Chapter LV. Flight

by Charles Dickens

　　Inspector Bucket of the Detective has not yet struck his greatblow, as just now chronicled, but is yet refreshing himself withsleep preparatory to his field-day, when through the night andalong the freezing wintry roads a chaise and pair comes out ofLincolnshire, making its way towards London.Railroads shall soon traverse all this country, and with a rattleand a glare the engine and train shall shoot like a meteor over thewide night-landscape, turning the moon paler; but as yet suchthings are non-existent in these parts, though not whollyunexpected. Preparations are afoot, measurements are made, groundis staked out. Bridges are begun, and their not yet united piersdesolately look at one another over roads and streams like brickand mortar couples with an obstacle to their union; fragments ofembankments are thrown up and left as precipices with torrents ofrusty carts and barrows tumbling over them; tripods of tall polesappear on hilltops, where there are rumours of tunnels; everythinglooks chaotic and abandoned in full hopelessness. Along thefreezing roads, and through the night, the post-chaise makes itsway without a railroad on its mind.Mrs. Rouncewell, so many years housekeeper at Chesney Wold, sitswithin the chaise; and by her side sits Mrs. Bagnet with her greycloak and umbrella. The old girl would prefer the bar in front, asbeing exposed to the weather and a primitive sort of perch more inaccordance with her usual course of travelling, but Mrs. Rouncewellis too thoughtful of her comfort to admit of her proposing it. Theold lady cannot make enough of the old girl. She sits, in herstately manner, holding her hand, and regardless of its roughness,puts it often to her lips. "You are a mother, my dear soul," saysshe many times, "and you found out my George's mother!""Why, George," returns Mrs. Bagnet, "was always free with me,ma'am, and when he said at our house to my Woolwich that of all thethings my Woolwich could have to think of when he grew to be a man,the comfortablest would be that he had never brought a sorrowfulline into his mother's face or turned a hair of her head grey, thenI felt sure, from his way, that something fresh had brought his ownmother into his mind. I had often known him say to me, in pasttimes, that he had behaved bad to her.""Never, my dear!" returns Mrs. Rouncewell, bursting into tears."My blessing on him, never! He was always fond of me, and lovingto me, was my George! But he had a bold spirit, and he ran alittle wild and went for a soldier. And I know he waited at first,in letting us know about himself, till he should rise to be anofficer; and when he didn't rise, I know he considered himselfbeneath us, and wouldn't be a disgrace to us. For he had a lionheart, had my George, always from a baby!"The old lady's hands stray about her as of yore, while she recalls,all in a tremble, what a likely lad, what a fine lad, what a gaygood-humoured clever lad he was; how they all took to him down atChesney Wold; how Sir Leicester took to him when he was a younggentleman; how the dogs took to him; how even the people who hadbeen angry with him forgave him the moment he was gone, poor boy.And now to see him after all, and in a prison too! And the broadstomacher heaves, and the quaint upright old-fashioned figure bendsunder its load of affectionate distress.Mrs. Bagnet, with the instinctive skill of a good warm heart,leaves the old housekeeper to her emotions for a little while--notwithout passing the back of her hand across her own motherly eyes--and presently chirps up in her cheery manner, "So I says to Georgewhen I goes to call him in to tea (he pretended to be smoking hispipe outside), 'What ails you this afternoon, George, for gracioussake? I have seen all sorts, and I have seen you pretty often inseason and out of season, abroad and at home, and I never see youso melancholy penitent.' 'Why, Mrs. Bagnet,' says George, 'it'sbecause I am melancholy and penitent both, this afternoon, that yousee me so.' 'What have you done, old fellow?' I says. 'Why, Mrs.Bagnet,' says George, shaking his head, 'what I have done has beendone this many a long year, and is best not tried to be undone now.If I ever get to heaven it won't be for being a good son to awidowed mother; I say no more.' Now, ma'am, when George says to methat it's best not tried to be undone now, I have my thoughts as Ihave often had before, and I draw it out of George how he comes tohave such things on him that afternoon. Then George tells me thathe has seen by chance, at the lawyer's office, a fine old lady thathas brought his mother plain before him, and he runs on about thatold lady till he quite forgets himself and paints her picture to meas she used to be, years upon years back. So I says to George whenhe has