Chapter XLVIII. Closing in

by Charles Dickens

　　The place in Lincolnshire has shut its many eyes again, and thehouse in town is awake. In Lincolnshire the Dedlocks of the pastdoze in their picture-frames, and the low wind murmurs through thelong drawing-room as if they were breathing pretty regularly. Intown the Dedlocks of the present rattle in their fire-eyedcarriages through the darkness of the night, and the DedlockMercuries, with ashes (or hair-powder) on their heads, symptomaticof their great humility, loll away the drowsy mornings in thelittle windows of the hall. The fashionable world--tremendous orb,nearly five miles round--is in full swing, and the solar systemworks respectfully at its appointed distances.Where the throng is thickest, where the lights are brightest, whereall the senses are ministered to with the greatest delicacy andrefinement, Lady Dedlock is. From the shining heights she hasscaled and taken, she is never absent. Though the belief she ofold reposed in herself as one able to reserve whatsoever she wouldunder her mantle of pride is beaten down, though she has noassurance that what she is to those around her she will remainanother day, it is not in her nature when envious eyes are lookingon to yield or to droop. They say of her that she has lately grownmore handsome and more haughty. The debilitated cousin says ofher that she's beauty nough--tsetup shopofwomen--but ratherlarming kind--remindingmanfact--inconvenient woman--who willgetoutofbedandbawthstahlishment--Shakespeare.Mr. Tulkinghorn says nothing, looks nothing. Now, as heretofore,he is to be found in doorways of rooms, with his limp white cravatloosely twisted into its old-fashioned tie, receiving patronagefrom the peerage and making no sign. Of all men he is still thelast who might be supposed to have any influence upon my Lady. Ofall woman she is still the last who might be supposed to have anydread of him.One thing has been much on her mind since their late interview inhis turret-room at Chesney Wold. She is now decided, and preparedto throw it off.It is morning in the great world, afternoon according to the littlesun. The Mercuries, exhausted by looking out of window, arereposing in the hall and hang their heavy heads, the gorgeouscreatures, like overblown sunflowers. Like them, too, they seem torun to a deal of seed in their tags and trimmings. Sir Leicester,in the library, has fallen asleep for the good of the country overthe report of a Parliamentary committee. My Lady sits in the roomin 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, andas she bends her head over it, my Lady watches her in silence. Notfor the first time to-day."Rosa."The pretty village face looks brightly up. Then, seeing howserious 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 maytrust your attachment, if not your judgment. In what I am going todo, I will not disguise myself to you at least. But I confide inyou. Say nothing to any one of what passes between us."The timid little beauty promises in all earnestness to betrustworthy."Do you know," Lady Dedlock asks her, signing to her to bring herchair nearer, "do you know, Rosa, that I am different to you fromwhat I am to any one?""Yes, my Lady. Much kinder. But then I often think I know you asyou really are.""You often think you know me as I really am? Poor child, poorchild!"She says it with a kind of scorn--though not of Rosa--and sitsbrooding, looking dreamily at her."Do you think, Rosa, you are any relief or comfort to me? Do yousuppose your being young and natural, and fond of me and gratefulto 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 myheart, I wish it was so.""It is so, little one."The pretty face is checked in its flush of pleasure by the darkexpression on the handsome face before it. It looks timidly for anexplanation."And if I were to say to-day, 'Go! Leave me!' I should say whatwould give me great pain and disquiet, child, and what would leaveme 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, withthat motherly touch of the famous ironmaster night, lays her handupon her dark hair and gently keeps it there."I told you, Rosa, that I wished you to be happy and that I wouldmake 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 nopart, rendering it far better for you that you should not remainhere. You must not remain here. I have determined that you shallnot. I have written to the father of your lover, and he will behere to-day. All this I have done for your sake."The weeping girl covers her hand with kisses and says what shallshe do, what shall she do, when they are separated! Her mistresskisses her on the cheek and makes no other answer."Now, be happy, child, under better circumstances. Be beloved andhappy!""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, thinkagain. Let me stay a little while!""I have said, my child, that what I do, I do for your sake, not myown. 