made no answer; and soon afterwards, by the removal of the\ntea-things, and the arrangement of the card parties, the subject was\nnecessarily dropped. Mrs. Jennings, who had watched them with pleasure\nwhile they were talking, and who expected to see the effect of Miss\nDashwood s communication, in such an instantaneous gaiety on Colonel\nBrandon s side, as might have become a man in the bloom of youth, of\nhope and happiness, saw him, with amazement, remain the whole evening\nmore serious and thoughtful than usual.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI.\n\n\nFrom a night of more sleep than she had expected, Marianne awoke the\nnext morning to the same consciousness of misery in which she had\nclosed her eyes.\n\nElinor encouraged her as much as possible to talk of what she felt; and\nbefore breakfast was ready, they had gone through the subject again and\nagain; and with the same steady conviction and affectionate counsel on\nElinor s side, the same impetuous feelings and varying opinions on\nMarianne s, as before. Sometimes she could believe Willoughby to be as\nunfortunate and as innocent as herself, and at others, lost every\nconsolation in the impossibility of acquitting him. At one moment she\nwas absolutely indifferent to the observation of all the world, at\nanother she would seclude herself from it for ever, and at a third\ncould resist it with energy. In one thing, however, she was uniform,\nwhen it came to the point, in avoiding, where it was possible, the\npresence of Mrs. Jennings, and in a determined silence when obliged to\nendure it. Her heart was hardened against the belief of Mrs. Jennings s\nentering into her sorrows with any compassion.\n\n No, no, no, it cannot be,  she cried;  she cannot feel. Her kindness\nis not sympathy; her good-nature is not tenderness. All that she wants\nis gossip, and she only likes me now because I supply it. \n\nElinor had not needed this to be assured of the injustice to which her\nsister was often led in her opinion of others, by the irritable\nrefinement of her own mind, and the too great importance placed by her\non the delicacies of a strong sensibility, and the graces of a polished\nmanner. Like half the rest of the world, if more than half there be\nthat are clever and good, Marianne, with excellent abilities and an\nexcellent disposition, was neither reasonable nor candid. She expected\nfrom other people the same opinions and feelings as her own, and she\njudged of their motives by the immediate effect of their actions on\nherself. Thus a circumstance occurred, while the sisters were together\nin their own room after breakfast, which sunk the heart of Mrs.\nJennings still lower in her estimation; because, through her own\nweakness, it chanced to prove a source of fresh pain to herself, though\nMrs. Jennings was governed in it by an impulse of the utmost goodwill.\n\nWith a letter in her outstretched hand, and countenance gaily smiling,\nfrom the persuasion of bringing comfort, she entered their room,\nsaying,\n\n Now, my dear, I bring you something that I am sure will do you good. \n\nMarianne heard enough. In one moment her imagination placed before her\na letter from Willoughby, full of tenderness and contrition,\nexplanatory of all that had passed, satisfactory, convincing; and\ninstantly followed by Willoughby himself, rushing eagerly into the room\nto inforce, at her feet, by the eloquence of his eyes, the assurances\nof his letter. The work of one moment was destroyed by the next. The\nhand writing of her mother, never till then unwelcome, was before her;\nand, in the acuteness of the disappointment which followed such an\necstasy of more than hope, she felt as if, till that instant, she had\nnever suffered.\n\nThe cruelty of Mrs. Jennings no language, within her reach in her\nmoments of happiest eloquence, could have expressed; and now she could\nreproach her only by the tears which streamed from her eyes with\npassionate violence a reproach, however, so entirely lost on its\nobject, that after many expressions of pity, she withdrew, still\nreferring her to the letter of comfort. But the letter, when she was\ncalm enough to read it, brought little comfort. Willoughby filled every\npage. Her mother, still confident of their engagement, and relying as\nwarmly as ever on his constancy, had only been roused by Elinor s\napplication, to intreat from Marianne greater openness towards them\nboth; and this, with such tenderness towards her, such affection for\nWilloughby, and such a conviction of their future happiness in each\nother, that she wept with agony through the whole of it.\n\nAll her impatience to be at home again now returned; her mother was\ndearer to her than ever; dearer through the very excess of her mistaken\nconfidence in Willoughby, and she was wildly urgent to be gone. Elinor,\nunable herself to determine whether it were better for Marianne to be\nin London or at Barton, offered no counsel of her own except of\npatience till their mother s wishes could be known; and at length she\nobtained her sister s consent to wait for that knowledge.\n\nMrs. Jennings left them earlier than usual; for she could not be easy\ntill the Middletons and Palmers were able to grieve as much as herself;\nand positively refusing Elinor s offered attendance, went out alone for\nthe rest of the morning. Elinor, with a very heavy heart, aware of the\npain she was going to communicate, and perceiving, by Marianne s\nletter, how ill she had succeeded in laying any foundation for it, then\nsat down to write her mother an account of what had passed, and entreat\nher directions for the future; while Marianne, who came into the\ndrawing-room on Mrs. Jennings s going away, remained fixed at the table\nwhere Elinor wrote, watching the advancement of her pen, grieving over\nher for the hardship of such a task, and grieving still more fondly\nover its effect on her mother.\n\nIn this manner they had continued about a quarter of an hour, when\nMarianne, whose nerves could not then bear any sudden noise, was\nstartled by a rap at the door.\n\n Who can this be?  cried Elinor.  So early too! I thought we _had_ been\nsafe. \n\nMarianne moved to the window.\n\n It is Colonel Brandon!  said she, with vexation.  We are never safe\nfrom _him_. \n\n He will not come in, as Mrs. Jennings is from home. \n\n I will not trust to _that_,  retreating to her own room.  A man who\nhas nothing to do with his own time has no conscience in his intrusion\non that of others. \n\nThe event proved her conjecture right, though it was founded on\ninjustice and error; for Colonel Brandon _did_ come in; and Elinor, who\nwas convinced that solicitude for Marianne brought him thither, and who\nsaw _that_ solicitude in his disturbed and melancholy look, and in his\nanxious though brief inquiry after her, could not forgive her sister\nfor esteeming him so lightly.\n\n I met Mrs. Jennings in Bond Street,  said he, after the first\nsalutation,  and she encouraged me to come on; and I was the more\neasily encouraged, because I thought it probable that I might find you\nalone, which I was very desirous of doing. My object my wish my sole\nwish in desiring it I hope, I believe it is is to be a means of giving\ncomfort; no, I must not say comfort not present comfort but conviction,\nlasting conviction to your sister s mind. My regard for her, for\nyourself, for your mother will you allow me to prove it, by relating\nsome circumstances which nothing but a _very_ sincere regard nothing\nbut an earnest desire of being useful I think I am justified though\nwhere so many hours have been spent in convincing myself that I am\nright, is there not some reason to fear I may be wrong?  He stopped.\n\n I understand you,  said Elinor.  You have something to tell me of Mr.\nWilloughby, that will open his character farther. Your telling it will\nbe the greatest act of friendship that can be shown Marianne. _My_\ngratitude will be insured immediately by any information tending to\nthat end, and _hers_ must be gained by it in time. Pray, pray let me\nhear it. \n\n You shall; and, to be brief, when I quitted Barton last October, but\nthis will give you no idea I must go farther back. You will find me a\nvery awkward narrator, Miss Dashwood; I hardly know where to begin. A\nshort account of myself, I believe, will be necessary, and it _shall_\nbe a short one. On such a subject,  sighing heavily,  can I have little\ntemptation to be diffuse. \n\nHe stopt a moment for recollection, and then, with another sigh, went\non.\n\n You have probably entirely forgotten a conversation (it is not to be\nsupposed that it could make any impression on you) a conversation\nbetween us one evening at Barton Park it was the evening of a dance in\nwhich I alluded to a lady I had once known, as resembling, in some\nmeasure, your sister Marianne. \n\n Indeed,  answered Elinor,  I have _not_ forgotten it.  He looked\npleased by this remembrance, and added,\n\n If I am not deceived by the uncertainty, the partiality of tender\nrecollection, there is a very strong resemblance between them, as well\nin mind as person. The same warmth of heart, the same eagerness of\nfancy and spirits. This lady was one of my nearest relations, an orphan\nfrom her infancy, and under the guardianship of my father. Our ages\nwere nearly the same, and from our earliest years we were playfellows\nand friends. I cannot remember the time when I did not love Eliza; and\nmy affection for her, as we grew up, was such, as perhaps, judging from\nmy present forlorn and cheerless gravity, you might think me incapable\nof having ever felt. Hers, for me, was, I believe, fervent as the\nattachment of your sister to Mr. Willoughby and it was, though from a\ndifferent cause, no less unfortunate. At seventeen she was lost to me\nfor ever. She was married married against her inclination to my\nbrother. Her fortune was large, and our family estate much encumbered.\nAnd this, I fear, is all that can be said for the conduct of one, who\nwas at once her uncle and guardian. My brother did not deserve her; he\ndid not even love her. I had hoped that her regard for me would support\nher under any difficulty, and for some time it did; but at last the\nmisery of her situation, for she experienced great unkindness, overcame\nall her resolution, and though she had promised me that nothing but how\nblindly I relate! I have never told you how this was brought on. We\nwere within a few hours of eloping together for Scotland. The\ntreachery, or the folly, of my cousin s maid betrayed us. I was\nbanished to the house of a relation far distant, and she was allowed no\nliberty, no society, no amusement, till my father s point was gained. I\nhad depended on her fortitude too far, and the blow was a severe\none but had her marriage been happy, so young as I then was, a few\nmonths must have reconciled me to it, or at least I should not have now\nto lament it. This however was not the case. My brother had no regard\nfor her; his pleasures were not what they ought to have been, and from\nthe first he treated her unkindly. The consequence of this, upon a mind\nso young, so lively, so inexperienced as Mrs. Brandon s, was but too\nnatural. She resigned herself at first to all the misery of her\nsituation; and happy had it been if she had not lived to overcome those\nregrets which the remembrance of me occasioned. But can we wonder that,\nwith such a husband to provoke inconstancy, and without a friend to\nadvise or restrain her (for my father lived only a few months after\ntheir marriage, and I was with my regiment in the East Indies) she\nshould fall? Had I remained in England, perhaps but I meant to promote\nthe happiness of both by removing from her for years, and for that\npurpose had procured my exchange. The shock which her marriage had\ngiven me,  he continued, in a voice of great agitation,  was of\ntrifling weight was nothing to what I felt when I heard, about two\nyears afterwards, of her divorce. It was _that_ which threw this\ngloom, even now the recollection of what I suffered \n\nHe could say no more, and rising hastily walked for a few minutes about\nthe room. Elinor, affected by his relation, and still more by his\ndistress, could not speak. He saw her concern, and coming to her, took\nher hand, pressed it, and kissed it with grateful respect. A few\nminutes more of silent exertion enabled him to proceed with composure.\n\n It was nearly three years after this unhappy period before I returned\nto England. My first care, when I _did_ arrive, was of course to seek\nfor her; but the search was as fruitless as it was melancholy. I could\nnot trace her beyond her first seducer, and there was every reason to\nfear that she had removed from him only to sink deeper in a life of\nsin. Her legal allowance was not adequate to her fortune, nor\nsufficient for her comfortable maintenance, and I learnt from my\nbrother that the power of receiving it had been made over some months\nbefore to another person. He imagined, and calmly could he imagine it,\nthat her extravagance, and consequent distress, had obliged her to\ndispose of it for some immediate relief. At last, however, and after I\nhad been six months in England, I _did_ find her. Regard for a former\nservant of my own, who had since fallen into misfortune, carried me to\nvisit him in a spunging-house, where he was confined for debt; and\nthere, in the same house, under a similar confinement, was my\nunfortunate sister. So altered so faded worn down by acute suffering of\nevery kind! hardly could I believe the melancholy and sickly figure\nbefore me, to be the remains of the lovely, blooming, healthful girl,\non whom I had once doted. What I endured in so beholding her but I have\nno right to wound your feelings by attempting to describe it I have\npained you too much already. That she was, to all appearance, in the\nlast stage of a consumption, was yes, in such a situation it was my\ngreatest comfort. Life could do nothing for her, beyond giving time for\na better preparation for death; and that was given. I saw her placed in\ncomfortable lodgings, and under proper attendants; I visited her every\nday during the rest of her short life: I was with her in her last\nmoments. \n\nAgain he stopped to recover himself; and Elinor spoke her feelings in\nan exclamation of tender concern, at the fate of his unfortunate\nfriend.\n\n Your sister, I hope, cannot be offended,  said he,  by the resemblance\nI have fancied between her and my poor disgraced relation. Their fates,\ntheir fortunes, cannot be the same; and had the natural sweet\ndisposition of the one been guarded by a firmer mind, or a happier\nmarriage, she might have been all that you will live to see the other\nbe. But to what does all this lead? I seem to have been distressing you\nfor nothing. Ah! Miss Dashwood a subject such as this untouched for\nfourteen years it is dangerous to handle it at all! I _will_ be more\ncollected more concise. She left to my care her only child, a little\ngirl, the offspring of her first guilty connection, who was then about\nthree years old. She loved the child, and had always kept it with her.\nIt was a valued, a precious trust to me; and gladly would I have\ndischarged it in the strictest sense, by watching over her education\nmyself, had the nature of our situations allowed it; but I had no\nfamily, no home; and my little Eliza was therefore placed at school. I\nsaw her there whenever I could, and after the death of my brother,\n(which happened about five years ago, and which left to me the\npossession of the family property,) she visited me at Delaford. I\ncalled her a distant relation; but I am well aware that I have in\ngeneral been suspected of a much nearer connection with her. It is now\nthree years ago (she had just reached her fourteenth year,) that I\nremoved her from school, to place her under the care of a very\nrespectable woman, residing in Dorsetshire, who had the charge of four\nor five other girls of about the same time of life; and for two years I\nhad every reason to be pleased with her situation. But last February,\nalmost a twelvemonth back, she suddenly disappeared. I had allowed her,\n(imprudently, as it has since turned out,) at her earnest desire, to go\nto Bath with one of her young friends, who was attending her father\nthere for his health. I knew him to be a very good sort of man, and I\nthought well of his daughter better than she deserved, for, with a most\nobstinate and ill-judged secrecy, she would tell nothing, would give no\nclue, though she certainly knew all. He, her father, a well-meaning,\nbut not a quick-sighted man, could really, I believe, give no\ninformation; for he had been generally confined to the house, while the\ngirls were ranging over the town and making what acquaintance they\nchose; and he tried to convince me, as thoroughly as he was convinced\nhimself, of his daughter s being entirely unconcerned in the business.\nIn short, I could learn nothing but that she was gone; all the rest,\nfor eight long months, was left to conjecture. What I thought, what I\nfeared, may be imagined; and what I suffered too. \n\n Good heavens!  cried Elinor,  could it be could Willoughby! \n\n The first news that reached me of her,  he continued,  came in a\nletter from herself, last October. It was forwarded to me from\nDelaford, and I received it on the very morning of our intended party\nto Whitwell; and this was the reason of my leaving Barton so suddenly,\nwhich I am sure must at the time have appeared strange to every body,\nand which I believe gave offence to some. Little did Mr. Willoughby\nimagine, I suppose, when his looks censured me for incivility in\nbreaking up the party, that I was called away to the relief of one whom\nhe had made poor and miserable; but _had_ he known it, what would it\nhave availed? Would he have been less gay or less happy in the smiles\nof your sister? No, he had already done that, which no man who _can_\nfeel for another would do. He had left the girl whose youth and\ninnocence he had seduced, in a situation of the utmost distress, with\nno creditable home, no help, no friends, ignorant of his address! He\nhad left her, promising to return; he neither returned, nor wrote, nor\nrelieved her. \n\n This is beyond every thing!  exclaimed Elinor.\n\n His character is now before you; expensive, dissipated, and worse than\nboth. Knowing all this, as I have now known it many weeks, guess what I\nmust have felt on seeing your sister as fond of him as ever, and on\nbeing assured that she was to marry him: guess what I must have felt\nfor all your sakes. When I came to you last week and found you alone, I\ncame determined to know the truth; though irresolute what to do when it\n_was_ known. My behaviour must have seemed strange to you then; but now\nyou will comprehend it. To suffer you all to be so deceived; to see\nyour sister but what could I do? I had no hope of interfering with\nsuccess; and sometimes I thought your sister s influence might yet\nreclaim him. But now, after such dishonorable usage, who can tell what\nwere his designs on her. Whatever they may have been, however, she may\nnow, and hereafter doubtless _will_ turn with gratitude towards her own\ncondition, when she compares it with that of my poor Eliza, when she\nconsiders the wretched and hopeless situation of this poor girl, and\npictures her to herself, with an affection for him so strong, still as\nstrong as her own, and with a mind tormented by self-reproach, which\nmust attend her through life. Surely this comparison must have its use\nwith her. She will feel her own sufferings to be nothing. They proceed\nfrom no misconduct, and can bring no disgrace. On the contrary, every\nfriend must be made still more her friend by them. Concern for her\nunhappiness, and respect for her fortitude under it, must strengthen\nevery attachment. Use your own discretion, however, in communicating to\nher what I have told you. You must know best what will be its effect;\nbut had I not seriously, and from my heart believed it might be of\nservice, might lessen her regrets, I would not have suffered myself to\ntrouble you with this account of my family afflictions, with a recital\nwhich may seem to have been intended to raise myself at the expense of\nothers. \n\nElinor s thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness;\nattended too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to\nMarianne, from the communication of what had passed.\n\n I have been more pained,  said she,  by her endeavors to acquit him\nthan by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the most\nperfect conviction of his unworthiness can do. Now, though at first she\nwill suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier. Have you,  she\ncontinued, after a short silence,  ever seen Mr. Willoughby since you\nleft him at Barton? \n\n Yes,  he replied gravely,  once I have. One meeting was unavoidable. \n\nElinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying,\n\n What? have you met him to \n\n I could meet him no other way. Eliza had confessed to me, though most\nreluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which\nwas within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to\ndefend, I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the\nmeeting, therefore, never got abroad. \n\nElinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a\nsoldier she presumed not to censure it.\n\n Such,  said Colonel Brandon, after a pause,  has been the unhappy\nresemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! and so imperfectly\nhave I discharged my trust! \n\n Is she still in town? \n\n No; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for I found her near\nher delivery, I removed her and her child into the country, and there\nshe remains. \n\nRecollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing Elinor\nfrom her sister, he put an end to his visit, receiving from her again\nthe same grateful acknowledgments, and leaving her full of compassion\nand esteem for him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII.\n\n\nWhen the particulars of this conversation were repeated by Miss\nDashwood to her sister, as they very soon were, the effect on her was\nnot entirely such as the former had hoped to see. Not that Marianne\nappeared to distrust the truth of any part of it, for she listened to\nit all with the most steady and submissive attention, made neither\nobjection nor remark, attempted no vindication of Willoughby, and\nseemed to show by her tears that she felt it to be impossible. But\nthough this behaviour assured Elinor that the conviction of this guilt\n_was_ carried home to her mind, though she saw with satisfaction the\neffect of it, in her no longer avoiding Colonel Brandon when he called,\nin her speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind of\ncompassionate respect, and though she saw her spirits less violently\nirritated than before, she did not see her less wretched. Her mind did\nbecome settled, but it was settled in a gloomy dejection. She felt the\nloss of Willoughby s character yet more heavily than she had felt the\nloss of his heart; his seduction and desertion of Miss Williams, the\nmisery of that poor girl, and the doubt of what his designs might\n_once_ have been on herself, preyed altogether so much on her spirits,\nthat she could not bring herself to speak of what she felt even to\nElinor; and, brooding over her sorrows in silence, gave more pain to\nher sister than could have been communicated by the most open and most\nfrequent confession of them.\n\nTo give the feelings or the language of Mrs. Dashwood on receiving and\nanswering Elinor s letter would be only to give a repetition of what\nher daughters had already felt and said; of a disappointment hardly\nless painful than Marianne s, and an indignation even greater than\nElinor s. Long letters from her, quickly succeeding each other, arrived\nto tell all that she suffered and thought; to express her anxious\nsolicitude for Marianne, and entreat she would bear up with fortitude\nunder this misfortune. Bad indeed must the nature of Marianne s\naffliction be, when her mother could talk of fortitude! mortifying and\nhumiliating must be the origin of those regrets, which _she_ could wish\nher not to indulge!\n\nAgainst the interest of her own individual comfort, Mrs. Dashwood had\ndetermined that it would be better for Marianne to be any where, at\nthat time, than at Barton, where every thing within her view would be\nbringing back the past in the strongest and most afflicting manner, by\nconstantly placing Willoughby before her, such as she had always seen\nhim there. She recommended it to her daughters, therefore, by all means\nnot to shorten their visit to Mrs. Jennings; the length of which,\nthough never exactly fixed, had been expected by all to comprise at\nleast five or six weeks. A variety of occupations, of objects, and of\ncompany, which could not be procured at Barton, would be inevitable\nthere, and might yet, she hoped, cheat Marianne, at times, into some\ninterest beyond herself, and even into some amusement, much as the\nideas of both might now be spurned by her.\n\nFrom all danger of seeing Willoughby again, her mother considered her\nto be at least equally safe in town as in the country, since his\nacquaintance must now be dropped by all who called themselves her\nfriends. Design could never bring them in each other s way: negligence\ncould never leave them exposed to a surprise; and chance had less in\nits favour in the crowd of London than even in the retirement of\nBarton, where it might force him before her while paying that visit at\nAllenham on his marriage, which Mrs. Dashwood, from foreseeing at first\nas a probable event, had brought herself to expect as a certain one.\n\nShe had yet another reason for wishing her children to remain where\nthey were; a letter from her son-in-law had told her that he and his\nwife were to be in town before the middle of February, and she judged\nit right that they should sometimes see their brother.\n\nMarianne had promised to be guided by her mother s opinion, and she\nsubmitted to it therefore without opposition, though it proved\nperfectly different from what she wished and expected, though she felt\nit to be entirely wrong, formed on mistaken grounds, and that by\nrequiring her longer continuance in London it deprived her of the only\npossible alleviation of her wretchedness, the personal sympathy of her\nmother, and doomed her to such society and such scenes as must prevent\nher ever knowing a moment s rest.\n\nBut it was a matter of great consolation to her, that what brought evil\nto herself would bring good to her sister; and Elinor, on the other\nhand, suspecting that it would not be in her power to avoid Edward\nentirely, comforted herself by thinking, that though their longer stay\nwould therefore militate against her own happiness, it would be better\nfor Marianne than an immediate return into Devonshire.\n\nHer carefulness in guarding her sister from ever hearing Willoughby s\nname mentioned, was not thrown away. Marianne, though without knowing\nit herself, reaped all its advantage; for neither Mrs. Jennings, nor\nSir John, nor even Mrs. Palmer herself, ever spoke of him before her.\nElinor wished that the same forbearance could have extended towards\nherself, but that was impossible, and she was obliged to listen day\nafter day to the indignation of them all.\n\nSir John, could not have thought it possible.  A man of whom he had\nalways had such reason to think well! Such a good-natured fellow! He\ndid not believe there was a bolder rider in England! It was an\nunaccountable business. He wished him at the devil with all his heart.\nHe would not speak another word to him, meet him where he might, for\nall the world! No, not if it were to be by the side of Barton covert,\nand they were kept watching for two hours together. Such a scoundrel of\na fellow! such a deceitful dog! It was only the last time they met that\nhe had offered him one of Folly s puppies! and this was the end of it! \n\nMrs. Palmer, in her way, was equally angry.  She was determined to drop\nhis acquaintance immediately, and she was very thankful that she had\nnever been acquainted with him at all. She wished with all her heart\nCombe Magna was not so near Cleveland; but it did not signify, for it\nwas a great deal too far off to visit; she hated him so much that she\nwas resolved never to mention his name again, and she should tell\neverybody she saw, how good-for-nothing he was. \n\nThe rest of Mrs. Palmer s sympathy was shown in procuring all the\nparticulars in her power of the approaching marriage, and communicating\nthem to Elinor. She could soon tell at what coachmaker s the new\ncarriage was building, by what painter Mr. Willoughby s portrait was\ndrawn, and at what warehouse Miss Grey s clothes might be seen.\n\nThe calm and polite unconcern of Lady Middleton on the occasion was a\nhappy relief to Elinor s spirits, oppressed as they often were by the\nclamorous kindness of the others. It was a great comfort to her to be\nsure of exciting no interest in _one_ person at least among their\ncircle of friends: a great comfort to know that there was _one_ who\nwould meet her without feeling any curiosity after particulars, or any\nanxiety for her sister s health.\n\nEvery qualification is raised at times, by the circumstances of the\nmoment, to more than its real value; and she was sometimes worried down\nby officious condolence to rate good-breeding as more indispensable to\ncomfort than good-nature.\n\nLady Middleton expressed her sense of the affair about once every day,\nor twice, if the subject occurred very often, by saying,  It is very\nshocking, indeed!  and by the means of this continual though gentle\nvent, was able not only to see the Miss Dashwoods from the first\nwithout the smallest emotion, but very soon to see them without\nrecollecting a word of the matter; and having thus supported the\ndignity of her own sex, and spoken her decided censure of what was\nwrong in the other, she thought herself at liberty to attend to the\ninterest of her own assemblies, and therefore determined (though rather\nagainst the opinion of Sir John) that as Mrs. Willoughby would at once\nbe a woman of elegance and fortune, to leave her card with her as soon\nas she married.\n\nColonel Brandon s delicate, unobtrusive enquiries were never unwelcome\nto Miss Dashwood. He had abundantly earned the privilege of intimate\ndiscussion of her sister s disappointment, by the friendly zeal with\nwhich he had endeavoured to soften it, and they always conversed with\nconfidence. His chief reward for the painful exertion of disclosing\npast sorrows and present humiliations, was given in the pitying eye\nwith which Marianne sometimes observed him, and the gentleness of her\nvoice whenever (though it did not often happen) she was obliged, or\ncould oblige herself to speak to him. _These_ assured him that his\nexertion had produced an increase of good-will towards himself, and\n_these_ gave Elinor hopes of its being farther augmented hereafter; but\nMrs. Jennings, who knew nothing of all this, who knew only that the\nColonel continued as grave as ever, and that she could neither prevail\non him to make the offer himself, nor commission her to make it for\nhim, began, at the end of two days, to think that, instead of\nMidsummer, they would not be married till Michaelmas, and by the end of\na week that it would not be a match at all. The good understanding\nbetween the Colonel and Miss Dashwood seemed rather to declare that the\nhonours of the mulberry-tree, the canal, and the yew arbour, would all\nbe made over to _her;_ and Mrs. Jennings had, for some time ceased to\nthink at all of Mrs. Ferrars.\n\nEarly in February, within a fortnight from the receipt of Willoughby s\nletter, Elinor had the painful office of informing her sister that he\nwas married. She had taken care to have the intelligence conveyed to\nherself, as soon as it was known that the ceremony was over, as she was\ndesirous that Marianne should not receive the first notice of it from\nthe public papers, which she saw her eagerly examining every morning.\n\nShe received the news with resolute composure; made no observation on\nit, and at first shed no tears; but after a short time they would burst\nout, and for the rest of the day, she was in a state hardly less\npitiable than when she first learnt to expect the event.\n\nThe Willoughbys left town as soon as they were married; and Elinor now\nhoped, as there could be no danger of her seeing either of them, to\nprevail on her sister, who had never yet left the house since the blow\nfirst fell, to go out again by degrees as she had done before.\n\nAbout this time the two Miss Steeles, lately arrived at their cousin s\nhouse in Bartlett s Buildings, Holburn, presented themselves again\nbefore their more grand relations in Conduit and Berkeley Streets; and\nwere welcomed by them all with great cordiality.\n\nElinor only was sorry to see them. Their presence always gave her pain,\nand she hardly knew how to make a very gracious return to the\noverpowering delight of Lucy in finding her _still_ in town.\n\n I should have been quite disappointed if I had not found you here\n_still_,  said she repeatedly, with a strong emphasis on the word.  But\nI always thought I _should_. I was almost sure you would not leave\nLondon yet awhile; though you _told_ me, you know, at Barton, that you\nshould not stay above a _month_. But I thought, at the time, that you\nwould most likely change your mind when it came to the point. It would\nhave been such a great pity to have went away before your brother and\nsister came. And now to be sure you will be in no _hurry_ to be gone. I\nam amazingly glad you did not keep to _your word_. \n\nElinor perfectly understood her, and was forced to use all her\nself-command to make it appear that she did _not_.\n\n Well, my dear,  said Mrs. Jennings,  and how did you travel? \n\n Not in the stage, I assure you,  replied Miss Steele, with quick\nexultation;  we came post all the way, and had a very smart beau to\nattend us. Dr. Davies was coming to town, and so we thought we d join\nhim in a post-chaise; and he behaved very genteelly, and paid ten or\ntwelve shillings more than we did. \n\n Oh, oh!  cried Mrs. Jennings;  very pretty, indeed! and the Doctor is\na single man, I warrant you. \n\n There now,  said Miss Steele, affectedly simpering,  everybody laughs\nat me so about the Doctor, and I cannot think why. My cousins say they\nare sure I have made a conquest; but for my part I declare I never\nthink about him from one hour s end to another.  Lord! here comes your\nbeau, Nancy,  my cousin said t other day, when she saw him crossing the\nstreet to the house. My beau, indeed! said I I cannot think who you\nmean. The Doctor is no beau of mine. \n\n Aye, aye, that is very pretty talking but it won t do the Doctor is\nthe man, I see. \n\n No, indeed!  replied her cousin, with affected earnestness,  and I beg\nyou will contradict it, if you ever hear it talked of. \n\nMrs. Jennings directly gave her the gratifying assurance that she\ncertainly would _not_, and Miss Steele was made completely happy.\n\n I suppose you will go and stay with your brother and sister, Miss\nDashwood, when they come to town,  said Lucy, returning, after a\ncessation of hostile hints, to the charge.\n\n No, I do not think we shall. \n\n Oh, yes, I dare say you will. \n\nElinor would not humour her by farther opposition.\n\n What a charming thing it is that Mrs. Dashwood can spare you both for\nso long a time together! \n\n Long a time, indeed!  interposed Mrs. Jennings.  Why, their visit is\nbut just begun! \n\nLucy was silenced.\n\n I am sorry we cannot see your sister, Miss Dashwood,  said Miss\nSteele.  I am sorry she is not well  for Marianne had left the room on\ntheir arrival.\n\n You are very good. My sister will be equally sorry to miss the\npleasure of seeing you; but she has been very much plagued lately with\nnervous head-aches, which make her unfit for company or conversation. \n\n Oh, dear, that is a great pity! but such old friends as Lucy and me! I\nthink she might see _us;_ and I am sure we would not speak a word. \n\nElinor, with great civility, declined the proposal. Her sister was\nperhaps laid down upon the bed, or in her dressing gown, and therefore\nnot able to come to them.\n\n Oh, if that s all,  cried Miss Steele,  we can just as well go and see\n_her_. \n\nElinor began to find this impertinence too much for her temper; but she\nwas saved the trouble of checking it, by Lucy s sharp reprimand, which\nnow, as on many occasions, though it did not give much sweetness to the\nmanners of one sister, was of advantage in governing those of the\nother.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII.\n\n\nAfter some opposition, Marianne yielded to her sister s entreaties, and\nconsented to go out with her and Mrs. Jennings one morning for half an\nhour. She expressly conditioned, however, for paying no visits, and\nwould do no more than accompany them to Gray s in Sackville Street,\nwhere Elinor was carrying on a negotiation for the exchange of a few\nold-fashioned jewels of her mother.\n\nWhen they stopped at the door, Mrs. Jennings recollected that there was\na lady at the other end of the street on whom she ought to call; and as\nshe had no business at Gray s, it was resolved, that while her young\nfriends transacted their s, she should pay her visit and return for\nthem.\n\nOn ascending the stairs, the Miss Dashwoods found so many people before\nthem in the room, that there was not a person at liberty to tend to\ntheir orders; and they were obliged to wait. All that could be done\nwas, to sit down at that end of the counter which seemed to promise the\nquickest succession; one gentleman only was standing there, and it is\nprobable that Elinor was not without hope of exciting his politeness to\na quicker despatch. But the correctness of his eye, and the delicacy of\nhis taste, proved to be beyond his politeness. He was giving orders for\na toothpick-case for himself, and till its size, shape, and ornaments\nwere determined, all of which, after examining and debating for a\nquarter of an hour over every toothpick-case in the shop, were finally\narranged by his own inventive fancy, he had no leisure to bestow any\nother attention on the two ladies, than what was comprised in three or\nfour very broad stares; a kind of notice which served to imprint on\nElinor the remembrance of a person and face, of strong, natural,\nsterling insignificance, though adorned in the first style of fashion.\n\nMarianne was spared from the troublesome feelings of contempt and\nresentment, on this impertinent examination of their features, and on\nthe puppyism of his manner in deciding on all the different horrors of\nthe different toothpick-cases presented to his inspection, by remaining\nunconscious of it all; for she was as well able to collect her thoughts\nwithin herself, and be as ignorant of what was passing around her, in\nMr. Gray s shop, as in her own bedroom.\n\nAt last the affair was decided. The ivory, the gold, and the pearls,\nall received their appointment, and the gentleman having named the last\nday on which his existence could be continued without the possession of\nthe toothpick-case, drew on his gloves with leisurely care, and\nbestowing another glance on the Miss Dashwoods, but such a one as\nseemed rather to demand than express admiration, walked off with a\nhappy air of real conceit and affected indifference.\n\nElinor lost no time in bringing her business forward, was on the point\nof concluding it, when another gentleman presented himself at her side.\nShe turned her eyes towards his face, and found him with some surprise\nto be her brother.\n\nTheir affection and pleasure in meeting was just enough to make a very\ncreditable appearance in Mr. Gray s shop. John Dashwood was really far\nfrom being sorry to see his sisters again; it rather gave them\nsatisfaction; and his inquiries after their mother were respectful and\nattentive.\n\nElinor found that he and Fanny had been in town two days.\n\n I wished very much to call upon you yesterday,  said he,  but it was\nimpossible, for we were obliged to take Harry to see the wild beasts at\nExeter Exchange; and we spent the rest of the day with Mrs. Ferrars.\nHarry was vastly pleased. _This_ morning I had fully intended to call\non you, if I could possibly find a spare half hour, but one has always\nso much to do on first coming to town. I am come here to bespeak Fanny\na seal. But tomorrow I think I shall certainly be able to call in\nBerkeley Street, and be introduced to your friend Mrs. Jennings. I\nunderstand she is a woman of very good fortune. And the Middletons too,\nyou must introduce me to _them_. As my mother-in-law s relations, I\nshall be happy to show them every respect. They are excellent\nneighbours to you in the country, I understand. \n\n Excellent indeed. Their attention to our comfort, their friendliness\nin every particular, is more than I can express. \n\n I am extremely glad to hear it, upon my word; extremely glad indeed.\nBut so it ought to be; they are people of large fortune, they are\nrelated to you, and every civility and accommodation that can serve to\nmake your situation pleasant might be reasonably expected. And so you\nare most comfortably settled in your little cottage and want for\nnothing! Edward brought us a most charming account of the place: the\nmost complete thing of its kind, he said, that ever was, and you all\nseemed to enjoy it beyond any thing. It was a great satisfaction to us\nto hear it, I assure you. \n\nElinor did feel a little ashamed of her brother; and was not sorry to\nbe spared the necessity of answering him, by the arrival of Mrs.\nJennings s servant, who came to tell her that his mistress waited for\nthem at the door.\n\nMr. Dashwood attended them down stairs, was introduced to Mrs. Jennings\nat the door of her carriage, and repeating his hope of being able to\ncall on them the next day, took leave.\n\nHis visit was duly paid. He came with a pretence at an apology from\ntheir sister-in-law, for not coming too;  but she was so much engaged\nwith her mother, that really she had no leisure for going any where. \nMrs. Jennings, however, assured him directly, that she should not stand\nupon ceremony, for they were all cousins, or something like it, and she\nshould certainly wait on Mrs. John Dashwood very soon, and bring her\nsisters to see her. His manners to _them_, though calm, were perfectly\nkind; to Mrs. Jennings, most attentively civil; and on Colonel\nBrandon s coming in soon after himself, he eyed him with a curiosity\nwhich seemed to say, that he only wanted to know him to be rich, to be\nequally civil to _him_.\n\nAfter staying with them half an hour, he asked Elinor to walk with him\nto Conduit Street, and introduce him to Sir John and Lady Middleton.\nThe weather was remarkably fine, and she readily consented. As soon as\nthey were out of the house, his enquiries began.\n\n Who is Colonel Brandon? Is he a man of fortune? \n\n Yes; he has very good property in Dorsetshire. \n\n I am glad of it. He seems a most gentlemanlike man; and I think,\nElinor, I may congratulate you on the prospect of a very respectable\nestablishment in life. \n\n Me, brother! what do you mean? \n\n He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it. What is\nthe amount of his fortune? \n\n I believe about two thousand a year. \n\n Two thousand a-year;  and then working himself up to a pitch of\nenthusiastic generosity, he added,  Elinor, I wish with all my heart it\nwere _twice_ as much, for your sake. \n\n Indeed I believe you,  replied Elinor;  but I am very sure that\nColonel Brandon has not the smallest wish of marrying _me_. \n\n You are mistaken, Elinor; you are very much mistaken. A very little\ntrouble on your side secures him. Perhaps just at present he may be\nundecided; the smallness of your fortune may make him hang back; his\nfriends may all advise him against it. But some of those little\nattentions and encouragements which ladies can so easily give will fix\nhim, in spite of himself. And there can be no reason why you should not\ntry for him. It is not to be supposed that any prior attachment on your\nside in short, you know as to an attachment of that kind, it is quite\nout of the question, the objections are insurmountable you have too\nmuch sense not to see all that. Colonel Brandon must be the man; and no\ncivility shall be wanting on my part to make him pleased with you and\nyour family. It is a match that must give universal satisfaction. In\nshort, it is a kind of thing that lowering his voice to an important\nwhisper will be exceedingly welcome to _all parties_.  Recollecting\nhimself, however, he added,  That is, I mean to say your friends are\nall truly anxious to see you well settled; Fanny particularly, for she\nhas your interest very much at heart, I assure you. And her mother too,\nMrs. Ferrars, a very good-natured woman, I am sure it would give her\ngreat pleasure; she said as much the other day. \n\nElinor would not vouchsafe any answer.\n\n It would be something remarkable, now,  he continued,  something\ndroll, if Fanny should have a brother and I a sister settling at the\nsame time. And yet it is not very unlikely. \n\n Is Mr. Edward Ferrars,  said Elinor, with resolution,  going to be\nmarried? \n\n It is not actually settled, but there is such a thing in agitation. He\nhas a most excellent mother. Mrs. Ferrars, with the utmost liberality,\nwill come forward, and settle on him a thousand a year, if the match\ntakes place. The lady is the Hon. Miss Morton, only daughter of the\nlate Lord Morton, with thirty thousand pounds. A very desirable\nconnection on both sides, and I have not a doubt of its taking place in\ntime. A thousand a-year is a great deal for a mother to give away, to\nmake over for ever; but Mrs. Ferrars has a noble spirit. To give you\nanother instance of her liberality: The other day, as soon as we came\nto town, aware that money could not be very plenty with us just now,\nshe put bank-notes into Fanny s hands to the amount of two hundred\npounds. And extremely acceptable it is, for we must live at a great\nexpense while we are here. \n\nHe paused for her assent and compassion; and she forced herself to say,\n\n Your expenses both in town and country must certainly be considerable;\nbut your income is a large one. \n\n Not so large, I dare say, as many people suppose. I do not mean to\ncomplain, however; it is undoubtedly a comfortable one, and I hope will\nin time be better. The enclosure of Norland Common, now carrying on, is\na most serious drain. And then I have made a little purchase within\nthis half year; East Kingham Farm, you must remember the place, where\nold Gibson used to live. The land was so very desirable for me in every\nrespect, so immediately adjoining my own property, that I felt it my\nduty to buy it. I could not have answered it to my conscience to let it\nfall into any other hands. A man must pay for his convenience; and it\n_has_ cost me a vast deal of money. \n\n More than you think it really and intrinsically worth. \n\n Why, I hope not that. I might have sold it again, the next day, for\nmore than I gave: but, with regard to the purchase-money, I might have\nbeen very unfortunate indeed; for the stocks were at that time so low,\nthat if I had not happened to have the necessary sum in my banker s\nhands, I must have sold out to very great loss. \n\nElinor could only smile.\n\n Other great and inevitable expenses too we have had on first coming to\nNorland. Our respected father, as you well know, bequeathed all the\nStanhill effects that remained at Norland (and very valuable they were)\nto your mother. Far be it from me to repine at his doing so; he had an\nundoubted right to dispose of his own property as he chose, but, in\nconsequence of it, we have been obliged to make large purchases of\nlinen, china, &c. to supply the place of what was taken away. You may\nguess, after all these expenses, how very far we must be from being\nrich, and how acceptable Mrs. Ferrars s kindness is. \n\n Certainly,  said Elinor;  and assisted by her liberality, I hope you\nmay yet live to be in easy circumstances. \n\n Another year or two may do much towards it,  he gravely replied;  but\nhowever there is still a great deal to be done. There is not a stone\nlaid of Fanny s green-house, and nothing but the plan of the\nflower-garden marked out. \n\n Where is the green-house to be? \n\n Upon the knoll behind the house. The old walnut trees are all come\ndown to make room for it. It will be a very fine object from many parts\nof the park, and the flower-garden will slope down just before it, and\nbe exceedingly pretty. We have cleared away all the old thorns that\ngrew in patches over the brow. \n\nElinor kept her concern and her censure to herself; and was very\nthankful that Marianne was not present, to share the provocation.\n\nHaving now said enough to make his poverty clear, and to do away the\nnecessity of buying a pair of ear-rings for each of his sisters, in his\nnext visit at Gray s, his thoughts took a cheerfuller turn, and he\nbegan to congratulate Elinor on having such a friend as Mrs. Jennings.\n\n She seems a most valuable woman indeed. Her house, her style of\nliving, all bespeak an exceeding good income; and it is an acquaintance\nthat has not only been of great use to you hitherto, but in the end may\nprove materially advantageous. Her inviting you to town is certainly a\nvast thing in your favour; and indeed, it speaks altogether so great a\nregard for you, that in all probability when she dies you will not be\nforgotten. She must have a great deal to leave. \n\n Nothing at all, I should rather suppose; for she has only her\njointure, which will descend to her children. \n\n But it is not to be imagined that she lives up to her income. Few\npeople of common prudence will do _that_ and whatever she saves, she\nwill be able to dispose of. \n\n And do you not think it more likely that she should leave it to her\ndaughters, than to us? \n\n Her daughters are both exceedingly well married, and therefore I\ncannot perceive the necessity of her remembering them farther. Whereas,\nin my opinion, by her taking so much notice of you, and treating you in\nthis kind of way, she has given you a sort of claim on her future\nconsideration, which a conscientious woman would not disregard. Nothing\ncan be kinder than her behaviour; and she can hardly do all this,\nwithout being aware of the expectation it raises. \n\n But she raises none in those most concerned. Indeed, brother, your\nanxiety for our welfare and prosperity carries you too far. \n\n Why, to be sure,  said he, seeming to recollect himself,  people have\nlittle, have very little in their power. But, my dear Elinor, what is\nthe matter with Marianne? she looks very unwell, has lost her colour,\nand is grown quite thin. Is she ill? \n\n She is not well, she has had a nervous complaint on her for several\nweeks. \n\n I am sorry for that. At her time of life, any thing of an illness\ndestroys the bloom for ever! Hers has been a very short one! She was as\nhandsome a girl last September, as I ever saw; and as likely to attract\nthe man. There was something in her style of beauty, to please them\nparticularly. I remember Fanny used to say that she would marry sooner\nand better than you did; not but what she is exceedingly fond of _you_,\nbut so it happened to strike her. She will be mistaken, however. I\nquestion whether Marianne _now_, will marry a man worth more than five\nor six hundred a-year, at the utmost, and I am very much deceived if\n_you_ do not do better. Dorsetshire! I know very little of Dorsetshire;\nbut, my dear Elinor, I shall be exceedingly glad to know more of it;\nand I think I can answer for your having Fanny and myself among the\nearliest and best pleased of your visitors. \n\nElinor tried very seriously to convince him that there was no\nlikelihood of her marrying Colonel Brandon; but it was an expectation\nof too much pleasure to himself to be relinquished, and he was really\nresolved on seeking an intimacy with that gentleman, and promoting the\nmarriage by every possible attention. He had just compunction enough\nfor having done nothing for his sisters himself, to be exceedingly\nanxious that everybody else should do a great deal; and an offer from\nColonel Brandon, or a legacy from Mrs. Jennings, was the easiest means\nof atoning for his own neglect.\n\nThey were lucky enough to find Lady Middleton at home, and Sir John\ncame in before their visit ended. Abundance of civilities passed on all\nsides. Sir John was ready to like anybody, and though Mr. Dashwood did\nnot seem to know much about horses, he soon set him down as a very\ngood-natured fellow: while Lady Middleton saw enough of fashion in his\nappearance to think his acquaintance worth having; and Mr. Dashwood\nwent away delighted with both.\n\n I shall have a charming account to carry to Fanny,  said he, as he\nwalked back with his sister.  Lady Middleton is really a most elegant\nwoman! Such a woman as I am sure Fanny will be glad to know. And Mrs.\nJennings too, an exceedingly well-behaved woman, though not so elegant\nas her daughter. Your sister need not have any scruple even of visiting\n_her_, which, to say the truth, has been a little the case, and very\nnaturally; for we only knew that Mrs. Jennings was the widow of a man\nwho had got all his money in a low way; and Fanny and Mrs. Ferrars were\nboth strongly prepossessed, that neither she nor her daughters were\nsuch kind of women as Fanny would like to associate with. But now I can\ncarry her a most satisfactory account of both. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV.\n\n\nMrs. John Dashwood had so much confidence in her husband s judgment,\nthat she waited the very next day both on Mrs. Jennings and her\ndaughter; and her confidence was rewarded by finding even the former,\neven the woman with whom her sisters were staying, by no means unworthy\nher notice; and as for Lady Middleton, she found her one of the most\ncharming women in the world!\n\nLady Middleton was equally pleased with Mrs. Dashwood. There was a kind\nof cold hearted selfishness on both sides, which mutually attracted\nthem; and they sympathised with each other in an insipid propriety of\ndemeanor, and a general want of understanding.\n\nThe same manners, however, which recommended Mrs. John Dashwood to the\ngood opinion of Lady Middleton did not suit the fancy of Mrs. Jennings,\nand to _her_ she appeared nothing more than a little proud-looking\nwoman of uncordial address, who met her husband s sisters without any\naffection, and almost without having anything to say to them; for of\nthe quarter of an hour bestowed on Berkeley Street, she sat at least\nseven minutes and a half in silence.\n\nElinor wanted very much to know, though she did not chuse to ask,\nwhether Edward was then in town; but nothing would have induced Fanny\nvoluntarily to mention his name before her, till able to tell her that\nhis marriage with Miss Morton was resolved on, or till her husband s\nexpectations on Colonel Brandon were answered; because she believed\nthem still so very much attached to each other, that they could not be\ntoo sedulously divided in word and deed on every occasion. The\nintelligence however, which _she_ would not give, soon flowed from\nanother quarter. Lucy came very shortly to claim Elinor s compassion on\nbeing unable to see Edward, though he had arrived in town with Mr. and\nMrs. Dashwood. He dared not come to Bartlett s Buildings for fear of\ndetection, and though their mutual impatience to meet, was not to be\ntold, they could do nothing at present but write.\n\nEdward assured them himself of his being in town, within a very short\ntime, by twice calling in Berkeley Street. Twice was his card found on\nthe table, when they returned from their morning s engagements. Elinor\nwas pleased that he had called; and still more pleased that she had\nmissed him.\n\nThe Dashwoods were so prodigiously delighted with the Middletons, that,\nthough not much in the habit of giving anything, they determined to\ngive them a dinner; and soon after their acquaintance began, invited\nthem to dine in Harley Street, where they had taken a very good house\nfor three months. Their sisters and Mrs. Jennings were invited\nlikewise, and John Dashwood was careful to secure Colonel Brandon, who,\nalways glad to be where the Miss Dashwoods were, received his eager\ncivilities with some surprise, but much more pleasure. They were to\nmeet Mrs. Ferrars; but Elinor could not learn whether her sons were to\nbe of the party. The expectation of seeing _her_, however, was enough\nto make her interested in the engagement; for though she could now meet\nEdward s mother without that strong anxiety which had once promised to\nattend such an introduction, though she could now see her with perfect\nindifference as to her opinion of herself, her desire of being in\ncompany with Mrs. Ferrars, her curiosity to know what she was like, was\nas lively as ever.\n\nThe interest with which she thus anticipated the party, was soon\nafterwards increased, more powerfully than pleasantly, by her hearing\nthat the Miss Steeles were also to be at it.\n\nSo well had they recommended themselves to Lady Middleton, so agreeable\nhad their assiduities made them to her, that though Lucy was certainly\nnot so elegant, and her sister not even genteel, she was as ready as\nSir John to ask them to spend a week or two in Conduit Street; and it\nhappened to be particularly convenient to the Miss Steeles, as soon as\nthe Dashwoods  invitation was known, that their visit should begin a\nfew days before the party took place.\n\nTheir claims to the notice of Mrs. John Dashwood, as the nieces of the\ngentleman who for many years had had the care of her brother, might not\nhave done much, however, towards procuring them seats at her table; but\nas Lady Middleton s guests they must be welcome; and Lucy, who had long\nwanted to be personally known to the family, to have a nearer view of\ntheir characters and her own difficulties, and to have an opportunity\nof endeavouring to please them, had seldom been happier in her life,\nthan she was on receiving Mrs. John Dashwood s card.\n\nOn Elinor its effect was very different. She began immediately to\ndetermine, that Edward who lived with his mother, must be asked as his\nmother was, to a party given by his sister; and to see him for the\nfirst time, after all that passed, in the company of Lucy! she hardly\nknew how she could bear it!\n\nThese apprehensions, perhaps, were not founded entirely on reason, and\ncertainly not at all on truth. They were relieved however, not by her\nown recollection, but by the good will of Lucy, who believed herself to\nbe inflicting a severe disappointment when she told her that Edward\ncertainly would not be in Harley Street on Tuesday, and even hoped to\nbe carrying the pain still farther by persuading her that he was kept\naway by the extreme affection for herself, which he could not conceal\nwhen they were together.\n\nThe important Tuesday came that was to introduce the two young ladies\nto this formidable mother-in-law.\n\n Pity me, dear Miss Dashwood!  said Lucy, as they walked up the stairs\ntogether for the Middletons arrived so directly after Mrs. Jennings,\nthat they all followed the servant at the same time: there is nobody\nhere but you, that can feel for me. I declare I can hardly stand. Good\ngracious! In a moment I shall see the person that all my happiness\ndepends on that is to be my mother! \n\nElinor could have given her immediate relief by suggesting the\npossibility of its being Miss Morton s mother, rather than her own,\nwhom they were about to behold; but instead of doing that, she assured\nher, and with great sincerity, that she did pity her to the utter\namazement of Lucy, who, though really uncomfortable herself, hoped at\nleast to be an object of irrepressible envy to Elinor.\n\nMrs. Ferrars was a little, thin woman, upright, even to formality, in\nher figure, and serious, even to sourness, in her aspect. Her\ncomplexion was sallow; and her features small, without beauty, and\nnaturally without expression; but a lucky contraction of the brow had\nrescued her countenance from the disgrace of insipidity, by giving it\nthe strong characters of pride and ill nature. She was not a woman of\nmany words; for, unlike people in general, she proportioned them to the\nnumber of her ideas; and of the few syllables that did escape her, not\none fell to the share of Miss Dashwood, whom she eyed with the spirited\ndetermination of disliking her at all events.\n\nElinor could not _now_ be made unhappy by this behaviour. A few months\nago it would have hurt her exceedingly; but it was not in Mrs. Ferrars \npower to distress her by it now; and the difference of her manners to\nthe Miss Steeles, a difference which seemed purposely made to humble\nher more, only amused her. She could not but smile to see the\ngraciousness of both mother and daughter towards the very person for\nLucy was particularly distinguished whom of all others, had they known\nas much as she did, they would have been most anxious to mortify; while\nshe herself, who had comparatively no power to wound them, sat\npointedly slighted by both. But while she smiled at a graciousness so\nmisapplied, she could not reflect on the mean-spirited folly from which\nit sprung, nor observe the studied attentions with which the Miss\nSteeles courted its continuance, without thoroughly despising them all\nfour.\n\nLucy was all exultation on being so honorably distinguished; and Miss\nSteele wanted only to be teazed about Dr. Davies to be perfectly happy.\n\nThe dinner was a grand one, the servants were numerous, and every thing\nbespoke the Mistress s inclination for show, and the Master s ability\nto support it. In spite of the improvements and additions which were\nmaking to the Norland estate, and in spite of its owner having once\nbeen within some thousand pounds of being obliged to sell out at a\nloss, nothing gave any symptom of that indigence which he had tried to\ninfer from it; no poverty of any kind, except of conversation,\nappeared but there, the deficiency was considerable. John Dashwood had\nnot much to say for himself that was worth hearing, and his wife had\nstill less. But there was no peculiar disgrace in this; for it was very\nmuch the case with the chief of their visitors, who almost all laboured\nunder one or other of these disqualifications for being agreeable Want\nof sense, either natural or improved want of elegance want of\nspirits or want of temper.\n\nWhen the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room after dinner, this poverty\nwas particularly evident, for the gentlemen _had_ supplied the\ndiscourse with some variety the variety of politics, inclosing land,\nand breaking horses but then it was all over; and one subject only\nengaged the ladies till coffee came in, which was the comparative\nheights of Harry Dashwood, and Lady Middleton s second son William, who\nwere nearly of the same age.\n\nHad both the children been there, the affair might have been determined\ntoo easily by measuring them at once; but as Harry only was present, it\nwas all conjectural assertion on both sides; and every body had a right\nto be equally positive in their opinion, and to repeat it over and over\nagain as often as they liked.\n\nThe parties stood thus:\n\nThe two mothers, though each really convinced that her own son was the\ntallest, politely decided in favour of the other.\n\nThe two grandmothers, with not less partiality, but more sincerity,\nwere equally earnest in support of their own descendant.\n\nLucy, who was hardly less anxious to please one parent than the other,\nthought the boys were both remarkably tall for their age, and could not\nconceive that there could be the smallest difference in the world\nbetween them; and Miss Steele, with yet greater address gave it, as\nfast as she could, in favour of each.\n\nElinor, having once delivered her opinion on William s side, by which\nshe offended Mrs. Ferrars and Fanny still more, did not see the\nnecessity of enforcing it by any farther assertion; and Marianne, when\ncalled on for hers, offended them all, by declaring that she had no\nopinion to give, as she had never thought about it.\n\nBefore her removing from Norland, Elinor had painted a very pretty pair\nof screens for her sister-in-law, which being now just mounted and\nbrought home, ornamented her present drawing room; and these screens,\ncatching the eye of John Dashwood on his following the other gentlemen\ninto the room, were officiously handed by him to Colonel Brandon for\nhis admiration.\n\n These are done by my eldest sister,  said he;  and you, as a man of\ntaste, will, I dare say, be pleased with them. I do not know whether\nyou have ever happened to see any of her performances before, but she\nis in general reckoned to draw extremely well. \n\nThe Colonel, though disclaiming all pretensions to connoisseurship,\nwarmly admired the screens, as he would have done any thing painted by\nMiss Dashwood; and on the curiosity of the others being of course\nexcited, they were handed round for general inspection. Mrs. Ferrars,\nnot aware of their being Elinor s work, particularly requested to look\nat them; and after they had received gratifying testimony of Lady\nMiddletons s approbation, Fanny presented them to her mother,\nconsiderately informing her, at the same time, that they were done by\nMiss Dashwood.\n\n Hum said Mrs. Ferrars very pretty, and without regarding them at\nall, returned them to her daughter.\n\nPerhaps Fanny thought for a moment that her mother had been quite rude\nenough, for, colouring a little, she immediately said,\n\n They are very pretty, ma am an t they?  But then again, the dread of\nhaving been too civil, too encouraging herself, probably came over her,\nfor she presently added,\n\n Do you not think they are something in Miss Morton s style of\npainting, Ma am? _She does_ paint most delightfully! How beautifully\nher last landscape is done! \n\n Beautifully indeed! But _she_ does every thing well. \n\nMarianne could not bear this. She was already greatly displeased with\nMrs. Ferrars; and such ill-timed praise of another, at Elinor s\nexpense, though she had not any notion of what was principally meant by\nit, provoked her immediately to say with warmth,\n\n This is admiration of a very particular kind! what is Miss Morton to\nus? who knows, or who cares, for her? it is Elinor of whom _we_ think\nand speak. \n\nAnd so saying, she took the screens out of her sister-in-law s hands,\nto admire them herself as they ought to be admired.\n\nMrs. Ferrars looked exceedingly angry, and drawing herself up more\nstiffly than ever, pronounced in retort this bitter philippic,  Miss\nMorton is Lord Morton s daughter. \n\nFanny looked very angry too, and her husband was all in a fright at his\nsister s audacity. Elinor was much more hurt by Marianne s warmth than\nshe had been by what produced it; but Colonel Brandon s eyes, as they\nwere fixed on Marianne, declared that he noticed only what was amiable\nin it, the affectionate heart which could not bear to see a sister\nslighted in the smallest point.\n\nMarianne s feelings did not stop here. The cold insolence of Mrs.\nFerrars s general behaviour to her sister, seemed, to her, to foretell\nsuch difficulties and distresses to Elinor, as her own wounded heart\ntaught her to think of with horror; and urged by a strong impulse of\naffectionate sensibility, she moved after a moment, to her sister s\nchair, and putting one arm round her neck, and one cheek close to hers,\nsaid in a low, but eager, voice,\n\n Dear, dear Elinor, don t mind them. Don t let them make _you_\nunhappy. \n\nShe could say no more; her spirits were quite overcome, and hiding her\nface on Elinor s shoulder, she burst into tears. Every body s attention\nwas called, and almost every body was concerned. Colonel Brandon rose\nup and went to them without knowing what he did. Mrs. Jennings, with a\nvery intelligent  Ah! poor dear,  immediately gave her her salts; and\nSir John felt so desperately enraged against the author of this nervous\ndistress, that he instantly changed his seat to one close by Lucy\nSteele, and gave her, in a whisper, a brief account of the whole\nshocking affair.\n\nIn a few minutes, however, Marianne was recovered enough to put an end\nto the bustle, and sit down among the rest; though her spirits retained\nthe impression of what had passed, the whole evening.\n\n Poor Marianne!  said her brother to Colonel Brandon, in a low voice,\nas soon as he could secure his attention:  She has not such good health\nas her sister, she is very nervous, she has not Elinor s\nconstitution; and one must allow that there is something very trying to\na young woman who _has been_ a beauty in the loss of her personal\nattractions. You would not think it perhaps, but Marianne _was_\nremarkably handsome a few months ago; quite as handsome as Elinor. Now\nyou see it is all gone. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV.\n\n\nElinor s curiosity to see Mrs. Ferrars was satisfied. She had found in\nher every thing that could tend to make a farther connection between\nthe families undesirable. She had seen enough of her pride, her\nmeanness, and her determined prejudice against herself, to comprehend\nall the difficulties that must have perplexed the engagement, and\nretarded the marriage, of Edward and herself, had he been otherwise\nfree; and she had seen almost enough to be thankful for her _own_ sake,\nthat one greater obstacle preserved her from suffering under any other\nof Mrs. Ferrars s creation, preserved her from all dependence upon her\ncaprice, or any solicitude for her good opinion. Or at least, if she\ndid not bring herself quite to rejoice in Edward s being fettered to\nLucy, she determined, that had Lucy been more amiable, she _ought_ to\nhave rejoiced.\n\nShe wondered that Lucy s spirits could be so very much elevated by the\ncivility of Mrs. Ferrars; that her interest and her vanity should so\nvery much blind her as to make the attention which seemed only paid her\nbecause she was _not Elinor_, appear a compliment to herself or to\nallow her to derive encouragement from a preference only given her,\nbecause her real situation was unknown. But that it was so, had not\nonly been declared by Lucy s eyes at the time, but was declared over\nagain the next morning more openly, for at her particular desire, Lady\nMiddleton set her down in Berkeley Street on the chance of seeing\nElinor alone, to tell her how happy she was.\n\nThe chance proved a lucky one, for a message from Mrs. Palmer soon\nafter she arrived, carried Mrs. Jennings away.\n\n My dear friend,  cried Lucy, as soon as they were by themselves,  I\ncome to talk to you of my happiness. Could anything be so flattering as\nMrs. Ferrars s way of treating me yesterday? So exceeding affable as\nshe was! You know how I dreaded the thoughts of seeing her; but the\nvery moment I was introduced, there was such an affability in her\nbehaviour as really should seem to say, she had quite took a fancy to\nme. Now was not it so? You saw it all; and was not you quite struck\nwith it? \n\n She was certainly very civil to you. \n\n Civil! Did you see nothing but only civility? I saw a vast deal more.\nSuch kindness as fell to the share of nobody but me! No pride, no\nhauteur, and your sister just the same all sweetness and affability! \n\nElinor wished to talk of something else, but Lucy still pressed her to\nown that she had reason for her happiness; and Elinor was obliged to go\non.