done, who is this old lady he has seen? And George tells meit's Mrs. Rouncewell, housekeeper for more than half a century tothe Dedlock family down at Chesney Wold in Lincolnshire. Georgehas frequently told me before that he's a Lincolnshire man, and Isays to my old Lignum that night, 'Lignum, that's his mother forfive and for-ty pound!'"All this Mrs. Bagnet now relates for the twentieth time at leastwithin the last four hours. Trilling it out like a kind of bird,with a pretty high note, that it may be audible to the old ladyabove the hum of the wheels."Bless you, and thank you," says Mrs. Rouncewell. "Bless you, andthank you, my worthy soul!""Dear heart!" cries Mrs. Bagnet in the most natural manner. "Nothanks to me, I am sure. Thanks to yourself, ma'am, for being soready to pay 'em! And mind once more, ma'am, what you had best doon finding George to be your own son is to make him--for your sake--have every sort of help to put himself in the right and clearhimself of a charge of which he is as innocent as you or me. Itwon't do to have truth and justice on his side; he must have lawand lawyers," exclaims the old girl, apparently persuaded that thelatter form a separate establishment and have dissolved partnershipwith truth and justice for ever and a day."He shall have," says Mrs. Rouncewell, "all the help that can begot for him in the world, my dear. I will spend all I have, andthankfully, to procure it. Sir Leicester will do his best, thewhole family will do their best. I--I know something, my dear; andwill make my own appeal, as his mother parted from him all theseyears, and finding him in a jail at last."The extreme disquietude of the old housekeeper's manner in sayingthis, her broken words, and her wringing of her hands make apowerful impression on Mrs. Bagnet and would astonish her but thatshe refers them all to her sorrow for her son's condition. And yetMrs. Bagnet wonders too why Mrs. Rouncewell should murmur sodistractedly, "My Lady, my Lady, my Lady!" over and over again.The frosty night wears away, and the dawn breaks, and the post-chaise comes rolling on through the early mist like the ghost of achaise departed. It has plenty of spectral company in ghosts oftrees and hedges, slowly vanishing and giving place to therealities of day. London reached, the travellers alight, the oldhousekeeper in great tribulation and confusion, Mrs. Bagnet quitefresh and collected--as she would be if her next point, with no newequipage and outfit, were the Cape of Good Hope, the Island ofAscension, Hong Kong, or any other military station.But when they set out for the prison where the trooper is confined,the old lady has managed to draw about her, with her lavender-coloured dress, much of the staid calmness which is its usualaccompaniment. A wonderfully grave, precise, and handsome piece ofold china she looks, though her heart beats fast and her stomacheris ruffled more than even the remembrance of this wayward son hasruffled it these many years.Approaching the cell, they find the door opening and a warder inthe act of coming out. The old girl promptly makes a sign ofentreaty to him to say nothing; assenting with a nod, he suffersthem to enter as he shuts the door.So George, who is writing at his table, supposing himself to bealone, does not raise his eyes, but remains absorbed. The oldhousekeeper looks at him, and those wandering hands of hers arequite enough for Mrs. Bagnet's confirmation, even if she could seethe mother and the son together, knowing what she knows, and doubttheir relationship.Not a rustle of the housekeeper's dress, not a gesture, not a wordbetrays her. She stands looking at him as he writes on, allunconscious, and only her fluttering hands give utterance to heremotions. But they are very eloquent, very, very eloquent. Mrs.Bagnet understands them. They speak of gratitude, of joy, ofgrief, of hope; of inextinguishable affection, cherished with noreturn since this stalwart man was a stripling; of a better sonloved less, and this son loved so fondly and so proudly; and theyspeak in such touching language that Mrs. Bagnet's eyes brim upwith tears and they run glistening down her sun-brown face."George Rouncewell! Oh, my dear child, turn and look at me!"The trooper starts up, clasps his mother round the neck, and fallsdown on his knees before her. Whether in a late repentance,whether in the first association that comes back upon him, he putshis hands together as a child does when it says its prayers, andraising them towards her breast, bows down his head, and cries."My George, my dearest son! Always my favourite, and my favouritestill, where have you been these cruel years and years? Grown sucha man too, grown such a fine strong man. Grown so like what I knewhe must be, if it pleased God he was alive!"She can ask, and he