"I occasionally meet on my staircase here," drawls Volumnia, whose thoughts perhaps are already hopping up it to bed, after a long evening of very desultory talk, "one of the prettiest girls, I think, that I ever saw in my life."

"I occasionally meet on the staircase here," drawls Volumnia, "one of the prettiest girls, I think, that I ever saw in my life."


"A PROTEGEE of my Lady's," observes Sir Leicester.

"A protge of my Lady's," observes Sir Leicester.


"I thought so. I felt sure that some uncommon eye must have picked that girl out. She really is a marvel. A dolly sort of beauty perhaps," says Miss Volumnia, reserving her own sort, "but in its way, perfect; such bloom I never saw!"

"I thought so. I felt sure that some uncommon eye must have picked that girl out. She really is a marvel. Such bloom I never saw!"


Sir Leicester, with his magnificent glance of displeasure at the rouge, appears to say so too.


"Indeed," remarks my Lady languidly, "if there is any uncommon eye in the case, it is Mrs. Rouncewell's, and not mine. Rosa is her discovery."

"Indeed," remarks my Lady languidly, "if there is any uncommon eye in the case, it is Mrs. Rouncewell's. Rosa is her discovery."


"No. My anything; pet--secretary--messenger--I don't know what."

"No. My pet - secretary - messenger - I don't know what."


"You like to have her about you, as you would like to have a flower, or a bird, or a picture, or a poodle--no, not a poodle, though--or anything else that was equally pretty?" says Volumnia, sympathizing. "Yes, how charming now! And how well that delightful old soul Mrs. Rouncewell is looking. She must be an immense age, and yet she is as active and handsome! She is the dearest friend I have, positively!"

"You like to have her about you, as you would like to have a flower, or a bird, or anything else that was equally pretty?" says Volumnia, sympathizing. "Yes, how charming! And how well that delightful old soul Mrs. Rouncewell is looking. She must be an immense age, and yet she is so active and handsome! She is the dearest friend I have!"


Sir Leicester feels it to be right and fitting that the housekeeper of Chesney Wold should be a remarkable person. Apart from that, he has a real regard for Mrs. Rouncewell and likes to hear her praised. So he says, "You are right, Volumnia," which Volumnia is extremely glad to hear.

Sir Leicester feels it fitting that the housekeeper of Chesney Wold should be a remarkable person. And he has a real regard for Mrs. Rouncewell and likes to hear her praised. So he says, "You are right, Volumnia," which Volumnia is extremely glad to hear.


"She has no daughter of her own, has she?"


"Mrs. Rouncewell? No, Volumnia. She has a son. Indeed, she had two."


My Lady, whose chronic malady of boredom has been sadly aggravated by Volumnia this evening, glances wearily towards the candlesticks and heaves a noiseless sigh.

My Lady glances wearily towards the candlesticks and heaves a noiseless sigh.


"And it is a remarkable example of the confusion into which the present age has fallen; of the obliteration of landmarks, the opening of floodgates, and the uprooting of distinctions," says Sir Leicester with stately gloom, "that I have been informed by Mr. Tulkinghorn that Mrs. Rouncewell's son has been invited to go into Parliament."

"And it is a remarkable example of the confusion into which the present age has fallen," says Sir Leicester with stately gloom, "that I have been informed by Mr. Tulkinghorn that Mrs. Rouncewell's son has been invited to go into Parliament."


Miss Volumnia utters a little sharp scream.


"Yes, indeed," repeats Sir Leicester. "Into Parliament."


"I never heard of such a thing! Good gracious, what is the man?" exclaims Volumnia.

"I never heard of such a thing! Good gracious, what is the man?" she exclaims.


"He is called, I believe--an--ironmaster." Sir Leicester says it slowly and with gravity and doubt, as not being sure but that he is called a lead-mistress or that the right word may be some other word expressive of some other relationship to some other metal.

"He is called, I believe - an - ironmaster." Sir Leicester says it with gravity and doubt.


"He has declined the proposal, if my information from Mr. Tulkinghorn be correct, as I have no doubt it is. Mr. Tulkinghorn being always correct and exact; still that does not," says Sir Leicester, "that does not lessen the anomaly, which is fraught with strange considerations--startling considerations, as it appears to me."

"He has declined the proposal, if my information from Mr. Tulkinghorn is correct, as I have no doubt it is. Still," says Sir Leicester, "that does not lessen the strangeness of it."


Miss Volumnia rising with a look candlestick-wards, Sir Leicester politely performs the grand tour of the drawing-room, brings one, and lights it at my Lady's shaded lamp.

Miss Volumnia rising with a look at the candles, Sir Leicester politely brings one, and lights it at my Lady's lamp.


"I must beg you, my Lady," he says while doing so, "to remain a few moments, for this individual of whom I speak arrived this evening shortly before dinner and requested in a very becoming note"--Sir Leicester, with his habitual regard to truth, dwells upon it--"I am bound to say, in a very becoming and well-expressed note, the favour of a short interview with yourself and MYself on the subject of this young girl. As it appeared that he wished to depart to-night, I replied that we would see him before retiring."

"I must beg you, my Lady," he says, "to remain a few moments, for this very man arrived this evening and requested in, I am bound to say, a very becoming note, the favour of a short interview with us both on the subject of this young girl. I replied that we would see him before retiring."


Miss Volumnia with a third little scream takes flight, wishing her hosts--O Lud!--well rid of the--what is it?--ironmaster!

Miss Volumnia with a third little scream takes flight.


The other cousins soon disperse, to the last cousin there. Sir Leicester rings the bell, "Make my compliments to Mr. Rouncewell, in the housekeeper's apartments, and say I can receive him now."

The other cousins soon disperse, and Sir Leicester rings the bell.
"My compliments to Mr. Rouncewell, and say I can receive him now."


My Lady, who has heard all this with slight attention outwardly, looks towards Mr. Rouncewell as he comes in. He is a little over fifty perhaps, of a good figure, like his mother, and has a clear voice, a broad forehead from which his dark hair has retired, and a shrewd though open face. He is a responsible-looking gentleman dressed in black, portly enough, but strong and active. Has a perfectly natural and easy air and is not in the least embarrassed by the great presence into which he comes.

My Lady, who has heard all this with little apparent attention, looks towards Mr. Rouncewell as he comes in. He is a little over fifty, of a good figure, like his mother, and has a clear voice, a broad forehead, and a shrewd though open face. He is a responsible-looking gentleman dressed in black, portly, but strong and active. He has a perfectly natural air and is not in the least embarrassed by the great presence into which he comes.


"Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, as I have already apologized for intruding on you, I cannot do better than be very brief. I thank you, Sir Leicester."

"Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, I apologize for intruding on you. I will be very brief."


The head of the Dedlocks has motioned towards a sofa between himself and my Lady. Mr. Rouncewell quietly takes his seat there.

The head of the Dedlocks motions him to take a seat.


"In these busy times, when so many great undertakings are in progress, people like myself have so many workmen in so many places that we are always on the flight."

"In these busy times, people like myself have so many workmen in so many places that we are always on the move."


Sir Leicester is content enough that the ironmaster should feel that there is no hurry there; there, in that ancient house, rooted in that quiet park, where the ivy and the moss have had time to mature, and the gnarled and warted elms and the umbrageous oaks stand deep in the fern and leaves of a hundred years; and where the sun-dial on the terrace has dumbly recorded for centuries that time which was as much the property of every Dedlock--while he lasted--as the house and lands. Sir Leicester sits down in an easy-chair, opposing his repose and that of Chesney Wold to the restless flights of ironmasters.

Sir Leicester is content enough that the ironmaster should feel that there is no hurry there, in that ancient house, rooted in that quiet park, where the elms and the shady oaks stand deep in the fern and leaves of a hundred years. Sir Leicester sits down in an easy-chair, contrasting his repose to the restless flights of ironmasters.


"Lady Dedlock has been so kind," proceeds Mr. Rouncewell with a respectful glance and a bow that way, "as to place near her a young beauty of the name of Rosa. Now, my son has fallen in love with Rosa and has asked my consent to his proposing marriage to her and to their becoming engaged if she will take him--which I suppose she will. I have never seen Rosa until to-day, but I have some confidence in my son's good sense--even in love. I find her what he represents her, to the best of my judgment; and my mother speaks of her with great commendation."

"Lady Dedlock has been so kind," proceeds Mr. Rouncewell with a respectful bow, "as to place near her a young beauty of the name of Rosa. Now, my son has fallen in love with Rosa and has asked my consent to his proposing marriage to her. I have never seen Rosa until today, but I have some confidence in my son's good sense. I find her what he represents her, to the best of my judgment; and my mother speaks of her with great commendation."


"She in all respects deserves it," says my Lady.


"I am happy, Lady Dedlock, that you say so, and I need not comment on the value to me of your kind opinion of her."

"I am happy, Lady Dedlock, that you say so.


"That," observes Sir Leicester with unspeakable grandeur, for he thinks the ironmaster a little too glib, "must be quite unnecessary."


"Quite unnecessary, Sir Leicester. Now, my son is a very young man, and Rosa is a very young woman. As I made my way, so my son must make his; and his being married at present is out of the question. But supposing I gave my consent to his engaging himself to this pretty girl, if this pretty girl will engage herself to him, I think it a piece of candour to say at once--I am sure, Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, you will understand and excuse me--I should make it a condition that she did not remain at Chesney Wold. Therefore, before communicating further with my son, I take the liberty of saying that if her removal would be in any way inconvenient or objectionable, I will hold the matter over with him for any reasonable time and leave it precisely where it is."

Now, my son is a very young man, and Rosa is a very young woman. As I made my way, so my son must make his; and his being married at present is out of the question. But supposing I gave my consent to his engaging himself to this pretty girl, I think I should say at once - I am sure you will understand and excuse me - I should make it a condition that she did not remain at Chesney Wold. Therefore, before speaking further with my son, I take the liberty of saying that if her removal would be in any way inconvenient or objectionable, I will leave the matter precisely where it is."


Not remain at Chesney Wold! Make it a condition! All Sir Leicester's old misgivings relative to Wat Tyler and the people in the iron districts who do nothing but turn out by torchlight come in a shower upon his head, the fine grey hair of which, as well as of his whiskers, actually stirs with indignation.

Not remain at Chesney Wold! Make it a condition! All Sir Leicester's old misgivings about the people in the iron districts who do nothing but turn out to riot by torchlight come in a shower upon his indignant head.