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 keepmy confidence. Do so much for my sake, and thus all ends betweenus!"She detaches herself from her simple-hearted companion and leavesthe room. Late in the afternoon, when she next appears upon thestaircase, she is in her haughtiest and coldest state. Asindifferent as if all passion, feeling, and interest had been wornout in the earlier ages of the world and had perished from itssurface with its other departed monsters.Mercury has announced Mr. Rouncewell, which is the cause of herappearance. Mr. Rouncewell is not in the library, but she repairsto the library. Sir Leicester is there, and she wishes to speak tohim 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 fromhim 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 toremain if you will," she tells him it is not necessary and movestowards a chair. Mr. Tulkinghorn brings it a little forward forher with his clumsy bow and retires into a window opposite.Interposed between her and the fading light of day in the now quietstreet, 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 longrows of houses stare at each other with that severity that half-a-dozen of its greatest mansions seem to have been slowly stared intostone rather than originally built in that material. It is astreet of such dismal grandeur, so determined not to condescend toliveliness, that the doors and windows hold a gloomy state of theirown in black paint and dust, and the echoing mews behind have a dryand massive appearance, as if they were reserved to stable thestone chargers of noble statues. Complicated garnish of iron-workentwines itself over the flights of steps in this awful street, andfrom these petrified bowers, extinguishers for obsolete flambeauxgasp at the upstart gas. Here and there a weak little iron hoop,through which bold boys aspire to throw their friends' caps (itsonly present use), retains its place among the rusty foliage,sacred to the memory of departed oil. Nay, even oil itself, yetlingering at long intervals in a little absurd glass pot, with aknob in the bottom like an oyster, blinks and sulks at newer lightsevery 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. Tulkinghornstands. And yet--and yet--she sends a look in that direction as ifit were her heart's desire to have that figure moved out of theway.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. Iam tired to death of the matter.""What can I do--to--assist?" demands Sir Leicester in someconsiderable doubt."Let us see him here and have done with it. Will you tell them tosend him up?""Mr. Tulkinghorn, be so good as to ring. Thank you. Request,"says Sir Leicester to Mercury, not immediately remembering thebusiness term, "request the iron gentleman to walk this way."Mercury departs in search of the iron gentleman, finds, andproduces him. Sir Leicester receives that ferruginous persongraciously."I hope you are well, Mr. Rouncewell. Be seated. (My solicitor,Mr. Tulkinghorn.) My Lady was desirous, Mr. Rouncewell," SirLeicester 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 mybest attention to anything Lady Dedlock does me the honour to say."As he turns towards her, he finds that the impression she makesupon him is less agreeable than on the former occasion. A distantsupercilious air makes a cold atmosphere about her, and there isnothing in her bearing, as there was before, to encourage openness."Pray, sir," says Lady Dedlock listlessly, "may I be allowed toinquire whether anything has passed between you and your sonrespecting your son's fancy?"It is almost too troublesome to her languid eyes to bestow a lookupon him as she asks this question."If my memory serves me, Lady Dedlock, I said, when I had thepleasure of seeing you before, that I should seriously advise myson to conquer that--fancy." The ironmaster repeats her expressionwith a little emphasis."And did you?""Oh! Of course I did."Sir Leicester gives a nod, approving and confirmatory. Veryproper. The iron gentleman, having said that he would do it, wasbound to do it. No difference in this respect between the basemetals and the precious. Highly proper."And pray has he done so?""Really, Lady Dedlock, I cannot make you a definite reply. I fearnot. Probably not yet. In our condition of life, we sometimescouple an intention with our--our fancies which renders them notaltogether easy to throw off. I think it is rather our way to bein earnest."Sir Leicester has a misgiving that there may be a hidden WatTylerish meaning in this expression, and fumes a little. Mr.Rouncewell is perfectly good-humoured and polite, but within suchlimits, 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 quiteconcur"--Sir Leicester flattered--"and if you cannot give us theassurance that this fancy is at an end, I have come to theconclusion 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, "butperhaps this may be doing an injury to the young woman which shehas not merited. Here is a young woman," says Sir Leicester,magnificently laying out the matter with his right hand like aservice of plate, "whose good fortune it is to have