Charley and I did not set off alone upon our expedition intoLincolnshire. My guardian had made up his mind not to lose sightof me until I was safe in Mr. Boythorn's house, so he accompaniedus, and we were two days upon the road. I found every breath ofair, and every scent, and every flower and leaf and blade of grass,and every passing cloud, and everything in nature, more beautifuland wonderful to me than I had ever found it yet. This was myfirst gain from my illness. How little I had lost, when the wideworld was so full of delight for me.

　　My guardian intending to go back immediately, we appointed, on ourway down, a day when my dear girl should come. I wrote her aletter, of which he took charge, and he left us within half an hourof our arrival at our destination, on a delightful evening in theearly summer-time.

　　If a good fairy had built the house for me with a wave of her wand,and I had been a princess and her favoured god-child, I could nothave been more considered in it. So many preparations were madefor me and such an endearing remembrance was shown of all my littletastes and likings that I could have sat down, overcome, a dozentimes before I had revisited half the rooms. I did better thanthat, however, by showing them all to Charley instead. Charley'sdelight calmed mine; and after we had had a walk in the garden, andCharley had exhausted her whole vocabulary of admiring expressions,I was as tranquilly happy as I ought to have been. It was a greatcomfort to be able to say to myself after tea, "Esther, my dear, Ithink you are quite sensible enough to sit down now and write anote of thanks to your host." He had left a note of welcome forme, as sunny as his own face, and had confided his bird to my care,which I knew to be his highest mark of confidence. Accordingly Iwrote a little note to him in London, telling him how all hisfavourite plants and trees were looking, and how the mostastonishing of birds had chirped the honours of the house to me inthe most hospitable manner, and how, after singing on my shoulder,to the inconceivable rapture of my little maid, he was then atroost in the usual corner of his cage, but whether dreaming or no Icould not report. My note finished and sent off to the post, Imade myself very busy in unpacking and arranging; and I sentCharley to bed in good time and told her I should want her no morethat night.

　　For I had not yet looked in the glass and had never asked to havemy own restored to me. I knew this to be a weakness which must beovercome, but I had always said to myself that I would begin afreshwhen I got to where I now was. Therefore I had wanted to be alone,and therefore I said, now alone, in my own room, "Esther, if youare to be happy, if you are to have any right to pray to be true-hearted, you must keep your word, my dear." I was quite resolvedto keep it, but I sat down for a little while first to reflect uponall my blessings. And then I said my prayers and thought a littlemore.

　　My hair had not been cut off, though it had been in danger morethan once. It was long and thick. I let it down, and shook itout, and went up to the glass upon the dressing-table. There was alittle muslin curtain drawn across it. I drew it back and stoodfor a moment looking through such a veil of my own hair that Icould see nothing else. Then I put my hair aside and looked at thereflection in the mirror, encouraged by seeing how placidly itlooked at me. I was very much changed--oh, very, very much. Atfirst my face was so strange to me that I think I should have putmy hands before it and started back but for the encouragement Ihave mentioned. Very soon it became more familiar, and then I knewthe extent of the alteration in it better than I had done at first.

　　It was not like what I had expected, but I had expected nothingdefinite, and I dare say anything definite would have surprised me.

　　I had never been a beauty and had never thought myself one, but Ihad been very different from this. It was all gone now. Heavenwas so good to me that I could let it go with a few not bittertears and could stand there arranging my hair for the night quitethankfully.

　　One thing troubled me, and I considered it for a long time before Iwent to sleep. I had kept Mr. Woodcourt's flowers. When they werewithered I had dried them and put them in a book that I was fondof. Nobody knew this, not even Ada. I was doubtful whether I hada right to preserve what he had sent to one so different--whetherit was generous towards him to do it. I wished to be generous tohim, even in the secret depths of my heart, which he would neverknow, because I could have loved him--could have been devoted tohim. At last I came to the conclusion that I might keep them if Itreasured them only as a remembrance of what was irrevocably pastand gone, never to be looked back on any more, in any other light.

　　I hope this may not seem trivial. I was very much in earnest.

　　I took care to be up early in the morning and to be before theglass when Charley came in on tiptoe.

　　"Dear, dear, miss!" cried Charley, starting. "Is that you?""Yes, Charley," said I, quietly putting up my hair. "And I am verywell indeed, and very happy."I saw it was a weight off Charley's mind, but it was a greaterweight off mine. I knew the worst now and was composed to it. Ishall not conceal, as I go on, the weaknesses I could not quiteconquer, but they always passed from me soon and the happier frameof mind stayed by me faithfully.