"Am I to understand, sir," says Sir Leicester, "and is my Lady to understand"--he brings her in thus specially, first as a point of gallantry, and next as a point of prudence, having great reliance on her sense--"am I to understand, Mr. Rouncewell, and is my Lady to understand, sir, that you consider this young woman too good for Chesney Wold or likely to be injured by remaining here?"

"Am I to understand, sir," he says, "that you consider this young woman too good for Chesney Wold or likely to be injured by remaining here?"


"I am glad to hear it." Sir Leicester very lofty indeed.


"Pray, Mr. Rouncewell," says my Lady, warning Sir Leicester off with the slightest gesture of her pretty hand, as if he were a fly, "explain to me what you mean."


"Willingly, Lady Dedlock. There is nothing I could desire more."


Addressing her composed face, whose intelligence, however, is too quick and active to be concealed by any studied impassiveness, however habitual, to the strong Saxon face of the visitor, a picture of resolution and perseverance, my Lady listens with attention, occasionally slightly bending her head.

My Lady listens attentively, with composed face, but with a quick intelligence.


"I am the son of your housekeeper, Lady Dedlock, and passed my childhood about this house. My mother has lived here half a century and will die here I have no doubt. She is one of those examples--perhaps as good a one as there is--of love, and attachment, and fidelity in such a nation, which England may well be proud of, but of which no order can appropriate the whole pride or the whole merit, because such an instance bespeaks high worth on two sides--on the great side assuredly, on the small one no less assuredly."

"I am the son of your housekeeper, Lady Dedlock, and passed my childhood about this house. My mother has lived here half a century and will die here, I have no doubt. She is one of those examples of love, attachment, and fidelity, which England may well be proud of, although such an instance bespeaks high worth on two sides - on the great side assuredly, on the small one no less assuredly."


Sir Leicester snorts a little to hear the law laid down in this way, but in his honour and his love of truth, he freely, though silently, admits the justice of the ironmaster's proposition.

Sir Leicester snorts a little, but silently admits the justice of this statement.


"Pardon me for saying what is so obvious, but I wouldn't have it hastily supposed," with the least turn of his eyes towards Sir Leicester, "that I am ashamed of my mother's position here, or wanting in all just respect for Chesney Wold and the family. I certainly may have desired--I certainly have desired, Lady Dedlock--that my mother should retire after so many years and end her days with me. But as I have found that to sever this strong bond would be to break her heart, I have long abandoned that idea."

"I wouldn't have it supposed that I am ashamed of my mother's position here, or lacking in respect for Chesney Wold. I certainly may have desired, Lady Dedlock, that my mother should retire and end her days with me. But as I have found that this would break her heart, I have long abandoned that idea."


Sir Leicester very magnificent again at the notion of Mrs. Rouncewell being spirited off from her natural home to end her days with an ironmaster.


"I have been," proceeds the visitor in a modest, clear way, "an apprentice and a workman. I have lived on workman's wages, years and years, and beyond a certain point have had to educate myself. My wife was a foreman's daughter, and plainly brought up. We have three daughters besides this son of whom I have spoken, and being fortunately able to give them greater advantages than we have had ourselves, we have educated them well, very well. It has been one of our great cares and pleasures to make them worthy of any station."

"I have been," proceeds the visitor in a modest, clear way, "an apprentice and a workman. I have lived on workman's wages for years, and beyond a certain point have had to educate myself. My wife was a foreman's daughter, and plainly brought up. We have three daughters besides our son, and fortunately have been able to educate them well. It has been one of our great cares and pleasures to make them worthy of any station."


A little boastfulness in his fatherly tone here, as if he added in his heart, "even of the Chesney Wold station." Not a little more magnificence, therefore, on the part of Sir Leicester.

A little boastfulness in his fatherly tone here; and more magnificence, therefore, on the part of Sir Leicester.


"All this is so frequent, Lady Dedlock, where I live, and among the class to which I belong, that what would be generally called unequal marriages are not of such rare occurrence with us as elsewhere. A son will sometimes make it known to his father that he has fallen in love, say, with a young woman in the factory. The father, who once worked in a factory himself, will be a little disappointed at first very possibly. It may be that he had other views for his son. However, the chances are that having ascertained the young woman to be of unblemished character, he will say to his son, 'I must be quite sure you are in earnest here. This is a serious matter for both of you. Therefore I shall have this girl educated for two years,' or it may be, 'I shall place this girl at the same school with your sisters for such a time, during which you will give me your word and honour to see her only so often. If at the expiration of that time, when she has so far profited by her advantages as that you may be upon a fair equality, you are both in the same mind, I will do my part to make you happy.' I know of several cases such as I describe, my Lady, and I think they indicate to me my own course now."

"All this is so frequent, Lady Dedlock, where I live, that what would be generally called unequal marriages are not so rare as elsewhere. A son will sometimes tell his father that he has fallen in love, say, with a young woman in the factory. The father, who once worked in a factory himself, may be a little disappointed at first. However, if he finds the young woman to be of unblemished character, he may have the girl educated for two years, or he may place her at the same school with his daughters, until they are of a fair equality. I know of several such cases, my Lady, and I think they indicate to me my own course now."


Sir Leicester's magnificence explodes. Calmly, but terribly.


"Mr. Rouncewell," says Sir Leicester with his right hand in the breast of his blue coat, the attitude of state in which he is painted in the gallery, "do you draw a parallel between Chesney Wold and a--" Here he resists a disposition to choke, "a factory?"

"Mr. Rouncewell," says Sir Leicester in a stately attitude, "do you draw a parallel between Chesney Wold and a - a factory?"


"I need not reply, Sir Leicester, that the two places are very different; but for the purposes of this case, I think a parallel may be justly drawn between them."

"Of course the two places are very different; but for the purposes of this case, I think a parallel may be justly drawn between them."


Sir Leicester directs his majestic glance down one side of the long drawing-room and up the other before he can believe that he is awake.


"Are you aware, sir, that this young woman whom my Lady--my Lady--has placed near her person was brought up at the village school outside the gates?"

"Are you aware, sir, that this young woman whom my Lady has placed near her person was brought up at the village school outside the gates?"


"Sir Leicester, I am quite aware of it. A very good school it is, and handsomely supported by this family."


"Then, Mr. Rouncewell," returns Sir Leicester, "the application of what you have said is, to me, incomprehensible."

"Then, Mr. Rouncewell," returns Sir Leicester, "what you have said is incomprehensible."


"Will it be more comprehensible, Sir Leicester, if I say," the ironmaster is reddening a little, "that I do not regard the village school as teaching everything desirable to be known by my son's wife?"


From the village school of Chesney Wold, intact as it is this minute, to the whole framework of society; from the whole framework of society, to the aforesaid framework receiving tremendous cracks in consequence of people (iron-masters, lead-mistresses, and what not) not minding their catechism, and getting out of the station unto which they are called--necessarily and for ever, according to Sir Leicester's rapid logic, the first station in which they happen to find themselves; and from that, to their educating other people out of THEIR stations, and so obliterating the landmarks, and opening the floodgates, and all the rest of it; this is the swift progress of the Dedlock mind.

From the village school of Chesney Wold to the whole framework of society; to that framework cracking due to people like iron-masters getting out of the station unto which they are called - which is, according to Sir Leicester's rapid logic, the first station in which they happen to find themselves; and from that, to their educating other people out of their stations, and so opening the floodgates, and all the rest of it; this is the swift progress of the Dedlock mind.


"My Lady, I beg your pardon. Permit me, for one moment!" She has given a faint indication of intending to speak. "Mr. Rouncewell, our views of duty, and our views of station, and our views of education, and our views of--in short, ALL our views--are so diametrically opposed, that to prolong this discussion must be repellent to your feelings and repellent to my own. This young woman is honoured with my Lady's notice and favour. If she wishes to withdraw herself from that notice and favour or if she chooses to place herself under the influence of any one who may in his peculiar opinions--you will allow me to say, in his peculiar opinions, though I readily admit that he is not accountable for them to me--who may, in his peculiar opinions, withdraw her from that notice and favour, she is at any time at liberty to do so. We are obliged to you for the plainness with which you have spoken. It will have no effect of itself, one way or other, on the young woman's position here. Beyond this, we can make no terms; and here we beg--if you will be so good--to leave the subject."

"Mr. Rouncewell, our views of duty, and of station, and of education - in short, all our views - are so opposed, that to prolong this discussion must be repellent to both of us. This young woman is honoured with my Lady's notice and favour. If she wishes to withdraw herself from that favour, or to allow anyone with peculiar opinions to withdraw her from that favour, she is free to do so. We are obliged to you for the plainness with which you have spoken. We beg - if you will be so good - to leave the subject."


The visitor pauses a moment to give my Lady an opportunity, but she says nothing. He then rises and replies, "Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, allow me to thank you for your attention and only to observe that I shall very seriously recommend my son to conquer his present inclinations. Good night!"

The visitor pauses to give my Lady an opportunity to speak, but she says nothing. He then rises and replies, "Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, thank you for your attention. I shall very seriously recommend my son to conquer his present inclinations. Good night!"


"Mr. Rouncewell," says Sir Leicester with all the nature of a gentleman shining in him, "it is late, and the roads are dark. I hope your time is not so precious but that you will allow my Lady and myself to offer you the hospitality of Chesney Wold, for to-night at least."

"Mr. Rouncewell," says Sir Leicester, "it is late, and the roads are dark. I hope you will allow my Lady and myself to offer you the hospitality of Chesney Wold, for tonight at least."


"I am much obliged to you, but I have to travel all night in order to reach a distant part of the country punctually at an appointed time in the morning."

"I am much obliged to you, but I have to travel all night in order to reach a distant part of the country for an appointment in the morning."


Therewith the ironmaster takes his departure, Sir Leicester ringing the bell and my Lady rising as he leaves the room.


When my Lady goes to her boudoir, she sits down thoughtfully by the fire, and inattentive to the Ghost's Walk, looks at Rosa, writing in an inner room. Presently my Lady calls her.

My Lady goes to her boudoir, sits down thoughtfully by the fire, and looks at Rosa, writing in an inner room. Presently my Lady calls her.


"Come to me, child. Tell me the truth. Are you in love?"


My Lady, looking at the downcast and blushing face, says smiling, "Who is it? Is it Mrs. Rouncewell's grandson?"


