Not a rustle of the housekeeper's dress, not a gesture, not a word betrays her. She stands looking at him as he writes on, all unconscious, and only her fluttering hands give utterance to her emotions. But they are very eloquent, very, very eloquent. Mrs. Bagnet understands them. They speak of gratitude, of joy, of grief, of hope; of inextinguishable affection, cherished with no return since this stalwart man was a stripling; of a better son loved less, and this son loved so fondly and so proudly; and they speak in such touching language that Mrs. Bagnet's eyes brim up with tears and they run glistening down her sun-brown face.

Only her fluttering hands give utterance to her emotions. But they are very eloquent. Mrs. Bagnet understands them. They speak of gratitude, of joy, of grief, of hope; of a better son loved less, and this son loved so fondly and so proudly; and Mrs. Bagnet's eyes brim up with tears.


"George Rouncewell! Oh, my dear child, turn and look at me!"


The trooper starts up, clasps his mother round the neck, and falls down on his knees before her. Whether in a late repentance, whether in the first association that comes back upon him, he puts his hands together as a child does when it says its prayers, and raising them towards her breast, bows down his head, and cries.

The trooper starts up, clasps his mother round the neck, and falls down on his knees before her. He puts his hands together as a child does when it says its prayers, and raising them towards her breast, bows down his head, and cries.


"My George, my dearest son! Always my favourite, and my favourite still, where have you been these cruel years and years? Grown such a man too, grown such a fine strong man. Grown so like what I knew he must be, if it pleased God he was alive!"

"My George, my dearest son! Always my favourite, where have you been these cruel years? Grown such a fine strong man, too, as I knew you must be, if it pleased God you were alive!"


She can ask, and he can answer, nothing connected for a time. All that time the old girl, turned away, leans one arm against the whitened wall, leans her honest forehead upon it, wipes her eyes with her serviceable grey cloak, and quite enjoys herself like the best of old girls as she is.

They can say nothing for a time. Mrs. Bagnet wipes her eyes with her serviceable grey cloak, and quite enjoys herself like the best of old girls she is.


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

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


Forgive him! She does it with all her heart and soul. She always has done it. She tells him how she has had it written in her will, these many years, that he was her beloved son George. She has never believed any ill of him, never. If she had died without this happiness--and she is an old woman now and can't look to live very long--she would have blessed him with her last breath, if she had had her senses, as her beloved son George.

Forgive him! She does it with all her heart and soul. She has always done it. He has always been her beloved son George.


"Mother, I have been an undutiful trouble to you, and I have my reward; but of late years I have had a kind of glimmering of a purpose in me too. When I left home I didn't care much, mother--I am afraid not a great deal--for leaving; and went away and 'listed, harum-scarum, making believe to think that I cared for nobody, no not I, and that nobody cared for me."

"Mother, I have been a trouble to you, and I have my reward. When I left home I didn't care much, mother - I enlisted making believe that I cared for nobody, no not I, and that nobody cared for me."


The trooper has dried his eyes and put away his handkerchief, but there is an extraordinary contrast between his habitual manner of expressing himself and carrying himself and the softened tone in which he speaks, interrupted occasionally by a half-stifled sob.

The trooper has dried his eyes, but speaks with an occasional half-stifled sob.


"So I wrote a line home, mother, as you too well know, to say I had 'listed under another name, and I went abroad. Abroad, at one time I thought I would write home next year, when I might be better off; and when that year was out, I thought I would write home next year, when I might be better off; and when that year was out again, perhaps I didn't think much about it. So on, from year to year, through a service of ten years, till I began to get older, and to ask myself why should I ever write."

"So I wrote a line home, mother, as you know, to say I had enlisted under another name, and I went abroad. I always thought I would write home next year, when I might be better off; and when that year was done, the next year. So on, from year to year, till I began to get older, and to ask myself why I should ever write."


"I don't find any fault, child--but not to ease my mind, George? Not a word to your loving mother, who was growing older too?"

"Not to ease my mind, George? Not a word to your loving mother, who was growing older too?"


This almost overturns the trooper afresh, but he sets himself up with a great, rough, sounding clearance of his throat.

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


"Heaven forgive me, mother, but I thought there would be small consolation then in hearing anything about me. There were you, respected and esteemed. There was my brother, as I read in chance North Country papers now and then, rising to be prosperous and famous. There was I a dragoon, roving, unsettled, not self-made like him, but self-unmade--all my earlier advantages thrown away, all my little learning unlearnt, nothing picked up but what unfitted me for most things that I could think of. What business had I to make myself known? After letting all that time go by me, what good could come of it? The worst was past with you, mother. I knew by that time (being a man) how you had mourned for me, and wept for me, and prayed for me; and the pain was over, or was softened down, and I was better in your mind as it was."

"Heaven forgive me, mother, but I thought there would be small consolation then in hearing anything about me. I read in the papers now and then that my brother was becoming prosperous and famous. There was I, a roving dragoon, all my advantages thrown away, all my little learning unlearnt. What business had I to make myself known? What good could come of it? The worst was past with you, mother. I knew by that time how you had mourned for me, and wept for me, and prayed for me; and the pain was over, or was softened, and I was better in your mind as it was."


The old lady sorrowfully shakes her head, and taking one of his powerful hands, lays it lovingly upon her shoulder.

The old lady sorrowfully shakes her head.


"No, I don't say that it was so, mother, but that I made it out to be so. I said just now, what good could come of it? Well, my dear mother, some good might have come of it to myself--and there was the meanness of it. You would have sought me out; you would have purchased my discharge; you would have taken me down to Chesney Wold; you would have brought me and my brother and my brother's family together; you would all have considered anxiously how to do something for me and set me up as a respectable civilian. But how could any of you feel sure of me when I couldn't so much as feel sure of myself? How could you help regarding as an incumbrance and a discredit to you an idle dragooning chap who was an incumbrance and a discredit to himself, excepting under discipline? How could I look my brother's children in the face and pretend to set them an example--I, the vagabond boy who had run away from home and been the grief and unhappiness of my mother's life? 'No, George.' Such were my words, mother, when I passed this in review before me: 'You have made your bed. Now, lie upon it.'"

"I don't say that it was so, mother, but that I made it out to be so. How could you respect an idle dragooning chap who was a discredit to himself? How could I look my brother's children in the face and pretend to set them an example?"


Mrs. Rouncewell, drawing up her stately form, shakes her head at the old girl with a swelling pride upon her, as much as to say, "I told you so!" The old girl relieves her feelings and testifies her interest in the conversation by giving the trooper a great poke between the shoulders with her umbrella; this action she afterwards repeats, at intervals, in a species of affectionate lunacy, never failing, after the administration of each of these remonstrances, to resort to the whitened wall and the grey cloak again.

Mrs. Rouncewell glances at the old girl with knowing pride. The old girl relieves her feelings by giving the trooper a great poke between the shoulders with her umbrella.


"This was the way I brought myself to think, mother, that my best amends was to lie upon that bed I had made, and die upon it. And I should have done it (though I have been to see you more than once down at Chesney Wold, when you little thought of me) but for my old comrade's wife here, who I find has been too many for me. But I thank her for it. I thank you for it, Mrs. Bagnet, with all my heart and might."

"This was the way I brought myself to think, mother, that I had best lie upon that bed I had made, and die upon it. And I should have done it but for my old comrade's wife here. But I thank her. Thank you, Mrs. Bagnet, with all my heart."


To which Mrs. Bagnet responds with two pokes.


And now the old lady impresses upon her son George, her own dear recovered boy, her joy and pride, the light of her eyes, the happy close of her life, and every fond name she can think of, that he must be governed by the best advice obtainable by money and influence, that he must yield up his case to the greatest lawyers that can be got, that he must act in this serious plight as he shall be advised to act and must not be self-willed, however right, but must promise to think only of his poor old mother's anxiety and suffering until he is released, or he will break her heart.

And now the old lady tells her son George, her own dear recovered boy, her joy and pride, the light of her eyes, that he must yield up his case to the greatest lawyers that can be got, that he must not be self-willed, but must promise to think only of his poor old mother's anxiety and suffering until he is released, or he will break her heart.


"Mother, 'tis little enough to consent to," returns the trooper, stopping her with a kiss; "tell me what I shall do, and I'll make a late beginning and do it. Mrs. Bagnet, you'll take care of my mother, I know?"

"Mother," returns the trooper, stopping her with a kiss; "tell me what I shall do, and I'll do it. Mrs. Bagnet, you'll take care of my mother, I know?"


A very hard poke from the old girl's umbrella.


"If you'll bring her acquainted with Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson, she will find them of her way of thinking, and they will give her the best advice and assistance."

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


"And, George," says the old lady, "we must send with all haste for your brother. He is a sensible sound man as they tell me--out in the world beyond Chesney Wold, my dear, though I don't know much of it myself--and will be of great service."

"And, George," says the old lady, "we must send for your brother. He is a sensible sound man, as they tell me, out in the world beyond Chesney Wold, my dear, though I don't know much of it myself."


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


"Then grant me this one great favour. Don't let my brother know."

grant me one great favour. Don't let my brother know


"Not know of me. In fact, mother, I can't bear it; I can't make up my mind to it. He has proved himself so different from me and has done so much to raise himself while I've been soldiering that I haven't brass enough in my composition to see him in this place and under this charge. How could a man like him be expected to have any pleasure in such a discovery? It's impossible. No, keep my secret from him, mother; do me a greater kindness than I deserve and keep my secret from my brother, of all men."

of me. I can't bear it; he has proved himself so different from me and has done so much to raise himself while I've been soldiering that I can't see him here, under this charge. Keep my secret from him, mother."