\n\n Undoubtedly, if they had known your engagement,  said she,  nothing\ncould be more flattering than their treatment of you; but as that was\nnot the case \n\n I guessed you would say so, replied Lucy quickly but there was no\nreason in the world why Mrs. Ferrars should seem to like me, if she did\nnot, and her liking me is every thing. You shan t talk me out of my\nsatisfaction. I am sure it will all end well, and there will be no\ndifficulties at all, to what I used to think. Mrs. Ferrars is a\ncharming woman, and so is your sister. They are both delightful women,\nindeed! I wonder I should never hear you say how agreeable Mrs.\nDashwood was! \n\nTo this Elinor had no answer to make, and did not attempt any.\n\n Are you ill, Miss Dashwood? you seem low you don t speak; sure you\nan t well. \n\n I never was in better health. \n\n I am glad of it with all my heart; but really you did not look it. I\nshould be sorry to have _you_ ill; you, that have been the greatest\ncomfort to me in the world! Heaven knows what I should have done\nwithout your friendship. \n\nElinor tried to make a civil answer, though doubting her own success.\nBut it seemed to satisfy Lucy, for she directly replied,\n\n Indeed I am perfectly convinced of your regard for me, and next to\nEdward s love, it is the greatest comfort I have. Poor Edward! But now\nthere is one good thing, we shall be able to meet, and meet pretty\noften, for Lady Middleton s delighted with Mrs. Dashwood, so we shall\nbe a good deal in Harley Street, I dare say, and Edward spends half his\ntime with his sister besides, Lady Middleton and Mrs. Ferrars will\nvisit now; and Mrs. Ferrars and your sister were both so good to say\nmore than once, they should always be glad to see me. They are such\ncharming women! I am sure if ever you tell your sister what I think of\nher, you cannot speak too high. \n\nBut Elinor would not give her any encouragement to hope that she\n_should_ tell her sister. Lucy continued.\n\n I am sure I should have seen it in a moment, if Mrs. Ferrars had took\na dislike to me. If she had only made me a formal courtesy, for\ninstance, without saying a word, and never after had took any notice of\nme, and never looked at me in a pleasant way you know what I mean if I\nhad been treated in that forbidding sort of way, I should have gave it\nall up in despair. I could not have stood it. For where she _does_\ndislike, I know it is most violent. \n\nElinor was prevented from making any reply to this civil triumph, by\nthe door s being thrown open, the servant s announcing Mr. Ferrars, and\nEdward s immediately walking in.\n\nIt was a very awkward moment; and the countenance of each showed that\nit was so. They all looked exceedingly foolish; and Edward seemed to\nhave as great an inclination to walk out of the room again, as to\nadvance farther into it. The very circumstance, in its unpleasantest\nform, which they would each have been most anxious to avoid, had fallen\non them. They were not only all three together, but were together\nwithout the relief of any other person. The ladies recovered themselves\nfirst. It was not Lucy s business to put herself forward, and the\nappearance of secrecy must still be kept up. She could therefore only\n_look_ her tenderness, and after slightly addressing him, said no more.\n\nBut Elinor had more to do; and so anxious was she, for his sake and her\nown, to do it well, that she forced herself, after a moment s\nrecollection, to welcome him, with a look and manner that were almost\neasy, and almost open; and another struggle, another effort still\nimproved them. She would not allow the presence of Lucy, nor the\nconsciousness of some injustice towards herself, to deter her from\nsaying that she was happy to see him, and that she had very much\nregretted being from home, when he called before in Berkeley Street.\nShe would not be frightened from paying him those attentions which, as\na friend and almost a relation, were his due, by the observant eyes of\nLucy, though she soon perceived them to be narrowly watching her.\n\nHer manners gave some re-assurance to Edward, and he had courage enough\nto sit down; but his embarrassment still exceeded that of the ladies in\na proportion, which the case rendered reasonable, though his sex might\nmake it rare; for his heart had not the indifference of Lucy s, nor\ncould his conscience have quite the ease of Elinor s.\n\nLucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined to make no\ncontribution to the comfort of the others, and would not say a word;\nand almost every thing that _was_ said, proceeded from Elinor, who was\nobliged to volunteer all the information about her mother s health,\ntheir coming to town, &c. which Edward ought to have inquired about,\nbut never did.\n\nHer exertions did not stop here; for she soon afterwards felt herself\nso heroically disposed as to determine, under pretence of fetching\nMarianne, to leave the others by themselves; and she really did it, and\n_that_ in the handsomest manner, for she loitered away several minutes\non the landing-place, with the most high-minded fortitude, before she\nwent to her sister. When that was once done, however, it was time for\nthe raptures of Edward to cease; for Marianne s joy hurried her into\nthe drawing-room immediately. Her pleasure in seeing him was like every\nother of her feelings, strong in itself, and strongly spoken. She met\nhim with a hand that would be taken, and a voice that expressed the\naffection of a sister.\n\n Dear Edward!  she cried,  this is a moment of great happiness! This\nwould almost make amends for every thing! \n\nEdward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but before such\nwitnesses he dared not say half what he really felt. Again they all sat\ndown, and for a moment or two all were silent; while Marianne was\nlooking with the most speaking tenderness, sometimes at Edward and\nsometimes at Elinor, regretting only that their delight in each other\nshould be checked by Lucy s unwelcome presence. Edward was the first to\nspeak, and it was to notice Marianne s altered looks, and express his\nfear of her not finding London agree with her.\n\n Oh, don t think of me!  she replied with spirited earnestness, though\nher eyes were filled with tears as she spoke,  don t think of _my_\nhealth. Elinor is well, you see. That must be enough for us both. \n\nThis remark was not calculated to make Edward or Elinor more easy, nor\nto conciliate the good will of Lucy, who looked up at Marianne with no\nvery benignant expression.\n\n Do you like London?  said Edward, willing to say any thing that might\nintroduce another subject.\n\n Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it, but I have found none. The\nsight of you, Edward, is the only comfort it has afforded; and thank\nHeaven! you are what you always were! \n\nShe paused no one spoke.\n\n I think, Elinor,  she presently added,  we must employ Edward to take\ncare of us in our return to Barton. In a week or two, I suppose, we\nshall be going; and, I trust, Edward will not be very unwilling to\naccept the charge. \n\nPoor Edward muttered something, but what it was, nobody knew, not even\nhimself. But Marianne, who saw his agitation, and could easily trace it\nto whatever cause best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied, and\nsoon talked of something else.\n\n We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley Street yesterday! So dull, so\nwretchedly dull! But I have much to say to you on that head, which\ncannot be said now. \n\nAnd with this admirable discretion did she defer the assurance of her\nfinding their mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and of her\nbeing particularly disgusted with his mother, till they were more in\nprivate.\n\n But why were you not there, Edward? Why did you not come? \n\n I was engaged elsewhere. \n\n Engaged! But what was that, when such friends were to be met? \n\n Perhaps, Miss Marianne,  cried Lucy, eager to take some revenge on\nher,  you think young men never stand upon engagements, if they have no\nmind to keep them, little as well as great. \n\nElinor was very angry, but Marianne seemed entirely insensible of the\nsting; for she calmly replied,\n\n Not so, indeed; for, seriously speaking, I am very sure that\nconscience only kept Edward from Harley Street. And I really believe he\n_has_ the most delicate conscience in the world; the most scrupulous in\nperforming every engagement, however minute, and however it may make\nagainst his interest or pleasure. He is the most fearful of giving\npain, of wounding expectation, and the most incapable of being selfish,\nof any body I ever saw. Edward, it is so, and I will say it. What! are\nyou never to hear yourself praised! Then you must be no friend of mine;\nfor those who will accept of my love and esteem, must submit to my open\ncommendation. \n\nThe nature of her commendation, in the present case, however, happened\nto be particularly ill-suited to the feelings of two thirds of her\nauditors, and was so very unexhilarating to Edward, that he very soon\ngot up to go away.\n\n Going so soon!  said Marianne;  my dear Edward, this must not be. \n\nAnd drawing him a little aside, she whispered her persuasion that Lucy\ncould not stay much longer. But even this encouragement failed, for he\nwould go; and Lucy, who would have outstaid him, had his visit lasted\ntwo hours, soon afterwards went away.\n\n What can bring her here so often?  said Marianne, on her leaving them.\n Could not she see that we wanted her gone! how teazing to Edward! \n\n Why so? we were all his friends, and Lucy has been the longest known\nto him of any. It is but natural that he should like to see her as well\nas ourselves. \n\nMarianne looked at her steadily, and said,  You know, Elinor, that this\nis a kind of talking which I cannot bear. If you only hope to have your\nassertion contradicted, as I must suppose to be the case, you ought to\nrecollect that I am the last person in the world to do it. I cannot\ndescend to be tricked out of assurances, that are not really wanted. \n\nShe then left the room; and Elinor dared not follow her to say more,\nfor bound as she was by her promise of secrecy to Lucy, she could give\nno information that would convince Marianne; and painful as the\nconsequences of her still continuing in an error might be, she was\nobliged to submit to it. All that she could hope, was that Edward would\nnot often expose her or himself to the distress of hearing Marianne s\nmistaken warmth, nor to the repetition of any other part of the pain\nthat had attended their recent meeting and this she had every reason to\nexpect.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI.\n\n\nWithin a few days after this meeting, the newspapers announced to the\nworld, that the lady of Thomas Palmer, Esq. was safely delivered of a\nson and heir; a very interesting and satisfactory paragraph, at least\nto all those intimate connections who knew it before.\n\nThis event, highly important to Mrs. Jennings s happiness, produced a\ntemporary alteration in the disposal of her time, and influenced, in a\nlike degree, the engagements of her young friends; for as she wished to\nbe as much as possible with Charlotte, she went thither every morning\nas soon as she was dressed, and did not return till late in the\nevening; and the Miss Dashwoods, at the particular request of the\nMiddletons, spent the whole of every day in Conduit Street. For their\nown comfort they would much rather have remained, at least all the\nmorning, in Mrs. Jennings s house; but it was not a thing to be urged\nagainst the wishes of everybody. Their hours were therefore made over\nto Lady Middleton and the two Miss Steeles, by whom their company, in\nfact was as little valued, as it was professedly sought.\n\nThey had too much sense to be desirable companions to the former; and\nby the latter they were considered with a jealous eye, as intruding on\n_their_ ground, and sharing the kindness which they wanted to\nmonopolize. Though nothing could be more polite than Lady Middleton s\nbehaviour to Elinor and Marianne, she did not really like them at all.\nBecause they neither flattered herself nor her children, she could not\nbelieve them good-natured; and because they were fond of reading, she\nfancied them satirical: perhaps without exactly knowing what it was to\nbe satirical; but _that_ did not signify. It was censure in common use,\nand easily given.\n\nTheir presence was a restraint both on her and on Lucy. It checked the\nidleness of one, and the business of the other. Lady Middleton was\nashamed of doing nothing before them, and the flattery which Lucy was\nproud to think of and administer at other times, she feared they would\ndespise her for offering. Miss Steele was the least discomposed of the\nthree, by their presence; and it was in their power to reconcile her to\nit entirely. Would either of them only have given her a full and minute\naccount of the whole affair between Marianne and Mr. Willoughby, she\nwould have thought herself amply rewarded for the sacrifice of the best\nplace by the fire after dinner, which their arrival occasioned. But\nthis conciliation was not granted; for though she often threw out\nexpressions of pity for her sister to Elinor, and more than once dropt\na reflection on the inconstancy of beaux before Marianne, no effect was\nproduced, but a look of indifference from the former, or of disgust in\nthe latter. An effort even yet lighter might have made her their\nfriend. Would they only have laughed at her about the Doctor! But so\nlittle were they, any more than the others, inclined to oblige her,\nthat if Sir John dined from home, she might spend a whole day without\nhearing any other raillery on the subject, than what she was kind\nenough to bestow on herself.\n\nAll these jealousies and discontents, however, were so totally\nunsuspected by Mrs. Jennings, that she thought it a delightful thing\nfor the girls to be together; and generally congratulated her young\nfriends every night, on having escaped the company of a stupid old\nwoman so long. She joined them sometimes at Sir John s, sometimes at\nher own house; but wherever it was, she always came in excellent\nspirits, full of delight and importance, attributing Charlotte s well\ndoing to her own care, and ready to give so exact, so minute a detail\nof her situation, as only Miss Steele had curiosity enough to desire.\nOne thing _did_ disturb her; and of that she made her daily complaint.\nMr. Palmer maintained the common, but unfatherly opinion among his sex,\nof all infants being alike; and though she could plainly perceive, at\ndifferent times, the most striking resemblance between this baby and\nevery one of his relations on both sides, there was no convincing his\nfather of it; no persuading him to believe that it was not exactly like\nevery other baby of the same age; nor could he even be brought to\nacknowledge the simple proposition of its being the finest child in the\nworld.\n\nI come now to the relation of a misfortune, which about this time\nbefell Mrs. John Dashwood. It so happened that while her two sisters\nwith Mrs. Jennings were first calling on her in Harley Street, another\nof her acquaintance had dropt in a circumstance in itself not\napparently likely to produce evil to her. But while the imaginations of\nother people will carry them away to form wrong judgments of our\nconduct, and to decide on it by slight appearances, one s happiness\nmust in some measure be always at the mercy of chance. In the present\ninstance, this last-arrived lady allowed her fancy to so far outrun\ntruth and probability, that on merely hearing the name of the Miss\nDashwoods, and understanding them to be Mr. Dashwood s sisters, she\nimmediately concluded them to be staying in Harley Street; and this\nmisconstruction produced within a day or two afterwards, cards of\ninvitation for them as well as for their brother and sister, to a small\nmusical party at her house. The consequence of which was, that Mrs.\nJohn Dashwood was obliged to submit not only to the exceedingly great\ninconvenience of sending her carriage for the Miss Dashwoods, but, what\nwas still worse, must be subject to all the unpleasantness of appearing\nto treat them with attention: and who could tell that they might not\nexpect to go out with her a second time? The power of disappointing\nthem, it was true, must always be hers. But that was not enough; for\nwhen people are determined on a mode of conduct which they know to be\nwrong, they feel injured by the expectation of any thing better from\nthem.\n\nMarianne had now been brought by degrees, so much into the habit of\ngoing out every day, that it was become a matter of indifference to\nher, whether she went or not: and she prepared quietly and mechanically\nfor every evening s engagement, though without expecting the smallest\namusement from any, and very often without knowing, till the last\nmoment, where it was to take her.\n\nTo her dress and appearance she was grown so perfectly indifferent, as\nnot to bestow half the consideration on it, during the whole of her\ntoilet, which it received from Miss Steele in the first five minutes of\ntheir being together, when it was finished. Nothing escaped _her_\nminute observation and general curiosity; she saw every thing, and\nasked every thing; was never easy till she knew the price of every part\nof Marianne s dress; could have guessed the number of her gowns\naltogether with better judgment than Marianne herself, and was not\nwithout hopes of finding out before they parted, how much her washing\ncost per week, and how much she had every year to spend upon herself.\nThe impertinence of these kind of scrutinies, moreover, was generally\nconcluded with a compliment, which though meant as its douceur, was\nconsidered by Marianne as the greatest impertinence of all; for after\nundergoing an examination into the value and make of her gown, the\ncolour of her shoes, and the arrangement of her hair, she was almost\nsure of being told that upon  her word she looked vastly smart, and she\ndared to say she would make a great many conquests. \n\nWith such encouragement as this, was she dismissed on the present\noccasion, to her brother s carriage; which they were ready to enter\nfive minutes after it stopped at the door, a punctuality not very\nagreeable to their sister-in-law, who had preceded them to the house of\nher acquaintance, and was there hoping for some delay on their part\nthat might inconvenience either herself or her coachman.\n\nThe events of this evening were not very remarkable. The party, like\nother musical parties, comprehended a great many people who had real\ntaste for the performance, and a great many more who had none at all;\nand the performers themselves were, as usual, in their own estimation,\nand that of their immediate friends, the first private performers in\nEngland.\n\nAs Elinor was neither musical, nor affecting to be so, she made no\nscruple of turning her eyes from the grand pianoforte, whenever it\nsuited her, and unrestrained even by the presence of a harp, and\nvioloncello, would fix them at pleasure on any other object in the\nroom. In one of these excursive glances she perceived among a group of\nyoung men, the very he, who had given them a lecture on toothpick-cases\nat Gray s. She perceived him soon afterwards looking at herself, and\nspeaking familiarly to her brother; and had just determined to find out\nhis name from the latter, when they both came towards her, and Mr.\nDashwood introduced him to her as Mr. Robert Ferrars.\n\nHe addressed her with easy civility, and twisted his head into a bow\nwhich assured her as plainly as words could have done, that he was\nexactly the coxcomb she had heard him described to be by Lucy. Happy\nhad it been for her, if her regard for Edward had depended less on his\nown merit, than on the merit of his nearest relations! For then his\nbrother s bow must have given the finishing stroke to what the\nill-humour of his mother and sister would have begun. But while she\nwondered at the difference of the two young men, she did not find that\nthe emptiness and conceit of the one, put her out of all charity with\nthe modesty and worth of the other. Why they _were_ different, Robert\nexplained to her himself in the course of a quarter of an hour s\nconversation; for, talking of his brother, and lamenting the extreme\n_gaucherie_ which he really believed kept him from mixing in proper\nsociety, he candidly and generously attributed it much less to any\nnatural deficiency, than to the misfortune of a private education;\nwhile he himself, though probably without any particular, any material\nsuperiority by nature, merely from the advantage of a public school,\nwas as well fitted to mix in the world as any other man.\n\n Upon my soul,  he added,  I believe it is nothing more; and so I often\ntell my mother, when she is grieving about it.  My dear Madam,  I\nalways say to her,  you must make yourself easy. The evil is now\nirremediable, and it has been entirely your own doing. Why would you be\npersuaded by my uncle, Sir Robert, against your own judgment, to place\nEdward under private tuition, at the most critical time of his life? If\nyou had only sent him to Westminster as well as myself, instead of\nsending him to Mr. Pratt s, all this would have been prevented.  This\nis the way in which I always consider the matter, and my mother is\nperfectly convinced of her error. \n\nElinor would not oppose his opinion, because, whatever might be her\ngeneral estimation of the advantage of a public school, she could not\nthink of Edward s abode in Mr. Pratt s family, with any satisfaction.\n\n You reside in Devonshire, I think, was his next observation,  in a\ncottage near Dawlish. \n\nElinor set him right as to its situation; and it seemed rather\nsurprising to him that anybody could live in Devonshire, without living\nnear Dawlish. He bestowed his hearty approbation however on their\nspecies of house.\n\n For my own part,  said he,  I am excessively fond of a cottage; there\nis always so much comfort, so much elegance about them. And I protest,\nif I had any money to spare, I should buy a little land and build one\nmyself, within a short distance of London, where I might drive myself\ndown at any time, and collect a few friends about me, and be happy. I\nadvise every body who is going to build, to build a cottage. My friend\nLord Courtland came to me the other day on purpose to ask my advice,\nand laid before me three different plans of Bonomi s. I was to decide\non the best of them.  My dear Courtland,  said I, immediately throwing\nthem all into the fire,  do not adopt either of them, but by all means\nbuild a cottage.  And that I fancy, will be the end of it.\n\n Some people imagine that there can be no accommodations, no space in a\ncottage; but this is all a mistake. I was last month at my friend\nElliott s, near Dartford. Lady Elliott wished to give a dance.  But how\ncan it be done?  said she;  my dear Ferrars, do tell me how it is to be\nmanaged. There is not a room in this cottage that will hold ten couple,\nand where can the supper be?  _I_ immediately saw that there could be\nno difficulty in it, so I said,  My dear Lady Elliott, do not be\nuneasy. The dining parlour will admit eighteen couple with ease;\ncard-tables may be placed in the drawing-room; the library may be open\nfor tea and other refreshments; and let the supper be set out in the\nsaloon.  Lady Elliott was delighted with the thought. We measured the\ndining-room, and found it would hold exactly eighteen couple, and the\naffair was arranged precisely after my plan. So that, in fact, you see,\nif people do but know how to set about it, every comfort may be as well\nenjoyed in a cottage as in the most spacious dwelling. \n\nElinor agreed to it all, for she did not think he deserved the\ncompliment of rational opposition.\n\nAs John Dashwood had no more pleasure in music than his eldest sister,\nhis mind was equally at liberty to fix on any thing else; and a thought\nstruck him during the evening, which he communicated to his wife, for\nher approbation, when they got home. The consideration of Mrs.\nDennison s mistake, in supposing his sisters their guests, had\nsuggested the propriety of their being really invited to become such,\nwhile Mrs. Jennings s engagements kept her from home. The expense would\nbe nothing, the inconvenience not more; and it was altogether an\nattention which the delicacy of his conscience pointed out to be\nrequisite to its complete enfranchisement from his promise to his\nfather. Fanny was startled at the proposal.\n\n I do not see how it can be done,  said she,  without affronting Lady\nMiddleton, for they spend every day with her; otherwise I should be\nexceedingly glad to do it. You know I am always ready to pay them any\nattention in my power, as my taking them out this evening shows. But\nthey are Lady Middleton s visitors. How can I ask them away from her? \n\nHer husband, but with great humility, did not see the force of her\nobjection.  They had already spent a week in this manner in Conduit\nStreet, and Lady Middleton could not be displeased at their giving the\nsame number of days to such near relations. \n\nFanny paused a moment, and then, with fresh vigor, said,\n\n My love, I would ask them with all my heart, if it was in my power.\nBut I had just settled within myself to ask the Miss Steeles to spend a\nfew days with us. They are very well behaved, good kind of girls; and I\nthink the attention is due to them, as their uncle did so very well by\nEdward. We can ask your sisters some other year, you know; but the Miss\nSteeles may not be in town any more. I am sure you will like them;\nindeed, you _do_ like them, you know, very much already, and so does my\nmother; and they are such favourites with Harry! \n\nMr. Dashwood was convinced. He saw the necessity of inviting the Miss\nSteeles immediately, and his conscience was pacified by the resolution\nof inviting his sisters another year; at the same time, however, slyly\nsuspecting that another year would make the invitation needless, by\nbringing Elinor to town as Colonel Brandon s wife, and Marianne as\n_their_ visitor.\n\nFanny, rejoicing in her escape, and proud of the ready wit that had\nprocured it, wrote the next morning to Lucy, to request her company and\nher sister s, for some days, in Harley Street, as soon as Lady\nMiddleton could spare them. This was enough to make Lucy really and\nreasonably happy. Mrs. Dashwood seemed actually working for her,\nherself; cherishing all her hopes, and promoting all her views! Such an\nopportunity of being with Edward and his family was, above all things,\nthe most material to her interest, and such an invitation the most\ngratifying to her feelings! It was an advantage that could not be too\ngratefully acknowledged, nor too speedily made use of; and the visit to\nLady Middleton, which had not before had any precise limits, was\ninstantly discovered to have been always meant to end in two days \ntime.\n\nWhen the note was shown to Elinor, as it was within ten minutes after\nits arrival, it gave her, for the first time, some share in the\nexpectations of Lucy; for such a mark of uncommon kindness, vouchsafed\non so short an acquaintance, seemed to declare that the good-will\ntowards her arose from something more than merely malice against\nherself; and might be brought, by time and address, to do every thing\nthat Lucy wished. Her flattery had already subdued the pride of Lady\nMiddleton, and made an entry into the close heart of Mrs. John\nDashwood; and these were effects that laid open the probability of\ngreater.\n\nThe Miss Steeles removed to Harley Street, and all that reached Elinor\nof their influence there, strengthened her expectation of the event.\nSir John, who called on them more than once, brought home such accounts\nof the favour they were in, as must be universally striking. Mrs.\nDashwood had never been so much pleased with any young women in her\nlife, as she was with them; had given each of them a needle book made\nby some emigrant; called Lucy by her Christian name; and did not know\nwhether she should ever be able to part with them.\n\nEND OF THE SECOND VOLUME\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII.\n\n\nMrs. Palmer was so well at the end of a fortnight, that her mother felt\nit no longer necessary to give up the whole of her time to her; and,\ncontenting herself with visiting her once or twice a day, returned from\nthat period to her own home, and her own habits, in which she found the\nMiss Dashwoods very ready to resume their former share.\n\nAbout the third or fourth morning after their being thus resettled in\nBerkeley Street, Mrs. Jennings, on returning from her ordinary visit to\nMrs. Palmer, entered the drawing-room, where Elinor was sitting by\nherself, with an air of such hurrying importance as prepared her to\nhear something wonderful; and giving her time only to form that idea,\nbegan directly to justify it, by saying,\n\n Lord! my dear Miss Dashwood! have you heard the news? \n\n No, ma am. What is it? \n\n Something so strange! But you shall hear it all. When I got to Mr.\nPalmer s, I found Charlotte quite in a fuss about the child. She was\nsure it was very ill it cried, and fretted, and was all over pimples.\nSo I looked at it directly, and,  Lord! my dear,  says I,  it is\nnothing in the world, but the red gum;  and nurse said just the same.\nBut Charlotte, she would not be satisfied, so Mr. Donavan was sent for;\nand luckily he happened to just come in from Harley Street, so he\nstepped over directly, and as soon as ever he saw the child, he said\njust as we did, that it was nothing in the world but the red gum, and\nthen Charlotte was easy. And so, just as he was going away again, it\ncame into my head, I am sure I do not know how I happened to think of\nit, but it came into my head to ask him if there was any news. So upon\nthat, he smirked, and simpered, and looked grave, and seemed to know\nsomething or other, and at last he said in a whisper,  For fear any\nunpleasant report should reach the young ladies under your care as to\ntheir sister s indisposition, I think it advisable to say, that I\nbelieve there is no great reason for alarm; I hope Mrs. Dashwood will\ndo very well. \n\n What! is Fanny ill? \n\n That is exactly what I said, my dear.  Lord!  says I,  is Mrs.\nDashwood ill?  So then it all came out; and the long and the short of\nthe matter, by all I can learn, seems to be this. Mr. Edward Ferrars,\nthe very young man I used to joke with you about (but however, as it\nturns out, I am monstrous glad there was never any thing in it), Mr.\nEdward Ferrars, it seems, has been engaged above this twelvemonth to my\ncousin Lucy! There s for you, my dear! And not a creature knowing a\nsyllable of the matter, except Nancy! Could you have believed such a\nthing possible? There is no great wonder in their liking one another;\nbut that matters should be brought so forward between them, and nobody\nsuspect it! _That_ is strange! I never happened to see them together,\nor I am sure I should have found it out directly. Well, and so this was\nkept a great secret, for fear of Mrs. Ferrars, and neither she nor your\nbrother or sister suspected a word of the matter: till this very\nmorning, poor Nancy, who, you know, is a well-meaning creature, but no\nconjurer, popt it all out.  Lord!  thinks she to herself,  they are all\nso fond of Lucy, to be sure they will make no difficulty about it;  and\nso, away she went to your sister, who was sitting all alone at her\ncarpet-work, little suspecting what was to come for she had just been\nsaying to your brother, only five minutes before, that she thought to\nmake a match between Edward and some Lord s daughter or other, I forget\nwho. So you may think what a blow it was to all her vanity and pride.\nShe fell into violent hysterics immediately, with such screams as\nreached your brother s ears, as he was sitting in his own dressing-room\ndown stairs, thinking about writing a letter to his steward in the\ncountry. So up he flew directly, and a terrible scene took place, for\nLucy was come to them by that time, little dreaming what was going on.\nPoor soul! I pity _her_. And I must say, I think she was used very\nhardly; for your sister scolded like any fury, and soon drove her into\na fainting fit. Nancy, she fell upon her knees, and cried bitterly; and\nyour brother, he walked about the room, and said he did not know what\nto do. Mrs. Dashwood declared they should not stay a minute longer in\nthe house, and your brother was forced to go down upon _his_ knees too,\nto persuade her to let them stay till they had packed up their clothes.\n_Then_ she fell into hysterics again, and he was so frightened that he\nwould send for Mr. Donavan, and Mr. Donavan found the house in all this\nuproar. The carriage was at the door ready to take my poor cousins\naway, and they were just stepping in as he came off; poor Lucy in such\na condition, he says, she could hardly walk; and Nancy, she was almost\nas bad. I declare, I have no patience with your sister; and I hope,\nwith all my heart, it will be a match in spite of her. Lord! what a\ntaking poor Mr. Edward will be in when he hears of it! To have his love\nused so scornfully! for they say he is monstrous fond of her, as well\nhe may. I should not wonder, if he was to be in the greatest\npassion! and Mr. Donavan thinks just the same. He and I had a great\ndeal of talk about it; and the best of all is, that he is gone back\nagain to Harley Street, that he may be within call when Mrs. Ferrars is\ntold of it, for she was sent for as soon as ever my cousins left the\nhouse, for your sister was sure _she_ would be in hysterics too; and so\nshe may, for what I care. I have no pity for either of them. I have no\nnotion of people s making such a to-do about money and greatness. There\nis no reason on earth why Mr. Edward and Lucy should not marry; for I\nam sure Mrs. Ferrars may afford to do very well by her son, and though\nLucy has next to nothing herself, she knows better than any body how to\nmake the most of every thing; I dare say, if Mrs. Ferrars would only\nallow him five hundred a-year, she would make as good an appearance\nwith it as any body else would with eight. Lord! how snug they might\nlive in such another cottage as yours or a little bigger with two\nmaids, and two men; and I believe I could help them to a housemaid, for\nmy Betty has a sister out of place, that would fit them exactly. \n\nHere Mrs. Jennings ceased, and as Elinor had had time enough to collect\nher thoughts, she was able to give such an answer, and make such\nobservations, as the subject might naturally be supposed to produce.\nHappy to find that she was not suspected of any extraordinary interest\nin it; that Mrs. Jennings (as she had of late often hoped might be the\ncase) had ceased to imagine her at all attached to Edward; and happy\nabove all the rest, in the absence of Marianne, she felt very well able\nto speak of the affair without embarrassment, and to give her judgment,\nas she believed, with impartiality on the conduct of every one\nconcerned in it.\n\nShe could hardly determine what her own expectation of its event really\nwas; though she earnestly tried to drive away the notion of its being\npossible to end otherwise at last, than in the marriage of Edward and\nLucy. What Mrs. Ferrars would say and do, though there could not be a\ndoubt of its nature, she was anxious to hear; and still more anxious to\nknow how Edward would conduct himself. For _him_ she felt much\ncompassion; for Lucy very little and it cost her some pains to procure\nthat little; for the rest of the party none at all.\n\nAs Mrs. Jennings could talk on no other subject, Elinor soon saw the\nnecessity of preparing Marianne for its discussion. No time was to be\nlost in undeceiving her, in making her acquainted with the real truth,\nand in endeavouring to bring her to hear it talked of by others,\nwithout betraying that she felt any uneasiness for her sister, or any\nresentment against Edward.\n\nElinor s office was a painful one. She was going to remove what she\nreally believed to be her sister s chief consolation, to give such\nparticulars of Edward as she feared would ruin him for ever in her good\nopinion,-and to make Marianne, by a resemblance in their situations,\nwhich to _her_ fancy would seem strong, feel all her own disappointment\nover again. But unwelcome as such a task must be, it was necessary to\nbe done, and Elinor therefore hastened to perform it.\n\nShe was very far from wishing to dwell on her own feelings, or to\nrepresent herself as suffering much, any otherwise than as the\nself-command she had practised since her first knowledge of Edward s\nengagement, might suggest a hint of what was practicable to Marianne.\nHer narration was clear and simple; and though it could not be given\nwithout emotion, it was not accompanied by violent agitation, nor\nimpetuous grief. _That_ belonged rather to the hearer, for Marianne\nlistened with horror, and cried excessively. Elinor was to be the\ncomforter of others in her own distresses, no less than in theirs; and\nall the comfort that could be given by assurances of her own composure\nof mind, and a very earnest vindication of Edward from every charge but\nof imprudence, was readily offered.\n\nBut Marianne for some time would give credit to neither. Edward seemed\na second Willoughby; and acknowledging as Elinor did, that she _had_\nloved him most sincerely, could she feel less than herself! As for Lucy\nSteele, she considered her so totally unamiable, so absolutely\nincapable of attaching a sensible man, that she could not be persuaded\nat first to believe, and afterwards to pardon, any former affection of\nEdward for her. She would not even admit it to have been natural; and\nElinor left her to be convinced that it was so, by that which only\ncould convince her, a better knowledge of mankind.\n\nHer first communication had reached no farther than to state the fact\nof the engagement, and the length of time it had existed. Marianne s\nfeelings had then broken in, and put an end to all regularity of\ndetail; and for some time all that could be done was to soothe her\ndistress, lessen her alarms, and combat her resentment. The first\nquestion on her side, which led to farther particulars, was, \n\n How long has this been known to you, Elinor? has he written to you? \n\n I have known it these four months. When Lucy first came to Barton Park\nlast November, she told me in confidence of her engagement. \n\nAt these words, Marianne s eyes expressed the astonishment which her\nlips could not utter. After a pause of wonder, she exclaimed \n\n Four months! Have you known of this four months? \n\nElinor confirmed it.\n\n What! while attending me in all my misery, has this been on your\nheart? And I have reproached you for being happy! \n\n It was not fit that you should then know how much I was the reverse! \n\n Four months!  cried Marianne again.  So calm! so cheerful! How have\nyou been supported? \n\n By feeling that I was doing my duty. My promise to Lucy, obliged me to\nbe secret. I owed it to her, therefore, to avoid giving any hint of the\ntruth; and I owed it to my family and friends, not to create in them a\nsolicitude about me, which it could not be in my power to satisfy. \n\nMarianne seemed much struck.\n\n I have very often wished to undeceive yourself and my mother,  added\nElinor;  and once or twice I have attempted it; but without betraying\nmy trust, I never could have convinced you. \n\n Four months! and yet you loved him! \n\n Yes. But I did not love only him; and while the comfort of others was\ndear to me, I was glad to spare them from knowing how much I felt. Now,\nI can think and speak of it with little emotion. I would not have you\nsuffer on my account; for I assure you I no longer suffer materially\nmyself. I have many things to support me. I am not conscious of having\nprovoked the disappointment by any imprudence of my own, I have borne\nit as much as possible without spreading it farther. I acquit Edward of\nessential misconduct. I wish him very happy; and I am so sure of his\nalways doing his duty, that though now he may harbour some regret, in\nthe end he must become so. Lucy does not want sense, and that is the\nfoundation on which every thing good may be built. And after all,\nMarianne, after all that is bewitching in the idea of a single and\nconstant attachment, and all that can be said of one s happiness\ndepending entirely on any particular person, it is not meant it is not\nfit it is not possible that it should be so. Edward will marry Lucy; he\nwill marry a woman superior in person and understanding to half her\nsex; and time and habit will teach him to forget that he ever thought\nanother superior to _her_. \n\n If such is your way of thinking,  said Marianne,  if the loss of what\nis most valued is so easily to be made up by something else, your\nresolution, your self-command, are, perhaps, a little less to be\nwondered at. They are brought more within my comprehension. \n\n I understand you. You do not suppose that I have ever felt much. For\nfour months, Marianne, I have had all this hanging on my mind, without\nbeing at liberty to speak of it to a single creature; knowing that it\nwould make you and my mother most unhappy whenever it were explained to\nyou, yet unable to prepare you for it in the least. It was told me, it\nwas in a manner forced on me by the very person herself, whose prior\nengagement ruined all my prospects; and told me, as I thought, with\ntriumph. This person s suspicions, therefore, I have had to oppose, by\nendeavouring to appear indifferent where I have been most deeply\ninterested; and it has not been only once; I have had her hopes and\nexultation to listen to again and again. I have known myself to be\ndivided from Edward for ever, without hearing one circumstance that\ncould make me less desire the connection. Nothing has proved him\nunworthy; nor has anything declared him indifferent to me.  I have had\nto contend against the unkindness of his sister, and the insolence of\nhis mother; and have suffered the punishment of an attachment, without\nenjoying its advantages. And all this has been going on at a time,\nwhen, as you know too well, it has not been my only unhappiness. If you\ncan think me capable of ever feeling, surely you may suppose that I\nhave suffered _now_. The composure of mind with which I have brought\nmyself at present to consider the matter, the consolation that I have\nbeen willing to admit, have been the effect of constant and painful\nexertion; they did not spring up of themselves; they did not occur to\nrelieve my spirits at first. No, Marianne. _Then_, if I had not been\nbound to silence, perhaps nothing could have kept me entirely not even\nwhat I owed to my dearest friends from openly showing that I was _very_\nunhappy. \n\nMarianne was quite subdued.\n\n Oh! Elinor,  she cried,  you have made me hate myself for ever. How\nbarbarous have I been to you! you, who have been my only comfort, who\nhave borne with me in all my misery, who have seemed to be only\nsuffering for me! Is this my gratitude? Is this the only return I can\nmake you? Because your merit cries out upon myself, I have been trying\nto do it away. \n\nThe tenderest caresses followed this confession. In such a frame of\nmind as she was now in, Elinor had no difficulty in obtaining from her\nwhatever promise she required; and at her request, Marianne engaged\nnever to speak of the affair to any one with the least appearance of\nbitterness; to meet Lucy without betraying the smallest increase of\ndislike to her; and even to see Edward himself, if chance should bring\nthem together, without any diminution of her usual cordiality. These\nwere great concessions; but where Marianne felt that she had injured,\nno reparation could be too much for her to make.\n\nShe performed her promise of being discreet, to admiration. She\nattended to all that Mrs. Jennings had to say upon the subject, with an\nunchanging complexion, dissented from her in nothing, and was heard\nthree times to say,  Yes, ma am. She listened to her praise of Lucy\nwith only moving from one chair to another, and when Mrs. Jennings\ntalked of Edward s affection, it cost her only a spasm in her\nthroat. Such advances towards heroism in her sister, made Elinor feel\nequal to any thing herself.\n\nThe next morning brought a farther trial of it, in a visit from their\nbrother, who came with a most serious aspect to talk over the dreadful\naffair, and bring them news of his wife.\n\n You have heard, I suppose,  said he with great solemnity, as soon as\nhe was seated,  of the very shocking discovery that took place under\nour roof yesterday. \n\nThey all looked their assent; it seemed too awful a moment for speech.\n\n Your sister,  he continued,  has suffered dreadfully. Mrs. Ferrars\ntoo in short it has been a scene of such complicated distress but I\nwill hope that the storm may be weathered without our being any of us\nquite overcome. Poor Fanny! she was in hysterics all yesterday. But I\nwould not alarm you too much. Donavan says there is nothing materially\nto be apprehended; her constitution is a good one, and her resolution\nequal to any thing. She has borne it all, with the fortitude of an\nangel! She says she never shall think well of anybody again; and one\ncannot wonder at it, after being so deceived! meeting with such\ningratitude, where so much kindness had been shown, so much confidence\nhad been placed! It was quite out of the benevolence of her heart, that\nshe had asked these young women to her house; merely because she\nthought they deserved some attention, were harmless, well-behaved\ngirls, and would be pleasant companions; for otherwise we both wished\nvery much to have invited you and Marianne to be with us, while your\nkind friend there, was attending her daughter. And now to be so\nrewarded!  I wish, with all my heart,  says poor Fanny in her\naffectionate way,  that we had asked your sisters instead of them. \n\nHere he stopped to be thanked; which being done, he went on.\n\n What poor Mrs. Ferrars suffered, when first Fanny broke it to her, is\nnot to be described. While she with the truest affection had been\nplanning a most eligible connection for him, was it to be supposed that\nhe could be all the time secretly engaged to another person! such a\nsuspicion could never have entered her head! If she suspected _any_\nprepossession elsewhere, it could not be in _that_ quarter.  _There_,\nto be sure,  said she,  I might have thought myself safe.  She was\nquite in an agony. We consulted together, however, as to what should be\ndone, and at last she determined to send for Edward. He came. But I am\nsorry to relate what ensued. All that Mrs. Ferrars could say to make\nhim put an end to the engagement, assisted too as you may well suppose\nby my arguments, and Fanny s entreaties, was of no avail. Duty,\naffection, every thing was disregarded. I never thought Edward so\nstubborn, so unfeeling before. His mother explained to him her liberal\ndesigns, in case of his marrying Miss Morton; told him she would settle\non him the Norfolk estate, which, clear of land-tax, brings in a good\nthousand a-year; offered even, when matters grew desperate, to make it\ntwelve hundred; and in opposition to this, if he still persisted in\nthis low connection, represented to him the certain penury that must\nattend the match. His own two thousand pounds she protested should be\nhis all; she would never see him again; and so far would she be from\naffording him the smallest assistance, that if he were to enter into\nany profession with a view of better support, she would do all in her\npower to prevent him advancing in it. \n\nHere Marianne, in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped her hands\ntogether, and cried,  Gracious God! can this be possible! \n\n Well may you wonder, Marianne,  replied her brother,  at the obstinacy\nwhich could resist such arguments as these. Your exclamation is very\nnatural. \n\nMarianne was going to retort, but she remembered her promises, and\nforbore.\n\n All this, however,  he continued,  was urged in vain. Edward said very\nlittle; but what he did say, was in the most determined manner. Nothing\nshould prevail on him to give up his engagement. He would stand to it,\ncost him what it might. \n\n Then,  cried Mrs. Jennings with blunt sincerity, no longer able to be\nsilent,  he has acted like an honest man! I beg your pardon, Mr.\nDashwood, but if he had done otherwise, I should have thought him a\nrascal. I have some little concern in the business, as well as\nyourself, for Lucy Steele is my cousin, and I believe there is not a\nbetter kind of girl in the world, nor one who more deserves a good\nhusband. \n\nJohn Dashwood was greatly astonished; but his nature was calm, not open\nto provocation, and he never wished to offend anybody, especially\nanybody of good fortune. He therefore replied, without any resentment,\n\n I would by no means speak disrespectfully of any relation of yours,\nmadam. Miss Lucy Steele is, I dare say, a very deserving young woman,\nbut in the present case you know, the connection must be impossible.\nAnd to have entered into a secret engagement with a young man under her\nuncle s care, the son of a woman especially of such very large fortune\nas Mrs. Ferrars, is perhaps, altogether a little extraordinary. In\nshort, I do not mean to reflect upon the behaviour of any person whom\nyou have a regard for, Mrs. Jennings. We all wish her extremely happy;\nand Mrs. Ferrars s conduct throughout the whole, has been such as every\nconscientious, good mother, in like circumstances, would adopt. It has\nbeen dignified and liberal. Edward has drawn his own lot, and I fear it\nwill be a bad one. \n\nMarianne sighed out her similar apprehension; and Elinor s heart wrung\nfor the feelings of Edward, while braving his mother s threats, for a\nwoman who could not reward him.\n\n Well, sir,  said Mrs. Jennings,  and how did it end? \n\n I am sorry to say, ma am, in a most unhappy rupture: Edward is\ndismissed for ever from his mother s notice. He left her house\nyesterday, but where he is gone, or whether he is still in town, I do\nnot know; for _we_ of course can make no inquiry. \n\n Poor young man! and what is to become of him? \n\n What, indeed, ma am! It is a melancholy consideration. Born to the\nprospect of such affluence! I cannot conceive a situation more\ndeplorable. The interest of two thousand pounds how can a man live on\nit? and when to that is added the recollection, that he might, but for\nhis own folly, within three months have been in the receipt of two\nthousand, five hundred a-year (for Miss Morton has thirty thousand\npounds,) I cannot picture to myself a more wretched condition. We must\nall feel for him; and the more so, because it is totally out of our\npower to assist him. \n\n Poor young man!  cried Mrs. Jennings,  I am sure he should be very\nwelcome to bed and board at my house; and so I would tell him if I\ncould see him. It is not fit that he should be living about at his own\ncharge now, at lodgings and taverns. \n\nElinor s heart thanked her for such kindness towards Edward, though she\ncould not forbear smiling at the form of it.\n\n If he would only have done as well by himself,  said John Dashwood,\n as all his friends were disposed to do by him, he might now have been\nin his proper situation, and would have wanted for nothing. But as it\nis, it must be out of anybody s power to assist him. And there is one\nthing more preparing against him, which must be worse than all his\nmother has determined, with a very natural kind of spirit, to settle\n_that_ estate upon Robert immediately, which might have been Edward s,\non proper conditions. I left her this morning with her lawyer, talking\nover the business. \n\n Well!  said Mrs. Jennings,  that is _her_ revenge. Everybody has a way\nof their own. But I don t think mine would be, to make one son\nindependent, because another had plagued me. \n\nMarianne got up and walked about the room.\n\n Can anything be more galling to the spirit of a man,  continued John,\n than to see his younger brother in possession of an estate which might\nhave been his own? Poor Edward! I feel for him sincerely. \n\nA few minutes more spent in the same kind of effusion, concluded his\nvisit; and with repeated assurances to his sisters that he really\nbelieved there was no material danger in Fanny s indisposition, and\nthat they need not therefore be very uneasy about it, he went away;\nleaving the three ladies unanimous in their sentiments on the present\noccasion, as far at least as it regarded Mrs. Ferrars s conduct, the\nDashwoods , and Edward s.\n\nMarianne s indignation burst forth as soon as he quitted the room; and\nas her vehemence made reserve impossible in Elinor, and unnecessary in\nMrs. Jennings, they all joined in a very spirited critique upon the\nparty.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVIII.\n\n\nMrs. Jennings was very warm in her praise of Edward s conduct, but only\nElinor and Marianne understood its true merit. _They_ only knew how\nlittle he had had to tempt him to be disobedient, and how small was the\nconsolation, beyond the consciousness of doing right, that could remain\nto him in the loss of friends and fortune. Elinor gloried in his\nintegrity; and Marianne forgave all his offences in compassion for his\npunishment. But though confidence between them was, by this public\ndiscovery, restored to its proper state, it was not a subject on which\neither of them were fond of dwelling when alone. Elinor avoided it upon\nprinciple, as tending to fix still more upon her thoughts, by the too\nwarm, too positive assurances of Marianne, that belief of Edward s\ncontinued affection for herself which she rather wished to do away; and\nMarianne s courage soon failed her, in trying to converse upon a topic\nwhich always left her more dissatisfied with herself than ever, by the\ncomparison it necessarily produced between Elinor s conduct and her\nown.\n\nShe felt all the force of that comparison; but not as her sister had\nhoped, to urge her to exertion now; she felt it with all the pain of\ncontinual self-reproach, regretted most bitterly that she had never\nexerted herself before; but it brought only the torture of penitence,\nwithout the hope of amendment. Her mind was so much weakened that she\nstill fancied present exertion impossible, and therefore it only\ndispirited her more.\n\nNothing new was heard by them, for a day or two afterwards, of affairs\nin Harley Street, or Bartlett s Buildings. But though so much of the\nmatter was known to them already, that Mrs. Jennings might have had\nenough to do in spreading that knowledge farther, without seeking after\nmore, she had resolved from the first to pay a visit of comfort and\ninquiry to her cousins as soon as she could; and nothing but the\nhindrance of more visitors than usual, had prevented her going to them\nwithin that time.\n\nThe third day succeeding their knowledge of the particulars, was so\nfine, so beautiful a Sunday as to draw many to Kensington Gardens,\nthough it was only the second week in March. Mrs. Jennings and Elinor\nwere of the number; but Marianne, who knew that the Willoughbys were\nagain in town, and had a constant dread of meeting them, chose rather\nto stay at home, than venture into so public a place.\n\nAn intimate acquaintance of Mrs. Jennings joined them soon after they\nentered the Gardens, and Elinor was not sorry that by her continuing\nwith them, and engaging all Mrs. Jennings s conversation, she was\nherself left to quiet reflection. She saw nothing of the Willoughbys,\nnothing of Edward, and for some time nothing of anybody who could by\nany chance whether grave or gay, be interesting to her. But at last she\nfound herself with some surprise, accosted by Miss Steele, who, though\nlooking rather shy, expressed great satisfaction in meeting them, and\non receiving encouragement from the particular kindness of Mrs.\nJennings, left her own party for a short time, to join their s. Mrs.\nJennings immediately whispered to Elinor,\n\n Get it all out of her, my dear. She will tell you any thing if you\nask. You see I cannot leave Mrs. Clarke. \n\nIt was lucky, however, for Mrs. Jennings s curiosity and Elinor s too,\nthat she would tell any thing _without_ being asked; for nothing would\notherwise have been learnt.\n\n I am so glad to meet you;  said Miss Steele, taking her familiarly by\nthe arm for I wanted to see you of all things in the world.  And then\nlowering her voice,  I suppose Mrs. Jennings has heard all about it. Is\nshe angry? \n\n Not at all, I believe, with you. \n\n That is a good thing. And Lady Middleton, is _she_ angry? \n\n I cannot suppose it possible that she should be. \n\n I am monstrous glad of it. Good gracious! I have had such a time of\nit! I never saw Lucy in such a rage in my life. She vowed at first she\nwould never trim me up a new bonnet, nor do any thing else for me\nagain, so long as she lived; but now she is quite come to, and we are\nas good friends as ever. Look, she made me this bow to my hat, and put\nin the feather last night. There now, _you_ are going to laugh at me\ntoo. But why should not I wear pink ribbons? I do not care if it _is_\nthe Doctor s favourite colour. I am sure, for my part, I should never\nhave known he _did_ like it better than any other colour, if he had not\nhappened to say so. My cousins have been so plaguing me! I declare\nsometimes I do not know which way to look before them. \n\nShe had wandered away to a subject on which Elinor had nothing to say,\nand therefore soon judged it expedient to find her way back again to\nthe first.\n\n Well, but Miss Dashwood,  speaking triumphantly,  people may say what\nthey chuse about Mr. Ferrars s declaring he would not have Lucy, for it\nis no such thing I can tell you; and it is quite a shame for such\nill-natured reports to be spread abroad. Whatever Lucy might think\nabout it herself, you know, it was no business of other people to set\nit down for certain. \n\n I never heard any thing of the kind hinted at before, I assure you, \nsaid Elinor.\n\n Oh, did not you? But it _was_ said, I know, very well, and by more\nthan one; for Miss Godby told Miss Sparks, that nobody in their senses\ncould expect Mr. Ferrars to give up a woman like Miss Morton, with\nthirty thousand pounds to her fortune, for Lucy Steele that had nothing\nat all; and I had it from Miss Sparks myself. And besides that, my\ncousin Richard said himself, that when it came to the point he was\nafraid Mr. Ferrars would be off; and when Edward did not come near us\nfor three days, I could not tell what to think myself; and I believe in\nmy heart Lucy gave it up all for lost; for we came away from your\nbrother s Wednesday, and we saw nothing of him not all Thursday,\nFriday, and Saturday, and did not know what was become of him. Once\nLucy thought to write to him, but then her spirits rose against that.\nHowever this morning he came just as we came home from church; and then\nit all came out, how he had been sent for Wednesday to Harley Street,\nand been talked to by his mother and all of them, and how he had\ndeclared before them all that he loved nobody but Lucy, and nobody but\nLucy would he have. And how he had been so worried by what passed, that\nas soon as he had went away from his mother s house, he had got upon\nhis horse, and rid into the country, some where or other; and how he\nhad stayed about at an inn all Thursday and Friday, on purpose to get\nthe better of it. And after thinking it all over and over again, he\nsaid, it seemed to him as if, now he had no fortune, and no nothing at\nall, it would be quite unkind to keep her on to the engagement, because\nit must be for her loss, for he had nothing but two thousand pounds,\nand no hope of any thing else; and if he was to go into orders, as he\nhad some thoughts, he could get nothing but a curacy, and how was they\nto live upon that? He could not bear to think of her doing no better,\nand so he begged, if she had the least mind for it, to put an end to\nthe matter directly, and leave him shift for himself. I heard him say\nall this as plain as could possibly be. And it was entirely for _her_\nsake, and upon _her_ account, that he said a word about being off, and\nnot upon his own. I will take my oath he never dropt a syllable of\nbeing tired of her, or of wishing to marry Miss Morton, or any thing\nlike it. But, to be sure, Lucy would not give ear to such kind of\ntalking; so she told him directly (with a great deal about sweet and\nlove, you know, and all that Oh, la! one can t repeat such kind of\nthings you know) she told him directly, she had not the least mind in\nthe world to be off, for she could live with him upon a trifle, and how\nlittle so ever he might have, she should be very glad to have it all,\nyou know, or something of the kind. So then he was monstrous happy, and\ntalked on some time about what they should do, and they agreed he\nshould take orders directly, and they must wait to be married till he\ngot a living. And just then I could not hear any more, for my cousin\ncalled from below to tell me Mrs. Richardson was come in her coach, and\nwould take one of us to Kensington Gardens; so I was forced to go into\nthe room and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if she would like to go, but\nshe did not care to leave Edward; so I just run up stairs and put on a\npair of silk stockings and came off with the Richardsons. \n\n I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them,  said Elinor;\n you were all in the same room together, were not you? \n\n No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love\nwhen any body else is by? Oh, for shame! To be sure you must know\nbetter than that. (Laughing affectedly.) No, no; they were shut up in\nthe drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at the\ndoor. \n\n How!  cried Elinor;  have you been repeating to me what you only\nlearnt yourself by listening at the door? I am sorry I did not know it\nbefore; for I certainly would not have suffered you to give me\nparticulars of a conversation which you ought not to have known\nyourself. How could you behave so unfairly by your sister? \n\n Oh, la! there is nothing in _that_. I only stood at the door, and\nheard what I could. And I am sure Lucy would have done just the same by\nme; for a year or two back, when Martha Sharpe and I had so many\nsecrets together, she never made any bones of hiding in a closet, or\nbehind a chimney-board, on purpose to hear what we said. \n\nElinor tried to talk of something else; but Miss Steele could not be\nkept beyond a couple of minutes, from what was uppermost in her mind.\n\n Edward talks of going to Oxford soon,  said she;  but now he is\nlodging at No. , Pall Mall. What an ill-natured woman his mother is,\nan t she? And your brother and sister were not very kind! However, I\nshan t say anything against them to _you;_ and to be sure they did send\nus home in their own chariot, which was more than I looked for. And for\nmy part, I was all in a fright for fear your sister should ask us for\nthe huswifes she had gave us a day or two before; but, however, nothing\nwas said about them, and I took care to keep mine out of sight. Edward\nhave got some business at Oxford, he says; so he must go there for a\ntime; and after _that_, as soon as he can light upon a Bishop, he will\nbe ordained. I wonder what curacy he will get! Good gracious! (giggling\nas she spoke) I d lay my life I know what my cousins will say, when\nthey hear of it. They will tell me I should write to the Doctor, to get\nEdward the curacy of his new living. I know they will; but I am sure I\nwould not do such a thing for all the world.  La!  I shall say\ndirectly,  I wonder how you could think of such a thing? _I_ write to\nthe Doctor, indeed! \n\n Well,  said Elinor,  it is a comfort to be prepared against the worst.\nYou have got your answer ready. \n\nMiss Steele was going to reply on the same subject, but the approach of\nher own party made another more necessary.\n\n Oh, la! here come the Richardsons. I had a vast deal more to say to\nyou, but I must not stay away from them not any longer. I assure you\nthey are very genteel people. He makes a monstrous deal of money, and\nthey keep their own coach. I have not time to speak to Mrs. Jennings\nabout it myself, but pray tell her I am quite happy to hear she is not\nin anger against us, and Lady Middleton the same; and if anything\nshould happen to take you and your sister away, and Mrs. Jennings\nshould want company, I am sure we should be very glad to come and stay\nwith her for as long a time as she likes. I suppose Lady Middleton\nwon t ask us any more this bout. Good-by; I am sorry Miss Marianne was\nnot here. Remember me kindly to her. La! if you have not got your\nspotted muslin on! I wonder you was not afraid of its being torn. \n\nSuch was her parting concern; for after this, she had time only to pay\nher farewell compliments to Mrs. Jennings, before her company was\nclaimed by Mrs. Richardson; and Elinor was left in possession of\nknowledge which might feed her powers of reflection some time, though\nshe had learnt very little more than what had been already foreseen and\nforeplanned in her own mind. Edward s marriage with Lucy was as firmly\ndetermined on, and the time of its taking place remained as absolutely\nuncertain, as she had concluded it would be; every thing depended,\nexactly after her expectation, on his getting that preferment, of\nwhich, at present, there seemed not the smallest chance.\n\nAs soon as they returned to the carriage, Mrs. Jennings was eager for\ninformation; but as Elinor wished to spread as little as possible\nintelligence that had in the first place been so unfairly obtained, she\nconfined herself to the brief repetition of such simple particulars, as\nshe felt assured that Lucy, for the sake of her own consequence, would\nchoose to have known. The continuance of their engagement, and the\nmeans that were able to be taken for promoting its end, was all her\ncommunication; and this produced from Mrs. Jennings the following\nnatural remark.\n\n Wait for his having a living! ay, we all know how _that_ will\nend: they will wait a twelvemonth, and finding no good comes of it,\nwill set down upon a curacy of fifty pounds a-year, with the interest\nof his two thousand pounds, and what little matter Mr. Steele and Mr.\nPratt can give her. Then they will have a child every year! and Lord\nhelp  em! how poor they will be! I must see what I can give them\ntowards furnishing their house. Two maids and two men, indeed! as I\ntalked of t  other day. No, no, they must get a stout girl of all\nworks. Betty s sister would never do for them _now_. \n\nThe next morning brought Elinor a letter by the two-penny post from\nLucy herself. It was as follows:\n\n Bartlett s Building, March.\n\n\n I hope my dear Miss Dashwood will excuse the liberty I take of writing\nto her; but I know your friendship for me will make you pleased to hear\nsuch a good account of myself and my dear Edward, after all the\ntroubles we have went through lately, therefore will make no more\napologies, but proceed to say that, thank God! though we have suffered\ndreadfully, we are both quite well now, and as happy as we must always\nbe in one another s love. We have had great trials, and great\npersecutions, but however, at the same time, gratefully acknowledge\nmany friends, yourself not the least among them, whose great kindness I\nshall always thankfully remember, as will Edward too, who I have told\nof it. I am sure you will be glad to hear, as likewise dear Mrs.\nJennings, I spent two happy hours with him yesterday afternoon, he\nwould not hear of our parting, though earnestly did I, as I thought my\nduty required, urge him to it for prudence sake, and would have parted\nfor ever on the spot, would he consent to it; but he said it should\nnever be, he did not regard his mother s anger, while he could have my\naffections; our prospects are not very bright, to be sure, but we must\nwait, and hope for the best; he will be ordained shortly; and should it\never be in your power to recommend him to any body that has a living to\nbestow, am very sure you will not forget us, and dear Mrs. Jennings\ntoo, trust she will speak a good word for us to Sir John, or Mr.\nPalmer, or any friend that may be able to assist us. Poor Anne was much\nto blame for what she did, but she did it for the best, so I say\nnothing; hope Mrs. Jennings won t think it too much trouble to give us\na call, should she come this way any morning,  twould be a great\nkindness, and my cousins would be proud to know her. My paper reminds\nme to conclude; and begging to be most gratefully and respectfully\nremembered to her, and to Sir John, and Lady Middleton, and the dear\nchildren, when you chance to see them, and love to Miss Marianne,\n\n\n I am, &c. \n\n\nAs soon as Elinor had finished it, she performed what she concluded to\nbe its writer s real design, by placing it in the hands of Mrs.\nJennings, who read it aloud with many comments of satisfaction and\npraise.\n\n Very well indeed! how prettily she writes! aye, that was quite proper\nto let him be off if he would. That was just like Lucy. Poor soul! I\nwish I _could_ get him a living, with all my heart. She calls me dear\nMrs. Jennings, you see. She is a good-hearted girl as ever lived. Very\nwell upon my word. That sentence is very prettily turned. Yes, yes, I\nwill go and see her, sure enough. How attentive she is, to think of\nevery body! Thank you, my dear, for showing it me. It is as pretty a\nletter as ever I saw, and does Lucy s head and heart great credit. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIX.\n\n\nThe Miss Dashwoods had now been rather more than two months in town,\nand Marianne s impatience to be gone increased every day. She sighed\nfor the air, the liberty, the quiet of the country; and fancied that if\nany place could give her ease, Barton must do it. Elinor was hardly\nless anxious than herself for their removal, and only so much less bent\non its being effected immediately, as that she was conscious of the\ndifficulties of so long a journey, which Marianne could not be brought\nto acknowledge. She began, however, seriously to turn her thoughts\ntowards its accomplishment, and had already mentioned their wishes to\ntheir kind hostess, who resisted them with all the eloquence of her\ngood-will, when a plan was suggested, which, though detaining them from\nhome yet a few weeks longer, appeared to Elinor altogether much more\neligible than any other. The Palmers were to remove to Cleveland about\nthe end of March, for the Easter holidays; and Mrs. Jennings, with both\nher friends, received a very warm invitation from Charlotte to go with\nthem. This would not, in itself, have been sufficient for the delicacy\nof Miss Dashwood; but it was inforced with so much real politeness by\nMr. Palmer himself, as, joined to the very great amendment of his\nmanners towards them since her sister had been known to be unhappy,\ninduced her to accept it with pleasure.\n\nWhen she told Marianne what she had done, however, her first reply was\nnot very auspicious.\n\n Cleveland! she cried, with great agitation.  