"Yes, if you please, my Lady. But I don't know that I am in love with him--yet."

"Yes, if you please, my Lady. But I don't know that I am in love with him - yet."


"Yet, you silly little thing! Do you know that he loves YOU, yet?"

"Yet, you silly little thing! Do you know that he loves you, yet?"


"I think he likes me a little, my Lady." And Rosa bursts into tears.


Is this Lady Dedlock standing beside the village beauty, smoothing her dark hair with that motherly touch, and watching her with eyes so full of musing interest? Aye, indeed it is!

Is this Lady Dedlock standing beside the village beauty, smoothing her dark hair with that motherly touch, and watching her with eyes so full of interest? Aye, indeed it is!


"Listen to me, child. You are young and true, and I believe you are attached to me."


"Indeed I am, my Lady. Indeed there is nothing in the world I wouldn't do to show how much."


"And I don't think you would wish to leave me just yet, Rosa, even for a lover?"


"No, my Lady! Oh, no!" Rosa looks up for the first time, quite frightened at the thought.

"Oh, no, my Lady!" Rosa looks quite frightened at the thought.


"Confide in me, my child. Don't fear me. I wish you to be happy, and will make you so--if I can make anybody happy on this earth."

"Confide in me, my child. I wish you to be happy, and will make you so - if I can make anybody happy on this earth."


Rosa, with fresh tears, kneels at her feet and kisses her hand. My Lady takes the hand with which she has caught it, and standing with her eyes fixed on the fire, puts it about and about between her own two hands, and gradually lets it fall. Seeing her so absorbed, Rosa softly withdraws; but still my Lady's eyes are on the fire.

Rosa, with fresh tears, kneels at her feet and kisses her hand. My Lady holds her hand between her own, and then gradually lets it fall, absorbed with her eyes on the fire.


In search of what? Of any hand that is no more, of any hand that never was, of any touch that might have magically changed her life? Or does she listen to the Ghost's Walk and think what step does it most resemble? A man's? A woman's? The pattering of a little child's feet, ever coming on--on--on? Some melancholy influence is upon her, or why should so proud a lady close the doors and sit alone upon the hearth so desolate?

In search of what? Of any hand that is no more, of any touch that might have magically changed her life? Does she listen to the Ghost's Walk and think what step it most resembles? A man's? A woman's? The pattering of a little child's feet? Some melancholy influence is upon her, or why should so proud a lady close the doors and sit alone upon the hearth so desolate?


Volumnia is away next day, and all the cousins are scattered before dinner. Not a cousin of the batch but is amazed to hear from Sir Leicester at breakfast-time of the obliteration of landmarks, and opening of floodgates, and cracking of the framework of society, manifested through Mrs. Rouncewell's son. Not a cousin of the batch but is really indignant, and connects it with the feebleness of William Buffy when in office, and really does feel deprived of a stake in the country--or the pension list--or something--by fraud and wrong. As to Volumnia, she is handed down the great staircase by Sir Leicester, as eloquent upon the theme as if there were a general rising in the north of England to obtain her rouge-pot and pearl necklace. And thus, with a clatter of maids and valets--for it is one appurtenance of their cousinship that however difficult they may find it to keep themselves, they MUST keep maids and valets--the cousins disperse to the four winds of heaven; and the one wintry wind that blows to-day shakes a shower from the trees near the deserted house, as if all the cousins had been changed into leaves.

Volumnia is away next day, and all the cousins are scattered before dinner. They are amazed to hear from Sir Leicester at breakfast-time of the opening of floodgates, and cracking of the framework of society, as manifested through Mrs. Rouncewell's son. The cousins are really indignant; and as to Volumnia, she is as eloquent upon the theme as if there were a general rising in the north of England to obtain her rouge-pot and pearl necklace.
And thus, with a clatter of maids and valets, the cousins disperse to the four winds; and the one wintry wind that blows today shakes a shower from the trees near the deserted house, as if all the cousins had been changed into leaves.


In a rather ill-favoured and ill-savoured neighbourhood, though one of its rising grounds bears the name of Mount Pleasant, the Elfin Smallweed, christened Bartholomew and known on the domestic hearth as Bart, passes that limited portion of his time on which the office and its contingencies have no claim. He dwells in a little narrow street, always solitary, shady, and sad, closely bricked in on all sides like a tomb, but where there yet lingers the stump of an old forest tree whose flavour is about as fresh and natural as the Smallweed smack of youth.

In a rather ill-favoured neighbourhood, the Elfin Smallweed, christened Bartholomew and known at home as Bart, passes that limited portion of his time on which the office has no claim. He dwells in a little narrow street, solitary, shady, and sad, closely bricked in on all sides like a tomb, but where there lingers the stump of an old tree whose flavour is about as fresh and natural as the Smallweed smack of youth.


There has been only one child in the Smallweed family for several generations. Little old men and women there have been, but no child, until Mr. Smallweed's grandmother, now living, became weak in her intellect and fell (for the first time) into a childish state. With such infantine graces as a total want of observation, memory, understanding, and interest, and an eternal disposition to fall asleep over the fire and into it, Mr. Smallweed's grandmother has undoubtedly brightened the family.

There has been only one child in the Smallweed family for several generations. Little old men and women there have been, but no child, until Mr. Smallweed's grandmother became weak in her intellect and fell (for the first time) into a childish state.


Mr. Smallweed's grandfather is likewise of the party. He is in a helpless condition as to his lower, and nearly so as to his upper, limbs, but his mind is unimpaired. It holds, as well as it ever held, the first four rules of arithmetic and a certain small collection of the hardest facts. In respect of ideality, reverence, wonder, and other such phrenological attributes, it is no worse off than it used to be. Everything that Mr. Smallweed's grandfather ever put away in his mind was a grub at first, and is a grub at last. In all his life he has never bred a single butterfly.

Mr. Smallweed's grandfather is in a helpless condition as to his lower limbs, but his mind is unimpaired. It holds, as well as it ever held, the rules of arithmetic and a small collection of the hardest facts.


The father of this pleasant grandfather, of the neighbourhood of Mount Pleasant, was a horny-skinned, two-legged, money-getting species of spider who spun webs to catch unwary flies and retired into holes until they were entrapped. The name of this old pagan's god was Compound Interest. He lived for it, married it, died of it. Meeting with a heavy loss in an honest little enterprise in which all the loss was intended to have been on the other side, he broke something--something necessary to his existence, therefore it couldn't have been his heart--and made an end of his career. As his character was not good, and he had been bred at a charity school in a complete course, according to question and answer, of those ancient people the Amorites and Hittites, he was frequently quoted as an example of the failure of education.

The father of this pleasant grandfather was a horny-skinned, two-legged, money-getting species of spider who spun webs to catch unwary flies. The name of this old pagan's god was Compound Interest. He lived for it, married it, died of it. Meeting with a heavy loss in an honest little enterprise in which all the loss was intended to have been on the other side, he broke something - it couldn't have been his heart - and made an end of his career.


His spirit shone through his son, to whom he had always preached of "going out" early in life and whom he made a clerk in a sharp scrivener's office at twelve years old. There the young gentleman improved his mind, which was of a lean and anxious character, and developing the family gifts, gradually elevated himself into the discounting profession. Going out early in life and marrying late, as his father had done before him, he too begat a lean and anxious-minded son, who in his turn, going out early in life and marrying late, became the father of Bartholomew and Judith Smallweed, twins. During the whole time consumed in the slow growth of this family tree, the house of Smallweed, always early to go out and late to marry, has strengthened itself in its practical character, has discarded all amusements, discountenanced all story-books, fairy-tales, fictions, and fables, and banished all levities whatsoever. Hence the gratifying fact that it has had no child born to it and that the complete little men and women whom it has produced have been observed to bear a likeness to old monkeys with something depressing on their minds.

His spirit shone through his son, whom he made a clerk in a sharp scrivener's office at twelve years old. There the young gentleman improved his mind, which was of a lean and anxious character, and gradually elevated himself into the discounting profession. Going out early in life and marrying late, as his father had done before him, he too begat a lean and anxious-minded son, who in his turn became the father of Bartholomew and Judith Smallweed, twins.
During this whole time, the house of Smallweed has discarded all amusements, fairy-tales, fictions, and fables, and banished all levities whatsoever. Hence the gratifying fact that it has had no child born to it and that the complete little men and women whom it has produced bear a likeness to old monkeys with something depressing on their minds.


At the present time, in the dark little parlour certain feet below the level of the street--a grim, hard, uncouth parlour, only ornamented with the coarsest of baize table-covers, and the hardest of sheet-iron tea-trays, and offering in its decorative character no bad allegorical representation of Grandfather Smallweed's mind--seated in two black horsehair porter's chairs, one on each side of the fire-place, the superannuated Mr. and Mrs. Smallweed while away the rosy hours. On the stove are a couple of trivets for the pots and kettles which it is Grandfather Smallweed's usual occupation to watch, and projecting from the chimney-piece between them is a sort of brass gallows for roasting, which he also superintends when it is in action. Under the venerable Mr. Smallweed's seat and guarded by his spindle legs is a drawer in his chair, reported to contain property to a fabulous amount. Beside him is a spare cushion with which he is always provided in order that he may have something to throw at the venerable partner of his respected age whenever she makes an allusion to money--a subject on which he is particularly sensitive.

At the present time, in the grim, dark little parlour some feet below the level of the street, seated in two black horsehair porter's chairs, one on each side of the fire-place, the oldest Mr. and Mrs. Smallweed while away the hours. On the stove are a couple of trivets for the pots and kettles which it is Grandfather Smallweed's usual occupation to watch. Under his seat and guarded by his spindle legs is a drawer in his chair, reported to contain property to a fabulous amount. Beside him is a spare cushion, provided in order that he may have something to throw at his venerable partner whenever she mentions money - a subject on which he is particularly sensitive.


"And where's Bart?" Grandfather Smallweed inquires of Judy, Bart's twin sister.

"Where's Bart?" Grandfather Smallweed inquires of Judy, Bart's twin sister.


"How much do you mean to say it wants then?"


"Ten minutes." (Loud on the part of Judy.)


"Ho!" says Grandfather Smallweed. "Ten minutes."


Grandmother Smallweed, who has been mumbling and shaking her head at the trivets, hearing figures mentioned, connects them with money and screeches like a horrible old parrot without any plumage, "Ten ten-pound notes!"

