Jo's Will

As Allan Woodcourt and Jo proceed along the streets where the high
church spires and the distances are so near and clear in the morning
light that the city itself seems renewed by rest, Allan revolves in
his mind how and where he shall bestow his companion. "It surely is a
strange fact," he considers, "that in the heart of a civilized world
this creature in human form should be more difficult to dispose of
than an unowned dog." But it is none the less a fact because of its
strangeness, and the difficulty remains.

At first he looks behind him often to assure himself that Jo is still
really following. But look where he will, he still beholds him close
to the opposite houses, making his way with his wary hand from brick
to brick and from door to door, and often, as he creeps along,
glancing over at him watchfully. Soon satisfied that the last thing
in his thoughts is to give him the slip, Allan goes on, considering
with a less divided attention what he shall do.

A breakfast-stall at a street-corner suggests the first thing to be
done. He stops there, looks round, and beckons Jo. Jo crosses and
comes halting and shuffling up, slowly scooping the knuckles of his
right hand round and round in the hollowed palm of his left, kneading
dirt with a natural pestle and mortar. What is a dainty repast to Jo
is then set before him, and he begins to gulp the coffee and to gnaw
the bread and butter, looking anxiously about him in all directions
as he eats and drinks, like a scared animal.

But he is so sick and miserable that even hunger has abandoned him.
"I thought I was amost a-starvin, sir," says Jo, soon putting down
his food, "but I don't know nothink--not even that. I don't care for
eating wittles nor yet for drinking on 'em." And Jo stands shivering
and looking at the breakfast wonderingly.

Allan Woodcourt lays his hand upon his pulse and on his chest. "Draw
breath, Jo!" "It draws," says Jo, "as heavy as a cart." He might add,
"And rattles like it," but he only mutters, "I'm a-moving on, sir."

Allan looks about for an apothecary's shop. There is none at hand,
but a tavern does as well or better. He obtains a little measure of
wine and gives the lad a portion of it very carefully. He begins to
revive almost as soon as it passes his lips. "We may repeat that
dose, Jo," observes Allan after watching him with his attentive face.
"So! Now we will take five minutes' rest, and then go on again."

Leaving the boy sitting on the bench of the breakfast-stall, with his
back against an iron railing, Allan Woodcourt paces up and down in
the early sunshine, casting an occasional look towards him without
appearing to watch him. It requires no discernment to perceive that
he is warmed and refreshed. If a face so shaded can brighten, his
face brightens somewhat; and by little and little he eats the slice
of bread he had so hopelessly laid down. Observant of these signs of
improvement, Allan engages him in conversation and elicits to his no
small wonder the adventure of the lady in the veil, with all its
consequences. Jo slowly munches as he slowly tells it. When he has
finished his story and his bread, they go on again.

Intending to refer his difficulty in finding a temporary place of
refuge for the boy to his old patient, zealous little Miss Flite,
Allan leads the way to the court where he and Jo first foregathered.
But all is changed at the rag and bottle shop; Miss Flite no longer
lodges there; it is shut up; and a hard-featured female, much
obscured by dust, whose age is a problem, but who is indeed no other
than the interesting Judy, is tart and spare in her replies. These
sufficing, however, to inform the visitor that Miss Flite and her
birds are domiciled with a Mrs. Blinder, in Bell Yard, he repairs to
that neighbouring place, where Miss Flite (who rises early that she
may be punctual at the divan of justice held by her excellent friend
the Chancellor) comes running downstairs with tears of welcome and
with open arms.

"My dear physician!" cries Miss Flite. "My meritorious,
distinguished, honourable officer!" She uses some odd expressions,
but is as cordial and full of heart as sanity itself can be--more so
than it often is. Allan, very patient with her, waits until she has
no more raptures to express, then points out Jo, trembling in a
doorway, and tells her how he comes there.

"Where can I lodge him hereabouts for the present? Now, you have a
fund of knowledge and good sense and can advise me."

Miss Flite, mighty proud of the compliment, sets herself to consider;
but it is long before a bright thought occurs to her. Mrs. Blinder is
entirely let, and she herself occupies poor Gridley's room.
"Gridley!" exclaims Miss Flite, clapping her hands after a twentieth
repetition of this remark. "Gridley! To be sure! Of course! My dear
physician! General George will help us out."

It is hopeless to ask for any information about General George, and
would be, though Miss Flite had not already run upstairs to put on
her pinched bonnet and her poor little shawl and to arm herself with
her reticule of documents. But as she informs her physician in her
disjointed manner on coming down in full array that General George,
whom she often calls upon, knows her dear Fitz Jarndyce and takes a
great interest in all connected with her, Allan is induced to think
that they may be in the right way. So he tells Jo, for his
encouragement, that this walking about will soon be over now; and
they repair to the general's. Fortunately it is not far.

From the exterior of George's Shooting Gallery, and the long entry,
and the bare perspective beyond it, Allan Woodcourt augurs well. He
also descries promise in the figure of Mr. George himself, striding
towards them in his morning exercise with his pipe in his mouth, no
stock on, and his muscular arms, developed by broadsword and
dumbbell, weightily asserting themselves through his light
shirt-sleeves.

"Your servant, sir," says Mr. George with a military salute.
Good-humouredly smiling all over his broad forehead up into his crisp
hair, he then defers to Miss Flite, as, with great stateliness, and
at some length, she performs the courtly ceremony of presentation. He
winds it up with another "Your servant, sir!" and another salute.

"Excuse me, sir. A sailor, I believe?" says Mr. George.

"I am proud to find I have the air of one," returns Allan; "but I am
only a sea-going doctor."

"Indeed, sir! I should have thought you was a regular blue-jacket
myself."

Allan hopes Mr. George will forgive his intrusion the more readily on
that account, and particularly that he will not lay aside his pipe,
which, in his politeness, he has testified some intention of doing.
"You are very good, sir," returns the trooper. "As I know by
experience that it's not disagreeable to Miss Flite, and since it's
equally agreeable to yourself--" and finishes the sentence by putting
it between his lips again. Allan proceeds to tell him all he knows
about Jo, unto which the trooper listens with a grave face.

"And that's the lad, sir, is it?" he inquires, looking along the
entry to where Jo stands staring up at the great letters on the
whitewashed front, which have no meaning in his eyes.

"That's he," says Allan. "And, Mr. George, I am in this difficulty
about him. I am unwilling to place him in a hospital, even if I could
procure him immediate admission, because I foresee that he would not
stay there many hours if he could be so much as got there. The same
objection applies to a workhouse, supposing I had the patience to be
evaded and shirked, and handed about from post to pillar in trying to
get him into one, which is a system that I don't take kindly to."

"No man does, sir," returns Mr. George.

"I am convinced that he would not remain in either place, because he
is possessed by an extraordinary terror of this person who ordered
him to keep out of the way; in his ignorance, he believes this person
to be everywhere, and cognizant of everything."

"I ask your pardon, sir," says Mr. George. "But you have not
mentioned that party's name. Is it a secret, sir?"

"The boy makes it one. But his name is Bucket."

"Bucket the detective, sir?"

"The same man."

"The man is known to me, sir," returns the trooper after blowing out
a cloud of smoke and squaring his chest, "and the boy is so far
correct that he undoubtedly is a--rum customer." Mr. George smokes
with a profound meaning after this and surveys Miss Flite in silence.

"Now, I wish Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson at least to know that
this Jo, who tells so strange a story, has reappeared, and to have it
in their power to speak with him if they should desire to do so.
Therefore I want to get him, for the present moment, into any poor
lodging kept by decent people where he would be admitted. Decent
people and Jo, Mr. George," says Allan, following the direction of
the trooper's eyes along the entry, "have not been much acquainted,
as you see. Hence the difficulty. Do you happen to know any one in
this neighbourhood who would receive him for a while on my paying for
him beforehand?"

As he puts the question, he becomes aware of a dirty-faced little man
standing at the trooper's elbow and looking up, with an oddly twisted
figure and countenance, into the trooper's face. After a few more
puffs at his pipe, the trooper looks down askant at the little man,
and the little man winks up at the trooper.

"Well, sir," says Mr. George, "I can assure you that I would
willingly be knocked on the head at any time if it would be at all
agreeable to Miss Summerson, and consequently I esteem it a privilege
to do that young lady any service, however small. We are naturally in
the vagabond way here, sir, both myself and Phil. You see what the
place is. You are welcome to a quiet corner of it for the boy if the
same would meet your views. No charge made, except for rations. We
are not in a flourishing state of circumstances here, sir. We are
liable to be tumbled out neck and crop at a moment's notice. However,
sir, such as the place is, and so long as it lasts, here it is at
your service."

With a comprehensive wave of his pipe, Mr. George places the whole
building at his visitor's disposal.

"I take it for granted, sir," he adds, "you being one of the medical
staff, that there is no present infection about this unfortunate
subject?"

Allan is quite sure of it.

"Because, sir," says Mr. George, shaking his head sorrowfully, "we
have had enough of that."

His tone is no less sorrowfully echoed by his new acquaintance.
"Still I am bound to tell you," observes Allan after repeating his
former assurance, "that the boy is deplorably low and reduced and
that he may be--I do not say that he is--too far gone to recover."

"Do you consider him in present danger, sir?" inquires the trooper.

"Yes, I fear so."

"Then, sir," returns the trooper in a decisive manner, "it appears to
me--being naturally in the vagabond way myself--that the sooner he
comes out of the street, the better. You, Phil! Bring him in!"

Mr. Squod tacks out, all on one side, to execute the word of command;
and the trooper, having smoked his pipe, lays it by. Jo is brought
in. He is not one of Mrs. Pardiggle's Tockahoopo Indians; he is not
one of Mrs. Jellyby's lambs, being wholly unconnected with
Borrioboola-Gha; he is not softened by distance and unfamiliarity; he
is not a genuine foreign-grown savage; he is the ordinary home-made
article. Dirty, ugly, disagreeable to all the senses, in body a
common creature of the common streets, only in soul a heathen. Homely
filth begrimes him, homely parasites devour him, homely sores are in
him, homely rags are on him; native ignorance, the growth of English
soil and climate, sinks his immortal nature lower than the beasts
that perish. Stand forth, Jo, in uncompromising colours! From the
sole of thy foot to the crown of thy head, there is nothing
interesting about thee.

He shuffles slowly into Mr. George's gallery and stands huddled
together in a bundle, looking all about the floor. He seems to know
that they have an inclination to shrink from him, partly for what he
is and partly for what he has caused. He, too, shrinks from them. He
is not of the same order of things, not of the same place in
creation. He is of no order and no place, neither of the beasts nor
of humanity.

"Look here, Jo!" says Allan. "This is Mr. George."

Jo searches the floor for some time longer, then looks up for a
moment, and then down again.

"He is a kind friend to you, for he is going to give you lodging room
here."

Jo makes a scoop with one hand, which is supposed to be a bow. After
a little more consideration and some backing and changing of the foot
on which he rests, he mutters that he is "wery thankful."

"You are quite safe here. All you have to do at present is to be
obedient and to get strong. And mind you tell us the truth here,
whatever you do, Jo."

