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- Чарльз Диккенс
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Ada
and
I
agreed
,
as
we
talked
together
for
a
little
while
upstairs
,
that
this
caprice
about
the
wind
was
a
fiction
and
that
he
used
the
pretence
to
account
for
any
disappointment
he
could
not
conceal
,
rather
than
he
would
blame
the
real
cause
of
it
or
disparage
or
depreciate
any
one
.
We
thought
this
very
characteristic
of
his
eccentric
gentleness
and
of
the
difference
between
him
and
those
petulant
people
who
make
the
weather
and
the
winds
(
particularly
that
unlucky
wind
which
he
had
chosen
for
such
a
different
purpose
)
the
stalking
-
horses
of
their
splenetic
and
gloomy
humours
.
Indeed
,
so
much
affection
for
him
had
been
added
in
this
one
evening
to
my
gratitude
that
I
hoped
I
already
began
to
understand
him
through
that
mingled
feeling
.
Any
seeming
inconsistencies
in
Mr
.
Skimpole
or
in
Mrs
.
Jellyby
I
could
not
expect
to
be
able
to
reconcile
,
having
so
little
experience
or
practical
knowledge
.
Neither
did
I
try
,
for
my
thoughts
were
busy
when
I
was
alone
,
with
Ada
and
Richard
and
with
the
confidence
I
had
seemed
to
receive
concerning
them
.
My
fancy
,
made
a
little
wild
by
the
wind
perhaps
,
would
not
consent
to
be
all
unselfish
,
either
,
though
I
would
have
persuaded
it
to
be
so
if
I
could
.
It
wandered
back
to
my
godmother
’
s
house
and
came
along
the
intervening
track
,
raising
up
shadowy
speculations
which
had
sometimes
trembled
there
in
the
dark
as
to
what
knowledge
Mr
.
Jarndyce
had
of
my
earliest
history
—
even
as
to
the
possibility
of
his
being
my
father
,
though
that
idle
dream
was
quite
gone
now
.
It
was
all
gone
now
,
I
remembered
,
getting
up
from
the
fire
It
was
not
for
me
to
muse
over
bygones
,
but
to
act
with
a
cheerful
spirit
and
a
grateful
heart
.
So
I
said
to
myself
,
"
Esther
,
Esther
,
Esther
!
Duty
,
my
dear
!
"
and
gave
my
little
basket
of
housekeeping
keys
such
a
shake
that
they
sounded
like
little
bells
and
rang
me
hopefully
to
bed
.
While
Esther
sleeps
,
and
while
Esther
wakes
,
it
is
still
wet
weather
down
at
the
place
in
Lincolnshire
.
The
rain
is
ever
falling
—
drip
,
drip
,
drip
—
by
day
and
night
upon
the
broad
flagged
terrace
-
pavement
,
the
Ghost
’
s
Walk
.
The
weather
is
so
very
bad
down
in
Lincolnshire
that
the
liveliest
imagination
can
scarcely
apprehend
its
ever
being
fine
again
.
Not
that
there
is
any
superabundant
life
of
imagination
on
the
spot
,
for
Sir
Leicester
is
not
here
(
and
,
truly
,
even
if
he
were
,
would
not
do
much
for
it
in
that
particular
)
,
but
is
in
Paris
with
my
Lady
;
and
solitude
,
with
dusky
wings
,
sits
brooding
upon
Chesney
Wold
.
There
may
be
some
motions
of
fancy
among
the
lower
animals
at
Chesney
Wold
.
The
horses
in
the
stables
—
the
long
stables
in
a
barren
,
red
-
brick
court
-
yard
,
where
there
is
a
great
bell
in
a
turret
,
and
a
clock
with
a
large
face
,
which
the
pigeons
who
live
near
it
and
who
love
to
perch
upon
its
shoulders
seem
to
be
always
consulting
—
THEY
may
contemplate
some
mental
pictures
of
fine
weather
on
occasions
,
and
may
be
better
artists
at
them
than
the
grooms
.
The
old
roan
,
so
famous
for
cross
-
country
work
,
turning
his
large
eyeball
to
the
grated
window
near
his
rack
,
may
remember
the
fresh
leaves
that
glisten
there
at
other
times
and
the
scents
that
stream
in
,
and
may
have
a
fine
run
with
the
hounds
,
while
the
human
helper
,
clearing
out
the
next
stall
,
never
stirs
beyond
his
pitchfork
and
birch
-
broom
.
The
grey
,
whose
place
is
opposite
the
door
and
who
with
an
impatient
rattle
of
his
halter
pricks
his
ears
and
turns
his
head
so
wistfully
when
it
is
opened
,
and
to
whom
the
opener
says
,
"
Woa
grey
,
then
,
steady
!