Grandmother Smallweed, who has been mumbling and shaking her head, hearing figures mentioned, screeches like a horrible old parrot without any plumage, "Ten ten-pound notes!"


Grandfather Smallweed immediately throws the cushion at her.


"Drat you, be quiet!" says the good old man.


The effect of this act of jaculation is twofold. It not only doubles up Mrs. Smallweed's head against the side of her porter's chair and causes her to present, when extricated by her granddaughter, a highly unbecoming state of cap, but the necessary exertion recoils on Mr. Smallweed himself, whom it throws back into HIS porter's chair like a broken puppet. The excellent old gentleman being at these times a mere clothes-bag with a black skull-cap on the top of it, does not present a very animated appearance until he has undergone the two operations at the hands of his granddaughter of being shaken up like a great bottle and poked and punched like a great bolster. Some indication of a neck being developed in him by these means, he and the sharer of his life's evening again fronting one another in their two porter's chairs, like a couple of sentinels long forgotten on their post by the Black Serjeant, Death.

This exertion recoils on Mr. Smallweed himself, throwing him back into his chair like a broken puppet. His granddaughter shakes him up again, poking and punching him like a great bolster.


Judy the twin is worthy company for these associates. She is so indubitably sister to Mr. Smallweed the younger that the two kneaded into one would hardly make a young person of average proportions, while she so happily exemplifies the before-mentioned family likeness to the monkey tribe that attired in a spangled robe and cap she might walk about the table-land on the top of a barrel-organ without exciting much remark as an unusual specimen. Under existing circumstances, however, she is dressed in a plain, spare gown of brown stuff.

Judy the twin is worthy company for these associates. She is so indubitably sister to Mr. Smallweed the younger; she so happily exemplifies the family likeness to the monkey tribe, that attired in a spangled robe and cap she might walk on top of a barrel-organ without exciting much remark. At present, however, she is dressed in a plain brown gown.


Judy never owned a doll, never heard of Cinderella, never played at any game. She once or twice fell into children's company when she was about ten years old, but the children couldn't get on with Judy, and Judy couldn't get on with them. She seemed like an animal of another species, and there was instinctive repugnance on both sides. It is very doubtful whether Judy knows how to laugh. She has so rarely seen the thing done that the probabilities are strong the other way. Of anything like a youthful laugh, she certainly can have no conception. If she were to try one, she would find her teeth in her way, modelling that action of her face, as she has unconsciously modelled all its other expressions, on her pattern of sordid age. Such is Judy.


And her twin brother couldn't wind up a top for his life. He knows no more of Jack the Giant Killer or of Sinbad the Sailor than he knows of the people in the stars. He could as soon play at leap-frog or at cricket as change into a cricket or a frog himself. But he is so much the better off than his sister that on his narrow world of fact an opening has dawned into such broader regions as lie within the ken of Mr. Guppy. Hence his admiration and his emulation of that shining enchanter.

And her twin brother likewise has learnt no games or fairy-stories. But he is better off than his sister, in that on his narrow world an opening has dawned into the broader regions inhabited by Mr. Guppy. Hence his admiration of that shining enchanter.


Judy, with a gong-like clash and clatter, sets one of the sheet-iron tea-trays on the table and arranges cups and saucers. The bread she puts on in an iron basket, and the butter (and not much of it) in a small pewter plate. Grandfather Smallweed looks hard after the tea as it is served out and asks Judy where the girl is.

Judy, with a clash and clatter, sets an iron tea-tray on the table and arranges cups and saucers. She puts the bread in an iron basket, and the meagre butter in a small pewter plate. Grandfather Smallweed looks hard at the tea and asks Judy where the girl is.


This touches a spring in Grandmother Smallweed, who, chuckling as usual at the trivets, cries, "Over the water! Charley over the water, Charley over the water, over the water to Charley, Charley over the water, over the water to Charley!" and becomes quite energetic about it. Grandfather looks at the cushion but has not sufficiently recovered his late exertion.


"Ha!" he says when there is silence. "If that's her name. She eats a deal. It would be better to allow her for her keep."

"Ha!" says Grandfather. "She eats a deal. It would be better to just pay her for her keep."


Judy, with her brother's wink, shakes her head and purses up her mouth into no without saying it.

Judy shakes her head and purses up her mouth.


"She'd want sixpence a day, and we can do it for less," says Judy.

"She'd want sixpence a day, and we can do it for less," says she.


Judy answers with a nod of deepest meaning and calls, as she scrapes the butter on the loaf with every precaution against waste and cuts it into slices, "You, Charley, where are you?" Timidly obedient to the summons, a little girl in a rough apron and a large bonnet, with her hands covered with soap and water and a scrubbing brush in one of them, appears, and curtsys.

Judy answers with a nod and calls, as she scrapes the butter on the loaf, "Charley, where are you?" Timidly obedient, a little girl in a rough apron appears, with her hands covered with soap and water and a scrubbing brush in one of them.


"What work are you about now?" says Judy, making an ancient snap at her like a very sharp old beldame.

"What work are you about now?" says Judy, like a sharp old woman.


"I'm a-cleaning the upstairs back room, miss," replies Charley.


"Mind you do it thoroughly, and don't loiter. Shirking won't do for me. Make haste! Go along!" cries Judy with a stamp upon the ground. "You girls are more trouble than you're worth, by half."

"Mind you do it thoroughly, and don't loiter. Make haste! Go along!" cries Judy with a stamp.


On this severe matron, as she returns to her task of scraping the butter and cutting the bread, falls the shadow of her brother, looking in at the window. For whom, knife and loaf in hand, she opens the street-door.

As she returns to her task, her brother arrives home.


"Aye, aye, Bart!" says Grandfather Smallweed. "Here you are, hey?"


"Been along with your friend again, Bart?"


"That's right. Live at his expense as much as you can, and take warning by his foolish example. That's the use of such a friend. The only use you can put him to," says the venerable sage.

"That's right. Live at his expense as much as you can. That's the only use of such a friend," says the venerable sage.


His grandson, without receiving this good counsel as dutifully as he might, honours it with all such acceptance as may lie in a slight wink and a nod and takes a chair at the tea-table. The four old faces then hover over teacups like a company of ghastly cherubim, Mrs. Smallweed perpetually twitching her head and chattering at the trivets and Mr. Smallweed requiring to be repeatedly shaken up like a large black draught.

His grandson receives this good advice with a wink and a nod and takes a chair at the tea-table. The four old faces hover over teacups like a company of ghastly cherubim, Mrs. Smallweed perpetually twitching her head and chattering and Mr. Smallweed requiring to be repeatedly shaken up.


"Yes, yes," says the good old gentleman, reverting to his lesson of wisdom. "That's such advice as your father would have given you, Bart. You never saw your father. More's the pity. He was my true son." Whether it is intended to be conveyed that he was particularly pleasant to look at, on that account, does not appear.

"Yes, yes," says the good old gentleman. "That's fatherly advice, Bart. You never saw your father. More's the pity.


"He was my true son," repeats the old gentleman, folding his bread and butter on his knee, "a good accountant, and died fifteen years ago."

He was my true son, and died fifteen years ago."


Mrs. Smallweed, following her usual instinct, breaks out with "Fifteen hundred pound. Fifteen hundred pound in a black box, fifteen hundred pound locked up, fifteen hundred pound put away and hid!" Her worthy husband, setting aside his bread and butter, immediately discharges the cushion at her, crushes her against the side of her chair, and falls back in his own, overpowered. His appearance, after visiting Mrs. Smallweed with one of these admonitions, is particularly impressive and not wholly prepossessing, firstly because the exertion generally twists his black skull-cap over one eye and gives him an air of goblin rakishness, secondly because he mutters violent imprecations against Mrs. Smallweed, and thirdly because the contrast between those powerful expressions and his powerless figure is suggestive of a baleful old malignant who would be very wicked if he could. All this, however, is so common in the Smallweed family circle that it produces no impression. The old gentleman is merely shaken and has his internal feathers beaten up, the cushion is restored to its usual place beside him, and the old lady, perhaps with her cap adjusted and perhaps not, is planted in her chair again, ready to be bowled down like a ninepin.

Mrs. Smallweed breaks out with "Fifteen hundred pound in a black box, put away and hid!" Her worthy husband immediately throws the cushion at her, crushing her against the side of her chair, and falls back in his own, overpowered. He mutters baleful and violent imprecations against Mrs. Smallweed. All this, however, is common in the Smallweed family circle. The old gentleman is merely shaken and has his internal feathers beaten up, the cushion is restored to its place beside him, and the old lady is planted in her chair again.


Some time elapses in the present instance before the old gentleman is sufficiently cool to resume his discourse, and even then he mixes it up with several edifying expletives addressed to the unconscious partner of his bosom, who holds communication with nothing on earth but the trivets. As thus: "If your father, Bart, had lived longer, he might have been worth a deal of money--you brimstone chatterer!--but just as he was beginning to build up the house that he had been making the foundations for, through many a year--you jade of a magpie, jackdaw, and poll-parrot, what do you mean!--he took ill and died of a low fever, always being a sparing and a spare man, full of business care--I should like to throw a cat at you instead of a cushion, and I will too if you make such a confounded fool of yourself!--and your mother, who was a prudent woman as dry as a chip, just dwindled away like touchwood after you and Judy were born--you are an old pig. You are a brimstone pig. You're a head of swine!"

Some time elapses before the old gentleman is cool enough to resume his discourse, and even then he mixes it up with several expletives addressed to the partner of his bosom.
"If your father, Bart, had lived longer, he might have been worth a deal of money - you brimstone chatterer! - but just as he was beginning to build up his funds, he took ill and died of a fever - I should like to throw a cat at you instead of a cushion, you confounded fool! - and your mother, who was a prudent woman, just dwindled away after you and Judy were born - you old pig!"


Judy, not interested in what she has often heard, begins to collect in a basin various tributary streams of tea, from the bottoms of cups and saucers and from the bottom of the tea-pot for the little charwoman's evening meal. In like manner she gets together, in the iron bread-basket, as many outside fragments and worn-down heels of loaves as the rigid economy of the house has left in existence.

Judy, not interested in what she has often heard, begins to collect leftovers of tea in a basin, and of bread-and-butter in the iron bread-basket, for the little charwoman's evening meal.