"Wishermaydie if I don't, sir," says Jo, reverting to his favourite
declaration. "I never done nothink yit, but wot you knows on, to get
myself into no trouble. I never was in no other trouble at all, sir,
'sept not knowin' nothink and starwation."

"I believe it, now attend to Mr. George. I see he is going to speak
to you."

"My intention merely was, sir," observes Mr. George, amazingly broad
and upright, "to point out to him where he can lie down and get a
thorough good dose of sleep. Now, look here." As the trooper speaks,
he conducts them to the other end of the gallery and opens one of the
little cabins. "There you are, you see! Here is a mattress, and here
you may rest, on good behaviour, as long as Mr., I ask your pardon,
sir"--he refers apologetically to the card Allan has given him--"Mr.
Woodcourt pleases. Don't you be alarmed if you hear shots; they'll be
aimed at the target, and not you. Now, there's another thing I would
recommend, sir," says the trooper, turning to his visitor. "Phil,
come here!"

Phil bears down upon them according to his usual tactics. "Here is a
man, sir, who was found, when a baby, in the gutter. Consequently, it
is to be expected that he takes a natural interest in this poor
creature. You do, don't you, Phil?"

"Certainly and surely I do, guv'ner," is Phil's reply.

"Now I was thinking, sir," says Mr. George in a martial sort of
confidence, as if he were giving his opinion in a council of war at a
drum-head, "that if this man was to take him to a bath and was to lay
out a few shillings in getting him one or two coarse articles--"

"Mr. George, my considerate friend," returns Allan, taking out his
purse, "it is the very favour I would have asked."

Phil Squod and Jo are sent out immediately on this work of
improvement. Miss Flite, quite enraptured by her success, makes the
best of her way to court, having great fears that otherwise her
friend the Chancellor may be uneasy about her or may give the
judgment she has so long expected in her absence, and observing
"which you know, my dear physician, and general, after so many years,
would be too absurdly unfortunate!" Allan takes the opportunity of
going out to procure some restorative medicines, and obtaining them
near at hand, soon returns to find the trooper walking up and down
the gallery, and to fall into step and walk with him.

"I take it, sir," says Mr. George, "that you know Miss Summerson
pretty well?"

Yes, it appears.

"Not related to her, sir?"

No, it appears.

"Excuse the apparent curiosity," says Mr. George. "It seemed to me
probable that you might take more than a common interest in this poor
creature because Miss Summerson had taken that unfortunate interest
in him. 'Tis MY case, sir, I assure you."

"And mine, Mr. George."

The trooper looks sideways at Allan's sunburnt cheek and bright dark
eye, rapidly measures his height and build, and seems to approve of
him.

"Since you have been out, sir, I have been thinking that I
unquestionably know the rooms in Lincoln's Inn Fields, where Bucket
took the lad, according to his account. Though he is not acquainted
with the name, I can help you to it. It's Tulkinghorn. That's what it
is."

Allan looks at him inquiringly, repeating the name.

"Tulkinghorn. That's the name, sir. I know the man, and know him to
have been in communication with Bucket before, respecting a deceased
person who had given him offence. I know the man, sir. To my sorrow."

Allan naturally asks what kind of man he is.

"What kind of man! Do you mean to look at?"

"I think I know that much of him. I mean to deal with. Generally,
what kind of man?"

"Why, then I'll tell you, sir," returns the trooper, stopping short
and folding his arms on his square chest so angrily that his face
fires and flushes all over; "he is a confoundedly bad kind of man. He
is a slow-torturing kind of man. He is no more like flesh and blood
than a rusty old carbine is. He is a kind of man--by George!--that
has caused me more restlessness, and more uneasiness, and more
dissatisfaction with myself than all other men put together. That's
the kind of man Mr. Tulkinghorn is!"

"I am sorry," says Allan, "to have touched so sore a place."

"Sore?" The trooper plants his legs wider apart, wets the palm of his
broad right hand, and lays it on the imaginary moustache. "It's no
fault of yours, sir; but you shall judge. He has got a power over me.
He is the man I spoke of just now as being able to tumble me out of
this place neck and crop. He keeps me on a constant see-saw. He won't
hold off, and he won't come on. If I have a payment to make him, or
time to ask him for, or anything to go to him about, he don't see me,
don't hear me--passes me on to Melchisedech's in Clifford's Inn,
Melchisedech's in Clifford's Inn passes me back again to him--he
keeps me prowling and dangling about him as if I was made of the same
stone as himself. Why, I spend half my life now, pretty well,
loitering and dodging about his door. What does he care? Nothing.
Just as much as the rusty old carbine I have compared him to. He
chafes and goads me till--Bah! Nonsense! I am forgetting myself. Mr.
Woodcourt," the trooper resumes his march, "all I say is, he is an
old man; but I am glad I shall never have the chance of setting spurs
to my horse and riding at him in a fair field. For if I had that
chance, in one of the humours he drives me into--he'd go down, sir!"

Mr. George has been so excited that he finds it necessary to wipe his
forehead on his shirt-sleeve. Even while he whistles his impetuosity
away with the national anthem, some involuntary shakings of his head
and heavings of his chest still linger behind, not to mention an
occasional hasty adjustment with both hands of his open shirt-collar,
as if it were scarcely open enough to prevent his being troubled by a
choking sensation. In short, Allan Woodcourt has not much doubt about
the going down of Mr. Tulkinghorn on the field referred to.

Jo and his conductor presently return, and Jo is assisted to his
mattress by the careful Phil, to whom, after due administration of
medicine by his own hands, Allan confides all needful means and
instructions. The morning is by this time getting on apace. He
repairs to his lodgings to dress and breakfast, and then, without
seeking rest, goes away to Mr. Jarndyce to communicate his discovery.

With him Mr. Jarndyce returns alone, confidentially telling him that
there are reasons for keeping this matter very quiet indeed and
showing a serious interest in it. To Mr. Jarndyce, Jo repeats in
substance what he said in the morning, without any material
variation. Only that cart of his is heavier to draw, and draws with a
hollower sound.

"Let me lay here quiet and not be chivied no more," falters Jo, "and
be so kind any person as is a-passin nigh where I used fur to sleep,
as jist to say to Mr. Sangsby that Jo, wot he known once, is a-moving
on right forards with his duty, and I'll be wery thankful. I'd be
more thankful than I am aready if it wos any ways possible for an
unfortnet to be it."

He makes so many of these references to the law-stationer in the
course of a day or two that Allan, after conferring with Mr.
Jarndyce, good-naturedly resolves to call in Cook's Court, the
rather, as the cart seems to be breaking down.

To Cook's Court, therefore, he repairs. Mr. Snagsby is behind his
counter in his grey coat and sleeves, inspecting an indenture of
several skins which has just come in from the engrosser's, an immense
desert of law-hand and parchment, with here and there a resting-place
of a few large letters to break the awful monotony and save the
traveller from despair. Mr Snagsby puts up at one of these inky wells
and greets the stranger with his cough of general preparation for
business.

"You don't remember me, Mr. Snagsby?"

The stationer's heart begins to thump heavily, for his old
apprehensions have never abated. It is as much as he can do to
answer, "No, sir, I can't say I do. I should have considered--not to
put too fine a point upon it--that I never saw you before, sir."

"Twice before," says Allan Woodcourt. "Once at a poor bedside, and
once--"

"It's come at last!" thinks the afflicted stationer, as recollection
breaks upon him. "It's got to a head now and is going to burst!" But
he has sufficient presence of mind to conduct his visitor into the
little counting-house and to shut the door.

"Are you a married man, sir?"

"No, I am not."

"Would you make the attempt, though single," says Mr. Snagsby in a
melancholy whisper, "to speak as low as you can? For my little woman
is a-listening somewheres, or I'll forfeit the business and five
hundred pound!"

In deep dejection Mr. Snagsby sits down on his stool, with his back
against his desk, protesting, "I never had a secret of my own, sir. I
can't charge my memory with ever having once attempted to deceive my
little woman on my own account since she named the day. I wouldn't
have done it, sir. Not to put too fine a point upon it, I couldn't
have done it, I dursn't have done it. Whereas, and nevertheless, I
find myself wrapped round with secrecy and mystery, till my life is a
burden to me."

His visitor professes his regret to hear it and asks him does he
remember Jo. Mr. Snagsby answers with a suppressed groan, oh, don't
he!

"You couldn't name an individual human being--except myself--that my
little woman is more set and determined against than Jo," says Mr.
Snagsby.

Allan asks why.

"Why?" repeats Mr. Snagsby, in his desperation clutching at the clump
of hair at the back of his bald head. "How should I know why? But you
are a single person, sir, and may you long be spared to ask a married
person such a question!"

With this beneficent wish, Mr. Snagsby coughs a cough of dismal
resignation and submits himself to hear what the visitor has to
communicate.

"There again!" says Mr. Snagsby, who, between the earnestness of his
feelings and the suppressed tones of his voice is discoloured in the
face. "At it again, in a new direction! A certain person charges me,
in the solemnest way, not to talk of Jo to any one, even my little
woman. Then comes another certain person, in the person of yourself,
and charges me, in an equally solemn way, not to mention Jo to that
other certain person above all other persons. Why, this is a private
asylum! Why, not to put too fine a point upon it, this is Bedlam,
sir!" says Mr. Snagsby.

But it is better than he expected after all, being no explosion of
the mine below him or deepening of the pit into which he has fallen.
And being tender-hearted and affected by the account he hears of Jo's
condition, he readily engages to "look round" as early in the evening
as he can manage it quietly. He looks round very quietly when the
evening comes, but it may turn out that Mrs. Snagsby is as quiet a
manager as he.

Jo is very glad to see his old friend and says, when they are left
alone, that he takes it uncommon kind as Mr. Sangsby should come so
far out of his way on accounts of sich as him. Mr. Snagsby, touched
by the spectacle before him, immediately lays upon the table half a
crown, that magic balsam of his for all kinds of wounds.

"And how do you find yourself, my poor lad?" inquires the stationer
with his cough of sympathy.

"I am in luck, Mr. Sangsby, I am," returns Jo, "and don't want for
nothink. I'm more cumfbler nor you can't think. Mr. Sangsby! I'm wery
sorry that I done it, but I didn't go fur to do it, sir."

The stationer softly lays down another half-crown and asks him what
it is that he is sorry for having done.

"Mr. Sangsby," says Jo, "I went and giv a illness to the lady as wos
and yit as warn't the t'other lady, and none of 'em never says
nothink to me for having done it, on accounts of their being ser good
and my having been s'unfortnet. The lady come herself and see me
yesday, and she ses, 'Ah, Jo!' she ses. 'We thought we'd lost you,
Jo!' she ses. And she sits down a-smilin so quiet, and don't pass a
word nor yit a look upon me for having done it, she don't, and I
turns agin the wall, I doos, Mr. Sangsby. And Mr. Jarnders, I see him
a-forced to turn away his own self. And Mr. Woodcot, he come fur to
giv me somethink fur to ease me, wot he's allus a-doin' on day and
night, and wen he come a-bending over me and a-speakin up so bold, I
see his tears a-fallin, Mr. Sangsby."