attracted thenotice and favour of an eminent lady and to live, under theprotection of that eminent lady, surrounded by the variousadvantages which such a position confers, and which areunquestionably very great--I believe unquestionably very great,sir--for a young woman in that station of life. The question thenarises, should that young woman be deprived of these manyadvantages and that good fortune simply because she has"--SirLeicester, with an apologetic but dignified inclination of his headtowards the ironmaster, winds up his sentence--"has attracted thenotice of Mr Rouncewell's son? Now, has she deserved thispunishment? Is this just towards her? Is this our previousunderstanding?""I beg your pardon," interposes Mr. Rouncewell's son's father."Sir Leicester, will you allow me? I think I may shorten thesubject. Pray dismiss that from your consideration. If youremember anything so unimportant--which is not to be expected--youwould recollect that my first thought in the affair was directlyopposed to her remaining here."Dismiss the Dedlock patronage from consideration? Oh! SirLeicester is bound to believe a pair of ears that have been handeddown to him through such a family, or he really might havemistrusted their report of the iron gentleman's observations."It is not necessary," observes my Lady in her coldest mannerbefore he can do anything but breathe amazedly, "to enter intothese matters on either side. The girl is a very good girl; I havenothing whatever to say against her, but she is so far insensibleto her many advantages and her good fortune that she is in love--orsupposes she is, poor little fool--and unable to appreciate them."Sir Leicester begs to observe that wholly alters the case. Hemight have been sure that my Lady had the best grounds and reasonsin support of her view. He entirely agrees with my Lady. Theyoung woman had better go."As Sir Leicester observed, Mr. Rouncewell, on the last occasionwhen we were fatigued by this business," Lady Dedlock languidlyproceeds, "we cannot make conditions with you. Without conditions,and under present circumstances, the girl is quite misplaced hereand had better go. I have told her so. Would you wish to have hersent 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 ofthe incumbrance and remove her from her present position.""And to speak as plainly," she returns with the same studiedcarelessness, "so should I. Do I understand that you will take herwith you?"The iron gentleman makes an iron bow."Sir Leicester, will you ring?" Mr. Tulkinghorn steps forward fromhis 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, theironmaster leaves his chair, takes her arm in his, and remains withher near the door ready to depart."You are taken charge of, you see," says my Lady in her wearymanner, "and are going away well protected. I have mentioned thatyou are a very good girl, and you have nothing to cry for.""She seems after all," observes Mr. Tulkinghorn, loitering a littleforward with his hands behind him, "as if she were crying at goingaway.""Why, she is not well-bred, you see," returns Mr. Rouncewell withsome quickness in his manner, as if he were glad to have the lawyerto retort upon, "and she is an inexperienced little thing and knowsno 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 shewas happy at Chesney Wold, and has been happy with my Lady, andthat she thanks my Lady over and over again. "Out, you sillylittle puss!" says the ironmaster, checking her in a low voice,though not angrily. "Have a spirit, if you're fond of Watt!" MyLady merely waves her off with indifference, saying, "There, there,child! You are a good girl. Go away!" Sir Leicester hasmagnificently disengaged himself from the subject and retired intothe sanctuary of his blue coat. Mr. Tulkinghorn, an indistinctform against the dark street now dotted with lamps, looms in myLady's view, bigger and blacker than before."Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock," says Mr. Rouncewell after a pauseof a few moments, "I beg to take my leave, with an apology forhaving again troubled you, though not of my own act, on thistiresome subject. I can very well understand, I assure you, howtiresome so small a matter must have become to Lady Dedlock. If Iam doubtful of my dealing with it, it is only because I did not atfirst quietly exert my influence to take my young friend here awaywithout troubling you at all. But it appeared to me--I dare saymagnifying the importance of the thing--that it was respectful toexplain to you how the matter stood and candid to consult yourwishes and convenience. I hope you will excuse my want ofacquaintance with the polite world."Sir Leicester considers himself evoked out of the sanctuary bythese remarks. "Mr. Rouncewell," he returns, "do not menfion it.Justifications are unnecessary, I hope, on either side.""I am glad to hear it, Sir Leicester; and if I may, by way of alast word, revert to what I said before of my mother's longconnexion with the family and the worth it bespeaks on