No, I cannot go to\nCleveland. \n\n You forget,  said Elinor gently,  that its situation is not that it is\nnot in the neighbourhood of \n\n But it is in Somersetshire. I cannot go into Somersetshire. There,\nwhere I looked forward to going...No, Elinor, you cannot expect me to\ngo there. \n\nElinor would not argue upon the propriety of overcoming such\nfeelings; she only endeavoured to counteract them by working on\nothers; represented it, therefore, as a measure which would fix the\ntime of her returning to that dear mother, whom she so much wished to\nsee, in a more eligible, more comfortable manner, than any other plan\ncould do, and perhaps without any greater delay. From Cleveland, which\nwas within a few miles of Bristol, the distance to Barton was not\nbeyond one day, though a long day s journey; and their mother s servant\nmight easily come there to attend them down; and as there could be no\noccasion of their staying above a week at Cleveland, they might now be\nat home in little more than three weeks  time. As Marianne s affection\nfor her mother was sincere, it must triumph with little difficulty,\nover the imaginary evils she had started.\n\nMrs. Jennings was so far from being weary of her guests, that she\npressed them very earnestly to return with her again from Cleveland.\nElinor was grateful for the attention, but it could not alter her\ndesign; and their mother s concurrence being readily gained, every\nthing relative to their return was arranged as far as it could be; and\nMarianne found some relief in drawing up a statement of the hours that\nwere yet to divide her from Barton.\n\n Ah! Colonel, I do not know what you and I shall do without the Miss\nDashwoods; was Mrs. Jennings s address to him when he first called on\nher, after their leaving her was settled for they are quite resolved\nupon going home from the Palmers; and how forlorn we shall be, when I\ncome back! Lord! we shall sit and gape at one another as dull as two\ncats. \n\nPerhaps Mrs. Jennings was in hopes, by this vigorous sketch of their\nfuture ennui, to provoke him to make that offer, which might give\nhimself an escape from it; and if so, she had soon afterwards good\nreason to think her object gained; for, on Elinor s moving to the\nwindow to take more expeditiously the dimensions of a print, which she\nwas going to copy for her friend, he followed her to it with a look of\nparticular meaning, and conversed with her there for several minutes.\nThe effect of his discourse on the lady too, could not escape her\nobservation, for though she was too honorable to listen, and had even\nchanged her seat, on purpose that she might _not_ hear, to one close by\nthe piano forte on which Marianne was playing, she could not keep\nherself from seeing that Elinor changed colour, attended with\nagitation, and was too intent on what he said to pursue her employment.\nStill farther in confirmation of her hopes, in the interval of\nMarianne s turning from one lesson to another, some words of the\nColonel s inevitably reached her ear, in which he seemed to be\napologising for the badness of his house. This set the matter beyond a\ndoubt. She wondered, indeed, at his thinking it necessary to do so; but\nsupposed it to be the proper etiquette. What Elinor said in reply she\ncould not distinguish, but judged from the motion of her lips, that she\ndid not think _that_ any material objection; and Mrs. Jennings\ncommended her in her heart for being so honest. They then talked on for\na few minutes longer without her catching a syllable, when another\nlucky stop in Marianne s performance brought her these words in the\nColonel s calm voice, \n\n I am afraid it cannot take place very soon. \n\nAstonished and shocked at so unlover-like a speech, she was almost\nready to cry out,  Lord! what should hinder it? but checking her\ndesire, confined herself to this silent ejaculation.\n\n This is very strange! sure he need not wait to be older. \n\nThis delay on the Colonel s side, however, did not seem to offend or\nmortify his fair companion in the least, for on their breaking up the\nconference soon afterwards, and moving different ways, Mrs. Jennings\nvery plainly heard Elinor say, and with a voice which showed her to\nfeel what she said,\n\n I shall always think myself very much obliged to you. \n\nMrs. Jennings was delighted with her gratitude, and only wondered that\nafter hearing such a sentence, the Colonel should be able to take leave\nof them, as he immediately did, with the utmost _sang-froid_, and go\naway without making her any reply! She had not thought her old friend\ncould have made so indifferent a suitor.\n\nWhat had really passed between them was to this effect.\n\n I have heard,  said he, with great compassion,  of the injustice your\nfriend Mr. Ferrars has suffered from his family; for if I understand\nthe matter right, he has been entirely cast off by them for persevering\nin his engagement with a very deserving young woman. Have I been\nrightly informed? Is it so?; \n\nElinor told him that it was.\n\n The cruelty, the impolitic cruelty,  he replied, with great feeling,\n of dividing, or attempting to divide, two young people long attached\nto each other, is terrible. Mrs. Ferrars does not know what she may be\ndoing what she may drive her son to. I have seen Mr. Ferrars two or\nthree times in Harley Street, and am much pleased with him. He is not a\nyoung man with whom one can be intimately acquainted in a short time,\nbut I have seen enough of him to wish him well for his own sake, and as\na friend of yours, I wish it still more. I understand that he intends\nto take orders. Will you be so good as to tell him that the living of\nDelaford, now just vacant, as I am informed by this day s post, is his,\nif he think it worth his acceptance; but _that_, perhaps, so\nunfortunately circumstanced as he is now, it may be nonsense to appear\nto doubt; I only wish it were more valuable. It is a rectory, but a\nsmall one; the late incumbent, I believe, did not make more than 200 \nper annum, and though it is certainly capable of improvement, I fear,\nnot to such an amount as to afford him a very comfortable income. Such\nas it is, however, my pleasure in presenting it to him, will be very\ngreat. Pray assure him of it. \n\nElinor s astonishment at this commission could hardly have been\ngreater, had the Colonel been really making her an offer of his hand.\nThe preferment, which only two days before she had considered as\nhopeless for Edward, was already provided to enable him to marry; and\n_she_, of all people in the world, was fixed on to bestow it! Her\nemotion was such as Mrs. Jennings had attributed to a very different\ncause; but whatever minor feelings less pure, less pleasing, might have\na share in that emotion, her esteem for the general benevolence, and\nher gratitude for the particular friendship, which together prompted\nColonel Brandon to this act, were strongly felt, and warmly expressed.\nShe thanked him for it with all her heart, spoke of Edward s principles\nand disposition with that praise which she knew them to deserve; and\npromised to undertake the commission with pleasure, if it were really\nhis wish to put off so agreeable an office to another. But at the same\ntime, she could not help thinking that no one could so well perform it\nas himself. It was an office in short, from which, unwilling to give\nEdward the pain of receiving an obligation from _her_, she would have\nbeen very glad to be spared herself; but Colonel Brandon, on motives of\nequal delicacy, declining it likewise, still seemed so desirous of its\nbeing given through her means, that she would not on any account make\nfarther opposition. Edward, she believed, was still in town, and\nfortunately she had heard his address from Miss Steele. She could\nundertake therefore to inform him of it, in the course of the day.\nAfter this had been settled, Colonel Brandon began to talk of his own\nadvantage in securing so respectable and agreeable a neighbour, and\n_then_ it was that he mentioned with regret, that the house was small\nand indifferent; an evil which Elinor, as Mrs. Jennings had supposed\nher to do, made very light of, at least as far as regarded its size.\n\n The smallness of the house,  said she,  I cannot imagine any\ninconvenience to them, for it will be in proportion to their family and\nincome. \n\nBy which the Colonel was surprised to find that _she_ was considering\nMr. Ferrars s marriage as the certain consequence of the presentation;\nfor he did not suppose it possible that Delaford living could supply\nsuch an income, as anybody in his style of life would venture to settle\non, and he said so.\n\n This little rectory _can_ do no more than make Mr. Ferrars comfortable\nas a bachelor; it cannot enable him to marry. I am sorry to say that my\npatronage ends with this; and my interest is hardly more extensive. If,\nhowever, by an unforeseen chance it should be in my power to serve him\nfarther, I must think very differently of him from what I now do, if I\nam not as ready to be useful to him then as I sincerely wish I could be\nat present. What I am now doing indeed, seems nothing at all, since it\ncan advance him so little towards what must be his principal, his only\nobject of happiness. His marriage must still be a distant good; at\nleast, I am afraid it cannot take place very soon. \n\nSuch was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the\ndelicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of what\nreally passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at\nthe window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may\nperhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less\nproperly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XL.\n\n\n Well, Miss Dashwood,  said Mrs. Jennings, sagaciously smiling, as soon\nas the gentleman had withdrawn,  I do not ask you what the Colonel has\nbeen saying to you; for though, upon my honour, I _tried_ to keep out\nof hearing, I could not help catching enough to understand his\nbusiness. And I assure you I never was better pleased in my life, and I\nwish you joy of it with all my heart. \n\n Thank you, ma am,  said Elinor.  It _is_ a matter of great joy to me;\nand I feel the goodness of Colonel Brandon most sensibly. There are not\nmany men who would act as he has done. Few people who have so\ncompassionate a heart! I never was more astonished in my life. \n\n Lord! my dear, you are very modest. I an t the least astonished at it\nin the world, for I have often thought of late, there was nothing more\nlikely to happen. \n\n You judged from your knowledge of the Colonel s general benevolence;\nbut at least you could not foresee that the opportunity would so very\nsoon occur. \n\n Opportunity!  repeated Mrs. Jennings Oh! as to that, when a man has\nonce made up his mind to such a thing, somehow or other he will soon\nfind an opportunity. Well, my dear, I wish you joy of it again and\nagain; and if ever there was a happy couple in the world, I think I\nshall soon know where to look for them. \n\n You mean to go to Delaford after them I suppose,  said Elinor, with a\nfaint smile.\n\n Aye, my dear, that I do, indeed. And as to the house being a bad one,\nI do not know what the Colonel would be at, for it is as good a one as\never I saw. \n\n He spoke of its being out of repair. \n\n Well, and whose fault is that? why don t he repair it? who should do\nit but himself? \n\nThey were interrupted by the servant s coming in to announce the\ncarriage being at the door; and Mrs. Jennings immediately preparing to\ngo, said, \n\n Well, my dear, I must be gone before I have had half my talk out. But,\nhowever, we may have it all over in the evening; for we shall be quite\nalone. I do not ask you to go with me, for I dare say your mind is too\nfull of the matter to care for company; and besides, you must long to\ntell your sister all about it. \n\nMarianne had left the room before the conversation began.\n\n Certainly, ma am, I shall tell Marianne of it; but I shall not mention\nit at present to any body else. \n\n Oh! very well,  said Mrs. Jennings rather disappointed.  Then you\nwould not have me tell it to Lucy, for I think of going as far as\nHolborn to-day. \n\n No, ma am, not even Lucy if you please. One day s delay will not be\nvery material; and till I have written to Mr. Ferrars, I think it ought\nnot to be mentioned to any body else. I shall do _that_ directly. It is\nof importance that no time should be lost with him, for he will of\ncourse have much to do relative to his ordination. \n\nThis speech at first puzzled Mrs. Jennings exceedingly. Why Mr. Ferrars\nwas to have been written to about it in such a hurry, she could not\nimmediately comprehend. A few moments  reflection, however, produced a\nvery happy idea, and she exclaimed; \n\n Oh, ho! I understand you. Mr. Ferrars is to be the man. Well, so much\nthe better for him. Ay, to be sure, he must be ordained in readiness;\nand I am very glad to find things are so forward between you. But, my\ndear, is not this rather out of character? Should not the Colonel write\nhimself? sure, he is the proper person. \n\nElinor did not quite understand the beginning of Mrs. Jennings s\nspeech, neither did she think it worth inquiring into; and therefore\nonly replied to its conclusion.\n\n Colonel Brandon is so delicate a man, that he rather wished any one to\nannounce his intentions to Mr. Ferrars than himself. \n\n And so _you_ are forced to do it. Well _that_ is an odd kind of\ndelicacy! However, I will not disturb you (seeing her preparing to\nwrite.) You know your own concerns best. So goodby, my dear. I have not\nheard of any thing to please me so well since Charlotte was brought to\nbed. \n\nAnd away she went; but returning again in a moment,\n\n I have just been thinking of Betty s sister, my dear. I should be very\nglad to get her so good a mistress. But whether she would do for a\nlady s maid, I am sure I can t tell. She is an excellent housemaid, and\nworks very well at her needle. However, you will think of all that at\nyour leisure. \n\n Certainly, ma am,  replied Elinor, not hearing much of what she said,\nand more anxious to be alone, than to be mistress of the subject.\n\nHow she should begin how she should express herself in her note to\nEdward, was now all her concern. The particular circumstances between\nthem made a difficulty of that which to any other person would have\nbeen the easiest thing in the world; but she equally feared to say too\nmuch or too little, and sat deliberating over her paper, with the pen\nin her hand, till broken in on by the entrance of Edward himself.\n\nHe had met Mrs. Jennings at the door in her way to the carriage, as he\ncame to leave his farewell card; and she, after apologising for not\nreturning herself, had obliged him to enter, by saying that Miss\nDashwood was above, and wanted to speak with him on very particular\nbusiness.\n\nElinor had just been congratulating herself, in the midst of her\nperplexity, that however difficult it might be to express herself\nproperly by letter, it was at least preferable to giving the\ninformation by word of mouth, when her visitor entered, to force her\nupon this greatest exertion of all. Her astonishment and confusion were\nvery great on his so sudden appearance. She had not seen him before\nsince his engagement became public, and therefore not since his knowing\nher to be acquainted with it; which, with the consciousness of what she\nhad been thinking of, and what she had to tell him, made her feel\nparticularly uncomfortable for some minutes. He too was much\ndistressed; and they sat down together in a most promising state of\nembarrassment. Whether he had asked her pardon for his intrusion on\nfirst coming into the room, he could not recollect; but determining to\nbe on the safe side, he made his apology in form as soon as he could\nsay any thing, after taking a chair.\n\n Mrs. Jennings told me,  said he,  that you wished to speak with me, at\nleast I understood her so or I certainly should not have intruded on\nyou in such a manner; though at the same time, I should have been\nextremely sorry to leave London without seeing you and your sister;\nespecially as it will most likely be some time it is not probable that\nI should soon have the pleasure of meeting you again. I go to Oxford\ntomorrow. \n\n You would not have gone, however,  said Elinor, recovering herself,\nand determined to get over what she so much dreaded as soon as\npossible,  without receiving our good wishes, even if we had not been\nable to give them in person. Mrs. Jennings was quite right in what she\nsaid. I have something of consequence to inform you of, which I was on\nthe point of communicating by paper. I am charged with a most agreeable\noffice (breathing rather faster than usual as she spoke.) Colonel\nBrandon, who was here only ten minutes ago, has desired me to say, that\nunderstanding you mean to take orders, he has great pleasure in\noffering you the living of Delaford now just vacant, and only wishes it\nwere more valuable. Allow me to congratulate you on having so\nrespectable and well-judging a friend, and to join in his wish that the\nliving it is about two hundred a-year were much more considerable, and\nsuch as might better enable you to as might be more than a temporary\naccommodation to yourself such, in short, as might establish all your\nviews of happiness. \n\nWhat Edward felt, as he could not say it himself, it cannot be expected\nthat any one else should say for him. He _looked_ all the astonishment\nwhich such unexpected, such unthought-of information could not fail of\nexciting; but he said only these two words, \n\n Colonel Brandon! \n\n Yes,  continued Elinor, gathering more resolution, as some of the\nworst was over,  Colonel Brandon means it as a testimony of his concern\nfor what has lately passed for the cruel situation in which the\nunjustifiable conduct of your family has placed you a concern which I\nam sure Marianne, myself, and all your friends, must share; and\nlikewise as a proof of his high esteem for your general character, and\nhis particular approbation of your behaviour on the present occasion. \n\n Colonel Brandon give _me_ a living! Can it be possible? \n\n The unkindness of your own relations has made you astonished to find\nfriendship any where. \n\n No,  replied he, with sudden consciousness,  not to find it in _you;_\nfor I cannot be ignorant that to you, to your goodness, I owe it all. I\nfeel it I would express it if I could but, as you well know, I am no\norator. \n\n You are very much mistaken. I do assure you that you owe it entirely,\nat least almost entirely, to your own merit, and Colonel Brandon s\ndiscernment of it. I have had no hand in it. I did not even know, till\nI understood his design, that the living was vacant; nor had it ever\noccurred to me that he might have had such a living in his gift. As a\nfriend of mine, of my family, he may, perhaps indeed I know he _has_,\nstill greater pleasure in bestowing it; but, upon my word, you owe\nnothing to my solicitation. \n\nTruth obliged her to acknowledge some small share in the action, but\nshe was at the same time so unwilling to appear as the benefactress of\nEdward, that she acknowledged it with hesitation; which probably\ncontributed to fix that suspicion in his mind which had recently\nentered it. For a short time he sat deep in thought, after Elinor had\nceased to speak; at last, and as if it were rather an effort, he said,\n\n Colonel Brandon seems a man of great worth and respectability. I have\nalways heard him spoken of as such, and your brother I know esteems him\nhighly. He is undoubtedly a sensible man, and in his manners perfectly\nthe gentleman. \n\n Indeed,  replied Elinor,  I believe that you will find him, on farther\nacquaintance, all that you have heard him to be, and as you will be\nsuch very near neighbours (for I understand the parsonage is almost\nclose to the mansion-house,) it is particularly important that he\n_should_ be all this. \n\nEdward made no answer; but when she had turned away her head, gave her\na look so serious, so earnest, so uncheerful, as seemed to say, that he\nmight hereafter wish the distance between the parsonage and the\nmansion-house much greater.\n\n Colonel Brandon, I think, lodges in St. James Street,  said he, soon\nafterwards, rising from his chair.\n\nElinor told him the number of the house.\n\n I must hurry away then, to give him those thanks which you will not\nallow me to give _you;_ to assure him that he has made me a very an\nexceedingly happy man. \n\nElinor did not offer to detain him; and they parted, with a very\nearnest assurance on _her_ side of her unceasing good wishes for his\nhappiness in every change of situation that might befall him; on _his_,\nwith rather an attempt to return the same good will, than the power of\nexpressing it.\n\n When I see him again,  said Elinor to herself, as the door shut him\nout,  I shall see him the husband of Lucy. \n\nAnd with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the\npast, recall the words and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of\nEdward; and, of course, to reflect on her own with discontent.\n\nWhen Mrs. Jennings came home, though she returned from seeing people\nwhom she had never seen before, and of whom therefore she must have a\ngreat deal to say, her mind was so much more occupied by the important\nsecret in her possession, than by anything else, that she reverted to\nit again as soon as Elinor appeared.\n\n Well, my dear,  she cried,  I sent you up the young man. Did not I do\nright? And I suppose you had no great difficulty You did not find him\nvery unwilling to accept your proposal? \n\n No, ma am; _that_ was not very likely. \n\n Well, and how soon will he be ready? For it seems all to depend upon\nthat. \n\n Really,  said Elinor,  I know so little of these kind of forms, that I\ncan hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation\nnecessary; but I suppose two or three months will complete his\nordination. \n\n Two or three months!  cried Mrs. Jennings;  Lord! my dear, how calmly\nyou talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three months! Lord\nbless me! I am sure it would put _me_ quite out of patience! And though\none would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferrars, I do think\nit is not worth while to wait two or three months for him. Sure\nsomebody else might be found that would do as well; somebody that is in\norders already. \n\n My dear ma am,  said Elinor,  what can you be thinking of? Why,\nColonel Brandon s only object is to be of use to Mr. Ferrars. \n\n Lord bless you, my dear! Sure you do not mean to persuade me that the\nColonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr.\nFerrars! \n\nThe deception could not continue after this; and an explanation\nimmediately took place, by which both gained considerable amusement for\nthe moment, without any material loss of happiness to either, for Mrs.\nJennings only exchanged one form of delight for another, and still\nwithout forfeiting her expectation of the first.\n\n Aye, aye, the parsonage is but a small one,  said she, after the first\nebullition of surprise and satisfaction was over,  and very likely\n_may_ be out of repair; but to hear a man apologising, as I thought,\nfor a house that to my knowledge has five sitting rooms on the\nground-floor, and I think the housekeeper told me could make up fifteen\nbeds! and to you too, that had been used to live in Barton cottage! It\nseems quite ridiculous. But, my dear, we must touch up the Colonel to\ndo some thing to the parsonage, and make it comfortable for them,\nbefore Lucy goes to it. \n\n But Colonel Brandon does not seem to have any idea of the living s\nbeing enough to allow them to marry. \n\n The Colonel is a ninny, my dear; because he has two thousand a-year\nhimself, he thinks that nobody else can marry on less. Take my word for\nit, that, if I am alive, I shall be paying a visit at Delaford\nParsonage before Michaelmas; and I am sure I shan t go if Lucy an t\nthere. \n\nElinor was quite of her opinion, as to the probability of their not\nwaiting for any thing more.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLI.\n\n\nEdward, having carried his thanks to Colonel Brandon, proceeded with\nhis happiness to Lucy; and such was the excess of it by the time he\nreached Bartlett s Buildings, that she was able to assure Mrs.\nJennings, who called on her again the next day with her\ncongratulations, that she had never seen him in such spirits before in\nher life.\n\nHer own happiness, and her own spirits, were at least very certain; and\nshe joined Mrs. Jennings most heartily in her expectation of their\nbeing all comfortably together in Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas.\nSo far was she, at the same time, from any backwardness to give Elinor\nthat credit which Edward _would_ give her, that she spoke of her\nfriendship for them both with the most grateful warmth, was ready to\nown all their obligation to her, and openly declared that no exertion\nfor their good on Miss Dashwood s part, either present or future, would\never surprise her, for she believed her capable of doing any thing in\nthe world for those she really valued. As for Colonel Brandon, she was\nnot only ready to worship him as a saint, but was moreover truly\nanxious that he should be treated as one in all worldly concerns;\nanxious that his tithes should be raised to the utmost; and secretly\nresolved to avail herself, at Delaford, as far as she possibly could,\nof his servants, his carriage, his cows, and his poultry.\n\nIt was now above a week since John Dashwood had called in Berkeley\nStreet, and as since that time no notice had been taken by them of his\nwife s indisposition, beyond one verbal enquiry, Elinor began to feel\nit necessary to pay her a visit. This was an obligation, however, which\nnot only opposed her own inclination, but which had not the assistance\nof any encouragement from her companions. Marianne, not contented with\nabsolutely refusing to go herself, was very urgent to prevent her\nsister s going at all; and Mrs. Jennings, though her carriage was\nalways at Elinor s service, so very much disliked Mrs. John Dashwood,\nthat not even her curiosity to see how she looked after the late\ndiscovery, nor her strong desire to affront her by taking Edward s\npart, could overcome her unwillingness to be in her company again. The\nconsequence was, that Elinor set out by herself to pay a visit, for\nwhich no one could really have less inclination, and to run the risk of\na t te- -t te with a woman, whom neither of the others had so much\nreason to dislike.\n\nMrs. Dashwood was denied; but before the carriage could turn from the\nhouse, her husband accidentally came out. He expressed great pleasure\nin meeting Elinor, told her that he had been just going to call in\nBerkeley Street, and, assuring her that Fanny would be very glad to see\nher, invited her to come in.\n\nThey walked up stairs in to the drawing-room. Nobody was there.\n\n Fanny is in her own room, I suppose,  said he:  I will go to her\npresently, for I am sure she will not have the least objection in the\nworld to seeing _you_. Very far from it, indeed. _Now_ especially there\ncannot be but however, you and Marianne were always great favourites.\nWhy would not Marianne come? \n\nElinor made what excuse she could for her.\n\n I am not sorry to see you alone,  he replied,  for I have a good deal\nto say to you. This living of Colonel Brandon s can it be true? has he\nreally given it to Edward? I heard it yesterday by chance, and was\ncoming to you on purpose to enquire farther about it. \n\n It is perfectly true. Colonel Brandon has given the living of Delaford\nto Edward. \n\n Really! Well, this is very astonishing! no relationship! no connection\nbetween them! and now that livings fetch such a price! what was the\nvalue of this? \n\n About two hundred a year. \n\n Very well and for the next presentation to a living of that\nvalue supposing the late incumbent to have been old and sickly, and\nlikely to vacate it soon he might have got I dare say fourteen hundred\npounds. And how came he not to have settled that matter before this\nperson s death? _Now_, indeed it would be too late to sell it, but a\nman of Colonel Brandon s sense! I wonder he should be so improvident in\na point of such common, such natural, concern! Well, I am convinced\nthat there is a vast deal of inconsistency in almost every human\ncharacter. I suppose, however on recollection that the case may\nprobably be _this_. Edward is only to hold the living till the person\nto whom the Colonel has really sold the presentation, is old enough to\ntake it. Aye, aye, that is the fact, depend upon it. \n\nElinor contradicted it, however, very positively; and by relating that\nshe had herself been employed in conveying the offer from Colonel\nBrandon to Edward, and, therefore, must understand the terms on which\nit was given, obliged him to submit to her authority.\n\n It is truly astonishing! he cried, after hearing what she said what\ncould be the Colonel s motive? \n\n A very simple one to be of use to Mr. Ferrars. \n\n Well, well; whatever Colonel Brandon may be, Edward is a very lucky\nman. You will not mention the matter to Fanny, however, for though I\nhave broke it to her, and she bears it vastly well, she will not like\nto hear it much talked of. \n\nElinor had some difficulty here to refrain from observing, that she\nthought Fanny might have borne with composure, an acquisition of wealth\nto her brother, by which neither she nor her child could be possibly\nimpoverished.\n\n Mrs. Ferrars,  added he, lowering his voice to the tone becoming so\nimportant a subject,  knows nothing about it at present, and I believe\nit will be best to keep it entirely concealed from her as long as may\nbe. When the marriage takes place, I fear she must hear of it all. \n\n But why should such precaution be used? Though it is not to be\nsupposed that Mrs. Ferrars can have the smallest satisfaction in\nknowing that her son has money enough to live upon, for _that_ must be\nquite out of the question; yet why, upon her late behaviour, is she\nsupposed to feel at all? She has done with her son, she cast him off\nfor ever, and has made all those over whom she had any influence, cast\nhim off likewise. Surely, after doing so, she cannot be imagined liable\nto any impression of sorrow or of joy on his account: she cannot be\ninterested in any thing that befalls him. She would not be so weak as\nto throw away the comfort of a child, and yet retain the anxiety of a\nparent! \n\n Ah! Elinor,  said John,  your reasoning is very good, but it is\nfounded on ignorance of human nature. When Edward s unhappy match takes\nplace, depend upon it his mother will feel as much as if she had never\ndiscarded him; and, therefore every circumstance that may accelerate\nthat dreadful event, must be concealed from her as much as possible.\nMrs. Ferrars can never forget that Edward is her son. \n\n You surprise me; I should think it must nearly have escaped her memory\nby _this_ time. \n\n You wrong her exceedingly. Mrs. Ferrars is one of the most\naffectionate mothers in the world. \n\nElinor was silent.\n\n We think _now_, said Mr. Dashwood, after a short pause,  of\n_Robert s_ marrying Miss Morton. \n\nElinor, smiling at the grave and decisive importance of her brother s\ntone, calmly replied, \n\n The lady, I suppose, has no choice in the affair. \n\n Choice! how do you mean? \n\n I only mean that I suppose, from your manner of speaking, it must be\nthe same to Miss Morton whether she marry Edward or Robert. \n\n Certainly, there can be no difference; for Robert will now to all\nintents and purposes be considered as the eldest son; and as to any\nthing else, they are both very agreeable young men: I do not know that\none is superior to the other. \n\nElinor said no more, and John was also for a short time silent. His\nreflections ended thus.\n\n Of _one_ thing, my dear sister,  kindly taking her hand, and speaking\nin an awful whisper,  I may assure you; and I _will_ do it, because I\nknow it must gratify you. I have good reason to think indeed I have it\nfrom the best authority, or I should not repeat it, for otherwise it\nwould be very wrong to say any thing about it, but I have it from the\nvery best authority, not that I ever precisely heard Mrs. Ferrars say\nit herself but her daughter _did_, and I have it from her, that in\nshort, whatever objections there might be against a certain a certain\nconnection, you understand me, it would have been far preferable to\nher, it would not have given her half the vexation that _this_ does. I\nwas exceedingly pleased to hear that Mrs. Ferrars considered it in that\nlight; a very gratifying circumstance you know to us all.  It would\nhave been beyond comparison,  she said,  the least evil of the two, and\nshe would be glad to compound _now_ for nothing worse.  But however,\nall that is quite out of the question, not to be thought of or\nmentioned as to any attachment you know, it never could be: all that is\ngone by. But I thought I would just tell you of this, because I knew\nhow much it must please you. Not that you have any reason to regret, my\ndear Elinor. There is no doubt of your doing exceedingly well, quite as\nwell, or better, perhaps, all things considered. Has Colonel Brandon\nbeen with you lately? \n\nElinor had heard enough, if not to gratify her vanity, and raise her\nself-importance, to agitate her nerves and fill her mind; and she was\ntherefore glad to be spared from the necessity of saying much in reply\nherself, and from the danger of hearing any thing more from her\nbrother, by the entrance of Mr. Robert Ferrars. After a few moments \nchat, John Dashwood, recollecting that Fanny was yet uninformed of her\nsister s being there, quitted the room in quest of her; and Elinor was\nleft to improve her acquaintance with Robert, who, by the gay\nunconcern, the happy self-complacency of his manner while enjoying so\nunfair a division of his mother s love and liberality, to the prejudice\nof his banished brother, earned only by his own dissipated course of\nlife, and that brother s integrity, was confirming her most\nunfavourable opinion of his head and heart.\n\nThey had scarcely been two minutes by themselves, before he began to\nspeak of Edward; for he, too, had heard of the living, and was very\ninquisitive on the subject. Elinor repeated the particulars of it, as\nshe had given them to John; and their effect on Robert, though very\ndifferent, was not less striking than it had been on _him_. He laughed\nmost immoderately. The idea of Edward s being a clergyman, and living\nin a small parsonage-house, diverted him beyond measure; and when to\nthat was added the fanciful imagery of Edward reading prayers in a\nwhite surplice, and publishing the banns of marriage between John Smith\nand Mary Brown, he could conceive nothing more ridiculous.\n\nElinor, while she waited in silence and immovable gravity, the\nconclusion of such folly, could not restrain her eyes from being fixed\non him with a look that spoke all the contempt it excited. It was a\nlook, however, very well bestowed, for it relieved her own feelings,\nand gave no intelligence to him. He was recalled from wit to wisdom,\nnot by any reproof of hers, but by his own sensibility.\n\n We may treat it as a joke,  said he, at last, recovering from the\naffected laugh which had considerably lengthened out the genuine gaiety\nof the moment;  but, upon my soul, it is a most serious business. Poor\nEdward! he is ruined for ever. I am extremely sorry for it; for I know\nhim to be a very good-hearted creature; as well-meaning a fellow\nperhaps, as any in the world. You must not judge of him, Miss Dashwood,\nfrom _your_ slight acquaintance. Poor Edward! His manners are certainly\nnot the happiest in nature. But we are not all born, you know, with the\nsame powers, the same address. Poor fellow! to see him in a circle of\nstrangers! To be sure it was pitiable enough; but upon my soul, I\nbelieve he has as good a heart as any in the kingdom; and I declare and\nprotest to you I never was so shocked in my life, as when it all burst\nforth. I could not believe it. My mother was the first person who told\nme of it; and I, feeling myself called on to act with resolution,\nimmediately said to her,  My dear madam, I do not know what you may\nintend to do on the occasion, but as for myself, I must say, that if\nEdward does marry this young woman, _I_ never will see him again.  That\nwas what I said immediately. I was most uncommonly shocked, indeed!\nPoor Edward! he has done for himself completely, shut himself out for\never from all decent society! But, as I directly said to my mother, I\nam not in the least surprised at it; from his style of education, it\nwas always to be expected. My poor mother was half frantic. \n\n Have you ever seen the lady? \n\n Yes; once, while she was staying in this house, I happened to drop in\nfor ten minutes; and I saw quite enough of her. The merest awkward\ncountry girl, without style, or elegance, and almost without beauty. I\nremember her perfectly. Just the kind of girl I should suppose likely\nto captivate poor Edward. I offered immediately, as soon as my mother\nrelated the affair to me, to talk to him myself, and dissuade him from\nthe match; but it was too late _then_, I found, to do any thing, for\nunluckily, I was not in the way at first, and knew nothing of it till\nafter the breach had taken place, when it was not for me, you know, to\ninterfere. But had I been informed of it a few hours earlier, I think\nit is most probable that something might have been hit on. I certainly\nshould have represented it to Edward in a very strong light.  My dear\nfellow,  I should have said,  consider what you are doing. You are\nmaking a most disgraceful connection, and such a one as your family are\nunanimous in disapproving.  I cannot help thinking, in short, that\nmeans might have been found. But now it is all too late. He must be\nstarved, you know, that is certain; absolutely starved. \n\nHe had just settled this point with great composure, when the entrance\nof Mrs. John Dashwood put an end to the subject. But though _she_ never\nspoke of it out of her own family, Elinor could see its influence on\nher mind, in the something like confusion of countenance with which she\nentered, and an attempt at cordiality in her behaviour to herself. She\neven proceeded so far as to be concerned to find that Elinor and her\nsister were so soon to leave town, as she had hoped to see more of\nthem; an exertion in which her husband, who attended her into the room,\nand hung enamoured over her accents, seemed to distinguish every thing\nthat was most affectionate and graceful.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLII.\n\n\nOne other short call in Harley Street, in which Elinor received her\nbrother s congratulations on their travelling so far towards Barton\nwithout any expense, and on Colonel Brandon s being to follow them to\nCleveland in a day or two, completed the intercourse of the brother and\nsisters in town; and a faint invitation from Fanny, to come to Norland\nwhenever it should happen to be in their way, which of all things was\nthe most unlikely to occur, with a more warm, though less public,\nassurance, from John to Elinor, of the promptitude with which he should\ncome to see her at Delaford, was all that foretold any meeting in the\ncountry.\n\nIt amused her to observe that all her friends seemed determined to send\nher to Delaford; a place, in which, of all others, she would now least\nchuse to visit, or wish to reside; for not only was it considered as\nher future home by her brother and Mrs. Jennings, but even Lucy, when\nthey parted, gave her a pressing invitation to visit her there.\n\nVery early in April, and tolerably early in the day, the two parties\nfrom Hanover Square and Berkeley Street set out from their respective\nhomes, to meet, by appointment, on the road. For the convenience of\nCharlotte and her child, they were to be more than two days on their\njourney, and Mr. Palmer, travelling more expeditiously with Colonel\nBrandon, was to join them at Cleveland soon after their arrival.\n\nMarianne, few as had been her hours of comfort in London, and eager as\nshe had long been to quit it, could not, when it came to the point, bid\nadieu to the house in which she had for the last time enjoyed those\nhopes, and that confidence, in Willoughby, which were now extinguished\nfor ever, without great pain. Nor could she leave the place in which\nWilloughby remained, busy in new engagements, and new schemes, in which\n_she_ could have no share, without shedding many tears.\n\nElinor s satisfaction, at the moment of removal, was more positive. She\nhad no such object for her lingering thoughts to fix on, she left no\ncreature behind, from whom it would give her a moment s regret to be\ndivided for ever, she was pleased to be free herself from the\npersecution of Lucy s friendship, she was grateful for bringing her\nsister away unseen by Willoughby since his marriage, and she looked\nforward with hope to what a few months of tranquility at Barton might\ndo towards restoring Marianne s peace of mind, and confirming her own.\n\nTheir journey was safely performed. The second day brought them into\nthe cherished, or the prohibited, county of Somerset, for as such was\nit dwelt on by turns in Marianne s imagination; and in the forenoon of\nthe third they drove up to Cleveland.\n\nCleveland was a spacious, modern-built house, situated on a sloping\nlawn. It had no park, but the pleasure-grounds were tolerably\nextensive; and like every other place of the same degree of importance,\nit had its open shrubbery, and closer wood walk, a road of smooth\ngravel winding round a plantation, led to the front, the lawn was\ndotted over with timber, the house itself was under the guardianship of\nthe fir, the mountain-ash, and the acacia, and a thick screen of them\naltogether, interspersed with tall Lombardy poplars, shut out the\noffices.\n\nMarianne entered the house with a heart swelling with emotion from the\nconsciousness of being only eighty miles from Barton, and not thirty\nfrom Combe Magna; and before she had been five minutes within its\nwalls, while the others were busily helping Charlotte to show her child\nto the housekeeper, she quitted it again, stealing away through the\nwinding shrubberies, now just beginning to be in beauty, to gain a\ndistant eminence; where, from its Grecian temple, her eye, wandering\nover a wide tract of country to the south-east, could fondly rest on\nthe farthest ridge of hills in the horizon, and fancy that from their\nsummits Combe Magna might be seen.\n\nIn such moments of precious, invaluable misery, she rejoiced in tears\nof agony to be at Cleveland; and as she returned by a different circuit\nto the house, feeling all the happy privilege of country liberty, of\nwandering from place to place in free and luxurious solitude, she\nresolved to spend almost every hour of every day while she remained\nwith the Palmers, in the indulgence of such solitary rambles.\n\nShe returned just in time to join the others as they quitted the house,\non an excursion through its more immediate premises; and the rest of\nthe morning was easily whiled away, in lounging round the kitchen\ngarden, examining the bloom upon its walls, and listening to the\ngardener s lamentations upon blights, in dawdling through the\ngreen-house, where the loss of her favourite plants, unwarily exposed,\nand nipped by the lingering frost, raised the laughter of\nCharlotte, and in visiting her poultry-yard, where, in the disappointed\nhopes of her dairy-maid, by hens forsaking their nests, or being stolen\nby a fox, or in the rapid decrease of a promising young brood, she\nfound fresh sources of merriment.\n\nThe morning was fine and dry, and Marianne, in her plan of employment\nabroad, had not calculated for any change of weather during their stay\nat Cleveland. With great surprise therefore, did she find herself\nprevented by a settled rain from going out again after dinner. She had\ndepended on a twilight walk to the Grecian temple, and perhaps all over\nthe grounds, and an evening merely cold or damp would not have deterred\nher from it; but a heavy and settled rain even _she_ could not fancy\ndry or pleasant weather for walking.\n\nTheir party was small, and the hours passed quietly away. Mrs. Palmer\nhad her child, and Mrs. Jennings her carpet-work; they talked of the\nfriends they had left behind, arranged Lady Middleton s engagements,\nand wondered whether Mr. Palmer and Colonel Brandon would get farther\nthan Reading that night. Elinor, however little concerned in it, joined\nin their discourse; and Marianne, who had the knack of finding her way\nin every house to the library, however it might be avoided by the\nfamily in general, soon procured herself a book.\n\nNothing was wanting on Mrs. Palmer s side that constant and friendly\ngood humour could do, to make them feel themselves welcome. The\nopenness and heartiness of her manner more than atoned for that want of\nrecollection and elegance which made her often deficient in the forms\nof politeness; her kindness, recommended by so pretty a face, was\nengaging; her folly, though evident was not disgusting, because it was\nnot conceited; and Elinor could have forgiven every thing but her\nlaugh.\n\nThe two gentlemen arrived the next day to a very late dinner, affording\na pleasant enlargement of the party, and a very welcome variety to\ntheir conversation, which a long morning of the same continued rain had\nreduced very low.\n\nElinor had seen so little of Mr. Palmer, and in that little had seen so\nmuch variety in his address to her sister and herself, that she knew\nnot what to expect to find him in his own family. She found him,\nhowever, perfectly the gentleman in his behaviour to all his visitors,\nand only occasionally rude to his wife and her mother; she found him\nvery capable of being a pleasant companion, and only prevented from\nbeing so always, by too great an aptitude to fancy himself as much\nsuperior to people in general, as he must feel himself to be to Mrs.\nJennings and Charlotte. For the rest of his character and habits, they\nwere marked, as far as Elinor could perceive, with no traits at all\nunusual in his sex and time of life. He was nice in his eating,\nuncertain in his hours; fond of his child, though affecting to slight\nit; and idled away the mornings at billiards, which ought to have been\ndevoted to business. She liked him, however, upon the whole, much\nbetter than she had expected, and in her heart was not sorry that she\ncould like him no more; not sorry to be driven by the observation of\nhis Epicurism, his selfishness, and his conceit, to rest with\ncomplacency on the remembrance of Edward s generous temper, simple\ntaste, and diffident feelings.\n\nOf Edward, or at least of some of his concerns, she now received\nintelligence from Colonel Brandon, who had been into Dorsetshire\nlately; and who, treating her at once as the disinterested friend of\nMr. Ferrars, and the kind confidante of himself, talked to her a great\ndeal of the parsonage at Delaford, described its deficiencies, and told\nher what he meant to do himself towards removing them. His behaviour to\nher in this, as well as in every other particular, his open pleasure in\nmeeting her after an absence of only ten days, his readiness to\nconverse with her, and his deference for her opinion, might very well\njustify Mrs. Jennings s persuasion of his attachment, and would have\nbeen enough, perhaps, had not Elinor still, as from the first, believed\nMarianne his real favourite, to make her suspect it herself. But as it\nwas, such a notion had scarcely ever entered her head, except by Mrs.\nJennings s suggestion; and she could not help believing herself the\nnicest observer of the two; she watched his eyes, while Mrs. Jennings\nthought only of his behaviour; and while his looks of anxious\nsolicitude on Marianne s feeling, in her head and throat, the beginning\nof a heavy cold, because unexpressed by words, entirely escaped the\nlatter lady s observation; _she_ could discover in them the quick\nfeelings, and needless alarm of a lover.\n\nTwo delightful twilight walks on the third and fourth evenings of her\nbeing there, not merely on the dry gravel of the shrubbery, but all\nover the grounds, and especially in the most distant parts of them,\nwhere there was something more of wildness than in the rest, where the\ntrees were the oldest, and the grass was the longest and wettest,\nhad assisted by the still greater imprudence of sitting in her wet\nshoes and stockings given Marianne a cold so violent as, though for a\nday or two trifled with or denied, would force itself by increasing\nailments on the concern of every body, and the notice of herself.\nPrescriptions poured in from all quarters, and as usual, were all\ndeclined. Though heavy and feverish, with a pain in her limbs, and a\ncough, and a sore throat, a good night s rest was to cure her entirely;\nand it was with difficulty that Elinor prevailed on her, when she went\nto bed, to try one or two of the simplest of the remedies.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIII.\n\n\nMarianne got up the next morning at her usual time; to every inquiry\nreplied that she was better, and tried to prove herself so, by engaging\nin her accustomary employments. But a day spent in sitting shivering\nover the fire with a book in her hand, which she was unable to read, or\nin lying, weary and languid, on a sofa, did not speak much in favour of\nher amendment; and when, at last, she went early to bed, more and more\nindisposed, Colonel Brandon was only astonished at her sister s\ncomposure, who, though attending and nursing her the whole day, against\nMarianne s inclination, and forcing proper medicines on her at night,\ntrusted, like Marianne, to the certainty and efficacy of sleep, and\nfelt no real alarm.\n\nA very restless and feverish night, however, disappointed the\nexpectation of both; and when Marianne, after persisting in rising,\nconfessed herself unable to sit up, and returned voluntarily to her\nbed, Elinor was very ready to adopt Mrs. Jennings s advice, of sending\nfor the Palmers  apothecary.\n\nHe came, examined his patient, and though encouraging Miss Dashwood to\nexpect that a very few days would restore her sister to health, yet, by\npronouncing her disorder to have a putrid tendency, and allowing the\nword  infection  to pass his lips, gave instant alarm to Mrs. Palmer,\non her baby s account. Mrs. Jennings, who had been inclined from the\nfirst to think Marianne s complaint more serious than Elinor, now\nlooked very grave on Mr. Harris s report, and confirming Charlotte s\nfears and caution, urged the necessity of her immediate removal with\nher infant; and Mr. Palmer, though treating their apprehensions as\nidle, found the anxiety and importunity of his wife too great to be\nwithstood. Her departure, therefore, was fixed on; and within an hour\nafter Mr. Harris s arrival, she set off, with her little boy and his\nnurse, for the house of a near relation of Mr. Palmer s, who lived a\nfew miles on the other side of Bath; whither her husband promised, at\nher earnest entreaty, to join her in a day or two; and whither she was\nalmost equally urgent with her mother to accompany her. Mrs. Jennings,\nhowever, with a kindness of heart which made Elinor really love her,\ndeclared her resolution of not stirring from Cleveland as long as\nMarianne remained ill, and of endeavouring, by her own attentive care,\nto supply to her the place of the mother she had taken her from; and\nElinor found her on every occasion a most willing and active helpmate,\ndesirous to share in all her fatigues, and often by her better\nexperience in nursing, of material use.\n\nPoor Marianne, languid and low from the nature of her malady, and\nfeeling herself universally ill, could no longer hope that tomorrow\nwould find her recovered; and the idea of what tomorrow would have\nproduced, but for this unlucky illness, made every ailment severe; for\non that day they were to have begun their journey home; and, attended\nthe whole way by a servant of Mrs. Jennings, were to have taken their\nmother by surprise on the following forenoon. The little she said was\nall in lamentation of this inevitable delay; though Elinor tried to\nraise her spirits, and make her believe, as she _then_ really believed\nherself, that it would be a very short one.\n\nThe next day produced little or no alteration in the state of the\npatient; she certainly was not better, and, except that there was no\namendment, did not appear worse. Their party was now farther reduced;\nfor Mr. Palmer, though very unwilling to go as well from real humanity\nand good-nature, as from a dislike of appearing to be frightened away\nby his wife, was persuaded at last by Colonel Brandon to perform his\npromise of following her; and while he was preparing to go, Colonel\nBrandon himself, with a much greater exertion, began to talk of going\nlikewise. Here, however, the kindness of Mrs. Jennings interposed most\nacceptably; for to send the Colonel away while his love was in so much\nuneasiness on her sister s account, would be to deprive them both, she\nthought, of every comfort; and therefore telling him at once that his\nstay at Cleveland was necessary to herself, that she should want him to\nplay at piquet of an evening, while Miss Dashwood was above with her\nsister, &c. she urged him so strongly to remain, that he, who was\ngratifying the first wish of his own heart by a compliance, could not\nlong even affect to demur; especially as Mrs. Jennings s entreaty was\nwarmly seconded by Mr. Palmer, who seemed to feel a relief to himself,\nin leaving behind him a person so well able to assist or advise Miss\nDashwood in any emergence.\n\nMarianne was, of course, kept in ignorance of all these arrangements.\nShe knew not that she had been the means of sending the owners of\nCleveland away, in about seven days from the time of their arrival. It\ngave her no surprise that she saw nothing of Mrs. Palmer; and as it\ngave her likewise no concern, she never mentioned her name.\n\nTwo days passed away from the time of Mr. Palmer s departure, and her\nsituation continued, with little variation, the same. Mr. Harris, who\nattended her every day, still talked boldly of a speedy recovery, and\nMiss Dashwood was equally sanguine; but the expectation of the others\nwas by no means so cheerful. Mrs. Jennings had determined very early in\nthe seizure that Marianne would never get over it, and Colonel Brandon,\nwho was chiefly of use in listening to Mrs. Jennings s forebodings, was\nnot in a state of mind to resist their influence. He tried to reason\nhimself out of fears, which the different judgment of the apothecary\nseemed to render absurd; but the many hours of each day in which he was\nleft entirely alone, were but too favourable for the admission of every\nmelancholy idea, and he could not expel from his mind the persuasion\nthat he should see Marianne no more.\n\nOn the morning of the third day however, the gloomy anticipations of\nboth were almost done away; for when Mr. Harris arrived, he declared\nhis patient materially better. Her pulse was much stronger, and every\nsymptom more favourable than on the preceding visit. Elinor, confirmed\nin every pleasant hope, was all cheerfulness; rejoicing that in her\nletters to her mother, she had pursued her own judgment rather than her\nfriend s, in making very light of the indisposition which delayed them\nat Cleveland; and almost fixing on the time when Marianne would be able\nto travel.\n\nBut the day did not close so auspiciously as it began. Towards the\nevening Marianne became ill again, growing more heavy, restless, and\nuncomfortable than before. Her sister, however, still sanguine, was\nwilling to attribute the change to nothing more than the fatigue of\nhaving sat up to have her bed made; and carefully administering the\ncordials prescribed, saw her, with satisfaction, sink at last into a\nslumber, from which she expected the most beneficial effects. Her\nsleep, though not so quiet as Elinor wished to see it, lasted a\nconsiderable time; and anxious to observe the result of it herself, she\nresolved to sit with her during the whole of it. Mrs. Jennings, knowing\nnothing of any change in the patient, went unusually early to bed; her\nmaid, who was one of the principal nurses, was recreating herself in\nthe housekeeper s room, and Elinor remained alone with Marianne.\n\nThe repose of the latter became more and more disturbed; and her\nsister, who watched, with unremitting attention her continual change of\nposture, and heard the frequent but inarticulate sounds of complaint\nwhich passed her lips, was almost wishing to rouse her from so painful\na slumber, when Marianne, suddenly awakened by some accidental noise in\nthe house, started hastily up, and, with feverish wildness, cried out, \n\n Is mama coming? \n\n Not yet,  cried the other, concealing her terror, and assisting\nMarianne to lie down again,  but she will be here, I hope, before it is\nlong. It is a great way, you know, from hence to Barton. \n\n But she must not go round by London,  cried Marianne, in the same\nhurried manner.  I shall never see her, if she goes by London. \n\nElinor perceived with alarm that she was not quite herself, and, while\nattempting to soothe her, eagerly felt her pulse. It was lower and\nquicker than ever! and Marianne, still talking wildly of mama, her\nalarm increased so rapidly, as to determine her on sending instantly\nfor Mr. Harris, and despatching a messenger to Barton for her mother.\nTo consult with Colonel Brandon on the best means of effecting the\nlatter, was a thought which immediately followed the resolution of its\nperformance; and as soon she had rung up the maid to take her place by\nher sister, she hastened down to the drawing-room, where she knew he\nwas generally to be found at a much later hour than the present.\n\nIt was no time for hesitation. Her fears and her difficulties were\nimmediately before him. Her fears, he had no courage, no confidence to\nattempt the removal of: he listened to them in silent despondence; but\nher difficulties were instantly obviated, for with a readiness that\nseemed to speak the occasion, and the service pre-arranged in his mind,\nhe offered himself as the messenger who should fetch Mrs. Dashwood.\nElinor made no resistance that was not easily overcome. She thanked him\nwith brief, though fervent gratitude, and while he went to hurry off\nhis servant with a message to Mr. Harris, and an order for post-horses\ndirectly, she wrote a few lines to her mother.\n\nThe comfort of such a friend at that moment as Colonel Brandon or such\na companion for her mother, how gratefully was it felt! a companion\nwhose judgment would guide, whose attendance must relieve, and whose\nfriendship might soothe her! as far as the shock of such a summons\n_could_ be lessened to her, his presence, his manners, his assistance,\nwould lessen it.\n\n_He_, meanwhile, whatever he might feel, acted with all the firmness of\na collected mind, made every necessary arrangement with the utmost\ndespatch, and calculated with exactness the time in which she might\nlook for his return. Not a moment was lost in delay of any kind. The\nhorses arrived, even before they were expected, and Colonel Brandon\nonly pressing her hand with a look of solemnity, and a few words spoken\ntoo low to reach her ear, hurried into the carriage. It was then about\ntwelve o clock, and she returned to her sister s apartment to wait for\nthe arrival of the apothecary, and to watch by her the rest of the\nnight. It was a night of almost equal suffering to both. Hour after\nhour passed away in sleepless pain and delirium on Marianne s side, and\nin the most cruel anxiety on Elinor s, before Mr. Harris appeared. Her\napprehensions once raised, paid by their excess for all her former\nsecurity; and the servant who sat up with her, for she would not allow\nMrs. Jennings to be called, only tortured her more, by hints of what\nher mistress had always thought.\n\nMarianne s ideas were still, at intervals, fixed incoherently on her\nmother, and whenever she mentioned her name, it gave a pang to the\nheart of poor Elinor, who, reproaching herself for having trifled with\nso many days of illness, and wretched for some immediate relief,\nfancied that all relief might soon be in vain, that every thing had\nbeen delayed too long, and pictured to herself her suffering mother\narriving too late to see this darling child, or to see her rational.\n\nShe was on the point of sending again for Mr. Harris, or if _he_ could\nnot come, for some other advice, when the former but not till after\nfive o clock arrived. His opinion, however, made some little amends for\nhis delay, for though acknowledging a very unexpected and unpleasant\nalteration in his patient, he would not allow the danger to be\nmaterial, and talked of the relief which a fresh mode of treatment must\nprocure, with a confidence which, in a lesser degree, was communicated\nto Elinor. He promised to call again in the course of three or four\nhours, and left both the patient and her anxious attendant more\ncomposed than he had found them.\n\nWith strong concern, and with many reproaches for not being called to\ntheir aid, did Mrs. Jennings hear in the morning of what had passed.\nHer former apprehensions, now with greater reason restored, left her no\ndoubt of the event; and though trying to speak comfort to Elinor, her\nconviction of her sister s danger would not allow her to offer the\ncomfort of hope. Her heart was really grieved. The rapid decay, the\nearly death of a girl so young, so lovely as Marianne, must have struck\na less interested person with concern. On Mrs. Jennings s compassion\nshe had other claims. She had been for three months her companion, was\nstill under her care, and she was known to have been greatly injured,\nand long unhappy. The distress of her sister too, particularly a\nfavourite, was before her; and as for their mother, when Mrs. Jennings\nconsidered that Marianne might probably be to _her_ what Charlotte was\nto herself, her sympathy in _her_ sufferings was very sincere.\n\nMr. Harris was punctual in his second visit; but he came to be\ndisappointed in his hopes of what the last would produce. His medicines\nhad failed; the fever was unabated; and Marianne only more quiet not\nmore herself remained in a heavy stupor. Elinor, catching all, and more\nthan all, his fears in a moment, proposed to call in further advice.\nBut he judged it unnecessary: he had still something more to try, some\nmore fresh application, of whose success he was as confident as the\nlast, and his visit concluded with encouraging assurances which reached\nthe ear, but could not enter the heart of Miss Dashwood. She was calm,\nexcept when she thought of her mother; but she was almost hopeless; and\nin this state she continued till noon, scarcely stirring from her\nsister s bed, her thoughts wandering from one image of grief, one\nsuffering friend to another, and her spirits oppressed to the utmost by\nthe conversation of Mrs. Jennings, who scrupled not to attribute the\nseverity and danger of this attack to the many weeks of previous\nindisposition which Marianne s disappointment had brought on. Elinor\nfelt all the reasonableness of the idea, and it gave fresh misery to\nher reflections.\n\nAbout noon, however, she began but with a caution a dread of\ndisappointment which for some time kept her silent, even to her\nfriend to fancy, to hope she could perceive a slight amendment in her\nsister s pulse; she waited, watched, and examined it again and\nagain; and at last, with an agitation more difficult to bury under\nexterior calmness, than all her foregoing distress, ventured to\ncommunicate her hopes. Mrs. Jennings, though forced, on examination, to\nacknowledge a temporary revival, tried to keep her young friend from\nindulging a thought of its continuance; and Elinor, conning over every\ninjunction of distrust, told herself likewise not to hope. But it was\ntoo late. Hope had already entered; and feeling all its anxious\nflutter, she bent over her sister to watch she hardly knew for what.\nHalf an hour passed away, and the favourable symptom yet blessed her.\nOthers even arose to confirm it. Her breath, her skin, her lips, all\nflattered Elinor with signs of amendment; and Marianne fixed her eyes\non her with a rational, though languid, gaze. Anxiety and hope now\noppressed her in equal degrees, and left her no moment of tranquillity\ntill the arrival of Mr. Harris at four o clock; when his assurances,\nhis felicitations on a recovery in her sister even surpassing his\nexpectation, gave her confidence, comfort, and tears of joy.\n\nMarianne was in every respect materially better, and he declared her\nentirely out of danger. Mrs. Jennings, perhaps satisfied with the\npartial justification of her forebodings which had been found in their\nlate alarm, allowed herself to trust in his judgment, and admitted,\nwith unfeigned joy, and soon with unequivocal cheerfulness, the\nprobability of an entire recovery.\n\nElinor could not be cheerful. Her joy was of a different kind, and led\nto any thing rather than to gaiety. Marianne restored to life, health,\nfriends, and to her doting mother, was an idea to fill her heart with\nsensations of exquisite comfort, and expand it in fervent\ngratitude; but it led to no outward demonstrations of joy, no words, no\nsmiles. All within Elinor s breast was satisfaction, silent and strong.\n\nShe continued by the side of her sister, with little intermission the\nwhole afternoon, calming every fear, satisfying every inquiry of her\nenfeebled spirits, supplying every succour, and watching almost every\nlook and every breath. The possibility of a relapse would of course, in\nsome moments, occur to remind her of what anxiety was but when she saw,\non her frequent and minute examination, that every symptom of recovery\ncontinued, and saw Marianne at six o clock sink into a quiet, steady,\nand to all appearance comfortable, sleep, she silenced every doubt.\n\nThe time was now drawing on, when Colonel Brandon might be expected\nback. At ten o clock, she trusted, or at least not much later her\nmother would be relieved from the dreadful suspense in which she must\nnow be travelling towards them. The Colonel, too! perhaps scarcely less\nan object of pity! Oh! how slow was the progress of time which yet kept\nthem in ignorance!\n\nAt seven o clock, leaving Marianne still sweetly asleep, she joined\nMrs. Jennings in the drawing-room to tea. Of breakfast she had been\nkept by her fears, and of dinner by their sudden reverse, from eating\nmuch; and the present refreshment, therefore, with such feelings of\ncontent as she brought to it, was particularly welcome. Mrs. Jennings\nwould have persuaded her, at its conclusion, to take some rest before\nher mother s arrival, and allow _her_ to take her place by Marianne;\nbut Elinor had no sense of fatigue, no capability of sleep at that\nmoment about her, and she was not to be kept away from her sister an\nunnecessary instant. Mrs. Jennings therefore attending her up stairs\ninto the sick chamber, to satisfy herself that all continued right,\nleft her there again to her charge and her thoughts, and retired to her\nown room to write letters and sleep.\n\nThe night was cold and stormy. The wind roared round the house, and the\nrain beat against the windows; but Elinor, all happiness within,\nregarded it not. Marianne slept through every blast; and the\ntravellers they had a rich reward in store, for every present\ninconvenience.\n\nThe clock struck eight. Had it been ten, Elinor would have been\nconvinced that at that moment she heard a carriage driving up to the\nhouse; and so strong was the persuasion that she _did_, in spite of the\n_almost_ impossibility of their being already come, that she moved into\nthe adjoining dressing-closet and opened a window shutter, to be\nsatisfied of the truth. She instantly saw that her ears had not\ndeceived her. The flaring lamps of a carriage were immediately in view.\nBy their uncertain light she thought she could discern it to be drawn\nby four horses; and this, while it told the excess of her poor mother s\nalarm, gave some explanation to such unexpected rapidity.\n\nNever in her life had Elinor found it so difficult to be calm, as at\nthat moment. The knowledge of what her mother must be feeling as the\ncarriage stopt at the door of her doubt her dread perhaps her\ndespair! and of what _she_ had to tell! with such knowledge it was\nimpossible to be calm. All that remained to be done was to be speedy;\nand, therefore staying only till she could leave Mrs. Jennings s maid\nwith her sister, she hurried down stairs.\n\nThe bustle in the vestibule, as she passed along an inner lobby,\nassured her that they were already in the house. She rushed to the\ndrawing-room, she entered it, and saw only Willoughby.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIV.\n\n\nElinor, starting back with a look of horror at the sight of him, obeyed\nthe first impulse of her heart in turning instantly to quit the room,\nand her hand was already on the lock, when its action was suspended by\nhis hastily advancing, and saying, in a voice rather of command than\nsupplication,\n\n Miss Dashwood, for half an hour for ten minutes I entreat you to\nstay. \n\n No, sir,  she replied with firmness,  I shall _not_ stay. Your\nbusiness cannot be with _me_. The servants, I suppose, forgot to tell\nyou that Mr. Palmer was not in the house. \n\n Had they told me,  he cried with vehemence,  that Mr. Palmer and all\nhis relations were at the devil, it would not have turned me from the\ndoor. My business is with you, and only you. \n\n With me! in the utmost amazement well, sir, be quick and if you\ncan less violent. \n\n Sit down, and I will be both. \n\nShe hesitated; she knew not what to do. The possibility of Colonel\nBrandon s arriving and finding her there, came across her. But she had\npromised to hear him, and her curiosity no less than her honor was\nengaged. After a moment s recollection, therefore, concluding that\nprudence required dispatch, and that her acquiescence would best\npromote it, she walked silently towards the table, and sat down. He\ntook the opposite chair, and for half a minute not a word was said by\neither.\n\n Pray be quick, sir, said Elinor, impatiently; I have no time to\nspare. \n\nHe was sitting in an attitude of deep meditation, and seemed not to\nhear her.\n\n Your sister,  said he, with abruptness, a moment afterwards is out of\ndanger. I heard it from the servant. God be praised! But is it true? is\nit really true? \n\nElinor would not speak. He repeated the inquiry with yet greater\neagerness.\n\n For God s sake tell me, is she out of danger, or is she not? \n\n We hope she is. \n\nHe rose up, and walked across the room.\n\n Had I known as much half an hour ago; but since I _am_ here,  speaking\nwith a forced vivacity as he returned to his seat, what does it\nsignify? For once, Miss Dashwood it will be the last time, perhaps let\nus be cheerful together. I am in a fine mood for gaiety. Tell me\nhonestly  a deeper glow overspreading his cheeks,  do you think me most\na knave or a fool? \n\nElinor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever. She began to\nthink that he must be in liquor; the strangeness of such a visit, and\nof such manners, seemed no otherwise intelligible; and with this\nimpression she immediately rose, saying,\n\n Mr. Willoughby, I advise you at present to return to Combe. I am not\nat leisure to remain with you longer. Whatever your business may be\nwith me, it will be better recollected and explained to-morrow. \n\n I understand you,  he replied, with an expressive smile, and a voice\nperfectly calm;  yes, I am very drunk. A pint of porter with my cold\nbeef at Marlborough was enough to over-set me. \n\n At Marlborough! cried Elinor, more and more at a loss to understand\nwhat he would be at.