can answer, nothing connected for a time. Allthat time the old girl, turned away, leans one arm against thewhitened wall, leans her honest forehead upon it, wipes her eyeswith her serviceable grey cloak, and quite enjoys herself like thebest of old girls as she is."Mother," says the trooper when they are more composed, "forgive mefirst of all, for I know my need of it."Forgive him! She does it with all her heart and soul. She alwayshas done it. She tells him how she has had it written in her will,these many years, that he was her beloved son George. She hasnever believed any ill of him, never. If she had died without thishappiness--and she is an old woman now and can't look to live verylong--she would have blessed him with her last breath, if she hadhad her senses, as her beloved son George."Mother, I have been an undutiful trouble to you, and I have myreward; but of late years I have had a kind of glimmering of apurpose in me too. When I left home I didn't care much, mother--Iam afraid not a great deal--for leaving; and went away and 'listed,harum-scarum, making believe to think that I cared for nobody, nonot I, and that nobody cared for me."The trooper has dried his eyes and put away his handkerchief, butthere is an extraordinary contrast between his habitual manner ofexpressing himself and carrying himself and the softened tone inwhich he speaks, interrupted occasionally by a half-stifled sob."So I wrote a line home, mother, as you too well know, to say I had'listed under another name, and I went abroad. Abroad, at one timeI thought I would write home next year, when I might be better off;and when that year was out, I thought I would write home next year,when I might be better off; and when that year was out again,perhaps I didn't think much about it. So on, from year to year,through a service of ten years, till I began to get older, and toask myself why should I ever write.""I don't find any fault, child--but not to ease my mind, George?Not a word to your loving mother, who was growing older too?"This almost overturns the trooper afresh, but he sets himself upwith a great, rough, sounding clearance of his throat."Heaven forgive me, mother, but I thought there would be smallconsolation then in hearing anything about me. There were you,respected and esteemed. There was my brother, as I read in chanceNorth Country papers now and then, rising to be prosperous andfamous. There was I a dragoon, roving, unsettled, not self-madelike him, but self-unmade--all my earlier advantages thrown away,all my little learning unlearnt, nothing picked up but whatunfitted me for most things that I could think of. What businesshad I to make myself known? After letting all that time go by me,what good could come of it? The worst was past with you, mother.I knew by that time (being a man) how you had mourned for me, andwept for me, and prayed for me; and the pain was over, or wassoftened down, and I was better in your mind as it was."The old lady sorrowfully shakes her head, and taking one of hispowerful hands, lays it lovingly upon her shoulder."No, I don't say that it was so, mother, but that I made it out tobe so. I said just now, what good could come of it? Well, my dearmother, some good might have come of it to myself--and there wasthe meanness of it. You would have sought me out; you would havepurchased my discharge; you would have taken me down to ChesneyWold; you would have brought me and my brother and my brother'sfamily together; you would all have considered anxiously how to dosomething for me and set me up as a respectable civilian. But howcould any of you feel sure of me when I couldn't so much as feelsure of myself? How could you help regarding as an incumbrance anda discredit to you an idle dragooning chap who was an incumbranceand a discredit to himself, excepting under discipline? How couldI look my brother's children in the face and pretend to set them anexample--I, the vagabond boy who had run away from home and beenthe grief and unhappiness of my mother's life? 'No, George.' Suchwere my words, mother, when I passed this in review before me: 'Youhave made your bed. Now, lie upon it.'"Mrs. Rouncewell, drawing up her stately form, shakes her head atthe old girl with a swelling pride upon her, as much as to say, "Itold you so!" The old girl relieves her feelings and testifies herinterest in the conversation by giving the trooper a great pokebetween the shoulders with her umbrella; this action she afterwardsrepeats, at intervals, in a species of affectionate lunacy, neverfailing, after the administration of each of these remonstrances,to resort to the whitened wall and the grey cloak again."This was the way I brought myself to think, mother, that my bestamends was to lie upon that bed I had made, and die upon it. And Ishould have done