"But your father and me were partners, Bart," says the old gentleman, "and when I am gone, you and Judy will have all there is. It's rare for you both that you went out early in life--Judy to the flower business, and you to the law. You won't want to spend it. You'll get your living without it, and put more to it. When I am gone, Judy will go back to the flower business and you'll still stick to the law."

"But your father and me were partners, Bart," says the old gentleman, "and when I am gone, you and Judy will have all there is. You won't want to spend it. You'll get your living without it, and put more to it. When I am gone, Judy will go back to the flower business and you'll stick to the law."


One might infer from Judy's appearance that her business rather lay with the thorns than the flowers, but she has in her time been apprenticed to the art and mystery of artificial flower-making. A close observer might perhaps detect both in her eye and her brother's, when their venerable grandsire anticipates his being gone, some little impatience to know when he may be going, and some resentful opinion that it is time he went.

One might infer from Judy's appearance that her business rather lay with the thorns than the flowers, but she has in her time been apprenticed to the art of artificial flower-making. A close observer might perhaps detect both in her eye and her brother's some impatience to know when their grandfather may be going, and some resentful opinion that it is time he went.


"Now, if everybody has done," says Judy, completing her preparations, "I'll have that girl in to her tea. She would never leave off if she took it by herself in the kitchen."

"Now, if everybody has done," says Judy. "I'll have that girl in to her tea. She would never leave off if she took it by herself in the kitchen."


Charley is accordingly introduced, and under a heavy fire of eyes, sits down to her basin and a Druidical ruin of bread and butter. In the active superintendence of this young person, Judy Smallweed appears to attain a perfectly geological age and to date from the remotest periods. Her systematic manner of flying at her and pouncing on her, with or without pretence, whether or no, is wonderful, evincing an accomplishment in the art of girl-driving seldom reached by the oldest practitioners.

Charley is accordingly introduced, and under a heavy fire of eyes, sits down to her basin and her ruins of bread and butter.


"Now, don't stare about you all the afternoon," cries Judy, shaking her head and stamping her foot as she happens to catch the glance which has been previously sounding the basin of tea, "but take your victuals and get back to your work."

"Now, don't stare about you all afternoon," cries Judy, stamping her foot, "but take your victuals and get back to your work."


"Don't say yes," returns Miss Smallweed, "for I know what you girls are. Do it without saying it, and then I may begin to believe you."


Charley swallows a great gulp of tea in token of submission and so disperses the Druidical ruins that Miss Smallweed charges her not to gormandize, which "in you girls," she observes, is disgusting. Charley might find some more difficulty in meeting her views on the general subject of girls but for a knock at the door.

Charley swallows a great gulp of tea in token of submission, just as there is a knock at the door.


"See who it is, and don't chew when you open it!" cries Judy.


The object of her attentions withdrawing for the purpose, Miss Smallweed takes that opportunity of jumbling the remainder of the bread and butter together and launching two or three dirty tea-cups into the ebb-tide of the basin of tea as a hint that she considers the eating and drinking terminated.


"Now! Who is it, and what's wanted?" says the snappish Judy.


It is one Mr. George, it appears. Without other announcement or ceremony, Mr. George walks in.

It is one Mr. George, it appears. Without ceremony, Mr. George walks in.


"Whew!" says Mr. George. "You are hot here. Always a fire, eh? Well! Perhaps you do right to get used to one." Mr. George makes the latter remark to himself as he nods to Grandfather Smallweed.


"Ho! It's you!" cries the old gentleman. "How de do? How de do?"

"Ho! It's you!" cries the old gentleman. "How de do?"


"Middling," replies Mr. George, taking a chair. "Your granddaughter I have had the honour of seeing before; my service to you, miss."


"This is my grandson," says Grandfather Smallweed. "You ha'n't seen him before. He is in the law and not much at home."

"This is my grandson," says old Smallweed. "You ha'n't seen him before. He is in the law."


"My service to him, too! He is like his sister. He is very like his sister. He is devilish like his sister," says Mr. George, laying a great and not altogether complimentary stress on his last adjective.

"My service to him, too! He is devilish like his sister," says Mr. George.


"And how does the world use you, Mr. George?" Grandfather Smallweed inquires, slowly rubbing his legs.

"And how does the world use you, Mr. George?" Grandfather Smallweed inquires, rubbing his legs.


"Pretty much as usual. Like a football."


He is a swarthy brown man of fifty, well made, and good looking, with crisp dark hair, bright eyes, and a broad chest. His sinewy and powerful hands, as sunburnt as his face, have evidently been used to a pretty rough life. What is curious about him is that he sits forward on his chair as if he were, from long habit, allowing space for some dress or accoutrements that he has altogether laid aside. His step too is measured and heavy and would go well with a weighty clash and jingle of spurs. He is close-shaved now, but his mouth is set as if his upper lip had been for years familiar with a great moustache; and his manner of occasionally laying the open palm of his broad brown hand upon it is to the same effect. Altogether one might guess Mr. George to have been a trooper once upon a time.

He is a swarthy, brown man of fifty, well made, and good looking, with curly dark hair, bright eyes, and a broad chest. His powerful, sunburnt hands have evidently been used to a pretty rough life. He sits forward on his chair. His step is measured and heavy and would go well with a weighty clash and jingle of spurs. Altogether one might guess Mr. George to have been a trooper once upon a time.


A special contrast Mr. George makes to the Smallweed family. Trooper was never yet billeted upon a household more unlike him. It is a broadsword to an oyster-knife. His developed figure and their stunted forms, his large manner filling any amount of room and their little narrow pinched ways, his sounding voice and their sharp spare tones, are in the strongest and the strangest opposition. As he sits in the middle of the grim parlour, leaning a little forward, with his hands upon his thighs and his elbows squared, he looks as though, if he remained there long, he would absorb into himself the whole family and the whole four-roomed house, extra little back-kitchen and all.

He makes a contrast to the Smallweed family. A soldier was never yet billeted upon a household more unlike him. His broad figure and their stunted forms, his large manner and their narrow pinched ways, his resounding voice and their sharp thin tones, are in the strangest opposition.


"Do you rub your legs to rub life into 'em?" he asks of Grandfather Smallweed after looking round the room.

"Do you rub your legs to rub life into 'em?" he asks of Grandfather Smallweed.


"Why, it's partly a habit, Mr. George, and--yes--it partly helps the circulation," he replies.

"Why, it's partly a habit, Mr. George, and it partly helps the circulation.


"The cir-cu-la-tion!" repeats Mr. George, folding his arms upon his chest and seeming to become two sizes larger. "Not much of that, I should think."


"Truly I'm old, Mr. George," says Grandfather Smallweed. "But I can carry my years. I'm older than HER," nodding at his wife, "and see what she is? You're a brimstone chatterer!" with a sudden revival of his late hostility.

I can carry my years. I'm older than her," says Grandfather Smallweed, nodding at his wife, "the brimstone chatterer!"


"Unlucky old soul!" says Mr. George, turning his head in that direction. "Don't scold the old lady. Look at her here, with her poor cap half off her head and her poor hair all in a muddle. Hold up, ma'am. That's better. There we are! Think of your mother, Mr. Smallweed," says Mr. George, coming back to his seat from assisting her, "if your wife an't enough."

"Unlucky old soul!" says Mr. George. "Don't scold the old lady. Look at her, with her poor cap half off. Hold up, ma'am. That's better. There we are!"


"I suppose you were an excellent son, Mr. George?" the old man hints with a leer.


The colour of Mr. George's face rather deepens as he replies, "Why no. I wasn't."

The colour of Mr. George's face rather deepens as he replies, "Why, no. I wasn't."


"So am I. I ought to have been a good son, and I think I meant to have been one. But I wasn't. I was a thundering bad son, that's the long and the short of it, and never was a credit to anybody."

"So am I. I ought to have been a good son, and I think I meant to have been one. But I wasn't. I was a thundering bad son, and never was a credit to anybody."


"However," Mr. George resumes, "the less said about it, the better now. Come! You know the agreement. Always a pipe out of the two months' interest! (Bosh! It's all correct. You needn't be afraid to order the pipe. Here's the new bill, and here's the two months' interest-money, and a devil-and-all of a scrape it is to get it together in my business.)"

"However," Mr. George resumes, "the less said about it, the better. Come! You know the agreement. Always a pipe out of the two months' interest! Here's the bill, and here's the two months' interest-money, and a devil of a scrape it is to get it together in my business."


Mr. George sits, with his arms folded, consuming the family and the parlour while Grandfather Smallweed is assisted by Judy to two black leathern cases out of a locked bureau, in one of which he secures the document he has just received, and from the other takes another similar document which he hands to Mr. George, who twists it up for a pipelight. As the old man inspects, through his glasses, every up-stroke and down-stroke of both documents before he releases them from their leathern prison, and as he counts the money three times over and requires Judy to say every word she utters at least twice, and is as tremulously slow of speech and action as it is possible to be, this business is a long time in progress. When it is quite concluded, and not before, he disengages his ravenous eyes and fingers from it and answers Mr. George's last remark by saying, "Afraid to order the pipe? We are not so mercenary as that, sir. Judy, see directly to the pipe and the glass of cold brandy-and-water for Mr. George."

Mr. George sits, with his arms folded, while Grandfather Smallweed is assisted by Judy to two black leather cases out of a locked bureau, in one of which he secures the document he has just received, and from the other takes another similar document which he hands to Mr. George. As the old man inspects every letter of both documents, and as he counts the money three times over, this business takes a long time. When it is done, he says,
"Judy, see to the pipe and the glass of brandy-and-water for Mr. George."


The sportive twins, who have been looking straight before them all this time except when they have been engrossed by the black leathern cases, retire together, generally disdainful of the visitor, but leaving him to the old man as two young cubs might leave a traveller to the parental bear.

The twins retire together, disdainful of the visitor, but leaving him to the old man as two young cubs might leave a traveller to the parental bear.


"And there you sit, I suppose, all the day long, eh?" says Mr. George with folded arms.

"And there you sit, I suppose, all day long, eh?" says Mr. George.


"I watch the fire--and the boiling and the roasting--"


"When there is any," says Mr. George with great expression.


The old man shakes his head with sharp sly triumph. "No, no. We have never been readers in our family. It don't pay. Stuff. Idleness. Folly. No, no!"

The old man shakes his head with sharp sly triumph. "No, no. We have never been readers in our family. It don't pay. Idleness. Folly. No, no!"


