My Lady interrupts

requesting him to miss as many of the formal

horrors as he can.

Mr. Tulkinghorn glances over his spectacles and begins again lower

down. My Lady carelessly and scornfully abstracts her attention. Sir

Leicester in a great chair looks at the file and appears to have a stately

liking for the legal repetitions and prolixities as ranging among the

national bulwarks. It happens that the fire is hot where my Lady sits and

that the hand-screen is more beautiful than useful, being priceless but

small. My Lady, changing her position, sees the papers on the table—

looks at them nearer—looks at them nearer still—asks impulsively,

‟Who copied that?”

Mr. Tulkinghorn stops short, surprised by my Lady’s animation and

her unusual tone.

‟Is it what you people call law-hand?” she asks, looking full at him in

her careless way again and toying with her screen.

‟Not quite. Probably”—Mr. Tulkinghorn examines it as he speaks

— the legal character which it has was acquired after the original hand ‟

was formed. Why do you ask?”

‟Anything to vary this detestable monotony. Oh, go on, do!”

Mr. Tulkinghorn reads again. The heat is greater; my Lady screens her

face. Sir Leicester dozes, starts up suddenly, and cries, Eh? What do you ‟

say?”

I say I am afraid,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, who had risen hastily, that ‟ ‟

Lady Dedlock is ill.”

Faint,” my Lady murmurs with white lips, only that; but it is like the ‟ ‟

faintness of death. Don’t speak to me. Ring, and take me to my room!”

Mr. Tulkinghorn retires into another chamber; bells ring, feet shuffle

and patter, silence ensues. Mercury at last begs Mr. Tulkinghorn to

return.

‟Better now,” quoth Sir Leicester, motioning the lawyer to sit down

and read to him alone. I have been quite alarmed. I never knew m

Lady swoon before. But the weather is extremely trying, and she really

has been bored to death down at our place in Lincolnshire.”

CHAPTER III. A Progress

I have a great deal of difficulty in beginning to write my portion of these

pages, for I know I am not clever. I always knew that. I can remember,

when I was a very little girl indeed, I used to say to my doll when we were

alone together, Now, Dolly, I am not clever, you know very well, and you ‟

must be patient with me, like a dear!” And so she used to sit propped up

in a great arm-chair, with her beautiful complexion and rosy lips, staring

at me—or not so much at me, I think, as at nothing—while I busily

stitched away and told her every one of my secrets.

My dear old doll! I was such a shy little thing that I seldom dared to

open my lips, and never dared to open my heart, to anybody else. It

almost makes me cry to think what a relief it used to be to me when I

came home from school of a day to run upstairs to my room and say,

‟Oh, you dear faithful Dolly, I knew you would be expecting me!” and

then to sit down on the floor, leaning on the elbow of her great chair,

and tell her all I had noticed since we parted. I had always rather a

noticing way—not a quick way, oh, no!—a silent way of noticing what

passed before me and thinking I should like to understand it better. I

have not by any means a quick understanding. When I love a person very

tenderly indeed, it seems to brighten. But even that may be my vanity.

I was brought up, from my earliest remembrance—like some of the

princesses in the fairy stories, only I was not charming—by my

godmother. At least, I only knew her as such. She was a good, good

woman! She went to church three times every Sunday, and to morning

prayers on Wednesdays and Fridays, and to lectures whenever there were

lectures; and never missed. She was handsome; and if she had ever

smiled, would have been (I used to think) like an angel—but she never