it (though I have been to see you more than oncedown at Chesney Wold, when you little thought of me) but for my oldcomrade's wife here, who I find has been too many for me. But Ithank her for it. I thank you for it, Mrs. Bagnet, with all myheart and might."To which Mrs. Bagnet responds with two pokes.And now the old lady impresses upon her son George, her own dearrecovered boy, her joy and pride, the light of her eyes, the happyclose of her life, and every fond name she can think of, that hemust be governed by the best advice obtainable by money andinfluence, that he must yield up his case to the greatest lawyersthat can be got, that he must act in this serious plight as heshall be advised to act and must not be self-willed, however right,but must promise to think only of his poor old mother's anxiety andsuffering until he is released, or he will break her heart."Mother, 'tis little enough to consent to," returns the trooper,stopping her with a kiss; "tell me what I shall do, and I'll make alate beginning and do it. Mrs. Bagnet, you'll take care of mymother, I know?"A very hard poke from the old girl's umbrella."If you'll bring her acquainted with Mr. Jarndyce and MissSummerson, she will find them of her way of thinking, and they willgive her the best advice and assistance.""And, George," says the old lady, "we must send with all haste foryour brother. He is a sensible sound man as they tell me--out inthe world beyond Chesney Wold, my dear, though I don't know much ofit myself--and will be of great service.""Mother," returns the trooper, "is it too soon to ask a favour?""Surely not, my dear.""Then grant me this one great favour. Don't let my brother know.""Not know what, my dear?""Not know of me. In fact, mother, I can't bear it; I can't make upmy mmd to it. He has proved himself so different from me and hasdone so much to raise himself while I've been soldiering that Ihaven't brass enough in my composition to see him in this place andunder this charge. How could a man like him be expected to haveany pleasure in such a discovery? It's impossible. No, keep mysecret from him, mother; do me a greater kindness than I deserveand keep my secret from my brother, of all men.""But not always, dear George?""Why, mother, perhaps not for good and all--though I may come toask that too--but keep it now, I do entreat you. If it's everbroke to him that his rip of a brother has turned up, I couldwish," says the trooper, shaking his head very doubtfully, "tobreak it myself and be governed as to advancing or retreating bythe way in which he seems to take it."As he evidently has a rooted feeling on this point, and as thedepth of it is recognized in Mrs. Bagnet's face, his mother yieldsher implicit assent to what he asks. For this he thanks herkindly."In all other respects, my dear mother, I'll be as tractable andobedient as you can wish; on this one alone, I stand out. So now Iam ready even for the lawyers. I have been drawing up," he glancesat his writing on the table, "an exact account of what I knew ofthe deceased and how I came to be involved in this unfortunateaffair. It's entered, plain and regular, like an orderly-book; nota word in it but what's wanted for the facts. I did intend to readit, straight on end, whensoever I was called upon to say anythingin my defence. I hope I may be let to do it still; but I have nolonger a will of my own in this case, and whatever is said or done,I give my promise not to have any."Matters being brought to this so far satisfactory pass, and timebeing on the wane, Mrs. Bagnet proposes a departure. Again andagain the old lady hangs upon her son's neck, and again and againthe trooper holds her to his broad chest."Where are you going to take my mother, Mrs. Bagnet?""I am going to the town house, my dear, the family house. I havesome business there that must be looked to directly," Mrs.Rouncewell answers."Will you see my mother safe there in a coach, Mrs. Bagnet? But ofcourse I know you will. Why should I ask it!"Why indeed, Mrs. Bagnet expresses with the umbrella."Take her, my old friend, and take my gratitude along with you.Kisses to Quebec and Malta, love to my godson, a hearty shake ofthe hand to Lignum, and this for yourself, and I wish it was tenthousand pound in gold, my dear!" So saying, the trooper puts hislips to the old girl's tanned forehead, and the door shuts upon himin his cell.No entreaties on the part of the good old housekeeper will induceMrs. Bagnet to retain the coach for her own conveyance home.Jumping out cheerfully at the door of the Dedlock mansion andhanding Mrs. Rouncewell up the steps, the old girl shakes hands andtrudges off, arriving soon afterwards in the bosom of the Bagnetfamily and falling to washing the greens as if nothing hadhappened.My Lady is in that room in which she held her