"There's not much to choose between your two states," says the visitor in a key too low for the old man's dull hearing as he looks from him to the old woman and back again. "I say!" in a louder voice.


"You'll sell me up at last, I suppose, when I am a day in arrear."

"You'll sell me up at last, I suppose, when I am a day in arrears."


"My dear friend!" cries Grandfather Smallweed, stretching out both hands to embrace him. "Never! Never, my dear friend! But my friend in the city that I got to lend you the money--HE might!"

"My dear friend!" cries Grandfather Smallweed, stretching out both hands, "Never! Never! But my friend in the city that I got to lend you the money - he might!"


"Oh! You can't answer for him?" says Mr. George, finishing the inquiry in his lower key with the words "You lying old rascal!"

"Oh! You can't answer for him?" says Mr. George, adding in an undertone, "You lying old rascal!"


"My dear friend, he is not to be depended on. I wouldn't trust him. He will have his bond, my dear friend."

"My dear friend, he is not to be depended on. He will have his bond."


"Devil doubt him," says Mr. George. Charley appearing with a tray, on which are the pipe, a small paper of tobacco, and the brandy-and-water, he asks her, "How do you come here! You haven't got the family face."

"Devil doubt him," says Mr. George. Charley appears with a tray, on which are the clay pipe, a small paper of tobacco, and the brandy-and-water. He asks her,
"How do you come here? You haven't got the family face."


"I goes out to work, sir," returns Charley.


The trooper (if trooper he be or have been) takes her bonnet off, with a light touch for so strong a hand, and pats her on the head. "You give the house almost a wholesome look. It wants a bit of youth as much as it wants fresh air." Then he dismisses her, lights his pipe, and drinks to Mr. Smallweed's friend in the city--the one solitary flight of that esteemed old gentleman's imagination.

The trooper takes her bonnet off, with a light touch for so strong a hand, and pats her on the head. "You give the house almost a wholesome look." Then he dismisses her, lights his pipe, and drinks to Mr. Smallweed's friend in the city - the one solitary flight of that old gentleman's imagination.


"So you think he might be hard upon me, eh?"


"I think he might--I am afraid he would. I have known him do it," says Grandfather Smallweed incautiously, "twenty times."

"I am afraid he would. I have known him do it," says Grandfather Smallweed incautiously, "twenty times."


Incautiously, because his stricken better-half, who has been dozing over the fire for some time, is instantly aroused and jabbers "Twenty thousand pounds, twenty twenty-pound notes in a money-box, twenty guineas, twenty million twenty per cent, twenty--" and is then cut short by the flying cushion, which the visitor, to whom this singular experiment appears to be a novelty, snatches from her face as it crushes her in the usual manner.

Incautiously, because his stricken better-half, who has been dozing over the fire, is instantly aroused and jabbers "Twenty thousand pounds, twenty twenty-pound notes in a money-box, twenty guineas-" and is cut short by the flying cushion, which the visitor snatches from her face.


"You're a brimstone idiot. You're a scorpion--a brimstone scorpion! You're a sweltering toad. You're a chattering clattering broomstick witch that ought to be burnt!" gasps the old man, prostrate in his chair. "My dear friend, will you shake me up a little?"

"You're a brimstone idiot. You're a brimstone scorpion! You're a sweltering toad. You're a chattering broomstick witch that ought to be burnt!" gasps the old man, prostrate in his chair. "My dear friend, will you shake me up a little?"


Mr. George, who has been looking first at one of them and then at the other, as if he were demented, takes his venerable acquaintance by the throat on receiving this request, and dragging him upright in his chair as easily as if he were a doll, appears in two minds whether or no to shake all future power of cushioning out of him and shake him into his grave. Resisting the temptation, but agitating him violently enough to make his head roll like a harlequin's, he puts him smartly down in his chair again and adjusts his skull-cap with such a rub that the old man winks with both eyes for a minute afterwards.

Mr. George, who has been looking at them as if he were demented, takes his venerable acquaintance by the throat on receiving this request, and dragging him upright in his chair as easily as if he were a doll, appears in two minds whether to shake him into his grave. Resisting the temptation, but agitating him enough to make his head roll like a puppet's, he puts him smartly down in his chair again.


"O Lord!" gasps Mr. Smallweed. "That'll do. Thank you, my dear friend, that'll do. Oh, dear me, I'm out of breath. O Lord!" And Mr. Smallweed says it not without evident apprehensions of his dear friend, who still stands over him looming larger than ever.

"O Lord!" gasps Mr. Smallweed. "Thank you, my dear friend, that'll do." He says this with evident apprehensions of his dear friend, who still stands over him looming larger than ever.


The alarming presence, however, gradually subsides into its chair and falls to smoking in long puffs, consoling itself with the philosophical reflection, "The name of your friend in the city begins with a D, comrade, and you're about right respecting the bond."

The alarming presence, however, subsides into its chair and falls to smoking.


"Did you speak, Mr. George?" inquires the old man.


The trooper shakes his head, and leaning forward with his right elbow on his right knee and his pipe supported in that hand, while his other hand, resting on his left leg, squares his left elbow in a martial manner, continues to smoke. Meanwhile he looks at Mr. Smallweed with grave attention and now and then fans the cloud of smoke away in order that he may see him the more clearly.

Meanwhile he looks at Mr. Smallweed with grave attention.


"I take it," he says, making just as much and as little change in his position as will enable him to reach the glass to his lips with a round, full action, "that I am the only man alive (or dead either) that gets the value of a pipe out of YOU?"

"I take it," he says, "that I am the only man alive that gets the value of a pipe out of you?"


"Well," returns the old man, "it's true that I don't see company, Mr. George, and that I don't treat. I can't afford to it. But as you, in your pleasant way, made your pipe a condition--"

"Well," returns the old man, "it's true that I don't see company, Mr. George, and that I don't treat. I can't afford it. But as you, in your pleasant way, made your pipe a condition-"


"Why, it's not for the value of it; that's no great thing. It was a fancy to get it out of you. To have something in for my money."

"Why, it's not for the value of it. It was a fancy to get it out of you. To have something for my money."


"Ha! You're prudent, prudent, sir!" cries Grandfather Smallweed, rubbing his legs.


"Very. I always was." Puff. "It's a sure sign of my prudence that I ever found the way here." Puff. "Also, that I am what I am." Puff. "I am well known to be prudent," says Mr. George, composedly smoking. "I rose in life that way."

"Very. I always was." Puff. "It's a sign of my prudence that I ever found the way here." Puff. "Also, that I am what I am." Puff. "I am well known to be prudent," says Mr. George, composedly smoking. "I rose in life that way."


"Don't be down-hearted, sir. You may rise yet."


"Ha'n't you no relations, now," asks Grandfather Smallweed with a twinkle in his eyes, "who would pay off this little principal or who would lend you a good name or two that I could persuade my friend in the city to make you a further advance upon? Two good names would be sufficient for my friend in the city. Ha'n't you no such relations, Mr. George?"

"Ha'n't you no relations, now," asks Grandfather Smallweed with a twinkle in his eyes, "who would pay off this little loan, or a good name or two that I could persuade my friend in the city to make you a further advance upon? Two good names would be sufficient for my friend in the city. Ha'n't you no such relations, Mr. George?"


Mr. George, still composedly smoking, replies, "If I had, I shouldn't trouble them. I have been trouble enough to my belongings in my day. It MAY be a very good sort of penitence in a vagabond, who has wasted the best time of his life, to go back then to decent people that he never was a credit to and live upon them, but it's not my sort. The best kind of amends then for having gone away is to keep away, in my opinion."

Mr. George replies, "If I had, I shouldn't trouble them. I have been trouble enough in my day. A vagabond might go back to decent people that he never was a credit to and make amends by living upon them, but the best kind of amends is to keep away, in my opinion."


"But natural affection, Mr. George," hints Grandfather Smallweed.


"For two good names, hey?" says Mr. George, shaking his head and still composedly smoking. "No. That's not my sort either."


Grandfather Smallweed has been gradually sliding down in his chair since his last adjustment and is now a bundle of clothes with a voice in it calling for Judy. That houri, appearing, shakes him up in the usual manner and is charged by the old gentleman to remain near him. For he seems chary of putting his visitor to the trouble of repeating his late attentions.

Grandfather Smallweed has been gradually sliding down in his chair since his last adjustment and is now a bundle of clothes with a voice in it calling for Judy. Appearing, she shakes him up in the usual manner and is charged by the old gentleman to remain near him. For he seems wary of asking his visitor to repeat his attentions.


"Ha!" he observes when he is in trim again. "If you could have traced out the captain, Mr. George, it would have been the making of you. If when you first came here, in consequence of our advertisement in the newspapers--when I say 'our,' I'm alluding to the advertisements of my friend in the city, and one or two others who embark their capital in the same way, and are so friendly towards me as sometimes to give me a lift with my little pittance--if at that time you could have helped us, Mr. George, it would have been the making of you."

"Ha!" he observes. "If you could have found the captain, Mr. George, it would have been the making of you. If when you first came here, in consequence of our advertisement in the newspapers - if you could have helped us, Mr. George, it would have been the making of you."


"I was willing enough to be 'made,' as you call it," says Mr. George, smoking not quite so placidly as before, for since the entrance of Judy he has been in some measure disturbed by a fascination, not of the admiring kind, which obliges him to look at her as she stands by her grandfather's chair, "but on the whole, I am glad I wasn't now."

"I was willing enough to be 'made,' as you call it," says Mr. George, smoking not quite so placidly as before, "but on the whole, I am glad I wasn't now."


"Why, Mr. George? In the name of--of brimstone, why?" says Grandfather Smallweed with a plain appearance of exasperation. (Brimstone apparently suggested by his eye lighting on Mrs. Smallweed in her slumber.)

"Why, Mr. George? In the name of brimstone, why?" says Grandfather Smallweed with exasperation.


"And what two reasons, Mr. George? In the name of the--"


"Of our friend in the city?" suggests Mr. George, composedly drinking.


"In the first place," returns Mr. George, but still looking at Judy as if she being so old and so like her grandfather it is indifferent which of the two he addresses, "you gentlemen took me in. You advertised that Mr. Hawdon (Captain Hawdon, if you hold to the saying 'Once a captain, always a captain') was to hear of something to his advantage."