\n\n Yes, I left London this morning at eight o clock, and the only ten\nminutes I have spent out of my chaise since that time procured me a\nnuncheon at Marlborough. \n\nThe steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his eye as he\nspoke, convincing Elinor, that whatever other unpardonable folly might\nbring him to Cleveland, he was not brought there by intoxication, she\nsaid, after a moment s recollection,\n\n Mr. Willoughby, you _ought_ to feel, and I certainly _do_, that after\nwhat has passed, your coming here in this manner, and forcing yourself\nupon my notice, requires a very particular excuse. What is it, that you\nmean by it? \n\n I mean,  said he, with serious energy,  if I can, to make you hate me\none degree less than you do _now_. I mean to offer some kind of\nexplanation, some kind of apology, for the past; to open my whole heart\nto you, and by convincing you, that though I have been always a\nblockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to obtain something like\nforgiveness from Ma  from your sister. \n\n Is this the real reason of your coming? \n\n Upon my soul it is, was his answer, with a warmth which brought all\nthe former Willoughby to her remembrance, and in spite of herself made\nher think him sincere.\n\n If that is all, you may be satisfied already; for Marianne _does_, she\nhas _long_ forgiven you. \n\n Has she?  he cried, in the same eager tone.  Then she has forgiven me\nbefore she ought to have done it. But she shall forgive me again, and\non more reasonable grounds. _Now_ will you listen to me? \n\nElinor bowed her assent.\n\n I do not know,  said he, after a pause of expectation on her side, and\nthoughtfulness on his own,  how _you_ may have accounted for my\nbehaviour to your sister, or what diabolical motive you may have\nimputed to me. Perhaps you will hardly think the better of me, it is\nworth the trial however, and you shall hear every thing. When I first\nbecame intimate in your family, I had no other intention, no other view\nin the acquaintance than to pass my time pleasantly while I was obliged\nto remain in Devonshire, more pleasantly than I had ever done before.\nYour sister s lovely person and interesting manners could not but\nplease me; and her behaviour to me almost from the first, was of a\nkind it is astonishing, when I reflect on what it was, and what _she_\nwas, that my heart should have been so insensible! But at first I must\nconfess, my vanity only was elevated by it. Careless of her happiness,\nthinking only of my own amusement, giving way to feelings which I had\nalways been too much in the habit of indulging, I endeavoured, by every\nmeans in my power, to make myself pleasing to her, without any design\nof returning her affection. \n\nMiss Dashwood, at this point, turning her eyes on him with the most\nangry contempt, stopped him, by saying,\n\n It is hardly worth while, Mr. Willoughby, for you to relate, or for me\nto listen any longer. Such a beginning as this cannot be followed by\nany thing. Do not let me be pained by hearing any thing more on the\nsubject. \n\n I insist on you hearing the whole of it,  he replied,  My fortune was\nnever large, and I had always been expensive, always in the habit of\nassociating with people of better income than myself. Every year since\nmy coming of age, or even before, I believe, had added to my debts; and\nthough the death of my old cousin, Mrs. Smith, was to set me free; yet\nthat event being uncertain, and possibly far distant, it had been for\nsome time my intention to re-establish my circumstances by marrying a\nwoman of fortune. To attach myself to your sister, therefore, was not a\nthing to be thought of; and with a meanness, selfishness, cruelty,\nwhich no indignant, no contemptuous look, even of yours, Miss Dashwood,\ncan ever reprobate too much, I was acting in this manner, trying to\nengage her regard, without a thought of returning it. But one thing may\nbe said for me: even in that horrid state of selfish vanity, I did not\nknow the extent of the injury I meditated, because I did not _then_\nknow what it was to love. But have I ever known it? Well may it be\ndoubted; for, had I really loved, could I have sacrificed my feelings\nto vanity, to avarice? or, what is more, could I have sacrificed hers?\nBut I have done it. To avoid a comparative poverty, which her affection\nand her society would have deprived of all its horrors, I have, by\nraising myself to affluence, lost every thing that could make it a\nblessing. \n\n You did then,  said Elinor, a little softened,  believe yourself at\none time attached to her? \n\n To have resisted such attractions, to have withstood such tenderness!\nIs there a man on earth who could have done it? Yes, I found myself, by\ninsensible degrees, sincerely fond of her; and the happiest hours of my\nlife were what I spent with her when I felt my intentions were strictly\nhonourable, and my feelings blameless. Even _then_, however, when fully\ndetermined on paying my addresses to her, I allowed myself most\nimproperly to put off, from day to day, the moment of doing it, from an\nunwillingness to enter into an engagement while my circumstances were\nso greatly embarrassed. I will not reason here nor will I stop for\n_you_ to expatiate on the absurdity, and the worse than absurdity, of\nscrupling to engage my faith where my honour was already bound. The\nevent has proved, that I was a cunning fool, providing with great\ncircumspection for a possible opportunity of making myself contemptible\nand wretched for ever. At last, however, my resolution was taken, and I\nhad determined, as soon as I could engage her alone, to justify the\nattentions I had so invariably paid her, and openly assure her of an\naffection which I had already taken such pains to display. But in the\ninterim in the interim of the very few hours that were to pass, before\nI could have an opportunity of speaking with her in private a\ncircumstance occurred an unlucky circumstance, to ruin all my\nresolution, and with it all my comfort. A discovery took place, here\nhe hesitated and looked down.  Mrs. Smith had somehow or other been\ninformed, I imagine by some distant relation, whose interest it was to\ndeprive me of her favour, of an affair, a connection but I need not\nexplain myself farther,  he added, looking at her with an heightened\ncolour and an enquiring eye, your particular intimacy you have\nprobably heard the whole story long ago. \n\n I have,  returned Elinor, colouring likewise, and hardening her heart\nanew against any compassion for him,  I have heard it all. And how you\nwill explain away any part of your guilt in that dreadful business, I\nconfess is beyond my comprehension. \n\n Remember,  cried Willoughby,  from whom you received the account.\nCould it be an impartial one? I acknowledge that her situation and her\ncharacter ought to have been respected by me. I do not mean to justify\nmyself, but at the same time cannot leave you to suppose that I have\nnothing to urge that because she was injured she was irreproachable,\nand because _I_ was a libertine, _she_ must be a saint. If the violence\nof her passions, the weakness of her understanding I do not mean,\nhowever, to defend myself. Her affection for me deserved better\ntreatment, and I often, with great self-reproach, recall the tenderness\nwhich, for a very short time, had the power of creating any return. I\nwish I heartily wish it had never been. But I have injured more than\nherself; and I have injured one, whose affection for me (may I say it?)\nwas scarcely less warm than hers; and whose mind Oh! how infinitely\nsuperior! \n\n Your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate girl I must say\nit, unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subject may well\nbe your indifference is no apology for your cruel neglect of her. Do\nnot think yourself excused by any weakness, any natural defect of\nunderstanding on her side, in the wanton cruelty so evident on yours.\nYou must have known, that while you were enjoying yourself in\nDevonshire pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always happy, she was\nreduced to the extremest indigence. \n\n But, upon my soul, I did _not_ know it,  he warmly replied;  I did not\nrecollect that I had omitted to give her my direction; and common sense\nmight have told her how to find it out. \n\n Well, sir, and what said Mrs. Smith? \n\n She taxed me with the offence at once, and my confusion may be\nguessed. The purity of her life, the formality of her notions, her\nignorance of the world every thing was against me. The matter itself I\ncould not deny, and vain was every endeavour to soften it. She was\npreviously disposed, I believe, to doubt the morality of my conduct in\ngeneral, and was moreover discontented with the very little attention,\nthe very little portion of my time that I had bestowed on her, in my\npresent visit. In short, it ended in a total breach. By one measure I\nmight have saved myself. In the height of her morality, good woman! she\noffered to forgive the past, if I would marry Eliza. That could not\nbe and I was formally dismissed from her favour and her house. The\nnight following this affair I was to go the next morning was spent by\nme in deliberating on what my future conduct should be. The struggle\nwas great but it ended too soon. My affection for Marianne, my thorough\nconviction of her attachment to me it was all insufficient to outweigh\nthat dread of poverty, or get the better of those false ideas of the\nnecessity of riches, which I was naturally inclined to feel, and\nexpensive society had increased. I had reason to believe myself secure\nof my present wife, if I chose to address her, and I persuaded myself\nto think that nothing else in common prudence remained for me to do. A\nheavy scene however awaited me, before I could leave Devonshire; I was\nengaged to dine with you on that very day; some apology was therefore\nnecessary for my breaking this engagement. But whether I should write\nthis apology, or deliver it in person, was a point of long debate. To\nsee Marianne, I felt, would be dreadful, and I even doubted whether I\ncould see her again, and keep to my resolution. In that point, however,\nI undervalued my own magnanimity, as the event declared; for I went, I\nsaw her, and saw her miserable, and left her miserable and left her\nhoping never to see her again. \n\n Why did you call, Mr. Willoughby?  said Elinor, reproachfully;  a note\nwould have answered every purpose. Why was it necessary to call? \n\n It was necessary to my own pride. I could not bear to leave the\ncountry in a manner that might lead you, or the rest of the\nneighbourhood, to suspect any part of what had really passed between\nMrs. Smith and myself and I resolved therefore on calling at the\ncottage, in my way to Honiton. The sight of your dear sister, however,\nwas really dreadful; and, to heighten the matter, I found her alone.\nYou were all gone I do not know where. I had left her only the evening\nbefore, so fully, so firmly resolved within my self on doing right! A\nfew hours were to have engaged her to me for ever; and I remember how\nhappy, how gay were my spirits, as I walked from the cottage to\nAllenham, satisfied with myself, delighted with every body! But in\nthis, our last interview of friendship, I approached her with a sense\nof guilt that almost took from me the power of dissembling. Her sorrow,\nher disappointment, her deep regret, when I told her that I was obliged\nto leave Devonshire so immediately I never shall forget it united too\nwith such reliance, such confidence in me! Oh, God! what a hard-hearted\nrascal I was! \n\nThey were both silent for a few moments. Elinor first spoke.\n\n Did you tell her that you should soon return? \n\n I do not know what I told her,  he replied, impatiently;  less than\nwas due to the past, beyond a doubt, and in all likelihood much more\nthan was justified by the future. I cannot think of it. It won t\ndo. Then came your dear mother to torture me farther, with all her\nkindness and confidence. Thank Heaven! it _did_ torture me. I was\nmiserable. Miss Dashwood, you cannot have an idea of the comfort it\ngives me to look back on my own misery. I owe such a grudge to myself\nfor the stupid, rascally folly of my own heart, that all my past\nsufferings under it are only triumph and exultation to me now. Well, I\nwent, left all that I loved, and went to those to whom, at best, I was\nonly indifferent. My journey to town travelling with my own horses, and\ntherefore so tediously no creature to speak to my own reflections so\ncheerful when I looked forward every thing so inviting! when I looked\nback at Barton, the picture so soothing! oh, it was a blessed journey! \n\nHe stopped.\n\n Well, sir,  said Elinor, who, though pitying him, grew impatient for\nhis departure,  and this is all? \n\n All! no: have you forgot what passed in town? That infamous letter?\nDid she show it you? \n\n Yes, I saw every note that passed. \n\n When the first of hers reached me (as it immediately did, for I was in\ntown the whole time,) what I felt is in the common phrase, not to be\nexpressed; in a more simple one perhaps too simple to raise any\nemotion my feelings were very, very painful. Every line, every word\nwas in the hackneyed metaphor which their dear writer, were she here,\nwould forbid a dagger to my heart. To know that Marianne was in town\nwas in the same language a thunderbolt. Thunderbolts and daggers! what\na reproof would she have given me! her taste, her opinions I believe\nthey are better known to me than my own, and I am sure they are\ndearer. \n\nElinor s heart, which had undergone many changes in the course of this\nextraordinary conversation, was now softened again; yet she felt it her\nduty to check such ideas in her companion as the last.\n\n This is not right, Mr. Willoughby. Remember that you are married.\nRelate only what in your conscience you think necessary for me to\nhear. \n\n Marianne s note, by assuring me that I was still as dear to her as in\nformer days, that in spite of the many, many weeks we had been\nseparated, she was as constant in her own feelings, and as full of\nfaith in the constancy of mine as ever, awakened all my remorse. I say\nawakened, because time and London, business and dissipation, had in\nsome measure quieted it, and I had been growing a fine hardened\nvillain, fancying myself indifferent to her, and chusing to fancy that\nshe too must have become indifferent to me; talking to myself of our\npast attachment as a mere idle, trifling business, shrugging up my\nshoulders in proof of its being so, and silencing every reproach,\novercoming every scruple, by secretly saying now and then,  I shall be\nheartily glad to hear she is well married.  But this note made me know\nmyself better. I felt that she was infinitely dearer to me than any\nother woman in the world, and that I was using her infamously. But\nevery thing was then just settled between Miss Grey and me. To retreat\nwas impossible. All that I had to do, was to avoid you both. I sent no\nanswer to Marianne, intending by that to preserve myself from her\nfarther notice; and for some time I was even determined not to call in\nBerkeley Street; but at last, judging it wiser to affect the air of a\ncool, common acquaintance than anything else, I watched you all safely\nout of the house one morning, and left my name. \n\n Watched us out of the house! \n\n Even so. You would be surprised to hear how often I watched you, how\noften I was on the point of falling in with you. I have entered many a\nshop to avoid your sight, as the carriage drove by. Lodging as I did in\nBond Street, there was hardly a day in which I did not catch a glimpse\nof one or other of you; and nothing but the most constant watchfulness\non my side, a most invariably prevailing desire to keep out of your\nsight, could have separated us so long. I avoided the Middletons as\nmuch as possible, as well as everybody else who was likely to prove an\nacquaintance in common. Not aware of their being in town, however, I\nblundered on Sir John, I believe, the first day of his coming, and the\nday after I had called at Mrs. Jennings s. He asked me to a party, a\ndance at his house in the evening. Had he _not_ told me as an\ninducement that you and your sister were to be there, I should have\nfelt it too certain a thing, to trust myself near him. The next morning\nbrought another short note from Marianne still affectionate, open,\nartless, confiding everything that could make _my_ conduct most\nhateful. I could not answer it. I tried but could not frame a sentence.\nBut I thought of her, I believe, every moment of the day. If you _can_\npity me, Miss Dashwood, pity my situation as it was _then_. With my\nhead and heart full of your sister, I was forced to play the happy\nlover to another woman! Those three or four weeks were worse than all.\nWell, at last, as I need not tell you, you were forced on me; and what\na sweet figure I cut! what an evening of agony it was! Marianne,\nbeautiful as an angel on one side, calling me Willoughby in such a\ntone! Oh, God! holding out her hand to me, asking me for an\nexplanation, with those bewitching eyes fixed in such speaking\nsolicitude on my face! and Sophia, jealous as the devil on the other\nhand, looking all that was Well, it does not signify; it is over now.\nSuch an evening! I ran away from you all as soon as I could; but not\nbefore I had seen Marianne s sweet face as white as death. _That_ was\nthe last, last look I ever had of her; the last manner in which she\nappeared to me. It was a horrid sight! yet when I thought of her to-day\nas really dying, it was a kind of comfort to me to imagine that I knew\nexactly how she would appear to those, who saw her last in this world.\nShe was before me, constantly before me, as I travelled, in the same\nlook and hue. \n\nA short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded. Willoughby first\nrousing himself, broke it thus:\n\n Well, let me make haste and be gone. Your sister is certainly better,\ncertainly out of danger? \n\n We are assured of it. \n\n Your poor mother, too! doting on Marianne. \n\n But the letter, Mr. Willoughby, your own letter; have you any thing to\nsay about that? \n\n Yes, yes, _that_ in particular. Your sister wrote to me again, you\nknow, the very next morning. You saw what she said. I was breakfasting\nat the Ellisons, and her letter, with some others, was brought to me\nthere from my lodgings. It happened to catch Sophia s eye before it\ncaught mine and its size, the elegance of the paper, the hand-writing\naltogether, immediately gave her a suspicion. Some vague report had\nreached her before of my attachment to some young lady in Devonshire,\nand what had passed within her observation the preceding evening had\nmarked who the young lady was, and made her more jealous than ever.\nAffecting that air of playfulness, therefore, which is delightful in a\nwoman one loves, she opened the letter directly, and read its contents.\nShe was well paid for her impudence. She read what made her wretched.\nHer wretchedness I could have borne, but her passion her malice At all\nevents it must be appeased. And, in short what do you think of my\nwife s style of letter-writing? delicate tender truly feminine was it\nnot? \n\n Your wife! The letter was in your own hand-writing. \n\n Yes, but I had only the credit of servilely copying such sentences as\nI was ashamed to put my name to. The original was all her own her own\nhappy thoughts and gentle diction. But what could I do! we were\nengaged, every thing in preparation, the day almost fixed But I am\ntalking like a fool. Preparation! Day! In honest words, her money was\nnecessary to me, and in a situation like mine, any thing was to be done\nto prevent a rupture. And after all, what did it signify to my\ncharacter in the opinion of Marianne and her friends, in what language\nmy answer was couched? It must have been only to one end. My business\nwas to declare myself a scoundrel, and whether I did it with a bow or a\nbluster was of little importance.  I am ruined for ever in their\nopinion,  said I to myself:  I am shut out for ever from their society,\nthey already think me an unprincipled fellow, this letter will only\nmake them think me a blackguard one.  Such were my reasonings, as, in a\nsort of desperate carelessness, I copied my wife s words, and parted\nwith the last relics of Marianne. Her three notes, unluckily they were\nall in my pocketbook, or I should have denied their existence, and\nhoarded them for ever, I was forced to put them up, and could not even\nkiss them. And the lock of hair that too I had always carried about me\nin the same pocket-book, which was now searched by Madam with the most\ningratiating virulence, the dear lock, all, every memento was torn from\nme. \n\n You are very wrong, Mr. Willoughby, very blamable,  said Elinor, while\nher voice, in spite of herself, betrayed her compassionate emotion;\n you ought not to speak in this way, either of Mrs. Willoughby or my\nsister. You had made your own choice. It was not forced on you. Your\nwife has a claim to your politeness, to your respect, at least. She\nmust be attached to you, or she would not have married you. To treat\nher with unkindness, to speak of her slightingly is no atonement to\nMarianne nor can I suppose it a relief to your own conscience. \n\n Do not talk to me of my wife,  said he with a heavy sigh;  she does\nnot deserve your compassion. She knew I had no regard for her when we\nmarried. Well, married we were, and came down to Combe Magna to be\nhappy, and afterwards returned to town to be gay. And now do you pity\nme, Miss Dashwood? Or have I said all this to no purpose? Am I, be it\nonly one degree, am I less guilty in your opinion than I was before? My\nintentions were not always wrong. Have I explained away any part of my\nguilt? \n\n Yes, you have certainly removed something a little. You have proved\nyourself, on the whole, less faulty than I had believed you. You have\nproved your heart less wicked, much less wicked. But I hardly know the\nmisery that you have inflicted I hardly know what could have made it\nworse. \n\n Will you repeat to your sister when she is recovered, what I have been\ntelling you? Let me be a little lightened too in her opinion as well as\nin yours. You tell me that she has forgiven me already. Let me be able\nto fancy that a better knowledge of my heart, and of my present\nfeelings, will draw from her a more spontaneous, more natural, more\ngentle, less dignified, forgiveness. Tell her of my misery and my\npenitence tell her that my heart was never inconstant to her, and if\nyou will, that at this moment she is dearer to me than ever. \n\n I will tell her all that is necessary to what may comparatively be\ncalled, your justification. But you have not explained to me the\nparticular reason of your coming now, nor how you heard of her\nillness. \n\n Last night, in Drury Lane lobby, I ran against Sir John Middleton, and\nwhen he saw who I was, for the first time these two months, he spoke to\nme. That he had cut me ever since my marriage, I had seen without\nsurprise or resentment. Now, however, his good-natured, honest, stupid\nsoul, full of indignation against me, and concern for your sister,\ncould not resist the temptation of telling me what he knew ought to,\nthough probably he did not think it _would_, vex me horridly. As\nbluntly as he could speak it, therefore, he told me that Marianne\nDashwood was dying of a putrid fever at Cleveland a letter that morning\nreceived from Mrs. Jennings declared her danger most imminent the\nPalmers are all gone off in a fright, &c. I was too much shocked to be\nable to pass myself off as insensible even to the undiscerning Sir\nJohn. His heart was softened in seeing mine suffer; and so much of his\nill-will was done away, that when we parted, he almost shook me by the\nhand while he reminded me of an old promise about a pointer puppy. What\nI felt on hearing that your sister was dying, and dying too, believing\nme the greatest villain upon earth, scorning, hating me in her latest\nmoments for how could I tell what horrid projects might not have been\nimputed? _One_ person I was sure would represent me as capable of\nanything What I felt was dreadful! My resolution was soon made, and at\neight o clock this morning I was in my carriage. Now you know all. \n\nElinor made no answer. Her thoughts were silently fixed on the\nirreparable injury which too early an independence and its consequent\nhabits of idleness, dissipation, and luxury, had made in the mind, the\ncharacter, the happiness, of a man who, to every advantage of person\nand talents, united a disposition naturally open and honest, and a\nfeeling, affectionate temper. The world had made him extravagant and\nvain Extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish.\nVanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at the expense of another,\nhad involved him in a real attachment, which extravagance, or at least\nits offspring, necessity, had required to be sacrificed. Each faulty\npropensity in leading him to evil, had led him likewise to punishment.\nThe attachment, from which against honour, against feeling, against\nevery better interest he had outwardly torn himself, now, when no\nlonger allowable, governed every thought; and the connection, for the\nsake of which he had, with little scruple, left her sister to misery,\nwas likely to prove a source of unhappiness to himself of a far more\nincurable nature. From a reverie of this kind she was recalled at the\nend of some minutes by Willoughby, who, rousing himself from a reverie\nat least equally painful, started up in preparation for going, and\nsaid \n\n There is no use in staying here; I must be off. \n\n Are you going back to town? \n\n No to Combe Magna. I have business there; from thence to town in a day\nor two. Good bye. \n\nHe held out his hand. She could not refuse to give him hers; he pressed\nit with affection.\n\n And you _do_ think something better of me than you did?  said he,\nletting it fall, and leaning against the mantel-piece as if forgetting\nhe was to go.\n\nElinor assured him that she did; that she forgave, pitied, wished him\nwell was even interested in his happiness and added some gentle counsel\nas to the behaviour most likely to promote it. His answer was not very\nencouraging.\n\n As to that,  said he,  I must rub through the world as well as I can.\nDomestic happiness is out of the question. If, however, I am allowed to\nthink that you and yours feel an interest in my fate and actions, it\nmay be the means it may put me on my guard at least, it may be\nsomething to live for. Marianne to be sure is lost to me for ever. Were\nI even by any blessed chance at liberty again \n\nElinor stopped him with a reproof.\n\n Well, he replied once more good bye. I shall now go away and live in\ndread of one event. \n\n What do you mean? \n\n Your sister s marriage. \n\n You are very wrong. She can never be more lost to you than she is\nnow. \n\n But she will be gained by some one else. And if that some one should\nbe the very he whom, of all others, I could least bear but I will not\nstay to rob myself of all your compassionate goodwill, by showing that\nwhere I have most injured I can least forgive. Good bye, God bless\nyou! \n\nAnd with these words, he almost ran out of the room.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLV.\n\n\nElinor, for some time after he left her, for some time even after the\nsound of his carriage had died away, remained too much oppressed by a\ncrowd of ideas, widely differing in themselves, but of which sadness\nwas the general result, to think even of her sister.\n\nWilloughby, he, whom only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the most\nworthless of men, Willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited a\ndegree of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which made\nher think of him as now separated for ever from her family, with a\ntenderness, a regret, rather in proportion, as she soon acknowledged\nwithin herself to his wishes than to his merits. She felt that his\ninfluence over her mind was heightened by circumstances which ought not\nin reason to have weight; by that person of uncommon attraction, that\nopen, affectionate, and lively manner which it was no merit to possess;\nand by that still ardent love for Marianne, which it was not even\ninnocent to indulge. But she felt that it was so, long, long before she\ncould feel his influence less.\n\nWhen at last she returned to the unconscious Marianne, she found her\njust awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet a sleep to the extent of\nher hopes. Elinor s heart was full. The past, the present, the future,\nWilloughby s visit, Marianne s safety, and her mother s expected\narrival, threw her altogether into an agitation of spirits which kept\noff every indication of fatigue, and made her only fearful of betraying\nherself to her sister. Short was the time, however, in which that fear\ncould affect her, for within half an hour after Willoughby s leaving\nthe house, she was again called down stairs by the sound of another\ncarriage. Eager to save her mother from every unnecessary moment s\nhorrible suspense, she ran immediately into the hall, and reached the\noutward door just in time to receive and support her as she entered it.\n\nMrs. Dashwood, whose terror as they drew near the house had produced\nalmost the conviction of Marianne s being no more, had no voice to\ninquire after her, no voice even for Elinor; but _she_, waiting neither\nfor salutation nor inquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief; and her\nmother, catching it with all her usual warmth, was in a moment as much\novercome by her happiness, as she had been before by her fears. She was\nsupported into the drawing-room between her daughter and her friend;\nand there, shedding tears of joy, though still unable to speak,\nembraced Elinor again and again, turning from her at intervals to press\nColonel Brandon s hand, with a look which spoke at once her gratitude,\nand her conviction of his sharing with herself in the bliss of the\nmoment. He shared it, however, in a silence even greater than her own.\n\nAs soon as Mrs. Dashwood had recovered herself, to see Marianne was her\nfirst desire; and in two minutes she was with her beloved child,\nrendered dearer to her than ever by absence, unhappiness, and danger.\nElinor s delight, as she saw what each felt in the meeting, was only\nchecked by an apprehension of its robbing Marianne of farther sleep:\nbut Mrs. Dashwood could be calm, could be even prudent, when the life\nof a child was at stake, and Marianne, satisfied in knowing her mother\nwas near her, and conscious of being too weak for conversation,\nsubmitted readily to the silence and quiet prescribed by every nurse\naround her. Mrs. Dashwood _would_ sit up with her all night; and\nElinor, in compliance with her mother s entreaty, went to bed. But the\nrest, which one night entirely sleepless, and many hours of the most\nwearing anxiety seemed to make requisite, was kept off by irritation of\nspirits. Willoughby,  poor Willoughby,  as she now allowed herself to\ncall him, was constantly in her thoughts; she would not but have heard\nhis vindication for the world, and now blamed, now acquitted herself\nfor having judged him so harshly before. But her promise of relating it\nto her sister was invariably painful. She dreaded the performance of\nit, dreaded what its effect on Marianne might be; doubted whether after\nsuch an explanation she could ever be happy with another; and for a\nmoment wished Willoughby a widower. Then, remembering Colonel Brandon,\nreproved herself, felt that to _his_ sufferings and _his_ constancy far\nmore than to his rival s, the reward of her sister was due, and wished\nany thing rather than Mrs. Willoughby s death.\n\nThe shock of Colonel Brandon s errand at Barton had been much softened\nto Mrs. Dashwood by her own previous alarm; for so great was her\nuneasiness about Marianne, that she had already determined to set out\nfor Cleveland on that very day, without waiting for any further\nintelligence, and had so far settled her journey before his arrival,\nthat the Careys were then expected every moment to fetch Margaret away,\nas her mother was unwilling to take her where there might be infection.\n\nMarianne continued to mend every day, and the brilliant cheerfulness of\nMrs. Dashwood s looks and spirits proved her to be, as she repeatedly\ndeclared herself, one of the happiest women in the world. Elinor could\nnot hear the declaration, nor witness its proofs without sometimes\nwondering whether her mother ever recollected Edward. But Mrs.\nDashwood, trusting to the temperate account of her own disappointment\nwhich Elinor had sent her, was led away by the exuberance of her joy to\nthink only of what would increase it. Marianne was restored to her from\na danger in which, as she now began to feel, her own mistaken judgment\nin encouraging the unfortunate attachment to Willoughby, had\ncontributed to place her; and in her recovery she had yet another\nsource of joy unthought of by Elinor. It was thus imparted to her, as\nsoon as any opportunity of private conference between them occurred.\n\n At last we are alone. My Elinor, you do not yet know all my happiness.\nColonel Brandon loves Marianne. He has told me so himself. \n\nHer daughter, feeling by turns both pleased and pained, surprised and\nnot surprised, was all silent attention.\n\n You are never like me, dear Elinor, or I should wonder at your\ncomposure now. Had I sat down to wish for any possible good to my\nfamily, I should have fixed on Colonel Brandon s marrying one of you as\nthe object most desirable. And I believe Marianne will be the most\nhappy with him of the two. \n\nElinor was half inclined to ask her reason for thinking so, because\nsatisfied that none founded on an impartial consideration of their age,\ncharacters, or feelings, could be given; but her mother must always be\ncarried away by her imagination on any interesting subject, and\ntherefore instead of an inquiry, she passed it off with a smile.\n\n He opened his whole heart to me yesterday as we travelled. It came out\nquite unawares, quite undesignedly. I, you may well believe, could talk\nof nothing but my child; he could not conceal his distress; I saw that\nit equalled my own, and he perhaps, thinking that mere friendship, as\nthe world now goes, would not justify so warm a sympathy or rather, not\nthinking at all, I suppose giving way to irresistible feelings, made me\nacquainted with his earnest, tender, constant, affection for Marianne.\nHe has loved her, my Elinor, ever since the first moment of seeing\nher. \n\nHere, however, Elinor perceived, not the language, not the professions\nof Colonel Brandon, but the natural embellishments of her mother s\nactive fancy, which fashioned every thing delightful to her as it\nchose.\n\n His regard for her, infinitely surpassing anything that Willoughby\never felt or feigned, as much more warm, as more sincere or\nconstant which ever we are to call it has subsisted through all the\nknowledge of dear Marianne s unhappy prepossession for that worthless\nyoung man! and without selfishness without encouraging a hope! could he\nhave seen her happy with another Such a noble mind! such openness, such\nsincerity! no one can be deceived in _him_. \n\n Colonel Brandon s character,  said Elinor,  as an excellent man, is\nwell established. \n\n I know it is, replied her mother seriously,  or after such a warning,\n_I_ should be the last to encourage such affection, or even to be\npleased by it. But his coming for me as he did, with such active, such\nready friendship, is enough to prove him one of the worthiest of men. \n\n His character, however,  answered Elinor,  does not rest on _one_ act\nof kindness, to which his affection for Marianne, were humanity out of\nthe case, would have prompted him. To Mrs. Jennings, to the Middletons,\nhe has been long and intimately known; they equally love and respect\nhim; and even my own knowledge of him, though lately acquired, is very\nconsiderable; and so highly do _I_ value and esteem him, that if\nMarianne can be happy with him, I shall be as ready as yourself to\nthink our connection the greatest blessing to us in the world. What\nanswer did you give him? Did you allow him to hope? \n\n Oh! my love, I could not then talk of hope to him or to myself.\nMarianne might at that moment be dying. But he did not ask for hope or\nencouragement. His was an involuntary confidence, an irrepressible\neffusion to a soothing friend, not an application to a parent. Yet\nafter a time I _did_ say, for at first I was quite overcome, that if\nshe lived, as I trusted she might, my greatest happiness would lie in\npromoting their marriage; and since our arrival, since our delightful\nsecurity, I have repeated it to him more fully, have given him every\nencouragement in my power. Time, a very little time, I tell him, will\ndo everything; Marianne s heart is not to be wasted for ever on such a\nman as Willoughby. His own merits must soon secure it. \n\n To judge from the Colonel s spirits, however, you have not yet made\nhim equally sanguine. \n\n No. He thinks Marianne s affection too deeply rooted for any change in\nit under a great length of time, and even supposing her heart again\nfree, is too diffident of himself to believe, that with such a\ndifference of age and disposition he could ever attach her. There,\nhowever, he is quite mistaken. His age is only so much beyond hers as\nto be an advantage, as to make his character and principles fixed; and\nhis disposition, I am well convinced, is exactly the very one to make\nyour sister happy. And his person, his manners too, are all in his\nfavour. My partiality does not blind me; he certainly is not so\nhandsome as Willoughby; but at the same time, there is something much\nmore pleasing in his countenance. There was always a something, if you\nremember, in Willoughby s eyes at times, which I did not like. \n\nElinor could _not_ remember it; but her mother, without waiting for her\nassent, continued,\n\n And his manners, the Colonel s manners are not only more pleasing to\nme than Willoughby s ever were, but they are of a kind I well know to\nbe more solidly attaching to Marianne. Their gentleness, their genuine\nattention to other people, and their manly unstudied simplicity is much\nmore accordant with her real disposition, than the liveliness, often\nartificial, and often ill-timed of the other. I am very sure myself,\nthat had Willoughby turned out as really amiable, as he has proved\nhimself the contrary, Marianne would yet never have been so happy with\n_him_ as she will be with Colonel Brandon. \n\nShe paused. Her daughter could not quite agree with her, but her\ndissent was not heard, and therefore gave no offence.\n\n At Delaford, she will be within an easy distance of me,  added Mrs.\nDashwood,  even if I remain at Barton; and in all probability, for I\nhear it is a large village, indeed there certainly _must_ be some small\nhouse or cottage close by, that would suit us quite as well as our\npresent situation. \n\nPoor Elinor! here was a new scheme for getting her to Delaford! but her\nspirit was stubborn.\n\n His fortune too! for at my time of life you know, everybody cares\nabout _that;_ and though I neither know nor desire to know, what it\nreally is, I am sure it must be a good one. \n\nHere they were interrupted by the entrance of a third person, and\nElinor withdrew to think it all over in private, to wish success to her\nfriend, and yet in wishing it, to feel a pang for Willoughby.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVI.\n\n\nMarianne s illness, though weakening in its kind, had not been long\nenough to make her recovery slow; and with youth, natural strength, and\nher mother s presence in aid, it proceeded so smoothly as to enable her\nto remove, within four days after the arrival of the latter, into Mrs.\nPalmer s dressing-room. When there, at her own particular request, for\nshe was impatient to pour forth her thanks to him for fetching her\nmother, Colonel Brandon was invited to visit her.\n\nHis emotion on entering the room, in seeing her altered looks, and in\nreceiving the pale hand which she immediately held out to him, was\nsuch, as, in Elinor s conjecture, must arise from something more than\nhis affection for Marianne, or the consciousness of its being known to\nothers; and she soon discovered in his melancholy eye and varying\ncomplexion as he looked at her sister, the probable recurrence of many\npast scenes of misery to his mind, brought back by that resemblance\nbetween Marianne and Eliza already acknowledged, and now strengthened\nby the hollow eye, the sickly skin, the posture of reclining weakness,\nand the warm acknowledgment of peculiar obligation.\n\nMrs. Dashwood, not less watchful of what passed than her daughter, but\nwith a mind very differently influenced, and therefore watching to very\ndifferent effect, saw nothing in the Colonel s behaviour but what arose\nfrom the most simple and self-evident sensations, while in the actions\nand words of Marianne she persuaded herself to think that something\nmore than gratitude already dawned.\n\nAt the end of another day or two, Marianne growing visibly stronger\nevery twelve hours, Mrs. Dashwood, urged equally by her own and her\ndaughter s wishes, began to talk of removing to Barton. On _her_\nmeasures depended those of her two friends; Mrs. Jennings could not\nquit Cleveland during the Dashwoods  stay; and Colonel Brandon was soon\nbrought, by their united request, to consider his own abode there as\nequally determinate, if not equally indispensable. At his and Mrs.\nJennings s united request in return, Mrs. Dashwood was prevailed on to\naccept the use of his carriage on her journey back, for the better\naccommodation of her sick child; and the Colonel, at the joint\ninvitation of Mrs. Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings, whose active good-nature\nmade her friendly and hospitable for other people as well as herself,\nengaged with pleasure to redeem it by a visit at the cottage, in the\ncourse of a few weeks.\n\nThe day of separation and departure arrived; and Marianne, after taking\nso particular and lengthened a leave of Mrs. Jennings, one so earnestly\ngrateful, so full of respect and kind wishes as seemed due to her own\nheart from a secret acknowledgment of past inattention, and bidding\nColonel Brandon farewell with a cordiality of a friend, was carefully\nassisted by him into the carriage, of which he seemed anxious that she\nshould engross at least half. Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor then followed,\nand the others were left by themselves, to talk of the travellers, and\nfeel their own dullness, till Mrs. Jennings was summoned to her chaise\nto take comfort in the gossip of her maid for the loss of her two young\ncompanions; and Colonel Brandon immediately afterwards took his\nsolitary way to Delaford.\n\nThe Dashwoods were two days on the road, and Marianne bore her journey\non both, without essential fatigue. Every thing that the most zealous\naffection, the most solicitous care could do to render her comfortable,\nwas the office of each watchful companion, and each found their reward\nin her bodily ease, and her calmness of spirits. To Elinor, the\nobservation of the latter was particularly grateful. She, who had seen\nher week after week so constantly suffering, oppressed by anguish of\nheart which she had neither courage to speak of, nor fortitude to\nconceal, now saw with a joy, which no other could equally share, an\napparent composure of mind, which, in being the result as she trusted\nof serious reflection, must eventually lead her to contentment and\ncheerfulness.\n\nAs they approached Barton, indeed, and entered on scenes of which every\nfield and every tree brought some peculiar, some painful recollection,\nshe grew silent and thoughtful, and turning away her face from their\nnotice, sat earnestly gazing through the window. But here, Elinor could\nneither wonder nor blame; and when she saw, as she assisted Marianne\nfrom the carriage, that she had been crying, she saw only an emotion\ntoo natural in itself to raise any thing less tender than pity, and in\nits unobtrusiveness entitled to praise. In the whole of her subsequent\nmanner, she traced the direction of a mind awakened to reasonable\nexertion; for no sooner had they entered their common sitting-room,\nthan Marianne turned her eyes around it with a look of resolute\nfirmness, as if determined at once to accustom herself to the sight of\nevery object with which the remembrance of Willoughby could be\nconnected. She said little, but every sentence aimed at cheerfulness,\nand though a sigh sometimes escaped her, it never passed away without\nthe atonement of a smile. After dinner she would try her piano-forte.\nShe went to it; but the music on which her eye first rested was an\nopera, procured for her by Willoughby, containing some of their\nfavourite duets, and bearing on its outward leaf her own name in his\nhand-writing. That would not do. She shook her head, put the music\naside, and after running over the keys for a minute, complained of\nfeebleness in her fingers, and closed the instrument again; declaring\nhowever with firmness as she did so, that she should in future practice\nmuch.\n\nThe next morning produced no abatement in these happy symptoms. On the\ncontrary, with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest, she looked\nand spoke with more genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure of\nMargaret s return, and talking of the dear family party which would\nthen be restored, of their mutual pursuits and cheerful society, as the\nonly happiness worth a wish.\n\n When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my strength,  said\nshe,  we will take long walks together every day. We will walk to the\nfarm at the edge of the down, and see how the children go on; we will\nwalk to Sir John s new plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland;\nand we will often go to the old ruins of the Priory, and try to trace\nits foundations as far as we are told they once reached. I know we\nshall be happy. I know the summer will pass happily away. I mean never\nto be later in rising than six, and from that time till dinner I shall\ndivide every moment between music and reading. I have formed my plan,\nand am determined to enter on a course of serious study. Our own\nlibrary is too well known to me, to be resorted to for any thing beyond\nmere amusement. But there are many works well worth reading at the\nPark; and there are others of more modern production which I know I can\nborrow of Colonel Brandon. By reading only six hours a-day, I shall\ngain in the course of a twelve-month a great deal of instruction which\nI now feel myself to want. \n\nElinor honoured her for a plan which originated so nobly as this;\nthough smiling to see the same eager fancy which had been leading her\nto the extreme of languid indolence and selfish repining, now at work\nin introducing excess into a scheme of such rational employment and\nvirtuous self-control. Her smile however changed to a sigh when she\nremembered that promise to Willoughby was yet unfulfilled, and feared\nshe had that to communicate which might again unsettle the mind of\nMarianne, and ruin at least for a time this fair prospect of busy\ntranquillity. Willing therefore to delay the evil hour, she resolved to\nwait till her sister s health were more secure, before she appointed\nit. But the resolution was made only to be broken.\n\nMarianne had been two or three days at home, before the weather was\nfine enough for an invalid like herself to venture out. But at last a\nsoft, genial morning appeared; such as might tempt the daughter s\nwishes and the mother s confidence; and Marianne, leaning on Elinor s\narm, was authorised to walk as long as she could without fatigue, in\nthe lane before the house.\n\nThe sisters set out at a pace, slow as the feebleness of Marianne in an\nexercise hitherto untried since her illness required; and they had\nadvanced only so far beyond the house as to admit a full view of the\nhill, the important hill behind, when pausing with her eyes turned\ntowards it, Marianne calmly said, \n\n There, exactly there, pointing with one hand,  on that projecting\nmound, there I fell; and there I first saw Willoughby. \n\nHer voice sunk with the word, but presently reviving she added,\n\n I am thankful to find that I can look with so little pain on the spot!\nshall we ever talk on that subject, Elinor?  hesitatingly it was said.\n Or will it be wrong? I _can_ talk of it now, I hope, as I ought to\ndo. \n\nElinor tenderly invited her to be open.\n\n As for regret,  said Marianne,  I have done with that, as far as _he_\nis concerned. I do not mean to talk to you of what my feelings have\nbeen for him, but what they are _now_. At present, if I could be\nsatisfied on one point, if I could be allowed to think that he was not\n_always_ acting a part, not _always_ deceiving me; but above all, if I\ncould be assured that he never was so _very_ wicked as my fears have\nsometimes fancied him, since the story of that unfortunate girl \n\nShe stopt. Elinor joyfully treasured her words as she answered,\n\n If you could be assured of that, you think you should be easy. \n\n Yes. My peace of mind is doubly involved in it; for not only is it\nhorrible to suspect a person, who has been what _he_ has been to _me_,\nof such designs, but what must it make me appear to myself? What in a\nsituation like mine, but a most shamefully unguarded affection could\nexpose me to \n\n How then,  asked her sister,  would you account for his behaviour? \n\n I would suppose him, Oh, how gladly would I suppose him, only fickle,\nvery, very fickle. \n\nElinor said no more. She was debating within herself on the eligibility\nof beginning her story directly, or postponing it till Marianne were in\nstronger health; and they crept on for a few minutes in silence.\n\n I am not wishing him too much good,  said Marianne at last with a\nsigh,  when I wish his secret reflections may be no more unpleasant\nthan my own. He will suffer enough in them. \n\n Do you compare your conduct with his? \n\n No. I compare it with what it ought to have been; I compare it with\nyours. \n\n Our situations have borne little resemblance. \n\n They have borne more than our conduct. Do not, my dearest Elinor, let\nyour kindness defend what I know your judgment must censure. My illness\nhas made me think. It has given me leisure and calmness for serious\nrecollection. Long before I was enough recovered to talk, I was\nperfectly able to reflect. I considered the past: I saw in my own\nbehaviour, since the beginning of our acquaintance with him last\nautumn, nothing but a series of imprudence towards myself, and want of\nkindness to others. I saw that my own feelings had prepared my\nsufferings, and that my want of fortitude under them had almost led me\nto the grave. My illness, I well knew, had been entirely brought on by\nmyself by such negligence of my own health, as I had felt even at the\ntime to be wrong. Had I died, it would have been self-destruction. I\ndid not know my danger till the danger was removed; but with such\nfeelings as these reflections gave me, I wonder at my recovery, wonder\nthat the very eagerness of my desire to live, to have time for\natonement to my God, and to you all, did not kill me at once. Had I\ndied, in what peculiar misery should I have left you, my nurse, my\nfriend, my sister! You, who had seen all the fretful selfishness of my\nlatter days; who had known all the murmurings of my heart! How should I\nhave lived in _your_ remembrance! My mother too! How could you have\nconsoled her! I cannot express my own abhorrence of myself. Whenever I\nlooked towards the past, I saw some duty neglected, or some failing\nindulged. Every body seemed injured by me. The kindness, the unceasing\nkindness of Mrs. Jennings, I had repaid with ungrateful contempt. To\nthe Middletons, to the Palmers, the Steeles, to every common\nacquaintance even, I had been insolent and unjust; with a heart\nhardened against their merits, and a temper irritated by their very\nattention. To John, to Fanny, yes, even to them, little as they\ndeserve, I had given less than their due. But you, you above all, above\nmy mother, had been wronged by me. I, and only I, knew your heart and\nits sorrows; yet to what did it influence me? not to any compassion\nthat could benefit you or myself. Your example was before me; but to\nwhat avail? Was I more considerate of you and your comfort? Did I\nimitate your forbearance, or lessen your restraints, by taking any part\nin those offices of general complaisance or particular gratitude which\nyou had hitherto been left to discharge alone? No; not less when I knew\nyou to be unhappy, than when I had believed you at ease, did I turn\naway from every exertion of duty or friendship; scarcely allowing\nsorrow to exist but with me, regretting only _that_ heart which had\ndeserted and wronged me, and leaving you, for whom I professed an\nunbounded affection, to be miserable for my sake. \n\nHere ceased the rapid flow of her self-reproving spirit; and Elinor,\nimpatient to soothe, though too honest to flatter, gave her instantly\nthat praise and support which her frankness and her contrition so well\ndeserved. Marianne pressed her hand and replied, \n\n You are very good. The future must be my proof. I have laid down my\nplan, and if I am capable of adhering to it my feelings shall be\ngoverned and my temper improved. They shall no longer worry others, nor\ntorture myself. I shall now live solely for my family. You, my mother,\nand Margaret, must henceforth be all the world to me; you will share my\naffections entirely between you. From you, from my home, I shall never\nagain have the smallest incitement to move; and if I do mix in other\nsociety, it will be only to show that my spirit is humbled, my heart\namended, and that I can practise the civilities, the lesser duties of\nlife, with gentleness and forbearance. As for Willoughby to say that I\nshall soon or that I shall ever forget him, would be idle. His\nremembrance can be overcome by no change of circumstances or opinions.\nBut it shall be regulated, it shall be checked by religion, by reason,\nby constant employment. \n\nShe paused and added in a low voice,  If I could but know _his_ heart,\neverything would become easy. \n\nElinor, who had now been for some time reflecting on the propriety or\nimpropriety of speedily hazarding her narration, without feeling at all\nnearer decision than at first, heard this; and perceiving that as\nreflection did nothing, resolution must do all, soon found herself\nleading to the fact.\n\nShe managed the recital, as she hoped, with address; prepared her\nanxious listener with caution; related simply and honestly the chief\npoints on which Willoughby grounded his apology; did justice to his\nrepentance, and softened only his protestations of present regard.\nMarianne said not a word. She trembled, her eyes were fixed on the\nground, and her lips became whiter than even sickness had left them. A\nthousand inquiries sprung up from her heart, but she dared not urge\none. She caught every syllable with panting eagerness; her hand,\nunknowingly to herself, closely pressed her sister s, and tears covered\nher cheeks.\n\nElinor, dreading her being tired, led her towards home; and till they\nreached the door of the cottage, easily conjecturing what her curiosity\nmust be though no question was suffered to speak it, talked of nothing\nbut Willoughby, and their conversation together; and was carefully\nminute in every particular of speech and look, where minuteness could\nbe safely indulged. As soon as they entered the house, Marianne with a\nkiss of gratitude and these two words just articulate through her\ntears,  Tell mama,  withdrew from her sister and walked slowly up\nstairs. Elinor would not attempt to disturb a solitude so reasonable as\nwhat she now sought; and with a mind anxiously pre-arranging its\nresult, and a resolution of reviving the subject again, should Marianne\nfail to do it, she turned into the parlour to fulfill her parting\ninjunction.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVII.\n\n\nMrs. Dashwood did not hear unmoved the vindication of her former\nfavourite. She rejoiced in his being cleared from some part of his\nimputed guilt; she was sorry for him; she wished him happy. But the\nfeelings of the past could not be recalled. Nothing could restore him\nwith a faith unbroken a character unblemished, to Marianne. Nothing\ncould do away the knowledge of what the latter had suffered through his\nmeans, nor remove the guilt of his conduct towards Eliza. Nothing could\nreplace him, therefore, in her former esteem, nor injure the interests\nof Colonel Brandon.\n\nHad Mrs. Dashwood, like her daughter, heard Willoughby s story from\nhimself had she witnessed his distress, and been under the influence of\nhis countenance and his manner, it is probable that her compassion\nwould have been greater. But it was neither in Elinor s power, nor in\nher wish, to rouse such feelings in another, by her retailed\nexplanation, as had at first been called forth in herself. Reflection\nhad given calmness to her judgment, and sobered her own opinion of\nWilloughby s deserts; she wished, therefore, to declare only the simple\ntruth, and lay open such facts as were really due to his character,\nwithout any embellishment of tenderness to lead the fancy astray.\n\nIn the evening, when they were all three together, Marianne began\nvoluntarily to speak of him again; but that it was not without an\neffort, the restless, unquiet thoughtfulness in which she had been for\nsome time previously sitting her rising colour, as she spoke, and her\nunsteady voice, plainly showed.\n\n I wish to assure you both,  said she,  that I see every thing as you\ncan desire me to do. \n\nMrs. Dashwood would have interrupted her instantly with soothing\ntenderness, had not Elinor, who really wished to hear her sister s\nunbiased opinion, by an eager sign, engaged her silence. Marianne\nslowly continued, \n\n It is a great relief to me what Elinor told me this morning I have now\nheard exactly what I wished to hear. For some moments her voice was\nlost; but recovering herself, she added, and with greater calmness than\nbefore I am now perfectly satisfied, I wish for no change. I never\ncould have been happy with him, after knowing, as sooner or later I\nmust have known, all this. I should have had no confidence, no esteem.\nNothing could have done it away to my feelings. \n\n I know it I know it,  cried her mother.  Happy with a man of libertine\npractices! With one who so injured the peace of the dearest of our\nfriends, and the best of men! No my Marianne has not a heart to be made\nhappy with such a man! Her conscience, her sensitive conscience, would\nhave felt all that the conscience of her husband ought to have felt. \n\nMarianne sighed, and repeated,  I wish for no change. \n\n You consider the matter,  said Elinor,  exactly as a good mind and a\nsound understanding must consider it; and I dare say you perceive, as\nwell as myself, not only in this, but in many other circumstances,\nreason enough to be convinced that your marriage must have involved you\nin many certain troubles and disappointments, in which you would have\nbeen poorly supported by an affection, on his side, much less certain.\nHad you married, you must have been always poor. His expensiveness is\nacknowledged even by himself, and his whole conduct declares that\nself-denial is a word hardly understood by him. His demands and your\ninexperience together, on a small, very small income, must have brought\non distresses which would not be the _less_ grievous to you, from\nhaving been entirely unknown and unthought of before. _Your_ sense of\nhonour and honesty would have led you, I know, when aware of your\nsituation, to attempt all the economy that would appear to you\npossible: and, perhaps, as long as your frugality retrenched only on\nyour own comfort, you might have been suffered to practice it, but\nbeyond that and how little could the utmost of your single management\ndo to stop the ruin which had begun before your marriage? Beyond\n_that_, had you endeavoured, however reasonably, to abridge _his_\nenjoyments, is it not to be feared, that instead of prevailing on\nfeelings so selfish to consent to it, you would have lessened your own\ninfluence on his heart, and made him regret the connection which had\ninvolved him in such difficulties? \n\nMarianne s lips quivered, and she repeated the word  Selfish?  in a\ntone that implied do you really think him selfish? \n\n The whole of his behaviour,  replied Elinor,  from the beginning to\nthe end of the affair, has been grounded on selfishness. It was\nselfishness which first made him sport with your affections; which\nafterwards, when his own were engaged, made him delay the confession of\nit, and which finally carried him from Barton. His own enjoyment, or\nhis own ease, was, in every particular, his ruling principle. \n\n It is very true. _My_ happiness never was his object. \n\n At present,  continued Elinor,  he regrets what he has done. And why\ndoes he regret it? Because he finds it has not answered towards\nhimself. It has not made him happy. His circumstances are now\nunembarrassed he suffers from no evil of that kind; and he thinks only\nthat he has married a woman of a less amiable temper than yourself. But\ndoes it follow that had he married you, he would have been happy? The\ninconveniences would have been different. He would then have suffered\nunder the pecuniary distresses which, because they are removed, he now\nreckons as nothing. He would have had a wife of whose temper he could\nmake no complaint, but he would have been always necessitous always\npoor; and probably would soon have learned to rank the innumerable\ncomforts of a clear estate and good income as of far more importance,\neven to domestic happiness, than the mere temper of a wife. \n\n I have not a doubt of it,  said Marianne;  and I have nothing to\nregret nothing but my own folly. \n\n Rather say your mother s imprudence, my child,  said Mrs. Dashwood;\n _she_ must be answerable. \n\nMarianne would not let her proceed; and Elinor, satisfied that each\nfelt their own error, wished to avoid any survey of the past that might\nweaken her sister s spirits; she, therefore, pursuing the first\nsubject, immediately continued,\n\n _One_ observation may, I think, be fairly drawn from the whole of the\nstory that all Willoughby s difficulties have arisen from the first\noffence against virtue, in his behaviour to Eliza Williams. That crime\nhas been the origin of every lesser one, and of all his present\ndiscontents. \n\nMarianne assented most feelingly to the remark; and her mother was led\nby it to an enumeration of Colonel Brandon s injuries and merits, warm\nas friendship and design could unitedly dictate. Her daughter did not\nlook, however, as if much of it were heard by her.\n\nElinor, according to her expectation, saw on the two or three following\ndays, that Marianne did not continue to gain strength as she had done;\nbut while her resolution was unsubdued, and she still tried to appear\ncheerful and easy, her sister could safely trust to the effect of time\nupon her health.\n\nMargaret returned, and the family were again all restored to each\nother, again quietly settled at the cottage; and if not pursuing their\nusual studies with quite so much vigour as when they first came to\nBarton, at least planning a vigorous prosecution of them in future.\n\nElinor grew impatient for some tidings of Edward. She had heard nothing\nof him since her leaving London, nothing new of his plans, nothing\ncertain even of his present abode. Some letters had passed between her\nand her brother, in consequence of Marianne s illness; and in the first\nof John s, there had been this sentence: We know nothing of our\nunfortunate Edward, and can make no enquiries on so prohibited a\nsubject, but conclude him to be still at Oxford;  which was all the\nintelligence of Edward afforded her by the correspondence, for his name\nwas not even mentioned in any of the succeeding letters. She was not\ndoomed, however, to be long in ignorance of his measures.\n\nTheir man-servant had been sent one morning to Exeter on business; and\nwhen, as he waited at table, he had satisfied the inquiries of his\nmistress as to the event of his errand, this was his voluntary\ncommunication, \n\n I suppose you know, ma am, that Mr. Ferrars is married. \n\nMarianne gave a violent start, fixed her eyes upon Elinor, saw her\nturning pale, and fell back in her chair in hysterics. Mrs. Dashwood,\nwhose eyes, as she answered the servant s inquiry, had intuitively\ntaken the same direction, was shocked to perceive by Elinor s\ncountenance how much she really suffered, and a moment afterwards,\nalike distressed by Marianne s situation, knew not on which child to\nbestow her principal attention.\n\nThe servant, who saw only that Miss Marianne was taken ill, had sense\nenough to call one of the maids, who, with Mrs. Dashwood s assistance,\nsupported her into the other room. By that time, Marianne was rather\nbetter, and her mother leaving her to the care of Margaret and the\nmaid, returned to Elinor, who, though still much disordered, had so far\nrecovered the use of her reason and voice as to be just beginning an\ninquiry of Thomas, as to the source of his intelligence. Mrs. Dashwood\nimmediately took all that trouble on herself; and Elinor had the\nbenefit of the information without the exertion of seeking it.\n\n Who told you that Mr. Ferrars was married, Thomas? \n\n I see Mr. Ferrars myself, ma am, this morning in Exeter, and his lady\ntoo, Miss Steele as was. They was stopping in a chaise at the door of\nthe New London Inn, as I went there with a message from Sally at the\nPark to her brother, who is one of the post-boys. I happened to look up\nas I went by the chaise, and so I see directly it was the youngest Miss\nSteele; so I took off my hat, and she knew me and called to me, and\ninquired after you, ma am, and the young ladies, especially Miss\nMarianne, and bid me I should give her compliments and Mr. Ferrars s,\ntheir best compliments and service, and how sorry they was they had not\ntime to come on and see you, but they was in a great hurry to go\nforwards, for they was going further down for a little while, but\nhowsever, when they come back, they d make sure to come and see you. \n\n But did she tell you she was married, Thomas? \n\n Yes, ma am. She smiled, and said how she had changed her name since\nshe was in these parts. She was always a very affable and free-spoken\nyoung lady, and very civil behaved. So, I made free to wish her joy. \n\n Was Mr. Ferrars in the carriage with her? \n\n Yes, ma am, I just see him leaning back in it, but he did not look\nup; he never was a gentleman much for talking. \n\nElinor s heart could easily account for his not putting himself\nforward; and Mrs. Dashwood probably found the same explanation.\n\n Was there no one else in the carriage? \n\n No, ma am, only they two. \n\n Do you know where they came from? \n\n They come straight from town, as Miss Lucy Mrs. Ferrars told me. \n\n And are they going farther westward? \n\n Yes, ma am but not to bide long. They will soon be back again, and\nthen they d be sure and call here. \n\nMrs. Dashwood now looked at her daughter; but Elinor knew better than\nto expect them. She recognised the whole of Lucy in the message, and\nwas very confident that Edward would never come near them. She observed\nin a low voice, to her mother, that they were probably going down to\nMr. Pratt s, near Plymouth.\n\nThomas s intelligence seemed over. Elinor looked as if she wished to\nhear more.\n\n Did you see them off, before you came away? \n\n No, ma am the horses were just coming out, but I could not bide any\nlonger; I was afraid of being late. \n\n Did Mrs. Ferrars look well? \n\n Yes, ma am, she said how she was very well; and to my mind she was\nalways a very handsome young lady and she seemed vastly contented. \n\nMrs. Dashwood could think of no other question, and Thomas and the\ntablecloth, now alike needless, were soon afterwards dismissed.\nMarianne had already sent to say, that she should eat nothing more.\nMrs. Dashwood s and Elinor s appetites were equally lost, and Margaret\nmight think herself very well off, that with so much uneasiness as both\nher sisters had lately experienced, so much reason as they had often\nhad to be careless of their meals, she had never been obliged to go\nwithout her dinner before.\n\nWhen the dessert and the wine were arranged, and Mrs. Dashwood and\nElinor were left by themselves, they remained long together in a\nsimilarity of thoughtfulness and silence. Mrs. Dashwood feared to\nhazard any remark, and ventured not to offer consolation. She now found\nthat she had erred in relying on Elinor s representation of herself;\nand justly concluded that every thing had been expressly softened at\nthe time, to spare her from an increase of unhappiness, suffering as\nshe then had suffered for Marianne. She found that she had been misled\nby the careful, the considerate attention of her daughter, to think the\nattachment, which once she had so well understood, much slighter in\nreality, than she had been wont to believe, or than it was now proved\nto be. She feared that under this persuasion she had been unjust,\ninattentive, nay, almost unkind, to her Elinor; that Marianne s\naffliction, because more acknowledged, more immediately before her, had\ntoo much engrossed her tenderness, and led her away to forget that in\nElinor she might have a daughter suffering almost as much, certainly\nwith less self-provocation, and greater fortitude.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVIII.\n\n\nElinor now found the difference between the expectation of an\nunpleasant event, however certain the mind may be told to consider it,\nand certainty itself. She now found, that in spite of herself, she had\nalways admitted a hope, while Edward remained single, that something\nwould occur to prevent his marrying Lucy; that some resolution of his\nown, some mediation of friends, or some more eligible opportunity of\nestablishment for the lady, would arise to assist the happiness of all.\nBut he was now married; and she condemned her heart for the lurking\nflattery, which so much heightened the pain of the intelligence.\n\nThat he should be married soon, before (as she imagined) he could be in\norders, and consequently before he could be in possession of the\nliving, surprised her a little at first. But she soon saw how likely it\nwas that Lucy, in her self-provident care, in her haste to secure him,\nshould overlook every thing but the risk of delay. They were married,\nmarried in town, and now hastening down to her uncle s. What had Edward\nfelt on being within four miles from Barton, on seeing her mother s\nservant, on hearing Lucy s message!\n\nThey would soon, she supposed, be settled at Delaford. Delaford, that\nplace in which so much conspired to give her an interest; which she\nwished to be acquainted with, and yet desired to avoid. She saw them in\nan instant in their parsonage-house; saw in Lucy, the active,\ncontriving manager, uniting at once a desire of smart appearance with\nthe utmost frugality, and ashamed to be suspected of half her\neconomical practices; pursuing her own interest in every thought,\ncourting the favour of Colonel Brandon, of Mrs. Jennings, and of every\nwealthy friend. In Edward she knew not what she saw, nor what she\nwished to see; happy or unhappy, nothing pleased her; she turned away\nher head from every sketch of him.