last conference withthe murdered man, and is sitting where she sat that night, and islooking at the spot where he stood upon the hearth studying her soleisurely, when a tap comes at the door. Who is it? Mrs.Rouncewell. What has brought Mrs. Rouncewell to town sounexpectedly?"Trouble, my Lady. Sad trouble. Oh, my Lady, may I beg a wordwith you?"What new occurrence is it that makes this tranquil old womantremble so? Far happier than her Lady, as her Lady has oftenthought, why does she falter in this manner and look at her withsuch strange mistrust?"What is the matter? Sit down and take your breath.""Oh, my Lady, my Lady. I have found my son--my youngest, who wentaway for a soldier so long ago. And he is in prison.""For debt?""Oh, no, my Lady; I would have paid any debt, and joyful.""For what is he in prison then?""Charged with a murder, my Lady, of which he is as innocent as--asI am. Accused of the murder of Mr. Tulkinghorn."What does she mean by this look and this imploring gesture? Whydoes she come so close? What is the letter that she holds?"Lady Dedlock, my dear Lady, my good Lady, my kind Lady! You musthave a heart to feel for me, you must have a heart to forgive me.I was in this family before you were born. I am devoted to it.But think of my dear son wrongfully accused.""I do not accuse him.""No, my Lady, no. But others do, and he is in prison and indanger. Oh, Lady Dedlock, if you can say but a word to help toclear him, say it!"What delusion can this be? What power does she suppose is in theperson she petitions to avert this unjust suspicion, if it beunjust? Her Lady's handsome eyes regard her with astonishment,almost with fear."My Lady, I came away last night from Chesney Wold to find my sonin my old age, and the step upon the Ghost's Walk was so constantand so solemn that I never heard the like in all these years.Night after night, as it has fallen dark, the sound has echoedthrough your rooms, but last night it was awfullest. And as itfell dark last night, my Lady, I got this letter.""What letter is it?""Hush! Hush!" The housekeeper looks round and answers in afrightened whisper, "My Lady, I have not breathed a word of it, Idon't believe what's written in it, I know it can't be true, I amsure and certain that it is not true. But my son is in danger, andyou must have a heart to pity me. If you know of anything that isnot known to others, if you have any suspicion, if you have anyclue at all, and any reason for keeping it in your own breast, oh,my dear Lady, think of me, and conquer that reason, and let it beknown! This is the most I consider possible. I know you are not ahard lady, but you go your own way always without help, and you arenot familiar with your friends; and all who admire you--and all do--as a beautiful and elegant lady, know you to be one far away fromthemselves who can't be approached close. My Lady, you may havesome proud or angry reasons for disdaining to utter something thatyou know; if so, pray, oh, pray, think of a faithful servant whosewhole life has been passed in this family which she dearly loves,and relent, and help to clear my son! My Lady, my good Lady," theold housekeeper pleads with genuine simplicity, "I am so humble inmy place and you are by nature so high and distant that you may notthink what I feel for my child, but I feel so much that I have comehere to make so bold as to beg and pray you not to be scornful ofus if you can do us any right or justice at this fearful time!"Lady Dedlock raises her without one word, until she takes theletter from her hand."Am I to read this?""When I am gone, my Lady, if you please, and then remembering themost that I consider possible.""I know of nothing I can do. I know of nothing I reserve that canaffect your son. I have never accused him.""My Lady, you may pity him the more under a false accusation afterreading the letter."The old housekeeper leaves her with the letter in her hand. Intruth she is not a hard lady naturally, and the time has been whenthe sight of the venerable figure suing to her with such strongearnestness would have moved her to great compassion. But so longaccustomed to suppress emotion and keep down reality, so longschooled for her own purposes in that destructive school whichshuts up the natural feelings of the heart like flies in amber andspreads one uniform and dreary gloss over the good and bad, thefeeling and the unfeeling, the sensible and the senseless, she hadsubdued even her wonder until now.She opens the letter. Spread out upon the paper is a printedaccount of the discovery of the body as it lay face downward on thefloor, shot through the heart; and underneath is written her ownname, with the word "murderess" attached.It falls out of her hand. How long it may have lain upon theground she knows not, but it lies where it fell