feasible, but we went out to reconnoitre. | culty, and had come to consult with Peeping in at the gate of the barrack him what could best be done. yard, we found everything very quiet at that time in the morning; and I asked a serjeant standing on the guardhousesteps, where he lived. He sent a man before to show me, who went up some bare stairs, and knocked with his knuckles at a door, and left us. "Now then!" cried Richard from within. So I left Charley in the little passage, and going on to the half-open door, said. "Can I come in, Richard. It's only Dame Durden." "Like you, Esther, but useless, and so not like you!" said he with a melancholy smile. "I am away on leave this day-should have been gone in another hour-and that is to smooth it over, for my selling out. Well! Let bygones be bygones. So this calling follows the rest. I only want to have been in the church, to have made the round of all the professions." "Richard," I urged, "it is not sa hopeless as that?" "Esther," he returned, "it is indeed. I am just so near disgrace as that those who are put in authority over me (as the catechism goes) would far rather be without me than with me. And they are right. Apart from debts and duns, and all such drawbacks, I am not fit even for this employment. He was writing at a table, with a great confusion of clothes, tin cases, books, boots, brushes, and portmanteaus, strewn all about the floor. He was only half-dressed-in plain clothes, I observed, not in uniform-and his hair was unbrushed, and he looked as wild as his room. All this I saw after he had heartily welcomed me, and II have no care, no mind, no heart, no was seated near him, for he started upon hearing my voice, and caught me in his arms in a moment. Dear Richard! He was ever the same to me. Down to-ah, poor poor fellow !-to the end, he never received me but with something of his old merry boyish manner. "Good Heaven, my dear little woman," said he, "how do you come here. Who could have thought of seeing you! Nothing the matter? Ada is well ?" "Quite well. Lovelier than ever, Richard!" "Ah!" he said, leaning back in his chair. "My poor cousin ! I was writing to you, Esther." So worn and haggard as he looked, even in the fullness of his handsome youth, leaning back in his chair, and crushing the closely written sheet of paper in his hand ! "Have you been at the trouble of writing all that, and am I not to read it after all?" I asked. "Oh my dear," he returned, with a hopeless gesture. "You may read it in the whole room. It is all over here." I mildly entreated him not to be despondent. I told him that I had heard by chance of his being in diffi soul, but for one thing. Why, if this bubble hadn't broken now," he said, tearing the letter he had written into fragments, and moodily casting then away, by driblets, "how could I have gone abroad? I must have been ordered abroad; but how could I have gone. How could I, with my experi ence of that thing, trust even Vholes unless I was at his back!" I suppose he knew by my face what I was about to say, but he caught the hand I had laid upon his arm, and touched my own lips with it to prevent me from going on. "No, Dame Durden! Two subjects I forbid must forbid. The first is John Jarndyce. The second, you know what. Call it madness, and I tell you I can't help it now, and can't be sane. But it is no such thing; it is the one object I have to pursue. It is a pity I ever was prevailed upon to turn out of my road for any other. It would be wisdom to abandon it now, after all the time, anxiety, and pains I have bestowed upon it! O yes, true wisdom. It would be very agreeable, too, to some people; but I never will." He was in that mood in which I thought it best not to increase his determination (if anything could increase it) by opposing him. I took out Ada's | shameful words!" I was very angry letter, and put it in his hand. "Am I to read it now?" he asked. As I told him yes, he laid it on the table, and, resting his head upon his hand, began. He had not read far, when he rested his head upon his two hands-to hide his face from me. In a little while he rose as if the light were bad, and went to the window. He finished reading it there, with his back towards me; and, after he had finished and had folded it up, stood there for some minutes with the letter in his hand. When he came back to his chair, I saw tears in his eyes. "Of course, Esther, you know what she says here?" He spoke in a softened voice, and kissed the letter as he asked me. "Yes, Richard." "Offers me," he went on, tapping his foot upon the floor, "the little inheritance she is certain of so soonjust as little and as much as I have wasted-and begs and prays me to take it, set myself right with it, and remain in the service." "I know your welfare to be the dearest wish of her heart,' ," said I. "And O, my dear Richard, Ada's is a noble heart!" "I am sure it is. I-I wish I was dead!" He went back to the window, and laying his arm across it, leaned his head down on his arm. It greatly affected me to see him so; but I hoped he might become more yielding, and I remained silent. My experience was very limited; I was not at all prepared for his rousing himself out of this emotion to a new sense of injury. "And this is the heart that the same John Jarndyce, who is not otherwise to be mentioned between us, stepped in to estrange from me," said he, indignantly. "And the dear girl makes me this generous offer from under the same John Jarndyce's roof, and with the same John Jarndyce's gracious consent and connivance, I dare say, as a new means of buying me off.” "Richard !" I cried out, rising hastily, "I will not hear you say such with him indeed, for the first time in my life; but it only lasted a moment. When I saw his worn young face looking at me, as if he were sorry, I put my hand on his shoulder, and said, "If you please, my dear Richard, do not speak in such a tone to me. Consider!" He blamed himself exceedingly; and told me in the most generous manner, that he had been very wrong, and that he begged my pardon