\n\nElinor flattered herself that some one of their connections in London\nwould write to them to announce the event, and give farther\nparticulars, but day after day passed off, and brought no letter, no\ntidings. Though uncertain that any one were to blame, she found fault\nwith every absent friend. They were all thoughtless or indolent.\n\n When do you write to Colonel Brandon, ma am?  was an inquiry which\nsprung from the impatience of her mind to have something going on.\n\n I wrote to him, my love, last week, and rather expect to see, than to\nhear from him again. I earnestly pressed his coming to us, and should\nnot be surprised to see him walk in today or tomorrow, or any day. \n\nThis was gaining something, something to look forward to. Colonel\nBrandon _must_ have some information to give.\n\nScarcely had she so determined it, when the figure of a man on\nhorseback drew her eyes to the window. He stopt at their gate. It was a\ngentleman, it was Colonel Brandon himself. Now she could hear more; and\nshe trembled in expectation of it. But it was _not_ Colonel Brandon;\nneither his air, nor his height. Were it possible, she must say it must\nbe Edward. She looked again. He had just dismounted: she could not be\nmistaken, it _was_ Edward. She moved away and sat down.  He comes from\nMr. Pratt s purposely to see us. I _will_ be calm; I _will_ be mistress\nof myself. \n\nIn a moment she perceived that the others were likewise aware of the\nmistake. She saw her mother and Marianne change colour; saw them look\nat herself, and whisper a few sentences to each other. She would have\ngiven the world to be able to speak and to make them understand that\nshe hoped no coolness, no slight, would appear in their behaviour to\nhim; but she had no utterance, and was obliged to leave all to their\nown discretion.\n\nNot a syllable passed aloud. They all waited in silence for the\nappearance of their visitor. His footsteps were heard along the gravel\npath; in a moment he was in the passage, and in another he was before\nthem.\n\nHis countenance, as he entered the room, was not too happy, even for\nElinor. His complexion was white with agitation, and he looked as if\nfearful of his reception, and conscious that he merited no kind one.\nMrs. Dashwood, however, conforming, as she trusted, to the wishes of\nthat daughter, by whom she then meant in the warmth of her heart to be\nguided in every thing, met him with a look of forced complacency, gave\nhim her hand, and wished him joy.\n\nHe coloured, and stammered out an unintelligible reply. Elinor s lips\nhad moved with her mother s, and, when the moment of action was over,\nshe wished that she had shaken hands with him too. But it was then too\nlate, and with a countenance meaning to be open, she sat down again and\ntalked of the weather.\n\nMarianne had retreated as much as possible out of sight, to conceal her\ndistress; and Margaret, understanding some part, but not the whole of\nthe case, thought it incumbent on her to be dignified, and therefore\ntook a seat as far from him as she could, and maintained a strict\nsilence.\n\nWhen Elinor had ceased to rejoice in the dryness of the season, a very\nawful pause took place. It was put an end to by Mrs. Dashwood, who felt\nobliged to hope that he had left Mrs. Ferrars very well. In a hurried\nmanner, he replied in the affirmative.\n\nAnother pause.\n\nElinor resolving to exert herself, though fearing the sound of her own\nvoice, now said,\n\n Is Mrs. Ferrars at Longstaple? \n\n At Longstaple!  he replied, with an air of surprise.  No, my mother is\nin town. \n\n I meant,  said Elinor, taking up some work from the table,  to enquire\nfor Mrs. _Edward_ Ferrars. \n\nShe dared not look up; but her mother and Marianne both turned their\neyes on him. He coloured, seemed perplexed, looked doubtingly, and,\nafter some hesitation, said, \n\n Perhaps you mean my brother you mean Mrs. Mrs. _Robert_ Ferrars. \n\n Mrs. Robert Ferrars!  was repeated by Marianne and her mother in an\naccent of the utmost amazement; and though Elinor could not speak, even\n_her_ eyes were fixed on him with the same impatient wonder. He rose\nfrom his seat, and walked to the window, apparently from not knowing\nwhat to do; took up a pair of scissors that lay there, and while\nspoiling both them and their sheath by cutting the latter to pieces as\nhe spoke, said, in a hurried voice, \n\n Perhaps you do not know: you may not have heard that my brother is\nlately married to to the youngest to Miss Lucy Steele. \n\nHis words were echoed with unspeakable astonishment by all but Elinor,\nwho sat with her head leaning over her work, in a state of such\nagitation as made her hardly know where she was.\n\n Yes,  said he,  they were married last week, and are now at Dawlish. \n\nElinor could sit it no longer. She almost ran out of the room, and as\nsoon as the door was closed, burst into tears of joy, which at first\nshe thought would never cease. Edward, who had till then looked any\nwhere, rather than at her, saw her hurry away, and perhaps saw or even\nheard, her emotion; for immediately afterwards he fell into a reverie,\nwhich no remarks, no inquiries, no affectionate address of Mrs.\nDashwood could penetrate, and at last, without saying a word, quitted\nthe room, and walked out towards the village leaving the others in the\ngreatest astonishment and perplexity on a change in his situation, so\nwonderful and so sudden; a perplexity which they had no means of\nlessening but by their own conjectures.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIX.\n\n\nUnaccountable, however, as the circumstances of his release might\nappear to the whole family, it was certain that Edward was free; and to\nwhat purpose that freedom would be employed was easily pre-determined\nby all; for after experiencing the blessings of _one_ imprudent\nengagement, contracted without his mother s consent, as he had already\ndone for more than four years, nothing less could be expected of him in\nthe failure of _that_, than the immediate contraction of another.\n\nHis errand at Barton, in fact, was a simple one. It was only to ask\nElinor to marry him; and considering that he was not altogether\ninexperienced in such a question, it might be strange that he should\nfeel so uncomfortable in the present case as he really did, so much in\nneed of encouragement and fresh air.\n\nHow soon he had walked himself into the proper resolution, however, how\nsoon an opportunity of exercising it occurred, in what manner he\nexpressed himself, and how he was received, need not be particularly\ntold. This only need be said; that when they all sat down to table at\nfour o clock, about three hours after his arrival, he had secured his\nlady, engaged her mother s consent, and was not only in the rapturous\nprofession of the lover, but, in the reality of reason and truth, one\nof the happiest of men. His situation indeed was more than commonly\njoyful. He had more than the ordinary triumph of accepted love to swell\nhis heart, and raise his spirits. He was released without any reproach\nto himself, from an entanglement which had long formed his misery, from\na woman whom he had long ceased to love; and elevated at once to that\nsecurity with another, which he must have thought of almost with\ndespair, as soon as he had learnt to consider it with desire. He was\nbrought, not from doubt or suspense, but from misery to happiness; and\nthe change was openly spoken in such a genuine, flowing, grateful\ncheerfulness, as his friends had never witnessed in him before.\n\nHis heart was now open to Elinor, all its weaknesses, all its errors\nconfessed, and his first boyish attachment to Lucy treated with all the\nphilosophic dignity of twenty-four.\n\n It was a foolish, idle inclination on my side,  said he,  the\nconsequence of ignorance of the world, and want of employment. Had my\nmother given me some active profession when I was removed at eighteen\nfrom the care of Mr. Pratt, I think, nay, I am sure, it would never\nhave happened; for though I left Longstaple with what I thought, at the\ntime, a most unconquerable preference for his niece, yet had I then had\nany pursuit, any object to engage my time and keep me at a distance\nfrom her for a few months, I should very soon have outgrown the fancied\nattachment, especially by mixing more with the world, as in such case I\nmust have done. But instead of having any thing to do, instead of\nhaving any profession chosen for me, or being allowed to chuse any\nmyself, I returned home to be completely idle; and for the first\ntwelvemonth afterwards I had not even the nominal employment, which\nbelonging to the university would have given me; for I was not entered\nat Oxford till I was nineteen. I had therefore nothing in the world to\ndo, but to fancy myself in love; and as my mother did not make my home\nin every respect comfortable, as I had no friend, no companion in my\nbrother, and disliked new acquaintance, it was not unnatural for me to\nbe very often at Longstaple, where I always felt myself at home, and\nwas always sure of a welcome; and accordingly I spent the greatest part\nof my time there from eighteen to nineteen: Lucy appeared everything\nthat was amiable and obliging. She was pretty too at least I thought so\n_then;_ and I had seen so little of other women, that I could make no\ncomparisons, and see no defects. Considering everything, therefore, I\nhope, foolish as our engagement was, foolish as it has since in every\nway been proved, it was not at the time an unnatural or an inexcusable\npiece of folly. \n\nThe change which a few hours had wrought in the minds and the happiness\nof the Dashwoods, was such so great as promised them all, the\nsatisfaction of a sleepless night. Mrs. Dashwood, too happy to be\ncomfortable, knew not how to love Edward, nor praise Elinor enough, how\nto be enough thankful for his release without wounding his delicacy,\nnor how at once to give them leisure for unrestrained conversation\ntogether, and yet enjoy, as she wished, the sight and society of both.\n\nMarianne could speak _her_ happiness only by tears. Comparisons would\noccur regrets would arise; and her joy, though sincere as her love for\nher sister, was of a kind to give her neither spirits nor language.\n\nBut Elinor how are _her_ feelings to be described? From the moment of\nlearning that Lucy was married to another, that Edward was free, to the\nmoment of his justifying the hopes which had so instantly followed, she\nwas every thing by turns but tranquil. But when the second moment had\npassed, when she found every doubt, every solicitude removed, compared\nher situation with what so lately it had been, saw him honourably\nreleased from his former engagement, saw him instantly profiting by the\nrelease, to address herself and declare an affection as tender, as\nconstant as she had ever supposed it to be, she was oppressed, she was\novercome by her own felicity; and happily disposed as is the human mind\nto be easily familiarized with any change for the better, it required\nseveral hours to give sedateness to her spirits, or any degree of\ntranquillity to her heart.\n\nEdward was now fixed at the cottage at least for a week; for whatever\nother claims might be made on him, it was impossible that less than a\nweek should be given up to the enjoyment of Elinor s company, or\nsuffice to say half that was to be said of the past, the present, and\nthe future; for though a very few hours spent in the hard labor of\nincessant talking will despatch more subjects than can really be in\ncommon between any two rational creatures, yet with lovers it is\ndifferent. Between _them_ no subject is finished, no communication is\neven made, till it has been made at least twenty times over.\n\nLucy s marriage, the unceasing and reasonable wonder among them all,\nformed of course one of the earliest discussions of the lovers; and\nElinor s particular knowledge of each party made it appear to her in\nevery view, as one of the most extraordinary and unaccountable\ncircumstances she had ever heard. How they could be thrown together,\nand by what attraction Robert could be drawn on to marry a girl, of\nwhose beauty she had herself heard him speak without any admiration, a\ngirl too already engaged to his brother, and on whose account that\nbrother had been thrown off by his family it was beyond her\ncomprehension to make out. To her own heart it was a delightful affair,\nto her imagination it was even a ridiculous one, but to her reason, her\njudgment, it was completely a puzzle.\n\nEdward could only attempt an explanation by supposing, that, perhaps,\nat first accidentally meeting, the vanity of the one had been so worked\non by the flattery of the other, as to lead by degrees to all the rest.\nElinor remembered what Robert had told her in Harley Street, of his\nopinion of what his own mediation in his brother s affairs might have\ndone, if applied to in time. She repeated it to Edward.\n\n _That_ was exactly like Robert,  was his immediate observation.  And\n_that_,  he presently added,  might perhaps be in _his_ head when the\nacquaintance between them first began. And Lucy perhaps at first might\nthink only of procuring his good offices in my favour. Other designs\nmight afterward arise. \n\nHow long it had been carrying on between them, however, he was equally\nat a loss with herself to make out; for at Oxford, where he had\nremained for choice ever since his quitting London, he had had no means\nof hearing of her but from herself, and her letters to the very last\nwere neither less frequent, nor less affectionate than usual. Not the\nsmallest suspicion, therefore, had ever occurred to prepare him for\nwhat followed; and when at last it burst on him in a letter from Lucy\nherself, he had been for some time, he believed, half stupified between\nthe wonder, the horror, and the joy of such a deliverance. He put the\nletter into Elinor s hands.\n\n DEAR SIR,\n     Being very sure I have long lost your affections, I have thought\n    myself at liberty to bestow my own on another, and have no doubt of\n    being as happy with him as I once used to think I might be with\n    you; but I scorn to accept a hand while the heart was another s.\n    Sincerely wish you happy in your choice, and it shall not be my\n    fault if we are not always good friends, as our near relationship\n    now makes proper. I can safely say I owe you no ill-will, and am\n    sure you will be too generous to do us any ill offices. Your\n    brother has gained my affections entirely, and as we could not live\n    without one another, we are just returned from the altar, and are\n    now on our way to Dawlish for a few weeks, which place your dear\n    brother has great curiosity to see, but thought I would first\n    trouble you with these few lines, and shall always remain,\n\n\n Your sincere well-wisher, friend, and sister,\n LUCY FERRARS.\n\n\n I have burnt all your letters, and will return your picture the first\nopportunity. Please to destroy my scrawls but the ring with my hair you\nare very welcome to keep. \n\nElinor read and returned it without any comment.\n\n I will not ask your opinion of it as a composition,  said Edward. For\nworlds would not I have had a letter of hers seen by _you_ in former\ndays. In a sister it is bad enough, but in a wife! how I have blushed\nover the pages of her writing! and I believe I may say that since the\nfirst half year of our foolish business this is the only letter I ever\nreceived from her, of which the substance made me any amends for the\ndefect of the style. \n\n However it may have come about,  said Elinor, after a pause, they are\ncertainly married. And your mother has brought on herself a most\nappropriate punishment. The independence she settled on Robert, through\nresentment against you, has put it in his power to make his own choice;\nand she has actually been bribing one son with a thousand a-year, to do\nthe very deed which she disinherited the other for intending to do. She\nwill hardly be less hurt, I suppose, by Robert s marrying Lucy, than\nshe would have been by your marrying her. \n\n She will be more hurt by it, for Robert always was her favourite. She\nwill be more hurt by it, and on the same principle will forgive him\nmuch sooner. \n\nIn what state the affair stood at present between them, Edward knew\nnot, for no communication with any of his family had yet been attempted\nby him. He had quitted Oxford within four and twenty hours after Lucy s\nletter arrived, and with only one object before him, the nearest road\nto Barton, had had no leisure to form any scheme of conduct, with which\nthat road did not hold the most intimate connection. He could do\nnothing till he were assured of his fate with Miss Dashwood; and by his\nrapidity in seeking _that_ fate, it is to be supposed, in spite of the\njealousy with which he had once thought of Colonel Brandon, in spite of\nthe modesty with which he rated his own deserts, and the politeness\nwith which he talked of his doubts, he did not, upon the whole, expect\na very cruel reception. It was his business, however, to say that he\n_did_, and he said it very prettily. What he might say on the subject a\ntwelvemonth after, must be referred to the imagination of husbands and\nwives.\n\nThat Lucy had certainly meant to deceive, to go off with a flourish of\nmalice against him in her message by Thomas, was perfectly clear to\nElinor; and Edward himself, now thoroughly enlightened on her\ncharacter, had no scruple in believing her capable of the utmost\nmeanness of wanton ill-nature. Though his eyes had been long opened,\neven before his acquaintance with Elinor began, to her ignorance and a\nwant of liberality in some of her opinions they had been equally\nimputed, by him, to her want of education; and till her last letter\nreached him, he had always believed her to be a well-disposed,\ngood-hearted girl, and thoroughly attached to himself. Nothing but such\na persuasion could have prevented his putting an end to an engagement,\nwhich, long before the discovery of it laid him open to his mother s\nanger, had been a continual source of disquiet and regret to him.\n\n I thought it my duty,  said he,  independent of my feelings, to give\nher the option of continuing the engagement or not, when I was\nrenounced by my mother, and stood to all appearance without a friend in\nthe world to assist me. In such a situation as that, where there seemed\nnothing to tempt the avarice or the vanity of any living creature, how\ncould I suppose, when she so earnestly, so warmly insisted on sharing\nmy fate, whatever it might be, that any thing but the most\ndisinterested affection was her inducement? And even now, I cannot\ncomprehend on what motive she acted, or what fancied advantage it could\nbe to her, to be fettered to a man for whom she had not the smallest\nregard, and who had only two thousand pounds in the world. She could\nnot foresee that Colonel Brandon would give me a living. \n\n No; but she might suppose that something would occur in your favour;\nthat your own family might in time relent. And at any rate, she lost\nnothing by continuing the engagement, for she has proved that it\nfettered neither her inclination nor her actions. The connection was\ncertainly a respectable one, and probably gained her consideration\namong her friends; and, if nothing more advantageous occurred, it would\nbe better for her to marry _you_ than be single. \n\nEdward was, of course, immediately convinced that nothing could have\nbeen more natural than Lucy s conduct, nor more self-evident than the\nmotive of it.\n\nElinor scolded him, harshly as ladies always scold the imprudence which\ncompliments themselves, for having spent so much time with them at\nNorland, when he must have felt his own inconstancy.\n\n Your behaviour was certainly very wrong,  said she;  because to say\nnothing of my own conviction, our relations were all led away by it to\nfancy and expect _what_, as you were _then_ situated, could never be. \n\nHe could only plead an ignorance of his own heart, and a mistaken\nconfidence in the force of his engagement.\n\n I was simple enough to think, that because my _faith_ was plighted to\nanother, there could be no danger in my being with you; and that the\nconsciousness of my engagement was to keep my heart as safe and sacred\nas my honour. I felt that I admired you, but I told myself it was only\nfriendship; and till I began to make comparisons between yourself and\nLucy, I did not know how far I was got. After that, I suppose, I _was_\nwrong in remaining so much in Sussex, and the arguments with which I\nreconciled myself to the expediency of it, were no better than\nthese: The danger is my own; I am doing no injury to anybody but\nmyself. \n\nElinor smiled, and shook her head.\n\nEdward heard with pleasure of Colonel Brandon s being expected at the\nCottage, as he really wished not only to be better acquainted with him,\nbut to have an opportunity of convincing him that he no longer resented\nhis giving him the living of Delaford Which, at present,  said he,\n after thanks so ungraciously delivered as mine were on the occasion,\nhe must think I have never forgiven him for offering. \n\n_Now_ he felt astonished himself that he had never yet been to the\nplace. But so little interest had he taken in the matter, that he owed\nall his knowledge of the house, garden, and glebe, extent of the\nparish, condition of the land, and rate of the tithes, to Elinor\nherself, who had heard so much of it from Colonel Brandon, and heard it\nwith so much attention, as to be entirely mistress of the subject.\n\nOne question after this only remained undecided, between them, one\ndifficulty only was to be overcome. They were brought together by\nmutual affection, with the warmest approbation of their real friends;\ntheir intimate knowledge of each other seemed to make their happiness\ncertain and they only wanted something to live upon. Edward had two\nthousand pounds, and Elinor one, which, with Delaford living, was all\nthat they could call their own; for it was impossible that Mrs.\nDashwood should advance anything; and they were neither of them quite\nenough in love to think that three hundred and fifty pounds a-year\nwould supply them with the comforts of life.\n\nEdward was not entirely without hopes of some favourable change in his\nmother towards him; and on _that_ he rested for the residue of their\nincome. But Elinor had no such dependence; for since Edward would still\nbe unable to marry Miss Morton, and his chusing herself had been spoken\nof in Mrs. Ferrars s flattering language as only a lesser evil than his\nchusing Lucy Steele, she feared that Robert s offence would serve no\nother purpose than to enrich Fanny.\n\nAbout four days after Edward s arrival Colonel Brandon appeared, to\ncomplete Mrs. Dashwood s satisfaction, and to give her the dignity of\nhaving, for the first time since her living at Barton, more company\nwith her than her house would hold. Edward was allowed to retain the\nprivilege of first comer, and Colonel Brandon therefore walked every\nnight to his old quarters at the Park; from whence he usually returned\nin the morning, early enough to interrupt the lovers  first t te- -t te\nbefore breakfast.\n\nA three weeks  residence at Delaford, where, in his evening hours at\nleast, he had little to do but to calculate the disproportion between\nthirty-six and seventeen, brought him to Barton in a temper of mind\nwhich needed all the improvement in Marianne s looks, all the kindness\nof her welcome, and all the encouragement of her mother s language, to\nmake it cheerful. Among such friends, however, and such flattery, he\ndid revive. No rumour of Lucy s marriage had yet reached him: he knew\nnothing of what had passed; and the first hours of his visit were\nconsequently spent in hearing and in wondering. Every thing was\nexplained to him by Mrs. Dashwood, and he found fresh reason to rejoice\nin what he had done for Mr. Ferrars, since eventually it promoted the\ninterest of Elinor.\n\nIt would be needless to say, that the gentlemen advanced in the good\nopinion of each other, as they advanced in each other s acquaintance,\nfor it could not be otherwise. Their resemblance in good principles and\ngood sense, in disposition and manner of thinking, would probably have\nbeen sufficient to unite them in friendship, without any other\nattraction; but their being in love with two sisters, and two sisters\nfond of each other, made that mutual regard inevitable and immediate,\nwhich might otherwise have waited the effect of time and judgment.\n\nThe letters from town, which a few days before would have made every\nnerve in Elinor s body thrill with transport, now arrived to be read\nwith less emotion than mirth. Mrs. Jennings wrote to tell the wonderful\ntale, to vent her honest indignation against the jilting girl, and pour\nforth her compassion towards poor Mr. Edward, who, she was sure, had\nquite doted upon the worthless hussy, and was now, by all accounts,\nalmost broken-hearted, at Oxford.  I do think,  she continued,  nothing\nwas ever carried on so sly; for it was but two days before Lucy called\nand sat a couple of hours with me. Not a soul suspected anything of the\nmatter, not even Nancy, who, poor soul! came crying to me the day\nafter, in a great fright for fear of Mrs. Ferrars, as well as not\nknowing how to get to Plymouth; for Lucy it seems borrowed all her\nmoney before she went off to be married, on purpose we suppose to make\na show with, and poor Nancy had not seven shillings in the world; so I\nwas very glad to give her five guineas to take her down to Exeter,\nwhere she thinks of staying three or four weeks with Mrs. Burgess, in\nhopes, as I tell her, to fall in with the Doctor again. And I must say\nthat Lucy s crossness not to take them along with them in the chaise is\nworse than all. Poor Mr. Edward! I cannot get him out of my head, but\nyou must send for him to Barton, and Miss Marianne must try to comfort\nhim. \n\nMr. Dashwood s strains were more solemn. Mrs. Ferrars was the most\nunfortunate of women poor Fanny had suffered agonies of sensibility and\nhe considered the existence of each, under such a blow, with grateful\nwonder. Robert s offence was unpardonable, but Lucy s was infinitely\nworse. Neither of them were ever again to be mentioned to Mrs. Ferrars;\nand even, if she might hereafter be induced to forgive her son, his\nwife should never be acknowledged as her daughter, nor be permitted to\nappear in her presence. The secrecy with which everything had been\ncarried on between them, was rationally treated as enormously\nheightening the crime, because, had any suspicion of it occurred to the\nothers, proper measures would have been taken to prevent the marriage;\nand he called on Elinor to join with him in regretting that Lucy s\nengagement with Edward had not rather been fulfilled, than that she\nshould thus be the means of spreading misery farther in the family. He\nthus continued: \n\n Mrs. Ferrars has never yet mentioned Edward s name, which does not\nsurprise us; but, to our great astonishment, not a line has been\nreceived from him on the occasion. Perhaps, however, he is kept silent\nby his fear of offending, and I shall, therefore, give him a hint, by a\nline to Oxford, that his sister and I both think a letter of proper\nsubmission from him, addressed perhaps to Fanny, and by her shown to\nher mother, might not be taken amiss; for we all know the tenderness of\nMrs. Ferrars s heart, and that she wishes for nothing so much as to be\non good terms with her children. \n\nThis paragraph was of some importance to the prospects and conduct of\nEdward. It determined him to attempt a reconciliation, though not\nexactly in the manner pointed out by their brother and sister.\n\n A letter of proper submission!  repeated he;  would they have me beg\nmy mother s pardon for Robert s ingratitude to _her_, and breach of\nhonour to _me?_ I can make no submission. I am grown neither humble nor\npenitent by what has passed. I am grown very happy; but that would not\ninterest. I know of no submission that _is_ proper for me to make. \n\n You may certainly ask to be forgiven,  said Elinor,  because you have\noffended; and I should think you might _now_ venture so far as to\nprofess some concern for having ever formed the engagement which drew\non you your mother s anger. \n\nHe agreed that he might.\n\n And when she has forgiven you, perhaps a little humility may be\nconvenient while acknowledging a second engagement, almost as imprudent\nin _her_ eyes as the first. \n\nHe had nothing to urge against it, but still resisted the idea of a\nletter of proper submission; and therefore, to make it easier to him,\nas he declared a much greater willingness to make mean concessions by\nword of mouth than on paper, it was resolved that, instead of writing\nto Fanny, he should go to London, and personally intreat her good\noffices in his favour.  And if they really _do_ interest themselves, \nsaid Marianne, in her new character of candour,  in bringing about a\nreconciliation, I shall think that even John and Fanny are not entirely\nwithout merit. \n\nAfter a visit on Colonel Brandon s side of only three or four days, the\ntwo gentlemen quitted Barton together. They were to go immediately to\nDelaford, that Edward might have some personal knowledge of his future\nhome, and assist his patron and friend in deciding on what improvements\nwere needed to it; and from thence, after staying there a couple of\nnights, he was to proceed on his journey to town.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER L.\n\n\nAfter a proper resistance on the part of Mrs. Ferrars, just so violent\nand so steady as to preserve her from that reproach which she always\nseemed fearful of incurring, the reproach of being too amiable, Edward\nwas admitted to her presence, and pronounced to be again her son.\n\nHer family had of late been exceedingly fluctuating. For many years of\nher life she had had two sons; but the crime and annihilation of Edward\na few weeks ago, had robbed her of one; the similar annihilation of\nRobert had left her for a fortnight without any; and now, by the\nresuscitation of Edward, she had one again.\n\nIn spite of his being allowed once more to live, however, he did not\nfeel the continuance of his existence secure, till he had revealed his\npresent engagement; for the publication of that circumstance, he\nfeared, might give a sudden turn to his constitution, and carry him off\nas rapidly as before. With apprehensive caution therefore it was\nrevealed, and he was listened to with unexpected calmness. Mrs. Ferrars\nat first reasonably endeavoured to dissuade him from marrying Miss\nDashwood, by every argument in her power; told him, that in Miss Morton\nhe would have a woman of higher rank and larger fortune; and enforced\nthe assertion, by observing that Miss Morton was the daughter of a\nnobleman with thirty thousand pounds, while Miss Dashwood was only the\ndaughter of a private gentleman with no more than _three;_ but when she\nfound that, though perfectly admitting the truth of her representation,\nhe was by no means inclined to be guided by it, she judged it wisest,\nfrom the experience of the past, to submit and therefore, after such an\nungracious delay as she owed to her own dignity, and as served to\nprevent every suspicion of good-will, she issued her decree of consent\nto the marriage of Edward and Elinor.\n\nWhat she would engage to do towards augmenting their income was next to\nbe considered; and here it plainly appeared, that though Edward was now\nher only son, he was by no means her eldest; for while Robert was\ninevitably endowed with a thousand pounds a-year, not the smallest\nobjection was made against Edward s taking orders for the sake of two\nhundred and fifty at the utmost; nor was anything promised either for\nthe present or in future, beyond the ten thousand pounds, which had\nbeen given with Fanny.\n\nIt was as much, however, as was desired, and more than was expected, by\nEdward and Elinor; and Mrs. Ferrars herself, by her shuffling excuses,\nseemed the only person surprised at her not giving more.\n\nWith an income quite sufficient to their wants thus secured to them,\nthey had nothing to wait for after Edward was in possession of the\nliving, but the readiness of the house, to which Colonel Brandon, with\nan eager desire for the accommodation of Elinor, was making\nconsiderable improvements; and after waiting some time for their\ncompletion, after experiencing, as usual, a thousand disappointments\nand delays from the unaccountable dilatoriness of the workmen, Elinor,\nas usual, broke through the first positive resolution of not marrying\ntill every thing was ready, and the ceremony took place in Barton\nchurch early in the autumn.\n\nThe first month after their marriage was spent with their friend at the\nMansion-house; from whence they could superintend the progress of the\nParsonage, and direct every thing as they liked on the spot; could\nchuse papers, project shrubberies, and invent a sweep. Mrs. Jennings s\nprophecies, though rather jumbled together, were chiefly fulfilled; for\nshe was able to visit Edward and his wife in their Parsonage by\nMichaelmas, and she found in Elinor and her husband, as she really\nbelieved, one of the happiest couples in the world. They had in fact\nnothing to wish for, but the marriage of Colonel Brandon and Marianne,\nand rather better pasturage for their cows.\n\nThey were visited on their first settling by almost all their relations\nand friends. Mrs. Ferrars came to inspect the happiness which she was\nalmost ashamed of having authorised; and even the Dashwoods were at the\nexpense of a journey from Sussex to do them honour.\n\n I will not say that I am disappointed, my dear sister,  said John, as\nthey were walking together one morning before the gates of Delaford\nHouse,  _that_ would be saying too much, for certainly you have been\none of the most fortunate young women in the world, as it is. But, I\nconfess, it would give me great pleasure to call Colonel Brandon\nbrother. His property here, his place, his house, every thing is in\nsuch respectable and excellent condition! And his woods, I have not\nseen such timber any where in Dorsetshire, as there is now standing in\nDelaford Hanger! And though, perhaps, Marianne may not seem exactly the\nperson to attract him, yet I think it would altogether be advisable for\nyou to have them now frequently staying with you, for as Colonel\nBrandon seems a great deal at home, nobody can tell what may happen;\nfor, when people are much thrown together, and see little of anybody\nelse, and it will always be in your power to set her off to advantage,\nand so forth. In short, you may as well give her a chance: you\nunderstand me. \n\nBut though Mrs. Ferrars _did_ come to see them, and always treated them\nwith the make-believe of decent affection, they were never insulted by\nher real favour and preference. _That_ was due to the folly of Robert,\nand the cunning of his wife; and it was earned by them before many\nmonths had passed away. The selfish sagacity of the latter, which had\nat first drawn Robert into the scrape, was the principal instrument of\nhis deliverance from it; for her respectful humility, assiduous\nattentions, and endless flatteries, as soon as the smallest opening was\ngiven for their exercise, reconciled Mrs. Ferrars to his choice, and\nre-established him completely in her favour.\n\nThe whole of Lucy s behaviour in the affair, and the prosperity which\ncrowned it, therefore, may be held forth as a most encouraging instance\nof what an earnest, an unceasing attention to self-interest, however\nits progress may be apparently obstructed, will do in securing every\nadvantage of fortune, with no other sacrifice than that of time and\nconscience. When Robert first sought her acquaintance, and privately\nvisited her in Bartlett s Buildings, it was only with the view imputed\nto him by his brother. He merely meant to persuade her to give up the\nengagement; and as there could be nothing to overcome but the affection\nof both, he naturally expected that one or two interviews would settle\nthe matter. In that point, however, and that only, he erred; for though\nLucy soon gave him hopes that his eloquence would convince her in\n_time_, another visit, another conversation, was always wanted to\nproduce this conviction. Some doubts always lingered in her mind when\nthey parted, which could only be removed by another half hour s\ndiscourse with himself. His attendance was by this means secured, and\nthe rest followed in course. Instead of talking of Edward, they came\ngradually to talk only of Robert, a subject on which he had always more\nto say than on any other, and in which she soon betrayed an interest\neven equal to his own; and in short, it became speedily evident to\nboth, that he had entirely supplanted his brother. He was proud of his\nconquest, proud of tricking Edward, and very proud of marrying\nprivately without his mother s consent. What immediately followed is\nknown. They passed some months in great happiness at Dawlish; for she\nhad many relations and old acquaintances to cut and he drew several\nplans for magnificent cottages; and from thence returning to town,\nprocured the forgiveness of Mrs. Ferrars, by the simple expedient of\nasking it, which, at Lucy s instigation, was adopted. The forgiveness,\nat first, indeed, as was reasonable, comprehended only Robert; and\nLucy, who had owed his mother no duty and therefore could have\ntransgressed none, still remained some weeks longer unpardoned. But\nperseverance in humility of conduct and messages, in self-condemnation\nfor Robert s offence, and gratitude for the unkindness she was treated\nwith, procured her in time the haughty notice which overcame her by its\ngraciousness, and led soon afterwards, by rapid degrees, to the highest\nstate of affection and influence. Lucy became as necessary to Mrs.\nFerrars, as either Robert or Fanny; and while Edward was never\ncordially forgiven for having once intended to marry her, and Elinor,\nthough superior to her in fortune and birth, was spoken of as an\nintruder, _she_ was in every thing considered, and always openly\nacknowledged, to be a favourite child. They settled in town, received\nvery liberal assistance from Mrs. Ferrars, were on the best terms\nimaginable with the Dashwoods; and setting aside the jealousies and\nill-will continually subsisting between Fanny and Lucy, in which their\nhusbands of course took a part, as well as the frequent domestic\ndisagreements between Robert and Lucy themselves, nothing could exceed\nthe harmony in which they all lived together.\n\nWhat Edward had done to forfeit the right of eldest son, might have\npuzzled many people to find out; and what Robert had done to succeed to\nit, might have puzzled them still more. It was an arrangement, however,\njustified in its effects, if not in its cause; for nothing ever\nappeared in Robert s style of living or of talking to give a suspicion\nof his regretting the extent of his income, as either leaving his\nbrother too little, or bringing himself too much; and if Edward might\nbe judged from the ready discharge of his duties in every particular,\nfrom an increasing attachment to his wife and his home, and from the\nregular cheerfulness of his spirits, he might be supposed no less\ncontented with his lot, no less free from every wish of an exchange.\n\nElinor s marriage divided her as little from her family as could well\nbe contrived, without rendering the cottage at Barton entirely useless,\nfor her mother and sisters spent much more than half their time with\nher. Mrs. Dashwood was acting on motives of policy as well as pleasure\nin the frequency of her visits at Delaford; for her wish of bringing\nMarianne and Colonel Brandon together was hardly less earnest, though\nrather more liberal than what John had expressed. It was now her\ndarling object. Precious as was the company of her daughter to her, she\ndesired nothing so much as to give up its constant enjoyment to her\nvalued friend; and to see Marianne settled at the mansion-house was\nequally the wish of Edward and Elinor. They each felt his sorrows, and\ntheir own obligations, and Marianne, by general consent, was to be the\nreward of all.\n\nWith such a confederacy against her with a knowledge so intimate of his\ngoodness with a conviction of his fond attachment to herself, which at\nlast, though long after it was observable to everybody else burst on\nher what could she do?\n\nMarianne Dashwood was born to an extraordinary fate. She was born to\ndiscover the falsehood of her own opinions, and to counteract, by her\nconduct, her most favourite maxims. She was born to overcome an\naffection formed so late in life as at seventeen, and with no sentiment\nsuperior to strong esteem and lively friendship, voluntarily to give\nher hand to another! and _that_ other, a man who had suffered no less\nthan herself under the event of a former attachment, whom, two years\nbefore, she had considered too old to be married, and who still sought\nthe constitutional safeguard of a flannel waistcoat!\n\nBut so it was. Instead of falling a sacrifice to an irresistible\npassion, as once she had fondly flattered herself with\nexpecting, instead of remaining even for ever with her mother, and\nfinding her only pleasures in retirement and study, as afterwards in\nher more calm and sober judgment she had determined on, she found\nherself at nineteen, submitting to new attachments, entering on new\nduties, placed in a new home, a wife, the mistress of a family, and the\npatroness of a village.\n\nColonel Brandon was now as happy, as all those who best loved him,\nbelieved he deserved to be; in Marianne he was consoled for every past\naffliction; her regard and her society restored his mind to animation,\nand his spirits to cheerfulness; and that Marianne found her own\nhappiness in forming his, was equally the persuasion and delight of\neach observing friend. Marianne could never love by halves; and her\nwhole heart became, in time, as much devoted to her husband, as it had\nonce been to Willoughby.\n\nWilloughby could not hear of her marriage without a pang; and his\npunishment was soon afterwards complete in the voluntary forgiveness of\nMrs. Smith, who, by stating his marriage with a woman of character, as\nthe source of her clemency, gave him reason for believing that had he\nbehaved with honour towards Marianne, he might at once have been happy\nand rich. That his repentance of misconduct, which thus brought its own\npunishment, was sincere, need not be doubted; nor that he long thought\nof Colonel Brandon with envy, and of Marianne with regret. But that he\nwas for ever inconsolable, that he fled from society, or contracted an\nhabitual gloom of temper, or died of a broken heart, must not be\ndepended on for he did neither. He lived to exert, and frequently to\nenjoy himself. His wife was not always out of humour, nor his home\nalways uncomfortable; and in his breed of horses and dogs, and in\nsporting of every kind, he found no inconsiderable degree of domestic\nfelicity.\n\nFor Marianne, however, in spite of his incivility in surviving her\nloss, he always retained that decided regard which interested him in\nevery thing that befell her, and made her his secret standard of\nperfection in woman; and many a rising beauty would be slighted by him\nin after-days as bearing no comparison with Mrs. Brandon.\n\nMrs. Dashwood was prudent enough to remain at the cottage, without\nattempting a removal to Delaford; and fortunately for Sir John and Mrs.\nJennings, when Marianne was taken from them, Margaret had reached an\nage highly suitable for dancing, and not very ineligible for being\nsupposed to have a lover.\n\nBetween Barton and Delaford, there was that constant communication\nwhich strong family affection would naturally dictate; and among the\nmerits and the happiness of Elinor and Marianne, let it not be ranked\nas the least considerable, that though sisters, and living almost\nwithin sight of each other, they could live without disagreement\nbetween themselves, or producing coolness between their husbands.\n\nTHE END"
    },
    {
        "title": "The Island of Doctor Moreau",
        "author": "H.G. Wells",
        "category": "Science Fiction",
        "EN": "INTRODUCTION.\n\n\nOn February the First 1887, the _Lady Vain_ was lost by collision with\na derelict when about the latitude 1  S. and longitude 107  W.\n\nOn January the Fifth, 1888 that is eleven months and four days after my\nuncle, Edward Prendick, a private gentleman, who certainly went aboard\nthe _Lady Vain_ at Callao, and who had been considered drowned, was\npicked up in latitude 5  3  S. and longitude 101  W. in a small open\nboat of which the name was illegible, but which is supposed to have\nbelonged to the missing schooner _Ipecacuanha_. He gave such a strange\naccount of himself that he was supposed demented. Subsequently he\nalleged that his mind was a blank from the moment of his escape from\nthe _Lady Vain_. His case was discussed among psychologists at the time\nas a curious instance of the lapse of memory consequent upon physical\nand mental stress. The following narrative was found among his papers\nby the undersigned, his nephew and heir, but unaccompanied by any\ndefinite request for publication.\n\nThe only island known to exist in the region in which my uncle was\npicked up is Noble s Isle, a small volcanic islet and uninhabited. It\nwas visited in 1891 by _H. M. S. Scorpion_. A party of sailors then\nlanded, but found nothing living thereon except certain curious white\nmoths, some hogs and rabbits, and some rather peculiar rats. So that\nthis narrative is without confirmation in its most essential\nparticular. With that understood, there seems no harm in putting this\nstrange story before the public in accordance, as I believe, with my\nuncle s intentions. There is at least this much in its behalf: my uncle\npassed out of human knowledge about latitude 5  S. and longitude 105 \nE., and reappeared in the same part of the ocean after a space of\neleven months. In some way he must have lived during the interval. And\nit seems that a schooner called the _Ipecacuanha_ with a drunken\ncaptain, John Davies, did start from Africa with a puma and certain\nother animals aboard in January, 1887, that the vessel was well known\nat several ports in the South Pacific, and that it finally disappeared\nfrom those seas (with a considerable amount of copra aboard), sailing\nto its unknown fate from Bayna in December, 1887, a date that tallies\nentirely with my uncle s story.\n\nCHARLES EDWARD PRENDICK.\n\n\n\n\nThe Island of Doctor Moreau\n\n(The Story written by Edward Prendick.)\n\n\n\n\nI.\nIN THE DINGEY OF THE  LADY VAIN. \n\n\nI do not propose to add anything to what has already been written\nconcerning the loss of the _Lady Vain_. As everyone knows, she collided\nwith a derelict when ten days out from Callao. The longboat, with seven\nof the crew, was picked up eighteen days after by H. M. gunboat\n_Myrtle_, and the story of their terrible privations has become quite\nas well known as the far more horrible _Medusa_ case. But I have to add\nto the published story of the _Lady Vain_ another, possibly as horrible\nand far stranger. It has hitherto been supposed that the four men who\nwere in the dingey perished, but this is incorrect. I have the best of\nevidence for this assertion: I was one of the four men.\n\nBut in the first place I must state that there never were _four_ men in\nthe dingey, the number was three. Constans, who was  seen by the\ncaptain to jump into the gig, [1] luckily for us and unluckily for\nhimself did not reach us. He came down out of the tangle of ropes under\nthe stays of the smashed bowsprit, some small rope caught his heel as\nhe let go, and he hung for a moment head downward, and then fell and\nstruck a block or spar floating in the water. We pulled towards him,\nbut he never came up.\n\n [1] _Daily News_, March 17, 1887.\n\n\nI say luckily for us he did not reach us, and I might almost say\nluckily for himself; for we had only a small beaker of water and some\nsoddened ship s biscuits with us, so sudden had been the alarm, so\nunprepared the ship for any disaster. We thought the people on the\nlaunch would be better provisioned (though it seems they were not), and\nwe tried to hail them. They could not have heard us, and the next\nmorning when the drizzle cleared, which was not until past midday, we\ncould see nothing of them. We could not stand up to look about us,\nbecause of the pitching of the boat. The two other men who had escaped\nso far with me were a man named Helmar, a passenger like myself, and a\nseaman whose name I don t know, a short sturdy man, with a stammer.\n\nWe drifted famishing, and, after our water had come to an end,\ntormented by an intolerable thirst, for eight days altogether. After\nthe second day the sea subsided slowly to a glassy calm. It is quite\nimpossible for the ordinary reader to imagine those eight days. He has\nnot, luckily for himself, anything in his memory to imagine with. After\nthe first day we said little to one another, and lay in our places in\nthe boat and stared at the horizon, or watched, with eyes that grew\nlarger and more haggard every day, the misery and weakness gaining upon\nour companions. The sun became pitiless. The water ended on the fourth\nday, and we were already thinking strange things and saying them with\nour eyes; but it was, I think, the sixth before Helmar gave voice to\nthe thing we had all been thinking. I remember our voices were dry and\nthin, so that we bent towards one another and spared our words. I stood\nout against it with all my might, was rather for scuttling the boat and\nperishing together among the sharks that followed us; but when Helmar\nsaid that if his proposal was accepted we should have drink, the sailor\ncame round to him.\n\nI would not draw lots however, and in the night the sailor whispered to\nHelmar again and again, and I sat in the bows with my clasp-knife in my\nhand, though I doubt if I had the stuff in me to fight; and in the\nmorning I agreed to Helmar s proposal, and we handed halfpence to find\nthe odd man. The lot fell upon the sailor; but he was the strongest of\nus and would not abide by it, and attacked Helmar with his hands. They\ngrappled together and almost stood up. I crawled along the boat to\nthem, intending to help Helmar by grasping the sailor s leg; but the\nsailor stumbled with the swaying of the boat, and the two fell upon the\ngunwale and rolled overboard together. They sank like stones. I\nremember laughing at that, and wondering why I laughed. The laugh\ncaught me suddenly like a thing from without.\n\nI lay across one of the thwarts for I know not how long, thinking that\nif I had the strength I would drink sea-water and madden myself to die\nquickly. And even as I lay there I saw, with no more interest than if\nit had been a picture, a sail come up towards me over the sky-line. My\nmind must have been wandering, and yet I remember all that happened,\nquite distinctly. I remember how my head swayed with the seas, and the\nhorizon with the sail above it danced up and down; but I also remember\nas distinctly that I had a persuasion that I was dead, and that I\nthought what a jest it was that they should come too late by such a\nlittle to catch me in my body.\n\nFor an endless period, as it seemed to me, I lay with my head on the\nthwart watching the schooner (she was a little ship, schooner-rigged\nfore and aft) come up out of the sea. She kept tacking to and fro in a\nwidening compass, for she was sailing dead into the wind. It never\nentered my head to attempt to attract attention, and I do not remember\nanything distinctly after the sight of her side until I found myself in\na little cabin aft. There s a dim half-memory of being lifted up to the\ngangway, and of a big round countenance covered with freckles and\nsurrounded with red hair staring at me over the bulwarks. I also had a\ndisconnected impression of a dark face, with extraordinary eyes, close\nto mine; but that I thought was a nightmare, until I met it again. I\nfancy I recollect some stuff being poured in between my teeth; and that\nis all.\n\n\n\n\nII.\nTHE MAN WHO WAS GOING NOWHERE.\n\n\nThe cabin in which I found myself was small and rather untidy. A\nyoungish man with flaxen hair, a bristly straw-coloured moustache, and\na dropping nether lip, was sitting and holding my wrist. For a minute\nwe stared at each other without speaking. He had watery grey eyes,\noddly void of expression. Then just overhead came a sound like an iron\nbedstead being knocked about, and the low angry growling of some large\nanimal. At the same time the man spoke. He repeated his question, How\ndo you feel now? \n\nI think I said I felt all right. I could not recollect how I had got\nthere. He must have seen the question in my face, for my voice was\ninaccessible to me.\n\n You were picked up in a boat, starving. The name on the boat was the\n_Lady Vain_, and there were spots of blood on the gunwale. \n\nAt the same time my eye caught my hand, so thin that it looked like a\ndirty skin-purse full of loose bones, and all the business of the boat\ncame back to me.\n\n Have some of this,  said he, and gave me a dose of some scarlet stuff,\niced.\n\nIt tasted like blood, and made me feel stronger.\n\n You were in luck,  said he,  to get picked up by a ship with a medical\nman aboard.  He spoke with a slobbering articulation, with the ghost of\na lisp.\n\n What ship is this?  I said slowly, hoarse from my long silence.\n\n It s a little trader from Arica and Callao. I never asked where she\ncame from in the beginning, out of the land of born fools, I guess. I m\na passenger myself, from Arica. The silly ass who owns her, he s\ncaptain too, named Davies, he s lost his certificate, or something. You\nknow the kind of man, calls the thing the _Ipecacuanha_, of all silly,\ninfernal names; though when there s much of a sea without any wind, she\ncertainly acts according. \n\n(Then the noise overhead began again, a snarling growl and the voice of\na human being together. Then another voice, telling some\n Heaven-forsaken idiot  to desist.)\n\n You were nearly dead,  said my interlocutor.  It was a very near\nthing, indeed. But I ve put some stuff into you now. Notice your arm s\nsore? Injections. You ve been insensible for nearly thirty hours. \n\nI thought slowly. (I was distracted now by the yelping of a number of\ndogs.)  Am I eligible for solid food?  I asked.\n\n Thanks to me,  he said.  Even now the mutton is boiling. \n\n Yes,  I said with assurance;  I could eat some mutton. \n\n But,  said he with a momentary hesitation,  you know I m dying to hear\nof how you came to be alone in that boat. _Damn that howling_!  I\nthought I detected a certain suspicion in his eyes.\n\nHe suddenly left the cabin, and I heard him in violent controversy with\nsome one, who seemed to me to talk gibberish in response to him. The\nmatter sounded as though it ended in blows, but in that I thought my\nears were mistaken. Then he shouted at the dogs, and returned to the\ncabin.\n\n Well?  said he in the doorway.  You were just beginning to tell me. \n\nI told him my name, Edward Prendick, and how I had taken to Natural\nHistory as a relief from the dulness of my comfortable independence.\n\nHe seemed interested in this.  I ve done some science myself. I did my\nBiology at University College, getting out the ovary of the earthworm\nand the radula of the snail, and all that. Lord! It s ten years ago.\nBut go on! go on! tell me about the boat. \n\nHe was evidently satisfied with the frankness of my story, which I told\nin concise sentences enough, for I felt horribly weak; and when it was\nfinished he reverted at once to the topic of Natural History and his\nown biological studies. He began to question me closely about Tottenham\nCourt Road and Gower Street.  Is Caplatzi still flourishing? What a\nshop that was!  He had evidently been a very ordinary medical student,\nand drifted incontinently to the topic of the music halls. He told me\nsome anecdotes.\n\n Left it all,  he said,  ten years ago. How jolly it all used to be!\nBut I made a young ass of myself, played myself out before I was\ntwenty-one. I daresay it s all different now. But I must look up that\nass of a cook, and see what he s done to your mutton. \n\nThe growling overhead was renewed, so suddenly and with so much savage\nanger that it startled me.  What s that?  I called after him, but the\ndoor had closed. He came back again with the boiled mutton, and I was\nso excited by the appetising smell of it that I forgot the noise of the\nbeast that had troubled me.\n\nAfter a day of alternate sleep and feeding I was so far recovered as to\nbe able to get from my bunk to the scuttle, and see the green seas\ntrying to keep pace with us. I judged the schooner was running before\nthe wind. Montgomery that was the name of the flaxen-haired man came in\nagain as I stood there, and I asked him for some clothes. He lent me\nsome duck things of his own, for those I had worn in the boat had been\nthrown overboard. They were rather loose for me, for he was large and\nlong in his limbs. He told me casually that the captain was three-parts\ndrunk in his own cabin. As I assumed the clothes, I began asking him\nsome questions about the destination of the ship. He said the ship was\nbound to Hawaii, but that it had to land him first.\n\n Where?  said I.\n\n It s an island, where I live. So far as I know, it hasn t got a name. \n\nHe stared at me with his nether lip dropping, and looked so wilfully\nstupid of a sudden that it came into my head that he desired to avoid\nmy questions. I had the discretion to ask no more.\n\n\n\n\nIII.\nTHE STRANGE FACE.\n\n\nWe left the cabin and found a man at the companion obstructing our way.\nHe was standing on the ladder with his back to us, peering over the\ncombing of the hatchway. He was, I could see, a misshapen man, short,\nbroad, and clumsy, with a crooked back, a hairy neck, and a head sunk\nbetween his shoulders. He was dressed in dark-blue serge, and had\npeculiarly thick, coarse, black hair. I heard the unseen dogs growl\nfuriously, and forthwith he ducked back, coming into contact with the\nhand I put out to fend him off from myself. He turned with animal\nswiftness.\n\nIn some indefinable way the black face thus flashed upon me shocked me\nprofoundly. It was a singularly deformed one. The facial part\nprojected, forming something dimly suggestive of a muzzle, and the huge\nhalf-open mouth showed as big white teeth as I had ever seen in a human\nmouth. His eyes were blood-shot at the edges, with scarcely a rim of\nwhite round the hazel pupils. There was a curious glow of excitement in\nhis face.\n\n Confound you!  said Montgomery.  Why the devil don t you get out of\nthe way? \n\nThe black-faced man started aside without a word. I went on up the\ncompanion, staring at him instinctively as I did so. Montgomery stayed\nat the foot for a moment.  You have no business here, you know,  he\nsaid in a deliberate tone.  Your place is forward. \n\nThe black-faced man cowered.  They won t have me forward.  He spoke\nslowly, with a queer, hoarse quality in his voice.\n\n Won t have you forward!  said Montgomery, in a menacing voice.  But I\ntell you to go!  He was on the brink of saying something further, then\nlooked up at me suddenly and followed me up the ladder.\n\nI had paused half way through the hatchway, looking back, still\nastonished beyond measure at the grotesque ugliness of this black-faced\ncreature. I had never beheld such a repulsive and extraordinary face\nbefore, and yet if the contradiction is credible I experienced at the\nsame time an odd feeling that in some way I _had_ already encountered\nexactly the features and gestures that now amazed me. Afterwards it\noccurred to me that probably I had seen him as I was lifted aboard; and\nyet that scarcely satisfied my suspicion of a previous acquaintance.\nYet how one could have set eyes on so singular a face and yet have\nforgotten the precise occasion, passed my imagination.\n\nMontgomery s movement to follow me released my attention, and I turned\nand looked about me at the flush deck of the little schooner. I was\nalready half prepared by the sounds I had heard for what I saw.\nCertainly I never beheld a deck so dirty. It was littered with scraps\nof carrot, shreds of green stuff, and indescribable filth. Fastened by\nchains to the mainmast were a number of grisly staghounds, who now\nbegan leaping and barking at me, and by the mizzen a huge puma was\ncramped in a little iron cage far too small even to give it turning\nroom. Farther under the starboard bulwark were some big hutches\ncontaining a number of rabbits, and a solitary llama was squeezed in a\nmere box of a cage forward. The dogs were muzzled by leather straps.\nThe only human being on deck was a gaunt and silent sailor at the\nwheel.\n\nThe patched and dirty spankers were tense before the wind, and up aloft\nthe little ship seemed carrying every sail she had. The sky was clear,\nthe sun midway down the western sky; long waves, capped by the breeze\nwith froth, were running with us. We went past the steersman to the\ntaffrail, and saw the water come foaming under the stern and the\nbubbles go dancing and vanishing in her wake. I turned and surveyed the\nunsavoury length of the ship.\n\n Is this an ocean menagerie?  said I.\n\n Looks like it,  said Montgomery.\n\n What are these beasts for? Merchandise, curios? Does the captain think\nhe is going to sell them somewhere in the South Seas? \n\n It looks like it, doesn t it?  said Montgomery, and turned towards the\nwake again.\n\nSuddenly we heard a yelp and a volley of furious blasphemy from the\ncompanion hatchway, and the deformed man with the black face came up\nhurriedly. He was immediately followed by a heavy red-haired man in a\nwhite cap. At the sight of the former the staghounds, who had all tired\nof barking at me by this time, became furiously excited, howling and\nleaping against their chains. The black hesitated before them, and this\ngave the red-haired man time to come up with him and deliver a\ntremendous blow between the shoulder-blades. The poor devil went down\nlike a felled ox, and rolled in the dirt among the furiously excited\ndogs. It was lucky for him that they were muzzled. The red-haired man\ngave a yawp of exultation and stood staggering, and as it seemed to me\nin serious danger of either going backwards down the companion hatchway\nor forwards upon his victim.\n\nSo soon as the second man had appeared, Montgomery had started forward.\n Steady on there!  he cried, in a tone of remonstrance. A couple of\nsailors appeared on the forecastle. The black-faced man, howling in a\nsingular voice rolled about under the feet of the dogs. No one\nattempted to help him. The brutes did their best to worry him, butting\ntheir muzzles at him. There was a quick dance of their lithe\ngrey-figured bodies over the clumsy, prostrate figure. The sailors\nforward shouted, as though it was admirable sport. Montgomery gave an\nangry exclamation, and went striding down the deck, and I followed him.\nThe black-faced man scrambled up and staggered forward, going and\nleaning over the bulwark by the main shrouds, where he remained,\npanting and glaring over his shoulder at the dogs. The red-haired man\nlaughed a satisfied laugh.\n\n Look here, Captain,  said Montgomery, with his lisp a little\naccentuated, gripping the elbows of the red-haired man,  this won t\ndo! \n\nI stood behind Montgomery. The captain came half round, and regarded\nhim with the dull and solemn eyes of a drunken man.  Wha  won t do?  he\nsaid, and added, after looking sleepily into Montgomery s face for a\nminute,  Blasted Sawbones! \n\nWith a sudden movement he shook his arms free, and after two\nineffectual attempts stuck his freckled fists into his side pockets.\n\n That man s a passenger,  said Montgomery.  I d advise you to keep your\nhands off him. \n\n Go to hell!  said the captain, loudly. He suddenly turned and\nstaggered towards the side.  Do what I like on my own ship,  he said.\n\nI think Montgomery might have left him then, seeing the brute was\ndrunk; but he only turned a shade paler, and followed the captain to\nthe bulwarks.\n\n Look you here, Captain,  he said;  that man of mine is not to be\nill-treated. He has been hazed ever since he came aboard. \n\nFor a minute, alcoholic fumes kept the captain speechless.  Blasted\nSawbones!  was all he considered necessary.\n\nI could see that Montgomery had one of those slow, pertinacious tempers\nthat will warm day after day to a white heat, and never again cool to\nforgiveness; and I saw too that this quarrel had been some time\ngrowing.  The man s drunk,  said I, perhaps officiously;  you ll do no\ngood. \n\nMontgomery gave an ugly twist to his dropping lip.  He s always drunk.\nDo you think that excuses his assaulting his passengers? \n\n My ship,  began the captain, waving his hand unsteadily towards the\ncages,  was a clean ship. Look at it now!  It was certainly anything\nbut clean.  Crew,  continued the captain,  clean, respectable crew. \n\n You agreed to take the beasts. \n\n I wish I d never set eyes on your infernal island. What the devil want\nbeasts for on an island like that? Then, that man of yours understood\nhe was a man. He s a lunatic; and he hadn t no business aft. Do you\nthink the whole damned ship belongs to you? \n\n Your sailors began to haze the poor devil as soon as he came aboard. \n\n That s just what he is he s a devil! an ugly devil! My men can t stand\nhim. _I_ can t stand him. None of us can t stand him. Nor _you_\neither! \n\nMontgomery turned away.  _You_ leave that man alone, anyhow,  he said,\nnodding his head as he spoke.\n\nBut the captain meant to quarrel now. He raised his voice.  If he comes\nthis end of the ship again I ll cut his insides out, I tell you. Cut\nout his blasted insides! Who are _you_, to tell _me_ what _I m_ to do?\nI tell you I m captain of this ship, captain and owner. I m the law\nhere, I tell you, the law and the prophets. I bargained to take a man\nand his attendant to and from Arica, and bring back some animals. I\nnever bargained to carry a mad devil and a silly Sawbones, a \n\nWell, never mind what he called Montgomery. I saw the latter take a\nstep forward, and interposed.  He s drunk,  said I. The captain began\nsome abuse even fouler than the last.  Shut up!  I said, turning on him\nsharply, for I had seen danger in Montgomery s white face. With that I\nbrought the downpour on myself.\n\nHowever, I was glad to avert what was uncommonly near a scuffle, even\nat the price of the captain s drunken ill-will. I do not think I have\never heard quite so much vile language come in a continuous stream from\nany man s lips before, though I have frequented eccentric company\nenough. I found some of it hard to endure, though I am a mild-tempered\nman; but, certainly, when I told the captain to  shut up  I had\nforgotten that I was merely a bit of human flotsam, cut off from my\nresources and with my fare unpaid; a mere casual dependant on the\nbounty, or speculative enterprise, of the ship. He reminded me of it\nwith considerable vigour; but at any rate I prevented a fight.\n\n\n\n\nIV.\nAT THE SCHOONER S RAIL.\n\n\nThat night land was sighted after sundown, and the schooner hove to.\nMontgomery intimated that was his destination. It was too far to see\nany details; it seemed to me then simply a low-lying patch of dim blue\nin the uncertain blue-grey sea. An almost vertical streak of smoke went\nup from it into the sky. The captain was not on deck when it was\nsighted. After he had vented his wrath on me he had staggered below,\nand I understand he went to sleep on the floor of his own cabin. The\nmate practically assumed the command. He was the gaunt, taciturn\nindividual we had seen at the wheel. Apparently he was in an evil\ntemper with Montgomery. He took not the slightest notice of either of\nus. We dined with him in a sulky silence, after a few ineffectual\nefforts on my part to talk. It struck me too that the men regarded my\ncompanion and his animals in a singularly unfriendly manner. I found\nMontgomery very reticent about his purpose with these creatures, and\nabout his destination; and though I was sensible of a growing curiosity\nas to both, I did not press him.\n\nWe remained talking on the quarter deck until the sky was thick with\nstars. Except for an occasional sound in the yellow-lit forecastle and\na movement of the animals now and then, the night was very still. The\npuma lay crouched together, watching us with shining eyes, a black heap\nin the corner of its cage. Montgomery produced some cigars. He talked\nto me of London in a tone of half-painful reminiscence, asking all\nkinds of questions about changes that had taken place. He spoke like a\nman who had loved his life there, and had been suddenly and irrevocably\ncut off from it. I gossiped as well as I could of this and that. All\nthe time the strangeness of him was shaping itself in my mind; and as I\ntalked I peered at his odd, pallid face in the dim light of the\nbinnacle lantern behind me. Then I looked out at the darkling sea,\nwhere in the dimness his little island was hidden.\n\nThis man, it seemed to me, had come out of Immensity merely to save my\nlife. To-morrow he would drop over the side, and vanish again out of my\nexistence. Even had it been under commonplace circumstances, it would\nhave made me a trifle thoughtful; but in the first place was the\nsingularity of an educated man living on this unknown little island,\nand coupled with that the extraordinary nature of his luggage. I found\nmyself repeating the captain s question. What did he want with the\nbeasts? Why, too, had he pretended they were not his when I had\nremarked about them at first? Then, again, in his personal attendant\nthere was a bizarre quality which had impressed me profoundly. These\ncircumstances threw a haze of mystery round the man. They laid hold of\nmy imagination, and hampered my tongue.\n\nTowards midnight our talk of London died away, and we stood side by\nside leaning over the bulwarks and staring dreamily over the silent,\nstarlit sea, each pursuing his own thoughts. It was the atmosphere for\nsentiment, and I began upon my gratitude.\n\n If I may say it,  said I, after a time,  you have saved my life. \n\n Chance,  he answered.  Just chance. \n\n I prefer to make my thanks to the accessible agent. \n\n Thank no one. You had the need, and I had the knowledge; and I\ninjected and fed you much as I might have collected a specimen. I was\nbored and wanted something to do. If I d been jaded that day, or hadn t\nliked your face, well it s a curious question where you would have been\nnow! \n\nThis damped my mood a little.  At any rate,  I began.\n\n It s a chance, I tell you,  he interrupted,  as everything is in a\nman s life. Only the asses won t see it! Why am I here now, an outcast\nfrom civilisation, instead of being a happy man enjoying all the\npleasures of London? Simply because eleven years ago I lost my head for\nten minutes on a foggy night. \n\nHe stopped.  Yes?  said I.\n\n That s all. \n\nWe relapsed into silence. Presently he laughed.  There s something in\nthis starlight that loosens one s tongue. I m an ass, and yet somehow I\nwould like to tell you. \n\n Whatever you tell me, you may rely upon my keeping to myself if that s\nit. \n\nHe was on the point of beginning, and then shook his head, doubtfully.\n\n Don t,  said I.  