“Miss Summerson, you’ll understand me,
if you think a moment. They changed clothes
at the cottage.”
They changed clothes at the cottage. I could
repeat the words in my mind, and I knew what they
meant of themselves, but I attached no meaning to
them in any other connexion.
“And one returned,” said Mr. Bucket, “and
one went on. And the one that went on only went
on a certain way agreed upon to deceive and then turned
across country and went home. Think a moment!”
I could repeat this in my mind too, but I had not
the least idea what it meant. I saw before me,
lying on the step, the mother of the dead child.
She lay there with one arm creeping round a bar of
the iron gate and seeming to embrace it. She
lay there, who had so lately spoken to my mother.
She lay there, a distressed, unsheltered, senseless
creature. She who had brought my mother’s
letter, who could give me the only clue to where my
mother was; she, who was to guide us to rescue and
save her whom we had sought so far, who had come to
this condition by some means connected with my mother
that I could not follow, and might be passing beyond
our reach and help at that moment; she lay there,
and they stopped me! I saw but did not comprehend
the solemn and compassionate look in Mr. Woodcourt’s
face. I saw but did not comprehend his touching
the other on the breast to keep him back. I saw
him stand uncovered in the bitter air, with a reverence
for something. But my understanding for all
this was gone.
I even heard it said between them, “Shall she
go?”
“She had better go. Her hands should be
the first to touch her. They have a higher right
than ours.”
I passed on to the gate and stooped down. I
lifted the heavy head, put the long dank hair aside,
and turned the face. And it was my mother, cold
and dead.
I proceed to other passages of my narrative.
From the goodness of all about me I derived such
consolation as I can never think of unmoved.
I have already said so much of myself, and so much
still remains, that I will not dwell upon my sorrow.
I had an illness, but it was not a long one; and
I would avoid even this mention of it if I could quite
keep down the recollection of their sympathy.
I proceed to other passages of my narrative.
During the time of my illness, we were still in London,
where Mrs. Woodcourt had come, on my guardian’s
invitation, to stay with us. When my guardian
thought me well and cheerful enough to talk with him
in our old way—though I could have done
that sooner if he would have believed me—I
resumed my work and my chair beside his. He had
appointed the time himself, and we were alone.
“Dame Trot,” said he, receiving me with
a kiss, “welcome to the growlery again, my dear.
I have a scheme to develop, little woman. I
propose to remain here, perhaps for six months, perhaps
for a longer time—as it may be. Quite
to settle here for a while, in short.”