"Why, mother, perhaps not for good and all--though I may come to ask that too--but keep it now, I do entreat you. If it's ever broke to him that his rip of a brother has turned up, I could wish," says the trooper, shaking his head very doubtfully, "to break it myself and be governed as to advancing or retreating by the way in which he seems to take it."

"Why, mother, perhaps not for always, but for now, I entreat you. If it's ever broke to him that his rip of a brother has turned up, I don't know how he would react," says the trooper, shaking his head very doubtfully.


As he evidently has a rooted feeling on this point, and as the depth of it is recognized in Mrs. Bagnet's face, his mother yields her implicit assent to what he asks. For this he thanks her kindly.

His mother yields to what he asks, and he thanks her kindly.


"In all other respects, my dear mother, I'll be as tractable and obedient as you can wish; on this one alone, I stand out. So now I am ready even for the lawyers. I have been drawing up," he glances at his writing on the table, "an exact account of what I knew of the deceased and how I came to be involved in this unfortunate affair. It's entered, plain and regular, like an orderly-book; not a word in it but what's wanted for the facts. I did intend to read it, straight on end, whensoever I was called upon to say anything in my defence. I hope I may be let to do it still; but I have no longer a will of my own in this case, and whatever is said or done, I give my promise not to have any."

"In all other respects, my dear mother, I'll be as obedient as you can wish. I am ready even now for the lawyers. I have been drawing up," he glances at his writing on the table, "an exact account of what I knew of the deceased and how I came to be involved in this unfortunate affair. It's plain and regular; not a word in it but the facts. I intended to read it when I was called upon to speak in my defence."


Matters being brought to this so far satisfactory pass, and time being on the wane, Mrs. Bagnet proposes a departure. Again and again the old lady hangs upon her son's neck, and again and again the trooper holds her to his broad chest.

Time passing, Mrs. Bagnet proposes a departure. Again and again the old lady hangs upon her son's neck, and again and again the trooper holds her to his broad chest.


"Where are you going to take my mother, Mrs. Bagnet?"


"I am going to the town house, my dear, the family house. I have some business there that must be looked to directly," Mrs. Rouncewell answers.

"I am going to the town house, my dear, the family house," Mrs. Rouncewell says.


"Will you see my mother safe there in a coach, Mrs. Bagnet? But of course I know you will. Why should I ask it!"

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


Why indeed, Mrs. Bagnet expresses with the umbrella.


"Take her, my old friend, and take my gratitude along with you. Kisses to Quebec and Malta, love to my godson, a hearty shake of the hand to Lignum, and this for yourself, and I wish it was ten thousand pound in gold, my dear!" So saying, the trooper puts his lips to the old girl's tanned forehead, and the door shuts upon him in his cell.

Take my gratitude along with you, and I wish it was ten thousand pound in gold, my dear!" So saying, the trooper puts his lips to the old girl's tanned forehead, and the door shuts upon him in his cell.


No entreaties on the part of the good old housekeeper will induce Mrs. Bagnet to retain the coach for her own conveyance home. Jumping out cheerfully at the door of the Dedlock mansion and handing Mrs. Rouncewell up the steps, the old girl shakes hands and trudges off, arriving soon afterwards in the bosom of the Bagnet family and falling to washing the greens as if nothing had happened.

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


My Lady is in that room in which she held her last conference with the murdered man, and is sitting where she sat that night, and is looking at the spot where he stood upon the hearth studying her so leisurely, when a tap comes at the door. Who is it? Mrs. Rouncewell. What has brought Mrs. Rouncewell to town so unexpectedly?

My Lady is in the room in which she held her last conference with the murdered man, and is looking at the spot where he stood upon the hearth, when a tap comes at the door. It is Mrs. Rouncewell. What has brought Mrs. Rouncewell to town so unexpectedly?


"Trouble, my Lady. Sad trouble. Oh, my Lady, may I beg a word with you?"


What new occurrence is it that makes this tranquil old woman tremble so? Far happier than her Lady, as her Lady has often thought, why does she falter in this manner and look at her with such strange mistrust?

What makes this tranquil old woman tremble so? Why does she falter in this manner and look at Lady Dedlock with such strange mistrust?


"What is the matter? Sit down and take your breath."


"Oh, my Lady, my Lady. I have found my son--my youngest, who went away for a soldier so long ago. And he is in prison."

"Oh, my Lady, my Lady. I have found my son - my youngest, who went away for a soldier so long ago. And he is in prison."


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


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

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


What does she mean by this look and this imploring gesture? Why does she come so close? What is the letter that she holds?


"Lady Dedlock, my dear Lady, my good Lady, my kind Lady! You must have a heart to feel for me, you must have a heart to forgive me. I was in this family before you were born. I am devoted to it. But think of my dear son wrongfully accused."

"Lady Dedlock, my dear Lady, my kind Lady! You must have a heart to feel for me. I was in this family before you were born. I am devoted to it. But think of my dear son wrongfully accused."


"No, my Lady, no. But others do, and he is in prison and in danger. Oh, Lady Dedlock, if you can say but a word to help to clear him, say it!"


What delusion can this be? What power does she suppose is in the person she petitions to avert this unjust suspicion, if it be unjust? Her Lady's handsome eyes regard her with astonishment, almost with fear.

What delusion can this be? What power does she suppose her Lady has? Her Lady's handsome eyes regard her with astonishment, almost with fear.


"My Lady, I came away last night from Chesney Wold to find my son in my old age, and the step upon the Ghost's Walk was so constant and so solemn that I never heard the like in all these years. Night after night, as it has fallen dark, the sound has echoed through your rooms, but last night it was awfullest. And as it fell dark last night, my Lady, I got this letter."

"My Lady, when I came away last night from Chesney Wold, the step upon the Ghost's Walk was so constant that I never heard the like in all these years. Night after night, as it has fallen dark, the sound has echoed through your rooms, but last night it was awfullest. And as it fell dark last night, my Lady, I got this letter."


"Hush! Hush!" The housekeeper looks round and answers in a frightened whisper, "My Lady, I have not breathed a word of it, I don't believe what's written in it, I know it can't be true, I am sure and certain that it is not true. But my son is in danger, and you must have a heart to pity me. If you know of anything that is not known to others, if you have any suspicion, if you have any clue at all, and any reason for keeping it in your own breast, oh, my dear Lady, think of me, and conquer that reason, and let it be known! This is the most I consider possible. I know you are not a hard lady, but you go your own way always without help, and you are not familiar with your friends; and all who admire you--and all do--as a beautiful and elegant lady, know you to be one far away from themselves who can't be approached close. My Lady, you may have some proud or angry reasons for disdaining to utter something that you know; if so, pray, oh, pray, think of a faithful servant whose whole life has been passed in this family which she dearly loves, and relent, and help to clear my son! My Lady, my good Lady," the old housekeeper pleads with genuine simplicity, "I am so humble in my place and you are by nature so high and distant that you may not think what I feel for my child, but I feel so much that I have come here to make so bold as to beg and pray you not to be scornful of us if you can do us any right or justice at this fearful time!"

"Hush! Hush!" The housekeeper looks round and answers in a frightened whisper, "My Lady, I have not breathed a word of it, I don't believe what's written in it, I am certain that it is not true. But my son is in danger, and you must have a heart to pity me. If you know anything that is not known to others, if you have any clue at all, and any reason for keeping it in your own breast, oh, my dear Lady, think of me, and let it be known! Pray, oh, pray, think of your faithful servant, and help to clear my son! My Lady, I pray you not to be scornful of us if you can do us any justice at this fearful time!"


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

Lady Dedlock takes the letter from her hand.


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

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


"I know of nothing I can do. I know of nothing I reserve that can affect your son. I have never accused him."

"I know of nothing I keep back that can affect your son. I have never accused him."


"My Lady, you may pity him the more under a false accusation after reading the letter."


The old housekeeper leaves her with the letter in her hand. In truth she is not a hard lady naturally, and the time has been when the sight of the venerable figure suing to her with such strong earnestness would have moved her to great compassion. But so long accustomed to suppress emotion and keep down reality, so long schooled for her own purposes in that destructive school which shuts up the natural feelings of the heart like flies in amber and spreads one uniform and dreary gloss over the good and bad, the feeling and the unfeeling, the sensible and the senseless, she had subdued even her wonder until now.

The old housekeeper leaves her with the letter in her hand. In truth she is not a hard lady naturally. But she is long accustomed to suppress emotion, long schooled to shut up the natural feelings of the heart like flies in amber.


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

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


It falls out of her hand. How long it may have lain upon the ground she knows not, but it lies where it fell when a servant stands before her announcing the young man of the name of Guppy. The words have probably been repeated several times, for they are ringing in her head before she begins to understand them.


He comes in. Holding the letter in her hand, which she has taken from the floor, she tries to collect her thoughts. In the eyes of Mr. Guppy she is the same Lady Dedlock, holding the same prepared, proud, chilling state.

He comes in. Holding the letter, which she has picked up, she tries to collect her thoughts. In Mr. Guppy's eyes she is the same proud, chilling Lady Dedlock.


"Your ladyship may not be at first disposed to excuse this visit from one who has never been welcome to your ladyship"--which he don't complain of, for he is bound to confess that there never has been any particular reason on the face of things why he should be--"but I hope when I mention my motives to your ladyship you will not find fault with me," says Mr. Guppy.