　　Wishing to be fully re-established in my strength and my goodspirits before Ada came, I now laid down a little series of planswith Charley for being in the fresh air all day long. We were tobe out before breakfast, and were to dine early, and were to be outagain before and after dinner, and were to talk in the garden aftertea, and were to go to rest betimes, and were to climb every hilland explore every road, lane, and field in the neighbourhood. Asto restoratives and strengthening delicacies, Mr. Boythorn's goodhousekeeper was for ever trotting about with something to eat ordrink in her hand; I could not even be heard of as resting in thepark but she would come trotting after me with a basket, hercheerful face shining with a lecture on the importance of frequentnourishment. Then there was a pony expressly for my riding, achubby pony with a short neck and a mane all over his eyes whocould canter--when he would--so easily and quietly that he was atreasure. In a very few days he would come to me in the paddockwhen I called him, and eat out of my hand, and follow me about. Wearrived at such a capital understanding that when he was joggingwith me lazily, and rather obstinately, down some shady lane, if Ipatted his neck and said, "Stubbs, I am surprised you don't canterwhen you know how much I like it; and I think you might oblige me,for you are only getting stupid and going to sleep," he would givehis head a comical shake or two and set off directly, while Charleywould stand still and laugh with such enjoyment that her laughterwas like music. I don't know who had given Stubbs his name, but itseemed to belong to him as naturally as his rough coat. Once weput him in a little chaise and drove him triumphantly through thegreen lanes for five miles; but all at once, as we were extollinghim to the skies, he seemed to take it ill that he should have beenaccompanied so far by the circle of tantalizing little gnats thathad been hovering round and round his ears the whole way withoutappearing to advance an inch, and stopped to think about it. Isuppose he came to the decision that it was not to be borne, for hesteadily refused to move until I gave the reins to Charley and gotout and walked, when he followed me with a sturdy sort of goodhumour, putting his head under my arm and rubbing his ear againstmy sleeve. It was in vain for me to say, "Now, Stubbs, I feelquite sure from what I know of you that you will go on if I ride alittle while," for the moment I left him, he stood stock stillagain. Consequently I was obliged to lead the way, as before; andin this order we returned home, to the great delight of thevillage.

　　Charley and I had reason to call it the most friendly of villages,I am sure, for in a week's time the people were so glad to see usgo by, though ever so frequently in the course of a day, that therewere faces of greeting in every cottage. I had known many of thegrown people before and almost all the children, but now the verysteeple began to wear a familiar and affectionate look. Among mynew friends was an old old woman who lived in such a littlethatched and whitewashed dwelling that when the outside shutter wasturned up on its hinges, it shut up the whole house-front. Thisold lady had a grandson who was a sailor, and I wrote a letter tohim for her and drew at the top of it the chimney-corner in whichshe had brought him up and where his old stool yet occupied its oldplace. This was considered by the whole village the most wonderfulachievement in the world, but when an answer came back all the wayfrom Plymouth, in which he mentioned that he was going to take thepicture all the way to America, and from America would write again,I got all the credit that ought to have been given to the post-office and was invested with the merit of the whole system.

　　Thus, what with being so much in the air, playing with so manychildren, gossiping with so many people, sitting on invitation inso many cottages, going on with Charley's education, and writinglong letters to Ada every day, I had scarcely any time to thinkabout that little loss of mine and was almost always cheerful. IfI did think of it at odd moments now and then, I had only to bebusy and forget it. I felt it more than I had hoped I should oncewhen a child said, "Mother, why is the lady not a pretty lady nowlike she used to be?" But when I found the child was not less fondof me, and drew its soft hand over my face with a kind of pityingprotection in its touch, that soon set me up again. There weremany little occurrences which suggested to me, with greatconsolation, how natural it is to gentle hearts to be considerateand delicate towards any inferiority. One of these particularlytouched me. I happened to stroll into the little church when amarriage was just concluded, and the young couple had to sign theregister.

　　The bridegroom, to whom the pen was handed first, made a rude crossfor his mark; the bride, who came next, did the same. Now, I hadknown the bride when I was last there, not only as the prettiestgirl in the place, but as having quite distinguished herself in theschool, and I could not help looking at her with some surprise.

　　She came aside and whispered to me, while tears of honest love andadmiration stood in her bright eyes, "He's a dear good fellow,miss; but he can't write yet--he's going to learn of me--and Iwouldn't shame him for the world!" Why, what had I to fear, Ithought, when there was this nobility in the soul of a labouringman's daughter!

　　The air blew as freshly and revivingly upon me as it had everblown, and the healthy colour came into my new face as it had comeinto my old one. Charley was wonderful to see, she was so radiantand so rosy; and we both enjoyed the whole day and slept soundlythe whole night.

