"No. Bosh! Let her rest in peace, God bless her!" says the trooper. "What set me on about country boys, and runaways, and good-for-nothings? You, to be sure! So you never clapped your eyes upon the country--marshes and dreams excepted. Eh?"

"No. Bosh! Let her rest in peace, God bless her!" says the trooper. "What set me on about country boys? You, to be sure! So you never clapped your eyes upon the country, eh?"


"N-no, I don't know as I do, particular," says Phil.


"Why, you see, commander," says Phil, "I ain't acquainted with anythink else, and I doubt if I ain't a-getting too old to take to novelties."

"Why, you see, commander," says Phil, "I ain't acquainted with anythink else, and I'm a-getting too old to take to novelties."


"How old ARE you, Phil?" asks the trooper, pausing as he conveys his smoking saucer to his lips.

"How old are you, Phil?" asks the trooper.


"I'm something with a eight in it," says Phil. "It can't be eighty. Nor yet eighteen. It's betwixt 'em, somewheres."


Mr. George, slowly putting down his saucer without tasting its contents, is laughingly beginning, "Why, what the deuce, Phil--" when he stops, seeing that Phil is counting on his dirty fingers.

He begins counting on his dirty fingers.


"I was just eight," says Phil, "agreeable to the parish calculation, when I went with the tinker. I was sent on a errand, and I see him a-sittin under a old buildin with a fire all to himself wery comfortable, and he says, 'Would you like to come along a me, my man?' I says 'Yes,' and him and me and the fire goes home to Clerkenwell together. That was April Fool Day. I was able to count up to ten; and when April Fool Day come round again, I says to myself, 'Now, old chap, you're one and a eight in it.' April Fool Day after that, I says, 'Now, old chap, you're two and a eight in it.' In course of time, I come to ten and a eight in it; two tens and a eight in it. When it got so high, it got the upper hand of me, but this is how I always know there's a eight in it."

"I was just eight," says he, "according to the parish calculation, when I went with the tinker. I was sent on a errand, and I see him a-sittin under a old buildin with a fire wery comfortable, and he says, 'Would you like to come along a me, my man?' I says 'Yes.'. That was April Fool Day. I was able to count up to ten; and when April Fool Day come round again, I says to myself, 'Now, old chap, you're one and a eight in it.' April Fool Day after that, I says, 'Now, old chap, you're two and a eight in it.' In course of time, I come to ten and a eight in it; two tens and a eight in it. That's how I always know there's a eight in it."


"Ah!" says Mr. George, resuming his breakfast. "And where's the tinker?"


"Drink put him in the hospital, guv'ner, and the hospital put him--in a glass-case, I HAVE heerd," Phil replies mysteriously.

"Drink put him in the hospital, guv'ner," Phil replies.


"By that means you got promotion? Took the business, Phil?"


"Yes, commander, I took the business. Such as it was. It wasn't much of a beat--round Saffron Hill, Hatton Garden, Clerkenwell, Smiffeld, and there--poor neighbourhood, where they uses up the kettles till they're past mending. Most of the tramping tinkers used to come and lodge at our place; that was the best part of my master's earnings. But they didn't come to me. I warn't like him. He could sing 'em a good song. I couldn't! He could play 'em a tune on any sort of pot you please, so as it was iron or block tin. I never could do nothing with a pot but mend it or bile it--never had a note of music in me. Besides, I was too ill-looking, and their wives complained of me."

"Such as it was. It wasn't much of a beat - a poor neighbourhood, where they uses the kettles till they're past mending. And I couldn't sing or play a tune like my master. All I could do was mend a pot. Besides, I was too ill-looking, and the wives complained of me.


"They were mighty particular. You would pass muster in a crowd, Phil!" says the trooper with a pleasant smile.


"No, guv'ner," returns Phil, shaking his head. "No, I shouldn't. I was passable enough when I went with the tinker, though nothing to boast of then; but what with blowing the fire with my mouth when I was young, and spileing my complexion, and singeing my hair off, and swallering the smoke, and what with being nat'rally unfort'nate in the way of running against hot metal and marking myself by sich means, and what with having turn-ups with the tinker as I got older, almost whenever he was too far gone in drink--which was almost always--my beauty was queer, wery queer, even at that time. As to since, what with a dozen years in a dark forge where the men was given to larking, and what with being scorched in a accident at a gas-works, and what with being blowed out of winder case-filling at the firework business, I am ugly enough to be made a show on!"

What with blowing the fire when I was young, and singeing my hair off, and having turn-ups with the tinker as I got older, whenever he was too far gone in drink - which was almost always - my beauty was wery queer, even at that time. As to since, what with a dozen years in a forge, and being scorched in a accident at a gas-works, and being blowed out of a winder at the firework business, I am ugly enough for a show!"


Resigning himself to which condition with a perfectly satisfied manner, Phil begs the favour of another cup of coffee. While drinking it, he says, "It was after the case-filling blow-up when I first see you, commander. You remember?"

With a perfectly satisfied manner, Phil pours another cup of coffee. "It was after the firework blow-up when I first see you, commander. You remember?"


"I remember, Phil. You were walking along in the sun."


"In a night-cap!" exclaims Phil, excited.


"And hobbling with a couple of sticks!" cries Phil, still more excited.


"When you stops, you know," cries Phil, putting down his cup and saucer and hastily removing his plate from his knees, "and says to me, 'What, comrade! You have been in the wars!' I didn't say much to you, commander, then, for I was took by surprise that a person so strong and healthy and bold as you was should stop to speak to such a limping bag of bones as I was. But you says to me, says you, delivering it out of your chest as hearty as possible, so that it was like a glass of something hot, 'What accident have you met with? You have been badly hurt. What's amiss, old boy? Cheer up, and tell us about it!' Cheer up! I was cheered already! I says as much to you, you says more to me, I says more to you, you says more to me, and here I am, commander! Here I am, commander!" cries Phil, who has started from his chair and unaccountably begun to sidle away. "If a mark's wanted, or if it will improve the business, let the customers take aim at me. They can't spoil MY beauty. I'M all right. Come on! If they want a man to box at, let 'em box at me. Let 'em knock me well about the head. I don't mind. If they want a light-weight to be throwed for practice, Cornwall, Devonshire, or Lancashire, let 'em throw me. They won't hurt ME. I have been throwed, all sorts of styles, all my life!"

When you stops, and says to me, 'What, comrade! You have been in the wars!' I was took by surprise that a person so strong and healthy as you should stop to speak to such a limping bag of bones as I was. But you says to me, hearty, 'What accident have you met with? You have been badly hurt. Cheer up, and tell us about it!' Cheer up! I was cheered already! I says as much to you, you says more to me, and here I am, commander! Here I am!" cries Phil. "Let the customers take aim at me. They can't spoil my beauty. If they want a man to box at, let 'em box at me. If they want to throw a wrestler, let 'em throw me. They won't hurt me. I have been throwed all my life!"


With this unexpected speech, energetically delivered and accompanied by action illustrative of the various exercises referred to, Phil Squod shoulders his way round three sides of the gallery, and abruptly tacking off at his commander, makes a butt at him with his head, intended to express devotion to his service. He then begins to clear away the breakfast.

With this unexpected speech, Phil Squod shoulders his way round three sides of the gallery, and tacking off at his commander, makes a butt at him with his head, intended to express devotion to his service. He then begins to clear away the breakfast.


Mr. George, after laughing cheerfully and clapping him on the shoulder, assists in these arrangements and helps to get the gallery into business order. That done, he takes a turn at the dumb-bells, and afterwards weighing himself and opining that he is getting "too fleshy," engages with great gravity in solitary broadsword practice. Meanwhile Phil has fallen to work at his usual table, where he screws and unscrews, and cleans, and files, and whistles into small apertures, and blackens himself more and more, and seems to do and undo everything that can be done and undone about a gun.

Mr. George, after laughing and clapping him on the shoulder, helps to get the gallery into business order. He takes a turn at the dumb-bells, and deciding that he is getting "too fleshy," engages in solitary broadsword practice. Meanwhile Phil has begun to work at his table, where he screws and unscrews, and cleans, and files, and seems to do and undo everything that can be done and undone about a gun.


Master and man are at length disturbed by footsteps in the passage, where they make an unusual sound, denoting the arrival of unusual company. These steps, advancing nearer and nearer to the gallery, bring into it a group at first sight scarcely reconcilable with any day in the year but the fifth of November.

They are disturbed by footsteps in the passage. There arrives a group at first sight looking like a display from the fifth of November.


It consists of a limp and ugly figure carried in a chair by two bearers and attended by a lean female with a face like a pinched mask, who might be expected immediately to recite the popular verses commemorative of the time when they did contrive to blow Old England up alive but for her keeping her lips tightly and defiantly closed as the chair is put down. At which point the figure in it gasping, "O Lord! Oh, dear me! I am shaken!" adds, "How de do, my dear friend, how de do?" Mr. George then descries, in the procession, the venerable Mr. Smallweed out for an airing, attended by his granddaughter Judy as body-guard.

A limp and ugly figure is carried in a chair by two bearers and attended by a lean female with a face like a pinched mask. As the chair is put down, the figure in it gasps,
"O Lord! Oh, dear me! I am shaken!" adding, "How de do, my dear friend, how de do?" It is Mr. Smallweed out for an airing, attended by his granddaughter Judy as body-guard.


"Mr. George, my dear friend," says Grandfather Smallweed, removing his right arm from the neck of one of his bearers, whom he has nearly throttled coming along, "how de do? You're surprised to see me, my dear friend."

"Mr. George, my dear friend," says Grandfather Smallweed, "how de do? You're surprised to see me, my dear friend.


"I should hardly have been more surprised to have seen your friend in the city," returns Mr. George.


"I am very seldom out," pants Mr. Smallweed. "I haven't been out for many months. It's inconvenient--and it comes expensive. But I longed so much to see you, my dear Mr. George. How de do, sir?"

I haven't been out for many months. It's inconvenient - and it comes expensive. But I longed so much to see you, my dear Mr. George. How de do, sir?"


"I am well enough," says Mr. George. "I hope you are the same."


"You can't be too well, my dear friend." Mr. Smallweed takes him by both hands. "I have brought my granddaughter Judy. I couldn't keep her away. She longed so much to see you."

"You can't be too well, my dear friend." Mr. Smallweed takes him by both hands. "I have brought my granddaughter Judy. She longed so much to see you."


"Hum! She bears it calmly!" mutters Mr. George.