The softened stationer deposits another half-crown on the table.
Nothing less than a repetition of that infallible remedy will relieve
his feelings.

"Wot I was a-thinkin on, Mr. Sangsby," proceeds Jo, "wos, as you wos
able to write wery large, p'raps?"

"Yes, Jo, please God," returns the stationer.

"Uncommon precious large, p'raps?" says Jo with eagerness.

"Yes, my poor boy."

Jo laughs with pleasure. "Wot I wos a-thinking on then, Mr. Sangsby,
wos, that when I wos moved on as fur as ever I could go and couldn't
be moved no furder, whether you might be so good p'raps as to write
out, wery large so that any one could see it anywheres, as that I wos
wery truly hearty sorry that I done it and that I never went fur to
do it, and that though I didn't know nothink at all, I knowd as Mr.
Woodcot once cried over it and wos allus grieved over it, and that I
hoped as he'd be able to forgive me in his mind. If the writin could
be made to say it wery large, he might."

"It shall say it, Jo. Very large."

Jo laughs again. "Thankee, Mr. Sangsby. It's wery kind of you, sir,
and it makes me more cumfbler nor I was afore."

The meek little stationer, with a broken and unfinished cough, slips
down his fourth half-crown--he has never been so close to a case
requiring so many--and is fain to depart. And Jo and he, upon this
little earth, shall meet no more. No more.

For the cart so hard to draw is near its journey's end and drags over
stony ground. All round the clock it labours up the broken steps,
shattered and worn. Not many times can the sun rise and behold it
still upon its weary road.

Phil Squod, with his smoky gunpowder visage, at once acts as nurse
and works as armourer at his little table in a corner, often looking
round and saying with a nod of his green-baize cap and an encouraging
elevation of his one eyebrow, "Hold up, my boy! Hold up!" There, too,
is Mr. Jarndyce many a time, and Allan Woodcourt almost always, both
thinking, much, how strangely fate has entangled this rough outcast
in the web of very different lives. There, too, the trooper is a
frequent visitor, filling the doorway with his athletic figure and,
from his superfluity of life and strength, seeming to shed down
temporary vigour upon Jo, who never fails to speak more robustly in
answer to his cheerful words.

Jo is in a sleep or in a stupor to-day, and Allan Woodcourt, newly
arrived, stands by him, looking down upon his wasted form. After a
while he softly seats himself upon the bedside with his face towards
him--just as he sat in the law-writer's room--and touches his chest
and heart. The cart had very nearly given up, but labours on a little
more.

The trooper stands in the doorway, still and silent. Phil has stopped
in a low clinking noise, with his little hammer in his hand. Mr.
Woodcourt looks round with that grave professional interest and
attention on his face, and glancing significantly at the trooper,
signs to Phil to carry his table out. When the little hammer is next
used, there will be a speck of rust upon it.

"Well, Jo! What is the matter? Don't be frightened."

"I thought," says Jo, who has started and is looking round, "I
thought I was in Tom-all-Alone's agin. Ain't there nobody here but
you, Mr. Woodcot?"

"Nobody."

"And I ain't took back to Tom-all-Alone's. Am I, sir?"

"No." Jo closes his eyes, muttering, "I'm wery thankful."

After watching him closely a little while, Allan puts his mouth very
near his ear and says to him in a low, distinct voice, "Jo! Did you
ever know a prayer?"

"Never knowd nothink, sir."

"Not so much as one short prayer?"

"No, sir. Nothink at all. Mr. Chadbands he wos a-prayin wunst at Mr.
Sangsby's and I heerd him, but he sounded as if he wos a-speakin to
hisself, and not to me. He prayed a lot, but I couldn't make out
nothink on it. Different times there was other genlmen come down
Tom-all-Alone's a-prayin, but they all mostly sed as the t'other
'wuns prayed wrong, and all mostly sounded to be a-talking to
theirselves, or a-passing blame on the t'others, and not a-talkin to
us. WE never knowd nothink. I never knowd what it wos all about."

It takes him a long time to say this, and few but an experienced and
attentive listener could hear, or, hearing, understand him. After a
short relapse into sleep or stupor, he makes, of a sudden, a strong
effort to get out of bed.

"Stay, Jo! What now?"

"It's time for me to go to that there berryin ground, sir," he
returns with a wild look.

"Lie down, and tell me. What burying ground, Jo?"

"Where they laid him as wos wery good to me, wery good to me indeed,
he wos. It's time fur me to go down to that there berryin ground,
sir, and ask to be put along with him. I wants to go there and be
berried. He used fur to say to me, 'I am as poor as you to-day, Jo,'
he ses. I wants to tell him that I am as poor as him now and have
come there to be laid along with him."

"By and by, Jo. By and by."

"Ah! P'raps they wouldn't do it if I wos to go myself. But will you
promise to have me took there, sir, and laid along with him?"

"I will, indeed."

"Thankee, sir. Thankee, sir. They'll have to get the key of the gate
afore they can take me in, for it's allus locked. And there's a step
there, as I used for to clean with my broom. It's turned wery dark,
sir. Is there any light a-comin?"

"It is coming fast, Jo."

Fast. The cart is shaken all to pieces, and the rugged road is very
near its end.

"Jo, my poor fellow!"

"I hear you, sir, in the dark, but I'm a-gropin--a-gropin--let me
catch hold of your hand."

"Jo, can you say what I say?"

"I'll say anythink as you say, sir, for I knows it's good."

"Our Father."

"Our Father! Yes, that's wery good, sir."

"Which art in heaven."

"Art in heaven--is the light a-comin, sir?"

"It is close at hand. Hallowed be thy name!"

"Hallowed be--thy--"

The light is come upon the dark benighted way. Dead!

Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my lords and gentlemen. Dead, right
reverends and wrong reverends of every order. Dead, men and women,
born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying thus around
us every day.

Closing In

The place in Lincolnshire has shut its many eyes again, and the house
in town is awake. In Lincolnshire the Dedlocks of the past doze in
their picture-frames, and the low wind murmurs through the long
drawing-room as if they were breathing pretty regularly. In town the
Dedlocks of the present rattle in their fire-eyed carriages through
the darkness of the night, and the Dedlock Mercuries, with ashes (or
hair-powder) on their heads, symptomatic of their great humility,
loll away the drowsy mornings in the little windows of the hall. The
fashionable world--tremendous orb, nearly five miles round--is in
full swing, and the solar system works respectfully at its appointed
distances.

Where the throng is thickest, where the lights are brightest, where
all the senses are ministered to with the greatest delicacy and
refinement, Lady Dedlock is. From the shining heights she has scaled
and taken, she is never absent. Though the belief she of old reposed
in herself as one able to reserve whatsoever she would under
her mantle of pride is beaten down, though she has no assurance
that what she is to those around her she will remain another day,
it is not in her nature when envious eyes are looking on to
yield or to droop. They say of her that she has lately grown
more handsome and more haughty. The debilitated cousin says of
her that she's beauty nough--tsetup shopofwomen--but rather
larming kind--remindingmanfact--inconvenient woman--who WILL
getoutofbedandbawthstahlishment--Shakespeare.

Mr. Tulkinghorn says nothing, looks nothing. Now, as heretofore, he
is to be found in doorways of rooms, with his limp white cravat
loosely twisted into its old-fashioned tie, receiving patronage from
the peerage and making no sign. Of all men he is still the last who
might be supposed to have any influence upon my Lady. Of all women
she is still the last who might be supposed to have any dread of him.

One thing has been much on her mind since their late interview in his
turret-room at Chesney Wold. She is now decided, and prepared to
throw it off.

It is morning in the great world, afternoon according to the little
sun. The Mercuries, exhausted by looking out of window, are reposing
in the hall and hang their heavy heads, the gorgeous creatures, like
overblown sunflowers. Like them, too, they seem to run to a deal of
seed in their tags and trimmings. Sir Leicester, in the library, has
fallen asleep for the good of the country over the report of a
Parliamentary committee. My Lady sits in the room in which she gave
audience to the young man of the name of Guppy. Rosa is with her and
has been writing for her and reading to her. Rosa is now at work upon
embroidery or some such pretty thing, and as she bends her head over
it, my Lady watches her in silence. Not for the first time to-day.

"Rosa."

The pretty village face looks brightly up. Then, seeing how serious
my Lady is, looks puzzled and surprised.

"See to the door. Is it shut?"

Yes. She goes to it and returns, and looks yet more surprised.

"I am about to place confidence in you, child, for I know I may trust
your attachment, if not your judgment. In what I am going to do, I
will not disguise myself to you at least. But I confide in you. Say
nothing to any one of what passes between us."

The timid little beauty promises in all earnestness to be
trustworthy.

"Do you know," Lady Dedlock asks her, signing to her to bring her
chair nearer, "do you know, Rosa, that I am different to you from
what I am to any one?"

"Yes, my Lady. Much kinder. But then I often think I know you as you
really are."

"You often think you know me as I really am? Poor child, poor child!"

She says it with a kind of scorn--though not of Rosa--and sits
brooding, looking dreamily at her.

"Do you think, Rosa, you are any relief or comfort to me? Do you
suppose your being young and natural, and fond of me and grateful to
me, makes it any pleasure to me to have you near me?"

"I don't know, my Lady; I can scarcely hope so. But with all my
heart, I wish it was so."

"It is so, little one."

The pretty face is checked in its flush of pleasure by the dark
expression on the handsome face before it. It looks timidly for an
explanation.

"And if I were to say to-day, 'Go! Leave me!' I should say what would
give me great pain and disquiet, child, and what would leave me very
solitary."

"My Lady! Have I offended you?"

"In nothing. Come here."

Rosa bends down on the footstool at my Lady's feet. My Lady, with
that motherly touch of the famous ironmaster night, lays her hand
upon her dark hair and gently keeps it there.

"I told you, Rosa, that I wished you to be happy and that I would
make you so if I could make anybody happy on this earth. I cannot.
There are reasons now known to me, reasons in which you have no part,
rendering it far better for you that you should not remain here. You
must not remain here. I have determined that you shall not. I have
written to the father of your lover, and he will be here to-day. All
this I have done for your sake."

The weeping girl covers her hand with kisses and says what shall she
do, what shall she do, when they are separated! Her mistress kisses
her on the cheek and makes no other answer.

"Now, be happy, child, under better circumstances. Be beloved and
happy!"

"Ah, my Lady, I have sometimes thought--forgive my being so
free--that YOU are not happy."

"I!"

"Will you be more so when you have sent me away? Pray, pray, think
again. Let me stay a little while!"

"I have said, my child, that what I do, I do for your sake, not my
own. It is done. What I am towards you, Rosa, is what I am now--not
what I shall be a little while hence. Remember this, and keep my
confidence. Do so much for my sake, and thus all ends between us!"

She detaches herself from her simple-hearted companion and leaves the
room. Late in the afternoon, when she next appears upon the
staircase, she is in her haughtiest and coldest state. As indifferent
as if all passion, feeling, and interest had been worn out in the
earlier ages of the world and had perished from its surface with its
other departed monsters.

