“That is certainly what I endeavour to do, sir,”
returns Mr. Snagsby.
“No, you don’t do yourself justice.
It an’t what you endeavour to do,” says
Mr. Bucket, shaking hands with him and blessing him
in the tenderest manner, “it’s what you
do. That’s what I estimate in a man
in your way of business.”
Mr. Snagsby makes a suitable response and goes homeward
so confused by the events of the evening that he is
doubtful of his being awake and out—doubtful
of the reality of the streets through which he goes—doubtful
of the reality of the moon that shines above him.
He is presently reassured on these subjects by the
unchallengeable reality of Mrs. Snagsby, sitting up
with her head in a perfect beehive of curl-papers
and night-cap, who has dispatched Guster to the police-station
with official intelligence of her husband’s
being made away with, and who within the last two hours
has passed through every stage of swooning with the
greatest decorum. But as the little woman feelingly
says, many thanks she gets for it!
Esther’s Narrative
We came home from Mr. Boythorn’s after six pleasant
weeks. We were often in the park and in the
woods and seldom passed the lodge where we had taken
shelter without looking in to speak to the keeper’s
wife; but we saw no more of Lady Dedlock, except at
church on Sundays. There was company at Chesney
Wold; and although several beautiful faces surrounded
her, her face retained the same influence on me as
at first. I do not quite know even now whether
it was painful or pleasurable, whether it drew me towards
her or made me shrink from her. I think I admired
her with a kind of fear, and I know that in her presence
my thoughts always wandered back, as they had done
at first, to that old time of my life.
I had a fancy, on more than one of these Sundays,
that what this lady so curiously was to me, I was
to her—I mean that I disturbed her thoughts
as she influenced mine, though in some different way.
But when I stole a glance at her and saw her so composed
and distant and unapproachable, I felt this to be
a foolish weakness. Indeed, I felt the whole
state of my mind in reference to her to be weak and
unreasonable, and I remonstrated with myself about
it as much as I could.
One incident that occurred before we quitted Mr. Boythorn’s
house, I had better mention in this place.
I was walking in the garden with Ada and when I was
told that some one wished to see me. Going into
the breakfast-room where this person was waiting,
I found it to be the French maid who had cast off
her shoes and walked through the wet grass on the day
when it thundered and lightened.
“Mademoiselle,” she began, looking fixedly
at me with her too-eager eyes, though otherwise presenting
an agreeable appearance and speaking neither with
boldness nor servility, “I have taken a great
liberty in coming here, but you know how to excuse
it, being so amiable, mademoiselle.”