"So we got a hackney-cab, and put a chair in it, and just round the corner they lifted me out of the cab and into the chair, and carried me here that I might see my dear friend in his own establishment! This," says Grandfather Smallweed, alluding to the bearer, who has been in danger of strangulation and who withdraws adjusting his windpipe, "is the driver of the cab. He has nothing extra. It is by agreement included in his fare. This person," the other bearer, "we engaged in the street outside for a pint of beer. Which is twopence. Judy, give the person twopence. I was not sure you had a workman of your own here, my dear friend, or we needn't have employed this person."

"So we got a hackney-cab, and put a chair in it, and they lifted me out of the cab and carried me here to see my dear friend! This," says Grandfather Smallweed of one bearer, "is the driver of the cab. It is included in his fare. This person," the other bearer, "we engaged in the street outside for twopence. Judy, give the person twopence. I was not sure you had a workman of your own here, my dear friend."


Grandfather Smallweed refers to Phil with a glance of considerable terror and a half-subdued "O Lord! Oh, dear me!" Nor in his apprehension, on the surface of things, without some reason, for Phil, who has never beheld the apparition in the black-velvet cap before, has stopped short with a gun in his hand with much of the air of a dead shot intent on picking Mr. Smallweed off as an ugly old bird of the crow species.

Grandfather Smallweed looks at Phil with considerable terror; for Phil, who has never seen him before, has stopped short with a gun in his hand, with the air of a dead shot intent on picking Mr. Smallweed off like an ugly old crow.


"Judy, my child," says Grandfather Smallweed, "give the person his twopence. It's a great deal for what he has done."


The person, who is one of those extraordinary specimens of human fungus that spring up spontaneously in the western streets of London, ready dressed in an old red jacket, with a "mission" for holding horses and calling coaches, received his twopence with anything but transport, tosses the money into the air, catches it over-handed, and retires.


"My dear Mr. George," says Grandfather Smallweed, "would you be so kind as help to carry me to the fire? I am accustomed to a fire, and I am an old man, and I soon chill. Oh, dear me!"

"My dear Mr. George," says Grandfather Smallweed, "would you be so kind as to carry me to the fire? I am an old man, and I soon chill. Oh, dear me!"


His closing exclamation is jerked out of the venerable gentleman by the suddenness with which Mr. Squod, like a genie, catches him up, chair and all, and deposits him on the hearth-stone.

This exclamation is jerked out of him by the suddenness with which Mr. Squod catches him up, chair and all, and deposits him on the hearth-stone.


"O Lord!" says Mr. Smallweed, panting. "Oh, dear me! Oh, my stars! My dear friend, your workman is very strong--and very prompt. O Lord, he is very prompt! Judy, draw me back a little. I'm being scorched in the legs," which indeed is testified to the noses of all present by the smell of his worsted stockings.

"O Lord!" says Mr. Smallweed, panting. "Oh, dear me! My dear friend, your workman is very strong - and very prompt!


The gentle Judy, having backed her grandfather a little way from the fire, and having shaken him up as usual, and having released his overshadowed eye from its black-velvet extinguisher, Mr. Smallweed again says, "Oh, dear me! O Lord!" and looking about and meeting Mr. George's glance, again stretches out both hands.

Oh, dear me!" He again stretches out both hands to Mr. George.


"My dear friend! So happy in this meeting! And this is your establishment? It's a delightful place. It's a picture! You never find that anything goes off here accidentally, do you, my dear friend?" adds Grandfather Smallweed, very ill at ease.

"My dear friend! And this is your establishment? It's a delightful place. You never find that anything goes off accidentally, do you, my dear friend?" he adds uneasily.


"And your workman. He--Oh, dear me!--he never lets anything off without meaning it, does he, my dear friend?"

"And your workman. He - Oh, dear me! - he never lets anything off without meaning to, does he, my dear friend?"


"He has never hurt anybody but himself," says Mr. George, smiling.


"But he might, you know. He seems to have hurt himself a good deal, and he might hurt somebody else," the old gentleman returns. "He mightn't mean it--or he even might. Mr. George, will you order him to leave his infernal fire-arms alone and go away?"

"But he might, you know. He seems to have hurt himself a good deal," the old gentleman returns. "Mr. George, will you order him to leave his infernal fire-arms alone and go away?"


Obedient to a nod from the trooper, Phil retires, empty-handed, to the other end of the gallery. Mr. Smallweed, reassured, falls to rubbing his legs.

Obedient to a nod from the trooper, Phil retires to the other end of the gallery. Mr. Smallweed begins rubbing his legs.


"And you're doing well, Mr. George?" he says to the trooper, squarely standing faced about towards him with his broadsword in his hand. "You are prospering, please the Powers?"

"And you're doing well, Mr. George?" he says to the trooper, squarely standing with his broadsword in his hand. "You are prospering?"


Mr. George answers with a cool nod, adding, "Go on. You have not come to say that, I know."


"You are so sprightly, Mr. George," returns the venerable grandfather. "You are such good company."


"My dear friend! But that sword looks awful gleaming and sharp. It might cut somebody, by accident. It makes me shiver, Mr. George. Curse him!" says the excellent old gentleman apart to Judy as the trooper takes a step or two away to lay it aside. "He owes me money, and might think of paying off old scores in this murdering place. I wish your brimstone grandmother was here, and he'd shave her head off."

"My dear friend! But that sword looks awful gleaming and sharp. It might cut somebody, by accident. It makes me shiver, Mr. George."
As the trooper steps away to lay it aside, the old gentleman says to Judy, "Curse him! He owes me money, and might think of paying off old scores in this murdering place. I wish your brimstone grandmother was here, and he'd shave her head off."


Mr. George, returning, folds his arms, and looking down at the old man, sliding every moment lower and lower in his chair, says quietly, "Now for it!"

Mr. George, returning, folds his arms, and looking down at the old man, says quietly, "Now for it!"


"Ho!" cries Mr. Smallweed, rubbing his hands with an artful chuckle. "Yes. Now for it. Now for what, my dear friend?"

"Ho!" cries Mr. Smallweed, rubbing his hands with an artful chuckle. "Yes. Now for what, my dear friend?"


"For a pipe," says Mr. George, who with great composure sets his chair in the chimney-corner, takes his pipe from the grate, fills it and lights it, and falls to smoking peacefully.

"For a pipe," says Mr. George, who with great composure sets his chair in the chimney-corner, fills his pipe and lights it, and starts to smoke peacefully.


This tends to the discomfiture of Mr. Smallweed, who finds it so difficult to resume his object, whatever it may be, that he becomes exasperated and secretly claws the air with an impotent vindictiveness expressive of an intense desire to tear and rend the visage of Mr. George. As the excellent old gentleman's nails are long and leaden, and his hands lean and veinous, and his eyes green and watery; and, over and above this, as he continues, while he claws, to slide down in his chair and to collapse into a shapeless bundle, he becomes such a ghastly spectacle, even in the accustomed eyes of Judy, that that young virgin pounces at him with something more than the ardour of affection and so shakes him up and pats and pokes him in divers parts of his body, but particularly in that part which the science of self-defence would call his wind, that in his grievous distress he utters enforced sounds like a paviour's rammer.

Mr. Smallweed, exasperated, secretly claws the air with impotent vindictiveness. As the excellent old gentleman's nails are long, and his hands lean and veinous, and his eyes green and watery; and as he continues to slide down in his chair and to collapse into a shapeless bundle, he becomes such a ghastly spectacle that Judy pounces at him with extreme and not entirely affectionate vigour


When Judy has by these means set him up again in his chair, with a white face and a frosty nose (but still clawing), she stretches out her weazen forefinger and gives Mr. George one poke in the back. The trooper raising his head, she makes another poke at her esteemed grandfather, and having thus brought them together, stares rigidly at the fire.


"Aye, aye! Ho, ho! U--u--u--ugh!" chatters Grandfather Smallweed, swallowing his rage. "My dear friend!" (still clawing).


"I tell you what," says Mr. George. "If you want to converse with me, you must speak out. I am one of the roughs, and I can't go about and about. I haven't the art to do it. I am not clever enough. It don't suit me. When you go winding round and round me," says the trooper, putting his pipe between his lips again, "damme, if I don't feel as if I was being smothered!"

"If you want to converse with me," says Mr. George, "you must speak out.


And he inflates his broad chest to its utmost extent as if to assure himself that he is not smothered yet.


"If you have come to give me a friendly call," continues Mr. George, "I am obliged to you; how are you? If you have come to see whether there's any property on the premises, look about you; you are welcome. If you want to out with something, out with it!"

If you have come to see whether there's any property on the premises, look around; you are welcome. If you want to say something, out with it!"


The blooming Judy, without removing her gaze from the fire, gives her grandfather one ghostly poke.


"You see! It's her opinion too. And why the devil that young woman won't sit down like a Christian," says Mr. George with his eyes musingly fixed on Judy, "I can't comprehend."


"She keeps at my side to attend to me, sir," says Grandfather Smallweed. "I am an old man, my dear Mr. George, and I need some attention. I can carry my years; I am not a brimstone poll-parrot" (snarling and looking unconsciously for the cushion), "but I need attention, my dear friend."


"Well!" returns the trooper, wheeling his chair to face the old man. "Now then?"


"My friend in the city, Mr. George, has done a little business with a pupil of yours."


"Has he?" says Mr. George. "I am sorry to hear it."


"Yes, sir." Grandfather Smallweed rubs his legs. "He is a fine young soldier now, Mr. George, by the name of Carstone. Friends came forward and paid it all up, honourable."

"Yes, sir." Grandfather Smallweed rubs his legs. "A fine young soldier, Mr. George, by the name of Carstone. Friends came forward and paid it all up, honourable."


"Did they?" returns Mr. George. "Do you think your friend in the city would like a piece of advice?"


"I think he would, my dear friend. From you."


"I advise him, then, to do no more business in that quarter. There's no more to be got by it. The young gentleman, to my knowledge, is brought to a dead halt."

I advise him to do no more business in that quarter. There's no more to be got by it. The young gentleman, to my knowledge, is brought to a dead halt."


"No, no, my dear friend. No, no, Mr. George. No, no, no, sir," remonstrates Grandfather Smallweed, cunningly rubbing his spare legs. "Not quite a dead halt, I think. He has good friends, and he is good for his pay, and he is good for the selling price of his commission, and he is good for his chance in a lawsuit, and he is good for his chance in a wife, and--oh, do you know, Mr. George, I think my friend would consider the young gentleman good for something yet?" says Grandfather Smallweed, turning up his velvet cap and scratching his ear like a monkey.