It is all the same to me. After all, it is better to\nkeep your secret. There s nothing gained but a little relief if I\nrespect your confidence. If I don t well? \n\nHe grunted undecidedly. I felt I had him at a disadvantage, had caught\nhim in the mood of indiscretion; and to tell the truth I was not\ncurious to learn what might have driven a young medical student out of\nLondon. I have an imagination. I shrugged my shoulders and turned away.\nOver the taffrail leant a silent black figure, watching the stars. It\nwas Montgomery s strange attendant. It looked over its shoulder quickly\nwith my movement, then looked away again.\n\nIt may seem a little thing to you, perhaps, but it came like a sudden\nblow to me. The only light near us was a lantern at the wheel. The\ncreature s face was turned for one brief instant out of the dimness of\nthe stern towards this illumination, and I saw that the eyes that\nglanced at me shone with a pale-green light. I did not know then that a\nreddish luminosity, at least, is not uncommon in human eyes. The thing\ncame to me as stark inhumanity. That black figure with its eyes of fire\nstruck down through all my adult thoughts and feelings, and for a\nmoment the forgotten horrors of childhood came back to my mind. Then\nthe effect passed as it had come. An uncouth black figure of a man, a\nfigure of no particular import, hung over the taffrail against the\nstarlight, and I found Montgomery was speaking to me.\n\n I m thinking of turning in, then,  said he,  if you ve had enough of\nthis. \n\nI answered him incongruously. We went below, and he wished me\ngood-night at the door of my cabin.\n\nThat night I had some very unpleasant dreams. The waning moon rose\nlate. Its light struck a ghostly white beam across my cabin, and made\nan ominous shape on the planking by my bunk. Then the staghounds woke,\nand began howling and baying; so that I dreamt fitfully, and scarcely\nslept until the approach of dawn.\n\n\n\n\nV.\nTHE MAN WHO HAD NOWHERE TO GO.\n\n\nIn the early morning (it was the second morning after my recovery, and\nI believe the fourth after I was picked up), I awoke through an avenue\nof tumultuous dreams, dreams of guns and howling mobs, and became\nsensible of a hoarse shouting above me. I rubbed my eyes and lay\nlistening to the noise, doubtful for a little while of my whereabouts.\nThen came a sudden pattering of bare feet, the sound of heavy objects\nbeing thrown about, a violent creaking and the rattling of chains. I\nheard the swish of the water as the ship was suddenly brought round,\nand a foamy yellow-green wave flew across the little round window and\nleft it streaming. I jumped into my clothes and went on deck.\n\nAs I came up the ladder I saw against the flushed sky for the sun was\njust rising the broad back and red hair of the captain, and over his\nshoulder the puma spinning from a tackle rigged on to the mizzen\nspanker-boom.\n\nThe poor brute seemed horribly scared, and crouched in the bottom of\nits little cage.\n\n Overboard with  em!  bawled the captain.  Overboard with  em! We ll\nhave a clean ship soon of the whole bilin  of  em. \n\nHe stood in my way, so that I had perforce to tap his shoulder to come\non deck. He came round with a start, and staggered back a few paces to\nstare at me. It needed no expert eye to tell that the man was still\ndrunk.\n\n Hullo!  said he, stupidly; and then with a light coming into his eyes,\n Why, it s Mister Mister? \n\n Prendick,  said I.\n\n Prendick be damned!  said he.  Shut-up, that s your name. Mister\nShut-up. \n\nIt was no good answering the brute; but I certainly did not expect his\nnext move. He held out his hand to the gangway by which Montgomery\nstood talking to a massive grey-haired man in dirty-blue flannels, who\nhad apparently just come aboard.\n\n That way, Mister Blasted Shut-up! that way!  roared the captain.\n\nMontgomery and his companion turned as he spoke.\n\n What do you mean?  I said.\n\n That way, Mister Blasted Shut-up, that s what I mean! Overboard,\nMister Shut-up, and sharp! We re cleaning the ship out, cleaning the\nwhole blessed ship out; and overboard you go! \n\nI stared at him dumfounded. Then it occurred to me that it was exactly\nthe thing I wanted. The lost prospect of a journey as sole passenger\nwith this quarrelsome sot was not one to mourn over. I turned towards\nMontgomery.\n\n Can t have you,  said Montgomery s companion, concisely.\n\n You can t have me!  said I, aghast. He had the squarest and most\nresolute face I ever set eyes upon.\n\n Look here,  I began, turning to the captain.\n\n Overboard!  said the captain.  This ship aint for beasts and cannibals\nand worse than beasts, any more. Overboard you go, Mister Shut-up. If\nthey can t have you, you goes overboard. But, anyhow, you go with your\nfriends. I ve done with this blessed island for evermore, amen! I ve\nhad enough of it. \n\n But, Montgomery,  I appealed.\n\nHe distorted his lower lip, and nodded his head hopelessly at the\ngrey-haired man beside him, to indicate his powerlessness to help me.\n\n I ll see to _you_, presently,  said the captain.\n\nThen began a curious three-cornered altercation. Alternately I appealed\nto one and another of the three men, first to the grey-haired man to\nlet me land, and then to the drunken captain to keep me aboard. I even\nbawled entreaties to the sailors. Montgomery said never a word, only\nshook his head.  You re going overboard, I tell you,  was the captain s\nrefrain.  Law be damned! I m king here.  At last I must confess my\nvoice suddenly broke in the middle of a vigorous threat. I felt a gust\nof hysterical petulance, and went aft and stared dismally at nothing.\n\nMeanwhile the sailors progressed rapidly with the task of unshipping\nthe packages and caged animals. A large launch, with two standing lugs,\nlay under the lee of the schooner; and into this the strange assortment\nof goods were swung. I did not then see the hands from the island that\nwere receiving the packages, for the hull of the launch was hidden from\nme by the side of the schooner. Neither Montgomery nor his companion\ntook the slightest notice of me, but busied themselves in assisting and\ndirecting the four or five sailors who were unloading the goods. The\ncaptain went forward interfering rather than assisting. I was\nalternately despairful and desperate. Once or twice as I stood waiting\nthere for things to accomplish themselves, I could not resist an\nimpulse to laugh at my miserable quandary. I felt all the wretcheder\nfor the lack of a breakfast. Hunger and a lack of blood-corpuscles take\nall the manhood from a man. I perceived pretty clearly that I had not\nthe stamina either to resist what the captain chose to do to expel me,\nor to force myself upon Montgomery and his companion. So I waited\npassively upon fate; and the work of transferring Montgomery s\npossessions to the launch went on as if I did not exist.\n\nPresently that work was finished, and then came a struggle. I was\nhauled, resisting weakly enough, to the gangway. Even then I noticed\nthe oddness of the brown faces of the men who were with Montgomery in\nthe launch; but the launch was now fully laden, and was shoved off\nhastily. A broadening gap of green water appeared under me, and I\npushed back with all my strength to avoid falling headlong. The hands\nin the launch shouted derisively, and I heard Montgomery curse at them;\nand then the captain, the mate, and one of the seamen helping him, ran\nme aft towards the stern.\n\nThe dingey of the _Lady Vain_ had been towing behind; it was half full\nof water, had no oars, and was quite unvictualled. I refused to go\naboard her, and flung myself full length on the deck. In the end, they\nswung me into her by a rope (for they had no stern ladder), and then\nthey cut me adrift. I drifted slowly from the schooner. In a kind of\nstupor I watched all hands take to the rigging, and slowly but surely\nshe came round to the wind; the sails fluttered, and then bellied out\nas the wind came into them. I stared at her weather-beaten side heeling\nsteeply towards me; and then she passed out of my range of view.\n\nI did not turn my head to follow her. At first I could scarcely believe\nwhat had happened. I crouched in the bottom of the dingey, stunned, and\nstaring blankly at the vacant, oily sea. Then I realised that I was in\nthat little hell of mine again, now half swamped; and looking back over\nthe gunwale, I saw the schooner standing away from me, with the\nred-haired captain mocking at me over the taffrail, and turning towards\nthe island saw the launch growing smaller as she approached the beach.\n\nAbruptly the cruelty of this desertion became clear to me. I had no\nmeans of reaching the land unless I should chance to drift there. I was\nstill weak, you must remember, from my exposure in the boat; I was\nempty and very faint, or I should have had more heart. But as it was I\nsuddenly began to sob and weep, as I had never done since I was a\nlittle child. The tears ran down my face. In a passion of despair I\nstruck with my fists at the water in the bottom of the boat, and kicked\nsavagely at the gunwale. I prayed aloud for God to let me die.\n\n\n\n\nVI.\nTHE EVIL-LOOKING BOATMEN.\n\n\nBut the islanders, seeing that I was really adrift, took pity on me. I\ndrifted very slowly to the eastward, approaching the island slantingly;\nand presently I saw, with hysterical relief, the launch come round and\nreturn towards me. She was heavily laden, and I could make out as she\ndrew nearer Montgomery s white-haired, broad-shouldered companion\nsitting cramped up with the dogs and several packing-cases in the stern\nsheets. This individual stared fixedly at me without moving or\nspeaking. The black-faced cripple was glaring at me as fixedly in the\nbows near the puma. There were three other men besides, three strange\nbrutish-looking fellows, at whom the staghounds were snarling savagely.\nMontgomery, who was steering, brought the boat by me, and rising,\ncaught and fastened my painter to the tiller to tow me, for there was\nno room aboard.\n\nI had recovered from my hysterical phase by this time and answered his\nhail, as he approached, bravely enough. I told him the dingey was\nnearly swamped, and he reached me a piggin. I was jerked back as the\nrope tightened between the boats. For some time I was busy baling.\n\nIt was not until I had got the water under (for the water in the dingey\nhad been shipped; the boat was perfectly sound) that I had leisure to\nlook at the people in the launch again.\n\nThe white-haired man I found was still regarding me steadfastly, but\nwith an expression, as I now fancied, of some perplexity. When my eyes\nmet his, he looked down at the staghound that sat between his knees. He\nwas a powerfully-built man, as I have said, with a fine forehead and\nrather heavy features; but his eyes had that odd drooping of the skin\nabove the lids which often comes with advancing years, and the fall of\nhis heavy mouth at the corners gave him an expression of pugnacious\nresolution. He talked to Montgomery in a tone too low for me to hear.\n\nFrom him my eyes travelled to his three men; and a strange crew they\nwere. I saw only their faces, yet there was something in their faces I\nknew not what that gave me a queer spasm of disgust. I looked steadily\nat them, and the impression did not pass, though I failed to see what\nhad occasioned it. They seemed to me then to be brown men; but their\nlimbs were oddly swathed in some thin, dirty, white stuff down even to\nthe fingers and feet: I have never seen men so wrapped up before, and\nwomen so only in the East. They wore turbans too, and thereunder peered\nout their elfin faces at me, faces with protruding lower-jaws and\nbright eyes. They had lank black hair, almost like horsehair, and\nseemed as they sat to exceed in stature any race of men I have seen.\nThe white-haired man, who I knew was a good six feet in height, sat a\nhead below any one of the three. I found afterwards that really none\nwere taller than myself; but their bodies were abnormally long, and the\nthigh-part of the leg short and curiously twisted. At any rate, they\nwere an amazingly ugly gang, and over the heads of them under the\nforward lug peered the black face of the man whose eyes were luminous\nin the dark. As I stared at them, they met my gaze; and then first one\nand then another turned away from my direct stare, and looked at me in\nan odd, furtive manner. It occurred to me that I was perhaps annoying\nthem, and I turned my attention to the island we were approaching.\n\nIt was low, and covered with thick vegetation, chiefly a kind of palm,\nthat was new to me. From one point a thin white thread of vapour rose\nslantingly to an immense height, and then frayed out like a down\nfeather. We were now within the embrace of a broad bay flanked on\neither hand by a low promontory. The beach was of dull-grey sand, and\nsloped steeply up to a ridge, perhaps sixty or seventy feet above the\nsea-level, and irregularly set with trees and undergrowth. Half way up\nwas a square enclosure of some greyish stone, which I found\nsubsequently was built partly of coral and partly of pumiceous lava.\nTwo thatched roofs peeped from within this enclosure. A man stood\nawaiting us at the water s edge. I fancied while we were still far off\nthat I saw some other and very grotesque-looking creatures scuttle into\nthe bushes upon the slope; but I saw nothing of these as we drew\nnearer. This man was of a moderate size, and with a black negroid face.\nHe had a large, almost lipless, mouth, extraordinary lank arms, long\nthin feet, and bow-legs, and stood with his heavy face thrust forward\nstaring at us. He was dressed like Montgomery and his white-haired\ncompanion, in jacket and trousers of blue serge. As we came still\nnearer, this individual began to run to and fro on the beach, making\nthe most grotesque movements.\n\nAt a word of command from Montgomery, the four men in the launch sprang\nup, and with singularly awkward gestures struck the lugs. Montgomery\nsteered us round and into a narrow little dock excavated in the beach.\nThen the man on the beach hastened towards us. This dock, as I call it,\nwas really a mere ditch just long enough at this phase of the tide to\ntake the longboat. I heard the bows ground in the sand, staved the\ndingey off the rudder of the big boat with my piggin, and freeing the\npainter, landed. The three muffled men, with the clumsiest movements,\nscrambled out upon the sand, and forthwith set to landing the cargo,\nassisted by the man on the beach. I was struck especially by the\ncurious movements of the legs of the three swathed and bandaged\nboatmen, not stiff they were, but distorted in some odd way, almost as\nif they were jointed in the wrong place. The dogs were still snarling,\nand strained at their chains after these men, as the white-haired man\nlanded with them. The three big fellows spoke to one another in odd\nguttural tones, and the man who had waited for us on the beach began\nchattering to them excitedly a foreign language, as I fancied as they\nlaid hands on some bales piled near the stern. Somewhere I had heard\nsuch a voice before, and I could not think where. The white-haired man\nstood, holding in a tumult of six dogs, and bawling orders over their\ndin. Montgomery, having unshipped the rudder, landed likewise, and all\nset to work at unloading. I was too faint, what with my long fast and\nthe sun beating down on my bare head, to offer any assistance.\n\nPresently the white-haired man seemed to recollect my presence, and\ncame up to me.\n\n You look,  said he,  as though you had scarcely breakfasted.  His\nlittle eyes were a brilliant black under his heavy brows.  I must\napologise for that. Now you are our guest, we must make you\ncomfortable, though you are uninvited, you know.  He looked keenly into\nmy face.  Montgomery says you are an educated man, Mr. Prendick; says\nyou know something of science. May I ask what that signifies? \n\nI told him I had spent some years at the Royal College of Science, and\nhad done some researches in biology under Huxley. He raised his\neyebrows slightly at that.\n\n That alters the case a little, Mr. Prendick,  he said, with a trifle\nmore respect in his manner.  As it happens, we are biologists here.\nThis is a biological station of a sort.  His eye rested on the men in\nwhite who were busily hauling the puma, on rollers, towards the walled\nyard.  I and Montgomery, at least,  he added. Then,  When you will be\nable to get away, I can t say. We re off the track to anywhere. We see\na ship once in a twelve-month or so. \n\nHe left me abruptly, and went up the beach past this group, and I think\nentered the enclosure. The other two men were with Montgomery, erecting\na pile of smaller packages on a low-wheeled truck. The llama was still\non the launch with the rabbit hutches; the staghounds were still lashed\nto the thwarts. The pile of things completed, all three men laid hold\nof the truck and began shoving the ton-weight or so upon it after the\npuma. Presently Montgomery left them, and coming back to me held out\nhis hand.\n\n I m glad,  said he,  for my own part. That captain was a silly ass.\nHe d have made things lively for you. \n\n It was you,  said I,  that saved me again. \n\n That depends. You ll find this island an infernally rum place, I\npromise you. I d watch my goings carefully, if I were you. _He_  He\nhesitated, and seemed to alter his mind about what was on his lips.  I\nwish you d help me with these rabbits,  he said.\n\nHis procedure with the rabbits was singular. I waded in with him, and\nhelped him lug one of the hutches ashore. No sooner was that done than\nhe opened the door of it, and tilting the thing on one end turned its\nliving contents out on the ground. They fell in a struggling heap one\non the top of the other. He clapped his hands, and forthwith they went\noff with that hopping run of theirs, fifteen or twenty of them I should\nthink, up the beach.\n\n Increase and multiply, my friends,  said Montgomery.  Replenish the\nisland. Hitherto we ve had a certain lack of meat here. \n\nAs I watched them disappearing, the white-haired man returned with a\nbrandy-flask and some biscuits.  Something to go on with, Prendick, \nsaid he, in a far more familiar tone than before. I made no ado, but\nset to work on the biscuits at once, while the white-haired man helped\nMontgomery to release about a score more of the rabbits. Three big\nhutches, however, went up to the house with the puma. The brandy I did\nnot touch, for I have been an abstainer from my birth.\n\n\n\n\nVII.\nTHE LOCKED DOOR.\n\n\nThe reader will perhaps understand that at first everything was so\nstrange about me, and my position was the outcome of such unexpected\nadventures, that I had no discernment of the relative strangeness of\nthis or that thing. I followed the llama up the beach, and was\novertaken by Montgomery, who asked me not to enter the stone enclosure.\nI noticed then that the puma in its cage and the pile of packages had\nbeen placed outside the entrance to this quadrangle.\n\nI turned and saw that the launch had now been unloaded, run out again,\nand was being beached, and the white-haired man was walking towards us.\nHe addressed Montgomery.\n\n And now comes the problem of this uninvited guest. What are we to do\nwith him? \n\n He knows something of science,  said Montgomery.\n\n I m itching to get to work again with this new stuff,  said the\nwhite-haired man, nodding towards the enclosure. His eyes grew\nbrighter.\n\n I daresay you are,  said Montgomery, in anything but a cordial tone.\n\n We can t send him over there, and we can t spare the time to build him\na new shanty; and we certainly can t take him into our confidence just\nyet. \n\n I m in your hands,  said I. I had no idea of what he meant by  over\nthere. \n\n I ve been thinking of the same things,  Montgomery answered.  There s\nmy room with the outer door \n\n That s it,  said the elder man, promptly, looking at Montgomery; and\nall three of us went towards the enclosure.  I m sorry to make a\nmystery, Mr. Prendick; but you ll remember you re uninvited. Our little\nestablishment here contains a secret or so, is a kind of Blue-Beard s\nchamber, in fact. Nothing very dreadful, really, to a sane man; but\njust now, as we don t know you \n\n Decidedly,  said I,  I should be a fool to take offence at any want of\nconfidence. \n\nHe twisted his heavy mouth into a faint smile he was one of those\nsaturnine people who smile with the corners of the mouth down, and\nbowed his acknowledgment of my complaisance. The main entrance to the\nenclosure was passed; it was a heavy wooden gate, framed in iron and\nlocked, with the cargo of the launch piled outside it, and at the\ncorner we came to a small doorway I had not previously observed. The\nwhite-haired man produced a bundle of keys from the pocket of his\ngreasy blue jacket, opened this door, and entered. His keys, and the\nelaborate locking-up of the place even while it was still under his\neye, struck me as peculiar. I followed him, and found myself in a small\napartment, plainly but not uncomfortably furnished and with its inner\ndoor, which was slightly ajar, opening into a paved courtyard. This\ninner door Montgomery at once closed. A hammock was slung across the\ndarker corner of the room, and a small unglazed window defended by an\niron bar looked out towards the sea.\n\nThis the white-haired man told me was to be my apartment; and the inner\ndoor, which  for fear of accidents,  he said, he would lock on the\nother side, was my limit inward. He called my attention to a convenient\ndeck-chair before the window, and to an array of old books, chiefly, I\nfound, surgical works and editions of the Latin and Greek classics\n(languages I cannot read with any comfort), on a shelf near the\nhammock. He left the room by the outer door, as if to avoid opening the\ninner one again.\n\n We usually have our meals in here,  said Montgomery, and then, as if\nin doubt, went out after the other.  Moreau!  I heard him call, and for\nthe moment I do not think I noticed. Then as I handled the books on the\nshelf it came up in consciousness: Where had I heard the name of Moreau\nbefore? I sat down before the window, took out the biscuits that still\nremained to me, and ate them with an excellent appetite. Moreau!\n\nThrough the window I saw one of those unaccountable men in white,\nlugging a packing-case along the beach. Presently the window-frame hid\nhim. Then I heard a key inserted and turned in the lock behind me.\nAfter a little while I heard through the locked door the noise of the\nstaghounds, that had now been brought up from the beach. They were not\nbarking, but sniffing and growling in a curious fashion. I could hear\nthe rapid patter of their feet, and Montgomery s voice soothing them.\n\nI was very much impressed by the elaborate secrecy of these two men\nregarding the contents of the place, and for some time I was thinking\nof that and of the unaccountable familiarity of the name of Moreau; but\nso odd is the human memory that I could not then recall that well-known\nname in its proper connection. From that my thoughts went to the\nindefinable queerness of the deformed man on the beach. I never saw\nsuch a gait, such odd motions as he pulled at the box. I recalled that\nnone of these men had spoken to me, though most of them I had found\nlooking at me at one time or another in a peculiarly furtive manner,\nquite unlike the frank stare of your unsophisticated savage. Indeed,\nthey had all seemed remarkably taciturn, and when they did speak,\nendowed with very uncanny voices. What was wrong with them? Then I\nrecalled the eyes of Montgomery s ungainly attendant.\n\nJust as I was thinking of him he came in. He was now dressed in white,\nand carried a little tray with some coffee and boiled vegetables\nthereon. I could hardly repress a shuddering recoil as he came, bending\namiably, and placed the tray before me on the table. Then astonishment\nparalysed me. Under his stringy black locks I saw his ear; it jumped\nupon me suddenly close to my face. The man had pointed ears, covered\nwith a fine brown fur!\n\n Your breakfast, sair,  he said.\n\nI stared at his face without attempting to answer him. He turned and\nwent towards the door, regarding me oddly over his shoulder. I followed\nhim out with my eyes; and as I did so, by some odd trick of unconscious\ncerebration, there came surging into my head the phrase,  The Moreau\nHollows was it?  The Moreau  Ah! It sent my memory back ten years.\n The Moreau Horrors!  The phrase drifted loose in my mind for a moment,\nand then I saw it in red lettering on a little buff-coloured pamphlet,\nto read which made one shiver and creep. Then I remembered distinctly\nall about it. That long-forgotten pamphlet came back with startling\nvividness to my mind. I had been a mere lad then, and Moreau was, I\nsuppose, about fifty, a prominent and masterful physiologist,\nwell-known in scientific circles for his extraordinary imagination and\nhis brutal directness in discussion.\n\nWas this the same Moreau? He had published some very astonishing facts\nin connection with the transfusion of blood, and in addition was known\nto be doing valuable work on morbid growths. Then suddenly his career\nwas closed. He had to leave England. A journalist obtained access to\nhis laboratory in the capacity of laboratory-assistant, with the\ndeliberate intention of making sensational exposures; and by the help\nof a shocking accident (if it was an accident), his gruesome pamphlet\nbecame notorious. On the day of its publication a wretched dog, flayed\nand otherwise mutilated, escaped from Moreau s house. It was in the\nsilly season, and a prominent editor, a cousin of the temporary\nlaboratory-assistant, appealed to the conscience of the nation. It was\nnot the first time that conscience has turned against the methods of\nresearch. The doctor was simply howled out of the country. It may be\nthat he deserved to be; but I still think that the tepid support of his\nfellow-investigators and his desertion by the great body of scientific\nworkers was a shameful thing. Yet some of his experiments, by the\njournalist s account, were wantonly cruel. He might perhaps have\npurchased his social peace by abandoning his investigations; but he\napparently preferred the latter, as most men would who have once fallen\nunder the overmastering spell of research. He was unmarried, and had\nindeed nothing but his own interest to consider.\n\nI felt convinced that this must be the same man. Everything pointed to\nit. It dawned upon me to what end the puma and the other animals which\nhad now been brought with other luggage into the enclosure behind the\nhouse were destined; and a curious faint odour, the halitus of\nsomething familiar, an odour that had been in the background of my\nconsciousness hitherto, suddenly came forward into the forefront of my\nthoughts. It was the antiseptic odour of the dissecting-room. I heard\nthe puma growling through the wall, and one of the dogs yelped as\nthough it had been struck.\n\nYet surely, and especially to another scientific man, there was nothing\nso horrible in vivisection as to account for this secrecy; and by some\nodd leap in my thoughts the pointed ears and luminous eyes of\nMontgomery s attendant came back again before me with the sharpest\ndefinition. I stared before me out at the green sea, frothing under a\nfreshening breeze, and let these and other strange memories of the last\nfew days chase one another through my mind.\n\nWhat could it all mean? A locked enclosure on a lonely island, a\nnotorious vivisector, and these crippled and distorted men?\n\n\n\n\nVIII.\nTHE CRYING OF THE PUMA.\n\n\nMontgomery interrupted my tangle of mystification and suspicion about\none o clock, and his grotesque attendant followed him with a tray\nbearing bread, some herbs and other eatables, a flask of whiskey, a jug\nof water, and three glasses and knives. I glanced askance at this\nstrange creature, and found him watching me with his queer, restless\neyes. Montgomery said he would lunch with me, but that Moreau was too\npreoccupied with some work to come.\n\n Moreau!  said I.  I know that name. \n\n The devil you do!  said he.  What an ass I was to mention it to you! I\nmight have thought. Anyhow, it will give you an inkling of\nour mysteries. Whiskey? \n\n No, thanks; I m an abstainer. \n\n I wish I d been. But it s no use locking the door after the steed is\nstolen. It was that infernal stuff which led to my coming here, that,\nand a foggy night. I thought myself in luck at the time, when Moreau\noffered to get me off. It s queer \n\n Montgomery,  said I, suddenly, as the outer door closed,  why has your\nman pointed ears? \n\n Damn!  he said, over his first mouthful of food. He stared at me for a\nmoment, and then repeated,  Pointed ears? \n\n Little points to them,  said I, as calmly as possible, with a catch in\nmy breath;  and a fine black fur at the edges? \n\nHe helped himself to whiskey and water with great deliberation.  I was\nunder the impression that his hair covered his ears. \n\n I saw them as he stooped by me to put that coffee you sent to me on\nthe table. And his eyes shine in the dark. \n\nBy this time Montgomery had recovered from the surprise of my question.\n I always thought,  he said deliberately, with a certain accentuation\nof his flavouring of lisp,  that there _was_ something the matter with\nhis ears, from the way he covered them. What were they like? \n\nI was persuaded from his manner that this ignorance was a pretence.\nStill, I could hardly tell the man that I thought him a liar.\n Pointed,  I said;  rather small and furry, distinctly furry. But the\nwhole man is one of the strangest beings I ever set eyes on. \n\nA sharp, hoarse cry of animal pain came from the enclosure behind us.\nIts depth and volume testified to the puma. I saw Montgomery wince.\n\n Yes?  he said.\n\n Where did you pick up the creature? \n\n San Francisco. He s an ugly brute, I admit. Half-witted, you know.\nCan t remember where he came from. But I m used to him, you know. We\nboth are. How does he strike you? \n\n He s unnatural,  I said.  There s something about him don t think me\nfanciful, but it gives me a nasty little sensation, a tightening of my\nmuscles, when he comes near me. It s a touch of the diabolical, in\nfact. \n\nMontgomery had stopped eating while I told him this.  Rum!  he said.\n _I_ can t see it.  He resumed his meal.  I had no idea of it,  he\nsaid, and masticated.  The crew of the schooner must have felt it the\nsame. Made a dead set at the poor devil. You saw the captain? \n\nSuddenly the puma howled again, this time more painfully. Montgomery\nswore under his breath. I had half a mind to attack him about the men\non the beach. Then the poor brute within gave vent to a series of\nshort, sharp cries.\n\n Your men on the beach,  said I;  what race are they? \n\n Excellent fellows, aren t they?  said he, absentmindedly, knitting his\nbrows as the animal yelled out sharply.\n\nI said no more. There was another outcry worse than the former. He\nlooked at me with his dull grey eyes, and then took some more whiskey.\nHe tried to draw me into a discussion about alcohol, professing to have\nsaved my life with it. He seemed anxious to lay stress on the fact that\nI owed my life to him. I answered him distractedly.\n\nPresently our meal came to an end; the misshapen monster with the\npointed ears cleared the remains away, and Montgomery left me alone in\nthe room again. All the time he had been in a state of ill-concealed\nirritation at the noise of the vivisected puma. He had spoken of his\nodd want of nerve, and left me to the obvious application.\n\nI found myself that the cries were singularly irritating, and they grew\nin depth and intensity as the afternoon wore on. They were painful at\nfirst, but their constant resurgence at last altogether upset my\nbalance. I flung aside a crib of Horace I had been reading, and began\nto clench my fists, to bite my lips, and to pace the room. Presently I\ngot to stopping my ears with my fingers.\n\nThe emotional appeal of those yells grew upon me steadily, grew at last\nto such an exquisite expression of suffering that I could stand it in\nthat confined room no longer. I stepped out of the door into the\nslumberous heat of the late afternoon, and walking past the main\nentrance locked again, I noticed turned the corner of the wall.\n\nThe crying sounded even louder out of doors. It was as if all the pain\nin the world had found a voice. Yet had I known such pain was in the\nnext room, and had it been dumb, I believe I have thought since I could\nhave stood it well enough. It is when suffering finds a voice and sets\nour nerves quivering that this pity comes troubling us. But in spite of\nthe brilliant sunlight and the green fans of the trees waving in the\nsoothing sea-breeze, the world was a confusion, blurred with drifting\nblack and red phantasms, until I was out of earshot of the house in the\nchequered wall.\n\n\n\n\nIX.\nTHE THING IN THE FOREST.\n\n\nI strode through the undergrowth that clothed the ridge behind the\nhouse, scarcely heeding whither I went; passed on through the shadow of\na thick cluster of straight-stemmed trees beyond it, and so presently\nfound myself some way on the other side of the ridge, and descending\ntowards a streamlet that ran through a narrow valley. I paused and\nlistened. The distance I had come, or the intervening masses of\nthicket, deadened any sound that might be coming from the enclosure.\nThe air was still. Then with a rustle a rabbit emerged, and went\nscampering up the slope before me. I hesitated, and sat down in the\nedge of the shade.\n\nThe place was a pleasant one. The rivulet was hidden by the luxuriant\nvegetation of the banks save at one point, where I caught a triangular\npatch of its glittering water. On the farther side I saw through a\nbluish haze a tangle of trees and creepers, and above these again the\nluminous blue of the sky. Here and there a splash of white or crimson\nmarked the blooming of some trailing epiphyte. I let my eyes wander\nover this scene for a while, and then began to turn over in my mind\nagain the strange peculiarities of Montgomery s man. But it was too hot\nto think elaborately, and presently I fell into a tranquil state midway\nbetween dozing and waking.\n\nFrom this I was aroused, after I know not how long, by a rustling\namidst the greenery on the other side of the stream. For a moment I\ncould see nothing but the waving summits of the ferns and reeds. Then\nsuddenly upon the bank of the stream appeared something at first I\ncould not distinguish what it was. It bowed its round head to the\nwater, and began to drink. Then I saw it was a man, going on all-fours\nlike a beast. He was clothed in bluish cloth, and was of a\ncopper-coloured hue, with black hair. It seemed that grotesque ugliness\nwas an invariable character of these islanders. I could hear the suck\nof the water at his lips as he drank.\n\nI leant forward to see him better, and a piece of lava, detached by my\nhand, went pattering down the slope. He looked up guiltily, and his\neyes met mine. Forthwith he scrambled to his feet, and stood wiping his\nclumsy hand across his mouth and regarding me. His legs were scarcely\nhalf the length of his body. So, staring one another out of\ncountenance, we remained for perhaps the space of a minute. Then,\nstopping to look back once or twice, he slunk off among the bushes to\nthe right of me, and I heard the swish of the fronds grow faint in the\ndistance and die away. Long after he had disappeared, I remained\nsitting up staring in the direction of his retreat. My drowsy\ntranquillity had gone.\n\nI was startled by a noise behind me, and turning suddenly saw the\nflapping white tail of a rabbit vanishing up the slope. I jumped to my\nfeet. The apparition of this grotesque, half-bestial creature had\nsuddenly populated the stillness of the afternoon for me. I looked\naround me rather nervously, and regretted that I was unarmed. Then I\nthought that the man I had just seen had been clothed in bluish cloth,\nhad not been naked as a savage would have been; and I tried to persuade\nmyself from that fact that he was after all probably a peaceful\ncharacter, that the dull ferocity of his countenance belied him.\n\nYet I was greatly disturbed at the apparition. I walked to the left\nalong the slope, turning my head about and peering this way and that\namong the straight stems of the trees. Why should a man go on all-fours\nand drink with his lips? Presently I heard an animal wailing again, and\ntaking it to be the puma, I turned about and walked in a direction\ndiametrically opposite to the sound. This led me down to the stream,\nacross which I stepped and pushed my way up through the undergrowth\nbeyond.\n\nI was startled by a great patch of vivid scarlet on the ground, and\ngoing up to it found it to be a peculiar fungus, branched and\ncorrugated like a foliaceous lichen, but deliquescing into slime at the\ntouch; and then in the shadow of some luxuriant ferns I came upon an\nunpleasant thing, the dead body of a rabbit covered with shining flies,\nbut still warm and with the head torn off. I stopped aghast at the\nsight of the scattered blood. Here at least was one visitor to the\nisland disposed of! There were no traces of other violence about it. It\nlooked as though it had been suddenly snatched up and killed; and as I\nstared at the little furry body came the difficulty of how the thing\nhad been done. The vague dread that had been in my mind since I had\nseen the inhuman face of the man at the stream grew distincter as I\nstood there. I began to realise the hardihood of my expedition among\nthese unknown people. The thicket about me became altered to my\nimagination. Every shadow became something more than a shadow, became\nan ambush; every rustle became a threat. Invisible things seemed\nwatching me. I resolved to go back to the enclosure on the beach. I\nsuddenly turned away and thrust myself violently, possibly even\nfrantically, through the bushes, anxious to get a clear space about me\nagain.\n\nI stopped just in time to prevent myself emerging upon an open space.\nIt was a kind of glade in the forest, made by a fall; seedlings were\nalready starting up to struggle for the vacant space; and beyond, the\ndense growth of stems and twining vines and splashes of fungus and\nflowers closed in again. Before me, squatting together upon the fungoid\nruins of a huge fallen tree and still unaware of my approach, were\nthree grotesque human figures. One was evidently a female; the other\ntwo were men. They were naked, save for swathings of scarlet cloth\nabout the middle; and their skins were of a dull pinkish-drab colour,\nsuch as I had seen in no savages before. They had fat, heavy, chinless\nfaces, retreating foreheads, and a scant bristly hair upon their heads.\nI never saw such bestial-looking creatures.\n\nThey were talking, or at least one of the men was talking to the other\ntwo, and all three had been too closely interested to heed the rustling\nof my approach. They swayed their heads and shoulders from side to\nside. The speaker s words came thick and sloppy, and though I could\nhear them distinctly I could not distinguish what he said. He seemed to\nme to be reciting some complicated gibberish. Presently his\narticulation became shriller, and spreading his hands he rose to his\nfeet. At that the others began to gibber in unison, also rising to\ntheir feet, spreading their hands and swaying their bodies in rhythm\nwith their chant. I noticed then the abnormal shortness of their legs,\nand their lank, clumsy feet. All three began slowly to circle round,\nraising and stamping their feet and waving their arms; a kind of tune\ncrept into their rhythmic recitation, and a refrain, Aloola,  or\n Balloola,  it sounded like. Their eyes began to sparkle, and their\nugly faces to brighten, with an expression of strange pleasure. Saliva\ndripped from their lipless mouths.\n\nSuddenly, as I watched their grotesque and unaccountable gestures, I\nperceived clearly for the first time what it was that had offended me,\nwhat had given me the two inconsistent and conflicting impressions of\nutter strangeness and yet of the strangest familiarity. The three\ncreatures engaged in this mysterious rite were human in shape, and yet\nhuman beings with the strangest air about them of some familiar animal.\nEach of these creatures, despite its human form, its rag of clothing,\nand the rough humanity of its bodily form, had woven into it into its\nmovements, into the expression of its countenance, into its whole\npresence some now irresistible suggestion of a hog, a swinish taint,\nthe unmistakable mark of the beast.\n\nI stood overcome by this amazing realisation and then the most horrible\nquestionings came rushing into my mind. They began leaping in the air,\nfirst one and then the other, whooping and grunting. Then one slipped,\nand for a moment was on all-fours, to recover, indeed, forthwith. But\nthat transitory gleam of the true animalism of these monsters was\nenough.\n\nI turned as noiselessly as possible, and becoming every now and then\nrigid with the fear of being discovered, as a branch cracked or a leaf\nrustled, I pushed back into the bushes. It was long before I grew\nbolder, and dared to move freely. My only idea for the moment was to\nget away from these foul beings, and I scarcely noticed that I had\nemerged upon a faint pathway amidst the trees. Then suddenly traversing\na little glade, I saw with an unpleasant start two clumsy legs among\nthe trees, walking with noiseless footsteps parallel with my course,\nand perhaps thirty yards away from me. The head and upper part of the\nbody were hidden by a tangle of creeper. I stopped abruptly, hoping the\ncreature did not see me. The feet stopped as I did. So nervous was I\nthat I controlled an impulse to headlong flight with the utmost\ndifficulty. Then looking hard, I distinguished through the interlacing\nnetwork the head and body of the brute I had seen drinking. He moved\nhis head. There was an emerald flash in his eyes as he glanced at me\nfrom the shadow of the trees, a half-luminous colour that vanished as\nhe turned his head again. He was motionless for a moment, and then with\na noiseless tread began running through the green confusion. In another\nmoment he had vanished behind some bushes. I could not see him, but I\nfelt that he had stopped and was watching me again.\n\nWhat on earth was he, man or beast? What did he want with me? I had no\nweapon, not even a stick. Flight would be madness. At any rate the\nThing, whatever it was, lacked the courage to attack me. Setting my\nteeth hard, I walked straight towards him. I was anxious not to show\nthe fear that seemed chilling my backbone. I pushed through a tangle of\ntall white-flowered bushes, and saw him twenty paces beyond, looking\nover his shoulder at me and hesitating. I advanced a step or two,\nlooking steadfastly into his eyes.\n\n Who are you?  said I.\n\nHe tried to meet my gaze.  No!  he said suddenly, and turning went\nbounding away from me through the undergrowth. Then he turned and\nstared at me again. His eyes shone brightly out of the dusk under the\ntrees.\n\nMy heart was in my mouth; but I felt my only chance was bluff, and\nwalked steadily towards him. He turned again, and vanished into the\ndusk. Once more I thought I caught the glint of his eyes, and that was\nall.\n\nFor the first time I realised how the lateness of the hour might affect\nme. The sun had set some minutes since, the swift dusk of the tropics\nwas already fading out of the eastern sky, and a pioneer moth fluttered\nsilently by my head. Unless I would spend the night among the unknown\ndangers of the mysterious forest, I must hasten back to the enclosure.\nThe thought of a return to that pain-haunted refuge was extremely\ndisagreeable, but still more so was the idea of being overtaken in the\nopen by darkness and all that darkness might conceal. I gave one more\nlook into the blue shadows that had swallowed up this odd creature, and\nthen retraced my way down the slope towards the stream, going as I\njudged in the direction from which I had come.\n\nI walked eagerly, my mind confused with many things, and presently\nfound myself in a level place among scattered trees. The colourless\nclearness that comes after the sunset flush was darkling; the blue sky\nabove grew momentarily deeper, and the little stars one by one pierced\nthe attenuated light; the interspaces of the trees, the gaps in the\nfurther vegetation, that had been hazy blue in the daylight, grew black\nand mysterious. I pushed on. The colour vanished from the world. The\ntree-tops rose against the luminous blue sky in inky silhouette, and\nall below that outline melted into one formless blackness. Presently\nthe trees grew thinner, and the shrubby undergrowth more abundant. Then\nthere was a desolate space covered with a white sand, and then another\nexpanse of tangled bushes. I did not remember crossing the sand-opening\nbefore. I began to be tormented by a faint rustling upon my right hand.\nI thought at first it was fancy, for whenever I stopped there was\nsilence, save for the evening breeze in the tree-tops. Then when I\nturned to hurry on again there was an echo to my footsteps.\n\nI turned away from the thickets, keeping to the more open ground, and\nendeavouring by sudden turns now and then to surprise something in the\nact of creeping upon me. I saw nothing, and nevertheless my sense of\nanother presence grew steadily. I increased my pace, and after some\ntime came to a slight ridge, crossed it, and turned sharply, regarding\nit steadfastly from the further side. It came out black and clear-cut\nagainst the darkling sky; and presently a shapeless lump heaved up\nmomentarily against the sky-line and vanished again. I felt assured now\nthat my tawny-faced antagonist was stalking me once more; and coupled\nwith that was another unpleasant realisation, that I had lost my way.\n\nFor a time I hurried on hopelessly perplexed, and pursued by that\nstealthy approach. Whatever it was, the Thing either lacked the courage\nto attack me, or it was waiting to take me at some disadvantage. I kept\nstudiously to the open. At times I would turn and listen; and presently\nI had half persuaded myself that my pursuer had abandoned the chase, or\nwas a mere creation of my disordered imagination. Then I heard the\nsound of the sea. I quickened my footsteps almost into a run, and\nimmediately there was a stumble in my rear.\n\nI turned suddenly, and stared at the uncertain trees behind me. One\nblack shadow seemed to leap into another. I listened, rigid, and heard\nnothing but the creep of the blood in my ears. I thought that my nerves\nwere unstrung, and that my imagination was tricking me, and turned\nresolutely towards the sound of the sea again.\n\nIn a minute or so the trees grew thinner, and I emerged upon a bare,\nlow headland running out into the sombre water. The night was calm and\nclear, and the reflection of the growing multitude of the stars\nshivered in the tranquil heaving of the sea. Some way out, the wash\nupon an irregular band of reef shone with a pallid light of its own.\nWestward I saw the zodiacal light mingling with the yellow brilliance\nof the evening star. The coast fell away from me to the east, and\nwestward it was hidden by the shoulder of the cape. Then I recalled the\nfact that Moreau s beach lay to the west.\n\nA twig snapped behind me, and there was a rustle. I turned, and stood\nfacing the dark trees. I could see nothing or else I could see too\nmuch. Every dark form in the dimness had its ominous quality, its\npeculiar suggestion of alert watchfulness. So I stood for perhaps a\nminute, and then, with an eye to the trees still, turned westward to\ncross the headland; and as I moved, one among the lurking shadows moved\nto follow me.\n\nMy heart beat quickly. Presently the broad sweep of a bay to the\nwestward became visible, and I halted again. The noiseless shadow\nhalted a dozen yards from me. A little point of light shone on the\nfurther bend of the curve, and the grey sweep of the sandy beach lay\nfaint under the starlight. Perhaps two miles away was that little point\nof light. To get to the beach I should have to go through the trees\nwhere the shadows lurked, and down a bushy slope.\n\nI could see the Thing rather more distinctly now. It was no animal, for\nit stood erect. At that I opened my mouth to speak, and found a hoarse\nphlegm choked my voice. I tried again, and shouted,  Who is there? \nThere was no answer. I advanced a step. The Thing did not move, only\ngathered itself together. My foot struck a stone. That gave me an idea.\nWithout taking my eyes off the black form before me, I stooped and\npicked up this lump of rock; but at my motion the Thing turned abruptly\nas a dog might have done, and slunk obliquely into the further\ndarkness. Then I recalled a schoolboy expedient against big dogs, and\ntwisted the rock into my handkerchief, and gave this a turn round my\nwrist. I heard a movement further off among the shadows, as if the\nThing was in retreat. Then suddenly my tense excitement gave way; I\nbroke into a profuse perspiration and fell a-trembling, with my\nadversary routed and this weapon in my hand.\n\nIt was some time before I could summon resolution to go down through\nthe trees and bushes upon the flank of the headland to the beach. At\nlast I did it at a run; and as I emerged from the thicket upon the\nsand, I heard some other body come crashing after me. At that I\ncompletely lost my head with fear, and began running along the sand.\nForthwith there came the swift patter of soft feet in pursuit. I gave a\nwild cry, and redoubled my pace. Some dim, black things about three or\nfour times the size of rabbits went running or hopping up from the\nbeach towards the bushes as I passed.\n\nSo long as I live, I shall remember the terror of that chase. I ran\nnear the water s edge, and heard every now and then the splash of the\nfeet that gained upon me. Far away, hopelessly far, was the yellow\nlight. All the night about us was black and still. Splash, splash, came\nthe pursuing feet, nearer and nearer. I felt my breath going, for I was\nquite out of training; it whooped as I drew it, and I felt a pain like\na knife at my side. I perceived the Thing would come up with me long\nbefore I reached the enclosure, and, desperate and sobbing for my\nbreath, I wheeled round upon it and struck at it as it came up to\nme, struck with all my strength. The stone came out of the sling of the\nhandkerchief as I did so. As I turned, the Thing, which had been\nrunning on all-fours, rose to its feet, and the missile fell fair on\nits left temple. The skull rang loud, and the animal-man blundered into\nme, thrust me back with its hands, and went staggering past me to fall\nheadlong upon the sand with its face in the water; and there it lay\nstill.\n\nI could not bring myself to approach that black heap. I left it there,\nwith the water rippling round it, under the still stars, and giving it\na wide berth pursued my way towards the yellow glow of the house; and\npresently, with a positive effect of relief, came the pitiful moaning\nof the puma, the sound that had originally driven me out to explore\nthis mysterious island. At that, though I was faint and horribly\nfatigued, I gathered together all my strength, and began running again\ntowards the light. I thought I heard a voice calling me.\n\n\n\n\nX.\nTHE CRYING OF THE MAN.\n\n\nAs I drew near the house I saw that the light shone from the open door\nof my room; and then I heard coming from out of the darkness at the\nside of that orange oblong of light, the voice of Montgomery shouting,\n Prendick!  I continued running. Presently I heard him again. I replied\nby a feeble  Hullo!  and in another moment had staggered up to him.\n\n Where have you been?  said he, holding me at arm s length, so that the\nlight from the door fell on my face.  We have both been so busy that we\nforgot you until about half an hour ago.  He led me into the room and\nsat me down in the deck chair. For awhile I was blinded by the light.\n We did not think you would start to explore this island of ours\nwithout telling us,  he said; and then,  I was afraid But what Hullo! \n\nMy last remaining strength slipped from me, and my head fell forward on\nmy chest. I think he found a certain satisfaction in giving me brandy.\n\n For God s sake,  said I,  fasten that door. \n\n You ve been meeting some of our curiosities, eh?  said he.\n\nHe locked the door and turned to me again. He asked me no questions,\nbut gave me some more brandy and water and pressed me to eat. I was in\na state of collapse. He said something vague about his forgetting to\nwarn me, and asked me briefly when I left the house and what I had\nseen.\n\nI answered him as briefly, in fragmentary sentences.  Tell me what it\nall means,  said I, in a state bordering on hysterics.\n\n It s nothing so very dreadful,  said he.  But I think you have had\nabout enough for one day.  The puma suddenly gave a sharp yell of pain.\nAt that he swore under his breath.  I m damned,  said he,  if this\nplace is not as bad as Gower Street, with its cats. \n\n Montgomery,  said I,  what was that thing that came after me? Was it a\nbeast or was it a man? \n\n If you don t sleep to-night,  he said,  you ll be off your head\nto-morrow. \n\nI stood up in front of him.  What was that thing that came after me?  I\nasked.\n\nHe looked me squarely in the eyes, and twisted his mouth askew. His\neyes, which had seemed animated a minute before, went dull.  From your\naccount,  said he,  I m thinking it was a bogle. \n\nI felt a gust of intense irritation, which passed as quickly as it\ncame. I flung myself into the chair again, and pressed my hands on my\nforehead. The puma began once more.\n\nMontgomery came round behind me and put his hand on my shoulder.  Look\nhere, Prendick,  he said,  I had no business to let you drift out into\nthis silly island of ours. But it s not so bad as you feel, man. Your\nnerves are worked to rags. Let me give you something that will make you\nsleep. _That_ will keep on for hours yet. You must simply get to sleep,\nor I won t answer for it. \n\nI did not reply. I bowed forward, and covered my face with my hands.\nPresently he returned with a small measure containing a dark liquid.\nThis he gave me. I took it unresistingly, and he helped me into the\nhammock.\n\nWhen I awoke, it was broad day. For a little while I lay flat, staring\nat the roof above me. The rafters, I observed, were made out of the\ntimbers of a ship. Then I turned my head, and saw a meal prepared for\nme on the table. I perceived that I was hungry, and prepared to clamber\nout of the hammock, which, very politely anticipating my intention,\ntwisted round and deposited me upon all-fours on the floor.\n\nI got up and sat down before the food. I had a heavy feeling in my\nhead, and only the vaguest memory at first of the things that had\nhappened over night. The morning breeze blew very pleasantly through\nthe unglazed window, and that and the food contributed to the sense of\nanimal comfort which I experienced. Presently the door behind me the\ndoor inward towards the yard of the enclosure opened. I turned and saw\nMontgomery s face.\n\n All right,  said he.  I m frightfully busy.  And he shut the door.\n\nAfterwards I discovered that he forgot to re-lock it. Then I recalled\nthe expression of his face the previous night, and with that the memory\nof all I had experienced reconstructed itself before me. Even as that\nfear came back to me came a cry from within; but this time it was not\nthe cry of a puma. I put down the mouthful that hesitated upon my lips,\nand listened. Silence, save for the whisper of the morning breeze. I\nbegan to think my ears had deceived me.\n\nAfter a long pause I resumed my meal, but with my ears still vigilant.\nPresently I heard something else, very faint and low. I sat as if\nfrozen in my attitude. Though it was faint and low, it moved me more\nprofoundly than all that I had hitherto heard of the abominations\nbehind the wall. There was no mistake this time in the quality of the\ndim, broken sounds; no doubt at all of their source. For it was\ngroaning, broken by sobs and gasps of anguish. It was no brute this\ntime; it was a human being in torment!\n\nAs I realised this I rose, and in three steps had crossed the room,\nseized the handle of the door into the yard, and flung it open before\nme.\n\n Prendick, man! Stop!  cried Montgomery, intervening.\n\nA startled deerhound yelped and snarled. There was blood, I saw, in the\nsink, brown, and some scarlet and I smelt the peculiar smell of\ncarbolic acid. Then through an open doorway beyond, in the dim light of\nthe shadow, I saw something bound painfully upon a framework, scarred,\nred, and bandaged; and then blotting this out appeared the face of old\nMoreau, white and terrible. In a moment he had gripped me by the\nshoulder with a hand that was smeared red, had twisted me off my feet,\nand flung me headlong back into my own room. He lifted me as though I\nwas a little child. I fell at full length upon the floor, and the door\nslammed and shut out the passionate intensity of his face. Then I heard\nthe key turn in the lock, and Montgomery s voice in expostulation.\n\n Ruin the work of a lifetime,  I heard Moreau say.\n\n He does not understand,  said Montgomery. and other things that were\ninaudible.\n\n I can t spare the time yet,  said Moreau.\n\nThe rest I did not hear. I picked myself up and stood trembling, my\nmind a chaos of the most horrible misgivings. Could it be possible, I\nthought, that such a thing as the vivisection of men was carried on\nhere? The question shot like lightning across a tumultuous sky; and\nsuddenly the clouded horror of my mind condensed into a vivid\nrealisation of my own danger.\n\n\n\n\nXI.\nTHE HUNTING OF THE MAN.\n\n\nIt came before my mind with an unreasonable hope of escape that the\nouter door of my room was still open to me. I was convinced now,\nabsolutely assured, that Moreau had been vivisecting a human being. All\nthe time since I had heard his name, I had been trying to link in my\nmind in some way the grotesque animalism of the islanders with his\nabominations; and now I thought I saw it all. The memory of his work on\nthe transfusion of blood recurred to me. These creatures I had seen\nwere the victims of some hideous experiment. These sickening scoundrels\nhad merely intended to keep me back, to fool me with their display of\nconfidence, and presently to fall upon me with a fate more horrible\nthan death, with torture; and after torture the most hideous\ndegradation it is possible to conceive, to send me off a lost soul, a\nbeast, to the rest of their Comus rout.\n\nI looked round for some weapon. Nothing. Then with an inspiration I\nturned over the deck chair, put my foot on the side of it, and tore\naway the side rail. It happened that a nail came away with the wood,\nand projecting, gave a touch of danger to an otherwise petty weapon. I\nheard a step outside, and incontinently flung open the door and found\nMontgomery within a yard of it. He meant to lock the outer door! I\nraised this nailed stick of mine and cut at his face; but he sprang\nback. I hesitated a moment, then turned and fled, round the corner of\nthe house.  Prendick, man!  I heard his astonished cry,  don t be a\nsilly ass, man! \n\nAnother minute, thought I, and he would have had me locked in, and as\nready as a hospital rabbit for my fate. He emerged behind the corner,\nfor I heard him shout,  Prendick!  Then he began to run after me,\nshouting things as he ran. This time running blindly, I went\nnortheastward in a direction at right angles to my previous expedition.\nOnce, as I went running headlong up the beach, I glanced over my\nshoulder and saw his attendant with him. I ran furiously up the slope,\nover it, then turning eastward along a rocky valley fringed on either\nside with jungle I ran for perhaps a mile altogether, my chest\nstraining, my heart beating in my ears; and then hearing nothing of\nMontgomery or his man, and feeling upon the verge of exhaustion, I\ndoubled sharply back towards the beach as I judged, and lay down in the\nshelter of a canebrake. There I remained for a long time, too fearful\nto move, and indeed too fearful even to plan a course of action. The\nwild scene about me lay sleeping silently under the sun, and the only\nsound near me was the thin hum of some small gnats that had discovered\nme. Presently I became aware of a drowsy breathing sound, the soughing\nof the sea upon the beach.\n\nAfter about an hour I heard Montgomery shouting my name, far away to\nthe north. That set me thinking of my plan of action. As I interpreted\nit then, this island was inhabited only by these two vivisectors and\ntheir animalised victims. Some of these no doubt they could press into\ntheir service against me if need arose. I knew both Moreau and\nMontgomery carried revolvers; and, save for a feeble bar of deal spiked\nwith a small nail, the merest mockery of a mace, I was unarmed.\n\nSo I lay still there, until I began to think of food and drink; and at\nthat thought the real hopelessness of my position came home to me. I\nknew no way of getting anything to eat. I was too ignorant of botany to\ndiscover any resort of root or fruit that might lie about me; I had no\nmeans of trapping the few rabbits upon the island. It grew blanker the\nmore I turned the prospect over. At last in the desperation of my\nposition, my mind turned to the animal men I had encountered. I tried\nto find some hope in what I remembered of them. In turn I recalled each\none I had seen, and tried to draw some augury of assistance from my\nmemory.\n\nThen suddenly I heard a staghound bay, and at that realised a new\ndanger. I took little time to think, or they would have caught me then,\nbut snatching up my nailed stick, rushed headlong from my hiding-place\ntowards the sound of the sea. I remember a growth of thorny plants,\nwith spines that stabbed like pen-knives. I emerged bleeding and with\ntorn clothes upon the lip of a long creek opening northward. I went\nstraight into the water without a minute s hesitation, wading up the\ncreek, and presently finding myself kneedeep in a little stream. I\nscrambled out at last on the westward bank, and with my heart beating\nloudly in my ears, crept into a tangle of ferns to await the issue. I\nheard the dog (there was only one) draw nearer, and yelp when it came\nto the thorns. Then I heard no more, and presently began to think I had\nescaped.\n\nThe minutes passed; the silence lengthened out, and at last after an\nhour of security my courage began to return to me. By this time I was\nno longer very much terrified or very miserable. I had, as it were,\npassed the limit of terror and despair. I felt now that my life was\npractically lost, and that persuasion made me capable of daring\nanything. I had even a certain wish to encounter Moreau face to face;\nand as I had waded into the water, I remembered that if I were too hard\npressed at least one path of escape from torment still lay open to\nme, they could not very well prevent my drowning myself. I had half a\nmind to drown myself then; but an odd wish to see the whole adventure\nout, a queer, impersonal, spectacular interest in myself, restrained\nme. I stretched my limbs, sore and painful from the pricks of the spiny\nplants, and stared around me at the trees; and, so suddenly that it\nseemed to jump out of the green tracery about it, my eyes lit upon a\nblack face watching me. I saw that it was the simian creature who had\nmet the launch upon the beach. He was clinging to the oblique stem of a\npalm-tree. I gripped my stick, and stood up facing him. He began\nchattering.  You, you, you,  was all I could distinguish at first.\nSuddenly he dropped from the tree, and in another moment was holding\nthe fronds apart and staring curiously at me.\n\nI did not feel the same repugnance towards this creature which I had\nexperienced in my encounters with the other Beast Men.  You,  he said,\n in the boat.  He was a man, then, at least as much of a man as\nMontgomery s attendant, for he could talk.\n\n Yes,  I said,  I came in the boat. From the ship. \n\n Oh!  he said, and his bright, restless eyes travelled over me, to my\nhands, to the stick I carried, to my feet, to the tattered places in my\ncoat, and the cuts and scratches I had received from the thorns. He\nseemed puzzled at something. His eyes came back to my hands. He held\nhis own hand out and counted his digits slowly,  One, two, three, four,\nfive eigh? \n\nI did not grasp his meaning then; afterwards I was to find that a great\nproportion of these Beast People had malformed hands, lacking sometimes\neven three digits. But guessing this was in some way a greeting, I did\nthe same thing by way of reply. He grinned with immense satisfaction.\nThen his swift roving glance went round again; he made a swift\nmovement and vanished. The fern fronds he had stood between came\nswishing together.\n\nI pushed out of the brake after him, and was astonished to find him\nswinging cheerfully by one lank arm from a rope of creepers that looped\ndown from the foliage overhead. His back was to me.\n\n Hullo!  said I.\n\nHe came down with a twisting jump, and stood facing me.\n\n I say,  said I,  where can I get something to eat? \n\n Eat!  he said.  Eat Man s food, now.  And his eye went back to the\nswing of ropes.  At the huts. \n\n But where are the huts? \n\n Oh! \n\n I m new, you know. \n\nAt that he swung round, and set off at a quick walk. All his motions\nwere curiously rapid.  Come along,  said he.\n\nI went with him to see the adventure out. I guessed the huts were some\nrough shelter where he and some more of these Beast People lived. I\nmight perhaps find them friendly, find some handle in their minds to\ntake hold of. I did not know how far they had forgotten their human\nheritage.\n\nMy ape-like companion trotted along by my side, with his hands hanging\ndown and his jaw thrust forward. I wondered what memory he might have\nin him.  How long have you been on this island?  said I.\n\n How long?  he asked; and after having the question repeated, he held\nup three fingers.\n\nThe creature was little better than an idiot. I tried to make out what\nhe meant by that, and it seems I bored him. After another question or\ntwo he suddenly left my side and went leaping at some fruit that hung\nfrom a tree. He pulled down a handful of prickly husks and went on\neating the contents. I noted this with satisfaction, for here at least\nwas a hint for feeding. I tried him with some other questions, but his\nchattering, prompt responses were as often as not quite at cross\npurposes with my question. Some few were appropriate, others quite\nparrot-like.\n\nI was so intent upon these peculiarities that I scarcely noticed the\npath we followed. Presently we came to trees, all charred and brown,\nand so to a bare place covered with a yellow-white incrustation, across\nwhich a drifting smoke, pungent in whiffs to nose and eyes, went\ndrifting. On our right, over a shoulder of bare rock, I saw the level\nblue of the sea. The path coiled down abruptly into a narrow ravine\nbetween two tumbled and knotty masses of blackish scoriae. Into this we\nplunged.\n\nIt was extremely dark, this passage, after the blinding sunlight\nreflected from the sulphurous ground. Its walls grew steep, and\napproached each other. Blotches of green and crimson drifted across my\neyes. My conductor stopped suddenly.  Home!  said he, and I stood in a\nfloor of a chasm that was at first absolutely dark to me. I heard some\nstrange noises, and thrust the knuckles of my left hand into my eyes. I\nbecame aware of a disagreeable odor, like that of a monkey s cage\nill-cleaned. Beyond, the rock opened again upon a gradual slope of\nsunlit greenery, and on either hand the light smote down through narrow\nways into the central gloom.\n\n\n\n\nXII.\nTHE SAYERS OF THE LAW.\n\n\nThen something cold touched my hand. I started violently, and saw close\nto me a dim pinkish thing, looking more like a flayed child than\nanything else in the world. The creature had exactly the mild but\nrepulsive features of a sloth, the same low forehead and slow gestures.\n\nAs the first shock of the change of light passed, I saw about me more\ndistinctly. The little sloth-like creature was standing and staring at\nme. My conductor had vanished. The place was a narrow passage between\nhigh walls of lava, a crack in the knotted rock, and on either side\ninterwoven heaps of sea-mat, palm-fans, and reeds leaning against the\nrock formed rough and impenetrably dark dens. The winding way up the\nravine between these was scarcely three yards wide, and was disfigured\nby lumps of decaying fruit-pulp and other refuse, which accounted for\nthe disagreeable stench of the place.\n\nThe little pink sloth-creature was still blinking at me when my Ape-man\nreappeared at the aperture of the nearest of these dens, and beckoned\nme in. As he did so a slouching monster wriggled out of one of the\nplaces, further up this strange street, and stood up in featureless\nsilhouette against the bright green beyond, staring at me. I hesitated,\nhaving half a mind to bolt the way I had come; and then, determined to\ngo through with the adventure, I gripped my nailed stick about the\nmiddle and crawled into the little evil-smelling lean-to after my\nconductor.\n\nIt was a semi-circular space, shaped like the half of a bee-hive; and\nagainst the rocky wall that formed the inner side of it was a pile of\nvariegated fruits, cocoa-nuts among others. Some rough vessels of lava\nand wood stood about the floor, and one on a rough stool. There was no\nfire. In the darkest corner of the hut sat a shapeless mass of darkness\nthat grunted  Hey!  as I came in, and my Ape-man stood in the dim light\nof the doorway and held out a split cocoa-nut to me as I crawled into\nthe other corner and squatted down. I took it, and began gnawing it, as\nserenely as possible, in spite of a certain trepidation and the nearly\nintolerable closeness of the den. The little pink sloth-creature stood\nin the aperture of the hut, and something else with a drab face and\nbright eyes came staring over its shoulder.\n\n Hey!  came out of the lump of mystery opposite.  It is a man. \n\n It is a man,  gabbled my conductor,  a man, a man, a five-man, like\nme. \n\n Shut up!  said the voice from the dark, and grunted. I gnawed my\ncocoa-nut amid an impressive stillness.\n\nI peered hard into the blackness, but could distinguish nothing.\n\n It is a man,  the voice repeated.  He comes to live with us? \n\nIt was a thick voice, with something in it a kind of whistling\novertone that struck me as peculiar; but the English accent was\nstrangely good.\n\nThe Ape-man looked at me as though he expected something. I perceived\nthe pause was interrogative.  He comes to live with you,  I said.\n\n It is a man. He must learn the Law. \n\nI began to distinguish now a deeper blackness in the black, a vague\noutline of a hunched-up figure. Then I noticed the opening of the place\nwas darkened by two more black heads. My hand tightened on my stick.\n\nThe thing in the dark repeated in a louder tone,  Say the words.  I had\nmissed its last remark.  Not to go on all-fours; that is the Law,  it\nrepeated in a kind of sing-song.\n\nI was puzzled.\n\n Say the words,  said the Ape-man, repeating, and the figures in the\ndoorway echoed this, with a threat in the tone of their voices.