when a servantstands before her announcing the young man of the name of Guppy.The words have probably been repeated several times, for they areringing in her head before she begins to understand them."Let him come in!"He comes in. Holding the letter in her hand, which she has takenfrom the floor, she tries to collect her thoughts. In the eyes ofMr. Guppy she is the same Lady Dedlock, holding the same prepared,proud, chilling state."Your ladyship may not be at first disposed to excuse this visitfrom one who has never been welcome to your ladyship"--which hedon't complain of, for he is bound to confess that there never hasbeen any particular reason on the face of things why he should be--"but I hope when I mention my motives to your ladyship you will notfind fault with me," says Mr. Guppy."Do so.""Thank your ladyship. I ought first to explain to your ladyship,"Mr. Guppy sits on the edge of a chair and puts his hat on thecarpet at his feet, "that Miss Summerson, whose image, as Iformerly mentioned to your ladyship, was at one period of my lifeimprinted on my 'eart until erased by circumstances over which Ihad no control, communicated to me, after I had the pleasure ofwaiting on your ladyship last, that she particularly wished me totake no steps whatever in any manner at all relating to her. AndMiss Summerson's wishes being to me a law (except as connected withcircumstances over which I have no control), I consequently neverexpected to have the distinguished honour of waiting on yourladyship again."And yet he is here now, Lady Dedlock moodily reminds him."And yet I am here now," Mr. Guppy admits. "My object being tocommunicate to your ladyship, under the seal of confidence, why Iam here."He cannot do so, she tells him, too plainly or too briefly. "Norcan I," Mr. Guppy returns with a sense of injury upon him, "tooparticularly request your ladyship to take particular notice thatit's no personal affair of mine that brings me here. I have nointerested views of my own to serve in coming here. If it was notfor my promise to Miss Summerson and my keeping of it sacred--I, inpoint of fact, shouldn't have darkened these doors again, butshould have seen 'em further first."Mr. Guppy considers this a favourable moment for sticking up hishair with both hands."Your ladyship will remember when I mention it that the last time Iwas here I run against a party very eminent in our profession andwhose loss we all deplore. That party certainly did from that timeapply himself to cutting in against me in a way that I will callsharp practice, and did make it, at every turn and point, extremelydifficult for me to be sure that I hadn't inadvertently led up tosomething contrary to Miss Summerson's wishes. Self-praise is norecommendation, but I may say for myself that I am not so bad a manof business neither."Lady Dedlock looks at him in stern inquiry. Mr. Guppy immediatelywithdraws his eyes from her face and looks anywhere else."Indeed, it has been made so hard," he goes on, "to have any ideawhat that party was up to in combination with others that until theloss which we all deplore I was gravelled--an expression which yourladyship, moving in the higher circles, will be so good as toconsider tantamount to knocked over. Small likewise--a name bywhich I refer to another party, a friend of mine that your ladyshipis not acquainted with--got to be so close and double-faced that attimes it wasn't easy to keep one's hands off his 'ead. However,what with the exertion of my humble abilities, and what with thehelp of a mutual friend by the name of Mr. Tony Weevle (who is of ahigh aristocratic turn and has your ladyship's portrait alwayshanging up in his room), I have now reasons for an apprehension asto which I come to put your ladyship upon your guard. First, willyour ladyship allow me to ask you whether you have had any strangevisitors this morning? I don't mean fashionable visitors, but suchvisitors, for instance, as Miss Barbary's old servant, or as aperson without the use of his lower extremities, carried upstairssimilarly to a guy?""No!""Then I assure your ladyship that such visitors have been here andhave been received here. Because I saw them at the door, andwaited at the corner of the square till they came out, and tookhalf an hour's turn afterwards to avoid them.""What have I to do with that, or what have you? I do notunderstand you. What do you mean?""Your ladyship, I come to put you on your guard. There may be nooccasion for it. Very well. Then I have only done my best to keepmy promise to Miss Summerson. I strongly suspect (from what Smallhas dropped, and from what we have corkscrewed out of him) thatthose letters I was to have brought to your ladyship were notdestroyed when I supposed they were. That if there was anything tobe blown upon, it is blown