"No, no, my dear sir," remonstrates Grandfather Smallweed. "Not quite a dead halt. He has good friends, and he is good for his pay, and he is good for the selling price of his commission, and he is good for his chance in a lawsuit, and he is good for his chance in a wife, and - do you know, Mr. George, I think my friend would consider the young gentleman good for something yet?" says Grandfather Smallweed, scratching his ear like a monkey.


Mr. George, who has put aside his pipe and sits with an arm on his chair-back, beats a tattoo on the ground with his right foot as if he were not particularly pleased with the turn the conversation has taken.

Mr. George drums his foot on the ground as if he were not pleased with the turn the conversation has taken.


"But to pass from one subject to another," resumes Mr. Smallweed. "'To promote the conversation,' as a joker might say. To pass, Mr. George, from the ensign to the captain."

"But to pass from one subject to another," resumes Mr. Smallweed. "'To pass, Mr. George, from the ensign to the captain."


"What are you up to, now?" asks Mr. George, pausing with a frown in stroking the recollection of his moustache. "What captain?"

"What are you up to now?" asks Mr. George with a frown. "What captain?"


"Our captain. The captain we know of. Captain Hawdon."


"Oh! That's it, is it?" says Mr. George with a low whistle as he sees both grandfather and granddaughter looking hard at him. "You are there! Well? What about it? Come, I won't be smothered any more. Speak!"

"Oh! That's it, is it?" says Mr. George with a low whistle. "Well? What about it?"


"My dear friend," returns the old man, "I was applied--Judy, shake me up a little!--I was applied to yesterday about the captain, and my opinion still is that the captain is not dead."

"My dear friend," returns the old man, "I was applied - Judy, shake me up a little! - I was applied to yesterday about the captain, and my opinion still is that the captain is not dead."


"What was your remark, my dear friend?" inquires the old man with his hand to his ear.


"Ho!" says Grandfather Smallweed. "Mr. George, of my opinion you can judge for yourself according to the questions asked of me and the reasons given for asking 'em. Now, what do you think the lawyer making the inquiries wants?"

"Ho!" says Grandfather Smallweed. "Now, what do you think the lawyer making the inquiries wants?"


"Can't be a lawyer, then," says Mr. George, folding his arms with an air of confirmed resolution.

"Can't be a lawyer, then," says Mr. George, folding his arms.


"My dear friend, he is a lawyer, and a famous one. He wants to see some fragment in Captain Hawdon's writing. He don't want to keep it. He only wants to see it and compare it with a writing in his possession."

"My dear friend, he is a lawyer, and a famous one. He wants to see some of Captain Hawdon's handwriting. He don't want to keep it. He only wants to compare it with a writing in his possession."


"Well, Mr. George. Happening to remember the advertisement concerning Captain Hawdon and any information that could be given respecting him, he looked it up and came to me--just as you did, my dear friend. WILL you shake hands? So glad you came that day! I should have missed forming such a friendship if you hadn't come!"

"Well, Mr. George. Happening to remember the advertisement concerning Captain Hawdon and any information that could be given about him, he came to me - just as you did, my dear friend. So glad you came that day!


"Well, Mr. Smallweed?" says Mr. George again after going through the ceremony with some stiffness.


"I had no such thing. I have nothing but his signature. Plague pestilence and famine, battle murder and sudden death upon him," says the old man, making a curse out of one of his few remembrances of a prayer and squeezing up his velvet cap between his angry hands, "I have half a million of his signatures, I think! But you," breathlessly recovering his mildness of speech as Judy re-adjusts the cap on his skittle-ball of a head, "you, my dear Mr. George, are likely to have some letter or paper that would suit the purpose. Anything would suit the purpose, written in the hand."

Well, I have nothing but Hawdon's signature. Plague, pestilence and famine upon him," says the old man angrily, "I have half a million of his signatures! But you, my dear Mr. George, are likely to have some letter. Anything would suit the purpose, written in his hand."


"Some writing in that hand," says the trooper, pondering; "may be, I have."

"Some writing in that hand," says the trooper, pondering; "I may have.


"Ho!" says Grandfather Smallweed, crest-fallen.


"But if I had bushels of it, I would not show as much as would make a cartridge without knowing why."

But I would not show it without knowing why."


"Sir, I have told you why. My dear Mr. George, I have told you why."

"My dear Mr. George, I have told you why."


"Not enough," says the trooper, shaking his head. "I must know more, and approve it."

"Not enough," says the trooper, shaking his head. "I must know more."


"Then, will you come to the lawyer? My dear friend, will you come and see the gentleman?" urges Grandfather Smallweed, pulling out a lean old silver watch with hands like the leg of a skeleton. "I told him it was probable I might call upon him between ten and eleven this forenoon, and it's now half after ten. Will you come and see the gentleman, Mr. George?"

"Then, will you come to the lawyer?" urges Grandfather Smallweed, pulling out a lean old silver watch. "I told him I might call upon him this morning. Will you come and see him, Mr. George?"


"Hum!" says he gravely. "I don't mind that. Though why this should concern you so much, I don't know."


"Everything concerns me that has a chance in it of bringing anything to light about him. Didn't he take us all in? Didn't he owe us immense sums, all round? Concern me? Who can anything about him concern more than me? Not, my dear friend," says Grandfather Smallweed, lowering his tone, "that I want YOU to betray anything. Far from it. Are you ready to come, my dear friend?"

"Didn't the Captain take us all in? Didn't he owe us immense sums, all round? Are you ready to come, my dear friend?"


"Aye! I'll come in a moment. I promise nothing, you know."


"And you mean to say you're going to give me a lift to this place, wherever it is, without charging for it?" Mr. George inquires, getting his hat and thick wash-leather gloves.

You mean to say you're going to give me a lift to this place, wherever it is, without charging for it?" Mr. George inquires, getting his hat and gloves.


This pleasantry so tickles Mr. Smallweed that he laughs, long and low, before the fire. But ever while he laughs, he glances over his paralytic shoulder at Mr. George and eagerly watches him as he unlocks the padlock of a homely cupboard at the distant end of the gallery, looks here and there upon the higher shelves, and ultimately takes something out with a rustling of paper, folds it, and puts it in his breast. Then Judy pokes Mr. Smallweed once, and Mr. Smallweed pokes Judy once.

This pleasantry so tickles Mr. Smallweed that he laughs long. But while he laughs, he glances over his shoulder at Mr. George and eagerly watches him as he unlocks a cupboard at the distant end of the gallery, takes something from the higher shelves with a rustling of paper, folds it, and puts it in his breast pocket. Then Judy pokes Mr. Smallweed, and Mr. Smallweed pokes Judy.


"I am ready," says the trooper, coming back. "Phil, you can carry this old gentleman to his coach, and make nothing of him."

"I am ready," says the trooper, coming back. "Phil, you can carry this old gentleman to his coach."


"Oh, dear me! O Lord! Stop a moment!" says Mr. Smallweed. "He's so very prompt! Are you sure you can do it carefully, my worthy man?"

"Oh, dear me! O Lord! Stop a moment!" says Mr. Smallweed. "He's so very prompt! Do it carefully, my worthy man!"


Phil makes no reply, but seizing the chair and its load, sidles away, tightly hugged by the now speechless Mr. Smallweed, and bolts along the passage as if he had an acceptable commission to carry the old gentleman to the nearest volcano. His shorter trust, however, terminating at the cab, he deposits him there; and the fair Judy takes her place beside him, and the chair embellishes the roof, and Mr. George takes the vacant place upon the box.

Phil makes no reply, but seizing the chair and its load, bolts along the passage as if he were carrying the old gentleman to the nearest volcano. He deposits him in the cab; the fair Judy takes her place beside him, and Mr. George sits upon the box.


Mr. George is quite confounded by the spectacle he beholds from time to time as he peeps into the cab through the window behind him, where the grim Judy is always motionless, and the old gentleman with his cap over one eye is always sliding off the seat into the straw and looking upward at him out of his other eye with a helpless expression of being jolted in the back.

From time to time he peeps into the cab through the window behind him. The grim Judy is always motionless, and the old gentleman with his cap over one eye is always sliding off the seat into the straw and looking upward at him with a helpless expression.


It was three o'clock in the morning when the houses outside London did at last begin to exclude the country and to close us in with streets. We had made our way along roads in a far worse condition than when we had traversed them by daylight, both the fall and the thaw having lasted ever since; but the energy of my companion never slackened. It had only been, as I thought, of less assistance than the horses in getting us on, and it had often aided them. They had stopped exhausted half-way up hills, they had been driven through streams of turbulent water, they had slipped down and become entangled with the harness; but he and his little lantern had been always ready, and when the mishap was set right, I had never heard any variation in his cool, "Get on, my lads!"

It was three o'clock in the morning when London at last began to close us in with streets. We had made our way along roads in a far worse condition than on the previous day; but my companion's energy never slackened. Whenever the horses had stopped exhausted half-way up hills, or had slipped and become entangled with the harness, he and his little lantern had been always ready, and when the mishap was set right, he said the same cool, "Get on, my lads!"


The steadiness and confidence with which he had directed our journey back I could not account for. Never wavering, he never even stopped to make an inquiry until we were within a few miles of London. A very few words, here and there, were then enough for him; and thus we came, at between three and four o'clock in the morning, into Islington.

I could not account for his confidence on our journey back. He never even stopped to make an inquiry until we were within a few miles of London. Thus we came, between three and four o'clock in the morning, into Islington.


I will not dwell on the suspense and anxiety with which I reflected all this time that we were leaving my mother farther and farther behind every minute. I think I had some strong hope that he must be right and could not fail to have a satisfactory object in following this woman, but I tormented myself with questioning it and discussing it during the whole journey. What was to ensue when we found her and what could compensate us for this loss of time were questions also that I could not possibly dismiss; my mind was quite tortured by long dwelling on such reflections when we stopped.

I will not dwell on the anxiety with which I reflected that we were leaving my mother farther and farther behind every minute. I hoped that he must be right in following this woman, but I tormented myself with questioning it during the whole journey. I wondered what was to compensate us for this loss of time; my mind was quite tortured by dwelling on such reflections.


We stopped in a high-street where there was a coach-stand. My companion paid our two drivers, who were as completely covered with splashes as if they had been dragged along the roads like the carriage itself, and giving them some brief direction where to take it, lifted me out of it and into a hackney-coach he had chosen from the rest.

We stopped in a high-street by a coach-stand. My companion paid our two drivers, and giving them some brief directions about the carriage, lifted me out of it and into a hackney-coach.


"Why, my dear!" he said as he did this. "How wet you are!"

"Why, my dear!" he said. "How wet you are!"


