“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. You cannot
think how Ada, and Mr. Jarndyce, and even I—how
we should all thank you, Mr. Woodcourt!”
“Miss Summerson,” he said, more moved
than he had been from the first, “before heaven,
I will be a true friend to him! I will accept
him as a trust, and it shall be a sacred one!”
“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!”
Richard came back as we finished exchanging 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!”
“Meet?” returned the other. “I
have scarcely a friend there now but you. Where
shall I find you?”
“Why, I must get a lodging of some sort,”
said Richard, pondering. “Say at Vholes’s,
Symond’s Inn.”
“Good! Without loss of time.”
They shook hands heartily. When I 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.
And in his last look as we drove away, I saw that
he was very sorry for 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.
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 hums in Tom-all-Alone’s,
heavily, heavily, in the nauseous air, and winking—as
that lamp, too, winks in Tom-all-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.