\n\nI realised that I had to repeat this idiotic formula; and then began\nthe insanest ceremony. The voice in the dark began intoning a mad\nlitany, line by line, and I and the rest to repeat it. As they did so,\nthey swayed from side to side in the oddest way, and beat their hands\nupon their knees; and I followed their example. I could have imagined I\nwas already dead and in another world. That dark hut, these grotesque\ndim figures, just flecked here and there by a glimmer of light, and all\nof them swaying in unison and chanting,\n\n Not to go on all-fours; that is the Law. Are we not Men?\n Not to suck up Drink; that is the Law. Are we not Men?\n Not to eat Fish or Flesh; that is the Law. Are we not Men?\n Not to claw the Bark of Trees; _that_ is the Law. Are we not Men?\n Not to chase other Men; _that_ is the Law. Are we not Men? \n\n\nAnd so from the prohibition of these acts of folly, on to the\nprohibition of what I thought then were the maddest, most impossible,\nand most indecent things one could well imagine. A kind of rhythmic\nfervour fell on all of us; we gabbled and swayed faster and faster,\nrepeating this amazing Law. Superficially the contagion of these brutes\nwas upon me, but deep down within me the laughter and disgust struggled\ntogether. We ran through a long list of prohibitions, and then the\nchant swung round to a new formula.\n\n _His_ is the House of Pain.\n _His_ is the Hand that makes.\n _His_ is the Hand that wounds.\n _His_ is the Hand that heals. \n\n\nAnd so on for another long series, mostly quite incomprehensible\ngibberish to me about _Him_, whoever he might be. I could have fancied\nit was a dream, but never before have I heard chanting in a dream.\n\n _His_ is the lightning flash,  we sang.  _His_ is the deep, salt sea. \n\nA horrible fancy came into my head that Moreau, after animalising these\nmen, had infected their dwarfed brains with a kind of deification of\nhimself. However, I was too keenly aware of white teeth and strong\nclaws about me to stop my chanting on that account.\n\n _His_ are the stars in the sky. \n\n\nAt last that song ended. I saw the Ape-man s face shining with\nperspiration; and my eyes being now accustomed to the darkness, I saw\nmore distinctly the figure in the corner from which the voice came. It\nwas the size of a man, but it seemed covered with a dull grey hair\nalmost like a Skye-terrier. What was it? What were they all? Imagine\nyourself surrounded by all the most horrible cripples and maniacs it is\npossible to conceive, and you may understand a little of my feelings\nwith these grotesque caricatures of humanity about me.\n\n He is a five-man, a five-man, a five-man like me,  said the Ape-man.\n\nI held out my hands. The grey creature in the corner leant forward.\n\n Not to run on all-fours; that is the Law. Are we not Men?  he said.\n\nHe put out a strangely distorted talon and gripped my fingers. The\nthing was almost like the hoof of a deer produced into claws. I could\nhave yelled with surprise and pain. His face came forward and peered at\nmy nails, came forward into the light of the opening of the hut and I\nsaw with a quivering disgust that it was like the face of neither man\nnor beast, but a mere shock of grey hair, with three shadowy\nover-archings to mark the eyes and mouth.\n\n He has little nails,  said this grisly creature in his hairy beard.\n It is well. \n\nHe threw my hand down, and instinctively I gripped my stick.\n\n Eat roots and herbs; it is His will,  said the Ape-man.\n\n I am the Sayer of the Law,  said the grey figure.  Here come all that\nbe new to learn the Law. I sit in the darkness and say the Law. \n\n It is even so,  said one of the beasts in the doorway.\n\n Evil are the punishments of those who break the Law. None escape. \n\n None escape,  said the Beast Folk, glancing furtively at one another.\n\n None, none,  said the Ape-man, none escape. See! I did a little\nthing, a wrong thing, once. I jabbered, jabbered, stopped talking. None\ncould understand. I am burnt, branded in the hand. He is great. He is\ngood! \n\n None escape,  said the grey creature in the corner.\n\n None escape,  said the Beast People, looking askance at one another.\n\n For every one the want that is bad,  said the grey Sayer of the Law.\n What you will want we do not know; we shall know. Some want to follow\nthings that move, to watch and slink and wait and spring; to kill and\nbite, bite deep and rich, sucking the blood. It is bad.  Not to chase\nother Men; that is the Law. Are we not Men? Not to eat Flesh or Fish;\nthat is the Law. Are we not Men? \n\n None escape,  said a dappled brute standing in the doorway.\n\n For every one the want is bad,  said the grey Sayer of the Law.  Some\nwant to go tearing with teeth and hands into the roots of things,\nsnuffing into the earth. It is bad. \n\n None escape,  said the men in the door.\n\n Some go clawing trees; some go scratching at the graves of the dead;\nsome go fighting with foreheads or feet or claws; some bite suddenly,\nnone giving occasion; some love uncleanness. \n\n None escape,  said the Ape-man, scratching his calf.\n\n None escape,  said the little pink sloth-creature.\n\n Punishment is sharp and sure. Therefore learn the Law. Say the words. \n\nAnd incontinently he began again the strange litany of the Law, and\nagain I and all these creatures began singing and swaying. My head\nreeled with this jabbering and the close stench of the place; but I\nkept on, trusting to find presently some chance of a new development.\n\n Not to go on all-fours; that is the Law. Are we not Men? \n\nWe were making such a noise that I noticed nothing of a tumult outside,\nuntil some one, who I think was one of the two Swine Men I had seen,\nthrust his head over the little pink sloth-creature and shouted\nsomething excitedly, something that I did not catch. Incontinently\nthose at the opening of the hut vanished; my Ape-man rushed out; the\nthing that had sat in the dark followed him (I only observed that it\nwas big and clumsy, and covered with silvery hair), and I was left\nalone. Then before I reached the aperture I heard the yelp of a\nstaghound.\n\nIn another moment I was standing outside the hovel, my chair-rail in my\nhand, every muscle of me quivering. Before me were the clumsy backs of\nperhaps a score of these Beast People, their misshapen heads half\nhidden by their shoulder-blades. They were gesticulating excitedly.\nOther half-animal faces glared interrogation out of the hovels. Looking\nin the direction in which they faced, I saw coming through the haze\nunder the trees beyond the end of the passage of dens the dark figure\nand awful white face of Moreau. He was holding the leaping staghound\nback, and close behind him came Montgomery revolver in hand.\n\nFor a moment I stood horror-struck. I turned and saw the passage behind\nme blocked by another heavy brute, with a huge grey face and twinkling\nlittle eyes, advancing towards me. I looked round and saw to the right\nof me and a half-dozen yards in front of me a narrow gap in the wall of\nrock through which a ray of light slanted into the shadows.\n\n Stop!  cried Moreau as I strode towards this, and then,  Hold him! \n\nAt that, first one face turned towards me and then others. Their\nbestial minds were happily slow. I dashed my shoulder into a clumsy\nmonster who was turning to see what Moreau meant, and flung him forward\ninto another. I felt his hands fly round, clutching at me and missing\nme. The little pink sloth-creature dashed at me, and I gashed down its\nugly face with the nail in my stick and in another minute was\nscrambling up a steep side pathway, a kind of sloping chimney, out of\nthe ravine. I heard a howl behind me, and cries of  Catch him!   Hold\nhim!  and the grey-faced creature appeared behind me and jammed his\nhuge bulk into the cleft.  Go on! go on!  they howled. I clambered up\nthe narrow cleft in the rock and came out upon the sulphur on the\nwestward side of the village of the Beast Men.\n\nThat gap was altogether fortunate for me, for the narrow chimney,\nslanting obliquely upward, must have impeded the nearer pursuers. I ran\nover the white space and down a steep slope, through a scattered growth\nof trees, and came to a low-lying stretch of tall reeds, through which\nI pushed into a dark, thick undergrowth that was black and succulent\nunder foot. As I plunged into the reeds, my foremost pursuers emerged\nfrom the gap. I broke my way through this undergrowth for some minutes.\nThe air behind me and about me was soon full of threatening cries. I\nheard the tumult of my pursuers in the gap up the slope, then the\ncrashing of the reeds, and every now and then the crackling crash of a\nbranch. Some of the creatures roared like excited beasts of prey. The\nstaghound yelped to the left. I heard Moreau and Montgomery shouting in\nthe same direction. I turned sharply to the right. It seemed to me even\nthen that I heard Montgomery shouting for me to run for my life.\n\nPresently the ground gave rich and oozy under my feet; but I was\ndesperate and went headlong into it, struggled through kneedeep, and so\ncame to a winding path among tall canes. The noise of my pursuers\npassed away to my left. In one place three strange, pink, hopping\nanimals, about the size of cats, bolted before my footsteps. This\npathway ran up hill, across another open space covered with white\nincrustation, and plunged into a canebrake again. Then suddenly it\nturned parallel with the edge of a steep-walled gap, which came without\nwarning, like the ha-ha of an English park, turned with an unexpected\nabruptness. I was still running with all my might, and I never saw this\ndrop until I was flying headlong through the air.\n\nI fell on my forearms and head, among thorns, and rose with a torn ear\nand bleeding face. I had fallen into a precipitous ravine, rocky and\nthorny, full of a hazy mist which drifted about me in wisps, and with a\nnarrow streamlet from which this mist came meandering down the centre.\nI was astonished at this thin fog in the full blaze of daylight; but I\nhad no time to stand wondering then. I turned to my right, down-stream,\nhoping to come to the sea in that direction, and so have my way open to\ndrown myself. It was only later I found that I had dropped my nailed\nstick in my fall.\n\nPresently the ravine grew narrower for a space, and carelessly I\nstepped into the stream. I jumped out again pretty quickly, for the\nwater was almost boiling. I noticed too there was a thin sulphurous\nscum drifting upon its coiling water. Almost immediately came a turn in\nthe ravine, and the indistinct blue horizon. The nearer sea was\nflashing the sun from a myriad facets. I saw my death before me; but I\nwas hot and panting, with the warm blood oozing out on my face and\nrunning pleasantly through my veins. I felt more than a touch of\nexultation too, at having distanced my pursuers. It was not in me then\nto go out and drown myself yet. I stared back the way I had come.\n\nI listened. Save for the hum of the gnats and the chirp of some small\ninsects that hopped among the thorns, the air was absolutely still.\nThen came the yelp of a dog, very faint, and a chattering and\ngibbering, the snap of a whip, and voices. They grew louder, then\nfainter again. The noise receded up the stream and faded away. For a\nwhile the chase was over; but I knew now how much hope of help for me\nlay in the Beast People.\n\n\n\n\nXIII.\nA PARLEY.\n\n\nI turned again and went on down towards the sea. I found the hot stream\nbroadened out to a shallow, weedy sand, in which an abundance of crabs\nand long-bodied, many-legged creatures started from my footfall. I\nwalked to the very edge of the salt water, and then I felt I was safe.\nI turned and stared, arms akimbo, at the thick green behind me, into\nwhich the steamy ravine cut like a smoking gash. But, as I say, I was\ntoo full of excitement and (a true saying, though those who have never\nknown danger may doubt it) too desperate to die.\n\nThen it came into my head that there was one chance before me yet.\nWhile Moreau and Montgomery and their bestial rabble chased me through\nthe island, might I not go round the beach until I came to their\nenclosure, make a flank march upon them, in fact, and then with a rock\nlugged out of their loosely-built wall, perhaps, smash in the lock of\nthe smaller door and see what I could find (knife, pistol, or what not)\nto fight them with when they returned? It was at any rate something to\ntry.\n\nSo I turned to the westward and walked along by the water s edge. The\nsetting sun flashed his blinding heat into my eyes. The slight Pacific\ntide was running in with a gentle ripple. Presently the shore fell away\nsouthward, and the sun came round upon my right hand. Then suddenly,\nfar in front of me, I saw first one and then several figures emerging\nfrom the bushes, Moreau, with his grey staghound, then Montgomery, and\ntwo others. At that I stopped.\n\nThey saw me, and began gesticulating and advancing. I stood watching\nthem approach. The two Beast Men came running forward to cut me off\nfrom the undergrowth, inland. Montgomery came, running also, but\nstraight towards me. Moreau followed slower with the dog.\n\nAt last I roused myself from my inaction, and turning seaward walked\nstraight into the water. The water was very shallow at first. I was\nthirty yards out before the waves reached to my waist. Dimly I could\nsee the intertidal creatures darting away from my feet.\n\n What are you doing, man?  cried Montgomery.\n\nI turned, standing waist deep, and stared at them. Montgomery stood\npanting at the margin of the water. His face was bright-red with\nexertion, his long flaxen hair blown about his head, and his dropping\nnether lip showed his irregular teeth. Moreau was just coming up, his\nface pale and firm, and the dog at his hand barked at me. Both men had\nheavy whips. Farther up the beach stared the Beast Men.\n\n What am I doing? I am going to drown myself,  said I.\n\nMontgomery and Moreau looked at each other.  Why?  asked Moreau.\n\n Because that is better than being tortured by you. \n\n I told you so,  said Montgomery, and Moreau said something in a low\ntone.\n\n What makes you think I shall torture you?  asked Moreau.\n\n What I saw,  I said.  And those yonder. \n\n Hush!  said Moreau, and held up his hand.\n\n I will not,  said I.  They were men: what are they now? I at least\nwill not be like them. \n\nI looked past my interlocutors. Up the beach were M ling, Montgomery s\nattendant, and one of the white-swathed brutes from the boat. Farther\nup, in the shadow of the trees, I saw my little Ape-man, and behind him\nsome other dim figures.\n\n Who are these creatures?  said I, pointing to them and raising my\nvoice more and more that it might reach them.  They were men, men like\nyourselves, whom you have infected with some bestial taint, men whom\nyou have enslaved, and whom you still fear.\n\n You who listen,  I cried, pointing now to Moreau and shouting past him\nto the Beast Men, You who listen! Do you not see these men still fear\nyou, go in dread of you? Why, then, do you fear them? You are many \n\n For God s sake,  cried Montgomery,  stop that, Prendick! \n\n Prendick!  cried Moreau.\n\nThey both shouted together, as if to drown my voice; and behind them\nlowered the staring faces of the Beast Men, wondering, their deformed\nhands hanging down, their shoulders hunched up. They seemed, as I\nfancied, to be trying to understand me, to remember, I thought,\nsomething of their human past.\n\nI went on shouting, I scarcely remember what, that Moreau and\nMontgomery could be killed, that they were not to be feared: that was\nthe burden of what I put into the heads of the Beast People. I saw the\ngreen-eyed man in the dark rags, who had met me on the evening of my\narrival, come out from among the trees, and others followed him, to\nhear me better. At last for want of breath I paused.\n\n Listen to me for a moment,  said the steady voice of Moreau;  and then\nsay what you will. \n\n Well?  said I.\n\nHe coughed, thought, then shouted:  Latin, Prendick! bad Latin,\nschoolboy Latin; but try and understand. _Hi non sunt homines; sunt\nanimalia qui nos habemus_ vivisected. A humanising process. I will\nexplain. Come ashore. \n\nI laughed.  A pretty story,  said I.  They talk, build houses. They\nwere men. It s likely I ll come ashore. \n\n The water just beyond where you stand is deep and full of sharks. \n\n That s my way,  said I.  Short and sharp. Presently. \n\n Wait a minute.  He took something out of his pocket that flashed back\nthe sun, and dropped the object at his feet.  That s a loaded\nrevolver,  said he.  Montgomery here will do the same. Now we are going\nup the beach until you are satisfied the distance is safe. Then come\nand take the revolvers. \n\n Not I! You have a third between you. \n\n I want you to think over things, Prendick. In the first place, I never\nasked you to come upon this island. If we vivisected men, we should\nimport men, not beasts. In the next, we had you drugged last night, had\nwe wanted to work you any mischief; and in the next, now your first\npanic is over and you can think a little, is Montgomery here quite up\nto the character you give him? We have chased you for your good.\nBecause this island is full of inimical phenomena. Besides, why should\nwe want to shoot you when you have just offered to drown yourself? \n\n Why did you set your people onto me when I was in the hut? \n\n We felt sure of catching you, and bringing you out of danger.\nAfterwards we drew away from the scent, for your good. \n\nI mused. It seemed just possible. Then I remembered something again.\n But I saw,  said I,  in the enclosure \n\n That was the puma. \n\n Look here, Prendick,  said Montgomery,  you re a silly ass! Come out\nof the water and take these revolvers, and talk. We can t do anything\nmore than we could do now. \n\nI will confess that then, and indeed always, I distrusted and dreaded\nMoreau; but Montgomery was a man I felt I understood.\n\n Go up the beach,  said I, after thinking, and added,  holding your\nhands up. \n\n Can t do that,  said Montgomery, with an explanatory nod over his\nshoulder.  Undignified. \n\n Go up to the trees, then,  said I,  as you please. \n\n It s a damned silly ceremony,  said Montgomery.\n\nBoth turned and faced the six or seven grotesque creatures, who stood\nthere in the sunlight, solid, casting shadows, moving, and yet so\nincredibly unreal. Montgomery cracked his whip at them, and forthwith\nthey all turned and fled helter-skelter into the trees; and when\nMontgomery and Moreau were at a distance I judged sufficient, I waded\nashore, and picked up and examined the revolvers. To satisfy myself\nagainst the subtlest trickery, I discharged one at a round lump of\nlava, and had the satisfaction of seeing the stone pulverised and the\nbeach splashed with lead. Still I hesitated for a moment.\n\n I ll take the risk,  said I, at last; and with a revolver in each hand\nI walked up the beach towards them.\n\n That s better,  said Moreau, without affectation.  As it is, you have\nwasted the best part of my day with your confounded imagination.  And\nwith a touch of contempt which humiliated me, he and Montgomery turned\nand went on in silence before me.\n\nThe knot of Beast Men, still wondering, stood back among the trees. I\npassed them as serenely as possible. One started to follow me, but\nretreated again when Montgomery cracked his whip. The rest stood\nsilent watching. They may once have been animals; but I never before\nsaw an animal trying to think.\n\n\n\n\nXIV.\nDOCTOR MOREAU EXPLAINS.\n\n\n And now, Prendick, I will explain,  said Doctor Moreau, so soon as we\nhad eaten and drunk.  I must confess that you are the most dictatorial\nguest I ever entertained. I warn you that this is the last I shall do\nto oblige you. The next thing you threaten to commit suicide about, I\nshan t do, even at some personal inconvenience. \n\nHe sat in my deck chair, a cigar half consumed in his white,\ndexterous-looking fingers. The light of the swinging lamp fell on his\nwhite hair; he stared through the little window out at the starlight. I\nsat as far away from him as possible, the table between us and the\nrevolvers to hand. Montgomery was not present. I did not care to be\nwith the two of them in such a little room.\n\n You admit that the vivisected human being, as you called it, is, after\nall, only the puma?  said Moreau. He had made me visit that horror in\nthe inner room, to assure myself of its inhumanity.\n\n It is the puma,  I said,  still alive, but so cut and mutilated as I\npray I may never see living flesh again. Of all vile \n\n Never mind that,  said Moreau;  at least, spare me those youthful\nhorrors. Montgomery used to be just the same. You admit that it is the\npuma. Now be quiet, while I reel off my physiological lecture to you. \n\nAnd forthwith, beginning in the tone of a man supremely bored, but\npresently warming a little, he explained his work to me. He was very\nsimple and convincing. Now and then there was a touch of sarcasm in his\nvoice. Presently I found myself hot with shame at our mutual positions.\n\nThe creatures I had seen were not men, had never been men. They were\nanimals, humanised animals, triumphs of vivisection.\n\n You forget all that a skilled vivisector can do with living things, \nsaid Moreau.  For my own part, I m puzzled why the things I have done\nhere have not been done before. Small efforts, of course, have been\nmade, amputation, tongue-cutting, excisions. Of course you know a\nsquint may be induced or cured by surgery? Then in the case of\nexcisions you have all kinds of secondary changes, pigmentary\ndisturbances, modifications of the passions, alterations in the\nsecretion of fatty tissue. I have no doubt you have heard of these\nthings? \n\n Of course,  said I.  But these foul creatures of yours \n\n All in good time,  said he, waving his hand at me;  I am only\nbeginning. Those are trivial cases of alteration. Surgery can do better\nthings than that. There is building up as well as breaking down and\nchanging. You have heard, perhaps, of a common surgical operation\nresorted to in cases where the nose has been destroyed: a flap of skin\nis cut from the forehead, turned down on the nose, and heals in the new\nposition. This is a kind of grafting in a new position of part of an\nanimal upon itself. Grafting of freshly obtained material from another\nanimal is also possible, the case of teeth, for example. The grafting\nof skin and bone is done to facilitate healing: the surgeon places in\nthe middle of the wound pieces of skin snipped from another animal, or\nfragments of bone from a victim freshly killed. Hunter s\ncock-spur possibly you have heard of that flourished on the bull s\nneck; and the rhinoceros rats of the Algerian zouaves are also to be\nthought of, monsters manufactured by transferring a slip from the tail\nof an ordinary rat to its snout, and allowing it to heal in that\nposition. \n\n Monsters manufactured!  said I.  Then you mean to tell me \n\n Yes. These creatures you have seen are animals carven and wrought into\nnew shapes. To that, to the study of the plasticity of living forms, my\nlife has been devoted. I have studied for years, gaining in knowledge\nas I go. I see you look horrified, and yet I am telling you nothing\nnew. It all lay in the surface of practical anatomy years ago, but no\none had the temerity to touch it. It is not simply the outward form of\nan animal which I can change. The physiology, the chemical rhythm of\nthe creature, may also be made to undergo an enduring modification, of\nwhich vaccination and other methods of inoculation with living or dead\nmatter are examples that will, no doubt, be familiar to you. A similar\noperation is the transfusion of blood, with which subject, indeed, I\nbegan. These are all familiar cases. Less so, and probably far more\nextensive, were the operations of those mediaeval practitioners who\nmade dwarfs and beggar-cripples, show-monsters, some vestiges of whose\nart still remain in the preliminary manipulation of the young\nmountebank or contortionist. Victor Hugo gives an account of them in\n L Homme qui Rit. But perhaps my meaning grows plain now. You begin to\nsee that it is a possible thing to transplant tissue from one part of\nan animal to another, or from one animal to another; to alter its\nchemical reactions and methods of growth; to modify the articulations\nof its limbs; and, indeed, to change it in its most intimate structure.\n\n And yet this extraordinary branch of knowledge has never been sought\nas an end, and systematically, by modern investigators until I took it\nup! Some such things have been hit upon in the last resort of surgery;\nmost of the kindred evidence that will recur to your mind has been\ndemonstrated as it were by accident, by tyrants, by criminals, by the\nbreeders of horses and dogs, by all kinds of untrained clumsy-handed\nmen working for their own immediate ends. I was the first man to take\nup this question armed with antiseptic surgery, and with a really\nscientific knowledge of the laws of growth. Yet one would imagine it\nmust have been practised in secret before. Such creatures as the\nSiamese Twins And in the vaults of the Inquisition. No doubt their\nchief aim was artistic torture, but some at least of the inquisitors\nmust have had a touch of scientific curiosity. \n\n But,  said I,  these things these animals talk! \n\nHe said that was so, and proceeded to point out that the possibility of\nvivisection does not stop at a mere physical metamorphosis. A pig may\nbe educated. The mental structure is even less determinate than the\nbodily. In our growing science of hypnotism we find the promise of a\npossibility of superseding old inherent instincts by new suggestions,\ngrafting upon or replacing the inherited fixed ideas. Very much indeed\nof what we call moral education, he said, is such an artificial\nmodification and perversion of instinct; pugnacity is trained into\ncourageous self-sacrifice, and suppressed sexuality into religious\nemotion. And the great difference between man and monkey is in the\nlarynx, he continued, in the incapacity to frame delicately different\nsound-symbols by which thought could be sustained. In this I failed to\nagree with him, but with a certain incivility he declined to notice my\nobjection. He repeated that the thing was so, and continued his account\nof his work.\n\nI asked him why he had taken the human form as a model. There seemed to\nme then, and there still seems to me now, a strange wickedness for that\nchoice.\n\nHe confessed that he had chosen that form by chance.  I might just as\nwell have worked to form sheep into llamas and llamas into sheep. I\nsuppose there is something in the human form that appeals to the\nartistic turn of mind more powerfully than any animal shape can. But\nI ve not confined myself to man-making. Once or twice  He was silent,\nfor a minute perhaps.  These years! How they have slipped by! And here\nI have wasted a day saving your life, and am now wasting an hour\nexplaining myself! \n\n But,  said I,  I still do not understand. Where is your justification\nfor inflicting all this pain? The only thing that could excuse\nvivisection to me would be some application \n\n Precisely,  said he.  But, you see, I am differently constituted. We\nare on different platforms. You are a materialist. \n\n I am _not_ a materialist,  I began hotly.\n\n In my view in my view. For it is just this question of pain that parts\nus. So long as visible or audible pain turns you sick; so long as your\nown pains drive you; so long as pain underlies your propositions about\nsin, so long, I tell you, you are an animal, thinking a little less\nobscurely what an animal feels. This pain \n\nI gave an impatient shrug at such sophistry.\n\n Oh, but it is such a little thing! A mind truly opened to what science\nhas to teach must see that it is a little thing. It may be that save in\nthis little planet, this speck of cosmic dust, invisible long before\nthe nearest star could be attained it may be, I say, that nowhere else\ndoes this thing called pain occur. But the laws we feel our way\ntowards Why, even on this earth, even among living things, what pain is\nthere? \n\nAs he spoke he drew a little penknife from his pocket, opened the\nsmaller blade, and moved his chair so that I could see his thigh. Then,\nchoosing the place deliberately, he drove the blade into his leg and\nwithdrew it.\n\n No doubt,  he said,  you have seen that before. It does not hurt a\npin-prick. But what does it show? The capacity for pain is not needed\nin the muscle, and it is not placed there, is but little needed in the\nskin, and only here and there over the thigh is a spot capable of\nfeeling pain. Pain is simply our intrinsic medical adviser to warn us\nand stimulate us. Not all living flesh is painful; nor is all nerve,\nnot even all sensory nerve. There s no taint of pain, real pain, in the\nsensations of the optic nerve. If you wound the optic nerve, you merely\nsee flashes of light, just as disease of the auditory nerve merely\nmeans a humming in our ears. Plants do not feel pain, nor the lower\nanimals; it s possible that such animals as the starfish and crayfish\ndo not feel pain at all. Then with men, the more intelligent they\nbecome, the more intelligently they will see after their own welfare,\nand the less they will need the goad to keep them out of danger. I\nnever yet heard of a useless thing that was not ground out of existence\nby evolution sooner or later. Did you? And pain gets needless.\n\n Then I am a religious man, Prendick, as every sane man must be. It may\nbe, I fancy, that I have seen more of the ways of this world s Maker\nthan you, for I have sought his laws, in _my_ way, all my life, while\nyou, I understand, have been collecting butterflies. And I tell you,\npleasure and pain have nothing to do with heaven or hell. Pleasure and\npain bah! What is your theologian s ecstasy but Mahomet s houri in the\ndark? This store which men and women set on pleasure and pain,\nPrendick, is the mark of the beast upon them, the mark of the beast\nfrom which they came! Pain, pain and pleasure, they are for us only so\nlong as we wriggle in the dust.\n\n You see, I went on with this research just the way it led me. That is\nthe only way I ever heard of true research going. I asked a question,\ndevised some method of obtaining an answer, and got a fresh question.\nWas this possible or that possible? You cannot imagine what this means\nto an investigator, what an intellectual passion grows upon him! You\ncannot imagine the strange, colourless delight of these intellectual\ndesires! The thing before you is no longer an animal, a\nfellow-creature, but a problem! Sympathetic pain, all I know of it I\nremember as a thing I used to suffer from years ago. I wanted it was\nthe one thing I wanted to find out the extreme limit of plasticity in a\nliving shape. \n\n But,  said I,  the thing is an abomination \n\n To this day I have never troubled about the ethics of the matter,  he\ncontinued.  The study of Nature makes a man at last as remorseless as\nNature. I have gone on, not heeding anything but the question I was\npursuing; and the material has dripped into the huts yonder. It is\nnearly eleven years since we came here, I and Montgomery and six\nKanakas. I remember the green stillness of the island and the empty\nocean about us, as though it was yesterday. The place seemed waiting\nfor me.\n\n The stores were landed and the house was built. The Kanakas founded\nsome huts near the ravine. I went to work here upon what I had brought\nwith me. There were some disagreeable things happened at first. I began\nwith a sheep, and killed it after a day and a half by a slip of the\nscalpel. I took another sheep, and made a thing of pain and fear and\nleft it bound up to heal. It looked quite human to me when I had\nfinished it; but when I went to it I was discontented with it. It\nremembered me, and was terrified beyond imagination; and it had no more\nthan the wits of a sheep. The more I looked at it the clumsier it\nseemed, until at last I put the monster out of its misery. These\nanimals without courage, these fear-haunted, pain-driven things,\nwithout a spark of pugnacious energy to face torment, they are no good\nfor man-making.\n\n Then I took a gorilla I had; and upon that, working with infinite care\nand mastering difficulty after difficulty, I made my first man. All the\nweek, night and day, I moulded him. With him it was chiefly the brain\nthat needed moulding; much had to be added, much changed. I thought him\na fair specimen of the negroid type when I had finished him, and he lay\nbandaged, bound, and motionless before me. It was only when his life\nwas assured that I left him and came into this room again, and found\nMontgomery much as you are. He had heard some of the cries as the thing\ngrew human, cries like those that disturbed _you_ so. I didn t take him\ncompletely into my confidence at first. And the Kanakas too, had\nrealised something of it. They were scared out of their wits by the\nsight of me. I got Montgomery over to me in a way; but I and he had the\nhardest job to prevent the Kanakas deserting. Finally they did; and so\nwe lost the yacht. I spent many days educating the brute, altogether I\nhad him for three or four months. I taught him the rudiments of\nEnglish; gave him ideas of counting; even made the thing read the\nalphabet. But at that he was slow, though I ve met with idiots slower.\nHe began with a clean sheet, mentally; had no memories left in his mind\nof what he had been. When his scars were quite healed, and he was no\nlonger anything but painful and stiff, and able to converse a little, I\ntook him yonder and introduced him to the Kanakas as an interesting\nstowaway.\n\n They were horribly afraid of him at first, somehow, which offended me\nrather, for I was conceited about him; but his ways seemed so mild, and\nhe was so abject, that after a time they received him and took his\neducation in hand. He was quick to learn, very imitative and adaptive,\nand built himself a hovel rather better, it seemed to me, than their\nown shanties. There was one among the boys a bit of a missionary, and\nhe taught the thing to read, or at least to pick out letters, and gave\nhim some rudimentary ideas of morality; but it seems the beast s habits\nwere not all that is desirable.\n\n I rested from work for some days after this, and was in a mind to\nwrite an account of the whole affair to wake up English physiology.\nThen I came upon the creature squatting up in a tree and gibbering at\ntwo of the Kanakas who had been teasing him. I threatened him, told him\nthe inhumanity of such a proceeding, aroused his sense of shame, and\ncame home resolved to do better before I took my work back to England.\nI have been doing better. But somehow the things drift back again: the\nstubborn beast-flesh grows day by day back again. But I mean to do\nbetter things still. I mean to conquer that. This puma \n\n But that s the story. All the Kanaka boys are dead now; one fell\noverboard of the launch, and one died of a wounded heel that he\npoisoned in some way with plant-juice. Three went away in the yacht,\nand I suppose and hope were drowned. The other one was killed. Well, I\nhave replaced them. Montgomery went on much as you are disposed to do\nat first, and then \n\n What became of the other one?  said I, sharply, the other Kanaka who\nwas killed? \n\n The fact is, after I had made a number of human creatures I made a\nThing  He hesitated.\n\n Yes?  said I.\n\n It was killed. \n\n I don t understand,  said I;  do you mean to say \n\n It killed the Kanaka yes. It killed several other things that it\ncaught. We chased it for a couple of days. It only got loose by\naccident I never meant it to get away. It wasn t finished. It was\npurely an experiment. It was a limbless thing, with a horrible face,\nthat writhed along the ground in a serpentine fashion. It was immensely\nstrong, and in infuriating pain. It lurked in the woods for some days,\nuntil we hunted it; and then it wriggled into the northern part of the\nisland, and we divided the party to close in upon it. Montgomery\ninsisted upon coming with me. The man had a rifle; and when his body\nwas found, one of the barrels was curved into the shape of an S and\nvery nearly bitten through. Montgomery shot the thing. After that I\nstuck to the ideal of humanity except for little things. \n\nHe became silent. I sat in silence watching his face.\n\n So for twenty years altogether counting nine years in England I have\nbeen going on; and there is still something in everything I do that\ndefeats me, makes me dissatisfied, challenges me to further effort.\nSometimes I rise above my level, sometimes I fall below it; but always\nI fall short of the things I dream. The human shape I can get now,\nalmost with ease, so that it is lithe and graceful, or thick and\nstrong; but often there is trouble with the hands and the\nclaws, painful things, that I dare not shape too freely. But it is in\nthe subtle grafting and reshaping one must needs do to the brain that\nmy trouble lies. The intelligence is often oddly low, with\nunaccountable blank ends, unexpected gaps. And least satisfactory of\nall is something that I cannot touch, somewhere I cannot determine\nwhere in the seat of the emotions. Cravings, instincts, desires that\nharm humanity, a strange hidden reservoir to burst forth suddenly and\ninundate the whole being of the creature with anger, hate, or fear.\nThese creatures of mine seemed strange and uncanny to you so soon as\nyou began to observe them; but to me, just after I make them, they seem\nto be indisputably human beings. It s afterwards, as I observe them,\nthat the persuasion fades. First one animal trait, then another, creeps\nto the surface and stares out at me. But I will conquer yet! Each time\nI dip a living creature into the bath of burning pain, I say,  This\ntime I will burn out all the animal; this time I will make a rational\ncreature of my own!  After all, what is ten years? Men have been a\nhundred thousand in the making.  He thought darkly.  But I am drawing\nnear the fastness. This puma of mine  After a silence,  And they\nrevert. As soon as my hand is taken from them the beast begins to creep\nback, begins to assert itself again.  Another long silence.\n\n Then you take the things you make into those dens?  said I.\n\n They go. I turn them out when I begin to feel the beast in them, and\npresently they wander there. They all dread this house and me. There is\na kind of travesty of humanity over there. Montgomery knows about it,\nfor he interferes in their affairs. He has trained one or two of them\nto our service. He s ashamed of it, but I believe he half likes some of\nthose beasts. It s his business, not mine. They only sicken me with a\nsense of failure. I take no interest in them. I fancy they follow in\nthe lines the Kanaka missionary marked out, and have a kind of mockery\nof a rational life, poor beasts! There s something they call the Law.\nSing hymns about  all thine.  They build themselves their dens, gather\nfruit, and pull herbs marry even. But I can see through it all, see\ninto their very souls, and see there nothing but the souls of beasts,\nbeasts that perish, anger and the lusts to live and gratify\nthemselves. Yet they re odd; complex, like everything else alive. There\nis a kind of upward striving in them, part vanity, part waste sexual\nemotion, part waste curiosity. It only mocks me. I have some hope of\nthis puma. I have worked hard at her head and brain \n\n And now,  said he, standing up after a long gap of silence, during\nwhich we had each pursued our own thoughts,  what do you think? Are you\nin fear of me still? \n\nI looked at him, and saw but a white-faced, white-haired man, with calm\neyes. Save for his serenity, the touch almost of beauty that resulted\nfrom his set tranquillity and his magnificent build, he might have\npassed muster among a hundred other comfortable old gentlemen. Then I\nshivered. By way of answer to his second question, I handed him a\nrevolver with either hand.\n\n Keep them,  he said, and snatched at a yawn. He stood up, stared at me\nfor a moment, and smiled.  You have had two eventful days,  said he.  I\nshould advise some sleep. I m glad it s all clear. Good-night.  He\nthought me over for a moment, then went out by the inner door.\n\nI immediately turned the key in the outer one. I sat down again; sat\nfor a time in a kind of stagnant mood, so weary, emotionally, mentally,\nand physically, that I could not think beyond the point at which he had\nleft me. The black window stared at me like an eye. At last with an\neffort I put out the light and got into the hammock. Very soon I was\nasleep.\n\n\n\n\nXV.\nCONCERNING THE BEAST FOLK.\n\n\nI woke early. Moreau s explanation stood before my mind, clear and\ndefinite, from the moment of my awakening. I got out of the hammock and\nwent to the door to assure myself that the key was turned. Then I tried\nthe window-bar, and found it firmly fixed. That these man-like\ncreatures were in truth only bestial monsters, mere grotesque\ntravesties of men, filled me with a vague uncertainty of their\npossibilities which was far worse than any definite fear.\n\nA tapping came at the door, and I heard the glutinous accents of M ling\nspeaking. I pocketed one of the revolvers (keeping one hand upon it),\nand opened to him.\n\n Good-morning, sair,  he said, bringing in, in addition to the\ncustomary herb-breakfast, an ill-cooked rabbit. Montgomery followed\nhim. His roving eye caught the position of my arm and he smiled askew.\n\nThe puma was resting to heal that day; but Moreau, who was singularly\nsolitary in his habits, did not join us. I talked with Montgomery to\nclear my ideas of the way in which the Beast Folk lived. In particular,\nI was urgent to know how these inhuman monsters were kept from falling\nupon Moreau and Montgomery and from rending one another. He explained\nto me that the comparative safety of Moreau and himself was due to the\nlimited mental scope of these monsters. In spite of their increased\nintelligence and the tendency of their animal instincts to reawaken,\nthey had certain fixed ideas implanted by Moreau in their minds, which\nabsolutely bounded their imaginations. They were really hypnotised; had\nbeen told that certain things were impossible, and that certain things\nwere not to be done, and these prohibitions were woven into the texture\nof their minds beyond any possibility of disobedience or dispute.\n\nCertain matters, however, in which old instinct was at war with\nMoreau s convenience, were in a less stable condition. A series of\npropositions called the Law (I had already heard them recited) battled\nin their minds with the deep-seated, ever-rebellious cravings of their\nanimal natures. This Law they were ever repeating, I found, and ever\nbreaking. Both Montgomery and Moreau displayed particular solicitude to\nkeep them ignorant of the taste of blood; they feared the inevitable\nsuggestions of that flavour. Montgomery told me that the Law,\nespecially among the feline Beast People, became oddly weakened about\nnightfall; that then the animal was at its strongest; that a spirit of\nadventure sprang up in them at the dusk, when they would dare things\nthey never seemed to dream about by day. To that I owed my stalking by\nthe Leopard-man, on the night of my arrival. But during these earlier\ndays of my stay they broke the Law only furtively and after dark; in\nthe daylight there was a general atmosphere of respect for its\nmultifarious prohibitions.\n\nAnd here perhaps I may give a few general facts about the island and\nthe Beast People. The island, which was of irregular outline and lay\nlow upon the wide sea, had a total area, I suppose, of seven or eight\nsquare miles.[2] It was volcanic in origin, and was now fringed on\nthree sides by coral reefs; some fumaroles to the northward, and a hot\nspring, were the only vestiges of the forces that had long since\noriginated it. Now and then a faint quiver of earthquake would be\nsensible, and sometimes the ascent of the spire of smoke would be\nrendered tumultuous by gusts of steam; but that was all. The population\nof the island, Montgomery informed me, now numbered rather more than\nsixty of these strange creations of Moreau s art, not counting the\nsmaller monstrosities which lived in the undergrowth and were without\nhuman form. Altogether he had made nearly a hundred and twenty; but\nmany had died, and others like the writhing Footless Thing of which he\nhad told me had come by violent ends. In answer to my question,\nMontgomery said that they actually bore offspring, but that these\ngenerally died. When they lived, Moreau took them and stamped the human\nform upon them. There was no evidence of the inheritance of their\nacquired human characteristics. The females were less numerous than the\nmales, and liable to much furtive persecution in spite of the monogamy\nthe Law enjoined.\n\n [2]This description corresponds in every respect to Noble s Isle. C.\n E. P.\n\n\nIt would be impossible for me to describe these Beast People in detail;\nmy eye has had no training in details, and unhappily I cannot sketch.\nMost striking, perhaps, in their general appearance was the\ndisproportion between the legs of these creatures and the length of\ntheir bodies; and yet so relative is our idea of grace my eye became\nhabituated to their forms, and at last I even fell in with their\npersuasion that my own long thighs were ungainly. Another point was the\nforward carriage of the head and the clumsy and inhuman curvature of\nthe spine. Even the Ape-man lacked that inward sinuous curve of the\nback which makes the human figure so graceful. Most had their shoulders\nhunched clumsily, and their short forearms hung weakly at their sides.\nFew of them were conspicuously hairy, at least until the end of my time\nupon the island.\n\nThe next most obvious deformity was in their faces, almost all of which\nwere prognathous, malformed about the ears, with large and protuberant\nnoses, very furry or very bristly hair, and often strangely-coloured or\nstrangely-placed eyes. None could laugh, though the Ape-man had a\nchattering titter. Beyond these general characters their heads had\nlittle in common; each preserved the quality of its particular species:\nthe human mark distorted but did not hide the leopard, the ox, or the\nsow, or other animal or animals, from which the creature had been\nmoulded. The voices, too, varied exceedingly. The hands were always\nmalformed; and though some surprised me by their unexpected human\nappearance, almost all were deficient in the number of the digits,\nclumsy about the finger-nails, and lacking any tactile sensibility.\n\nThe two most formidable Animal Men were my Leopard-man and a creature\nmade of hyena and swine. Larger than these were the three\nbull-creatures who pulled in the boat. Then came the silvery-hairy-man,\nwho was also the Sayer of the Law, M ling, and a satyr-like creature of\nape and goat. There were three Swine-men and a Swine-woman, a\nmare-rhinoceros-creature, and several other females whose sources I did\nnot ascertain. There were several wolf-creatures, a bear-bull, and a\nSaint-Bernard-man. I have already described the Ape-man, and there was\na particularly hateful (and evil-smelling) old woman made of vixen and\nbear, whom I hated from the beginning. She was said to be a passionate\nvotary of the Law. Smaller creatures were certain dappled youths and my\nlittle sloth-creature. But enough of this catalogue.\n\nAt first I had a shivering horror of the brutes, felt all too keenly\nthat they were still brutes; but insensibly I became a little\nhabituated to the idea of them, and moreover I was affected by\nMontgomery s attitude towards them. He had been with them so long that\nhe had come to regard them as almost normal human beings. His London\ndays seemed a glorious, impossible past to him. Only once in a year or\nso did he go to Africa to deal with Moreau s agent, a trader in animals\nthere. He hardly met the finest type of mankind in that seafaring\nvillage of Spanish mongrels. The men aboard-ship, he told me, seemed at\nfirst just as strange to him as the Beast Men seemed to me, unnaturally\nlong in the leg, flat in the face, prominent in the forehead,\nsuspicious, dangerous, and cold-hearted. In fact, he did not like men:\nhis heart had warmed to me, he thought, because he had saved my life. I\nfancied even then that he had a sneaking kindness for some of these\nmetamorphosed brutes, a vicious sympathy with some of their ways, but\nthat he attempted to veil it from me at first.\n\nM ling, the black-faced man, Montgomery s attendant, the first of the\nBeast Folk I had encountered, did not live with the others across the\nisland, but in a small kennel at the back of the enclosure. The\ncreature was scarcely so intelligent as the Ape-man, but far more\ndocile, and the most human-looking of all the Beast Folk; and\nMontgomery had trained it to prepare food, and indeed to discharge all\nthe trivial domestic offices that were required. It was a complex\ntrophy of Moreau s horrible skill, a bear, tainted with dog and ox, and\none of the most elaborately made of all his creatures. It treated\nMontgomery with a strange tenderness and devotion. Sometimes he would\nnotice it, pat it, call it half-mocking, half-jocular names, and so\nmake it caper with extraordinary delight; sometimes he would ill-treat\nit, especially after he had been at the whiskey, kicking it, beating\nit, pelting it with stones or lighted fusees. But whether he treated it\nwell or ill, it loved nothing so much as to be near him.\n\nI say I became habituated to the Beast People, that a thousand things\nwhich had seemed unnatural and repulsive speedily became natural and\nordinary to me. I suppose everything in existence takes its colour from\nthe average hue of our surroundings. Montgomery and Moreau were too\npeculiar and individual to keep my general impressions of humanity well\ndefined. I would see one of the clumsy bovine-creatures who worked the\nlaunch treading heavily through the undergrowth, and find myself\nasking, trying hard to recall, how he differed from some really human\nyokel trudging home from his mechanical labours; or I would meet the\nFox-bear woman s vulpine, shifty face, strangely human in its\nspeculative cunning, and even imagine I had met it before in some city\nbyway.\n\nYet every now and then the beast would flash out upon me beyond doubt\nor denial. An ugly-looking man, a hunch-backed human savage to all\nappearance, squatting in the aperture of one of the dens, would stretch\nhis arms and yawn, showing with startling suddenness scissor-edged\nincisors and sabre-like canines, keen and brilliant as knives. Or in\nsome narrow pathway, glancing with a transitory daring into the eyes of\nsome lithe, white-swathed female figure, I would suddenly see (with a\nspasmodic revulsion) that she had slit-like pupils, or glancing down\nnote the curving nail with which she held her shapeless wrap about her.\nIt is a curious thing, by the bye, for which I am quite unable to\naccount, that these weird creatures the females, I mean had in the\nearlier days of my stay an instinctive sense of their own repulsive\nclumsiness, and displayed in consequence a more than human regard for\nthe decency and decorum of extensive costume.\n\n\n\n\nXVI.\nHOW THE BEAST FOLK TASTE BLOOD.\n\n\nMy inexperience as a writer betrays me, and I wander from the thread of\nmy story.\n\nAfter I had breakfasted with Montgomery, he took me across the island\nto see the fumarole and the source of the hot spring into whose\nscalding waters I had blundered on the previous day. Both of us carried\nwhips and loaded revolvers. While going through a leafy jungle on our\nroad thither, we heard a rabbit squealing. We stopped and listened, but\nwe heard no more; and presently we went on our way, and the incident\ndropped out of our minds. Montgomery called my attention to certain\nlittle pink animals with long hind-legs, that went leaping through the\nundergrowth. He told me they were creatures made of the offspring of\nthe Beast People, that Moreau had invented. He had fancied they might\nserve for meat, but a rabbit-like habit of devouring their young had\ndefeated this intention. I had already encountered some of these\ncreatures, once during my moonlight flight from the Leopard-man, and\nonce during my pursuit by Moreau on the previous day. By chance, one\nhopping to avoid us leapt into the hole caused by the uprooting of a\nwind-blown tree; before it could extricate itself we managed to catch\nit. It spat like a cat, scratched and kicked vigorously with its\nhind-legs, and made an attempt to bite; but its teeth were too feeble\nto inflict more than a painless pinch. It seemed to me rather a pretty\nlittle creature; and as Montgomery stated that it never destroyed the\nturf by burrowing, and was very cleanly in its habits, I should imagine\nit might prove a convenient substitute for the common rabbit in\ngentlemen s parks.\n\nWe also saw on our way the trunk of a tree barked in long strips and\nsplintered deeply. Montgomery called my attention to this.  Not to claw\nbark of trees, _that_ is the Law,  he said.  Much some of them care for\nit!  It was after this, I think, that we met the Satyr and the Ape-man.\nThe Satyr was a gleam of classical memory on the part of Moreau, his\nface ovine in expression, like the coarser Hebrew type; his voice a\nharsh bleat, his nether extremities Satanic. He was gnawing the husk of\na pod-like fruit as he passed us. Both of them saluted Montgomery.\n\n Hail,  said they,  to the Other with the Whip! \n\n There s a Third with a Whip now,  said Montgomery.  So you d better\nmind! \n\n Was he not made?  said the Ape-man.  He said he said he was made. \n\nThe Satyr-man looked curiously at me.  The Third with the Whip, he that\nwalks weeping into the sea, has a thin white face. \n\n He has a thin long whip,  said Montgomery.\n\n Yesterday he bled and wept,  said the Satyr.  You never bleed nor\nweep. The Master does not bleed or weep. \n\n Ollendorffian beggar!  said Montgomery,  you ll bleed and weep if you\ndon t look out! \n\n He has five fingers, he is a five-man like me,  said the Ape-man.\n\n Come along, Prendick,  said Montgomery, taking my arm; and I went on\nwith him.\n\nThe Satyr and the Ape-man stood watching us and making other remarks to\neach other.\n\n He says nothing,  said the Satyr.  Men have voices. \n\n Yesterday he asked me of things to eat,  said the Ape-man.  He did not\nknow. \n\nThen they spoke inaudible things, and I heard the Satyr laughing.\n\nIt was on our way back that we came upon the dead rabbit. The red body\nof the wretched little beast was rent to pieces, many of the ribs\nstripped white, and the backbone indisputably gnawed.\n\nAt that Montgomery stopped.  Good God!  said he, stooping down, and\npicking up some of the crushed vertebrae to examine them more closely.\n Good God!  he repeated,  what can this mean? \n\n Some carnivore of yours has remembered its old habits,  I said after a\npause.  This backbone has been bitten through. \n\nHe stood staring, with his face white and his lip pulled askew.  I\ndon t like this,  he said slowly.\n\n I saw something of the same kind,  said I,  the first day I came\nhere. \n\n The devil you did! What was it? \n\n A rabbit with its head twisted off. \n\n The day you came here? \n\n The day I came here. In the undergrowth at the back of the enclosure,\nwhen I went out in the evening. The head was completely wrung off. \n\nHe gave a long, low whistle.\n\n And what is more, I have an idea which of your brutes did the thing.\nIt s only a suspicion, you know. Before I came on the rabbit I saw one\nof your monsters drinking in the stream. \n\n Sucking his drink? \n\n Yes. \n\n Not to suck your drink; that is the Law.  Much the brutes care for\nthe Law, eh? when Moreau s not about! \n\n It was the brute who chased me. \n\n Of course,  said Montgomery;  it s just the way with carnivores. After\na kill, they drink. It s the taste of blood, you know. What was the\nbrute like?  he continued.  Would you know him again?  He glanced about\nus, standing astride over the mess of dead rabbit, his eyes roving\namong the shadows and screens of greenery, the lurking-places and\nambuscades of the forest that bounded us in.  The taste of blood,  he\nsaid again.\n\nHe took out his revolver, examined the cartridges in it and replaced\nit. Then he began to pull at his dropping lip.\n\n I think I should know the brute again,  I said.  I stunned him. He\nought to have a handsome bruise on the forehead of him. \n\n But then we have to _prove_ that he killed the rabbit,  said\nMontgomery.  I wish I d never brought the things here. \n\nI should have gone on, but he stayed there thinking over the mangled\nrabbit in a puzzle-headed way. As it was, I went to such a distance\nthat the rabbit s remains were hidden.\n\n Come on!  I said.\n\nPresently he woke up and came towards me.  You see,  he said, almost in\na whisper,  they are all supposed to have a fixed idea against eating\nanything that runs on land. If some brute has by any accident tasted\nblood \n\nWe went on some way in silence.  I wonder what can have happened,  he\nsaid to himself. Then, after a pause again:  I did a foolish thing the\nother day. That servant of mine I showed him how to skin and cook a\nrabbit. It s odd I saw him licking his hands It never occurred to me. \n\nThen:  We must put a stop to this. I must tell Moreau. \n\nHe could think of nothing else on our homeward journey.\n\nMoreau took the matter even more seriously than Montgomery, and I need\nscarcely say that I was affected by their evident consternation.\n\n We must make an example,  said Moreau.  I ve no doubt in my own mind\nthat the Leopard-man was the sinner. But how can we prove it? I wish,\nMontgomery, you had kept your taste for meat in hand, and gone without\nthese exciting novelties. We may find ourselves in a mess yet, through\nit. \n\n I was a silly ass,  said Montgomery.  But the thing s done now; and\nyou said I might have them, you know. \n\n We must see to the thing at once,  said Moreau.  I suppose if anything\nshould turn up, M ling can take care of himself? \n\n I m not so sure of M ling,  said Montgomery.  I think I ought to know\nhim. \n\nIn the afternoon, Moreau, Montgomery, myself, and M ling went across\nthe island to the huts in the ravine. We three were armed; M ling\ncarried the little hatchet he used in chopping firewood, and some coils\nof wire. Moreau had a huge cowherd s horn slung over his shoulder.\n\n You will see a gathering of the Beast People,  said Montgomery.  It is\na pretty sight! \n\nMoreau said not a word on the way, but the expression of his heavy,\nwhite-fringed face was grimly set.\n\nWe crossed the ravine down which smoked the stream of hot water, and\nfollowed the winding pathway through the canebrakes until we reached a\nwide area covered over with a thick, powdery yellow substance which I\nbelieve was sulphur. Above the shoulder of a weedy bank the sea\nglittered. We came to a kind of shallow natural amphitheatre, and here\nthe four of us halted. Then Moreau sounded the horn, and broke the\nsleeping stillness of the tropical afternoon. He must have had strong\nlungs. The hooting note rose and rose amidst its echoes, to at last an\near-penetrating intensity.\n\n Ah!  said Moreau, letting the curved instrument fall to his side\nagain.\n\nImmediately there was a crashing through the yellow canes, and a sound\nof voices from the dense green jungle that marked the morass through\nwhich I had run on the previous day. Then at three or four points on\nthe edge of the sulphurous area appeared the grotesque forms of the\nBeast People hurrying towards us. I could not help a creeping horror,\nas I perceived first one and then another trot out from the trees or\nreeds and come shambling along over the hot dust. But Moreau and\nMontgomery stood calmly enough; and, perforce, I stuck beside them.\n\nFirst to arrive was the Satyr, strangely unreal for all that he cast a\nshadow and tossed the dust with his hoofs. After him from the brake\ncame a monstrous lout, a thing of horse and rhinoceros, chewing a straw\nas it came; then appeared the Swine-woman and two Wolf-women; then the\nFox-bear witch, with her red eyes in her peaked red face, and then\nothers, all hurrying eagerly. As they came forward they began to cringe\ntowards Moreau and chant, quite regardless of one another, fragments of\nthe latter half of the litany of the Law, His is the Hand that wounds;\nHis is the Hand that heals,  and so forth. As soon as they had\napproached within a distance of perhaps thirty yards they halted, and\nbowing on knees and elbows began flinging the white dust upon their\nheads.\n\nImagine the scene if you can! We three blue-clad men, with our\nmisshapen black-faced attendant, standing in a wide expanse of sunlit\nyellow dust under the blazing blue sky, and surrounded by this circle\nof crouching and gesticulating monstrosities, some almost human save in\ntheir subtle expression and gestures, some like cripples, some so\nstrangely distorted as to resemble nothing but the denizens of our\nwildest dreams; and, beyond, the reedy lines of a canebrake in one\ndirection, a dense tangle of palm-trees on the other, separating us\nfrom the ravine with the huts, and to the north the hazy horizon of the\nPacific Ocean.\n\n Sixty-two, sixty-three,  counted Moreau.  There are four more. \n\n I do not see the Leopard-man,  said I.\n\nPresently Moreau sounded the great horn again, and at the sound of it\nall the Beast People writhed and grovelled in the dust. Then, slinking\nout of the canebrake, stooping near the ground and trying to join the\ndust-throwing circle behind Moreau s back, came the Leopard-man. The\nlast of the Beast People to arrive was the little Ape-man. The earlier\nanimals, hot and weary with their grovelling, shot vicious glances at\nhim.\n\n Cease!  said Moreau, in his firm, loud voice; and the Beast People sat\nback upon their hams and rested from their worshipping.\n\n Where is the Sayer of the Law?  said Moreau, and the hairy-grey\nmonster bowed his face in the dust.\n\n Say the words!  said Moreau.\n\nForthwith all in the kneeling assembly, swaying from side to side and\ndashing up the sulphur with their hands, first the right hand and a\npuff of dust, and then the left, began once more to chant their strange\nlitany. When they reached,  Not to eat Flesh or Fish, that is the Law, \nMoreau held up his lank white hand.\n\n Stop!  he cried, and there fell absolute silence upon them all.\n\nI think they all knew and dreaded what was coming. I looked round at\ntheir strange faces. When I saw their wincing attitudes and the furtive\ndread in their bright eyes, I wondered that I had ever believed them to\nbe men.\n\n That Law has been broken!  said Moreau.\n\n None escape,  from the faceless creature with the silvery hair.  None\nescape,  repeated the kneeling circle of Beast People.\n\n Who is he?  cried Moreau, and looked round at their faces, cracking\nhis whip. I fancied the Hyena-swine looked dejected, so too did the\nLeopard-man. Moreau stopped, facing this creature, who cringed towards\nhim with the memory and dread of infinite torment.\n\n Who is he?  repeated Moreau, in a voice of thunder.\n\n Evil is he who breaks the Law,  chanted the Sayer of the Law.\n\nMoreau looked into the eyes of the Leopard-man, and seemed to be\ndragging the very soul out of the creature.\n\n Who breaks the Law  said Moreau, taking his eyes off his victim, and\nturning towards us (it seemed to me there was a touch of exultation in\nhis voice).\n\n Goes back to the House of Pain,  they all clamoured, goes back to the\nHouse of Pain, O Master! \n\n Back to the House of Pain, back to the House of Pain,  gabbled the\nApe-man, as though the idea was sweet to him.\n\n Do you hear?  said Moreau, turning back to the criminal,  my\nfriend Hullo! \n\nFor the Leopard-man, released from Moreau s eye, had risen straight\nfrom his knees, and now, with eyes aflame and his huge feline tusks\nflashing out from under his curling lips, leapt towards his tormentor.\nI am convinced that only the madness of unendurable fear could have\nprompted this attack. The whole circle of threescore monsters seemed to\nrise about us. I drew my revolver. The two figures collided. I saw\nMoreau reeling back from the Leopard-man s blow. There was a furious\nyelling and howling all about us. Every one was moving rapidly. For a\nmoment I thought it was a general revolt. The furious face of the\nLeopard-man flashed by mine, with M ling close in pursuit. I saw the\nyellow eyes of the Hyena-swine blazing with excitement, his attitude as\nif he were half resolved to attack me. The Satyr, too, glared at me\nover the Hyena-swine s hunched shoulders. I heard the crack of Moreau s\npistol, and saw the pink flash dart across the tumult. The whole crowd\nseemed to swing round in the direction of the glint of fire, and I too\nwas swung round by the magnetism of the movement. In another second I\nwas running, one of a tumultuous shouting crowd, in pursuit of the\nescaping Leopard-man.\n\nThat is all I can tell definitely. I saw the Leopard-man strike Moreau,\nand then everything spun about me until I was running headlong. M ling\nwas ahead, close in pursuit of the fugitive. Behind, their tongues\nalready lolling out, ran the Wolf-women in great leaping strides. The\nSwine folk followed, squealing with excitement, and the two Bull-men in\ntheir swathings of white. Then came Moreau in a cluster of the Beast\nPeople, his wide-brimmed straw hat blown off, his revolver in hand, and\nhis lank white hair streaming out. The Hyena-swine ran beside me,\nkeeping pace with me and glancing furtively at me out of his feline\neyes, and the others came pattering and shouting behind us.\n\nThe Leopard-man went bursting his way through the long canes, which\nsprang back as he passed, and rattled in M ling s face. We others in\nthe rear found a trampled path for us when we reached the brake. The\nchase lay through the brake for perhaps a quarter of a mile, and then\nplunged into a dense thicket, which retarded our movements exceedingly,\nthough we went through it in a crowd together, fronds flicking into our\nfaces, ropy creepers catching us under the chin or gripping our ankles,\nthorny plants hooking into and tearing cloth and flesh together.\n\n He has gone on all-fours through this,  panted Moreau, now just ahead\nof me.\n\n None escape,  said the Wolf-bear, laughing into my face with the\nexultation of hunting. We burst out again among rocks, and saw the\nquarry ahead running lightly on all-fours and snarling at us over his\nshoulder. At that the Wolf Folk howled with delight. The Thing was\nstill clothed, and at a distance its face still seemed human; but the\ncarriage of its four limbs was feline, and the furtive droop of its\nshoulder was distinctly that of a hunted animal. It leapt over some\nthorny yellow-flowering bushes, and was hidden. M ling was halfway\nacross the space.\n\nMost of us now had lost the first speed of the chase, and had fallen\ninto a longer and steadier stride. I saw as we traversed the open that\nthe pursuit was now spreading from a column into a line. The\nHyena-swine still ran close to me, watching me as it ran, every now and\nthen puckering its muzzle with a snarling laugh. At the edge of the\nrocks the Leopard-man, realising that he was making for the projecting\ncape upon which he had stalked me on the night of my arrival, had\ndoubled in the undergrowth; but Montgomery had seen the manoeuvre, and\nturned him again. So, panting, tumbling against rocks, torn by\nbrambles, impeded by ferns and reeds, I helped to pursue the\nLeopard-man who had broken the Law, and the Hyena-swine ran, laughing\nsavagely, by my side. I staggered on, my head reeling and my heart\nbeating against my ribs, tired almost to death, and yet not daring to\nlose sight of the chase lest I should be left alone with this horrible\ncompanion. I staggered on in spite of infinite fatigue and the dense\nheat of the tropical afternoon.\n\nAt last the fury of the hunt slackened. We had pinned the wretched\nbrute into a corner of the island. Moreau, whip in hand, marshalled us\nall into an irregular line, and we advanced now slowly, shouting to one\nanother as we advanced and tightening the cordon about our victim. He\nlurked noiseless and invisible in the bushes through which I had run\nfrom him during that midnight pursuit.\n\n Steady!  cried Moreau,  steady!  as the ends of the line crept round\nthe tangle of undergrowth and hemmed the brute in.\n\n Ware a rush!  came the voice of Montgomery from beyond the thicket.\n\nI was on the slope above the bushes; Montgomery and Moreau beat along\nthe beach beneath. Slowly we pushed in among the fretted network of\nbranches and leaves. The quarry was silent.\n\n Back to the House of Pain, the House of Pain, the House of Pain! \nyelped the voice of the Ape-man, some twenty yards to the right.\n\nWhen I heard that, I forgave the poor wretch all the fear he had\ninspired in me. I heard the twigs snap and the boughs swish aside\nbefore the heavy tread of the Horse-rhinoceros upon my right. Then\nsuddenly through a polygon of green, in the half darkness under the\nluxuriant growth, I saw the creature we were hunting. I halted. He was\ncrouched together into the smallest possible compass, his luminous\ngreen eyes turned over his shoulder regarding me.\n\nIt may seem a strange contradiction in me, I cannot explain the\nfact, but now, seeing the creature there in a perfectly animal\nattitude, with the light gleaming in its eyes and its imperfectly human\nface distorted with terror, I realised again the fact of its humanity.\nIn another moment other of its pursuers would see it, and it would be\noverpowered and captured, to experience once more the horrible tortures\nof the enclosure. Abruptly I slipped out my revolver, aimed between its\nterror-struck eyes, and fired. As I did so, the Hyena-swine saw the\nThing, and flung itself upon it with an eager cry, thrusting thirsty\nteeth into its neck. All about me the green masses of the thicket were\nswaying and cracking as the Beast People came rushing together. One\nface and then another appeared.\n\n Don t kill it, Prendick!  cried Moreau.  Don t kill it!  and I saw him\nstooping as he pushed through under the fronds of the big ferns.\n\nIn another moment he had beaten off the Hyena-swine with the handle of\nhis whip, and he and Montgomery were keeping away the excited\ncarnivorous Beast People, and particularly M ling, from the still\nquivering body. The hairy-grey Thing came sniffing at the corpse under\nmy arm. The other animals, in their animal ardour, jostled me to get a\nnearer view.\n\n Confound you, Prendick!  said Moreau.  I wanted him. \n\n I m sorry,  said I, though I was not.  It was the impulse of the\nmoment.  I felt sick with exertion and excitement. Turning, I pushed my\nway out of the crowding Beast People and went on alone up the slope\ntowards the higher part of the headland. Under the shouted directions\nof Moreau I heard the three white-swathed Bull-men begin dragging the\nvictim down towards the water.\n\nIt was easy now for me to be alone. The Beast People manifested a quite\nhuman curiosity about the dead body, and followed it in a thick knot,\nsniffing and growling at it as the Bull-men dragged it down the beach.