I had not been conscious of it. But the melted snow had found its way into the carriage, and I had got out two or three times when a fallen horse was plunging and had to be got up, and the wet had penetrated my dress. I assured him it was no matter, but the driver, who knew him, would not be dissuaded by me from running down the street to his stable, whence he brought an armful of clean dry straw. They shook it out and strewed it well about me, and I found it warm and comfortable.

I had not been conscious of it. But the melted snow had found its way into the carriage, and I had got out two or three times when a fallen horse was plunging and had to be got up, and the wet had penetrated my dress. I assured him it was no matter, but the driver ran down the street to his stable to fetch an armful of clean dry straw. They strewed it well about me, and I found it warm and comfortable.


"Now, my dear," said Mr. Bucket, with his head in at the window after I was shut up. "We're a-going to mark this person down. It may take a little time, but you don't mind that. You're pretty sure that I've got a motive. Ain't you?"

"Now, my dear," said Mr. Bucket, with his head in at the window, "We're a-going to mark this person down. It may take a little time, but you don't mind that. You're pretty sure that I've got a reason. Ain't you?"


I little thought what it was, little thought in how short a time I should understand it better, but I assured him that I had confidence in him.


"So you may have, my dear," he returned. "And I tell you what! If you only repose half as much confidence in me as I repose in you after what I've experienced of you, that'll do. Lord! You're no trouble at all. I never see a young woman in any station of society--and I've seen many elevated ones too--conduct herself like you have conducted yourself since you was called out of your bed. You're a pattern, you know, that's what you are," said Mr. Bucket warmly; "you're a pattern."

"So you may have, my dear," he returned. "Lord! You're no trouble at all. I never see a young woman conduct herself like you have. You're a pattern, you know, that's what you are," said Mr. Bucket warmly.


I told him I was very glad, as indeed I was, to have been no hindrance to him, and that I hoped I should be none now.

I told him I was very glad to have been no hindrance to him.


"My dear," he returned, "when a young lady is as mild as she's game, and as game as she's mild, that's all I ask, and more than I expect. She then becomes a queen, and that's about what you are yourself."


With these encouraging words--they really were encouraging to me under those lonely and anxious circumstances--he got upon the box, and we once more drove away. Where we drove I neither knew then nor have ever known since, but we appeared to seek out the narrowest and worst streets in London. Whenever I saw him directing the driver, I was prepared for our descending into a deeper complication of such streets, and we never failed to do so.

With these encouraging words he got upon the box, and we once more drove away. Where we drove I did not know, but we appeared to seek out the narrowest and worst streets in London.


Sometimes we emerged upon a wider thoroughfare or came to a larger building than the generality, well lighted. Then we stopped at offices like those we had visited when we began our journey, and I saw him in consultation with others. Sometimes he would get down by an archway or at a street corner and mysteriously show the light of his little lantern. This would attract similar lights from various dark quarters, like so many insects, and a fresh consultation would be held. By degrees we appeared to contract our search within narrower and easier limits. Single police-officers on duty could now tell Mr. Bucket what he wanted to know and point to him where to go. At last we stopped for a rather long conversation between him and one of these men, which I supposed to be satisfactory from his manner of nodding from time to time. When it was finished he came to me looking very busy and very attentive.

Sometimes we emerged upon a wider thoroughfare or came to a larger, well-lit building. Then we stopped at police offices, and I saw him in consultation with others. Sometimes he would get down by an archway or at a street corner and mysteriously show the light of his little lantern. This would attract similar lights from various dark quarters, like so many insects, and a fresh consultation would be held. By degrees we appeared to contract our search within narrower limits. At last we stopped for a rather long conversation with a single police officer, which I supposed to be satisfactory from Mr. Bucket's manner of nodding. When it was finished he came to me looking very busy.


"Now, Miss Summerson," he said to me, "you won't be alarmed whatever comes off, I know. It's not necessary for me to give you any further caution than to tell you that we have marked this person down and that you may be of use to me before I know it myself. I don't like to ask such a thing, my dear, but would you walk a little way?"

"Now, Miss Summerson," he said to me, "you won't be alarmed whatever happens, I know. We have marked this person down, and you may be of use to me. Would you walk a little way?"


Of course I got out directly and took his arm.


"It ain't so easy to keep your feet," said Mr. Bucket, "but take time."


Although I looked about me confusedly and hurriedly as we crossed the street, I thought I knew the place. "Are we in Holborn?" I asked him.

"Are we in Holborn?" I asked him, as we crossed the street.


"Yes," said Mr. Bucket. "Do you know this turning?"


"And was christened so, my dear," said Mr. Bucket.


We turned down it, and as we went shuffling through the sleet, I heard the clocks strike half-past five. We passed on in silence and as quickly as we could with such a foot-hold, when some one coming towards us on the narrow pavement, wrapped in a cloak, stopped and stood aside to give me room. In the same moment I heard an exclamation of wonder and my own name from Mr. Woodcourt. I knew his voice very well.

We turned down it, and as we went shuffling through the sleet, I heard the clocks strike half-past five. We passed on as quickly as we could, when someone coming towards us on the narrow pavement, wrapped in a cloak, stopped and stood aside to give me room. I heard an exclamation of wonder and my own name; it was Mr. Woodcourt.


It was so unexpected and so--I don't know what to call it, whether pleasant or painful--to come upon it after my feverish wandering journey, and in the midst of the night, that I could not keep back the tears from my eyes. It was like hearing his voice in a strange country.

It was so unexpected and so - I don't know what to call it, whether pleasant or painful - after my feverish wandering journey, and in the midst of the night, that I could not keep back the tears from my eyes. It was like hearing his voice in a strange country.


"My dear Miss Summerson, that you should be out at this hour, and in such weather!"


He had heard from my guardian of my having been called away on some uncommon business and said so to dispense with any explanation. I told him that we had but just left a coach and were going--but then I was obliged to look at my companion.

He had heard from my guardian of my having been called away on some uncommon business. I told him that we had just left a coach and were going - I looked at my companion.


"Why, you see, Mr. Woodcourt"--he had caught the name from me--"we are a-going at present into the next street. Inspector Bucket."

"Why, you see, Mr. Woodcourt" - he had caught the name from me - "we are a-going into the next street. Inspector Bucket."


Mr. Woodcourt, disregarding my remonstrances, had hurriedly taken off his cloak and was putting it about me. "That's a good move, too," said Mr. Bucket, assisting, "a very good move."

Mr. Woodcourt had hurriedly taken off his cloak and was putting it about me.
"That's a good move," said Mr. Bucket, assisting him.


"May I go with you?" said Mr. Woodcourt. I don't know whether to me or to my companion.

"May I go with you?" said Mr. Woodcourt, I don't know whether to me or to my companion.


"Why, Lord!" exclaimed Mr. Bucket, taking the answer on himself. "Of course you may."

"Why, Lord!" exclaimed Mr. Bucket. "Of course you may."


It was all said in a moment, and they took me between them, wrapped in the cloak.

They took me between them, wrapped in the cloak.


"I have just left Richard," said Mr. Woodcourt. "I have been sitting with him since ten o'clock last night."


"No, no, believe me; not ill, but not quite well. He was depressed and faint--you know he gets so worried and so worn sometimes--and Ada sent to me of course; and when I came home I found her note and came straight here. Well! Richard revived so much after a little while, and Ada was so happy and so convinced of its being my doing, though God knows I had little enough to do with it, that I remained with him until he had been fast asleep some hours. As fast asleep as she is now, I hope!"

"No, no; not ill, but not quite well. He was depressed and faint - you know he gets so worried and so worn sometimes - and Ada sent word to me. Well! Richard revived so much after a little while, and Ada was so happy and so convinced of its being my doing, though God knows I had little enough to do with it, that I remained with him until he had been fast asleep some hours. As fast asleep as she is now, I hope!"


His friendly and familiar way of speaking of them, his unaffected devotion to them, the grateful confidence with which I knew he had inspired my darling, and the comfort he was to her; could I separate all this from his promise to me? How thankless I must have been if it had not recalled the words he said to me when he was so moved by the change in my appearance: "I will accept him as a trust, and it shall be a sacred one!"

His friendly and familiar way of speaking of them, his unaffected devotion to them, and the comfort he was to my darling; could I separate all this from his promise to me? I recalled the words he said to me when he was so moved by the change in my appearance: "I will accept him as a sacred trust!"


We now turned into another narrow street. "Mr. Woodcourt," said Mr. Bucket, who had eyed him closely as we came along, "our business takes us to a law-stationer's here, a certain Mr. Snagsby's. What, you know him, do you?" He was so quick that he saw it in an instant.


"Yes, I know a little of him and have called upon him at this place."

"Yes, I know a little of him and have called upon him here."


"Indeed, sir?" said Mr. Bucket. "Then you will be so good as to let me leave Miss Summerson with you for a moment while I go and have half a word with him?"

"Indeed, sir?" said Mr. Bucket. "Then may I leave Miss Summerson with you for a moment while I go and have a word with him?"


The last police-officer with whom he had conferred was standing silently behind us. I was not aware of it until he struck in on my saying I heard some one crying.

The last police-officer with whom he had conferred was standing silently behind us. I was not aware of it until he struck in, on my saying I heard some one crying.


"Don't be alarmed, miss," he returned. "It's Snagsby's servant."


"Why, you see," said Mr. Bucket, "the girl's subject to fits, and has 'em bad upon her to-night. A most contrary circumstance it is, for I want certain information out of that girl, and she must be brought to reason somehow."

"Why, you see," said Mr. Bucket, "the girl's subject to fits, and has 'em bad tonight. A most contrary circumstance it is, for I want certain information out of that girl."


"At all events, they wouldn't be up yet if it wasn't for her, Mr. Bucket," said the other man. "She's been at it pretty well all night, sir."

"At all events, they wouldn't be up if it wasn't for her, Mr. Bucket. She's been at it pretty well all night, sir," said the other man.


"Well, that's true," he returned. "My light's burnt out. Show yours a moment."


All this passed in a whisper a door or two from the house in which I could faintly hear crying and moaning. In the little round of light produced for the purpose, Mr. Bucket went up to the door and knocked. The door was opened after he had knocked twice, and he went in, leaving us standing in the street.

I could faintly hear crying and moaning from the house. Mr. Bucket went up to the door with his lantern and knocked twice. The door was opened and he went in, leaving us standing in the street.


"Miss Summerson," said Mr. Woodcourt, "if without obtruding myself on your confidence I may remain near you, pray let me do so."

"Miss Summerson," said Mr. Woodcourt, "if I may remain near you without obtruding on your confidence, pray let me do so."