Noabody
wants
you
to
-
day
!
"
may
know
it
quite
as
well
as
the
man
.
The
whole
seemingly
monotonous
and
uncompanionable
half
-
dozen
,
stabled
together
,
may
pass
the
long
wet
hours
when
the
door
is
shut
in
livelier
communication
than
is
held
in
the
servants
’
hall
or
at
the
Dedlock
Arms
,
or
may
even
beguile
the
time
by
improving
(
perhaps
corrupting
)
the
pony
in
the
loose
-
box
in
the
corner
.
So
the
mastiff
,
dozing
in
his
kennel
in
the
court
-
yard
with
his
large
head
on
his
paws
,
may
think
of
the
hot
sunshine
when
the
shadows
of
the
stable
-
buildings
tire
his
patience
out
by
changing
and
leave
him
at
one
time
of
the
day
no
broader
refuge
than
the
shadow
of
his
own
house
,
where
he
sits
on
end
,
panting
and
growling
short
,
and
very
much
wanting
something
to
worry
besides
himself
and
his
chain
.
So
now
,
half
-
waking
and
all
-
winking
,
he
may
recall
the
house
full
of
company
,
the
coach
-
houses
full
of
vehicles
,
the
stables
full
of
horses
,
and
the
out
-
buildings
full
of
attendants
upon
horses
,
until
he
is
undecided
about
the
present
and
comes
forth
to
see
how
it
is
.
Then
,
with
that
impatient
shake
of
himself
,
he
may
growl
in
the
spirit
,
"
Rain
,
rain
,
rain
!
Nothing
but
rain
—
and
no
family
here
!
"
as
he
goes
in
again
and
lies
down
with
a
gloomy
yawn
.
So
with
the
dogs
in
the
kennel
-
buildings
across
the
park
,
who
have
their
restless
fits
and
whose
doleful
voices
when
the
wind
has
been
very
obstinate
have
even
made
it
known
in
the
house
itself
—
upstairs
,
downstairs
,
and
in
my
Lady
’
s
chamber
.
They
may
hunt
the
whole
country
-
side
,
while
the
raindrops
are
pattering
round
their
inactivity
.
So
the
rabbits
with
their
self
-
betraying
tails
,
frisking
in
and
out
of
holes
at
roots
of
trees
,
may
be
lively
with
ideas
of
the
breezy
days
when
their
ears
are
blown
about
or
of
those
seasons
of
interest
when
there
are
sweet
young
plants
to
gnaw
.
The
turkey
in
the
poultry
-
yard
,
always
troubled
with
a
class
-
grievance
(
probably
Christmas
)
,
may
be
reminiscent
of
that
summer
morning
wrongfully
taken
from
him
when
he
got
into
the
lane
among
the
felled
trees
,
where
there
was
a
barn
and
barley
.
The
discontented
goose
,
who
stoops
to
pass
under
the
old
gateway
,
twenty
feet
high
,
may
gabble
out
,
if
we
only
knew
it
,
a
waddling
preference
for
weather
when
the
gateway
casts
its
shadow
on
the
ground
.
Be
this
as
it
may
,
there
is
not
much
fancy
otherwise
stirring
at
Chesney
Wold
.
If
there
be
a
little
at
any
odd
moment
,
it
goes
,
like
a
little
noise
in
that
old
echoing
place
,
a
long
way
and
usually
leads
off
to
ghosts
and
mystery
.
It
has
rained
so
hard
and
rained
so
long
down
in
Lincolnshire
that
Mrs
.
Rouncewell
,
the
old
housekeeper
at
Chesney
Wold
,
has
several
times
taken
off
her
spectacles
and
cleaned
them
to
make
certain
that
the
drops
were
not
upon
the
glasses
.
Mrs
.
Rouncewell
might
have
been
sufficiently
assured
by
hearing
the
rain
,
but
that
she
is
rather
deaf
,
which
nothing
will
induce
her
to
believe
.
She
is
a
fine
old
lady
,
handsome
,
stately
,
wonderfully
neat
,
and
has
such
a
back
and
such
a
stomacher
that
if
her
stays
should
turn
out
when
she
dies
to
have
been
a
broad
old
-
fashioned
family
fire
-
grate
,
nobody
who
knows
her
would
have
cause
to
be
surprised
.
Weather
affects
Mrs
.
Rouncewell
little
.
The
house
is
there
in
all
weathers
,
and
the
house
,
as
she
expresses
it
,
"
is
what
she
looks
at
.
"
She
sits
in
her
room
(
in
a
side
passage
on
the
ground
floor
,
with
an
arched
window
commanding
a
smooth
quadrangle
,
adorned
at
regular
intervals
with
smooth
round
trees
and
smooth
round
blocks
of
stone
,
as
if
the
trees
were
going
to
play
at
bowls
with
the
stones
)
,
and
the
whole
house
reposes
on
her
mind
.