Mercury has announced Mr. Rouncewell, which is the cause of her
appearance. Mr. Rouncewell is not in the library, but she repairs to
the library. Sir Leicester is there, and she wishes to speak to him
first.

"Sir Leicester, I am desirous--but you are engaged."

Oh, dear no! Not at all. Only Mr. Tulkinghorn.

Always at hand. Haunting every place. No relief or security from him
for a moment.

"I beg your pardon, Lady Dedlock. Will you allow me to retire?"

With a look that plainly says, "You know you have the power to remain
if you will," she tells him it is not necessary and moves towards a
chair. Mr. Tulkinghorn brings it a little forward for her with his
clumsy bow and retires into a window opposite. Interposed between her
and the fading light of day in the now quiet street, his shadow falls
upon her, and he darkens all before her. Even so does he darken her
life.

It is a dull street under the best conditions, where the two long
rows of houses stare at each other with that severity that
half-a-dozen of its greatest mansions seem to have been slowly stared
into stone rather than originally built in that material. It is a
street of such dismal grandeur, so determined not to condescend to
liveliness, that the doors and windows hold a gloomy state of their
own in black paint and dust, and the echoing mews behind have a dry
and massive appearance, as if they were reserved to stable the stone
chargers of noble statues. Complicated garnish of iron-work entwines
itself over the flights of steps in this awful street, and from these
petrified bowers, extinguishers for obsolete flambeaux gasp at the
upstart gas. Here and there a weak little iron hoop, through which
bold boys aspire to throw their friends' caps (its only present use),
retains its place among the rusty foliage, sacred to the memory of
departed oil. Nay, even oil itself, yet lingering at long intervals
in a little absurd glass pot, with a knob in the bottom like an
oyster, blinks and sulks at newer lights every night, like its high
and dry master in the House of Lords.

Therefore there is not much that Lady Dedlock, seated in her chair,
could wish to see through the window in which Mr. Tulkinghorn stands.
And yet--and yet--she sends a look in that direction as if it were
her heart's desire to have that figure moved out of the way.

Sir Leicester begs his Lady's pardon. She was about to say?

"Only that Mr. Rouncewell is here (he has called by my appointment)
and that we had better make an end of the question of that girl. I am
tired to death of the matter."

"What can I do--to--assist?" demands Sir Leicester in some
considerable doubt.

"Let us see him here and have done with it. Will you tell them to
send him up?"

"Mr. Tulkinghorn, be so good as to ring. Thank you. Request," says
Sir Leicester to Mercury, not immediately remembering the business
term, "request the iron gentleman to walk this way."

Mercury departs in search of the iron gentleman, finds, and produces
him. Sir Leicester receives that ferruginous person graciously.

"I hope you are well, Mr. Rouncewell. Be seated. (My solicitor, Mr.
Tulkinghorn.) My Lady was desirous, Mr. Rouncewell," Sir Leicester
skilfully transfers him with a solemn wave of his hand, "was desirous
to speak with you. Hem!"

"I shall be very happy," returns the iron gentleman, "to give my best
attention to anything Lady Dedlock does me the honour to say."

As he turns towards her, he finds that the impression she makes upon
him is less agreeable than on the former occasion. A distant
supercilious air makes a cold atmosphere about her, and there is
nothing in her bearing, as there was before, to encourage openness.

"Pray, sir," says Lady Dedlock listlessly, "may I be allowed to
inquire whether anything has passed between you and your son
respecting your son's fancy?"

It is almost too troublesome to her languid eyes to bestow a look
upon him as she asks this question.

"If my memory serves me, Lady Dedlock, I said, when I had the
pleasure of seeing you before, that I should seriously advise my son
to conquer that--fancy." The ironmaster repeats her expression with a
little emphasis.

"And did you?"

"Oh! Of course I did."

Sir Leicester gives a nod, approving and confirmatory. Very proper.
The iron gentleman, having said that he would do it, was bound to do
it. No difference in this respect between the base metals and the
precious. Highly proper.

"And pray has he done so?"

"Really, Lady Dedlock, I cannot make you a definite reply. I fear
not. Probably not yet. In our condition of life, we sometimes couple
an intention with our--our fancies which renders them not altogether
easy to throw off. I think it is rather our way to be in earnest."

Sir Leicester has a misgiving that there may be a hidden Wat Tylerish
meaning in this expression, and fumes a little. Mr. Rouncewell is
perfectly good-humoured and polite, but within such limits, evidently
adapts his tone to his reception.

"Because," proceeds my Lady, "I have been thinking of the subject,
which is tiresome to me."

"I am very sorry, I am sure."

"And also of what Sir Leicester said upon it, in which I quite
concur"--Sir Leicester flattered--"and if you cannot give us the
assurance that this fancy is at an end, I have come to the conclusion
that the girl had better leave me."

"I can give no such assurance, Lady Dedlock. Nothing of the kind."

"Then she had better go."

"Excuse me, my Lady," Sir Leicester considerately interposes, "but
perhaps this may be doing an injury to the young woman which she has
not merited. Here is a young woman," says Sir Leicester,
magnificently laying out the matter with his right hand like a
service of plate, "whose good fortune it is to have attracted the
notice and favour of an eminent lady and to live, under the
protection of that eminent lady, surrounded by the various advantages
which such a position confers, and which are unquestionably very
great--I believe unquestionably very great, sir--for a young woman in
that station of life. The question then arises, should that young
woman be deprived of these many advantages and that good fortune
simply because she has"--Sir Leicester, with an apologetic but
dignified inclination of his head towards the ironmaster, winds up
his sentence--"has attracted the notice of Mr Rouncewell's son? Now,
has she deserved this punishment? Is this just towards her? Is this
our previous understanding?"

"I beg your pardon," interposes Mr. Rouncewell's son's father. "Sir
Leicester, will you allow me? I think I may shorten the subject. Pray
dismiss that from your consideration. If you remember anything so
unimportant--which is not to be expected--you would recollect that my
first thought in the affair was directly opposed to her remaining
here."

Dismiss the Dedlock patronage from consideration? Oh! Sir Leicester
is bound to believe a pair of ears that have been handed down to him
through such a family, or he really might have mistrusted their
report of the iron gentleman's observations.

"It is not necessary," observes my Lady in her coldest manner before
he can do anything but breathe amazedly, "to enter into these matters
on either side. The girl is a very good girl; I have nothing whatever
to say against her, but she is so far insensible to her many
advantages and her good fortune that she is in love--or supposes she
is, poor little fool--and unable to appreciate them."

Sir Leicester begs to observe that wholly alters the case. He might
have been sure that my Lady had the best grounds and reasons in
support of her view. He entirely agrees with my Lady. The young woman
had better go.

"As Sir Leicester observed, Mr. Rouncewell, on the last occasion when
we were fatigued by this business," Lady Dedlock languidly proceeds,
"we cannot make conditions with you. Without conditions, and under
present circumstances, the girl is quite misplaced here and had
better go. I have told her so. Would you wish to have her sent back
to the village, or would you like to take her with you, or what would
you prefer?"

"Lady Dedlock, if I may speak plainly--"

"By all means."

"--I should prefer the course which will the soonest relieve you of
the incumbrance and remove her from her present position."

"And to speak as plainly," she returns with the same studied
carelessness, "so should I. Do I understand that you will take her
with you?"

The iron gentleman makes an iron bow.

"Sir Leicester, will you ring?" Mr. Tulkinghorn steps forward from
his window and pulls the bell. "I had forgotten you. Thank you." He
makes his usual bow and goes quietly back again. Mercury,
swift-responsive, appears, receives instructions whom to produce,
skims away, produces the aforesaid, and departs.

Rosa has been crying and is yet in distress. On her coming in, the
ironmaster leaves his chair, takes her arm in his, and remains with
her near the door ready to depart.

"You are taken charge of, you see," says my Lady in her weary manner,
"and are going away well protected. I have mentioned that you are a
very good girl, and you have nothing to cry for."

"She seems after all," observes Mr. Tulkinghorn, loitering a little
forward with his hands behind him, "as if she were crying at going
away."

"Why, she is not well-bred, you see," returns Mr. Rouncewell with
some quickness in his manner, as if he were glad to have the lawyer
to retort upon, "and she is an inexperienced little thing and knows
no better. If she had remained here, sir, she would have improved, no
doubt."

"No doubt," is Mr. Tulkinghorn's composed reply.

Rosa sobs out that she is very sorry to leave my Lady, and that she
was happy at Chesney Wold, and has been happy with my Lady, and that
she thanks my Lady over and over again. "Out, you silly little puss!"
says the ironmaster, checking her in a low voice, though not angrily.
"Have a spirit, if you're fond of Watt!" My Lady merely waves her off
with indifference, saying, "There, there, child! You are a good girl.
Go away!" Sir Leicester has magnificently disengaged himself from the
subject and retired into the sanctuary of his blue coat. Mr.
Tulkinghorn, an indistinct form against the dark street now dotted
with lamps, looms in my Lady's view, bigger and blacker than before.

"Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock," says Mr. Rouncewell after a pause
of a few moments, "I beg to take my leave, with an apology for having
again troubled you, though not of my own act, on this tiresome
subject. I can very well understand, I assure you, how tiresome so
small a matter must have become to Lady Dedlock. If I am doubtful of
my dealing with it, it is only because I did not at first quietly
exert my influence to take my young friend here away without
troubling you at all. But it appeared to me--I dare say magnifying
the importance of the thing--that it was respectful to explain to you
how the matter stood and candid to consult your wishes and
convenience. I hope you will excuse my want of acquaintance with the
polite world."

Sir Leicester considers himself evoked out of the sanctuary by these
remarks. "Mr. Rouncewell," he returns, "do not mention it.
Justifications are unnecessary, I hope, on either side."

"I am glad to hear it, Sir Leicester; and if I may, by way of a last
word, revert to what I said before of my mother's long connexion with
the family and the worth it bespeaks on both sides, I would point out
this little instance here on my arm who shows herself so affectionate
and faithful in parting and in whom my mother, I dare say, has done
something to awaken such feelings--though of course Lady Dedlock, by
her heartfelt interest and her genial condescension, has done much
more."

If he mean this ironically, it may be truer than he thinks. He points
it, however, by no deviation from his straightforward manner of
speech, though in saying it he turns towards that part of the dim
room where my Lady sits. Sir Leicester stands to return his parting
salutation, Mr. Tulkinghorn again rings, Mercury takes another
flight, and Mr. Rouncewell and Rosa leave the house.

Then lights are brought in, discovering Mr. Tulkinghorn still
standing in his window with his hands behind him and my Lady still
sitting with his figure before her, closing up her view of the night
as well as of the day. She is very pale. Mr. Tulkinghorn, observing
it as she rises to retire, thinks, "Well she may be! The power of
this woman is astonishing. She has been acting a part the whole
time." But he can act a part too--his one unchanging character--and
as he holds the door open for this woman, fifty pairs of eyes, each
fifty times sharper than Sir Leicester's pair, should find no flaw in
him.