"You are truly kind," I answered. "I need wish to keep no secret of my own from you; if I keep any, it is another's."

"You are truly kind," I answered. "I wish to keep no secret of my own from you; if I keep any, it is another's."


"I quite understand. Trust me, I will remain near you only so long as I can fully respect it."


"I trust implicitly to you," I said. "I know and deeply feel how sacredly you keep your promise."


After a short time the little round of light shone out again, and Mr. Bucket advanced towards us in it with his earnest face. "Please to come in, Miss Summerson," he said, "and sit down by the fire. Mr. Woodcourt, from information I have received I understand you are a medical man. Would you look to this girl and see if anything can be done to bring her round. She has a letter somewhere that I particularly want. It's not in her box, and I think it must be about her; but she is so twisted and clenched up that she is difficult to handle without hurting."

After a short time the door opened again, and Mr. Bucket advanced towards us.
"Please to come in, Miss Summerson," he said, "and sit down by the fire. Mr. Woodcourt, I understand you are a medical man. Would you look to this girl and see if anything can be done to bring her round? She has a letter somewhere that I particularly want. It's not in her box, and I think it must be about her; but she is so twisted and clenched up that she is difficult to handle without hurting."


We all three went into the house together; although it was cold and raw, it smelt close too from being up all night. In the passage behind the door stood a scared, sorrowful-looking little man in a grey coat who seemed to have a naturally polite manner and spoke meekly.

We all three went into the house together. Behind the door stood a scared, sorrowful-looking little man in a grey coat who spoke meekly and politely.


"Downstairs, if you please, Mr. Bucket," said he. "The lady will excuse the front kitchen; we use it as our workaday sitting-room. The back is Guster's bedroom, and in it she's a-carrying on, poor thing, to a frightful extent!"


We went downstairs, followed by Mr. Snagsby, as I soon found the little man to be. In the front kitchen, sitting by the fire, was Mrs. Snagsby, with very red eyes and a very severe expression of face.

We went downstairs with Mr. Snagsby. In the front kitchen, sitting by the fire, was Mrs. Snagsby, with very red eyes and a very severe expression.


"My little woman," said Mr. Snagsby, entering behind us, "to wave--not to put too fine a point upon it, my dear--hostilities for one single moment in the course of this prolonged night, here is Inspector Bucket, Mr. Woodcourt, and a lady."

"My little woman," said Mr. Snagsby, entering behind us, "here is Inspector Bucket, Mr. Woodcourt, and a lady."


She looked very much astonished, as she had reason for doing, and looked particularly hard at me.

She looked very much astonished, and looked particularly hard at me.


"My little woman," said Mr. Snagsby, sitting down in the remotest corner by the door, as if he were taking a liberty, "it is not unlikely that you may inquire of me why Inspector Bucket, Mr. Woodcourt, and a lady call upon us in Cook's Court, Cursitor Street, at the present hour. I don't know. I have not the least idea. If I was to be informed, I should despair of understanding, and I'd rather not be told."

"My little woman," said Mr. Snagsby, sitting down by the door, "you may ask why Inspector Bucket, Mr. Woodcourt, and a lady call upon us at the present hour. I don't know. I have not the least idea. In fact, I'd rather not be told."


He appeared so miserable, sitting with his head upon his hand, and I appeared so unwelcome, that I was going to offer an apology when Mr. Bucket took the matter on himself.

He appeared so miserable, sitting with his head upon his hand, and I appeared so unwelcome, that I was going to offer an apology when Mr. Bucket spoke.


"Now, Mr. Snagsby," said he, "the best thing you can do is to go along with Mr. Woodcourt to look after your Guster--"

"Now, Mr. Snagsby," said he, "you go along with Mr. Woodcourt to look after your Guster-"


"My Guster, Mr. Bucket!" cried Mr. Snagsby. "Go on, sir, go on. I shall be charged with that next."

"My Guster, Mr. Bucket!" cried Mr. Snagsby. "Go on, sir. I shall be charged with that next."


"And to hold the candle," pursued Mr. Bucket without correcting himself, "or hold her, or make yourself useful in any way you're asked. Which there's not a man alive more ready to do, for you're a man of urbanity and suavity, you know, and you've got the sort of heart that can feel for another. Mr. Woodcourt, would you be so good as see to her, and if you can get that letter from her, to let me have it as soon as ever you can?"

"And hold the candle," pursued Mr. Bucket, "or make yourself useful in any way you're asked. You're a humane man, you know, and you've got the sort of heart that can feel for another. Mr. Woodcourt, would you kindly see to her, and if you can get that letter from her, let me have it as soon as you can?"


As they went out, Mr. Bucket made me sit down in a corner by the fire and take off my wet shoes, which he turned up to dry upon the fender, talking all the time.

As they went out, Mr. Bucket made me sit down by the fire and take off my wet shoes, which he turned up to dry upon the fender, talking all the time.


"Don't you be at all put out, miss, by the want of a hospitable look from Mrs. Snagsby there, because she's under a mistake altogether. She'll find that out sooner than will be agreeable to a lady of her generally correct manner of forming her thoughts, because I'm a-going to explain it to her." Here, standing on the hearth with his wet hat and shawls in his hand, himself a pile of wet, he turned to Mrs. Snagsby. "Now, the first thing that I say to you, as a married woman possessing what you may call charms, you know--'Believe Me, if All Those Endearing,' and cetrer--you're well acquainted with the song, because it's in vain for you to tell me that you and good society are strangers--charms--attractions, mind you, that ought to give you confidence in yourself--is, that you've done it."

"Don't you be put out, miss, by the lack of a hospitable look from Mrs. Snagsby there, because she's under a mistake altogether. She'll find that out sooner than will be agreeable to a lady of her generally correct thinking, because I'm a-going to explain it to her." Here, standing on the hearth with his wet hat and shawls in his hand, he turned to Mrs. Snagsby.
"Now, the first thing that I say to you, as a married woman possessing what you may call charms, you know - 'Believe Me, if All Those Endearing,' and cetra - charms that ought to give you confidence in yourself - is, that you've done it."


Mrs. Snagsby looked rather alarmed, relented a little and faltered, what did Mr. Bucket mean.

Mrs. Snagsby looked rather alarmed, and faltered, what did Mr. Bucket mean?


"What does Mr. Bucket mean?" he repeated, and I saw by his face that all the time he talked he was listening for the discovery of the letter, to my own great agitation, for I knew then how important it must be; "I'll tell you what he means, ma'am. Go and see Othello acted. That's the tragedy for you."

"What does Mr. Bucket mean?" he repeated, and I saw by his face that all the time he talked he was listening for the discovery of the letter. "I'll tell you what he means, ma'am. Go and see Othello acted. That's the tragedy for you."


"Why?" said Mr. Bucket. "Because you'll come to that if you don't look out. Why, at the very moment while I speak, I know what your mind's not wholly free from respecting this young lady. But shall I tell you who this young lady is? Now, come, you're what I call an intellectual woman--with your soul too large for your body, if you come to that, and chafing it--and you know me, and you recollect where you saw me last, and what was talked of in that circle. Don't you? Yes! Very well. This young lady is that young lady."

"Why?" said Mr. Bucket. "Because you'll come to that if you don't look out. Why, at this very moment, I know what your mind's not wholly free from respecting this young lady. But shall I tell you who this young lady is? Now, come, you're what I call an intellectual woman. You know me, and you recollect where you saw me last, and what was talked of in that circle. Don't you? Yes! Very well. This young lady is that young lady."


Mrs. Snagsby appeared to understand the reference better than I did at the time.

Mrs. Snagsby appeared to understand the reference better than I did.


"And Toughey--him as you call Jo--was mixed up in the same business, and no other; and the law-writer that you know of was mixed up in the same business, and no other; and your husband, with no more knowledge of it than your great grandfather, was mixed up (by Mr. Tulkinghorn, deceased, his best customer) in the same business, and no other; and the whole bileing of people was mixed up in the same business, and no other. And yet a married woman, possessing your attractions, shuts her eyes (and sparklers too), and goes and runs her delicate-formed head against a wall. Why, I am ashamed of you! (I expected Mr. Woodcourt might have got it by this time.)"

"And the boy Jo was mixed up in the same business, and no other; and the law-writer that you know of was mixed up in the same business, and no other; and your husband, with no more knowledge of it than your great grandfather, was mixed up (by Mr. Tulkinghorn, deceased) in the same business, and no other; and the whole throng of people was mixed up in the same business, and no other. And yet a married woman, possessing your attractions, shuts her eyes and goes and runs her delicate-formed head against a wall. Why, I am ashamed of you! (I expected Mr. Woodcourt might have got it by this time.)"


Mrs. Snagsby shook her head and put her handkerchief to her eyes.


"Is that all?" said Mr. Bucket excitedly. "No. See what happens. Another person mixed up in that business and no other, a person in a wretched state, comes here to-night and is seen a-speaking to your maid-servant; and between her and your maid-servant there passes a paper that I would give a hundred pound for, down. What do you do? You hide and you watch 'em, and you pounce upon that maid-servant--knowing what she's subject to and what a little thing will bring 'em on--in that surprising manner and with that severity that, by the Lord, she goes off and keeps off, when a life may be hanging upon that girl's words!"

"Is that all?" said Mr. Bucket excitedly. "No. See what happens. Another person mixed up in that business and no other, a person in a wretched state, comes here tonight and is seen a-speaking to your maid-servant; and between her and your maid-servant there passes a paper that I would give a hundred pound for, down. What do you do? You hide and you watch 'em, and you pounce upon that maid-servant - knowing what a little thing will bring on her fits - with that severity that, by the Lord, she goes off and keeps off, when a life may be hanging upon that girl's words!"


He so thoroughly meant what he said now that I involuntarily clasped my hands and felt the room turning away from me. But it stopped. Mr. Woodcourt came in, put a paper into his hand, and went away again.

He so thoroughly meant what he said that I involuntarily clasped my hands and felt the room turning away from me. But then Mr. Woodcourt came in, put a paper into his hand, and went away again.


"Now, Mrs. Snagsby, the only amends you can make," said Mr. Bucket, rapidly glancing at it, "is to let me speak a word to this young lady in private here. And if you know of any help that you can give to that gentleman in the next kitchen there or can think of any one thing that's likelier than another to bring the girl round, do your swiftest and best!" In an instant she was gone, and he had shut the door. "Now my dear, you're steady and quite sure of yourself?"