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


"Thank your ladyship. I ought first to explain to your ladyship," Mr. Guppy sits on the edge of a chair and puts his hat on the carpet at his feet, "that Miss Summerson, whose image, as I formerly mentioned to your ladyship, was at one period of my life imprinted on my 'eart until erased by circumstances over which I had no control, communicated to me, after I had the pleasure of waiting on your ladyship last, that she particularly wished me to take no steps whatever in any manner at all relating to her. And Miss Summerson's wishes being to me a law (except as connected with circumstances over which I have no control), I consequently never expected to have the distinguished honour of waiting on your ladyship again."

"Thank your ladyship. I ought to explain," Mr. Guppy sits on the edge of a chair, "that Miss Summerson, whose image was at one period of my life imprinted on my 'eart until erased by circumstances over which I had no control, told me recently that she particularly wished me to take no steps in any manner relating to her. And Miss Summerson's wishes being to me a law, I consequently never expected to have the honour of waiting on your ladyship again."


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


"And yet I am here now," Mr. Guppy admits. "My object being to communicate to your ladyship, under the seal of confidence, why I am here."


He cannot do so, she tells him, too plainly or too briefly. "Nor can I," Mr. Guppy returns with a sense of injury upon him, "too particularly request your ladyship to take particular notice that it's no personal affair of mine that brings me here. I have no interested views of my own to serve in coming here. If it was not for my promise to Miss Summerson and my keeping of it sacred--I, in point of fact, shouldn't have darkened these doors again, but should have seen 'em further first."

"But it is no personal affair of mine that brings me here. If it was not for my promise to Miss Summerson, I shouldn't have darkened these doors again."


Mr. Guppy considers this a favourable moment for sticking up his hair with both hands.


"Your ladyship will remember when I mention it that the last time I was here I run against a party very eminent in our profession and whose loss we all deplore. That party certainly did from that time apply himself to cutting in against me in a way that I will call sharp practice, and did make it, at every turn and point, extremely difficult for me to be sure that I hadn't inadvertently led up to something contrary to Miss Summerson's wishes. Self-praise is no recommendation, but I may say for myself that I am not so bad a man of business neither."

"Your ladyship may remember that the last time I was here I run against a party very eminent in our profession whose loss we all deplore. That party certainly did from that time cut in against me in a way that I will call sharp practice.


Lady Dedlock looks at him in stern inquiry. Mr. Guppy immediately withdraws his eyes from her face and looks anywhere else.


"Indeed, it has been made so hard," he goes on, "to have any idea what that party was up to in combination with others that until the loss which we all deplore I was gravelled--an expression which your ladyship, moving in the higher circles, will be so good as to consider tantamount to knocked over. Small likewise--a name by which I refer to another party, a friend of mine that your ladyship is not acquainted with--got to be so close and double-faced that at times it wasn't easy to keep one's hands off his 'ead. However, what with the exertion of my humble abilities, and what with the help of a mutual friend by the name of Mr. Tony Weevle (who is of a high aristocratic turn and has your ladyship's portrait always hanging up in his room), I have now reasons for an apprehension as to which I come to put your ladyship upon your guard. First, will your ladyship allow me to ask you whether you have had any strange visitors this morning? I don't mean fashionable visitors, but such visitors, for instance, as Miss Barbary's old servant, or as a person without the use of his lower extremities, carried upstairs similarly to a guy?"

Indeed, it has been so hard to have any idea what that party was up to that I was gravelled. However, with the exertion of my humble abilities, and with the help of a friend by the name of Mr. Tony Weevle, I have now reasons for an apprehension as to which I come to put your ladyship upon your guard. First, may I ask your ladyship whether you have had any strange visitors this morning?"


"Then I assure your ladyship that such visitors have been here and have been received here. Because I saw them at the door, and waited at the corner of the square till they came out, and took half an hour's turn afterwards to avoid them."

"Then I assure your ladyship that such visitors have been here, because I saw them at the door, and took time to avoid them."


"What have I to do with that, or what have you? I do not understand you. What do you mean?"

"I do not understand you. What do you mean?"


"Your ladyship, I come to put you on your guard. There may be no occasion for it. Very well. Then I have only done my best to keep my promise to Miss Summerson. I strongly suspect (from what Small has dropped, and from what we have corkscrewed out of him) that those letters I was to have brought to your ladyship were not destroyed when I supposed they were. That if there was anything to be blown upon, it IS blown upon. That the visitors I have alluded to have been here this morning to make money of it. And that the money is made, or making."

"Your ladyship, I strongly suspect that those letters I was to have brought to your ladyship were not destroyed when I supposed they were. That if there was anything to be blown open, it is blown upon. That the visitors I mentioned have been here this morning to make money of it."


"Your ladyship, you know best whether there's anything in what I say or whether there's nothing. Something or nothing, I have acted up to Miss Summerson's wishes in letting things alone and in undoing what I had begun to do, as far as possible; that's sufficient for me. In case I should be taking a liberty in putting your ladyship on your guard when there's no necessity for it, you will endeavour, I should hope, to outlive my presumption, and I shall endeavour to outlive your disapprobation. I now take my farewell of your ladyship, and assure you that there's no danger of your ever being waited on by me again."

"Your ladyship, I have followed Miss Summerson's wishes in letting things alone and in undoing what I had begun to do. I now take my farewell of your ladyship, and assure you that there's no danger of your ever being waited on by me again."


She scarcely acknowledges these parting words by any look, but when he has been gone a little while, she rings her bell.

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


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

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


"Has Sir Leicester had any visitors this morning?"


Several, on business. Mercury proceeds to a description of them, which has been anticipated by Mr. Guppy. Enough; he may go.


So! All is broken down. Her name is in these many mouths, her husband knows his wrongs, her shame will be published--may be spreading while she thinks about it--and in addition to the thunderbolt so long foreseen by her, so unforeseen by him, she is denounced by an invisible accuser as the murderess of her enemy.

So! All is broken down. Her husband knows his wrongs, her shame will be published - may be spreading now - and in addition to the thunderbolt so long foreseen by her, she is denounced by an invisible accuser as the murderess of her enemy.


Her enemy he was, and she has often, often, often wished him dead. Her enemy he is, even in his grave. This dreadful accusation comes upon her like a new torment at his lifeless hand. And when she recalls how she was secretly at his door that night, and how she may be represented to have sent her favourite girl away so soon before merely to release herself from observation, she shudders as if the hangman's hands were at her neck.

Mr. Tulkinghorn was her enemy, and she has often wished him dead. This dreadful accusation comes upon her like a new torment at his lifeless hand. And when she recalls how she was secretly at his door that night, she shudders as if the hangman's hands were at her neck.


She has thrown herself upon the floor and lies with her hair all wildly scattered and her face buried in the cushions of a couch. She rises up, hurries to and fro, flings herself down again, and rocks and moans. The horror that is upon her is unutterable. If she really were the murderess, it could hardly be, for the moment, more intense.

She hurries to and fro, flings herself down upon the couch, and rocks and moans. The horror that is upon her is unutterable. If she really were the murderess, it could hardly be more intense.


For as her murderous perspective, before the doing of the deed, however subtle the precautions for its commission, would have been closed up by a gigantic dilatation of the hateful figure, preventing her from seeing any consequences beyond it; and as those consequences would have rushed in, in an unimagined flood, the moment the figure was laid low--which always happens when a murder is done; so, now she sees that when he used to be on the watch before her, and she used to think, "if some mortal stroke would but fall on this old man and take him from my way!" it was but wishing that all he held against her in his hand might be flung to the winds and chance-sown in many places. So, too, with the wicked relief she has felt in his death. What was his death but the key-stone of a gloomy arch removed, and now the arch begins to fall in a thousand fragments, each crushing and mangling piecemeal!

Although she felt a wicked relief in the death of her enemy, what was it but the key-stone of a gloomy arch removed, and now the arch begins to fall in a thousand fragments!


Thus, a terrible impression steals upon and overshadows her that from this pursuer, living or dead--obdurate and imperturbable before her in his well-remembered shape, or not more obdurate and imperturbable in his coffin-bed--there is no escape but in death. Hunted, she flies. The complication of her shame, her dread, remorse, and misery, overwhelms her at its height; and even her strength of self-reliance is overturned and whirled away like a leaf before a mighty wind.

Thus, a terrible impression steals upon her that there is no escape except in death. Her shame, her dread, remorse, and misery, overwhelm her; and even her strength of self-reliance is overturned and whirled away like a leaf before a mighty wind.


She hurriedly addresses these lines to her husband, seals, and leaves them on her table:

She hurriedly addresses this note to her husband, seals it, and leaves it on her table:


If I am sought for, or accused of, his murder, believe that I am wholly innocent. Believe no other good of me, for I am innocent of nothing else that you have heard, or will hear, laid to my charge. He prepared me, on that fatal night, for his disclosure of my guilt to you. After he had left me, I went out on pretence of walking in the garden where I sometimes walk, but really to follow him and make one last petition that he would not protract the dreadful suspense on which I have been racked by him, you do not know how long, but would mercifully strike next morning.

"If I am sought for, or accused of, his murder, believe that I am wholly innocent. Believe no other good of me, for I am innocent of nothing else that you have heard. He prepared me, on that fatal night, for his disclosure of my guilt to you. After he had left me, I went out to follow him and make one last petition that he would not protract the dreadful suspense on which I have been racked by him - you do not know how long - but would mercifully strike next morning.


"I found his house dark and silent. I rang twice at his door, but there was no reply, and I came home.


I have no home left. I will encumber you no more. May you, in your just resentment, be able to forget the unworthy woman on whom you have wasted a most generous devotion--who avoids you only with a deeper shame than that with which she hurries from herself--and who writes this last adieu.

