Jo, is it thou?  Well, well!  Though a rejected witness, who “can’t exactly say” what will be done to him in greater hands than men’s, thou art not quite in outer darkness.  There is something like a distant ray of light in thy muttered reason for this:  “He wos wery good to me, he wos!”

CHAPTER XII

On the Watch

It has left off raining down in Lincolnshire at last, and Chesney Wold has taken heart.  Mrs. Rouncewell is full of hospitable cares, for Sir Leicester and my Lady are coming home from Paris.  The fashionable intelligence has found it out and communicates the glad tidings to benighted England.  It has also found out that they will entertain a brilliant and distinguished circle of the elite of the beau monde (the fashionable intelligence is weak in English, but a giant refreshed in French) at the ancient and hospitable family seat in Lincolnshire.

For the greater honour of the brilliant and distinguished circle, and of Chesney Wold into the bargain, the broken arch of the bridge in the park is mended; and the water, now retired within its proper limits and again spanned gracefully, makes a figure in the prospect from the house.  The clear, cold sunshine glances into the brittle woods and approvingly beholds the sharp wind scattering the leaves and drying the moss.  It glides over the park after the moving shadows of the clouds, and chases them, and never catches them, all day.  It looks in at the windows and touches the ancestral portraits with bars and patches of brightness never contemplated by the painters.  Athwart the picture of my Lady, over the great chimney-piece, it throws a broad bend-sinister of light that strikes down crookedly into the hearth and seems to rend it.

Through the same cold sunshine and the same sharp wind, my Lady and Sir Leicester, in their travelling chariot (my Lady’s woman and Sir Leicester’s man affectionate in the rumble), start for home.  With a considerable amount of jingling and whip-cracking, and many plunging demonstrations on the part of two bare-backed horses and two centaurs with glazed hats, jack-boots, and flowing manes and tails, they rattle out of the yard of the Hotel Bristol in the Place Vendome and canter between the sun-and-shadow-chequered colonnade of the Rue de Rivoli and the garden of the ill-fated palace of a headless king and queen, off by the Place of Concord, and the Elysian Fields, and the Gate of the Star, out of Paris.

Sooth to say, they cannot go away too fast, for even here my Lady Dedlock has been bored to death.  Concert, assembly, opera, theatre, drive, nothing is new to my Lady under the worn-out heavens.  Only last Sunday, when poor wretches were gay—­within the walls playing with children among the clipped trees and the statues in the Palace Garden; walking, a score abreast, in the Elysian Fields, made more Elysian by performing dogs and wooden horses; between