a thousand times. At that I laughed, but trembled a little too, for I was rather fluttered after being so fiery. "To accept this offer, my dear Esther," said he, sitting down beside me, and resuming our conversation, once more, pray, pray forgive me; I am deeply grieved-to accept my dear: est cousin's offer is, I need not say, impossible. Besides, I have letters and papers that I could show you, which would convince you it is all over here. I have done with the red coat, believe me. But it is some satisfaction, in the midst of my troubles and perplexities, to know that I am pressing Ada's interests in pressing my own. Vholes has his shoulder to the wheel, and he cannot help urging it on as much for her as for me, thank God!" His sanguine hopes were rising within him, and lighting up his features, but they made his face more sad to me than it had been before. "No, no!” cried Richard, exultingly. "If every farthing of Ada's little fortune were mine, no part of it should be spent in retaining me in what I am not fit for, can take no interest in, and am weary of. It should be devoted to what promises a better return, and should be used where she has a larger stake. Don't be uneasy for me! I shall now have only one thing on my mind, and Vholes and I will work it. I shall not be without means. Free of my commission, I shall be able to compound with some small usurers, who will hear of nothing but their bond now-Vholes says so. I should have a balance in my favor any way, but that will swell it. Come, come! You shall carry a letter to Ada from me, Esther, and you must both of you be more hope- | our cabin-room, and I had had time to ful of me, and not believe that I am quite cast away just yet, my dear." I will not repeat what I said to Richard. I know it was tiresome, and nobody is to suppose for a moment that it was at all wise. It only came from my heart. He heard it patiently and feelingly; but I saw that on the two subjects he had reserved, it was at present hopeless to make any representation to him. I saw too, and had experienced in this very interview, the sense of my guardian's remark that it was even more mischievous to use persuasion with him than to leave him as he was. Therefore I was driven at last to asking Richard if he would mind convincing me that it really was all over there, as he had said, and that it was not his mere impression. He showed me without hesitation a correspondence making it quite plain that his retirement was arranged. I found, from what he told me, that Mr. Vholes had copies of these papers, and had been in consultation with him throughout. Beyond ascertaining this, and having been the bearer of Ada's letter, and being (as I was going to be) Richard's companion back to London, I had done no good by coming down. Admitting this to myself with a reluctant heart, said I would return to the hotel and wait until he joined me there; so he threw a cloak over his shoulders and saw me to the gate, and Charley and I went back along the beach. There was a concourse of people in one spot, surrounding some naval officers who were landing from a boat, and pressing about them with unusual interest. I said to Charley this would be one of the great Indiaman's boats now, and we stopped to look. take breath, that I began to think why I had made such haste. In one of the sun-burnt faces I had recognised Mr. Allan Woodcourt, and I had been afraid of his recognising me. I had been unwilling that he should see my altered looks. I had been taken by surprise, and my courage had quite failed me. But I knew this would not do, and I now said to myself, "My dear, there is no reason-there is and there can be no reason at all-why it should be worse for you now, than it ever has been. What you were last month, you are to day; you are no worse, you are no better. This is not your resolution; call it up, Esther, call it up!" I was in a great tremble-with running-and at first was quite unable to calm myself; but I got better, and I was very glad to know it. The party came to the hotel. I heard them speaking on the staircase. I was sure it was the same gentlemen because I knew their voices again-I mean I knew Mr. Woodcourt's. It would still have been a great relief to me to have gone away without making myself known, but I was determined not to "No, my dear, no. No, no, do so. no !" I untied my bonnet, and put my veil half up-I think I mean half down, but it matters very little-and wrote on one of my cards that I happened to be there with Mr. Richard Carstone; and I sent it in to Mr. Woodcourt. He came immediately. I told him I was rejoiced to be by chance among the first to welcome him home to England. And I saw that he was very sorry for me. "You have been in shipwreck and peril since you left us, Mr. Woodcourt," said I, "but we can hardly call that a misfortune which enabled you to be so The gentlemen came slowly up from useful and so brave. We read of it the waterside, speaking good-humoredly with the truest interest. It first came to each other and to the people around, to my knowledge through your old paand glancing about them as if they were tient, poor Miss Flite, when I was recoglad to be in England again. "Char-vering from my severe illness." ley, Charley!" said I, 66 come away!" And I hurried on so swiftly that my little maid was surprised. It was not until we were shut up in "Ah! little Miss Flite!" he said. "She lives the same life yet?" "Just the same." I was so comfortable with myself now, as not to mind the veil, and to be able to put it aside. "Her gratitude to you, Mr. Woodcourt, is delightful. She is a most affectionate creature, as I have reason to say." "You —you have found her so?" he returned. "I-I am glad of that." He was so very sorry for me that he could scarcely speak. "I assure you," said I, "that I was deeply touched by her sympathy and pleasure at the time I have referred to." good spirits; and was thoroughly pleased to see Mr. Woodcourt again, whom he had always liked. Richard proposed that we all should go to London together; but Mr. Woodcourt