"Now, Mrs. Snagsby, the only amends you can make," said Mr. Bucket, rapidly glancing at it, "is to let me speak a word to this young lady in private here. And if you know of any help that you can give to that gentleman in the next room or can think of anything that's likely to bring the girl round, do your best!" In an instant she was gone, and he had shut the door. "Now, my dear, you're steady and quite sure of yourself?"


It was my mother's. A pencil-writing, on a crushed and torn piece of paper, blotted with wet. Folded roughly like a letter, and directed to me at my guardian's.

It was my mother's. Pencil-writing, on a crushed and torn piece of paper, blotted with wet. Folded, and addressed to me at my guardian's.


"You know the hand," he said, "and if you are firm enough to read it to me, do! But be particular to a word."

"If you are firm enough to read it to me, do!" he said.


It had been written in portions, at different times. I read what follows:


I came to the cottage with two objects. First, to see the dear one, if I could, once more--but only to see her--not to speak to her or let her know that I was near. The other object, to elude pursuit and to be lost. Do not blame the mother for her share. The assistance that she rendered me, she rendered on my strongest assurance that it was for the dear one's good. You remember her dead child. The men's consent I bought, but her help was freely given.

I came to the cottage with two objects. First, to see the dear one, if I could, once more - but only to see her - not to speak to her or let her know that I was near. The other object, to elude pursuit and to be lost. Do not blame the mother for her share. She helped me on my strongest assurance that it was for the dear one's good. You remember her dead child. The men's consent I bought, but her help was freely given.


"'I came.' That was written," said my companion, "when she rested there. It bears out what I made of it. I was right."

"'I came.' That was written when she rested there," said my companion. "I was right."


I have wandered a long distance, and for many hours, and I know that I must soon die. These streets! I have no purpose but to die. When I left, I had a worse, but I am saved from adding that guilt to the rest. Cold, wet, and fatigue are sufficient causes for my being found dead, but I shall die of others, though I suffer from these. It was right that all that had sustained me should give way at once and that I should die of terror and my conscience.

I have wandered a long distance, and for many hours, and I know that I must soon die. These streets! I have no purpose but to die. When I left, I had a worse, but I am saved from adding that guilt to the rest. Cold, wet, and fatigue are sufficient causes for my being found dead, but I shall die of others, though I suffer from these. It was right that I should die of terror and my conscience.


"Take courage," said Mr. Bucket. "There's only a few words more."


Those, too, were written at another time. To all appearance, almost in the dark:


I have done all I could do to be lost. I shall be soon forgotten so, and shall disgrace him least. I have nothing about me by which I can be recognized. This paper I part with now. The place where I shall lie down, if I can get so far, has been often in my mind. Farewell. Forgive.

I have done all I could do to be lost. I shall be soon forgotten thus, and shall disgrace him least. I have nothing about me by which I can be recognized. This paper I part with now. The place where I shall lie down, if I can get so far, has been often in my mind. Farewell. Forgive.


Mr. Bucket, supporting me with his arm, lowered me gently into my chair. "Cheer up! Don't think me hard with you, my dear, but as soon as ever you feel equal to it, get your shoes on and be ready."

Mr. Bucket, supporting me with his arm, lowered me gently into my chair. "Cheer up! Don't think me hard with you, my dear, but as soon as you feel equal to it, get your shoes on and be ready."


I did as he required, but I was left there a long time, praying for my unhappy mother. They were all occupied with the poor girl, and I heard Mr. Woodcourt directing them and speaking to her often. At length he came in with Mr. Bucket and said that as it was important to address her gently, he thought it best that I should ask her for whatever information we desired to obtain. There was no doubt that she could now reply to questions if she were soothed and not alarmed. The questions, Mr. Bucket said, were how she came by the letter, what passed between her and the person who gave her the letter, and where the person went. Holding my mind as steadily as I could to these points, I went into the next room with them. Mr. Woodcourt would have remained outside, but at my solicitation went in with us.

I did as he required, but I was left there a long time, praying for my unhappy mother. They were all occupied with the poor girl, and I heard Mr. Woodcourt speaking to her. At length he came in with Mr. Bucket and said that as it was important to address her gently, he thought it best that I should ask her for whatever information we desired. She could now reply to questions if she were soothed and not alarmed.
The questions, Mr. Bucket said, were how she came by the letter, what passed between her and the person who gave her the letter, and where the person went. I went into the next room with them.


The poor girl was sitting on the floor where they had laid her down. They stood around her, though at a little distance, that she might have air. She was not pretty and looked weak and poor, but she had a plaintive and a good face, though it was still a little wild. I kneeled on the ground beside her and put her poor head upon my shoulder, whereupon she drew her arm round my neck and burst into tears.

The poor girl was sitting on the floor. She looked weak, but she had a plaintive and a good face, though it was still a little wild. I kneeled on the ground beside her and put her poor head upon my shoulder, whereupon she drew her arm round my neck and burst into tears.


"My poor girl," said I, laying my face against her forehead, for indeed I was crying too, and trembling, "it seems cruel to trouble you now, but more depends on our knowing something about this letter than I could tell you in an hour."


She began piteously declaring that she didn't mean any harm, she didn't mean any harm, Mrs. Snagsby!


"We are all sure of that," said I. "But pray tell me how you got it."


"Yes, dear lady, I will, and tell you true. I'll tell true, indeed, Mrs. Snagsby."

"Yes, dear lady. I'll tell true, indeed."


"I am sure of that," said I. "And how was it?"

"I am sure of that," said I. "How was it?"


"I had been out on an errand, dear lady--long after it was dark--quite late; and when I came home, I found a common-looking person, all wet and muddy, looking up at our house. When she saw me coming in at the door, she called me back and said did I live here. And I said yes, and she said she knew only one or two places about here, but had lost her way and couldn't find them. Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do! They won't believe me! She didn't say any harm to me, and I didn't say any harm to her, indeed, Mrs. Snagsby!"

"I had been out on an errand, quite late; and when I came home, I found a common-looking person, all wet and muddy, looking up at our house. When she saw me coming in, she said did I live here. And I said yes, and she said she knew only one or two places about here, but had lost her way and couldn't find them. Oh, what shall I do! They won't believe me! She didn't say any harm to me, and I didn't say any harm to her, indeed, Mrs. Snagsby!"


It was necessary for her mistress to comfort her--which she did, I must say, with a good deal of contrition--before she could be got beyond this.

It was necessary for her mistress to comfort her - which she did, I must say, with a good deal of contrition.


"She could not find those places," said I.


"No!" cried the girl, shaking her head. "No! Couldn't find them. And she was so faint, and lame, and miserable, Oh so wretched, that if you had seen her, Mr. Snagsby, you'd have given her half a crown, I know!"

"She was so faint," cried the girl, "and lame, and miserable, oh so wretched, that if you had seen her, Mr. Snagsby, you'd have given her half a crown, I know!"


"Well, Guster, my girl," said he, at first not knowing what to say. "I hope I should."

"Well, Guster, my girl," said he, not knowing what to say. "I hope I should."


"And yet she was so well spoken," said the girl, looking at me with wide open eyes, "that it made a person's heart bleed. And so she said to me, did I know the way to the burying ground? And I asked her which burying ground. And she said, the poor burying ground. And so I told her I had been a poor child myself, and it was according to parishes. But she said she meant a poor burying ground not very far from here, where there was an archway, and a step, and an iron gate."

"And yet she was well spoken," said the girl, looking at me with wide open eyes. "And she said to me, did I know the way to the burying ground? And I asked her which burying ground. And she said, the poor burying ground not very far from here, where there was an archway, and a step, and an iron gate."


As I watched her face and soothed her to go on, I saw that Mr. Bucket received this with a look which I could not separate from one of alarm.

As I soothed her to go on, I saw that Mr. Bucket received this with a look of alarm.


"Oh, dear, dear!" cried the girl, pressing her hair back with her hands. "What shall I do, what shall I do! She meant the burying ground where the man was buried that took the sleeping-stuff--that you came home and told us of, Mr. Snagsby--that frightened me so, Mrs. Snagsby. Oh, I am frightened again. Hold me!"

"Oh, dear, dear!" cried the girl. "What shall I do, what shall I do! She meant the burying ground where the man was buried that took the sleeping-stuff - that you told us of, Mr. Snagsby. Oh, I am frightened again. Hold me!"


"You are so much better now," sald I. "Pray, pray tell me more."

"You are so much better now," said I. "Pray, pray tell me more."


"Yes I will, yes I will! But don't be angry with me, that's a dear lady, because I have been so ill."

"Yes, I will! But don't be angry with me, that's a dear lady."


"There! Now I will, now I will. So she said, could I tell her how to find it, and I said yes, and I told her; and she looked at me with eyes like almost as if she was blind, and herself all waving back. And so she took out the letter, and showed it me, and said if she was to put that in the post-office, it would be rubbed out and not minded and never sent; and would I take it from her, and send it, and the messenger would be paid at the house. And so I said yes, if it was no harm, and she said no--no harm. And so I took it from her, and she said she had nothing to give me, and I said I was poor myself and consequently wanted nothing. And so she said God bless you, and went."

"So she said, could I tell her how to find it, and I said yes, and I told her; and she looked at me almost as if she was blind. And so she took out the letter, and showed it me, and said would I take it from her, and send it. And I said yes, if it was no harm, and she said no - no harm. And so I took it from her, and she said she had nothing to give me, and I said I was poor myself and wanted nothing. And so she said God bless you, and went."


"Yes," cried the girl, anticipating the inquiry. "Yes! She went the way I had shown her. Then I came in, and Mrs. Snagsby came behind me from somewhere and laid hold of me, and I was frightened."

"Yes!" cried the girl. "She went the way I had shown her. Then I came in, and Mrs. Snagsby came behind me from somewhere and laid hold of me, and I was frightened."


Mr. Woodcourt took her kindly from me. Mr. Bucket wrapped me up, and immediately we were in the street. Mr. Woodcourt hesitated, but I said, "Don't leave me now!" and Mr. Bucket added, "You'll be better with us, we may want you; don't lose time!"


I have the most confused impressions of that walk. I recollect that it was neither night nor day, that morning was dawning but the street-lamps were not yet put out, that the sleet was still falling and that all the ways were deep with it. I recollect a few chilled people passing in the streets. I recollect the wet house-tops, the clogged and bursting gutters and water-spouts, the mounds of blackened ice and snow over which we passed, the narrowness of the courts by which we went. At the same time I remember that the poor girl seemed to be yet telling her story audibly and plainly in my hearing, that I could feel her resting on my arm, that the stained house-fronts put on human shapes and looked at me, that great water-gates seemed to be opening and closing in my head or in the air, and that the unreal things were more substantial than the real.