"I have no home left. I will encumber you no more. May you, in your just resentment, be able to forget the unworthy woman on whom you have wasted a most generous devotion - who feels deep shame - and who writes this last adieu."


She veils and dresses quickly, leaves all her jewels and her money, listens, goes downstairs at a moment when the hall is empty, opens and shuts the great door, flutters away in the shrill frosty wind.

She dresses quickly, leaves all her jewels and her money, listens, goes downstairs at a moment when the hall is empty, opens and shuts the great door, and flutters away in the shrill frosty wind.


Charley and I did not set off alone upon our expedition into Lincolnshire. My guardian had made up his mind not to lose sight of me until I was safe in Mr. Boythorn's house, so he accompanied us, and we were two days upon the road. I found every breath of air, and every scent, and every flower and leaf and blade of grass, and every passing cloud, and everything in nature, more beautiful and wonderful to me than I had ever found it yet. This was my first gain from my illness. How little I had lost, when the wide world was so full of delight for me.

Charley and I did not set off alone upon our expedition into Lincolnshire. My guardian accompanied us, and we were two days upon the road. I found every breath of air, and every scent, and every flower and leaf, and every passing cloud, more beautiful and wonderful to me than I had ever found it yet. This was my first gain from my illness. How little I had lost, when the wide world was so full of delight for me!


My guardian intending to go back immediately, we appointed, on our way down, a day when my dear girl should come. I wrote her a letter, of which he took charge, and he left us within half an hour of our arrival at our destination, on a delightful evening in the early summer-time.

Since my guardian intended to go back directly, we agreed, on our way down, a day when my dear girl should come. I wrote her a letter, which he took back with him once we had arrived at our destination.


If a good fairy had built the house for me with a wave of her wand, and I had been a princess and her favoured god-child, I could not have been more considered in it. So many preparations were made for me and such an endearing remembrance was shown of all my little tastes and likings that I could have sat down, overcome, a dozen times before I had revisited half the rooms. I did better than that, however, by showing them all to Charley instead. Charley's delight calmed mine; and after we had had a walk in the garden, and Charley had exhausted her whole vocabulary of admiring expressions, I was as tranquilly happy as I ought to have been. It was a great comfort to be able to say to myself after tea, "Esther, my dear, I think you are quite sensible enough to sit down now and write a note of thanks to your host." He had left a note of welcome for me, as sunny as his own face, and had confided his bird to my care, which I knew to be his highest mark of confidence. Accordingly I wrote a little note to him in London, telling him how all his favourite plants and trees were looking, and how the most astonishing of birds had chirped the honours of the house to me in the most hospitable manner, and how, after singing on my shoulder, to the inconceivable rapture of my little maid, he was then at roost in the usual corner of his cage, but whether dreaming or no I could not report. My note finished and sent off to the post, I made myself very busy in unpacking and arranging; and I sent Charley to bed in good time and told her I should want her no more that night.

If a good fairy had built the house for me with a wave of her wand, I could not have been more considered in it. So many preparations were made for me, and all my little tastes and likings, that I could have sat down, overcome, a dozen times. I did better than that, however, by showing them all to Charley instead. Charley's delight calmed mine; and after we had had a walk in the garden, and Charley had exhausted her whole vocabulary of admiring expressions, I was as tranquilly happy as I ought to have been.
Our host had left a note of welcome for me, as sunny as his own face, and had confided his bird to my care, which I knew to be his highest mark of confidence. I wrote a little note of thanks to him in London, telling him how all his favourite plants and trees were looking, and how the most astonishing of birds had chirped the honours of the house to me, and how, after singing on my shoulder, to the inconceivable rapture of my little maid, he was then at roost in the usual corner of his cage.
With my note sent off to the post, I made myself very busy in unpacking and arranging; and I told Charley I should want her no more that night.


For I had not yet looked in the glass and had never asked to have my own restored to me. I knew this to be a weakness which must be overcome, but I had always said to myself that I would begin afresh when I got to where I now was. Therefore I had wanted to be alone, and therefore I said, now alone, in my own room, "Esther, if you are to be happy, if you are to have any right to pray to be true-hearted, you must keep your word, my dear." I was quite resolved to keep it, but I sat down for a little while first to reflect upon all my blessings. And then I said my prayers and thought a little more.

For I had not yet looked in the mirror. I had always said to myself that I would begin afresh when I got here. Therefore I had wanted to be alone. I said now, "Esther, you must keep your word, my dear." I was quite resolved to keep it, but I sat down for a little while first to reflect upon all my blessings. And then I said my prayers and thought a little more.


My hair had not been cut off, though it had been in danger more than once. It was long and thick. I let it down, and shook it out, and went up to the glass upon the dressing-table. There was a little muslin curtain drawn across it. I drew it back and stood for a moment looking through such a veil of my own hair that I could see nothing else. Then I put my hair aside and looked at the reflection in the mirror, encouraged by seeing how placidly it looked at me. I was very much changed--oh, very, very much. At first my face was so strange to me that I think I should have put my hands before it and started back but for the encouragement I have mentioned. Very soon it became more familiar, and then I knew the extent of the alteration in it better than I had done at first. It was not like what I had expected, but I had expected nothing definite, and I dare say anything definite would have surprised me.

My hair had not been cut off; it was long and thick. I let it down, and shook it out, and went up to the glass upon the dressing-table. There was a little muslin curtain drawn across it. I drew it back and stood for a moment looking through such a veil of my own hair that I could see nothing else.
Then I put my hair aside and looked at the reflection in the mirror, encouraged by seeing how placidly it looked at me. I was very much changed - oh, very, very much. At first my face was quite strange to me. Very soon it became more familiar, and then I knew the extent of the alteration. It was not like what I had expected, but I had expected nothing definite.


I had never been a beauty and had never thought myself one, but I had been very different from this. It was all gone now. Heaven was so good to me that I could let it go with a few not bitter tears and could stand there arranging my hair for the night quite thankfully.


One thing troubled me, and I considered it for a long time before I went to sleep. I had kept Mr. Woodcourt's flowers. When they were withered I had dried them and put them in a book that I was fond of. Nobody knew this, not even Ada. I was doubtful whether I had a right to preserve what he had sent to one so different--whether it was generous towards him to do it. I wished to be generous to him, even in the secret depths of my heart, which he would never know, because I could have loved him--could have been devoted to him. At last I came to the conclusion that I might keep them if I treasured them only as a remembrance of what was irrevocably past and gone, never to be looked back on any more, in any other light. I hope this may not seem trivial. I was very much in earnest.

One thing troubled me, and I considered it for a long time before I went to sleep. I had kept Mr. Woodcourt's flowers. When they were withered I had dried them and put them in a book that I was fond of. Nobody knew this, not even Ada. I was doubtful whether I had a right to preserve what he had sent to one so different - whether it was generous towards him to do it. I wished to be generous to him, even in the secret depths of my heart, which he would never know, because I could have loved him - could have been devoted to him.
At last I came to the conclusion that I might keep the flowers if I treasured them only as a remembrance of what was irrevocably past and gone, never to be looked back on any more. I hope this may not seem trivial. I was very much in earnest.


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

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


"Dear, dear, miss!" cried Charley, starting. "Is that you?"


"Yes, Charley," said I, quietly putting up my hair. "And I am very well indeed, and very happy."


I saw it was a weight off Charley's mind, but it was a greater weight off mine. I knew the worst now and was composed to it. I shall not conceal, as I go on, the weaknesses I could not quite conquer, but they always passed from me soon and the happier frame of mind stayed by me faithfully.


Wishing to be fully re-established in my strength and my good spirits before Ada came, I now laid down a little series of plans with Charley for being in the fresh air all day long. We were to be out before breakfast, and were to dine early, and were to be out again before and after dinner, and were to talk in the garden after tea, and were to go to rest betimes, and were to climb every hill and explore every road, lane, and field in the neighbourhood. As to restoratives and strengthening delicacies, Mr. Boythorn's good housekeeper was for ever trotting about with something to eat or drink in her hand; I could not even be heard of as resting in the park but she would come trotting after me with a basket, her cheerful face shining with a lecture on the importance of frequent nourishment. Then there was a pony expressly for my riding, a chubby pony with a short neck and a mane all over his eyes who could canter--when he would--so easily and quietly that he was a treasure. In a very few days he would come to me in the paddock when I called him, and eat out of my hand, and follow me about. We arrived at such a capital understanding that when he was jogging with me lazily, and rather obstinately, down some shady lane, if I patted his neck and said, "Stubbs, I am surprised you don't canter when you know how much I like it; and I think you might oblige me, for you are only getting stupid and going to sleep," he would give his head a comical shake or two and set off directly, while Charley would stand still and laugh with such enjoyment that her laughter was like music. I don't know who had given Stubbs his name, but it seemed to belong to him as naturally as his rough coat. Once we put him in a little chaise and drove him triumphantly through the green lanes for five miles; but all at once, as we were extolling him to the skies, he seemed to take it ill that he should have been accompanied so far by the circle of tantalizing little gnats that had been hovering round and round his ears the whole way without appearing to advance an inch, and stopped to think about it. I suppose he came to the decision that it was not to be borne, for he steadily refused to move until I gave the reins to Charley and got out and walked, when he followed me with a sturdy sort of good humour, putting his head under my arm and rubbing his ear against my sleeve. It was in vain for me to say, "Now, Stubbs, I feel quite sure from what I know of you that you will go on if I ride a little while," for the moment I left him, he stood stock still again. Consequently I was obliged to lead the way, as before; and in this order we returned home, to the great delight of the village.