In the first place," returns Mr. George, "you took me in. You advertised that Captain Hawdon was to hear of something to his advantage."


"Well?" returns the old man shrilly and sharply.


"Well!" says Mr. George, smoking on. "It wouldn't have been much to his advantage to have been clapped into prison by the whole bill and judgment trade of London."

"Well!" says Mr. George, smoking on. "It wouldn't have been much to his advantage to have been clapped into prison."


"How do you know that? Some of his rich relations might have paid his debts or compounded for 'em. Besides, he had taken US in. He owed us immense sums all round. I would sooner have strangled him than had no return. If I sit here thinking of him," snarls the old man, holding up his impotent ten fingers, "I want to strangle him now." And in a sudden access of fury, he throws the cushion at the unoffending Mrs. Smallweed, but it passes harmlessly on one side of her chair.

"Some of his rich relations might have paid his debts. Besides, he had taken us in. He owed us immense sums all round. When I think of him," snarls the old man, "I want to strangle him." And in a sudden fury, he throws the cushion at Mrs. Smallweed, but it passes harmlessly on one side of her chair.


"I don't need to be told," returns the trooper, taking his pipe from his lips for a moment and carrying his eyes back from following the progress of the cushion to the pipe-bowl which is burning low, "that he carried on heavily and went to ruin. I have been at his right hand many a day when he was charging upon ruin full-gallop. I was with him when he was sick and well, rich and poor. I laid this hand upon him after he had run through everything and broken down everything beneath him--when he held a pistol to his head."

"I don't need to be told," returns the trooper, "that he carried on heavily and went to ruin. I have been at his right hand many a day when he was charging upon ruin full-gallop. I was with him when he was sick and well, rich and poor. I laid this hand upon him after he had run through everything and broken down - when he held a pistol to his head."


"I wish he had let it off," says the benevolent old man, "and blown his head into as many pieces as he owed pounds!"


"That would have been a smash indeed," returns the trooper coolly; "any way, he had been young, hopeful, and handsome in the days gone by, and I am glad I never found him, when he was neither, to lead to a result so much to his advantage. That's reason number one."

"That would have been a smash indeed," returns the trooper coolly. "Anyway, he had been young, hopeful, and handsome in the days gone by, and I am glad I never found him, to lead to his being imprisoned. That's reason number one."


"I hope number two's as good?" snarls the old man.


"Why, no. It's more of a selfish reason. If I had found him, I must have gone to the other world to look. He was there."

"Why, no. It's a more selfish reason. If I had found him, I must have gone to the other world to look. He was there."


"Don't lose your temper as well as your money," says Mr. George, calmly knocking the ashes out of his pipe. "He was drowned long before. I am convinced of it. He went over a ship's side. Whether intentionally or accidentally, I don't know. Perhaps your friend in the city does. Do you know what that tune is, Mr. Smallweed?" he adds after breaking off to whistle one, accompanied on the table with the empty pipe.

"Don't lose your temper as well as your money," says Mr. George, calmly knocking the ashes out of his pipe. "He was drowned long ago. I am convinced of it. He went over a ship's side. Whether intentionally or accidentally, I don't know. Perhaps your friend in the city does. Do you know what tune this is, Mr. Smallweed?" he adds after breaking off to whistle one.


"Tune!" replied the old man. "No. We never have tunes here."


"That's the Dead March in Saul. They bury soldiers to it, so it's the natural end of the subject. Now, if your pretty granddaughter--excuse me, miss--will condescend to take care of this pipe for two months, we shall save the cost of one next time. Good evening, Mr. Smallweed!"

"That's the Dead March in Saul. They bury soldiers to it, so it's the natural end of the subject. Now, if your pretty granddaughter will take care of this pipe for two months, we shall save the cost of one next time. Good evening, Mr. Smallweed!"


"My dear friend!" the old man gives him both his hands.

"My dear friend!" The old man gives him both his hands.


"So you think your friend in the city will be hard upon me if I fall in a payment?" says the trooper, looking down upon him like a giant.

"So you think your friend in the city will be hard upon me if I fail in a payment?" says the trooper, looking down upon him like a giant.


"My dear friend, I am afraid he will," returns the old man, looking up at him like a pygmy.


Mr. George laughs, and with a glance at Mr. Smallweed and a parting salutation to the scornful Judy, strides out of the parlour, clashing imaginary sabres and other metallic appurtenances as he goes.

Mr. George laughs, and with a parting salutation to the scornful Judy, strides out of the parlour.


"You're a damned rogue," says the old gentleman, making a hideous grimace at the door as he shuts it. "But I'll lime you, you dog, I'll lime you!"

"You're a damned rogue," says the old gentleman, making a hideous grimace at the door. "But I'll lime you, you dog, I'll lime you!"


After this amiable remark, his spirit soars into those enchanting regions of reflection which its education and pursuits have opened to it, and again he and Mrs. Smallweed while away the rosy hours, two unrelieved sentinels forgotten as aforesaid by the Black Serjeant.


While the twain are faithful to their post, Mr. George strides through the streets with a massive kind of swagger and a grave-enough face. It is eight o'clock now, and the day is fast drawing in. He stops hard by Waterloo Bridge and reads a playbill, decides to go to Astley's Theatre. Being there, is much delighted with the horses and the feats of strength; looks at the weapons with a critical eye; disapproves of the combats as giving evidences of unskilful swordsmanship; but is touched home by the sentiments. In the last scene, when the Emperor of Tartary gets up into a cart and condescends to bless the united lovers by hovering over them with the Union Jack, his eyelashes are moistened with emotion.

Mr. George strides through the streets with a massive swagger and a grave face. It is eight o'clock of the evening now. He stops by Waterloo Bridge and reads a playbill, and decides to go to Astley's Theatre. There, he is much delighted with the horses and the feats of strength; looks at the weapons with a critical eye; disapproves of the combats as showing unskilful swordsmanship; but is touched by the sentiments.


The theatre over, Mr. George comes across the water again and makes his way to that curious region lying about the Haymarket and Leicester Square which is a centre of attraction to indifferent foreign hotels and indifferent foreigners, racket-courts, fighting-men, swordsmen, footguards, old china, gaming-houses, exhibitions, and a large medley of shabbiness and shrinking out of sight. Penetrating to the heart of this region, he arrives by a court and a long whitewashed passage at a great brick building composed of bare walls, floors, roof-rafters, and skylights, on the front of which, if it can be said to have any front, is painted GEORGE'S SHOOTING GALLERY, &c.

The theatre over, Mr. George crosses the river again and makes his way to that curious region lying about the Haymarket and Leicester Square which is a centre of attraction to indifferent foreign hotels, racket-courts, swordsmen, gaming-houses, exhibitions, and a large medley of shabbiness. At the heart of this region, he arrives at a great brick building with bare walls, floors, and roof-rafters, on the front of which is painted GEORGE'S SHOOTING GALLERY, &c.


Into George's Shooting Gallery, &c., he goes; and in it there are gaslights (partly turned off now), and two whitened targets for rifle-shooting, and archery accommodation, and fencing appliances, and all necessaries for the British art of boxing. None of these sports or exercises being pursued in George's Shooting Gallery to-night, which is so devoid of company that a little grotesque man with a large head has it all to himself and lies asleep upon the floor.

Into George's Shooting Gallery, &c., he goes. Inside there are gaslights and two targets for rifle-shooting, and equipment for archery, fencing and boxing. None of these sports is being pursued tonight in the gallery, which is so devoid of company that a little grotesque man with a large head has it all to himself and lies asleep upon the floor.


The little man is dressed something like a gunsmith, in a green-baize apron and cap; and his face and hands are dirty with gunpowder and begrimed with the loading of guns. As he lies in the light before a glaring white target, the black upon him shines again. Not far off is the strong, rough, primitive table with a vice upon it at which he has been working. He is a little man with a face all crushed together, who appears, from a certain blue and speckled appearance that one of his cheeks presents, to have been blown up, in the way of business, at some odd time or times.

The little man is dressed something like a gunsmith, in a green-baize apron and cap; and his face and hands are dirty with gunpowder. Not far off is the strong table with a vice upon it at which he has been working. His face is speckled on one side and crushed together: he appears to have been blown up at some odd time or times.


"Phil!" says the trooper in a quiet voice.


"All right!" cries Phil, scrambling to his feet.


"Flat as ever so much swipes," says Phil. "Five dozen rifle and a dozen pistol. As to aim!" Phil gives a howl at the recollection.

"Flat," says Phil. "Five dozen rifle and a dozen pistol."


As Phil moves about to execute this order, it appears that he is lame, though able to move very quickly. On the speckled side of his face he has no eyebrow, and on the other side he has a bushy black one, which want of uniformity gives him a very singular and rather sinister appearance. Everything seems to have happened to his hands that could possibly take place consistently with the retention of all the fingers, for they are notched, and seamed, and crumpled all over. He appears to be very strong and lifts heavy benches about as if he had no idea what weight was. He has a curious way of limping round the gallery with his shoulder against the wall and tacking off at objects he wants to lay hold of instead of going straight to them, which has left a smear all round the four walls, conventionally called "Phil's mark."

As Phil does so, it appears that he is lame, though able to move very quickly. On the speckled side of his face he has no eyebrow, and on the other side he has a bushy black one, which gives him a rather sinister appearance. Everything seems to have happened to his hands that could possibly take place without losing his fingers, for they are notched, seamed, and crumpled all over. He appears to be very strong and lifts heavy benches about as if he had no idea what weight was. He has a curious way of limping round the gallery with his shoulder against the wall, which has left a smear all round the four walls.


This custodian of George's Gallery in George's absence concludes his proceedings, when he has locked the great doors and turned out all the lights but one, which he leaves to glimmer, by dragging out from a wooden cabin in a corner two mattresses and bedding. These being drawn to opposite ends of the gallery, the trooper makes his own bed and Phil makes his.

This custodian of George's Gallery, when he has locked the great doors and turned out all the lights but one, drags out from a wooden cabin in a corner two mattresses and bedding. Once these have been drawn to opposite ends of the gallery, the trooper makes his own bed and Phil makes his.


"Phil!" says the master, walking towards him without his coat and waistcoat, and looking more soldierly than ever in his braces. "You were found in a doorway, weren't you?"

"Phil!" says the master. "You were found in a doorway, weren't you?"


"Gutter," says Phil. "Watchman tumbled over me."


"Then vagabondizing came natural to YOU from the beginning."