I have the most confused impressions of that walk. I recollect that it was neither night nor day, that morning was dawning but the street-lamps were not yet put out, and that the sleet was still falling. I recollect the clogged and bursting gutters and water-spouts, the mounds of blackened ice and snow over which we passed, the narrowness of the streets. I remember the stained house-fronts put on human shapes and looked at me, that great water-gates seemed to be opening and closing in my head or in the air, and that the unreal things were more substantial than the real.


At last we stood under a dark and miserable covered way, where one lamp was burning over an iron gate and where the morning faintly struggled in. The gate was closed. Beyond it was a burial ground--a dreadful spot in which the night was very slowly stirring, but where I could dimly see heaps of dishonoured graves and stones, hemmed in by filthy houses with a few dull lights in their windows and on whose walls a thick humidity broke out like a disease. On the step at the gate, drenched in the fearful wet of such a place, which oozed and splashed down everywhere, I saw, with a cry of pity and horror, a woman lying--Jenny, the mother of the dead child.

At last we stood under a dark and miserable covered way, where one lamp was burning over an iron gate. The gate was closed. Beyond it was a burial ground, where I could dimly see heaps of dishonoured graves and stones, hemmed in by filthy houses with a few dull lights in their windows. On the step at the gate, drenched in the fearful wet of such a place, I saw, with a cry of pity and horror, a woman lying - Jenny, the mother of the dead child.


I ran forward, but they stopped me, and Mr. Woodcourt entreated me with the greatest earnestness, even with tears, before I went up to the figure to listen for an instant to what Mr. Bucket said. I did so, as I thought. I did so, as I am sure.

I ran forward, but they stopped me, and Mr. Woodcourt entreated me with the greatest earnestness, even with tears, to listen for an instant to what Mr. Bucket said. I did so.


"Miss Summerson, you'll understand me, if you think a moment. They changed clothes at the cottage."


They changed clothes at the cottage. I could repeat the words in my mind, and I knew what they meant of themselves, but I attached no meaning to them in any other connexion.


"And one returned," said Mr. Bucket, "and one went on. And the one that went on only went on a certain way agreed upon to deceive and then turned across country and went home. Think a moment!"


I could repeat this in my mind too, but I had not the least idea what it meant. I saw before me, lying on the step, the mother of the dead child. She lay there with one arm creeping round a bar of the iron gate and seeming to embrace it. She lay there, who had so lately spoken to my mother. She lay there, a distressed, unsheltered, senseless creature. She who had brought my mother's letter, who could give me the only clue to where my mother was; she, who was to guide us to rescue and save her whom we had sought so far, who had come to this condition by some means connected with my mother that I could not follow, and might be passing beyond our reach and help at that moment; she lay there, and they stopped me! I saw but did not comprehend the solemn and compassionate look in Mr. Woodcourt's face. I saw but did not comprehend his touching the other on the breast to keep him back. I saw him stand uncovered in the bitter air, with a reverence for something. But my understanding for all this was gone.

I could repeat this in my mind too, but I had not the least idea what it meant. I saw before me, lying on the step, the mother of the dead child, who had so lately spoken to my mother. She lay there, a distressed, unsheltered, senseless creature. She who had brought my mother's letter, who could give me the only clue to where my mother was; she, who was to guide us to rescue my mother; she lay there, and they stopped me! I saw but did not comprehend the solemn and compassionate look in Mr. Woodcourt's face. I saw but did not comprehend his touching the inspector to keep him back.


I even heard it said between them, "Shall she go?"

I heard it said between them, "Shall she go?"


"She had better go. Her hands should be the first to touch her. They have a higher right than ours."


I passed on to the gate and stooped down. I lifted the heavy head, put the long dank hair aside, and turned the face. And it was my mother, cold and dead.


When Mr. Woodcourt arrived in London, he went, that very same day, to Mr. Vholes's in Symond's Inn. For he never once, from the moment when I entreated him to be a friend to Richard, neglected or forgot his promise. He had told me that he accepted the charge as a sacred trust, and he was ever true to it in that spirit.

When Mr. Woodcourt arrived in London, he went the same day to Mr. Vholes's in Symond's Inn. For after I entreated him to be a friend to Richard, he never forgot or neglected his promise.


He found Mr. Vholes in his office and informed Mr. Vholes of his agreement with Richard that he should call there to learn his address.

He found Mr. Vholes in his office and informed him that he had called there to learn Richard's address.


"Just so, sir," said Mr. Vholes. "Mr. C.'s address is not a hundred miles from here, sir, Mr. C.'s address is not a hundred miles from here. Would you take a seat, sir?"

"Just so, sir," said Mr. Vholes. "Mr. C.'s address is not a hundred miles from here. Would you take a seat, sir?"


Mr. Woodcourt thanked Mr. Vholes, but he had no business with him beyond what he had mentioned.

Mr. Woodcourt thanked Mr. Vholes, but he had no business beyond what he had mentioned.


"Just so, sir. I believe, sir," said Mr. Vholes, still quietly insisting on the seat by not giving the address, "that you have influence with Mr. C. Indeed I am aware that you have."

"Just so, sir. I am aware, sir," said Mr. Vholes, "that you have influence with Mr. C."


"I was not aware of it myself," returned Mr. Woodcourt; "but I suppose you know best."


"Sir," rejoined Mr. Vholes, self-contained as usual, voice and all, "it is a part of my professional duty to know best. It is a part of my professional duty to study and to understand a gentleman who confides his interests to me. In my professional duty I shall not be wanting, sir, if I know it. I may, with the best intentions, be wanting in it without knowing it; but not if I know it, sir."

"Sir," rejoined Mr. Vholes, "it is a part of my professional duty to know best and to understand a gentleman who confides his interests to me. In my professional duty I shall not be wanting, sir."


Mr. Woodcourt again mentioned the address.


"Give me leave, sir," said Mr. Vholes. "Bear with me for a moment. Sir, Mr. C. is playing for a considerable stake, and cannot play without--need I say what?"

"Bear with me for a moment, Sir. Mr. C. is playing for a considerable stake, and cannot play without money.


"Sir," said Mr. Vholes, "to be honest with you (honesty being my golden rule, whether I gain by it or lose, and I find that I generally lose), money is the word. Now, sir, upon the chances of Mr. C.'s game I express to you no opinion, NO opinion. It might be highly impolitic in Mr. C., after playing so long and so high, to leave off; it might be the reverse; I say nothing. No, sir," said Mr. Vholes, bringing his hand flat down upon his desk in a positive manner, "nothing."

Now, sir, upon the chances of Mr. C.'s game I express no opinion. It might be wise of him; it might not. I say nothing. No, sir," said Mr. Vholes, bringing his hand flat down upon his desk, "nothing."


"You seem to forget," returned Mr. Woodcourt, "that I ask you to say nothing and have no interest in anything you say."


"Pardon me, sir!" retorted Mr. Vholes. "You do yourself an injustice. No, sir! Pardon me! You shall not--shall not in my office, if I know it--do yourself an injustice. You are interested in anything, and in everything, that relates to your friend. I know human nature much better, sir, than to admit for an instant that a gentleman of your appearance is not interested in whatever concerns his friend."

"Pardon me, sir!" retorted Mr. Vholes. "You do yourself an injustice. You are interested in anything that relates to your friend."


"Well," replied Mr. Woodcourt, "that may be. I am particularly interested in his address."


"The number, sir," said Mr. Vholes parenthetically, "I believe I have already mentioned. If Mr. C. is to continue to play for this considerable stake, sir, he must have funds. Understand me! There are funds in hand at present. I ask for nothing; there are funds in hand. But for the onward play, more funds must be provided, unless Mr. C. is to throw away what he has already ventured, which is wholly and solely a point for his consideration. This, sir, I take the opportunity of stating openly to you as the friend of Mr. C. Without funds I shall always be happy to appear and act for Mr. C. to the extent of all such costs as are safe to be allowed out of the estate, not beyond that. I could not go beyond that, sir, without wronging some one. I must either wrong my three dear girls or my venerable father, who is entirely dependent on me, in the Vale of Taunton; or some one. Whereas, sir, my resolution is (call it weakness or folly if you please) to wrong no one."

"The number, sir," said Mr. Vholes, "I believe I have already mentioned. If Mr. C. is to continue to play for this considerable stake, sir, he must have funds. Understand me! There are funds in hand at present. But for the onward play, more funds must be provided. Without funds I shall always be happy to act for Mr. C. to the extent of all such costs as are safe to be allowed out of the estate. I could not go beyond that, sir, without wronging my three dear girls or my venerable father, who is entirely dependent on me, in the Vale of Taunton. Whereas, sir, my resolution is to wrong no one."


Mr. Woodcourt rather sternly rejoined that he was glad to hear it.


"I wish, sir," said Mr. Vholes, "to leave a good name behind me. Therefore I take every opportunity of openly stating to a friend of Mr. C. how Mr. C. is situated. As to myself, sir, the labourer is worthy of his hire. If I undertake to put my shoulder to the wheel, I do it, and I earn what I get. I am here for that purpose. My name is painted on the door outside, with that object."

"I wish, sir," said Mr. Vholes, "to leave a good name behind me. Therefore I openly state how Mr. C. is situated."


"And Mr. Carstone's address, Mr. Vholes?"


"Sir," returned Mr. Vholes, "as I believe I have already mentioned, it is next door. On the second story you will find Mr. C.'s apartments. Mr. C. desires to be near his professional adviser, and I am far from objecting, for I court inquiry."

"Sir," returned Mr. Vholes, "it is next door, on the second storey. Mr. C. desires to be near his professional adviser."


Upon this Mr. Woodcourt wished Mr. Vholes good day and went in search of Richard, the change in whose appearance he began to understand now but too well.

Mr. Woodcourt wished Mr. Vholes good day and went in search of Richard, the change in whose appearance he began to understand now all too well.


He found him in a dull room, fadedly furnished, much as I had found him in his barrack-room but a little while before, except that he was not writing but was sitting with a book before him, from which his eyes and thoughts were far astray. As the door chanced to be standing open, Mr. Woodcourt was in his presence for some moments without being perceived, and he told me that he never could forget the haggardness of his face and the dejection of his manner before he was aroused from his dream.

He found him in a dull, faded room, sitting with a book before him, from which his eyes and thoughts were far astray. As the door chanced to be open, Mr. Woodcourt was in his presence for some moments without being perceived, and he told me that he never could forget the haggardness of his face and the dejection of his manner before he was aroused.


"Woodcourt, my dear fellow," cried Richard, starting up with extended hands, "you come upon my vision like a ghost."


