“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!

CHAPTER XXIII

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.”