\nI went to the headland and watched the bull-men, black against the\nevening sky as they carried the weighted dead body out to sea; and like\na wave across my mind came the realisation of the unspeakable\naimlessness of things upon the island. Upon the beach among the rocks\nbeneath me were the Ape-man, the Hyena-swine, and several other of the\nBeast People, standing about Montgomery and Moreau. They were all still\nintensely excited, and all overflowing with noisy expressions of their\nloyalty to the Law; yet I felt an absolute assurance in my own mind\nthat the Hyena-swine was implicated in the rabbit-killing. A strange\npersuasion came upon me, that, save for the grossness of the line, the\ngrotesqueness of the forms, I had here before me the whole balance of\nhuman life in miniature, the whole interplay of instinct, reason, and\nfate in its simplest form. The Leopard-man had happened to go under:\nthat was all the difference. Poor brute!\n\nPoor brutes! I began to see the viler aspect of Moreau s cruelty. I had\nnot thought before of the pain and trouble that came to these poor\nvictims after they had passed from Moreau s hands. I had shivered only\nat the days of actual torment in the enclosure. But now that seemed to\nme the lesser part. Before, they had been beasts, their instincts fitly\nadapted to their surroundings, and happy as living things may be. Now\nthey stumbled in the shackles of humanity, lived in a fear that never\ndied, fretted by a law they could not understand; their mock-human\nexistence, begun in an agony, was one long internal struggle, one long\ndread of Moreau and for what? It was the wantonness of it that stirred\nme.\n\nHad Moreau had any intelligible object, I could have sympathised at\nleast a little with him. I am not so squeamish about pain as that. I\ncould have forgiven him a little even, had his motive been only hate.\nBut he was so irresponsible, so utterly careless! His curiosity, his\nmad, aimless investigations, drove him on; and the Things were thrown\nout to live a year or so, to struggle and blunder and suffer, and at\nlast to die painfully. They were wretched in themselves; the old animal\nhate moved them to trouble one another; the Law held them back from a\nbrief hot struggle and a decisive end to their natural animosities.\n\nIn those days my fear of the Beast People went the way of my personal\nfear for Moreau. I fell indeed into a morbid state, deep and enduring,\nand alien to fear, which has left permanent scars upon my mind. I must\nconfess that I lost faith in the sanity of the world when I saw it\nsuffering the painful disorder of this island. A blind Fate, a vast\npitiless mechanism, seemed to cut and shape the fabric of existence and\nI, Moreau (by his passion for research), Montgomery (by his passion for\ndrink), the Beast People with their instincts and mental restrictions,\nwere torn and crushed, ruthlessly, inevitably, amid the infinite\ncomplexity of its incessant wheels. But this condition did not come all\nat once: I think indeed that I anticipate a little in speaking of it\nnow.\n\n\n\n\nXVII.\nA CATASTROPHE.\n\n\nScarcely six weeks passed before I had lost every feeling but dislike\nand abhorrence for this infamous experiment of Moreau s. My one idea\nwas to get away from these horrible caricatures of my Maker s image,\nback to the sweet and wholesome intercourse of men. My\nfellow-creatures, from whom I was thus separated, began to assume\nidyllic virtue and beauty in my memory. My first friendship with\nMontgomery did not increase. His long separation from humanity, his\nsecret vice of drunkenness, his evident sympathy with the Beast People,\ntainted him to me. Several times I let him go alone among them. I\navoided intercourse with them in every possible way. I spent an\nincreasing proportion of my time upon the beach, looking for some\nliberating sail that never appeared, until one day there fell upon us\nan appalling disaster, which put an altogether different aspect upon my\nstrange surroundings.\n\nIt was about seven or eight weeks after my landing, rather more, I\nthink, though I had not troubled to keep account of the time, when this\ncatastrophe occurred. It happened in the early morning I should think\nabout six. I had risen and breakfasted early, having been aroused by\nthe noise of three Beast Men carrying wood into the enclosure.\n\nAfter breakfast I went to the open gateway of the enclosure, and stood\nthere smoking a cigarette and enjoying the freshness of the early\nmorning. Moreau presently came round the corner of the enclosure and\ngreeted me. He passed by me, and I heard him behind me unlock and enter\nhis laboratory. So indurated was I at that time to the abomination of\nthe place, that I heard without a touch of emotion the puma victim\nbegin another day of torture. It met its persecutor with a shriek,\nalmost exactly like that of an angry virago.\n\nThen suddenly something happened, I do not know what, to this day. I\nheard a short, sharp cry behind me, a fall, and turning saw an awful\nface rushing upon me, not human, not animal, but hellish, brown, seamed\nwith red branching scars, red drops starting out upon it, and the\nlidless eyes ablaze. I threw up my arm to defend myself from the blow\nthat flung me headlong with a broken forearm; and the great monster,\nswathed in lint and with red-stained bandages fluttering about it,\nleapt over me and passed. I rolled over and over down the beach, tried\nto sit up, and collapsed upon my broken arm. Then Moreau appeared, his\nmassive white face all the more terrible for the blood that trickled\nfrom his forehead. He carried a revolver in one hand. He scarcely\nglanced at me, but rushed off at once in pursuit of the puma.\n\nI tried the other arm and sat up. The muffled figure in front ran in\ngreat striding leaps along the beach, and Moreau followed her. She\nturned her head and saw him, then doubling abruptly made for the\nbushes. She gained upon him at every stride. I saw her plunge into\nthem, and Moreau, running slantingly to intercept her, fired and missed\nas she disappeared. Then he too vanished in the green confusion. I\nstared after them, and then the pain in my arm flamed up, and with a\ngroan I staggered to my feet. Montgomery appeared in the doorway,\ndressed, and with his revolver in his hand.\n\n Great God, Prendick!  he said, not noticing that I was hurt,  that\nbrute s loose! Tore the fetter out of the wall! Have you seen them? \nThen sharply, seeing I gripped my arm,  What s the matter? \n\n I was standing in the doorway,  said I.\n\nHe came forward and took my arm.  Blood on the sleeve,  said he, and\nrolled back the flannel. He pocketed his weapon, felt my arm about\npainfully, and led me inside.  Your arm is broken,  he said, and then,\n Tell me exactly how it happened what happened? \n\nI told him what I had seen; told him in broken sentences, with gasps of\npain between them, and very dexterously and swiftly he bound my arm\nmeanwhile. He slung it from my shoulder, stood back and looked at me.\n\n You ll do,  he said.  And now? \n\nHe thought. Then he went out and locked the gates of the enclosure. He\nwas absent some time.\n\nI was chiefly concerned about my arm. The incident seemed merely one\nmore of many horrible things. I sat down in the deck chair, and I must\nadmit swore heartily at the island. The first dull feeling of injury in\nmy arm had already given way to a burning pain when Montgomery\nreappeared. His face was rather pale, and he showed more of his lower\ngums than ever.\n\n I can neither see nor hear anything of him,  he said.  I ve been\nthinking he may want my help.  He stared at me with his expressionless\neyes.  That was a strong brute,  he said.  It simply wrenched its\nfetter out of the wall.  He went to the window, then to the door, and\nthere turned to me.  I shall go after him,  he said.  There s another\nrevolver I can leave with you. To tell you the truth, I feel anxious\nsomehow. \n\nHe obtained the weapon, and put it ready to my hand on the table; then\nwent out, leaving a restless contagion in the air. I did not sit long\nafter he left, but took the revolver in hand and went to the doorway.\n\nThe morning was as still as death. Not a whisper of wind was stirring;\nthe sea was like polished glass, the sky empty, the beach desolate. In\nmy half-excited, half-feverish state, this stillness of things\noppressed me. I tried to whistle, and the tune died away. I swore\nagain, the second time that morning. Then I went to the corner of the\nenclosure and stared inland at the green bush that had swallowed up\nMoreau and Montgomery. When would they return, and how? Then far away\nup the beach a little grey Beast Man appeared, ran down to the water s\nedge and began splashing about. I strolled back to the doorway, then to\nthe corner again, and so began pacing to and fro like a sentinel upon\nduty. Once I was arrested by the distant voice of Montgomery bawling,\n Coo-ee Moreau!  My arm became less painful, but very hot. I got\nfeverish and thirsty. My shadow grew shorter. I watched the distant\nfigure until it went away again. Would Moreau and Montgomery never\nreturn? Three sea-birds began fighting for some stranded treasure.\n\nThen from far away behind the enclosure I heard a pistol-shot. A long\nsilence, and then came another. Then a yelling cry nearer, and another\ndismal gap of silence. My unfortunate imagination set to work to\ntorment me. Then suddenly a shot close by. I went to the corner,\nstartled, and saw Montgomery, his face scarlet, his hair disordered,\nand the knee of his trousers torn. His face expressed profound\nconsternation. Behind him slouched the Beast Man, M ling, and round\nM ling s jaws were some queer dark stains.\n\n Has he come?  said Montgomery.\n\n Moreau?  said I.  No. \n\n My God!  The man was panting, almost sobbing.  Go back in,  he said,\ntaking my arm.  They re mad. They re all rushing about mad. What can\nhave happened? I don t know. I ll tell you, when my breath comes.\nWhere s some brandy? \n\nMontgomery limped before me into the room and sat down in the deck\nchair. M ling flung himself down just outside the doorway and began\npanting like a dog. I got Montgomery some brandy-and-water. He sat\nstaring in front of him at nothing, recovering his breath. After some\nminutes he began to tell me what had happened.\n\nHe had followed their track for some way. It was plain enough at first\non account of the crushed and broken bushes, white rags torn from the\npuma s bandages, and occasional smears of blood on the leaves of the\nshrubs and undergrowth. He lost the track, however, on the stony ground\nbeyond the stream where I had seen the Beast Man drinking, and went\nwandering aimlessly westward shouting Moreau s name. Then M ling had\ncome to him carrying a light hatchet. M ling had seen nothing of the\npuma affair; had been felling wood, and heard him calling. They went on\nshouting together. Two Beast Men came crouching and peering at them\nthrough the undergrowth, with gestures and a furtive carriage that\nalarmed Montgomery by their strangeness. He hailed them, and they fled\nguiltily. He stopped shouting after that, and after wandering some time\nfarther in an undecided way, determined to visit the huts.\n\nHe found the ravine deserted.\n\nGrowing more alarmed every minute, he began to retrace his steps. Then\nit was he encountered the two Swine-men I had seen dancing on the night\nof my arrival; blood-stained they were about the mouth, and intensely\nexcited. They came crashing through the ferns, and stopped with fierce\nfaces when they saw him. He cracked his whip in some trepidation, and\nforthwith they rushed at him. Never before had a Beast Man dared to do\nthat. One he shot through the head; M ling flung himself upon the\nother, and the two rolled grappling. M ling got his brute under and\nwith his teeth in its throat, and Montgomery shot that too as it\nstruggled in M ling s grip. He had some difficulty in inducing M ling\nto come on with him. Thence they had hurried back to me. On the way,\nM ling had suddenly rushed into a thicket and driven out an under-sized\nOcelot-man, also blood-stained, and lame through a wound in the foot.\nThis brute had run a little way and then turned savagely at bay, and\nMontgomery with a certain wantonness, I thought had shot him.\n\n What does it all mean?  said I.\n\nHe shook his head, and turned once more to the brandy.\n\n\n\n\nXVIII.\nTHE FINDING OF MOREAU.\n\n\nWhen I saw Montgomery swallow a third dose of brandy, I took it upon\nmyself to interfere. He was already more than half fuddled. I told him\nthat some serious thing must have happened to Moreau by this time, or\nhe would have returned before this, and that it behoved us to ascertain\nwhat that catastrophe was. Montgomery raised some feeble objections,\nand at last agreed. We had some food, and then all three of us started.\n\nIt is possibly due to the tension of my mind, at the time, but even now\nthat start into the hot stillness of the tropical afternoon is a\nsingularly vivid impression. M ling went first, his shoulder hunched,\nhis strange black head moving with quick starts as he peered first on\nthis side of the way and then on that. He was unarmed; his axe he had\ndropped when he encountered the Swine-man. Teeth were _his_ weapons,\nwhen it came to fighting. Montgomery followed with stumbling footsteps,\nhis hands in his pockets, his face downcast; he was in a state of\nmuddled sullenness with me on account of the brandy. My left arm was in\na sling (it was lucky it was my left), and I carried my revolver in my\nright. Soon we traced a narrow path through the wild luxuriance of the\nisland, going northwestward; and presently M ling stopped, and became\nrigid with watchfulness. Montgomery almost staggered into him, and then\nstopped too. Then, listening intently, we heard coming through the\ntrees the sound of voices and footsteps approaching us.\n\n He is dead,  said a deep, vibrating voice.\n\n He is not dead; he is not dead,  jabbered another.\n\n We saw, we saw,  said several voices.\n\n _Hul_-lo!  suddenly shouted Montgomery,  Hullo, there! \n\n Confound you!  said I, and gripped my pistol.\n\nThere was a silence, then a crashing among the interlacing vegetation,\nfirst here, then there, and then half-a-dozen faces appeared, strange\nfaces, lit by a strange light. M ling made a growling noise in his\nthroat. I recognised the Ape-man: I had indeed already identified his\nvoice, and two of the white-swathed brown-featured creatures I had seen\nin Montgomery s boat. With these were the two dappled brutes and that\ngrey, horribly crooked creature who said the Law, with grey hair\nstreaming down its cheeks, heavy grey eyebrows, and grey locks pouring\noff from a central parting upon its sloping forehead, a heavy, faceless\nthing, with strange red eyes, looking at us curiously from amidst the\ngreen.\n\nFor a space no one spoke. Then Montgomery hiccoughed,  Who said he was\ndead? \n\nThe Monkey-man looked guiltily at the hairy-grey Thing.  He is dead, \nsaid this monster.  They saw. \n\nThere was nothing threatening about this detachment, at any rate. They\nseemed awestricken and puzzled.\n\n Where is he?  said Montgomery.\n\n Beyond,  and the grey creature pointed.\n\n Is there a Law now?  asked the Monkey-man.  Is it still to be this and\nthat? Is he dead indeed? \n\n Is there a Law?  repeated the man in white.  Is there a Law, thou\nOther with the Whip? \n\n He is dead,  said the hairy-grey Thing. And they all stood watching\nus.\n\n Prendick,  said Montgomery, turning his dull eyes to me.  He s dead,\nevidently. \n\nI had been standing behind him during this colloquy. I began to see how\nthings lay with them. I suddenly stepped in front of Montgomery and\nlifted up my voice: Children of the Law,  I said,  he is _not_ dead! \nM ling turned his sharp eyes on me.  He has changed his shape; he has\nchanged his body,  I went on.  For a time you will not see him. He\nis there,  I pointed upward,  where he can watch you. You cannot see\nhim, but he can see you. Fear the Law! \n\nI looked at them squarely. They flinched.\n\n He is great, he is good,  said the Ape-man, peering fearfully upward\namong the dense trees.\n\n And the other Thing?  I demanded.\n\n The Thing that bled, and ran screaming and sobbing, that is dead too, \nsaid the grey Thing, still regarding me.\n\n That s well,  grunted Montgomery.\n\n The Other with the Whip  began the grey Thing.\n\n Well?  said I.\n\n Said he was dead. \n\nBut Montgomery was still sober enough to understand my motive in\ndenying Moreau s death.  He is not dead,  he said slowly,  not dead at\nall. No more dead than I am. \n\n Some,  said I,  have broken the Law: they will die. Some have died.\nShow us now where his old body lies, the body he cast away because he\nhad no more need of it. \n\n It is this way, Man who walked in the Sea,  said the grey Thing.\n\nAnd with these six creatures guiding us, we went through the tumult of\nferns and creepers and tree-stems towards the northwest. Then came a\nyelling, a crashing among the branches, and a little pink homunculus\nrushed by us shrieking. Immediately after appeared a monster in\nheadlong pursuit, blood-bedabbled, who was amongst us almost before he\ncould stop his career. The grey Thing leapt aside. M ling, with a\nsnarl, flew at it, and was struck aside. Montgomery fired and missed,\nbowed his head, threw up his arm, and turned to run. I fired, and the\nThing still came on; fired again, point-blank, into its ugly face. I\nsaw its features vanish in a flash: its face was driven in. Yet it\npassed me, gripped Montgomery, and holding him, fell headlong beside\nhim and pulled him sprawling upon itself in its death-agony.\n\nI found myself alone with M ling, the dead brute, and the prostrate\nman. Montgomery raised himself slowly and stared in a muddled way at\nthe shattered Beast Man beside him. It more than half sobered him. He\nscrambled to his feet. Then I saw the grey Thing returning cautiously\nthrough the trees.\n\n See,  said I, pointing to the dead brute,  is the Law not alive? This\ncame of breaking the Law. \n\nHe peered at the body.  He sends the Fire that kills,  said he, in his\ndeep voice, repeating part of the Ritual. The others gathered round and\nstared for a space.\n\nAt last we drew near the westward extremity of the island. We came upon\nthe gnawed and mutilated body of the puma, its shoulder-bone smashed by\na bullet, and perhaps twenty yards farther found at last what we\nsought. Moreau lay face downward in a trampled space in a canebrake.\nOne hand was almost severed at the wrist and his silvery hair was\ndabbled in blood. His head had been battered in by the fetters of the\npuma. The broken canes beneath him were smeared with blood. His\nrevolver we could not find. Montgomery turned him over. Resting at\nintervals, and with the help of the seven Beast People (for he was a\nheavy man), we carried Moreau back to the enclosure. The night was\ndarkling. Twice we heard unseen creatures howling and shrieking past\nour little band, and once the little pink sloth-creature appeared and\nstared at us, and vanished again. But we were not attacked again. At\nthe gates of the enclosure our company of Beast People left us, M ling\ngoing with the rest. We locked ourselves in, and then took Moreau s\nmangled body into the yard and laid it upon a pile of brushwood. Then\nwe went into the laboratory and put an end to all we found living\nthere.\n\n\n\n\nXIX.\nMONTGOMERY S  BANK HOLIDAY. \n\n\nWhen this was accomplished, and we had washed and eaten, Montgomery and\nI went into my little room and seriously discussed our position for the\nfirst time. It was then near midnight. He was almost sober, but greatly\ndisturbed in his mind. He had been strangely under the influence of\nMoreau s personality: I do not think it had ever occurred to him that\nMoreau could die. This disaster was the sudden collapse of the habits\nthat had become part of his nature in the ten or more monotonous years\nhe had spent on the island. He talked vaguely, answered my questions\ncrookedly, wandered into general questions.\n\n This silly ass of a world,  he said;  what a muddle it all is! I\nhaven t had any life. I wonder when it s going to begin. Sixteen years\nbeing bullied by nurses and schoolmasters at their own sweet will; five\nin London grinding hard at medicine, bad food, shabby lodgings, shabby\nclothes, shabby vice, a blunder, _I_ didn t know any better, and\nhustled off to this beastly island. Ten years here! What s it all for,\nPrendick? Are we bubbles blown by a baby? \n\nIt was hard to deal with such ravings.  The thing we have to think of\nnow,  said I,  is how to get away from this island. \n\n What s the good of getting away? I m an outcast. Where am _I_ to join\non? It s all very well for _you_, Prendick. Poor old Moreau! We can t\nleave him here to have his bones picked. As it is And besides, what\nwill become of the decent part of the Beast Folk? \n\n Well,  said I,  that will do to-morrow. I ve been thinking we might\nmake the brushwood into a pyre and burn his body and those other\nthings. Then what will happen with the Beast Folk? \n\n _I_ don t know. I suppose those that were made of beasts of prey will\nmake silly asses of themselves sooner or later. We can t massacre the\nlot can we? I suppose that s what _your_ humanity would suggest? But\nthey ll change. They are sure to change. \n\nHe talked thus inconclusively until at last I felt my temper going.\n\n Damnation!  he exclaimed at some petulance of mine;  can t you see I m\nin a worse hole than you are?  And he got up, and went for the brandy.\n Drink!  he said returning,  you logic-chopping, chalky-faced saint of\nan atheist, drink! \n\n Not I,  said I, and sat grimly watching his face under the yellow\nparaffine flare, as he drank himself into a garrulous misery.\n\nI have a memory of infinite tedium. He wandered into a maudlin defence\nof the Beast People and of M ling. M ling, he said, was the only thing\nthat had ever really cared for him. And suddenly an idea came to him.\n\n I m damned!  said he, staggering to his feet and clutching the brandy\nbottle.\n\nBy some flash of intuition I knew what it was he intended.  You don t\ngive drink to that beast!  I said, rising and facing him.\n\n Beast!  said he.  You re the beast. He takes his liquor like a\nChristian. Come out of the way, Prendick! \n\n For God s sake,  said I.\n\n Get out of the way!  he roared, and suddenly whipped out his revolver.\n\n Very well,  said I, and stood aside, half-minded to fall upon him as\nhe put his hand upon the latch, but deterred by the thought of my\nuseless arm.  You ve made a beast of yourself, to the beasts you may\ngo. \n\nHe flung the doorway open, and stood half facing me between the yellow\nlamp-light and the pallid glare of the moon; his eye-sockets were\nblotches of black under his stubbly eyebrows.\n\n You re a solemn prig, Prendick, a silly ass! You re always fearing and\nfancying. We re on the edge of things. I m bound to cut my throat\nto-morrow. I m going to have a damned Bank Holiday to-night.  He turned\nand went out into the moonlight.  M ling!  he cried;  M ling, old\nfriend! \n\nThree dim creatures in the silvery light came along the edge of the wan\nbeach, one a white-wrapped creature, the other two blotches of\nblackness following it. They halted, staring. Then I saw M ling s\nhunched shoulders as he came round the corner of the house.\n\n Drink!  cried Montgomery,  drink, you brutes! Drink and be men! Damme,\nI m the cleverest. Moreau forgot this; this is the last touch. Drink, I\ntell you!  And waving the bottle in his hand he started off at a kind\nof quick trot to the westward, M ling ranging himself between him and\nthe three dim creatures who followed.\n\nI went to the doorway. They were already indistinct in the mist of the\nmoonlight before Montgomery halted. I saw him administer a dose of the\nraw brandy to M ling, and saw the five figures melt into one vague\npatch.\n\n Sing!  I heard Montgomery shout, sing all together,  Confound old\nPrendick!  That s right; now again,  Confound old Prendick! \n\nThe black group broke up into five separate figures, and wound slowly\naway from me along the band of shining beach. Each went howling at his\nown sweet will, yelping insults at me, or giving whatever other vent\nthis new inspiration of brandy demanded. Presently I heard Montgomery s\nvoice shouting,  Right turn!  and they passed with their shouts and\nhowls into the blackness of the landward trees. Slowly, very slowly,\nthey receded into silence.\n\nThe peaceful splendour of the night healed again. The moon was now past\nthe meridian and travelling down the west. It was at its full, and very\nbright riding through the empty blue sky. The shadow of the wall lay, a\nyard wide and of inky blackness, at my feet. The eastward sea was a\nfeatureless grey, dark and mysterious; and between the sea and the\nshadow the grey sands (of volcanic glass and crystals) flashed and\nshone like a beach of diamonds. Behind me the paraffine lamp flared hot\nand ruddy.\n\nThen I shut the door, locked it, and went into the enclosure where\nMoreau lay beside his latest victims, the staghounds and the llama and\nsome other wretched brutes, with his massive face calm even after his\nterrible death, and with the hard eyes open, staring at the dead white\nmoon above. I sat down upon the edge of the sink, and with my eyes upon\nthat ghastly pile of silvery light and ominous shadows began to turn\nover my plans. In the morning I would gather some provisions in the\ndingey, and after setting fire to the pyre before me, push out into the\ndesolation of the high sea once more. I felt that for Montgomery there\nwas no help; that he was, in truth, half akin to these Beast Folk,\nunfitted for human kindred.\n\nI do not know how long I sat there scheming. It must have been an hour\nor so. Then my planning was interrupted by the return of Montgomery to\nmy neighbourhood. I heard a yelling from many throats, a tumult of\nexultant cries passing down towards the beach, whooping and howling,\nand excited shrieks that seemed to come to a stop near the water s\nedge. The riot rose and fell; I heard heavy blows and the splintering\nsmash of wood, but it did not trouble me then. A discordant chanting\nbegan.\n\nMy thoughts went back to my means of escape. I got up, brought the\nlamp, and went into a shed to look at some kegs I had seen there. Then\nI became interested in the contents of some biscuit-tins, and opened\none. I saw something out of the tail of my eye, a red figure, and\nturned sharply.\n\nBehind me lay the yard, vividly black-and-white in the moonlight, and\nthe pile of wood and faggots on which Moreau and his mutilated victims\nlay, one over another. They seemed to be gripping one another in one\nlast revengeful grapple. His wounds gaped, black as night, and the\nblood that had dripped lay in black patches upon the sand. Then I saw,\nwithout understanding, the cause of my phantom, a ruddy glow that came\nand danced and went upon the wall opposite. I misinterpreted this,\nfancied it was a reflection of my flickering lamp, and turned again to\nthe stores in the shed. I went on rummaging among them, as well as a\none-armed man could, finding this convenient thing and that, and\nputting them aside for to-morrow s launch. My movements were slow, and\nthe time passed quickly. Insensibly the daylight crept upon me.\n\nThe chanting died down, giving place to a clamour; then it began again,\nand suddenly broke into a tumult. I heard cries of,  More! more!  a\nsound like quarrelling, and a sudden wild shriek. The quality of the\nsounds changed so greatly that it arrested my attention. I went out\ninto the yard and listened. Then cutting like a knife across the\nconfusion came the crack of a revolver.\n\nI rushed at once through my room to the little doorway. As I did so I\nheard some of the packing-cases behind me go sliding down and smash\ntogether with a clatter of glass on the floor of the shed. But I did\nnot heed these. I flung the door open and looked out.\n\nUp the beach by the boathouse a bonfire was burning, raining up sparks\ninto the indistinctness of the dawn. Around this struggled a mass of\nblack figures. I heard Montgomery call my name. I began to run at once\ntowards this fire, revolver in hand. I saw the pink tongue of\nMontgomery s pistol lick out once, close to the ground. He was down. I\nshouted with all my strength and fired into the air. I heard some one\ncry,  The Master!  The knotted black struggle broke into scattering\nunits, the fire leapt and sank down. The crowd of Beast People fled in\nsudden panic before me, up the beach. In my excitement I fired at their\nretreating backs as they disappeared among the bushes. Then I turned to\nthe black heaps upon the ground.\n\nMontgomery lay on his back, with the hairy-grey Beast-man sprawling\nacross his body. The brute was dead, but still gripping Montgomery s\nthroat with its curving claws. Near by lay M ling on his face and quite\nstill, his neck bitten open and the upper part of the smashed\nbrandy-bottle in his hand. Two other figures lay near the fire, the one\nmotionless, the other groaning fitfully, every now and then raising its\nhead slowly, then dropping it again.\n\nI caught hold of the grey man and pulled him off Montgomery s body; his\nclaws drew down the torn coat reluctantly as I dragged him away.\nMontgomery was dark in the face and scarcely breathing. I splashed\nsea-water on his face and pillowed his head on my rolled-up coat.\nM ling was dead. The wounded creature by the fire it was a Wolf-brute\nwith a bearded grey face lay, I found, with the fore part of its body\nupon the still glowing timber. The wretched thing was injured so\ndreadfully that in mercy I blew its brains out at once. The other brute\nwas one of the Bull-men swathed in white. He too was dead. The rest of\nthe Beast People had vanished from the beach.\n\nI went to Montgomery again and knelt beside him, cursing my ignorance\nof medicine. The fire beside me had sunk down, and only charred beams\nof timber glowing at the central ends and mixed with a grey ash of\nbrushwood remained. I wondered casually where Montgomery had got his\nwood. Then I saw that the dawn was upon us. The sky had grown brighter,\nthe setting moon was becoming pale and opaque in the luminous blue of\nthe day. The sky to the eastward was rimmed with red.\n\nSuddenly I heard a thud and a hissing behind me, and, looking round,\nsprang to my feet with a cry of horror. Against the warm dawn great\ntumultuous masses of black smoke were boiling up out of the enclosure,\nand through their stormy darkness shot flickering threads of blood-red\nflame. Then the thatched roof caught. I saw the curving charge of the\nflames across the sloping straw. A spurt of fire jetted from the window\nof my room.\n\nI knew at once what had happened. I remembered the crash I had heard.\nWhen I had rushed out to Montgomery s assistance, I had overturned the\nlamp.\n\nThe hopelessness of saving any of the contents of the enclosure stared\nme in the face. My mind came back to my plan of flight, and turning\nswiftly I looked to see where the two boats lay upon the beach. They\nwere gone! Two axes lay upon the sands beside me; chips and splinters\nwere scattered broadcast, and the ashes of the bonfire were blackening\nand smoking under the dawn. Montgomery had burnt the boats to revenge\nhimself upon me and prevent our return to mankind!\n\nA sudden convulsion of rage shook me. I was almost moved to batter his\nfoolish head in, as he lay there helpless at my feet. Then suddenly his\nhand moved, so feebly, so pitifully, that my wrath vanished. He\ngroaned, and opened his eyes for a minute. I knelt down beside him and\nraised his head. He opened his eyes again, staring silently at the\ndawn, and then they met mine. The lids fell.\n\n Sorry,  he said presently, with an effort. He seemed trying to think.\n The last,  he murmured,  the last of this silly universe. What a\nmess \n\nI listened. His head fell helplessly to one side. I thought some drink\nmight revive him; but there was neither drink nor vessel in which to\nbring drink at hand. He seemed suddenly heavier. My heart went cold. I\nbent down to his face, put my hand through the rent in his blouse. He\nwas dead; and even as he died a line of white heat, the limb of the\nsun, rose eastward beyond the projection of the bay, splashing its\nradiance across the sky and turning the dark sea into a weltering\ntumult of dazzling light. It fell like a glory upon his death-shrunken\nface.\n\nI let his head fall gently upon the rough pillow I had made for him,\nand stood up. Before me was the glittering desolation of the sea, the\nawful solitude upon which I had already suffered so much; behind me the\nisland, hushed under the dawn, its Beast People silent and unseen. The\nenclosure, with all its provisions and ammunition, burnt noisily, with\nsudden gusts of flame, a fitful crackling, and now and then a crash.\nThe heavy smoke drove up the beach away from me, rolling low over the\ndistant tree-tops towards the huts in the ravine. Beside me were the\ncharred vestiges of the boats and these five dead bodies.\n\nThen out of the bushes came three Beast People, with hunched shoulders,\nprotruding heads, misshapen hands awkwardly held, and inquisitive,\nunfriendly eyes and advanced towards me with hesitating gestures.\n\n\n\n\nXX.\nALONE WITH THE BEAST FOLK.\n\n\nI faced these people, facing my fate in them, single-handed\nnow, literally single-handed, for I had a broken arm. In my pocket was\na revolver with two empty chambers. Among the chips scattered about the\nbeach lay the two axes that had been used to chop up the boats. The\ntide was creeping in behind me. There was nothing for it but courage. I\nlooked squarely into the faces of the advancing monsters. They avoided\nmy eyes, and their quivering nostrils investigated the bodies that lay\nbeyond me on the beach. I took half-a-dozen steps, picked up the\nblood-stained whip that lay beneath the body of the Wolf-man, and\ncracked it. They stopped and stared at me.\n\n Salute!  said I.  Bow down! \n\nThey hesitated. One bent his knees. I repeated my command, with my\nheart in my mouth, and advanced upon them. One knelt, then the other\ntwo.\n\nI turned and walked towards the dead bodies, keeping my face towards\nthe three kneeling Beast Men, very much as an actor passing up the\nstage faces the audience.\n\n They broke the Law,  said I, putting my foot on the Sayer of the Law.\n They have been slain, even the Sayer of the Law; even the Other with\nthe Whip. Great is the Law! Come and see. \n\n None escape,  said one of them, advancing and peering.\n\n None escape,  said I.  Therefore hear and do as I command.  They stood\nup, looking questioningly at one another.\n\n Stand there,  said I.\n\nI picked up the hatchets and swung them by their heads from the sling\nof my arm; turned Montgomery over; picked up his revolver still loaded\nin two chambers, and bending down to rummage, found half-a-dozen\ncartridges in his pocket.\n\n Take him,  said I, standing up again and pointing with the whip;  take\nhim, and carry him out and cast him into the sea. \n\nThey came forward, evidently still afraid of Montgomery, but still more\nafraid of my cracking red whip-lash; and after some fumbling and\nhesitation, some whip-cracking and shouting, they lifted him gingerly,\ncarried him down to the beach, and went splashing into the dazzling\nwelter of the sea.\n\n On!  said I,  on! Carry him far. \n\nThey went in up to their armpits and stood regarding me.\n\n Let go,  said I; and the body of Montgomery vanished with a splash.\nSomething seemed to tighten across my chest.\n\n Good!  said I, with a break in my voice; and they came back, hurrying\nand fearful, to the margin of the water, leaving long wakes of black in\nthe silver. At the water s edge they stopped, turning and glaring into\nthe sea as though they presently expected Montgomery to arise therefrom\nand exact vengeance.\n\n Now these,  said I, pointing to the other bodies.\n\nThey took care not to approach the place where they had thrown\nMontgomery into the water, but instead, carried the four dead Beast\nPeople slantingly along the beach for perhaps a hundred yards before\nthey waded out and cast them away.\n\nAs I watched them disposing of the mangled remains of M ling, I heard a\nlight footfall behind me, and turning quickly saw the big Hyena-swine\nperhaps a dozen yards away. His head was bent down, his bright eyes\nwere fixed upon me, his stumpy hands clenched and held close by his\nside. He stopped in this crouching attitude when I turned, his eyes a\nlittle averted.\n\nFor a moment we stood eye to eye. I dropped the whip and snatched at\nthe pistol in my pocket; for I meant to kill this brute, the most\nformidable of any left now upon the island, at the first excuse. It may\nseem treacherous, but so I was resolved. I was far more afraid of him\nthan of any other two of the Beast Folk. His continued life was I knew\na threat against mine.\n\nI was perhaps a dozen seconds collecting myself. Then cried I,  Salute!\nBow down! \n\nHis teeth flashed upon me in a snarl.  Who are _you_ that I should \n\nPerhaps a little too spasmodically I drew my revolver, aimed quickly\nand fired. I heard him yelp, saw him run sideways and turn, knew I had\nmissed, and clicked back the cock with my thumb for the next shot. But\nhe was already running headlong, jumping from side to side, and I dared\nnot risk another miss. Every now and then he looked back at me over his\nshoulder. He went slanting along the beach, and vanished beneath the\ndriving masses of dense smoke that were still pouring out from the\nburning enclosure. For some time I stood staring after him. I turned to\nmy three obedient Beast Folk again and signalled them to drop the body\nthey still carried. Then I went back to the place by the fire where the\nbodies had fallen and kicked the sand until all the brown blood-stains\nwere absorbed and hidden.\n\nI dismissed my three serfs with a wave of the hand, and went up the\nbeach into the thickets. I carried my pistol in my hand, my whip thrust\nwith the hatchets in the sling of my arm. I was anxious to be alone, to\nthink out the position in which I was now placed. A dreadful thing that\nI was only beginning to realise was, that over all this island there\nwas now no safe place where I could be alone and secure to rest or\nsleep. I had recovered strength amazingly since my landing, but I was\nstill inclined to be nervous and to break down under any great stress.\nI felt that I ought to cross the island and establish myself with the\nBeast People, and make myself secure in their confidence. But my heart\nfailed me. I went back to the beach, and turning eastward past the\nburning enclosure, made for a point where a shallow spit of coral sand\nran out towards the reef. Here I could sit down and think, my back to\nthe sea and my face against any surprise. And there I sat, chin on\nknees, the sun beating down upon my head and unspeakable dread in my\nmind, plotting how I could live on against the hour of my rescue (if\never rescue came). I tried to review the whole situation as calmly as I\ncould, but it was difficult to clear the thing of emotion.\n\nI began turning over in my mind the reason of Montgomery s despair.\n They will change,  he said;  they are sure to change.  And Moreau,\nwhat was it that Moreau had said?  The stubborn beast-flesh grows day\nby day back again.  Then I came round to the Hyena-swine. I felt sure\nthat if I did not kill that brute, he would kill me. The Sayer of the\nLaw was dead: worse luck. They knew now that we of the Whips could be\nkilled even as they themselves were killed. Were they peering at me\nalready out of the green masses of ferns and palms over yonder,\nwatching until I came within their spring? Were they plotting against\nme? What was the Hyena-swine telling them? My imagination was running\naway with me into a morass of unsubstantial fears.\n\nMy thoughts were disturbed by a crying of sea-birds hurrying towards\nsome black object that had been stranded by the waves on the beach near\nthe enclosure. I knew what that object was, but I had not the heart to\ngo back and drive them off. I began walking along the beach in the\nopposite direction, designing to come round the eastward corner of the\nisland and so approach the ravine of the huts, without traversing the\npossible ambuscades of the thickets.\n\nPerhaps half a mile along the beach I became aware of one of my three\nBeast Folk advancing out of the landward bushes towards me. I was now\nso nervous with my own imaginings that I immediately drew my revolver.\nEven the propitiatory gestures of the creature failed to disarm me. He\nhesitated as he approached.\n\n Go away!  cried I.\n\nThere was something very suggestive of a dog in the cringing attitude\nof the creature. It retreated a little way, very like a dog being sent\nhome, and stopped, looking at me imploringly with canine brown eyes.\n\n Go away,  said I.  Do not come near me. \n\n May I not come near you?  it said.\n\n No; go away,  I insisted, and snapped my whip. Then putting my whip in\nmy teeth, I stooped for a stone, and with that threat drove the\ncreature away.\n\nSo in solitude I came round by the ravine of the Beast People, and\nhiding among the weeds and reeds that separated this crevice from the\nsea I watched such of them as appeared, trying to judge from their\ngestures and appearance how the death of Moreau and Montgomery and the\ndestruction of the House of Pain had affected them. I know now the\nfolly of my cowardice. Had I kept my courage up to the level of the\ndawn, had I not allowed it to ebb away in solitary thought, I might\nhave grasped the vacant sceptre of Moreau and ruled over the Beast\nPeople. As it was I lost the opportunity, and sank to the position of a\nmere leader among my fellows.\n\nTowards noon certain of them came and squatted basking in the hot sand.\nThe imperious voices of hunger and thirst prevailed over my dread. I\ncame out of the bushes, and, revolver in hand, walked down towards\nthese seated figures. One, a Wolf-woman, turned her head and stared at\nme, and then the others. None attempted to rise or salute me. I felt\ntoo faint and weary to insist, and I let the moment pass.\n\n I want food,  said I, almost apologetically, and drawing near.\n\n There is food in the huts,  said an Ox-boar-man, drowsily, and looking\naway from me.\n\nI passed them, and went down into the shadow and odours of the almost\ndeserted ravine. In an empty hut I feasted on some specked and\nhalf-decayed fruit; and then after I had propped some branches and\nsticks about the opening, and placed myself with my face towards it and\nmy hand upon my revolver, the exhaustion of the last thirty hours\nclaimed its own, and I fell into a light slumber, hoping that the\nflimsy barricade I had erected would cause sufficient noise in its\nremoval to save me from surprise.\n\n\n\n\nXXI.\nTHE REVERSION OF THE BEAST FOLK.\n\n\nIn this way I became one among the Beast People in the Island of Doctor\nMoreau. When I awoke, it was dark about me. My arm ached in its\nbandages. I sat up, wondering at first where I might be. I heard coarse\nvoices talking outside. Then I saw that my barricade had gone, and that\nthe opening of the hut stood clear. My revolver was still in my hand.\n\nI heard something breathing, saw something crouched together close\nbeside me. I held my breath, trying to see what it was. It began to\nmove slowly, interminably. Then something soft and warm and moist\npassed across my hand. All my muscles contracted. I snatched my hand\naway. A cry of alarm began and was stifled in my throat. Then I just\nrealised what had happened sufficiently to stay my fingers on the\nrevolver.\n\n Who is that?  I said in a hoarse whisper, the revolver still pointed.\n\n _I_ Master. \n\n Who are _you?_ \n\n They say there is no Master now. But I know, I know. I carried the\nbodies into the sea, O Walker in the Sea! the bodies of those you slew.\nI am your slave, Master. \n\n Are you the one I met on the beach?  I asked.\n\n The same, Master. \n\nThe Thing was evidently faithful enough, for it might have fallen upon\nme as I slept.  It is well,  I said, extending my hand for another\nlicking kiss. I began to realise what its presence meant, and the tide\nof my courage flowed.  Where are the others?  I asked.\n\n They are mad; they are fools,  said the Dog-man.  Even now they talk\ntogether beyond there. They say,  The Master is dead. The Other with\nthe Whip is dead. That Other who walked in the Sea is as we are. We\nhave no Master, no Whips, no House of Pain, any more. There is an end.\nWe love the Law, and will keep it; but there is no Pain, no Master, no\nWhips for ever again.  So they say. But I know, Master, I know. \n\nI felt in the darkness, and patted the Dog-man s head.  It is well,  I\nsaid again.\n\n Presently you will slay them all,  said the Dog-man.\n\n Presently,  I answered,  I will slay them all, after certain days and\ncertain things have come to pass. Every one of them save those you\nspare, every one of them shall be slain. \n\n What the Master wishes to kill, the Master kills,  said the Dog-man\nwith a certain satisfaction in his voice.\n\n And that their sins may grow,  I said,  let them live in their folly\nuntil their time is ripe. Let them not know that I am the Master. \n\n The Master s will is sweet,  said the Dog-man, with the ready tact of\nhis canine blood.\n\n But one has sinned,  said I.  Him I will kill, whenever I may meet\nhim. When I say to you,  _That is he_,  see that you fall upon him. And\nnow I will go to the men and women who are assembled together. \n\nFor a moment the opening of the hut was blackened by the exit of the\nDog-man. Then I followed and stood up, almost in the exact spot where I\nhad been when I had heard Moreau and his staghound pursuing me. But now\nit was night, and all the miasmatic ravine about me was black; and\nbeyond, instead of a green, sunlit slope, I saw a red fire, before\nwhich hunched, grotesque figures moved to and fro. Farther were the\nthick trees, a bank of darkness, fringed above with the black lace of\nthe upper branches. The moon was just riding up on the edge of the\nravine, and like a bar across its face drove the spire of vapour that\nwas for ever streaming from the fumaroles of the island.\n\n Walk by me,  said I, nerving myself; and side by side we walked down\nthe narrow way, taking little heed of the dim Things that peered at us\nout of the huts.\n\nNone about the fire attempted to salute me. Most of them disregarded\nme, ostentatiously. I looked round for the Hyena-swine, but he was not\nthere. Altogether, perhaps twenty of the Beast Folk squatted, staring\ninto the fire or talking to one another.\n\n He is dead, he is dead! the Master is dead!  said the voice of the\nApe-man to the right of me.  The House of Pain there is no House of\nPain! \n\n He is not dead,  said I, in a loud voice.  Even now he watches us! \n\nThis startled them. Twenty pairs of eyes regarded me.\n\n The House of Pain is gone,  said I.  It will come again. The Master\nyou cannot see; yet even now he listens among you. \n\n True, true!  said the Dog-man.\n\nThey were staggered at my assurance. An animal may be ferocious and\ncunning enough, but it takes a real man to tell a lie.\n\n The Man with the Bandaged Arm speaks a strange thing,  said one of the\nBeast Folk.\n\n I tell you it is so,  I said.  The Master and the House of Pain will\ncome again. Woe be to him who breaks the Law! \n\nThey looked curiously at one another. With an affectation of\nindifference I began to chop idly at the ground in front of me with my\nhatchet. They looked, I noticed, at the deep cuts I made in the turf.\n\nThen the Satyr raised a doubt. I answered him. Then one of the dappled\nthings objected, and an animated discussion sprang up round the fire.\nEvery moment I began to feel more convinced of my present security. I\ntalked now without the catching in my breath, due to the intensity of\nmy excitement, that had troubled me at first. In the course of about an\nhour I had really convinced several of the Beast Folk of the truth of\nmy assertions, and talked most of the others into a dubious state. I\nkept a sharp eye for my enemy the Hyena-swine, but he never appeared.\nEvery now and then a suspicious movement would startle me, but my\nconfidence grew rapidly. Then as the moon crept down from the zenith,\none by one the listeners began to yawn (showing the oddest teeth in the\nlight of the sinking fire), and first one and then another retired\ntowards the dens in the ravine; and I, dreading the silence and\ndarkness, went with them, knowing I was safer with several of them than\nwith one alone.\n\nIn this manner began the longer part of my sojourn upon this Island of\nDoctor Moreau. But from that night until the end came, there was but\none thing happened to tell save a series of innumerable small\nunpleasant details and the fretting of an incessant uneasiness. So that\nI prefer to make no chronicle for that gap of time, to tell only one\ncardinal incident of the ten months I spent as an intimate of these\nhalf-humanised brutes. There is much that sticks in my memory that I\ncould write, things that I would cheerfully give my right hand to\nforget; but they do not help the telling of the story.\n\nIn the retrospect it is strange to remember how soon I fell in with\nthese monsters  ways, and gained my confidence again. I had my quarrels\nwith them of course, and could show some of their teeth-marks still;\nbut they soon gained a wholesome respect for my trick of throwing\nstones and for the bite of my hatchet. And my Saint-Bernard-man s\nloyalty was of infinite service to me. I found their simple scale of\nhonour was based mainly on the capacity for inflicting trenchant\nwounds. Indeed, I may say without vanity, I hope that I held something\nlike pre-eminence among them. One or two, whom in a rare access of high\nspirits I had scarred rather badly, bore me a grudge; but it vented\nitself chiefly behind my back, and at a safe distance from my missiles,\nin grimaces.\n\nThe Hyena-swine avoided me, and I was always on the alert for him. My\ninseparable Dog-man hated and dreaded him intensely. I really believe\nthat was at the root of the brute s attachment to me. It was soon\nevident to me that the former monster had tasted blood, and gone the\nway of the Leopard-man. He formed a lair somewhere in the forest, and\nbecame solitary. Once I tried to induce the Beast Folk to hunt him, but\nI lacked the authority to make them co-operate for one end. Again and\nagain I tried to approach his den and come upon him unaware; but always\nhe was too acute for me, and saw or winded me and got away. He too made\nevery forest pathway dangerous to me and my ally with his lurking\nambuscades. The Dog-man scarcely dared to leave my side.\n\nIn the first month or so the Beast Folk, compared with their latter\ncondition, were human enough, and for one or two besides my canine\nfriend I even conceived a friendly tolerance. The little pink\nsloth-creature displayed an odd affection for me, and took to following\nme about. The Monkey-man bored me, however; he assumed, on the strength\nof his five digits, that he was my equal, and was for ever jabbering at\nme, jabbering the most arrant nonsense. One thing about him entertained\nme a little: he had a fantastic trick of coining new words. He had an\nidea, I believe, that to gabble about names that meant nothing was the\nproper use of speech. He called it  Big Thinks  to distinguish it from\n Little Thinks,  the sane every-day interests of life. If ever I made a\nremark he did not understand, he would praise it very much, ask me to\nsay it again, learn it by heart, and go off repeating it, with a word\nwrong here or there, to all the milder of the Beast People. He thought\nnothing of what was plain and comprehensible. I invented some very\ncurious  Big Thinks  for his especial use. I think now that he was the\nsilliest creature I ever met; he had developed in the most wonderful\nway the distinctive silliness of man without losing one jot of the\nnatural folly of a monkey.\n\nThis, I say, was in the earlier weeks of my solitude among these\nbrutes. During that time they respected the usage established by the\nLaw, and behaved with general decorum. Once I found another rabbit torn\nto pieces, by the Hyena-swine, I am assured, but that was all. It was\nabout May when I first distinctly perceived a growing difference in\ntheir speech and carriage, a growing coarseness of articulation, a\ngrowing disinclination to talk. My Monkey-man s jabber multiplied in\nvolume but grew less and less comprehensible, more and more simian.\nSome of the others seemed altogether slipping their hold upon speech,\nthough they still understood what I said to them at that time. (Can you\nimagine language, once clear-cut and exact, softening and guttering,\nlosing shape and import, becoming mere lumps of sound again?) And they\nwalked erect with an increasing difficulty. Though they evidently felt\nashamed of themselves, every now and then I would come upon one or\nanother running on toes and finger-tips, and quite unable to recover\nthe vertical attitude. They held things more clumsily; drinking by\nsuction, feeding by gnawing, grew commoner every day. I realised more\nkeenly than ever what Moreau had told me about the  stubborn\nbeast-flesh.  They were reverting, and reverting very rapidly.\n\nSome of them the pioneers in this, I noticed with some surprise, were\nall females began to disregard the injunction of decency, deliberately\nfor the most part. Others even attempted public outrages upon the\ninstitution of monogamy. The tradition of the Law was clearly losing\nits force. I cannot pursue this disagreeable subject.\n\nMy Dog-man imperceptibly slipped back to the dog again; day by day he\nbecame dumb, quadrupedal, hairy. I scarcely noticed the transition from\nthe companion on my right hand to the lurching dog at my side.\n\nAs the carelessness and disorganisation increased from day to day, the\nlane of dwelling places, at no time very sweet, became so loathsome\nthat I left it, and going across the island made myself a hovel of\nboughs amid the black ruins of Moreau s enclosure. Some memory of pain,\nI found, still made that place the safest from the Beast Folk.\n\nIt would be impossible to detail every step of the lapsing of these\nmonsters, to tell how, day by day, the human semblance left them; how\nthey gave up bandagings and wrappings, abandoned at last every stitch\nof clothing; how the hair began to spread over the exposed limbs; how\ntheir foreheads fell away and their faces projected; how the\nquasi-human intimacy I had permitted myself with some of them in the\nfirst month of my loneliness became a shuddering horror to recall.\n\nThe change was slow and inevitable. For them and for me it came without\nany definite shock. I still went among them in safety, because no jolt\nin the downward glide had released the increasing charge of explosive\nanimalism that ousted the human day by day. But I began to fear that\nsoon now that shock must come. My Saint-Bernard-brute followed me to\nthe enclosure every night, and his vigilance enabled me to sleep at\ntimes in something like peace. The little pink sloth-thing became shy\nand left me, to crawl back to its natural life once more among the\ntree-branches. We were in just the state of equilibrium that would\nremain in one of those  Happy Family  cages which animal-tamers\nexhibit, if the tamer were to leave it for ever.\n\nOf course these creatures did not decline into such beasts as the\nreader has seen in zoological gardens, into ordinary bears, wolves,\ntigers, oxen, swine, and apes. There was still something strange about\neach; in each Moreau had blended this animal with that. One perhaps was\nursine chiefly, another feline chiefly, another bovine chiefly; but\neach was tainted with other creatures, a kind of generalised animalism\nappearing through the specific dispositions. And the dwindling shreds\nof the humanity still startled me every now and then, a momentary\nrecrudescence of speech perhaps, an unexpected dexterity of the\nfore-feet, a pitiful attempt to walk erect.\n\nI too must have undergone strange changes. My clothes hung about me as\nyellow rags, through whose rents showed the tanned skin. My hair grew\nlong, and became matted together. I am told that even now my eyes have\na strange brightness, a swift alertness of movement.\n\nAt first I spent the daylight hours on the southward beach watching for\na ship, hoping and praying for a ship. I counted on the _Ipecacuanha_\nreturning as the year wore on; but she never came. Five times I saw\nsails, and thrice smoke; but nothing ever touched the island. I always\nhad a bonfire ready, but no doubt the volcanic reputation of the island\nwas taken to account for that.\n\nIt was only about September or October that I began to think of making\na raft. By that time my arm had healed, and both my hands were at my\nservice again. At first, I found my helplessness appalling. I had never\ndone any carpentry or such-like work in my life, and I spent day after\nday in experimental chopping and binding among the trees. I had no\nropes, and could hit on nothing wherewith to make ropes; none of the\nabundant creepers seemed limber or strong enough, and with all my\nlitter of scientific education I could not devise any way of making\nthem so. I spent more than a fortnight grubbing among the black ruins\nof the enclosure and on the beach where the boats had been burnt,\nlooking for nails and other stray pieces of metal that might prove of\nservice. Now and then some Beast-creature would watch me, and go\nleaping off when I called to it. There came a season of thunder-storms\nand heavy rain, which greatly retarded my work; but at last the raft\nwas completed.\n\nI was delighted with it. But with a certain lack of practical sense\nwhich has always been my bane, I had made it a mile or more from the\nsea; and before I had dragged it down to the beach the thing had fallen\nto pieces. Perhaps it is as well that I was saved from launching it;\nbut at the time my misery at my failure was so acute that for some days\nI simply moped on the beach, and stared at the water and thought of\ndeath.\n\nI did not, however, mean to die, and an incident occurred that warned\nme unmistakably of the folly of letting the days pass so, for each\nfresh day was fraught with increasing danger from the Beast People.\n\nI was lying in the shade of the enclosure wall, staring out to sea,\nwhen I was startled by something cold touching the skin of my heel, and\nstarting round found the little pink sloth-creature blinking into my\nface. He had long since lost speech and active movement, and the lank\nhair of the little brute grew thicker every day and his stumpy claws\nmore askew. He made a moaning noise when he saw he had attracted my\nattention, went a little way towards the bushes and looked back at me.\n\nAt first I did not understand, but presently it occurred to me that he\nwished me to follow him; and this I did at last, slowly, for the day\nwas hot. When we reached the trees he clambered into them, for he could\ntravel better among their swinging creepers than on the ground. And\nsuddenly in a trampled space I came upon a ghastly group. My\nSaint-Bernard-creature lay on the ground, dead; and near his body\ncrouched the Hyena-swine, gripping the quivering flesh with its\nmisshapen claws, gnawing at it, and snarling with delight. As I\napproached, the monster lifted its glaring eyes to mine, its lips went\ntrembling back from its red-stained teeth, and it growled menacingly.\nIt was not afraid and not ashamed; the last vestige of the human taint\nhad vanished. I advanced a step farther, stopped, and pulled out my\nrevolver. At last I had him face to face.\n\nThe brute made no sign of retreat; but its ears went back, its hair\nbristled, and its body crouched together. I aimed between the eyes and\nfired. As I did so, the Thing rose straight at me in a leap, and I was\nknocked over like a ninepin. It clutched at me with its crippled hand,\nand struck me in the face. Its spring carried it over me. I fell under\nthe hind part of its body; but luckily I had hit as I meant, and it had\ndied even as it leapt. I crawled out from under its unclean weight and\nstood up trembling, staring at its quivering body. That danger at least\nwas over; but this, I knew was only the first of the series of relapses\nthat must come.\n\nI burnt both of the bodies on a pyre of brushwood; but after that I saw\nthat unless I left the island my death was only a question of time. The\nBeast People by that time had, with one or two exceptions, left the\nravine and made themselves lairs according to their taste among the\nthickets of the island. Few prowled by day, most of them slept, and the\nisland might have seemed deserted to a new-comer; but at night the air\nwas hideous with their calls and howling. I had half a mind to make a\nmassacre of them; to build traps, or fight them with my knife. Had I\npossessed sufficient cartridges, I should not have hesitated to begin\nthe killing. There could now be scarcely a score left of the dangerous\ncarnivores; the braver of these were already dead. After the death of\nthis poor dog of mine, my last friend, I too adopted to some extent the\npractice of slumbering in the daytime in order to be on my guard at\nnight. I rebuilt my den in the walls of the enclosure, with such a\nnarrow opening that anything attempting to enter must necessarily make\na considerable noise. The creatures had lost the art of fire too, and\nrecovered their fear of it. I turned once more, almost passionately\nnow, to hammering together stakes and branches to form a raft for my\nescape.\n\nI found a thousand difficulties. I am an extremely unhandy man (my\nschooling was over before the days of Sl jd); but most of the\nrequirements of a raft I met at last in some clumsy, circuitous way or\nother, and this time I took care of the strength. The only\ninsurmountable obstacle was that I had no vessel to contain the water I\nshould need if I floated forth upon these untravelled seas. I would\nhave even tried pottery, but the island contained no clay. I used to go\nmoping about the island trying with all my might to solve this one last\ndifficulty. Sometimes I would give way to wild outbursts of rage, and\nhack and splinter some unlucky tree in my intolerable vexation. But I\ncould think of nothing.\n\nAnd then came a day, a wonderful day, which I spent in ecstasy. I saw a\nsail to the southwest, a small sail like that of a little schooner; and\nforthwith I lit a great pile of brushwood, and stood by it in the heat\nof it, and the heat of the midday sun, watching. All day I watched that\nsail, eating or drinking nothing, so that my head reeled; and the\nBeasts came and glared at me, and seemed to wonder, and went away. It\nwas still distant when night came and swallowed it up; and all night I\ntoiled to keep my blaze bright and high, and the eyes of the Beasts\nshone out of the darkness, marvelling. In the dawn the sail was nearer,\nand I saw it was the dirty lug-sail of a small boat. But it sailed\nstrangely. My eyes were weary with watching, and I peered and could not\nbelieve them. Two men were in the boat, sitting low down, one by the\nbows, the other at the rudder. The head was not kept to the wind; it\nyawed and fell away.\n\nAs the day grew brighter, I began waving the last rag of my jacket to\nthem; but they did not notice me, and sat still, facing each other. I\nwent to the lowest point of the low headland, and gesticulated and\nshouted. There was no response, and the boat kept on her aimless\ncourse, making slowly, very slowly, for the bay. Suddenly a great white\nbird flew up out of the boat, and neither of the men stirred nor\nnoticed it; it circled round, and then came sweeping overhead with its\nstrong wings outspread.\n\nThen I stopped shouting, and sat down on the headland and rested my\nchin on my hands and stared. Slowly, slowly, the boat drove past\ntowards the west. I would have swum out to it, but something a cold,\nvague fear kept me back. In the afternoon the tide stranded the boat,\nand left it a hundred yards or so to the westward of the ruins of the\nenclosure. The men in it were dead, had been dead so long that they\nfell to pieces when I tilted the boat on its side and dragged them out.\nOne had a shock of red hair, like the captain of the _Ipecacuanha_, and\na dirty white cap lay in the bottom of the boat.\n\nAs I stood beside the boat, three of the Beasts came slinking out of\nthe bushes and sniffing towards me. One of my spasms of disgust came\nupon me. I thrust the little boat down the beach and clambered on board\nher. Two of the brutes were Wolf-beasts, and came forward with\nquivering nostrils and glittering eyes; the third was the horrible\nnondescript of bear and bull. When I saw them approaching those\nwretched remains, heard them snarling at one another and caught the\ngleam of their teeth, a frantic horror succeeded my repulsion. I turned\nmy back upon them, struck the lug and began paddling out to sea. I\ncould not bring myself to look behind me.\n\nI lay, however, between the reef and the island that night, and the\nnext morning went round to the stream and filled the empty keg aboard\nwith water. Then, with such patience as I could command, I collected a\nquantity of fruit, and waylaid and killed two rabbits with my last\nthree cartridges. While I was doing this I left the boat moored to an\ninward projection of the reef, for fear of the Beast People.\n\n\n\n\nXXII.\nTHE MAN ALONE.\n\n\nIn the evening I started, and drove out to sea before a gentle wind\nfrom the southwest, slowly, steadily; and the island grew smaller and\nsmaller, and the lank spire of smoke dwindled to a finer and finer line\nagainst the hot sunset. The ocean rose up around me, hiding that low,\ndark patch from my eyes. The daylight, the trailing glory of the sun,\nwent streaming out of the sky, was drawn aside like some luminous\ncurtain, and at last I looked into the blue gulf of immensity which the\nsunshine hides, and saw the floating hosts of the stars. The sea was\nsilent, the sky was silent. I was alone with the night and silence.\n\nSo I drifted for three days, eating and drinking sparingly, and\nmeditating upon all that had happened to me, not desiring very greatly\nthen to see men again. One unclean rag was about me, my hair a black\ntangle: no doubt my discoverers thought me a madman.\n\nIt is strange, but I felt no desire to return to mankind. I was only\nglad to be quit of the foulness of the Beast People. And on the third\nday I was picked up by a brig from Apia to San Francisco. Neither the\ncaptain nor the mate would believe my story, judging that solitude and\ndanger had made me mad; and fearing their opinion might be that of\nothers, I refrained from telling my adventure further, and professed to\nrecall nothing that had happened to me between the loss of the _Lady\nVain_ and the time when I was picked up again, the space of a year.\n\nI had to act with the utmost circumspection to save myself from the\nsuspicion of insanity. My memory of the Law, of the two dead sailors,\nof the ambuscades of the darkness, of the body in the canebrake,\nhaunted me; and, unnatural as it seems, with my return to mankind came,\ninstead of that confidence and sympathy I had expected, a strange\nenhancement of the uncertainty and dread I had experienced during my\nstay upon the island. No one would believe me; I was almost as queer to\nmen as I had been to the Beast People. I may have caught something of\nthe natural wildness of my companions. They say that terror is a\ndisease, and anyhow I can witness that for several years now a restless\nfear has dwelt in my mind, such a restless fear as a half-tamed lion\ncub may feel.\n\nMy trouble took the strangest form. I could not persuade myself that\nthe men and women I met were not also another Beast People, animals\nhalf wrought into the outward image of human souls, and that they would\npresently begin to revert, to show first this bestial mark and then\nthat. But I have confided my case to a strangely able man, a man who\nhad known Moreau, and seemed half to credit my story; a mental\nspecialist, and he has helped me mightily, though I do not expect that\nthe terror of that island will ever altogether leave me. At most times\nit lies far in the back of my mind, a mere distant cloud, a memory, and\na faint distrust; but there are times when the little cloud spreads\nuntil it obscures the whole sky. Then I look about me at my fellow-men;\nand I go in fear. I see faces, keen and bright; others dull or\ndangerous; others, unsteady, insincere, none that have the calm\nauthority of a reasonable soul. I feel as though the animal was surging\nup through them; that presently the degradation of the Islanders will\nbe played over again on a larger scale. I know this is an illusion;\nthat these seeming men and women about me are indeed men and women, men\nand women for ever, perfectly reasonable creatures, full of human\ndesires and tender solicitude, emancipated from instinct and the slaves\nof no fantastic Law, beings altogether different from the Beast Folk.\nYet I shrink from them, from their curious glances, their inquiries and\nassistance, and long to be away from them and alone. For that reason I\nlive near the broad free downland, and can escape thither when this\nshadow is over my soul; and very sweet is the empty downland then,\nunder the wind-swept sky.\n\nWhen I lived in London the horror was well-nigh insupportable. I could\nnot get away from men: their voices came through windows; locked doors\nwere flimsy safeguards. I would go out into the streets to fight with\nmy delusion, and prowling women would mew after me; furtive, craving\nmen glance jealously at me; weary, pale workers go coughing by me with\ntired eyes and eager paces, like wounded deer dripping blood; old\npeople, bent and dull, pass murmuring to themselves; and, all\nunheeding, a ragged tail of gibing children. Then I would turn aside\ninto some chapel, and even there, such was my disturbance, it seemed\nthat the preacher gibbered  Big Thinks,  even as the Ape-man had done;\nor into some library, and there the intent faces over the books seemed\nbut patient creatures waiting for prey. Particularly nauseous were the\nblank, expressionless faces of people in trains and omnibuses; they\nseemed no more my fellow-creatures than dead bodies would be, so that I\ndid not dare to travel unless I was assured of being alone. And even it\nseemed that I too was not a reasonable creature, but only an animal\ntormented with some strange disorder in its brain which sent it to\nwander alone, like a sheep stricken with gid.\n\nThis is a mood, however, that comes to me now, I thank God, more\nrarely. I have withdrawn myself from the confusion of cities and\nmultitudes, and spend my days surrounded by wise books, bright windows\nin this life of ours, lit by the shining souls of men. I see few\nstrangers, and have but a small household. My days I devote to reading\nand to experiments in chemistry, and I spend many of the clear nights\nin the study of astronomy. There is though I do not know how there is\nor why there is a sense of infinite peace and protection in the\nglittering hosts of heaven. There it must be, I think, in the vast and\neternal laws of matter, and not in the daily cares and sins and\ntroubles of men, that whatever is more than animal within us must find\nits solace and its hope. I _hope_, or I could not live.\n\n\nAnd so, in hope and solitude, my story ends.\n\nEDWARD PRENDICK.\n\n\n\n\nNOTE.\n\n\nThe substance of the chapter entitled  Doctor Moreau explains,  which\ncontains the essential idea of the story, appeared as a middle article\nin the _Saturday Review_ in January, 1895. This is the only portion of\nthis story that has been previously published, and it has been entirely\nrecast to adapt it to the narrative form."
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