She
can
open
it
on
occasion
and
be
busy
and
fluttered
,
but
it
is
shut
up
now
and
lies
on
the
breadth
of
Mrs
.
Rouncewell
’
s
iron
-
bound
bosom
in
a
majestic
sleep
.
It
is
the
next
difficult
thing
to
an
impossibility
to
imagine
Chesney
Wold
without
Mrs
.
Rouncewell
,
but
she
has
only
been
here
fifty
years
.
Ask
her
how
long
,
this
rainy
day
,
and
she
shall
answer
"
fifty
year
,
three
months
,
and
a
fortnight
,
by
the
blessing
of
heaven
,
if
I
live
till
Tuesday
.
"
Mr
.
Rouncewell
died
some
time
before
the
decease
of
the
pretty
fashion
of
pig
-
tails
,
and
modestly
hid
his
own
(
if
he
took
it
with
him
)
in
a
corner
of
the
churchyard
in
the
park
near
the
mouldy
porch
.
He
was
born
in
the
market
-
town
,
and
so
was
his
young
widow
.
Her
progress
in
the
family
began
in
the
time
of
the
last
Sir
Leicester
and
originated
in
the
still
-
room
.
The
present
representative
of
the
Dedlocks
is
an
excellent
master
.
He
supposes
all
his
dependents
to
be
utterly
bereft
of
individual
characters
,
intentions
,
or
opinions
,
and
is
persuaded
that
he
was
born
to
supersede
the
necessity
of
their
having
any
.
If
he
were
to
make
a
discovery
to
the
contrary
,
he
would
be
simply
stunned
—
would
never
recover
himself
,
most
likely
,
except
to
gasp
and
die
.
But
he
is
an
excellent
master
still
,
holding
it
a
part
of
his
state
to
be
so
.
He
has
a
great
liking
for
Mrs
.
Rouncewell
;
he
says
she
is
a
most
respectable
,
creditable
woman
.
He
always
shakes
hands
with
her
when
he
comes
down
to
Chesney
Wold
and
when
he
goes
away
;
and
if
he
were
very
ill
,
or
if
he
were
knocked
down
by
accident
,
or
run
over
,
or
placed
in
any
situation
expressive
of
a
Dedlock
at
a
disadvantage
,
he
would
say
if
he
could
speak
,
"
Leave
me
,
and
send
Mrs
.
Rouncewell
here
!
"
feeling
his
dignity
,
at
such
a
pass
,
safer
with
her
than
with
anybody
else
.
Mrs
.
Rouncewell
has
known
trouble
.
She
has
had
two
sons
,
of
whom
the
younger
ran
wild
,
and
went
for
a
soldier
,
and
never
came
back
.
Even
to
this
hour
,
Mrs
.
Rouncewell
’
s
calm
hands
lose
their
composure
when
she
speaks
of
him
,
and
unfolding
themselves
from
her
stomacher
,
hover
about
her
in
an
agitated
manner
as
she
says
what
a
likely
lad
,
what
a
fine
lad
,
what
a
gay
,
good
-
humoured
,
clever
lad
he
was
!
Her
second
son
would
have
been
provided
for
at
Chesney
Wold
and
would
have
been
made
steward
in
due
season
,
but
he
took
,
when
he
was
a
schoolboy
,
to
constructing
steam
-
engines
out
of
saucepans
and
setting
birds
to
draw
their
own
water
with
the
least
possible
amount
of
labour
,
so
assisting
them
with
artful
contrivance
of
hydraulic
pressure
that
a
thirsty
canary
had
only
,
in
a
literal
sense
,
to
put
his
shoulder
to
the
wheel
and
the
job
was
done
.
This
propensity
gave
Mrs
.
Rouncewell
great
uneasiness
.
She
felt
it
with
a
mother
’
s
anguish
to
be
a
move
in
the
Wat
Tyler
direction
,
well
knowing
that
Sir
Leicester
had
that
general
impression
of
an
aptitude
for
any
art
to
which
smoke
and
a
tall
chimney
might
be
considered
essential
.
But
the
doomed
young
rebel
(
otherwise
a
mild
youth
,
and
very
persevering
)
,
showing
no
sign
of
grace
as
he
got
older
but
,
on
the
contrary
,
constructing
a
model
of
a
power
-
loom
,
she
was
fain
,
with
many
tears
,
to
mention
his
backslidings
to
the
baronet
.
"
Mrs
.
Rouncewell
,
"
said
Sir
Leicester
,
"
I
can
never
consent
to
argue
,
as
you
know
,
with
any
one
on
any
subject
.
You
had
better
get
rid
of
your
boy
;
you
had
better
get
him
into
some
Works
.