　　There was a favourite spot of mine in the park-woods of ChesneyWold where a seat had been erected commanding a lovely view. Thewood had been cleared and opened to improve this point of sight,and the bright sunny landscape beyond was so beautiful that Irested there at least once every day. A picturesque part of theHall, called the Ghost's Walk, was seen to advantage from thishigher ground; and the startling name, and the old legend in theDedlock family which I had heard from Mr. Boythorn accounting forit, mingled with the view and gave it something of a mysteriousinterest in addition to its real charms. There was a bank here,too, which was a famous one for violets; and as it was a dailydelight of Charley's to gather wild flowers, she took as much tothe spot as I did.

　　It would be idle to inquire now why I never went close to the houseor never went inside it. The family were not there, I had heard onmy arrival, and were not expected. I was far from being incuriousor uninterested about the building; on the contrary, I often sat inthis place wondering how the rooms ranged and whether any echo likea footstep really did resound at times, as the story said, upon thelonely Ghost's Walk. The indefinable feeling with which LadyDedlock had impressed me may have had some influence in keeping mefrom the house even when she was absent. I am not sure. Her faceand figure were associated with it, naturally; but I cannot saythat they repelled me from it, though something did. For whateverreason or no reason, I had never once gone near it, down to the dayat which my story now arrives.

　　I was resting at my favourite point after a long ramble, andCharley was gathering violets at a little distance from me. I hadbeen looking at the Ghost's Walk lying in a deep shade of masonryafar off and picturing to myself the female shape that was said tohaunt it when I became aware of a figure approaching through thewood. The perspective was so long and so darkened by leaves, andthe shadows of the branches on the ground made it so much moreintricate to the eye, that at first I could not discern what figureit was. By little and little it revealed itself to be a woman's--alady's--Lady Dedlock's. She was alone and coming to where I satwith a much quicker step, I observed to my surprise, than was usualwith her.

　　I was fluttered by her being unexpectedly so near (she was almostwithin speaking distance before I knew her) and would have risen tocontinue my walk. But I could not. I was rendered motionless.

　　Not so much by her hurried gesture of entreaty, not so much by herquick advance and outstretched hands, not so much by the greatchange in her manner and the absence of her haughty self-restraint,as by a something in her face that I had pined for and dreamed ofwhen I was a little child, something I had never seen in any face,something I had never seen in hers before.

　　A dread and faintness fell upon me, and I called to Charley. LadyDedlock stopped upon the instant and changed back almost to what Ihad known her.

　　"Miss Summerson, I am afraid I have startled you," she said, nowadvancing slowly. "You can scarcely be strong yet. You have beenvery ill, I know. I have been much concerned to hear it."I could no more have removed my eyes from her pale face than Icould have stirred from the bench on which I sat. She gave me herhand, and its deadly coldness, so at variance with the enforcedcomposure of her features, deepened the fascination thatoverpowered me. I cannot say what was in my whirling thoughts.

　　"You are recovering again?" she asked kindly.

　　"I was quite well but a moment ago, Lady Dedlock.""Is this your young attendant?""Yes.""Will you send her on before and walk towards your house with me?""Charley," said I, "take your flowers home, and I will follow youdirectly."Charley, with her best curtsy, blushingly tied on her bonnet andwent her way. When she was gone, Lady Dedlock sat down on the seatbeside me.

　　I cannot tell in any words what the state of my mind was when I sawin her hand my handkerchief with which I had covered the dead baby.

　　I looked at her, but I could not see her, I could not hear her, Icould not draw my breath. The beating of my heart was so violentand wild that I felt as if my life were breaking from me. But whenshe caught me to her breast, kissed me, wept over me,compassionated me, and called me back to myself; when she fell downon her knees and cried to me, "Oh, my child, my child, I am yourwicked and unhappy mother! Oh, try to forgive me!"--when I saw herat my feet on the bare earth in her great agony of mind, I felt,through all my tumult of emotion, a burst of gratitude to theprovidence of God that I was so changed as that I never coulddisgrace her by any trace of likeness, as that nobody could evernow look at me and look at her and remotely think of any near tiebetween us.

　　I raised my mother up, praying and beseeching her not to stoopbefore me in such affliction and humiliation. I did so in broken,incoherent words, for besides the trouble I was in, it frightenedme to see her at MY feet. I told her--or I tried to tell her--thatif it were for me, her child, under any circumstances to take uponme to forgive her, I did it, and had done it, many, many years. Itold her that my heart overflowed with love for her, that it wasnatural love which nothing in the past had changed or could change.

　　That it was not for me, then resting for the first time on mymother's bosom, to take her to account for having given me life,but that my duty was to bless her and receive her, though the wholeworld turned from her, and that I only asked her leave to do it. Iheld my mother in my embrace, and she held me in hers, and amongthe still woods in the silence of the summer day there seemed to benothing but our two troubled minds that was not at peace.

　　"To bless and receive me," groaned my mother, "it is far too late.

　　I must travel my dark road alone, and it will lead me where itwill. From day to day, sometimes from hour to h............