having to remain by his ship a little longer, could not join us. He dined with us, however, at an early hour; and became so much more like what he used to be, that I was still more at peace to think I had been able to soften his regrets. Yet his mind was not relieved of Richard. When the coach was almost ready, and Richard "I was grieved to hear that you had ran down to look after his luggage, he been very ill." spoke to me about him. "I was very ill." "But you have quite recovered?" "I have quite recovered my health and my cheerfulness," said I. "You know how good my guardian is, and what a happy life we lead; and I have everything to be thankful for, and nothing in the world to desire." I felt as if he had greater commiseration for me than I had ever had for myself. It inspired me with new fortitude, and new calmness, to find that it was I who was under the necessity of reassuring him. I spoke to him of his voyage out and home, and of his future plans, and of his probable return to India. He said that was very doubtful. He had not found himself more favoured by fortune there, than here. He had gone out a poor ship's surgeon, and had come home nothing better. While we were talking, and when I was glad to believe that I had alleviated (if may use such a term) the shock he had had in seeing me, Richard came in. He had heard down-stairs who was with me, and they met with cordial pleasure. I saw that after their first greetings were over, and when they spoke of Richard's career, Mr. Woodcourt had a perception that all was not going well with him. He frequently glanced at his face, as if there were something in it that gave him pain; and more than once he looked towards me, as though he sought to ascertain whether I knew what the truth was. Yet Richard was in one of his sanguine states, and in I was not sure that I had a right to lay his whole story open; but I referred in a few words to his estrangement from Mr. Jarndyce, and to his being entangled in the ill-fated Chancery suit. Woodcourt listened with interest and expressed his regret. Mr. "I saw you observe him rather closely," said I. "Do you think him so changed?" "He is changed," he returned, shaking his head. I felt the blood rush into my face for the first time, but it was only an instantaneous emotion. I turned my head aside, and it was gone. "It is not," said Mr. Woodcourt, "his being so much younger or older, or thinner or fatter, or paler or ruddier, as there being upon his face such a singular expression. I never saw so remarkable a look in a young person. One cannot say that it is all anxiety, or all weariness; yet it is both, and like ungrown despair.” "You do not think he is ill?" said I. No. He looked robust in body. "That he cannot be at peace in mind, we have too much reason to know," I proceeded. "Mr. Woodcourt, you are going to London ?" "To-morrow or the next day.' "There is nothing Richard wants so much, as a friend. He always liked you. Pray see him when you get there. Pray help him sometimes with your companionship, if you can. You do not know of what service it might be. Why, I must get a lodging of some sort," said Richard, pondering. at Vholes's, Symond's Inn." "Good! Without loss of time." They shook hands heartily. was seated in the coach, and Richard was yet standing in the street, Mr. Woodcourt laid his friendly hand on Richard's shoulder, and looked at me. I understood him, and waved mine in thanks. "God bless you!" said I, with my eyes filling fast; but I thought they might, when it was not for myself. "Ada loves him—we all love him, but Ada loves him as we cannot. I will tell her what you say. Thank you, and God bless you, in her name !" And in his last look as we drove Richard came back as we finished ex-away, I saw that he was very sorry for changing these hurried words, and gave me his arm to take me to the coach. "Woodcourt," he said unconscious with what application, "pray let us meet in London!" me. I was glad to see it. I felt for my old self as the dead may feel if they ever revisit these scenes. I was glad to be tenderly remembered, to be gently pitied, not to be quite forgotten. CHAPTER XLVI. STOP HIM! DARKNESS rests upon Tom-all-Alone's. Dilating and dilating since the sun went down last night, it has gradually swelled until it fills every void in the place. For a time there were some dungeon lights burning, as the lamp of Life burns in Tom -all- Alone's, heavily, heavily, in the nauseous air, and winking-as that lamp, too, winks in Tomall-Alone's at many horrible things. But they are blotted out. The moon has eyed Tom with a dull cold stare, as admitting some puny emulation of herself in his desert region unfit for life and blasted by volcanic fires; but she has passed on, and is gone. The blackest nightmare in the infernal stables grazes on Tom-all-Alone's, and Tom is fast asleep. Much mighty speech-making there has been, both in and out of Parliament, concerning Tom, and much wrathful disputation how Tom shall be got right. Whether he shall be put into the main road by constables, or by beadles, or by bell-ringing, or by force of figures, or by correct principles of taste, or by high church, or by low church, or by no church; whether he shall be set to splitting trusses of polemical straws with the crooked knife of his mind, or whether he shall be put to stone-breaking instead. In the midst of which dust and noise, there is but one thing perfectly clear, to wit, that Tom only may and can, or shall and will, be reclaimed according to somebody's theory but nobody's practice. And in the hopeful meantime, Tom goes to perdition head foremost in his old determined spirit. But he has his revenge. Even the winds are his messengers, and they serve him in these hours of darkness. There is not a drop of Tom's corrupted blood but propagates infection and contagion somewhere. It shall pollute, this very night, the choice stream (in which chemists on analysis would find the genuine nobility) of a Norman house, and his Grace shall not be able to say Nay to the infamous alliance. |