Wishing to be fully re-established in my strength and good spirits before Ada came, I now laid down plans with Charley for being in the fresh air all day long. We were to be out before breakfast, and were to dine early, and were to be out again before and after dinner, and were to talk in the garden after tea, and were to explore every road, lane, and field in the neighbourhood. As to strengthening delicacies, Mr. Boythorn's good housekeeper was for ever trotting about with something to eat or drink in her hand; if I was resting in the park she would come trotting after me with a basket, her cheerful face shining.
Then there was a chubby pony with a mane all over his eyes expressly for my riding, so easy and quiet that he was a treasure. In a very few days he would come to me in the paddock when I called him, and follow me about. His name was Stubbs. Once we put him in a little chaise and drove him triumphantly through the green lanes for five miles; but just as we were extolling him to the skies, he took umbrage at the circle of little gnats around his ears, and stopped. He steadily refused to move until I gave the reins to Charley and got out and walked, when he followed me with sturdy good humour, rubbing his ear against my sleeve. The moment I left him, he stood stock still again. Consequently I was obliged to lead the way; and in this order we returned home, to the great delight of the village.


Charley and I had reason to call it the most friendly of villages, I am sure, for in a week's time the people were so glad to see us go by, though ever so frequently in the course of a day, that there were faces of greeting in every cottage. I had known many of the grown people before and almost all the children, but now the very steeple began to wear a familiar and affectionate look. Among my new friends was an old old woman who lived in such a little thatched and whitewashed dwelling that when the outside shutter was turned up on its hinges, it shut up the whole house-front. This old lady had a grandson who was a sailor, and I wrote a letter to him for her and drew at the top of it the chimney-corner in which she had brought him up and where his old stool yet occupied its old place. This was considered by the whole village the most wonderful achievement in the world, but when an answer came back all the way from Plymouth, in which he mentioned that he was going to take the picture all the way to America, and from America would write again, I got all the credit that ought to have been given to the post-office and was invested with the merit of the whole system.

It was the most friendly of villages, I am sure, for in a week's time the people were so glad to see us go by that there were faces of greeting in every cottage. I had known many of the people before, but now the very steeple began to wear a familiar and affectionate look. Among my new friends was an old old woman who lived in a tiny thatched and whitewashed dwelling; she had a grandson who was a sailor, and I wrote a letter to him for her. At the top of it, I drew the chimney-corner in which his old stool yet stood. This was considered by the whole village the most wonderful achievement in the world, but when an answer came back from Plymouth, in which he mentioned that he was going to take the picture all the way to America, I got all the credit that ought to have been given to the post-office.


Thus, what with being so much in the air, playing with so many children, gossiping with so many people, sitting on invitation in so many cottages, going on with Charley's education, and writing long letters to Ada every day, I had scarcely any time to think about that little loss of mine and was almost always cheerful. If I did think of it at odd moments now and then, I had only to be busy and forget it. I felt it more than I had hoped I should once when a child said, "Mother, why is the lady not a pretty lady now like she used to be?" But when I found the child was not less fond of me, and drew its soft hand over my face with a kind of pitying protection in its touch, that soon set me up again. There were many little occurrences which suggested to me, with great consolation, how natural it is to gentle hearts to be considerate and delicate towards any inferiority. One of these particularly touched me. I happened to stroll into the little church when a marriage was just concluded, and the young couple had to sign the register.

What with being so much outside, playing with so many children, gossiping with so many people, going on with Charley's education, and writing long letters to Ada every day, I had scarcely any time to think about that little loss of mine and was almost always cheerful. If I did think of it at odd moments, I had only to be busy and forget it. I felt it more than I had hoped I should, when a child said, "Mother, why is the lady not pretty like she used to be?" But when I found the child was not less fond of me, that soon set me up again.
There were many little occurrences of consideration and delicacy. Once of these particularly touched me. I happened to stroll into the church when a marriage was just concluded, and the young couple had to sign the register.


The bridegroom, to whom the pen was handed first, made a rude cross for his mark; the bride, who came next, did the same. Now, I had known the bride when I was last there, not only as the prettiest girl in the place, but as having quite distinguished herself in the school, and I could not help looking at her with some surprise. She came aside and whispered to me, while tears of honest love and admiration stood in her bright eyes, "He's a dear good fellow, miss; but he can't write yet--he's going to learn of me--and I wouldn't shame him for the world!" Why, what had I to fear, I thought, when there was this nobility in the soul of a labouring man's daughter!

The bridegroom made a rude cross for his mark; the bride did the same. Now, I had known the bride when I was last there, not only as the prettiest girl in the place, but as having distinguished herself in the school, and I could not help looking at her with some surprise. She came aside and whispered to me, with tears of honest love in her bright eyes, "He's a dear good fellow, miss; but he can't write yet - he's going to learn of me - and I wouldn't shame him for the world!" Why, what had I to fear, I thought, when there was this nobility in the soul of a labourer's daughter!


The air blew as freshly and revivingly upon me as it had ever blown, and the healthy colour came into my new face as it had come into my old one. Charley was wonderful to see, she was so radiant and so rosy; and we both enjoyed the whole day and slept soundly the whole night.

The healthy colour came into my new face as it had come into my old one. Charley was radiant and rosy; and we both enjoyed the whole day and slept soundly the whole night.


There was a favourite spot of mine in the park-woods of Chesney Wold where a seat had been erected commanding a lovely view. The wood had been cleared and opened to improve this point of sight, and the bright sunny landscape beyond was so beautiful that I rested there at least once every day. A picturesque part of the Hall, called the Ghost's Walk, was seen to advantage from this higher ground; and the startling name, and the old legend in the Dedlock family which I had heard from Mr. Boythorn accounting for it, mingled with the view and gave it something of a mysterious interest in addition to its real charms. There was a bank here, too, which was a famous one for violets; and as it was a daily delight of Charley's to gather wild flowers, she took as much to the spot as I did.

There was a favourite spot of mine in the park-woods of Chesney Wold where a seat commanded a lovely view. The wood had been cleared to improve this point of sight, and the landscape was so beautiful that I rested there at least once every day. A picturesque part of the Hall, called the Ghost's Walk, was seen to advantage from this higher ground; and the startling name, and the old legend about it which I had heard from Mr. Boythorn, gave it a mysterious interest. There was a bank here, too, famous for violets; and as it was Charley's delight to gather wild flowers, she took as much to the spot as I did.


It would be idle to inquire now why I never went close to the house or never went inside it. The family were not there, I had heard on my arrival, and were not expected. I was far from being incurious or uninterested about the building; on the contrary, I often sat in this place wondering how the rooms ranged and whether any echo like a footstep really did resound at times, as the story said, upon the lonely Ghost's Walk. The indefinable feeling with which Lady Dedlock had impressed me may have had some influence in keeping me from the house even when she was absent. I am not sure. Her face and figure were associated with it, naturally; but I cannot say that they repelled me from it, though something did. For whatever reason or no reason, I had never once gone near it, down to the day at which my story now arrives.

The family were not at the house, I had heard, and were not expected. I was curious about the building, and often sat in this place wondering how the rooms ranged and whether any echo like a footstep really did resound at times upon the lonely Ghost's Walk. The indefinable feeling with which Lady Dedlock had impressed me may have had some influence in keeping me from the house. I am not sure. For whatever reason, I had never once gone near it, down to the day at which my story now arrives.


I was resting at my favourite point after a long ramble, and Charley was gathering violets at a little distance from me. I had been looking at the Ghost's Walk lying in a deep shade of masonry afar off and picturing to myself the female shape that was said to haunt it when I became aware of a figure approaching through the wood. The perspective was so long and so darkened by leaves, and the shadows of the branches on the ground made it so much more intricate to the eye, that at first I could not discern what figure it was. By little and little it revealed itself to be a woman's--a lady's--Lady Dedlock's. She was alone and coming to where I sat with a much quicker step, I observed to my surprise, than was usual with her.

I was resting at my favourite point, and Charley was gathering violets a little distance away. I had been looking at the Ghost's Walk afar off when I became aware of a figure approaching through the wood. At first I could not discern what figure it was. By little and little it revealed itself to be a woman's - a lady's - Lady Dedlock's. She was alone and coming to where I sat with a much quicker step than usual, I observed to my surprise.


I was fluttered by her being unexpectedly so near (she was almost within speaking distance before I knew her) and would have risen to continue my walk. But I could not. I was rendered motionless. Not so much by her hurried gesture of entreaty, not so much by her quick advance and outstretched hands, not so much by the great change in her manner and the absence of her haughty self-restraint, as by a something in her face that I had pined for and dreamed of when I was a little child, something I had never seen in any face, something I had never seen in hers before.

I was fluttered by her being unexpectedly so near (she was almost within speaking distance before I knew her) and would have risen to continue my walk. But I could not. I was rendered motionless. Not so much by her hurried gesture of entreaty, not so much by her quick advance and outstretched hands, not so much by the great change in her manner, as by a something in her face that I had pined for and dreamed of when I was a little child, something I had never seen in any face before.


A dread and faintness fell upon me, and I called to Charley. Lady Dedlock stopped upon the instant and changed back almost to what I had known her.

A dread and faintness fell upon me, and I called to Charley. Lady Dedlock instantly stopped and changed back almost to what I had known her.


"Miss Summerson, I am afraid I have startled you," she said, now advancing slowly. "You can scarcely be strong yet. You have been very ill, I know. I have been much concerned to hear it."


I could no more have removed my eyes from her pale face than I could have stirred from the bench on which I sat. She gave me her hand, and its deadly coldness, so at variance with the enforced composure of her features, deepened the fascination that overpowered me. I cannot say what was in my whirling thoughts.

