So it shall happen surely, through many years to come, that ghostly stories shall be told of the stain upon the floor, so easy to be covered, so hard to be got out, and that the Roman, pointing from the ceiling shall point, so long as dust and damp and spiders spare him, with far greater significance than he ever had in Mr. Tulkinghorn’s time, and with a deadly meaning.  For Mr. Tulkinghorn’s time is over for evermore, and the Roman pointed at the murderous hand uplifted against his life, and pointed helplessly at him, from night to morning, lying face downward on the floor, shot through the heart.

CHAPTER XLIX

Dutiful Friendship

A great annual occasion has come round in the establishment of Mr. Matthew Bagnet, otherwise Lignum Vitae, ex-artilleryman and present bassoon-player.  An occasion of feasting and festival.  The celebration of a birthday in the family.

It is not Mr. Bagnet’s birthday.  Mr. Bagnet merely distinguishes that epoch in the musical instrument business by kissing the children with an extra smack before breakfast, smoking an additional pipe after dinner, and wondering towards evening what his poor old mother is thinking about it—­a subject of infinite speculation, and rendered so by his mother having departed this life twenty years.  Some men rarely revert to their father, but seem, in the bank-books of their remembrance, to have transferred all the stock of filial affection into their mother’s name.  Mr. Bagnet is one of like his trade the better for that.  If I had kept clear of his old girl causes him usually to make the noun-substantive “goodness” of the feminine gender.

It is not the birthday of one of the three children.  Those occasions are kept with some marks of distinction, but they rarely overleap the bounds of happy returns and a pudding.  On young Woolwich’s last birthday, Mr. Bagnet certainly did, after observing on his growth and general advancement, proceed, in a moment of profound reflection on the changes wrought by time, to examine him in the catechism, accomplishing with extreme accuracy the questions number one and two, “What is your name?” and “Who gave you that name?” but there failing in the exact precision of his memory and substituting for number three the question “And how do you like that name?” which he propounded with a sense of its importance, in itself so edifying and improving as to give it quite an orthodox air.  This, however, was a speciality on that particular birthday, and not a general solemnity.

It is the old girl’s birthday, and that is the greatest holiday and reddest-letter day in Mr. Bagnet’s calendar.  The auspicious event is always commemorated according to certain forms settled and prescribed by Mr. Bagnet some years since.  Mr. Bagnet, being deeply convinced that to have a pair of fowls for dinner is to attain the highest pitch of imperial luxury, invariably goes forth himself very early in the morning