Lady Dedlock dines alone in her own room to-day. Sir Leicester is
whipped in to the rescue of the Doodle Party and the discomfiture of
the Coodle Faction. Lady Dedlock asks on sitting down to dinner,
still deadly pale (and quite an illustration of the debilitated
cousin's text), whether he is gone out? Yes. Whether Mr. Tulkinghorn
is gone yet? No. Presently she asks again, is he gone YET? No. What
is he doing? Mercury thinks he is writing letters in the library.
Would my Lady wish to see him? Anything but that.

But he wishes to see my Lady. Within a few more minutes he is
reported as sending his respects, and could my Lady please to receive
him for a word or two after her dinner? My Lady will receive him now.
He comes now, apologizing for intruding, even by her permission,
while she is at table. When they are alone, my Lady waves her hand to
dispense with such mockeries.

"What do you want, sir?"

"Why, Lady Dedlock," says the lawyer, taking a chair at a little
distance from her and slowly rubbing his rusty legs up and down, up
and down, up and down, "I am rather surprised by the course you have
taken."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, decidedly. I was not prepared for it. I consider it a departure
from our agreement and your promise. It puts us in a new position,
Lady Dedlock. I feel myself under the necessity of saying that I
don't approve of it."

He stops in his rubbing and looks at her, with his hands on his
knees. Imperturbable and unchangeable as he is, there is still an
indefinable freedom in his manner which is new and which does not
escape this woman's observation.

"I do not quite understand you."

"Oh, yes you do, I think. I think you do. Come, come, Lady Dedlock,
we must not fence and parry now. You know you like this girl."

"Well, sir?"

"And you know--and I know--that you have not sent her away for the
reasons you have assigned, but for the purpose of separating her as
much as possible from--excuse my mentioning it as a matter of
business--any reproach and exposure that impend over yourself."

"Well, sir?"

"Well, Lady Dedlock," returns the lawyer, crossing his legs and
nursing the uppermost knee. "I object to that. I consider that a
dangerous proceeding. I know it to be unnecessary and calculated to
awaken speculation, doubt, rumour, I don't know what, in the house.
Besides, it is a violation of our agreement. You were to be exactly
what you were before. Whereas, it must be evident to yourself, as it
is to me, that you have been this evening very different from what
you were before. Why, bless my soul, Lady Dedlock, transparently so!"

"If, sir," she begins, "in my knowledge of my secret--" But he
interrupts her.

"Now, Lady Dedlock, this is a matter of business, and in a matter of
business the ground cannot be kept too clear. It is no longer your
secret. Excuse me. That is just the mistake. It is my secret, in
trust for Sir Leicester and the family. If it were your secret, Lady
Dedlock, we should not be here holding this conversation."

"That is very true. If in my knowledge of THE secret I do what I can
to spare an innocent girl (especially, remembering your own reference
to her when you told my story to the assembled guests at Chesney
Wold) from the taint of my impending shame, I act upon a resolution I
have taken. Nothing in the world, and no one in the world, could
shake it or could move me." This she says with great deliberation and
distinctness and with no more outward passion than himself. As for
him, he methodically discusses his matter of business as if she were
any insensible instrument used in business.

"Really? Then you see, Lady Dedlock," he returns, "you are not to be
trusted. You have put the case in a perfectly plain way, and
according to the literal fact; and that being the case, you are not
to be trusted."

"Perhaps you may remember that I expressed some anxiety on this same
point when we spoke at night at Chesney Wold?"

"Yes," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, coolly getting up and standing on the
hearth. "Yes. I recollect, Lady Dedlock, that you certainly referred
to the girl, but that was before we came to our arrangement, and both
the letter and the spirit of our arrangement altogether precluded any
action on your part founded upon my discovery. There can be no doubt
about that. As to sparing the girl, of what importance or value is
she? Spare! Lady Dedlock, here is a family name compromised. One
might have supposed that the course was straight on--over everything,
neither to the right nor to the left, regardless of all
considerations in the way, sparing nothing, treading everything under
foot."

She has been looking at the table. She lifts up her eyes and looks at
him. There is a stern expression on her face and a part of her lower
lip is compressed under her teeth. "This woman understands me," Mr.
Tulkinghorn thinks as she lets her glance fall again. "SHE cannot be
spared. Why should she spare others?"

For a little while they are silent. Lady Dedlock has eaten no dinner,
but has twice or thrice poured out water with a steady hand and drunk
it. She rises from table, takes a lounging-chair, and reclines in it,
shading her face. There is nothing in her manner to express weakness
or excite compassion. It is thoughtful, gloomy, concentrated. "This
woman," thinks Mr. Tulkinghorn, standing on the hearth, again a dark
object closing up her view, "is a study."

He studies her at his leisure, not speaking for a time. She too
studies something at her leisure. She is not the first to speak,
appearing indeed so unlikely to be so, though he stood there until
midnight, that even he is driven upon breaking silence.

"Lady Dedlock, the most disagreeable part of this business interview
remains, but it is business. Our agreement is broken. A lady of your
sense and strength of character will be prepared for my now declaring
it void and taking my own course."

"I am quite prepared."

Mr. Tulkinghorn inclines his head. "That is all I have to trouble you
with, Lady Dedlock."

She stops him as he is moving out of the room by asking, "This is the
notice I was to receive? I wish not to misapprehend you."

"Not exactly the notice you were to receive, Lady Dedlock, because
the contemplated notice supposed the agreement to have been observed.
But virtually the same, virtually the same. The difference is merely
in a lawyer's mind."

"You intend to give me no other notice?"

"You are right. No."

"Do you contemplate undeceiving Sir Leicester to-night?"

"A home question!" says Mr. Tulkinghorn with a slight smile and
cautiously shaking his head at the shaded face. "No, not to-night."

"To-morrow?"

"All things considered, I had better decline answering that question,
Lady Dedlock. If I were to say I don't know when, exactly, you would
not believe me, and it would answer no purpose. It may be to-morrow.
I would rather say no more. You are prepared, and I hold out no
expectations which circumstances might fail to justify. I wish you
good evening."

She removes her hand, turns her pale face towards him as he walks
silently to the door, and stops him once again as he is about to open
it.

"Do you intend to remain in the house any time? I heard you were
writing in the library. Are you going to return there?"

"Only for my hat. I am going home."

She bows her eyes rather than her head, the movement is so slight and
curious, and he withdraws. Clear of the room he looks at his watch
but is inclined to doubt it by a minute or thereabouts. There is a
splendid clock upon the staircase, famous, as splendid clocks not
often are, for its accuracy. "And what do YOU say," Mr. Tulkinghorn
inquires, referring to it. "What do you say?"

If it said now, "Don't go home!" What a famous clock, hereafter, if
it said to-night of all the nights that it has counted off, to this
old man of all the young and old men who have ever stood before it,
"Don't go home!" With its sharp clear bell it strikes three quarters
after seven and ticks on again. "Why, you are worse than I thought
you," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, muttering reproof to his watch. "Two
minutes wrong? At this rate you won't last my time." What a watch to
return good for evil if it ticked in answer, "Don't go home!"

He passes out into the streets and walks on, with his hands behind
him, under the shadow of the lofty houses, many of whose mysteries,
difficulties, mortgages, delicate affairs of all kinds, are treasured
up within his old black satin waistcoat. He is in the confidence of
the very bricks and mortar. The high chimney-stacks telegraph family
secrets to him. Yet there is not a voice in a mile of them to
whisper, "Don't go home!"

Through the stir and motion of the commoner streets; through the roar
and jar of many vehicles, many feet, many voices; with the blazing
shop-lights lighting him on, the west wind blowing him on, and the
crowd pressing him on, he is pitilessly urged upon his way, and
nothing meets him murmuring, "Don't go home!" Arrived at last in his
dull room to light his candles, and look round and up, and see the
Roman pointing from the ceiling, there is no new significance in the
Roman's hand to-night or in the flutter of the attendant groups to
give him the late warning, "Don't come here!"

It is a moonlight night, but the moon, being past the full, is only
now rising over the great wilderness of London. The stars are shining
as they shone above the turret-leads at Chesney Wold. This woman, as
he has of late been so accustomed to call her, looks out upon them.
Her soul is turbulent within her; she is sick at heart and restless.
The large rooms are too cramped and close. She cannot endure their
restraint and will walk alone in a neighbouring garden.

Too capricious and imperious in all she does to be the cause of much
surprise in those about her as to anything she does, this woman,
loosely muffled, goes out into the moonlight. Mercury attends with
the key. Having opened the garden-gate, he delivers the key into his
Lady's hands at her request and is bidden to go back. She will walk
there some time to ease her aching head. She may be an hour, she may
be more. She needs no further escort. The gate shuts upon its spring
with a clash, and he leaves her passing on into the dark shade of
some trees.

A fine night, and a bright large moon, and multitudes of stars. Mr.
Tulkinghorn, in repairing to his cellar and in opening and shutting
those resounding doors, has to cross a little prison-like yard. He
looks up casually, thinking what a fine night, what a bright large
moon, what multitudes of stars! A quiet night, too.

A very quiet night. When the moon shines very brilliantly, a solitude
and stillness seem to proceed from her that influence even crowded
places full of life. Not only is it a still night on dusty high roads
and on hill-summits, whence a wide expanse of country may be seen in
repose, quieter and quieter as it spreads away into a fringe of trees
against the sky with the grey ghost of a bloom upon them; not only is
it a still night in gardens and in woods, and on the river where the
water-meadows are fresh and green, and the stream sparkles on among
pleasant islands, murmuring weirs, and whispering rushes; not only
does the stillness attend it as it flows where houses cluster thick,
where many bridges are reflected in it, where wharves and shipping
make it black and awful, where it winds from these disfigurements
through marshes whose grim beacons stand like skeletons washed
ashore, where it expands through the bolder region of rising grounds,
rich in cornfield wind-mill and steeple, and where it mingles with
the ever-heaving sea; not only is it a still night on the deep, and
on the shore where the watcher stands to see the ship with her spread
wings cross the path of light that appears to be presented to only
him; but even on this stranger's wilderness of London there is some
rest. Its steeples and towers and its one great dome grow more
ethereal; its smoky house-tops lose their grossness in the pale
effulgence; the noises that arise from the streets are fewer and are
softened, and the footsteps on the pavements pass more tranquilly
away. In these fields of Mr. Tulkinghorn's inhabiting, where the
shepherds play on Chancery pipes that have no stop, and keep their
sheep in the fold by hook and by crook until they have shorn them
exceeding close, every noise is merged, this moonlight night, into a
distant ringing hum, as if the city were a vast glass, vibrating.

What's that? Who fired a gun or pistol? Where was it?

The few foot-passengers start, stop, and stare about them. Some
windows and doors are opened, and people come out to look. It was a
loud report and echoed and rattled heavily. It shook one house, or so
a man says who was passing. It has aroused all the dogs in the
neighbourhood, who bark vehemently. Terrified cats scamper across the
road. While the dogs are yet barking and howling--there is one dog
howling like a demon--the church-clocks, as if they were startled
too, begin to strike. The hum from the streets, likewise, seems to
swell into a shout. But it is soon over. Before the last clock begins
to strike ten, there is a lull. When it has ceased, the fine night,
the bright large moon, and multitudes of stars, are left at peace
again.