upon. That the visitors I have alludedto have been here this morning to make money of it. And that themoney is made, or making."Mr. Guppy picks up his hat and rises."Your ladyship, you know best whether there's anything in what Isay or whether there's nothing. Something or nothing, I have actedup to Miss Summerson's wishes in letting things alone and inundoing what I had begun to do, as far as possible; that'ssufficient for me. In case I should be taking a liberty in puttingyour ladyship on your guard when there's no necessity for it, youwill endeavour, I should hope, to outlive my presumption, and Ishall endeavour to outlive your disapprobation. I now take myfarewell of your ladyship, and assure you that there's no danger ofyour ever being waited on by me again."She scarcely acknowledges these parting words by any look, but whenhe has been gone a little while, she rings her bell."Where is Sir Leicester?"Mercury reports that he is at present shut up in the library alone."Has Sir Leicester had any visitors this morning?"Several, on business. Mercury proceeds to a description of them,which has been anticipated by Mr. Guppy. Enough; he may go.So! All is broken down. Her name is in these many mouths, herhusband knows his wrongs, her shame will be published--may bespreading while she thinks about it--and in addition to thethunderbolt so long foreseen by her, so unforeseen by him, she isdenounced by an invisible accuser as the murderess of her enemy.Her enemy he was, and she has often, often, often wished him dead.Her enemy he is, even in his grave. This dreadful accusation comesupon her like a new torment at his lifeless hand. And when sherecalls how she was secretly at his door that night, and how shemay be represented to have sent her favourite girl away so soonbefore merely to release herself from observation, she shudders asif the hangman's hands were at her neck.She has thrown herself upon the floor and lies with her hair allwildly scattered and her face buried in the cushions of a couch.She rises up, hurries to and fro, flings herself down again, androcks and moans. The horror that is upon her is unutterable. Ifshe really were the murderess, it could hardly be, for the moment,more intense.For as her murderous perspective, before the doing of the deed,however subtle the precautions for its commission, would have beenclosed up by a gigantic dilatation of the hateful figure,preventing her from seeing any consequences beyond it; and as thoseconsequences would have rushed in, in an unimagined flood, themoment the figure was laid low--which always happens when a murderis done; so, now she sees that when he used to be on the watchbefore her, and she used to think, "if some mortal stroke would butfall on this old man and take him from my way!" it was but wishingthat all he held against her in his hand might be flung to thewinds and chance-sown in many places. So, too, with the wickedrelief she has felt in his death. What was his death but the key-stone of a gloomy arch removed, and now the arch begins to fall ina thousand fragments, each crushing and mangling piecemeal!Thus, a terrible impression steals upon and overshadows her thatfrom this pursuer, living or dead--obdurate and imperturbablebefore her in his well-remembered shape, or not more obdurate andimperturbable in his coffin-bed--there is no escape but in death.Hunted, she flies. The complication of her shame, her dread,remorse, and misery, overwhelms her at its height; and even herstrength of self-reliance is overturned and whirled away like aleaf before a mighty wind.She hurriedly addresses these lines to her husband, seals, andleaves them on her table:If I am sought for, or accused of, his murder, believe that I amwholly innocent. Believe no other good of me, for I am innocent ofnothing else that you have heard, or will hear, laid to my charge.He prepared me, on that fatal night, for his disclosure of my guiltto you. After he had left me, I went out on pretence of walking inthe garden where I sometimes walk, but really to follow him andmake one last petition that he would not protract the dreadfulsuspense on which I have been racked by him, you do not know howlong, but would mercifully strike next morning.I found his house dark and silent. I rang twice at his door, butthere was no reply, and I came home.I have no home left. I will encumber you no more. May you, inyour just resentment, be able to forget the unworthy woman on whomyou have wasted a most generous devotion--who avoids you only witha deeper shame than that with which she hurries from herself--andwho writes this last adieu.She veils and dresses quickly, leaves all her jewels and her money,listens, goes downstairs at a moment when the hall is empty, opensand shuts the great door, flutters away in the shrill frosty wind.