"Then vagabondizing came natural to you from the beginning."


Phil cannot even go straight to bed, but finds it necessary to shoulder round two sides of the gallery and then tack off at his mattress. The trooper, after taking a turn or two in the rifle-distance and looking up at the moon now shining through the skylights, strides to his own mattress by a shorter route and goes to bed too.

Phil cannot go straight to bed, but finds it necessary to shoulder round two sides of the gallery and then veer off at his mattress. The trooper strides to his own mattress by a shorter route and goes to bed too.


Mr. Tulkinghorn arrives in his turret-room a little breathed by the journey up, though leisurely performed. There is an expression on his face as if he had discharged his mind of some grave matter and were, in his close way, satisfied. To say of a man so severely and strictly self-repressed that he is triumphant would be to do him as great an injustice as to suppose him troubled with love or sentiment or any romantic weakness. He is sedately satisfied. Perhaps there is a rather increased sense of power upon him as he loosely grasps one of his veinous wrists with his other hand and holding it behind his back walks noiselessly up and down.

Mr. Tulkinghorn arrives in his turret-room a little breathless, and with a satisfied expression. To say of a man so strictly self-repressed that he is triumphant would be to do him an injustice. He is sedately satisfied. Perhaps there is an increased sense of power upon him as he clasps his hands behind his back and walks noiselessly up and down.


There is a capacious writing-table in the room on which is a pretty large accumulation of papers. The green lamp is lighted, his reading-glasses lie upon the desk, the easy-chair is wheeled up to it, and it would seem as though he had intended to bestow an hour or so upon these claims on his attention before going to bed. But he happens not to be in a business mind. After a glance at the documents awaiting his notice--with his head bent low over the table, the old man's sight for print or writing being defective at night--he opens the French window and steps out upon the leads. There he again walks slowly up and down in the same attitude, subsiding, if a man so cool may have any need to subside, from the story he has related downstairs.

There is a large writing-table in the room holding a pile of papers. The lamp is lighted, his reading-glasses lie upon the desk, and it would seem as though he had intended to give an hour or so to these documents before going to bed. But after a glance at them, he opens the French window and steps out upon the turret-top. There he again walks slowly up and down in the same attitude, subsiding from the story he has related downstairs.


The time was once when men as knowing as Mr. Tulkinghorn would walk on turret-tops in the starlight and look up into the sky to read their fortunes there. Hosts of stars are visible to-night, though their brilliancy is eclipsed by the splendour of the moon. If he be seeking his own star as he methodically turns and turns upon the leads, it should be but a pale one to be so rustily represented below. If he be tracing out his destiny, that may be written in other characters nearer to his hand.

Hosts of stars are visible tonight, though their brilliancy is eclipsed by the splendour of the moon.


As he paces the leads with his eyes most probably as high above his thoughts as they are high above the earth, he is suddenly stopped in passing the window by two eyes that meet his own. The ceiling of his room is rather low; and the upper part of the door, which is opposite the window, is of glass. There is an inner baize door, too, but the night being warm he did not close it when he came upstairs. These eyes that meet his own are looking in through the glass from the corridor outside. He knows them well. The blood has not flushed into his face so suddenly and redly for many a long year as when he recognizes Lady Dedlock.

As he paces the roof-leads, he is suddenly stopped in passing his window by two eyes that meet his own across his room. He knows them well. The blood has not flushed into his face so suddenly and redly for many a long year, as when he recognizes Lady Dedlock.


He steps into the room, and she comes in too, closing both the doors behind her. There is a wild disturbance--is it fear or anger?--in her eyes. In her carriage and all else she looks as she looked downstairs two hours ago.

He steps back into the room, and she comes in too, closing the door behind her. There is a wild disturbance - is it fear or anger? - in her eyes. In all else she looks as she looked downstairs two hours ago.


Is it fear or is it anger now? He cannot be sure. Both might be as pale, both as intent.


She does not speak at first, nor even when she has slowly dropped into the easy-chair by the table. They look at each other, like two pictures.

She does not speak at first, not even when she has slowly dropped into the easy-chair. They look at each other.


"Why have you told my story to so many persons?"


"Lady Dedlock, it was necessary for me to inform you that I knew it."


"I have suspected it a long while--fully known it a little while."

"I have suspected it a long while - fully known it a little while."


He stands before her with one hand on a chair-back and the other in his old-fashioned waistcoat and shirt-frill, exactly as he has stood before her at any time since her marriage. The same formal politeness, the same composed deference that might as well be defiance; the whole man the same dark, cold object, at the same distance, which nothing has ever diminished.

He stands before her with his usual formal politeness.


"Is this true concerning the poor girl?"


He slightly inclines and advances his head as not quite understanding the question.

He slightly tilts his head, not quite understanding the question.


"You know what you related. Is it true? Do her friends know my story also? Is it the town-talk yet? Is it chalked upon the walls and cried in the streets?"

"You know what you related. Is it true? Do her friends know my story also? Is it the town-talk yet? Is it cried in the streets?"


So! Anger, and fear, and shame. All three contending. What power this woman has to keep these raging passions down! Mr. Tulkinghorn's thoughts take such form as he looks at her, with his ragged grey eyebrows a hair's breadth more contracted than usual under her gaze.

So! Anger, and fear, and shame. What power this woman has to keep these raging passions down! Mr. Tulkinghorn's thoughts take such form as he looks at her, with his brows a hair's breadth more contracted than usual.


"No, Lady Dedlock. That was a hypothetical case, arising out of Sir Leicester's unconsciously carrying the matter with so high a hand. But it would be a real case if they knew--what we know."

"No, Lady Dedlock. That was a hypothetical case. But it would be a real case if they knew - what we know."


"Can I save the poor girl from injury before they know it?"


"Really, Lady Dedlock," Mr. Tulkinghorn replies, "I cannot give a satisfactory opinion on that point."


And he thinks, with the interest of attentive curiosity, as he watches the struggle in her breast, "The power and force of this woman are astonishing!"

And he thinks, with attentive curiosity, as he watches the struggle in her breast, "The power and force of this woman are astonishing!"


"Sir," she says, for the moment obliged to set her lips with all the energy she has, that she may speak distinctly, "I will make it plainer. I do not dispute your hypothetical case. I anticipated it, and felt its truth as strongly as you can do, when I saw Mr. Rouncewell here. I knew very well that if he could have had the power of seeing me as I was, he would consider the poor girl tarnished by having for a moment been, although most innocently, the subject of my great and distinguished patronage. But I have an interest in her, or I should rather say--no longer belonging to this place--I had, and if you can find so much consideration for the woman under your foot as to remember that, she will be very sensible of your mercy."

"Sir," she says, "I will make it plainer. I do not dispute your hypothetical case. I anticipated it, when I saw Mr. Rouncewell here. I knew very well that if he could have had the power of seeing me as I was, he would consider the poor girl tarnished by having been the subject of my patronage. But I have an interest in her, or I should rather say - no longer belonging to this place - I had, and if you can find so much consideration for me as to remember that, I will be very sensible of your mercy."


Mr. Tulkinghorn, profoundly attentive, throws this off with a shrug of self-depreciation and contracts his eyebrows a little more.

Mr. Tulkinghorn, profoundly attentive, shrugs and contracts his eyebrows a little more.


"You have prepared me for my exposure, and I thank you for that too. Is there anything that you require of me? Is there any claim that I can release or any charge or trouble that I can spare my husband in obtaining HIS release by certifying to the exactness of your discovery? I will write anything, here and now, that you will dictate. I am ready to do it."

"You have prepared me for my exposure, and I thank you for that too. Is there anything that you require of me? Is there any trouble that I can spare my husband in obtaining his release by certifying to the exactness of your discovery? I will write anything, here and now, that you will dictate. I am ready to do it."


And she would do it, thinks the lawyer, watchful of the firm hand with which she takes the pen!


"I will not trouble you, Lady Dedlock. Pray spare yourself."


"I have long expected this, as you know. I neither wish to spare myself nor to be spared. You can do nothing worse to me than you have done. Do what remains now."


"Lady Dedlock, there is nothing to be done. I will take leave to say a few words when you have finished."


Their need for watching one another should be over now, but they do it all this time, and the stars watch them both through the opened window. Away in the moonlight lie the woodland fields at rest, and the wide house is as quiet as the narrow one. The narrow one! Where are the digger and the spade, this peaceful night, destined to add the last great secret to the many secrets of the Tulkinghorn existence? Is the man born yet, is the spade wrought yet? Curious questions to consider, more curious perhaps not to consider, under the watching stars upon a summer night.

They watch each other all this time, and the stars watch them both through the opened window. Away in the moonlight lie the woodland fields at rest, and the wide house is as quiet as the narrow grave. The grave! Where are the digger and the spade, this peaceful night, destined to add the last great secret to the many secrets of the Tulkinghorn existence?


"Of repentance or remorse or any feeling of mine," Lady Dedlock presently proceeds, "I say not a word. If I were not dumb, you would be deaf. Let that go by. It is not for your ears."

"Of repentance or remorse or any feeling of mine," Lady Dedlock proceeds, "I say not a word. It is not for your ears.


He makes a feint of offering a protest, but she sweeps it away with her disdainful hand.


"Of other and very different things I come to speak to you. My jewels are all in their proper places of keeping. They will be found there. So, my dresses. So, all the valuables I have. Some ready money I had with me, please to say, but no large amount. I did not wear my own dress, in order that I might avoid observation. I went to be henceforward lost. Make this known. I leave no other charge with you."

Of other and very different things I come to speak to you. My jewels are all in their proper places of keeping. They will be found there. So, my dresses and my valuables. Some ready money I had with me, please to say, but no large amount. I did not wear my own dress, in order that I might avoid observation. I went to be lost from now on. Make this known. I leave no other charge with you."


"Excuse me, Lady Dedlock," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, quite unmoved. "I am not sure that I understand you. You want--"

"Excuse me, Lady Dedlock," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, unmoved. "I am not sure that I understand you. You want-"


"To be lost to all here. I leave Chesney Wold to-night. I go this hour."

"To be lost to all here. I leave Chesney Wold tonight. I go this hour."


Mr. Tulkinghorn shakes his head. She rises, but he, without moving hand from chair-back or from old-fashioned waistcoat and shirt-frill, shakes his head.


"No, Lady Dedlock," he very calmly replies.