common-looking person, all wet and muddy, looking up at our house. When she saw me coming in at the door, she called me back and said did I live here. And I said yes, and she said she knew only one or two places about here, but had lost her way and couldn't find them. Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do! They won't believe me! She didn't say any harm to me, and I didn't say any harm to her, indeed, Mrs. Snagsby!'
It was necessary for her mistress to comfort her-which she did, I must say, with a good deal of contrition- before she could be got beyond this.
'She could not find those places,' said I.
'No!' cried the girl, shaking her head. 'No! Couldn't find them.
And she was so faint, and lame, and miserable, Oh so wretched, that if you had seen her, Mr. Snagsby, you'd have given her half a crown, I know!'
'Well, Guster, my girl,' said he, at first not knowing what to say.
'I hope I should.'
'And yet she was so well spoken,' said the girl, looking at me with wide open eyes, 'that it made a person's heart bleed. And so she said to me, did I know the way to the burying ground? And I asked her which burying ground. And she said, the poor burying ground.
And so I told her I had been a poor child myself, and it was according to parishes. But she said she meant a poor burying ground not very far from here, where there was an archway, and a step, and an iron gate.'
As I watched her face and soothed her to go on, I saw that Mr.
Bucket received this with a look which I could not separate from one of alarm.
'Oh, dear, dear!' cried the girl, pressing her hair back with her hands. 'What shall I do, what shall I do! She meant the burying ground where the man was buried that took the sleeping-stuff-that you came home and told us of, Mr. Snagsby-that frightened me so, Mrs. Snagsby. Oh, I am frightened again. Hold me!'
'You are so much better now,' sald I. 'Pray, pray tell me more.'
'Yes I will, yes I will! But don't be angry with me, that's a dear lady, because I have been so ill.'
Angry with her, poor soul!
'There! Now I will, now I will. So she said, could I tell her how to find it, and I said yes, and I told her; and she looked at me with eyes like almost as if she was blind, and herself all waving back. And so she took out the letter, and showed it me, and said if she was to put that in the post-office, it would be rubbed out and not minded and never sent; and would I take it from her, and send it, and the messenger would be paid at the house. And so I said yes, if it was no harm, and she said no-no harm. And so I took it from her, and she said she had nothing to give me, and I said I was poor myself and consequently wanted nothing. And so she said God bless you, and went.'
'And did she go-'
'Yes,' cried the girl, anticipating the inquiry. 'Yes! She went the way I had shown her. Then I came in, and Mrs. Snagsby came behind me from somewhere and laid hold of me, and I was frightened.'
Mr. Woodcourt took her kindly from me. Mr. Bucket wrapped me up, and immediately we were in the street. Mr. Woodcourt hesitated, but I said, 'Don't leave me now!' and Mr. Bucket added, 'You'll be better with us, we may want you; don't lose time!'
I have the most confused impressions of that walk. I recollect that it was neither night nor day, that morning was dawning but the street-lamps were not yet put out, that the sleet was still falling and that all the ways were deep with it. I recollect a few chilled people passing in the streets. I recollect the wet house-tops, the clogged and bursting gutters and water-spouts, the mounds of blackened ice and snow over which we passed, the narrowness of the courts by which we went. At the same time I remember that the poor girl seemed to be yet telling her story audibly and plainly in my hearing, that I could feel her resting on my arm, that the stained house- fronts put on human shapes and looked at me, that great water-gates seemed to be opening and closing in my head or in the air, and that the unreal things were more substantial than the real.
At last we stood under a dark and miserable covered way, where one lamp was burning over an iron gate and where the morning faintly struggled in. The gate was closed. Beyond it was a burial ground -a dreadful spot in which the night was very slowly stirring, but where I could dimly see heaps of dishonoured graves and stones, hemmed in by filthy houses with a few dull lights in their windows and on whose walls a thick humidity broke out like a disease. On the step at the gate, drenched in the fearful wet of such a place, which oozed and splashed down everywhere, I saw, with a cry of pity and horror, a woman lying-Jenny, the mother of the dead child.
I ran forward, but they stopped me, and Mr. Woodcourt entreated me with the greatest earnestness, even with tears, before I went up to the figure to listen for an instant to what Mr. Bucket said. I did so, as I thought. I did so, as I am sure.
'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.
CHAPTER LX
Perspective
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.'
'And in the meanwhile leave Bleak House?' said I.
'Aye, my dear? Bleak House,' he returned, 'must learn to take care of itself.'
I thought his tone sounded sorrowful, but looking at him, I saw his kind face lighted up by its pleasantest