The
iron
country
farther
north
is
,
I
suppose
,
the
congenial
direction
for
a
boy
with
these
tendencies
.
"
Farther
north
he
went
,
and
farther
north
he
grew
up
;
and
if
Sir
Leicester
Dedlock
ever
saw
him
when
he
came
to
Chesney
Wold
to
visit
his
mother
,
or
ever
thought
of
him
afterwards
,
it
is
certain
that
he
only
regarded
him
as
one
of
a
body
of
some
odd
thousand
conspirators
,
swarthy
and
grim
,
who
were
in
the
habit
of
turning
out
by
torchlight
two
or
three
nights
in
the
week
for
unlawful
purposes
.
Nevertheless
,
Mrs
.
Rouncewell
’
s
son
has
,
in
the
course
of
nature
and
art
,
grown
up
,
and
established
himself
,
and
married
,
and
called
unto
him
Mrs
.
Rouncewell
’
s
grandson
,
who
,
being
out
of
his
apprenticeship
,
and
home
from
a
journey
in
far
countries
,
whither
he
was
sent
to
enlarge
his
knowledge
and
complete
his
preparations
for
the
venture
of
this
life
,
stands
leaning
against
the
chimney
-
piece
this
very
day
in
Mrs
.
Rouncewell
’
s
room
at
Chesney
Wold
.
"
And
,
again
and
again
,
I
am
glad
to
see
you
,
Watt
!
And
,
once
again
,
I
am
glad
to
see
you
,
Watt
!
"
says
Mrs
.
Rouncewell
.
"
You
are
a
fine
young
fellow
.
You
are
like
your
poor
uncle
George
.
Ah
!
"
Mrs
.
Rouncewell
’
s
hands
unquiet
,
as
usual
,
on
this
reference
.
"
They
say
I
am
like
my
father
,
grandmother
.
"
"
Like
him
,
also
,
my
dear
—
but
most
like
your
poor
uncle
George
!
And
your
dear
father
.
"
Mrs
.
Rouncewell
folds
her
hands
again
.
"
He
is
well
?
"
"
Thriving
,
grandmother
,
in
every
way
.
"
"
I
am
thankful
!
"
Mrs
.
Rouncewell
is
fond
of
her
son
but
has
a
plaintive
feeling
towards
him
,
much
as
if
he
were
a
very
honourable
soldier
who
had
gone
over
to
the
enemy
.
"
He
is
quite
happy
?
"
says
she
.
"
Quite
.
"
"
I
am
thankful
!
So
he
has
brought
you
up
to
follow
in
his
ways
and
has
sent
you
into
foreign
countries
and
the
like
?
Well
,
he
knows
best
.
There
may
be
a
world
beyond
Chesney
Wold
that
I
don
’
t
understand
.
Though
I
am
not
young
,
either
.
And
I
have
seen
a
quantity
of
good
company
too
!
"
"
Grandmother
,
"
says
the
young
man
,
changing
the
subject
,
"
what
a
very
pretty
girl
that
was
I
found
with
you
just
now
.
You
called
her
Rosa
?
"
"
Yes
,
child
.
She
is
daughter
of
a
widow
in
the
village
.
Maids
are
so
hard
to
teach
,
now
-
a
-
days
,
that
I
have
put
her
about
me
young
.
She
’
s
an
apt
scholar
and
will
do
well
.
She
shows
the
house
already
,
very
pretty
.
She
lives
with
me
at
my
table
here
.
"
"
I
hope
I
have
not
driven
her
away
?
"
"
She
supposes
we
have
family
affairs
to
speak
about
,
I
dare
say
.
She
is
very
modest
.
It
is
a
fine
quality
in
a
young
woman
.
And
scarcer
,
"
says
Mrs
.
Rouncewell
,
expanding
her
stomacher
to
its
utmost
limits
,
"
than
it
formerly
was
!
"
The
young
man
inclines
his
head
in
acknowledgment
of
the
precepts
of
experience
.
Mrs
.
Rouncewell
listens
.
"
Wheels
!
"
says
she
.
They
have
long
been
audible
to
the
younger
ears
of
her
companion
.
"
What
wheels
on
such
a
day
as
this
,
for
gracious
sake
?
"
After
a
short
interval
,
a
tap
at
the
door
.
"
Come
in
!
"
A
dark
-
eyed
,
dark
-
haired
,
shy
,
village
beauty
comes
in
—
so
fresh
in
her
rosy
and
yet
delicate
bloom
that
the
drops
of
rain
which
have
beaten
on
her
hair
look
like
the
dew
upon
a
flower
fresh
gathered
.
"
What
company
is
this
,
Rosa
?
"
says
Mrs
.
Rouncewell
.