both sides,I would point out this little instance here on my arm who showsherself so affectionate and faithful in parting and in whom mymother, I dare say, has done something to awaken such feelings--though of course Lady Dedlock, by her heartfelt interest and hergenial condescension, has done much more.If he mean this ironically, it may be truer than he thinks. Hepoints it, however, by no deviation from his straightforward mannerof speech, though in saying it he turns towards that part of thedim room where my Lady sits. Sir Leicester stands to return hisparting salutation, Mr. Tulkinghorn again rings, Mercury takesanother flight, and Mr. Rouncewell and Rosa leave the house.Then lights are brought in, discovering Mr. Tulkinghorn stillstanding in his window with his hands behind him and my Lady stillsitting with his figure before her, closing up her view of thenight as well as of the day. She is very pale. Mr. Tulkinghorn,observing it as she rises to retire, thinks, "Well she may be! Thepower of this woman is astonishing. She has been acting a part thewhole time." But he can act a part too--his one unchangingcharacter--and as he holds the door open for this woman, fiftypairs 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 iswhipped in to the rescue of the Doodle Party and the discomfitureof the Coodle Faction. Lady Dedlock asks on sitting down todinner, still deadly pale (and quite an illustration of thedebilitated cousin's text), whether he is gone out? Yes. WhetherMr. Tulkinghorn is gone yet? No. Presently she asks again, is hegone yet? No. What is he doing? Mercury thinks he is writingletters in the library. Would my Lady wish to see him? Anythingbut that.But he wishes to see my Lady. Within a few more minutes he isreported as sending his respects, and could my Lady please toreceive him for a word or two after her dinner? My Lady willreceive him now. He comes now, apologizing for intruding, even byher permission, while she is at table. When they are alone, myLady waves her hand to dispense with such mockeries."What do you want, sir?""Why, Lady Dedlock," says the lawyer, taking a chair at a littledistance from her and slowly rubbing his rusty legs up and down, upand down, up and down, "I am rather surprised by the course youhave taken.""Indeed?""Yes, decidedly. I was not prepared for it. I consider it adeparture from our agreement and your promise. It puts us in a newposition, Lady Dedlock. I feel myself under the necessity ofsaying that I don't approve of it."He stops in his rubbing and looks at her, with his hands on hisknees. Imperturbable and unchangeable as he is, there is still anindefinable freedom in his manner which is new and which does notescape this woman's observation."I do not quite understand you.""Oh, yes you do, I think. I think you do. Come, come, LadyDedlock, we must not fence and parry now. You know you like thisgirl.""Well, sir?""And you know--and I know--that you have not sent her away for thereasons you have assigned, but for the purpose of separating her asmuch as possible from--excuse my mentioning it as a matter ofbusiness--any reproach and exposure that impend over yourself.""Well, sir?""Well, Lady Dedlock," returns the lawyer, crossing his legs andnursing the uppermost knee. "I object to that. I consider that adangerous proceeding. I know it to be unnecessary and calculatedto awaken speculation, doubt, rumour, I don't know what, in thehouse. Besides, it is a violation of our agreement. You were tobe exactly what you were before. Whereas, it must be evident toyourself, as it is to me, that you have been this evening verydifferent from what you were before. Why, bless my soul, LadyDedlock, transparenfly so!""If, sir," she begins, "in my knowledge of my secret--" But heinterrupts her."Now, Lady Dedlock, this is a matter of business, and in a matterof business the ground cannot be kept too clear. It is no longeryour secret. Excuse me. That is just the mistake. It is mysecret, in trust for Sir Leicester and the family. If it were yoursecret, Lady Dedlock, we should not be here holding thisconversation.""That is very true. If in my knowledge of the secret I do what Ican to spare an innocent girl (especially, remembering your ownreference to her when you told my story to the assembled guests atChesney Wold) from the taint of my impending shame, I act upon aresolution I have taken. Nothing in the world, and no one in theworld, could shake it or could move me." This she says with greatdeliberation and distinctness and with no more outward passion thanhimself. As for him, he methodically discusses his matter ofbusiness as if she were any insensible instrument used in business."Really? Then you see, Lady Dedlock," he returns, "you are not tobe trusted. You have put the case in a perfecfly plain way, andaccording to the literal fact; and that being the case, you are notto be trusted.""Perhaps you may remember that I expressed some anxiety on thissame point when we spoke at night at Chesney