I could not stir. She gave me her hand, which was deadly cold. I cannot say what was in my whirling thoughts.


"You are recovering again?" she asked kindly.


"I was quite well but a moment ago, Lady Dedlock."


"Will you send her on before and walk towards your house with me?"

"Will you send her on before us and walk towards your house with me?"


"Charley," said I, "take your flowers home, and I will follow you directly."


Charley, with her best curtsy, blushingly tied on her bonnet and went her way. When she was gone, Lady Dedlock sat down on the seat beside me.

Charley, with her best curtsy, went her way. Lady Dedlock sat down on the seat beside me.


I cannot tell in any words what the state of my mind was when I saw in her hand my handkerchief with which I had covered the dead baby.

I cannot tell in any words what the state of my mind was when I saw in her hand my handkerchief, with which I had covered the dead baby.


I looked at her, but I could not see her, I could not hear her, I could not draw my breath. The beating of my heart was so violent and wild that I felt as if my life were breaking from me. But when she caught me to her breast, kissed me, wept over me, compassionated me, and called me back to myself; when she fell down on her knees and cried to me, "Oh, my child, my child, I am your wicked and unhappy mother! Oh, try to forgive me!"--when I saw her at my feet on the bare earth in her great agony of mind, I felt, through all my tumult of emotion, a burst of gratitude to the providence of God that I was so changed as that I never could disgrace her by any trace of likeness, as that nobody could ever now look at me and look at her and remotely think of any near tie between us.

I looked at her, but I could not see her, I could not hear her, I could not draw my breath. The beating of my heart was so violent and wild that I felt as if my life were breaking from me. But when she caught me to her breast, kissed me, wept over me, and called me back to myself; when she fell down on her knees and cried to me, "Oh, my child, my child, I am your wicked and unhappy mother! Oh, try to forgive me!" - when I saw her at my feet in her great agony of mind, I felt, through all my tumult of emotion, a burst of gratitude to God that I was so changed that I never could disgrace her by any likeness. Nobody could now look at us and think of any tie between us.


I raised my mother up, praying and beseeching her not to stoop before me in such affliction and humiliation. I did so in broken, incoherent words, for besides the trouble I was in, it frightened me to see her at MY feet. I told her--or I tried to tell her--that if it were for me, her child, under any circumstances to take upon me to forgive her, I did it, and had done it, many, many years. I told her that my heart overflowed with love for her, that it was natural love which nothing in the past had changed or could change. That it was not for me, then resting for the first time on my mother's bosom, to take her to account for having given me life, but that my duty was to bless her and receive her, though the whole world turned from her, and that I only asked her leave to do it. I held my mother in my embrace, and she held me in hers, and among the still woods in the silence of the summer day there seemed to be nothing but our two troubled minds that was not at peace.

I raised my mother up, praying her not to stoop before me in such affliction. I did so in broken, incoherent words, for besides the trouble I was in, it frightened me to see her at my feet. I tried to tell her that if it were for me, her child, to forgive her, I did it, and had done it, many, many years. I told her that my heart overflowed with love for her, natural love which nothing could change. That my duty was to bless and receive her, though the whole world turned from her, and that I only asked her leave to do it. I held my mother in my embrace, and she held me in hers, and among the still woods in the silence of the summer day there seemed to be nothing but our two troubled minds that was not at peace.


"To bless and receive me," groaned my mother, "it is far too late. I must travel my dark road alone, and it will lead me where it will. From day to day, sometimes from hour to hour, I do not see the way before my guilty feet. This is the earthly punishment I have brought upon myself. I bear it, and I hide it."

"It is too late to bless and receive me," groaned my mother, "I must travel my dark road alone, though I do not see the way before my guilty feet. This is the earthly punishment I have brought upon myself. I bear it, and I hide it.


Even in the thinking of her endurance, she drew her habitual air of proud indifference about her like a veil, though she soon cast it off again.


"I must keep this secret, if by any means it can be kept, not wholly for myself. I have a husband, wretched and dishonouring creature that I am!"

I must keep this secret, if I can, not wholly for myself. I have a husband, wretched and dishonouring creature that I am!"


These words she uttered with a suppressed cry of despair, more terrible in its sound than any shriek. Covering her face with her hands, she shrank down in my embrace as if she were unwilling that I should touch her; nor could I, by my utmost persuasions or by any endearments I could use, prevail upon her to rise. She said, no, no, no, she could only speak to me so; she must be proud and disdainful everywhere else; she would be humbled and ashamed there, in the only natural moments of her life.

These words she uttered with a suppressed cry of despair. Covering her face with her hands, she shrank down in my embrace as if she were unwilling that I should touch her; and I could not persuade her to rise. She said, no, no, no, she could only speak to me so; she must be proud everywhere else; she would be humbled and ashamed there, in the only natural moments of her life.


My unhappy mother told me that in my illness she had been nearly frantic. She had but then known that her child was living. She could not have suspected me to be that child before. She had followed me down here to speak to me but once in all her life. We never could associate, never could communicate, never probably from that time forth could interchange another word on earth. She put into my hands a letter she had written for my reading only and said when I had read it and destroyed it--but not so much for her sake, since she asked nothing, as for her husband's and my own--I must evermore consider her as dead. If I could believe that she loved me, in this agony in which I saw her, with a mother's love, she asked me to do that, for then I might think of her with a greater pity, imagining what she suffered. She had put herself beyond all hope and beyond all help. Whether she preserved her secret until death or it came to be discovered and she brought dishonour and disgrace upon the name she had taken, it was her solitary struggle always; and no affection could come near her, and no human creature could render her any aid.

My unhappy mother told me that in my illness she had been nearly frantic. She had only then known that her child was living; she had never suspected it before. She had followed me down here to speak to me just once in all her life: we could never meet or communicate again.
She put into my hands a letter she had written for my reading only and said that when I had read it and destroyed it, I must evermore consider her as dead. If I could believe that she loved me, in this agony in which I saw her, she asked me to do that, for then I might think of her with greater pity. She had put herself beyond all hope and beyond all help. Whether she preserved her secret until death, or whether it came to be discovered and she brought disgrace upon her name, it was her solitary struggle always; and no affection could come near her, and nobody could help her.


"But is the secret safe so far?" I asked. "Is it safe now, dearest mother?"

"But is the secret safe now, dearest mother?"


"No," replied my mother. "It has been very near discovery. It was saved by an accident. It may be lost by another accident--to-morrow, any day."

"No," replied my mother. "It has been very near discovery. It was saved by an accident. It may be lost by another accident, any day."


"Hush! Do not tremble and cry so much for me. I am not worthy of these tears," said my mother, kissing my hands. "I dread one person very much."

"Hush! Do not tremble and cry for me. I am not worthy of these tears," said my mother, kissing my hands. "I dread one person very much.


"Not a friend. One who is too passionless to be either. He is Sir Leicester Dedlock's lawyer, mechanically faithful without attachment, and very jealous of the profit, privilege, and reputation of being master of the mysteries of great houses."

He is Sir Leicester Dedlock's lawyer, faithful without attachment, and jealous of the profit and privilege of great houses."


"Yes! He is always vigilant and always near me. I may keep him at a standstill, but I can never shake him off."


"He has none, and no anger. He is indifferent to everything but his calling. His calling is the acquisition of secrets and the holding possession of such power as they give him, with no sharer or opponent in it."

"He has none. He is indifferent to everything but the acquisition of secrets and the power they give him."


"I shall never try. The dark road I have trodden for so many years will end where it will. I follow it alone to the end, whatever the end be. It may be near, it may be distant; while the road lasts, nothing turns me."

"I shall never try. The dark road I have trodden for so many years will end where it will. The end may be near, it may be distant; while the road lasts, nothing turns me.


"I AM resolved. I have long outbidden folly with folly, pride with pride, scorn with scorn, insolence with insolence, and have outlived many vanities with many more. I will outlive this danger, and outdie it, if I can. It has closed around me almost as awfully as if these woods of Chesney Wold had closed around the house, but my course through it is the same. I have but one; I can have but one."

I will outlive this danger, and outdie it, if I can. It has closed around me almost as awfully as if these woods of Chesney Wold had closed around the house, but my course through it is the same."


"Mr. Jarndyce--" I was beginning when my mother hurriedly inquired, "Does HE suspect?"

"Mr. Jarndyce-" I was beginning when my mother hurriedly inquired, "Does he suspect?"


"No," said I. "No, indeed! Be assured that he does not!" And I told her what he had related to me as his knowledge of my story. "But he is so good and sensible," said I, "that perhaps if he knew--"

"No, indeed!" said I. And I told her what he had related to me about his knowledge of my story. "But he is so good and sensible," said I, "that perhaps if he knew-"


My mother, who until this time had made no change in her position, raised her hand up to my lips and stopped me.

My mother raised her hand to my lips and stopped me.


"Confide fully in him," she said after a little while. "You have my free consent--a small gift from such a mother to her injured child!--but do not tell me of it. Some pride is left in me even yet."

"Confide fully in him," she said. "You have my free consent - but do not tell me of it. Some pride is left in me even yet."


I explained, as nearly as I could then, or can recall now--for my agitation and distress throughout were so great that I scarcely understood myself, though every word that was uttered in the mother's voice, so unfamiliar and so melancholy to me, which in my childhood I had never learned to love and recognize, had never been sung to sleep with, had never heard a blessing from, had never had a hope inspired by, made an enduring impression on my memory--I say I explained, or tried to do it, how I had only hoped that Mr. Jarndyce, who had been the best of fathers to me, might be able to afford some counsel and support to her. But my mother answered no, it was impossible; no one could help her. Through the desert that lay before her, she must go alone.