Has Mr. Tulkinghorn been disturbed? His windows are dark and quiet,
and his door is shut. It must be something unusual indeed to bring
him out of his shell. Nothing is heard of him, nothing is seen of
him. What power of cannon might it take to shake that rusty old man
out of his immovable composure?

For many years the persistent Roman has been pointing, with no
particular meaning, from that ceiling. It is not likely that he has
any new meaning in him to-night. Once pointing, always pointing--like
any Roman, or even Briton, with a single idea. There he is, no doubt,
in his impossible attitude, pointing, unavailingly, all night long.
Moonlight, darkness, dawn, sunrise, day. There he is still, eagerly
pointing, and no one minds him.

But a little after the coming of the day come people to clean the
rooms. And either the Roman has some new meaning in him, not
expressed before, or the foremost of them goes wild, for looking up
at his outstretched hand and looking down at what is below it, that
person shrieks and flies. The others, looking in as the first one
looked, shriek and fly too, and there is an alarm in the street.

What does it mean? No light is admitted into the darkened chamber,
and people unaccustomed to it enter, and treading softly but heavily,
carry a weight into the bedroom and lay it down. There is whispering
and wondering all day, strict search of every corner, careful tracing
of steps, and careful noting of the disposition of every article of
furniture. All eyes look up at the Roman, and all voices murmur, "If
he could only tell what he saw!"

He is pointing at a table with a bottle (nearly full of wine) and a
glass upon it and two candles that were blown out suddenly soon after
being lighted. He is pointing at an empty chair and at a stain upon
the ground before it that might be almost covered with a hand. These
objects lie directly within his range. An excited imagination might
suppose that there was something in them so terrific as to drive the
rest of the composition, not only the attendant big-legged boys, but
the clouds and flowers and pillars too--in short, the very body and
soul of Allegory, and all the brains it has--stark mad. It happens
surely that every one who comes into the darkened room and looks at
these things looks up at the Roman and that he is invested in all
eyes with mystery and awe, as if he were a paralysed dumb witness.

So it shall happen surely, through many years to come, that ghostly
stories shall be told of the stain upon the floor, so easy to be
covered, so hard to be got out, and that the Roman, pointing from the
ceiling shall point, so long as dust and damp and spiders spare him,
with far greater significance than he ever had in Mr. Tulkinghorn's
time, and with a deadly meaning. For Mr. Tulkinghorn's time is over
for evermore, and the Roman pointed at the murderous hand uplifted
against his life, and pointed helplessly at him, from night to
morning, lying face downward on the floor, shot through the heart.

Dutiful Friendship

A great annual occasion has come round in the establishment of Mr.
Matthew Bagnet, otherwise Lignum Vitae, ex-artilleryman and present
bassoon-player. An occasion of feasting and festival. The celebration
of a birthday in the family.

It is not Mr. Bagnet's birthday. Mr. Bagnet merely distinguishes that
epoch in the musical instrument business by kissing the children with
an extra smack before breakfast, smoking an additional pipe after
dinner, and wondering towards evening what his poor old mother is
thinking about it--a subject of infinite speculation, and rendered so
by his mother having departed this life twenty years. Some men rarely
revert to their father, but seem, in the bank-books of their
remembrance, to have transferred all the stock of filial affection
into their mother's name. Mr. Bagnet is one of these. Perhaps his
exalted appreciation of the merits of the old girl causes him usually
to make the noun-substantive "goodness" of the feminine gender.

It is not the birthday of one of the three children. Those occasions
are kept with some marks of distinction, but they rarely overleap the
bounds of happy returns and a pudding. On young Woolwich's last
birthday, Mr. Bagnet certainly did, after observing on his growth and
general advancement, proceed, in a moment of profound reflection on
the changes wrought by time, to examine him in the catechism,
accomplishing with extreme accuracy the questions number one and two,
"What is your name?" and "Who gave you that name?" but there failing
in the exact precision of his memory and substituting for number
three the question "And how do you like that name?" which he
propounded with a sense of its importance, in itself so edifying and
improving as to give it quite an orthodox air. This, however, was a
speciality on that particular birthday, and not a general solemnity.

It is the old girl's birthday, and that is the greatest holiday and
reddest-letter day in Mr. Bagnet's calendar. The auspicious event is
always commemorated according to certain forms settled and prescribed
by Mr. Bagnet some years since. Mr. Bagnet, being deeply convinced
that to have a pair of fowls for dinner is to attain the highest
pitch of imperial luxury, invariably goes forth himself very early in
the morning of this day to buy a pair; he is, as invariably, taken in
by the vendor and installed in the possession of the oldest
inhabitants of any coop in Europe. Returning with these triumphs of
toughness tied up in a clean blue and white cotton handkerchief
(essential to the arrangements), he in a casual manner invites Mrs.
Bagnet to declare at breakfast what she would like for dinner. Mrs.
Bagnet, by a coincidence never known to fail, replying fowls, Mr.
Bagnet instantly produces his bundle from a place of concealment
amidst general amazement and rejoicing. He further requires that the
old girl shall do nothing all day long but sit in her very best gown
and be served by himself and the young people. As he is not
illustrious for his cookery, this may be supposed to be a matter of
state rather than enjoyment on the old girl's part, but she keeps her
state with all imaginable cheerfulness.

On this present birthday, Mr. Bagnet has accomplished the usual
preliminaries. He has bought two specimens of poultry, which, if
there be any truth in adages, were certainly not caught with chaff,
to be prepared for the spit; he has amazed and rejoiced the family by
their unlooked-for production; he is himself directing the roasting
of the poultry; and Mrs. Bagnet, with her wholesome brown fingers
itching to prevent what she sees going wrong, sits in her gown of
ceremony, an honoured guest.

Quebec and Malta lay the cloth for dinner, while Woolwich, serving,
as beseems him, under his father, keeps the fowls revolving. To these
young scullions Mrs. Bagnet occasionally imparts a wink, or a shake
of the head, or a crooked face, as they made mistakes.

"At half after one." Says Mr. Bagnet. "To the minute. They'll be
done."

Mrs. Bagnet, with anguish, beholds one of them at a standstill before
the fire and beginning to burn.

"You shall have a dinner, old girl," says Mr. Bagnet. "Fit for a
queen."

Mrs. Bagnet shows her white teeth cheerfully, but to the perception
of her son, betrays so much uneasiness of spirit that he is impelled
by the dictates of affection to ask her, with his eyes, what is the
matter, thus standing, with his eyes wide open, more oblivious of the
fowls than before, and not affording the least hope of a return to
consciousness. Fortunately his elder sister perceives the cause of
the agitation in Mrs. Bagnet's breast and with an admonitory poke
recalls him. The stopped fowls going round again, Mrs. Bagnet closes
her eyes in the intensity of her relief.

"George will look us up," says Mr. Bagnet. "At half after four. To
the moment. How many years, old girl. Has George looked us up. This
afternoon?"

"Ah, Lignum, Lignum, as many as make an old woman of a young one, I
begin to think. Just about that, and no less," returns Mrs. Bagnet,
laughing and shaking her head.

"Old girl," says Mr. Bagnet, "never mind. You'd be as young as ever
you was. If you wasn't younger. Which you are. As everybody knows."

Quebec and Malta here exclaim, with clapping of hands, that Bluffy is
sure to bring mother something, and begin to speculate on what it
will be.

"Do you know, Lignum," says Mrs. Bagnet, casting a glance on the
table-cloth, and winking "salt!" at Malta with her right eye, and
shaking the pepper away from Quebec with her head, "I begin to think
George is in the roving way again.

"George," returns Mr. Bagnet, "will never desert. And leave his old
comrade. In the lurch. Don't be afraid of it."

"No, Lignum. No. I don't say he will. I don't think he will. But if
he could get over this money trouble of his, I believe he would be
off."

Mr. Bagnet asks why.

"Well," returns his wife, considering, "George seems to me to be
getting not a little impatient and restless. I don't say but what
he's as free as ever. Of course he must be free or he wouldn't be
George, but he smarts and seems put out."

"He's extra-drilled," says Mr. Bagnet. "By a lawyer. Who would put
the devil out."

"There's something in that," his wife assents; "but so it is,
Lignum."

Further conversation is prevented, for the time, by the necessity
under which Mr. Bagnet finds himself of directing the whole force of
his mind to the dinner, which is a little endangered by the dry
humour of the fowls in not yielding any gravy, and also by the made
gravy acquiring no flavour and turning out of a flaxen complexion.
With a similar perverseness, the potatoes crumble off forks in the
process of peeling, upheaving from their centres in every direction,
as if they were subject to earthquakes. The legs of the fowls, too,
are longer than could be desired, and extremely scaly. Overcoming
these disadvantages to the best of his ability, Mr. Bagnet at last
dishes and they sit down at table, Mrs. Bagnet occupying the guest's
place at his right hand.

It is well for the old girl that she has but one birthday in a year,
for two such indulgences in poultry might be injurious. Every kind of
finer tendon and ligament that is in the nature of poultry to possess
is developed in these specimens in the singular form of
guitar-strings. Their limbs appear to have struck roots into their
breasts and bodies, as aged trees strike roots into the earth. Their
legs are so hard as to encourage the idea that they must have devoted
the greater part of their long and arduous lives to pedestrian
exercises and the walking of matches. But Mr. Bagnet, unconscious of
these little defects, sets his heart on Mrs. Bagnet eating a most
severe quantity of the delicacies before her; and as that good old
girl would not cause him a moment's disappointment on any day, least
of all on such a day, for any consideration, she imperils her
digestion fearfully. How young Woolwich cleans the drum-sticks
without being of ostrich descent, his anxious mother is at a loss to
understand.

The old girl has another trial to undergo after the conclusion of the
repast in sitting in state to see the room cleared, the hearth swept,
and the dinner-service washed up and polished in the backyard. The
great delight and energy with which the two young ladies apply
themselves to these duties, turning up their skirts in imitation of
their mother and skating in and out on little scaffolds of pattens,
inspire the highest hopes for the future, but some anxiety for the
present. The same causes lead to confusion of tongues, a clattering
of crockery, a rattling of tin mugs, a whisking of brooms, and an
expenditure of water, all in excess, while the saturation of the
young ladies themselves is almost too moving a spectacle for Mrs.
Bagnet to look upon with the calmness proper to her position. At last
the various cleansing processes are triumphantly completed; Quebec
and Malta appear in fresh attire, smiling and dry; pipes, tobacco,
and something to drink are placed upon the table; and the old girl
enjoys the first peace of mind she ever knows on the day of this
delightful entertainment.

When Mr. Bagnet takes his usual seat, the hands of the clock are very
near to half-past four; as they mark it accurately, Mr. Bagnet
announces, "George! Military time."

It is George, and he has hearty congratulations for the old girl
(whom he kisses on the great occasion), and for the children, and for
Mr. Bagnet. "Happy returns to all!" says Mr. George.