"A friendly one," he replied, "and only waiting, as they say ghosts do, to be addressed. How does the mortal world go?" They were seated now, near together.

"A friendly one," he replied. "How does the mortal world go?"


"Badly enough, and slowly enough," said Richard, "speaking at least for my part of it."

"Badly enough, and slowly enough," said Richard, "at least


"I never heard," returned Mr. Woodcourt, shaking his head, "of its going well yet."


"Nor I," said Richard moodily. "Who ever did?" He brightened again in a moment and said with his natural openness, "Woodcourt, I should be sorry to be misunderstood by you, even if I gained by it in your estimation. You must know that I have done no good this long time. I have not intended to do much harm, but I seem to have been capable of nothing else. It may be that I should have done better by keeping out of the net into which my destiny has worked me, but I think not, though I dare say you will soon hear, if you have not already heard, a very different opinion. To make short of a long story, I am afraid I have wanted an object; but I have an object now--or it has me--and it is too late to discuss it. Take me as I am, and make the best of me."

"Nor I," said Richard moodily. "Who ever did?" He brightened again in a moment and said with his natural openness, "Woodcourt, you must know that I have done no good this long time. I have not intended to do much harm, but I seem to have been capable of nothing else. Maybe I should have kept out of the net, but I think not, though I dare say you will hear a very different opinion. I am afraid I have wanted an object; but I have an object now - or it has me - and it is too late to discuss it. Take me as I am, and make the best of me."


"A bargain," said Mr. Woodcourt. "Do as much by me in return."


"Oh! You," returned Richard, "you can pursue your art for its own sake, and can put your hand upon the plough and never turn, and can strike a purpose out of anything. You and I are very different creatures."

"Oh! You," returned Richard, "you can strike a purpose out of anything."


He spoke regretfully and lapsed for a moment into his weary condition.


"Well, well!" he cried, shaking it off. "Everything has an end. We shall see! So you will take me as I am, and make the best of me?"


"Aye! Indeed I will." They shook hands upon it laughingly, but in deep earnestness. I can answer for one of them with my heart of hearts.

They shook hands laughingly, but in deep earnestness.


"You come as a godsend," said Richard, "for I have seen nobody here yet but Vholes. Woodcourt, there is one subject I should like to mention, for once and for all, in the beginning of our treaty. You can hardly make the best of me if I don't. You know, I dare say, that I have an attachment to my cousin Ada?"

"You come as a godsend," said Richard, "for I have seen nobody here yet but Vholes. Woodcourt, there is one subject I should like to mention. You know, I dare say, that I have an attachment to my cousin Ada?"


Mr. Woodcourt replied that I had hinted as much to him. "Now pray," returned Richard, "don't think me a heap of selfishness. Don't suppose that I am splitting my head and half breaking my heart over this miserable Chancery suit for my own rights and interests alone. Ada's are bound up with mine; they can't be separated; Vholes works for both of us. Do think of that!"

Mr. Woodcourt replied that I had hinted as much.
"Now pray," returned Richard, "don't suppose that I am splitting my head and half breaking my heart over this miserable Chancery suit for my own interests alone. Ada's are bound up with mine; they can't be separated; Vholes works for both of us. Do think of that!"


He was so very solicitous on this head that Mr. Woodcourt gave him the strongest assurances that he did him no injustice.


"You see," said Richard, with something pathetic in his manner of lingering on the point, though it was off-hand and unstudied, "to an upright fellow like you, bringing a friendly face like yours here, I cannot bear the thought of appearing selfish and mean. I want to see Ada righted, Woodcourt, as well as myself; I want to do my utmost to right her, as well as myself; I venture what I can scrape together to extricate her, as well as myself. Do, I beseech you, think of that!"

"You see," said Richard, "to an upright fellow like you, I cannot bear the thought of appearing selfish and mean. I want to see Ada righted, as well as myself!"


Afterwards, when Mr. Woodcourt came to reflect on what had passed, he was so very much impressed by the strength of Richard's anxiety on this point that in telling me generally of his first visit to Symond's Inn he particularly dwelt upon it. It revived a fear I had had before that my dear girl's little property would be absorbed by Mr. Vholes and that Richard's justification to himself would be sincerely this. It was just as I began to take care of Caddy that the interview took place, and I now return to the time when Caddy had recovered and the shade was still between me and my darling.

Afterwards, when Mr. Woodcourt told me of this first visit to Symond's Inn, he particularly dwelt upon Richard's anxiety on this point. It revived my fear that my dear girl's little property would be absorbed by Mr. Vholes. It was just as I began to take care of Caddy that the meeting took place; and I now return to the time when Caddy had recovered and the shade was still between me and my darling.


I proposed to Ada that morning that we should go and see Richard. It a little surprised me to find that she hesitated and was not so radiantly willing as I had expected.

I proposed to Ada that morning that we should go and see Richard. It surprised me to find that she hesitated.


"My dear," said I, "you have not had any difference with Richard since I have been so much away?"

"My dear," said I, "you have not had any quarrel with Richard since I have been so much away?"


Such tears in her eyes, and such love in her face. I could not make my darling out. Should I go to Richard's by myself? I said. No, Ada thought I had better not go by myself. Would she go with me? Yes, Ada thought she had better go with me. Should we go now? Yes, let us go now. Well, I could not understand my darling, with the tears in her eyes and the love in her face!

Such tears in her eyes, and such love in her face. I could not make my darling out. Should I go to Richard's by myself? I said. No, Ada thought she had better go with me. Should we go now? Yes, let us go now. Well, I could not understand my darling!


We were soon equipped and went out. It was a sombre day, and drops of chill rain fell at intervals. It was one of those colourless days when everything looks heavy and harsh. The houses frowned at us, the dust rose at us, the smoke swooped at us, nothing made any compromise about itself or wore a softened aspect. I fancied my beautiful girl quite out of place in the rugged streets, and I thought there were more funerals passing along the dismal pavements than I had ever seen before.

It was a sombre day, and drops of chill rain fell at intervals: one of those colourless days when everything looks heavy and harsh. I fancied my beautiful girl quite out of place in the rugged streets, and I thought there were more funerals passing along the dismal pavements than I had ever seen before.


We had first to find out Symond's Inn. We were going to inquire in a shop when Ada said she thought it was near Chancery Lane. "We are not likely to be far out, my love, if we go in that direction," said I. So to Chancery Lane we went, and there, sure enough, we saw it written up. Symond's Inn.

We had first to find Symond's Inn. Ada said she thought it was near Chancery Lane. So to Chancery Lane we went, and there, sure enough, we saw it written up. Symond's Inn.


We had next to find out the number. "Or Mr. Vholes's office will do," I recollected, "for Mr. Vholes's office is next door." Upon which Ada said, perhaps that was Mr. Vholes's office in the corner there. And it really was.

We had next to find out the number. "Mr. Vholes's office is next door," I recollected. Upon which Ada said, perhaps that was Mr. Vholes's office in the corner. And it was.


Then came the question, which of the two next doors? I was going for the one, and my darling was going for the other; and my darling was right again. So up we went to the second story, when we came to Richard's name in great white letters on a hearse-like panel.

Then came the question, which of the two next doors? I was going for the one, and my darling was going for the other; and my darling was right again. So up we went to the second storey, when we came to Richard's name in great white letters on a hearse-like panel.


I should have knocked, but Ada said perhaps we had better turn the handle and go in. Thus we came to Richard, poring over a table covered with dusty bundles of papers which seemed to me like dusty mirrors reflecting his own mind. Wherever I looked I saw the ominous words that ran in it repeated. Jarndyce and Jarndyce.

I should have knocked, but Ada said perhaps we had better turn the handle and go in. Thus we found Richard, poring over a table covered with dusty bundles of papers. Wherever I looked I saw the ominous words repeated: Jarndyce and Jarndyce.


He received us very affectionately, and we sat down. "If you had come a little earlier," he said, "you would have found Woodcourt here. There never was such a good fellow as Woodcourt is. He finds time to look in between-whiles, when anybody else with half his work to do would be thinking about not being able to come. And he is so cheery, so fresh, so sensible, so earnest, so--everything that I am not, that the place brightens whenever he comes, and darkens whenever he goes again."

He received us very affectionately, and we sat down. "If you had come a little earlier," he said, "you would have found Woodcourt here. There never was such a good fellow. And he is so cheery, so fresh, so sensible, so - everything that I am not, that the place brightens whenever he comes, and darkens whenever he goes again."


"God bless him," I thought, "for his truth to me!"


"He is not so sanguine, Ada," continued Richard, casting his dejected look over the bundles of papers, "as Vholes and I are usually, but he is only an outsider and is not in the mysteries. We have gone into them, and he has not. He can't be expected to know much of such a labyrinth."

"He is not so sanguine, Ada," continued Richard, casting his dejected look over the bundles of papers, "as Vholes and I are usually, but he is only an outsider and is not in the mysteries. He can't be expected to know much of such a labyrinth."


As his look wandered over the papers again and he passed his two hands over his head, I noticed how sunken and how large his eyes appeared, how dry his lips were, and how his finger-nails were all bitten away.

As his look wandered over the papers again, I noticed how sunken and large his eyes appeared, how dry his lips were, and how his finger-nails were all bitten away.


"Is this a healthy place to live in, Richard, do you think?" said I.

"Is this a healthy place to live, Richard, do you think?" said I.


"Why, my dear Minerva," answered Richard with his old gay laugh, "it is neither a rural nor a cheerful place; and when the sun shines here, you may lay a pretty heavy wager that it is shining brightly in an open spot. But it's well enough for the time. It's near the offices and near Vholes."

"Why," answered Richard with his old gay laugh, "it is neither rural nor cheerful; but it's well enough for now. It's near the offices and Vholes."


"Perhaps," I hinted, "a change from both--"

"Perhaps," I hinted, "a change from both-"


"Might do me good?" said Richard, forcing a laugh as he finished the sentence. "I shouldn't wonder! But it can only come in one way now--in one of two ways, I should rather say. Either the suit must be ended, Esther, or the suitor. But it shall be the suit, my dear girl, the suit, my dear girl!"

"Might do me good?" said Richard, forcing a laugh. "I shouldn't wonder! But it can only go one way now - one of two ways, I should say. Either the suit must be ended, Esther, or the suitor. But it shall be the suit, my dear girl, the suit!"


These latter words were addressed to Ada, who was sitting nearest to him. Her face being turned away from me and towards him, I could not see it.

These latter words were addressed to Ada, who was sitting nearest to him, with her face turned away from me. She remained silent.