Every word that was uttered in my mother's voice, so unfamiliar and so melancholy to me, made an enduring impression on my memory. I explained, or tried to - though my agitation and distress were so great that I scarcely understood myself - how I had only hoped that Mr. Jarndyce might give her counsel and support. But my mother answered no, it was impossible; no one could help her. Through the desert that lay before her, she must go alone.


"My child, my child!" she said. "For the last time! These kisses for the last time! These arms upon my neck for the last time! We shall meet no more. To hope to do what I seek to do, I must be what I have been so long. Such is my reward and doom. If you hear of Lady Dedlock, brilliant, prosperous, and flattered, think of your wretched mother, conscience-stricken, underneath that mask! Think that the reality is in her suffering, in her useless remorse, in her murdering within her breast the only love and truth of which it is capable! And then forgive her if you can, and cry to heaven to forgive her, which it never can!"

"My child, my child!" she said. "For the last time! These kisses for the last time! These arms upon my neck for the last time! We shall meet no more. I must be what I have been so long. If you hear of Lady Dedlock, brilliant, prosperous, and flattered, think of your wretched mother, conscience-stricken, underneath that mask! Think that the reality is in her suffering, in her useless remorse! Forgive her if you can, and cry to heaven to forgive her, which it never can!"


We held one another for a little space yet, but she was so firm that she took my hands away, and put them back against my breast, and with a last kiss as she held them there, released them, and went from me into the wood. I was alone, and calm and quiet below me in the sun and shade lay the old house, with its terraces and turrets, on which there had seemed to me to be such complete repose when I first saw it, but which now looked like the obdurate and unpitying watcher of my mother's misery.

We held one another for a little while yet, but then she took my hands away, and put them back against my breast, and with a last kiss released them, and went from me into the wood. I was alone; calm and quiet below me lay the old house, with its terraces and turrets, on which there had seemed to me to be such complete repose when I first saw it, but which now looked like the unpitying watcher of my mother's misery.


Stunned as I was, as weak and helpless at first as I had ever been in my sick chamber, the necessity of guarding against the danger of discovery, or even of the remotest suspicion, did me service. I took such precautions as I could to hide from Charley that I had been crying, and I constrained myself to think of every sacred obligation that there was upon me to be careful and collected. It was not a little while before I could succeed or could even restrain bursts of grief, but after an hour or so I was better and felt that I might return. I went home very slowly and told Charley, whom I found at the gate looking for me, that I had been tempted to extend my walk after Lady Dedlock had left me and that I was over-tired and would lie down. Safe in my own room, I read the letter. I clearly derived from it--and that was much then--that I had not been abandoned by my mother. Her elder and only sister, the godmother of my childhood, discovering signs of life in me when I had been laid aside as dead, had in her stern sense of duty, with no desire or willingness that I should live, reared me in rigid secrecy and had never again beheld my mother's face from within a few hours of my birth. So strangely did I hold my place in this world that until within a short time back I had never, to my own mother's knowledge, breathed--had been buried--had never been endowed with life--had never borne a name. When she had first seen me in the church she had been startled and had thought of what would have been like me if it had ever lived, and had lived on, but that was all then.

Stunned as I was, the necessity of guarding against the danger of discovery, or even of suspicion, did me service. I took what precautions I could to hide from Charley that I had been crying, and endeavoured to be careful and collected. It was a while before I could restrain bursts of grief, but after an hour or so I was better and felt that I might return.
I went home very slowly and told Charley, whom I found at the gate looking for me, that I had been tempted to extend my walk after Lady Dedlock had left me and that I was over-tired and would lie down.
Safe in my own room, I read the letter. I learnt from it - and that was much then - that I had not been abandoned by my mother. Her elder and only sister, the godmother of my childhood, discovering signs of life in me when I had been laid aside as dead, had in her stern sense of duty reared me in rigid secrecy. Until a short time back I had never, to my mother's knowledge, breathed - had never borne a name. When she had first seen me in the church she had been startled and had thought of what her child would have been like if it had lived, but that was all.


What more the letter told me needs not to be repeated here. It has its own times and places in my story.


My first care was to burn what my mother had written and to consume even its ashes. I hope it may not appear very unnatural or bad in me that I then became heavily sorrowful to think I had ever been reared. That I felt as if I knew it would have been better and happier for many people if indeed I had never breathed. That I had a terror of myself as the danger and the possible disgrace of my own mother and of a proud family name. That I was so confused and shaken as to be possessed by a belief that it was right and had been intended that I should die in my birth, and that it was wrong and not intended that I should be then alive.

My first care was to burn what my mother had written. I hope it may not appear very unnatural or bad in me that I then became heavily sorrowful to think I had ever been reared. I felt as if it would have been better for many people if I had never breathed. I had a terror of myself as the danger and the possible disgrace of my own mother and of a proud family name. I was so confused and shaken that I believed I should have died at birth, and that it was wrong that I should be alive.


These are the real feelings that I had. I fell asleep worn out, and when I awoke I cried afresh to think that I was back in the world with my load of trouble for others. I was more than ever frightened of myself, thinking anew of her against whom I was a witness, of the owner of Chesney Wold, of the new and terrible meaning of the old words now moaning in my ear like a surge upon the shore, "Your mother, Esther, was your disgrace, and you are hers. The time will come--and soon enough--when you will understand this better, and will feel it too, as no one save a woman can." With them, those other words returned, "Pray daily that the sins of others be not visited upon your head." I could not disentangle all that was about me, and I felt as if the blame and the shame were all in me, and the visitation had come down.

These are the real feelings that I had. I fell asleep worn out, and when I awoke I cried afresh to think that I was back in the world with my load of trouble for others. I was frightened of myself, thinking of the new and terrible meaning of the old words now moaning in my ear: "Your mother, Esther, was your disgrace, and you are hers. The time will come when you will understand this better, and will feel it too." With them, those other words returned, "Pray daily that the sins of others be not visited upon your head." I could not disentangle all that was about me, and I felt as if the blame and the shame were all in me.


The day waned into a gloomy evening, overcast and sad, and I still contended with the same distress. I went out alone, and after walking a little in the park, watching the dark shades falling on the trees and the fitful flight of the bats, which sometimes almost touched me, was attracted to the house for the first time. Perhaps I might not have gone near it if I had been in a stronger frame of mind. As it was, I took the path that led close by it.

The day waned into a gloomy evening, overcast and sad, and I still contended with the same distress. I went out alone, and walked a little in the park, watching the dark shades falling on the trees and the fitful flight of the bats. I was attracted to the house for the first time, and took the path that led close by it.


I did not dare to linger or to look up, but I passed before the terrace garden with its fragrant odours, and its broad walks, and its well-kept beds and smooth turf; and I saw how beautiful and grave it was, and how the old stone balustrades and parapets, and wide flights of shallow steps, were seamed by time and weather; and how the trained moss and ivy grew about them, and around the old stone pedestal of the sun-dial; and I heard the fountain falling. Then the way went by long lines of dark windows diversified by turreted towers and porches of eccentric shapes, where old stone lions and grotesque monsters bristled outside dens of shadow and snarled at the evening gloom over the escutcheons they held in their grip. Thence the path wound underneath a gateway, and through a court-yard where the principal entrance was (I hurried quickly on), and by the stables where none but deep voices seemed to be, whether in the murmuring of the wind through the strong mass of ivy holding to a high red wall, or in the low complaining of the weathercock, or in the barking of the dogs, or in the slow striking of a clock. So, encountering presently a sweet smell of limes, whose rustling I could hear, I turned with the turning of the path to the south front, and there above me were the balustrades of the Ghost's Walk and one lighted window that might be my mother's.

I did not dare to linger or look up, but I passed before the terrace garden with its fragrant odours, and its broad walks, and its well-kept beds; I saw how beautiful and grave it was, and how the old stone balustrades and parapets, and wide flights of shallow steps, were seamed by time and weather; and how the moss and ivy grew about them, and around the old stone sun-dial; and I heard the fountain falling. Then the way went by long lines of dark windows, turreted towers and porches, where stone lions and monsters bristled outside dens of shadow and snarled at the evening gloom.
From there the path wound underneath a gateway, and through a court-yard where the main entrance was (I hurried quickly on), and past the stables. Encountering presently a sweet smell of lime trees, whose rustling I could hear, I turned with the path to the south front, and there above me were the balustrades of the Ghost's Walk and one lighted window that might be my mother's.


The way was paved here, like the terrace overhead, and my footsteps from being noiseless made an echoing sound upon the flags. Stopping to look at nothing, but seeing all I did see as I went, I was passing quickly on, and in a few moments should have passed the lighted window, when my echoing footsteps brought it suddenly into my mind that there was a dreadful truth in the legend of the Ghost's Walk, that it was I who was to bring calamity upon the stately house and that my warning feet were haunting it even then. Seized with an augmented terror of myself which turned me cold, I ran from myself and everything, retraced the way by which I had come, and never paused until I had gained the lodge-gate, and the park lay sullen and black behind me.

The way was paved here, and my footsteps from being noiseless made an echoing sound upon the flagstones. I was passing quickly on, and in a few moments should have passed the lighted window, when my echoing footsteps brought it suddenly into my mind that there was a dreadful truth in the legend of the Ghost's Walk, that it was I who was to bring calamity upon the stately house and that was haunting it now. Seized with a greater terror of myself, I ran from myself and everything, retraced the way by which I had come, and never paused until I reached the lodge-gate, and the park lay black behind me.