"But, George, old man!" cries Mrs. Bagnet, looking at him curiously.
"What's come to you?"

"Come to me?"

"Ah! You are so white, George--for you--and look so shocked. Now
don't he, Lignum?"

"George," says Mr. Bagnet, "tell the old girl. What's the matter."

"I didn't know I looked white," says the trooper, passing his hand
over his brow, "and I didn't know I looked shocked, and I'm sorry I
do. But the truth is, that boy who was taken in at my place died
yesterday afternoon, and it has rather knocked me over."

"Poor creetur!" says Mrs. Bagnet with a mother's pity. "Is he gone?
Dear, dear!"

"I didn't mean to say anything about it, for it's not birthday talk,
but you have got it out of me, you see, before I sit down. I should
have roused up in a minute," says the trooper, making himself speak
more gaily, "but you're so quick, Mrs. Bagnet."

"You're right. The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet. "Is as quick. As
powder."

"And what's more, she's the subject of the day, and we'll stick to
her," cries Mr. George. "See here, I have brought a little brooch
along with me. It's a poor thing, you know, but it's a keepsake.
That's all the good it is, Mrs. Bagnet."

Mr. George produces his present, which is greeted with admiring
leapings and clappings by the young family, and with a species of
reverential admiration by Mr. Bagnet. "Old girl," says Mr. Bagnet.
"Tell him my opinion of it."

"Why, it's a wonder, George!" Mrs. Bagnet exclaims. "It's the
beautifullest thing that ever was seen!"

"Good!" says Mr. Bagnet. "My opinion."

"It's so pretty, George," cries Mrs. Bagnet, turning it on all sides
and holding it out at arm's length, "that it seems too choice for
me."

"Bad!" says Mr. Bagnet. "Not my opinion."

"But whatever it is, a hundred thousand thanks, old fellow," says
Mrs. Bagnet, her eyes sparkling with pleasure and her hand stretched
out to him; "and though I have been a crossgrained soldier's wife to
you sometimes, George, we are as strong friends, I am sure, in
reality, as ever can be. Now you shall fasten it on yourself, for
good luck, if you will, George."

The children close up to see it done, and Mr. Bagnet looks over young
Woolwich's head to see it done with an interest so maturely wooden,
yet pleasantly childish, that Mrs. Bagnet cannot help laughing in her
airy way and saying, "Oh, Lignum, Lignum, what a precious old chap
you are!" But the trooper fails to fasten the brooch. His hand
shakes, he is nervous, and it falls off. "Would any one believe
this?" says he, catching it as it drops and looking round. "I am so
out of sorts that I bungle at an easy job like this!"

Mrs. Bagnet concludes that for such a case there is no remedy like a
pipe, and fastening the brooch herself in a twinkling, causes the
trooper to be inducted into his usual snug place and the pipes to be
got into action. "If that don't bring you round, George," says she,
"just throw your eye across here at your present now and then, and
the two together MUST do it."

"You ought to do it of yourself," George answers; "I know that very
well, Mrs. Bagnet. I'll tell you how, one way and another, the blues
have got to be too many for me. Here was this poor lad. 'Twas dull
work to see him dying as he did, and not be able to help him."

"What do you mean, George? You did help him. You took him under your
roof."

"I helped him so far, but that's little. I mean, Mrs. Bagnet, there
he was, dying without ever having been taught much more than to know
his right hand from his left. And he was too far gone to be helped
out of that."

"Ah, poor creetur!" says Mrs. Bagnet.

"Then," says the trooper, not yet lighting his pipe, and passing his
heavy hand over his hair, "that brought up Gridley in a man's mind.
His was a bad case too, in a different way. Then the two got mixed up
in a man's mind with a flinty old rascal who had to do with both. And
to think of that rusty carbine, stock and barrel, standing up on end
in his corner, hard, indifferent, taking everything so evenly--it
made flesh and blood tingle, I do assure you."

"My advice to you," returns Mrs. Bagnet, "is to light your pipe and
tingle that way. It's wholesomer and comfortabler, and better for the
health altogether."

"You're right," says the trooper, "and I'll do it."

So he does it, though still with an indignant gravity that impresses
the young Bagnets, and even causes Mr. Bagnet to defer the ceremony
of drinking Mrs. Bagnet's health, always given by himself on these
occasions in a speech of exemplary terseness. But the young ladies
having composed what Mr. Bagnet is in the habit of calling "the
mixtur," and George's pipe being now in a glow, Mr. Bagnet considers
it his duty to proceed to the toast of the evening. He addresses the
assembled company in the following terms.

"George. Woolwich. Quebec. Malta. This is her birthday. Take a day's
march. And you won't find such another. Here's towards her!"

The toast having been drunk with enthusiasm, Mrs. Bagnet returns
thanks in a neat address of corresponding brevity. This model
composition is limited to the three words "And wishing yours!" which
the old girl follows up with a nod at everybody in succession and a
well-regulated swig of the mixture. This she again follows up, on the
present occasion, by the wholly unexpected exclamation, "Here's a
man!"

Here IS a man, much to the astonishment of the little company,
looking in at the parlour-door. He is a sharp-eyed man--a quick keen
man--and he takes in everybody's look at him, all at once,
individually and collectively, in a manner that stamps him a
remarkable man.

"George," says the man, nodding, "how do you find yourself?"

"Why, it's Bucket!" cries Mr. George.

"Yes," says the man, coming in and closing the door. "I was going
down the street here when I happened to stop and look in at the
musical instruments in the shop-window--a friend of mine is in want
of a second-hand wiolinceller of a good tone--and I saw a party
enjoying themselves, and I thought it was you in the corner; I
thought I couldn't be mistaken. How goes the world with you, George,
at the present moment? Pretty smooth? And with you, ma'am? And with
you, governor? And Lord," says Mr. Bucket, opening his arms, "here's
children too! You may do anything with me if you only show me
children. Give us a kiss, my pets. No occasion to inquire who YOUR
father and mother is. Never saw such a likeness in my life!"

Mr. Bucket, not unwelcome, has sat himself down next to Mr. George
and taken Quebec and Malta on his knees. "You pretty dears," says Mr.
Bucket, "give us another kiss; it's the only thing I'm greedy in.
Lord bless you, how healthy you look! And what may be the ages of
these two, ma'am? I should put 'em down at the figures of about eight
and ten."

"You're very near, sir," says Mrs. Bagnet.

"I generally am near," returns Mr. Bucket, "being so fond of
children. A friend of mine has had nineteen of 'em, ma'am, all by one
mother, and she's still as fresh and rosy as the morning. Not so much
so as yourself, but, upon my soul, she comes near you! And what do
you call these, my darling?" pursues Mr. Bucket, pinching Malta's
cheeks. "These are peaches, these are. Bless your heart! And what do
you think about father? Do you think father could recommend a
second-hand wiolinceller of a good tone for Mr. Bucket's friend, my
dear? My name's Bucket. Ain't that a funny name?"

These blandishments have entirely won the family heart. Mrs. Bagnet
forgets the day to the extent of filling a pipe and a glass for Mr.
Bucket and waiting upon him hospitably. She would be glad to receive
so pleasant a character under any circumstances, but she tells him
that as a friend of George's she is particularly glad to see him this
evening, for George has not been in his usual spirits.

"Not in his usual spirits?" exclaims Mr. Bucket. "Why, I never heard
of such a thing! What's the matter, George? You don't intend to tell
me you've been out of spirits. What should you be out of spirits for?
You haven't got anything on your mind, you know."

"Nothing particular," returns the trooper.

"I should think not," rejoins Mr. Bucket. "What could you have on
your mind, you know! And have these pets got anything on THEIR minds,
eh? Not they, but they'll be upon the minds of some of the young
fellows, some of these days, and make 'em precious low-spirited. I
ain't much of a prophet, but I can tell you that, ma'am."

Mrs. Bagnet, quite charmed, hopes Mr. Bucket has a family of his own.

"There, ma'am!" says Mr. Bucket. "Would you believe it? No, I
haven't. My wife and a lodger constitute my family. Mrs. Bucket is as
fond of children as myself and as wishful to have 'em, but no. So it
is. Worldly goods are divided unequally, and man must not repine.
What a very nice backyard, ma'am! Any way out of that yard, now?"

There is no way out of that yard.

"Ain't there really?" says Mr. Bucket. "I should have thought there
might have been. Well, I don't know as I ever saw a backyard that
took my fancy more. Would you allow me to look at it? Thank you. No,
I see there's no way out. But what a very good-proportioned yard it
is!"

Having cast his sharp eye all about it, Mr. Bucket returns to his
chair next his friend Mr. George and pats Mr. George affectionately
on the shoulder.

"How are your spirits now, George?"

"All right now," returns the trooper.

"That's your sort!" says Mr. Bucket. "Why should you ever have been
otherwise? A man of your fine figure and constitution has no right to
be out of spirits. That ain't a chest to be out of spirits, is it,
ma'am? And you haven't got anything on your mind, you know, George;
what could you have on your mind!"

Somewhat harping on this phrase, considering the extent and variety
of his conversational powers, Mr. Bucket twice or thrice repeats it
to the pipe he lights, and with a listening face that is particularly
his own. But the sun of his sociality soon recovers from this brief
eclipse and shines again.

"And this is brother, is it, my dears?" says Mr. Bucket, referring to
Quebec and Malta for information on the subject of young Woolwich.
"And a nice brother he is--half-brother I mean to say. For he's too
old to be your boy, ma'am."

"I can certify at all events that he is not anybody else's," returns
Mrs. Bagnet, laughing.

"Well, you do surprise me! Yet he's like you, there's no denying.
Lord, he's wonderfully like you! But about what you may call the
brow, you know, THERE his father comes out!" Mr. Bucket compares the
faces with one eye shut up, while Mr. Bagnet smokes in stolid
satisfaction.

This is an opportunity for Mrs. Bagnet to inform him that the boy is
George's godson.

"George's godson, is he?" rejoins Mr. Bucket with extreme cordiality.
"I must shake hands over again with George's godson. Godfather and
godson do credit to one another. And what do you intend to make of
him, ma'am? Does he show any turn for any musical instrument?"

Mr. Bagnet suddenly interposes, "Plays the fife. Beautiful."

"Would you believe it, governor," says Mr. Bucket, struck by the
coincidence, "that when I was a boy I played the fife myself? Not in
a scientific way, as I expect he does, but by ear. Lord bless you!
'British Grenadiers'--there's a tune to warm an Englishman up! COULD
you give us 'British Grenadiers,' my fine fellow?"

Nothing could be more acceptable to the little circle than this call
upon young Woolwich, who immediately fetches his fife and performs
the stirring melody, during which performance Mr. Bucket, much
enlivened, beats time and never fails to come in sharp with the
burden, "British Gra-a-anadeers!" In short, he shows so much musical
taste that Mr. Bagnet actually takes his pipe from his lips to
express his conviction that he is a singer. Mr. Bucket receives the
harmonious impeachment so modestly, confessing how that he did once
chaunt a little, for the expression of the feelings of his own bosom,
and with no presumptuous idea of entertaining his friends, that he is
asked to sing. Not to be behindhand in the sociality of the evening,
he complies and gives them "Believe Me, if All Those Endearing Young
Charms." This ballad, he informs Mrs. Bagnet, he considers to have
been his most powerful ally in moving the heart of Mrs. Bucket when a
maiden, and inducing her to approach the altar--Mr. Bucket's own
words are "to come up to the scratch."

