“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.

CHAPTER XLVI

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.