Not before I was alone in my own room for the night and had again been dejected and unhappy there did I begin to know how wrong and thankless this state was. But from my darling who was coming on the morrow, I found a joyful letter, full of such loving anticipation that I must have been of marble if it had not moved me; from my guardian, too, I found another letter, asking me to tell Dame Durden, if I should see that little woman anywhere, that they had moped most pitiably without her, that the housekeeping was going to rack and ruin, that nobody else could manage the keys, and that everybody in and about the house declared it was not the same house and was becoming rebellious for her return. Two such letters together made me think how far beyond my deserts I was beloved and how happy I ought to be. That made me think of all my past life; and that brought me, as it ought to have done before, into a better condition.

Alone in my own room for the night, I began to know how wrong and thankless my dejected state was. But from my darling, who was coming on the morrow, I found a joyful letter, full of such loving anticipation that I must have been made of marble if it had not moved me. From my guardian, too, I found another letter, asking me to tell Dame Durden, if I should see that little woman anywhere, that they had moped most pitiably without her, that the housekeeping was going to rack and ruin, and that everybody in the house longed for her return. These letters made me think how beloved I was and how happy I ought to be; and brought me into a better condition.


For I saw very well that I could not have been intended to die, or I should never have lived; not to say should never have been reserved for such a happy life. I saw very well how many things had worked together for my welfare, and that if the sins of the fathers were sometimes visited upon the children, the phrase did not mean what I had in the morning feared it meant. I knew I was as innocent of my birth as a queen of hers and that before my Heavenly Father I should not be punished for birth nor a queen rewarded for it. I had had experience, in the shock of that very day, that I could, even thus soon, find comforting reconcilements to the change that had fallen on me. I renewed my resolutions and prayed to be strengthened in them, pouring out my heart for myself and for my unhappy mother and feeling that the darkness of the morning was passing away. It was not upon my sleep; and when the next day's light awoke me, it was gone.

For I saw very well that I could not have been intended to die, or I should never have lived. I knew I was as innocent of my birth as a queen of hers, and that before my Heavenly Father I should not be punished for birth nor a queen rewarded for it. I renewed my resolutions and prayed to be strengthened in them, pouring out my heart for myself and for my unhappy mother. The darkness of the morning passed away; and when the next day's light awoke me, it was gone.


My dear girl was to arrive at five o'clock in the afternoon. How to help myself through the intermediate time better than by taking a long walk along the road by which she was to come, I did not know; so Charley and I and Stubbs--Stubbs saddled, for we never drove him after the one great occasion--made a long expedition along that road and back. On our return, we held a great review of the house and garden and saw that everything was in its prettiest condition, and had the bird out ready as an important part of the establishment.

My dear girl was to arrive at five o'clock in the afternoon. While waiting, I decided to take a walk along the road by which she was to come; so Charley and I and Stubbs made an expedition along that road and back. On our return, we held a great review of the house and garden and saw that everything was in its prettiest condition.


There were more than two full hours yet to elapse before she could come, and in that interval, which seemed a long one, I must confess I was nervously anxious about my altered looks. I loved my darling so well that I was more concerned for their effect on her than on any one. I was not in this slight distress because I at all repined--I am quite certain I did not, that day--but, I thought, would she be wholly prepared? When she first saw me, might she not be a little shocked and disappointed? Might it not prove a little worse than she expected? Might she not look for her old Esther and not find her? Might she not have to grow used to me and to begin all over again?

There were more than two hours yet before she could come, and in that interval I must confess I was nervously anxious about my altered looks. I loved my darling so well that I was more concerned for their effect on her than on anyone. I thought, would she be wholly prepared? When she first saw me, might she not be shocked? Might she look for her old Esther and not find her?


I knew the various expressions of my sweet girl's face so well, and it was such an honest face in its loveliness, that I was sure beforehand she could not hide that first look from me. And I considered whether, if it should signify any one of these meanings, which was so very likely, could I quite answer for myself?

I knew the various expressions of my sweet girl's face so well, and it was such an honest face, that I was sure she could not hide that first look from me. And I considered whether, if it should show any of these meanings, as was likely, could I quite answer for myself?


Well, I thought I could. After last night, I thought I could. But to wait and wait, and expect and expect, and think and think, was such bad preparation that I resolved to go along the road again and meet her.

Well, after last night, I thought I could. But to wait and wait, and think and think, was such bad preparation that I resolved to go along the road again and meet her.


So I said to Charley, "Charley, I will go by myself and walk along the road until she comes." Charley highly approving of anything that pleased me, I went and left her at home.

Charley approved, so I went, leaving her at home.


But before I got to the second milestone, I had been in so many palpitations from seeing dust in the distance (though I knew it was not, and could not, be the coach yet) that I resolved to turn back and go home again. And when I had turned, I was in such fear of the coach coming up behind me (though I still knew that it neither would, nor could, do any such thing) that I ran the greater part of the way to avoid being overtaken.

But before I got to the second milestone, I had been in so many palpitations from seeing dust in the distance (though I knew it could not be the coach yet) that I resolved to turn back and go home again. And when I had turned, I was in such fear of the coach coming up behind me that I ran most of the way to avoid being overtaken.


Then, I considered, when I had got safe back again, this was a nice thing to have done! Now I was hot and had made the worst of it instead of the best.


At last, when I believed there was at least a quarter of an hour more yet, Charley all at once cried out to me as I was trembling in the garden, "Here she comes, miss! Here she is!"

At last, when I believed there was at least a quarter of an hour more yet, Charley cried out to me, "Here she comes, miss!"


I did not mean to do it, but I ran upstairs into my room and hid myself behind the door. There I stood trembling, even when I heard my darling calling as she came upstairs, "Esther, my dear, my love, where are you? Little woman, dear Dame Durden!"

I did not mean to do it, but I ran upstairs into my room and hid behind the door. There I stood trembling, even when I heard my darling calling as she came upstairs, "Esther, my dear, my love, where are you?"


She ran in, and was running out again when she saw me. Ah, my angel girl! The old dear look, all love, all fondness, all affection. Nothing else in it--no, nothing, nothing!

She ran in, and saw me. Ah, my angel girl! The old dear look, all love, all fondness, all affection. Nothing else in it - no, nothing, nothing!


Oh, how happy I was, down upon the floor, with my sweet beautiful girl down upon the floor too, holding my scarred face to her lovely cheek, bathing it with tears and kisses, rocking me to and fro like a child, calling me by every tender name that she could think of, and pressing me to her faithful heart.

Oh, how happy I was, down upon the floor with my sweet beautiful girl holding my scarred face to her lovely cheek, bathing it with tears and kisses, rocking me like a child, calling me by every tender name, and pressing me to her faithful heart.


Darkness rests upon Tom-All-Alone's. Dilating and dilating since the sun went down last night, it has gradually swelled until it fills every void in the place. For a time there were some dungeon lights burning, as the lamp of life hums in Tom-all-Alone's, heavily, heavily, in the nauseous air, and winking--as that lamp, too, winks in Tom-all-Alone's--at many horrible things. But they are blotted out. The moon has eyed Tom with a dull cold stare, as admitting some puny emulation of herself in his desert region unfit for life and blasted by volcanic fires; but she has passed on and is gone. The blackest nightmare in the infernal stables grazes on Tom-all-Alone's, and Tom is fast asleep.

Darkness rests upon Tom-All-Alone's. Since the sun went down last night, the darkness has gradually swelled until it fills every void in the place. For a time there were some dungeon lights burning. But they are blotted out. The moon has eyed Tom with a dull cold stare; but she has passed on and is gone. The blackest nightmare in the infernal stables grazes on Tom-all-Alone's, and Tom is fast asleep.


Much mighty speech-making there has been, both in and out of Parliament, concerning Tom, and much wrathful disputation how Tom shall be got right. Whether he shall be put into the main road by constables, or by beadles, or by bell-ringing, or by force of figures, or by correct principles of taste, or by high church, or by low church, or by no church; whether he shall be set to splitting trusses of polemical straws with the crooked knife of his mind or whether he shall be put to stone-breaking instead. In the midst of which dust and noise there is but one thing perfectly clear, to wit, that Tom only may and can, or shall and will, be reclaimed according to somebody's theory but nobody's practice. And in the hopeful meantime, Tom goes to perdition head foremost in his old determined spirit.

Much mighty speech-making there has been, both in and out of Parliament, concerning Tom, and how Tom shall be got right. Whether he shall be put into the main road by constables, or by beadles, or by churches; or whether he shall be put to stone-breaking instead. One thing is perfectly clear: that Tom can and will only be reclaimed according to somebody's theory but nobody's practice. And in the meantime, Tom goes to perdition.


But he has his revenge. Even the winds are his messengers, and they serve him in these hours of darkness. There is not a drop of Tom's corrupted blood but propagates infection and contagion somewhere. It shall pollute, this very night, the choice stream (in which chemists on analysis would find the genuine nobility) of a Norman house, and his Grace shall not be able to say nay to the infamous alliance. There is not an atom of Tom's slime, not a cubic inch of any pestilential gas in which he lives, not one obscenity or degradation about him, not an ignorance, not a wickedness, not a brutality of his committing, but shall work its retribution through every order of society up to the proudest of the proud and to the highest of the high. Verily, what with tainting, plundering, and spoiling, Tom has his revenge.

But he has his revenge. Even the winds are his messengers, sending his infection and contagion everywhere. There is not an atom of Tom's slime, not one obscenity or degradation about him, not an ignorance, not a wickedness, but shall work its retribution through every order of society up to the proudest of the proud and the highest of the high. And thus Tom has his revenge.