Wold?""Yes," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, coolly getting up and standing on thehearth. "Yes. I recollect, Lady Dedlock, that you certainlyreferred to the girl, but that was before we came to ourarrangement, and both the letter and the spirit of our arrangementaltogether precluded any action on your part founded upon mydiscovery. There can be no doubt about that. As to sparing thegirl, of what importance or value is she? Spare! Lady Dedlock,here is a family name compromised. One might have supposed thatthe course was straight on--over everything, neither to the rightnor 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 looksat him. There is a stern expression on her face and a part of herlower lip is compressed under her teeth. "This woman understandsme," 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 nodinner, but has twice or thrice poured out water with a steady handand drunk it. She rises from table, takes a lounging-chair, andreclines in it, shading her face. There is nothing in her mannerto 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 toostudies something at her leisure. She is not the first to speak,appearing indeed so unlikely to be so, though he stood there untilmidnight, that even he is driven upon breaking silence."Lady Dedlock, the most disagreeable part of this businessinterview remains, but it is business. Our agreement is broken. Alady of your sense and strength of character will be prepared formy now declaring it void and taking my own course.""I am quite prepared."Mr. Tulkinghorn inclines his head. "That is all I have to troubleyou with, Lady Dedlock."She stops him as he is moving out of the room by asking, "This isthe notice I was to receive? I wish not to misapprehend you.""Not exactly the notice you were to receive, Lady Dedlock, becausethe contemplated notice supposed the agreement to have beenobserved. But virtually the same, virtually the same. Thedifference 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 andcautiously shaking his head at the shaded face. "No, not to-night.""To-morrow?""All things considered, I had better decline answering thatquestion, 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 areprepared, and I hold out no expectations which circumstances mightfail to justify. I wish you good evening."She removes her hand, turns her pale face towards him as he walkssilently to the door, and stops him once again as he is about toopen it."Do you intend to remain in the house any time? I heard you werewriting 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 slightand curious, and he withdraws. Clear of the room he looks at hiswatch but is inclined to doubt it by a minute or thereabouts.There is a splendid clock upon the staircase, famous, as splendidclocks 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, tothis old man of all the young and old men who have ever stoodbefore it, "Don't go home!" With its sharp clear bell it strikesthree quarters after seven and ticks on again. "Why, you are worsethan I thought you," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, muttering reproof to hiswatch. "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'tgo home!"He passes out into the streets and walks on, with his hands behindhim, under the shadow of the lofty houses, many of whose mysteries,difficulties, mortgages, delicate affairs of all kinds, aretreasured up within his old black satin waistcoat. He is in theconfidence of the very bricks and mortar. The high chimney-stackstelegraph family secrets to him. Yet there is not a voice in amile of them to whisper, "Don't go home!"Through the stir and motion of the commoner streets; through theroar and jar of many vehicles, many feet, many voices; with theblazing 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 lastin his dull room to light his candles, and look round and up, andsee the Roman pointing from the ceiling, there is no newsignificance in the Roman's hand to-night or in the flutter of theattendant groups to give him the late warning, "Don't come here!"It is a moonlight night, but the moon, being past the full, is onlynow rising over the great wilderness of London. The stars areshining as they shone above the turret-leads at Chesney Wold. Thiswoman, as he has of late been so accustomed to call her, looks outupon them. Her soul is turbulent within her; she is sick at heartand restless. The large rooms are too cramped and close. Shecannot endure their restraint and will walk alone in a neighbouringgarden.Too capricious and imperious in all she does to be the cause ofmuch surprise in those about her as to anything she does, thiswoman, loosely muffled, goes out into the moonlight. Mercuryattends with the key. Having opened the garden-gate, he deliversthe key into his Lady's hands at her request and is bidden to goback. She will walk there some time to ease her aching head. Shemay be an hour, she may be more. She needs no further escort. Thegate shuts upon its spring with a clash, and he leaves her