This sparkling stranger is such a new and agreeable feature in the
evening that Mr. George, who testified no great emotions of pleasure
on his entrance, begins, in spite of himself, to be rather proud of
him. He is so friendly, is a man of so many resources, and so easy to
get on with, that it is something to have made him known there. Mr.
Bagnet becomes, after another pipe, so sensible of the value of his
acquaintance that he solicits the honour of his company on the old
girl's next birthday. If anything can more closely cement and
consolidate the esteem which Mr. Bucket has formed for the family, it
is the discovery of the nature of the occasion. He drinks to Mrs.
Bagnet with a warmth approaching to rapture, engages himself for that
day twelvemonth more than thankfully, makes a memorandum of the day
in a large black pocket-book with a girdle to it, and breathes a hope
that Mrs. Bucket and Mrs. Bagnet may before then become, in a manner,
sisters. As he says himself, what is public life without private
ties? He is in his humble way a public man, but it is not in that
sphere that he finds happiness. No, it must be sought within the
confines of domestic bliss.

It is natural, under these circumstances, that he, in his turn,
should remember the friend to whom he is indebted for so promising an
acquaintance. And he does. He keeps very close to him. Whatever the
subject of the conversation, he keeps a tender eye upon him. He waits
to walk home with him. He is interested in his very boots and
observes even them attentively as Mr. George sits smoking
cross-legged in the chimney-corner.

At length Mr. George rises to depart. At the same moment Mr. Bucket,
with the secret sympathy of friendship, also rises. He dotes upon the
children to the last and remembers the commission he has undertaken
for an absent friend.

"Respecting that second-hand wiolinceller, governor--could you
recommend me such a thing?"

"Scores," says Mr. Bagnet.

"I am obliged to you," returns Mr. Bucket, squeezing his hand.
"You're a friend in need. A good tone, mind you! My friend is a
regular dab at it. Ecod, he saws away at Mozart and Handel and the
rest of the big-wigs like a thorough workman. And you needn't," says
Mr. Bucket in a considerate and private voice, "you needn't commit
yourself to too low a figure, governor. I don't want to pay too large
a price for my friend, but I want you to have your proper percentage
and be remunerated for your loss of time. That is but fair. Every man
must live, and ought to it."

Mr. Bagnet shakes his head at the old girl to the effect that they
have found a jewel of price.

"Suppose I was to give you a look in, say, at half arter ten
to-morrow morning. Perhaps you could name the figures of a few
wiolincellers of a good tone?" says Mr. Bucket.

Nothing easier. Mr. and Mrs. Bagnet both engage to have the requisite
information ready and even hint to each other at the practicability
of having a small stock collected there for approval.

"Thank you," says Mr. Bucket, "thank you. Good night, ma'am. Good
night, governor. Good night, darlings. I am much obliged to you for
one of the pleasantest evenings I ever spent in my life."

They, on the contrary, are much obliged to him for the pleasure he
has given them in his company; and so they part with many expressions
of goodwill on both sides. "Now George, old boy," says Mr. Bucket,
taking his arm at the shop-door, "come along!" As they go down the
little street and the Bagnets pause for a minute looking after them,
Mrs. Bagnet remarks to the worthy Lignum that Mr. Bucket "almost
clings to George like, and seems to be really fond of him."

The neighbouring streets being narrow and ill-paved, it is a little
inconvenient to walk there two abreast and arm in arm. Mr. George
therefore soon proposes to walk singly. But Mr. Bucket, who cannot
make up his mind to relinquish his friendly hold, replies, "Wait half
a minute, George. I should wish to speak to you first." Immediately
afterwards, he twists him into a public-house and into a parlour,
where he confronts him and claps his own back against the door.

"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, "duty is duty, and friendship is
friendship. I never want the two to clash if I can help it. I have
endeavoured to make things pleasant to-night, and I put it to you
whether I have done it or not. You must consider yourself in custody,
George."

"Custody? What for?" returns the trooper, thunderstruck.

"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, urging a sensible view of the case
upon him with his fat forefinger, "duty, as you know very well, is
one thing, and conversation is another. It's my duty to inform you
that any observations you may make will be liable to be used against
you. Therefore, George, be careful what you say. You don't happen to
have heard of a murder?"

"Murder!"

"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, keeping his forefinger in an
impressive state of action, "bear in mind what I've said to you. I
ask you nothing. You've been in low spirits this afternoon. I say,
you don't happen to have heard of a murder?"

"No. Where has there been a murder?"

"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, "don't you go and commit yourself.
I'm a-going to tell you what I want you for. There has been a murder
in Lincoln's Inn Fields--gentleman of the name of Tulkinghorn. He was
shot last night. I want you for that."

The trooper sinks upon a seat behind him, and great drops start out
upon his forehead, and a deadly pallor overspreads his face.

"Bucket! It's not possible that Mr. Tulkinghorn has been killed and
that you suspect ME?"

"George," returns Mr. Bucket, keeping his forefinger going, "it is
certainly possible, because it's the case. This deed was done last
night at ten o'clock. Now, you know where you were last night at ten
o'clock, and you'll be able to prove it, no doubt."

"Last night! Last night?" repeats the trooper thoughtfully. Then it
flashes upon him. "Why, great heaven, I was there last night!"

"So I have understood, George," returns Mr. Bucket with great
deliberation. "So I have understood. Likewise you've been very often
there. You've been seen hanging about the place, and you've been
heard more than once in a wrangle with him, and it's possible--I
don't say it's certainly so, mind you, but it's possible--that he may
have been heard to call you a threatening, murdering, dangerous
fellow."

The trooper gasps as if he would admit it all if he could speak.

"Now, George," continues Mr. Bucket, putting his hat upon the table
with an air of business rather in the upholstery way than otherwise,
"my wish is, as it has been all the evening, to make things pleasant.
I tell you plainly there's a reward out, of a hundred guineas,
offered by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. You and me have always
been pleasant together; but I have got a duty to discharge; and if
that hundred guineas is to be made, it may as well be made by me as
any other man. On all of which accounts, I should hope it was clear
to you that I must have you, and that I'm damned if I don't have you.
Am I to call in any assistance, or is the trick done?"

Mr. George has recovered himself and stands up like a soldier.
"Come," he says; "I am ready."

"George," continues Mr. Bucket, "wait a bit!" With his upholsterer
manner, as if the trooper were a window to be fitted up, he takes
from his pocket a pair of handcuffs. "This is a serious charge,
George, and such is my duty."

The trooper flushes angrily and hesitates a moment, but holds out his
two hands, clasped together, and says, "There! Put them on!"

Mr. Bucket adjusts them in a moment. "How do you find them? Are they
comfortable? If not, say so, for I wish to make things as pleasant as
is consistent with my duty, and I've got another pair in my pocket."
This remark he offers like a most respectable tradesman anxious to
execute an order neatly and to the perfect satisfaction of his
customer. "They'll do as they are? Very well! Now, you see,
George"--he takes a cloak from a corner and begins adjusting it about
the trooper's neck--"I was mindful of your feelings when I come out,
and brought this on purpose. There! Who's the wiser?"

"Only I," returns the trooper, "but as I know it, do me one more good
turn and pull my hat over my eyes."

"Really, though! Do you mean it? Ain't it a pity? It looks so."

"I can't look chance men in the face with these things on," Mr.
George hurriedly replies. "Do, for God's sake, pull my hat forward."

So strongly entreated, Mr. Bucket complies, puts his own hat on, and
conducts his prize into the streets, the trooper marching on as
steadily as usual, though with his head less erect, and Mr. Bucket
steering him with his elbow over the crossings and up the turnings.

It is clear that Jo is once again very ill, and starving. He tells Woodcourt that he ran away from Esther, but he was "took away, by someone he dursn't name." He cannot keep straight the identities of Lady Dedlock, Hortense, and Esther Summerson. At some point, we learn, Mr. Bucket put Jo in hospital, and when he was well he was discharged and told to "move on." Allan gives him wine and food, and takes him to Mr. George's shooting gallery. There he is received and aided, with the attendance of Dr. Woodcourt, but the child dies piteously, with the first prayer of his life, dictated by Dr. Woodcourt, on his lips. Turning to Chapter 48, Lady Dedlock has resolved to remove Rosa from her employ, and place her with Mr. Rouncewell to be educated for his son, so as to save the girl from any taint when the scandal of their marriage comes out. This development is a deal-breaker to Tulkinghorn, who sais that he will "undeceive" Sir Leicester in his own time. It will not be tonight, but it could be tomorrow, or soon thereafter, at a time of Tulkinghorn's own choosing. Mr. Rouncewell comes and collects Rosa, who does not want to leave, and the requisite political wrangling between Sir Leicester and he ensues. Then the moment arrives: Tulkinghorn is found in his office, shot dead through the heart, just before ten o'clock. In Chapter 49, we find the Bagnet household preparing for the birthday dinner of Mrs. Bagnet. George Rouncewell arrives for the happy occasion, but he is a little depressed by his debts and very saddened by the death, in his establishment, of little Jo. The Bagnets, especially Mrs. Bagnet, are sympathetic. The slightly comedic and happy birthday dinner commences, and Bucket, claiming he saw Sgt George through the window, arrives unexpectedly. He spends a nice time with the family. After he leaves with George, he arrests him for Tulkinghorn's murder. He claims that Tulkinghorn had called him a murderous fellow, but Bucket is mistaken. When Tulkinghorn said that he was referring to the now-dead Gridley. Bucket receives the large reward given by Sir Leicester Dedlock.

The pathetic death of Jo is contrasted by the relief of the removal of the evil character of Tulkinghorn.  There is no doubt that the world is a better place without him.  However, no one believes that George killled Mr. Tulkinghorn, and the fact that the miscarriage of justice is carried out so quickly and incorrectlly by the likable Mr. Bucket makes the scene more dramatic. Lady Dedlock's removal of the maid causing Tulkinghorn to break their agreement seems a bit arbitrary, but it is just like him to have such inscrutable standards.  Lady Dedlock has shown herself to have an iron character, and she has become more admirable throughout the book.  She is nicely contrasted with the lower class iron character of the ironmaster, Mr. Rouncewell. The happy interlude at the Bagnets, again, is a kind of gentle relief to the difficult and heavy proceedings of the rest of the chapters.  There is no doubt that they are a happy family, and it is a relief for George to have some respite with them, even if it's only short-lived. The death of Tulkinghorn is beautifully described, the eerie and familiar stage of him alone, drinking his wine in his chambers: a perfect setting for a cold-blooded murder.  He is seen to be eminently deserving of murder, and the readers are rewarded with his meaningful death after the meaningless death of Jo.