passingon 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 andshutting those resounding doors, has to cross a little prison-likeyard. He looks up casually, thinking what a fine night, what abright large moon, what multitudes of stars! A quiet night, too.A very quiet night. When the moon shines very brilliantly, asolitude and stillness seem to proceed from her that influence evencrowded places full of life. Not only is it a still night on dustyhigh roads and on hill-summits, whence a wide expanse of countrymay be seen in repose, quieter and quieter as it spreads away intoa fringe of trees against the sky with the grey ghost of a bloomupon 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, andthe stream sparkles on among pleasant islands, murmuring weirs, andwhispering rushes; not only does the stillness attend it as itflows where houses cluster thick, where many bridges are reflectedin it, where wharves and shipping make it black and awful, where itwinds from these disfigurements through marshes whose grim beaconsstand like skeletons washed ashore, where it expands through thebolder region of rising grounds, rich in cornfield wind-mill andsteeple, and where it mingles with the ever-heaving sea; not onlyis it a still night on the deep, and on the shore where the watcherstands to see the ship with her spread wings cross the path oflight that appears to be presented to only him; but even on thisstranger's wilderness of London there is some rest. Its steeplesand towers and its one great dome grow more ethereal; its smokyhouse-tops lose their grossness in the pale effulgence; the noisesthat arise from the streets are fewer and are softened, and thefootsteps on the pavements pass more tranquilly away. In thesefields of Mr. Tulkinghorn's inhabiting, where the shepherds play onChancery pipes that have no stop, and keep their sheep in the foldby hook and by crook until they have shorn them exceeding close,every noise is merged, this moonlight night, into a distant ringinghum, 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. Somewindows and doors are opened, and people come out to look. It wasa 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 inthe neighbourhood, who bark vehemently. Terrified cats scamperacross the road. While the dogs are yet barking and howling--thereis one dog howling like a demon--the church-clocks, as if they werestartled too, begin to strike. The hum from the streets, likewise,seems to swell into a shout. But it is soon over. Before the lastclock begins to strike ten, there is a lull. When it has ceased,the fine night, the bright large moon, and multitudes of stars, areleft at peace again.Has Mr. Tulkinghorn been disturbed? His windows are dark andquiet, and his door is shut. It must be something unusual indeedto bring him out of his shell. Nothing is heard of him, nothing isseen of him. What power of cannon might it take to shake thatrusty old man out of his immovable composure?For many years the persistent Roman has been pointing, with noparticular meaning, from that ceiling. It is not likely that hehas any new meaning in him to-night. Once pointing, alwayspointing--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 therooms. And either the Roman has some new meaning in him, notexpressed before, or the foremost of them goes wild, for looking upat his outstretched hand and looking down at what is below it, thatperson shrieks and flies. The others, looking in as the first onelooked, 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 butheavily, carry a weight into the bedroom and lay it down. There iswhispering and wondering all day, strict search of every corner,careful tracing of steps, and careful noting of the disposition ofevery article of furniture. All eyes look up at the Roman, and allvoices murmur, "If he could only tell what he saw!"He is pointing at a table with a bottle (nearly full of wine) and aglass upon it and two candles that were blown out suddenly soonafter being lighted. He is pointing at an empty chair and at astain upon the ground before it that might be almost covered with ahand. These objects lie directly within his range. An excitedimagination might suppose that there was something in them soterrific as to drive the rest of the composition, not only theattendant big-legged boys, but the clouds and flowers and pillarstoo--in short, the very body and soul of Allegory, and all thebrains it has--stark mad. It happens surely that every one whocomes into the darkened room and looks at these things looks up atthe 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 ghostlystories shall be told of the stain upon the floor, so easy to becovered, so hard to be got out, and that the Roman, pointing fromthe ceiling shall point, so long as dust and damp and spiders sparehim, 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 atthe murderous hand uplifted against his life, and pointedhelplessly at him, from night to morning, lying face downward onthe floor, shot through the heart.