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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 it has； was acquired after the original
hand was formed。 Why do you ask？”
“Anything to vary this detestable monotony。 O； 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 has risen hastily；
“that Lady Dedlock is ill。”
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“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 my Lady swoon before。 But the weather is extremely
trying—and she really has been bored to death down at our place
in Lincolnshire。”
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Chapter 3
A Progress
have a great deal of difficulty in beginning to write my
portion of these pages； for I know I am not clever。 I always
I
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 armchair； 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 cam home from school of a day； to run upstairs
to my room； and say； “O 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； O
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
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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 smiled。 She was always grave
and strict。 She was so very good herself； I thought； that the
badness of other people made her frown all her life。 I felt so
different from her； even making every allowance for the
differences between a child and a woman； I felt so poor； so trifling；
and so far off； that I never could be unrestrained with her—no；
could never even love her as I wished。 It made me very sorry to
consider how good she was； and how unworthy of her I was； and I
used ardently to hope that I might have a better heart； and I talked
it over very often with the dear old doll； but I never loved my
godmother as I ought to have loved her； and as I felt I must have
loved her if I had been a better girl。
This made me； I dare say； more timid and retiring than I
naturally was； and cast me upon Dolly as the only friend with
whom I felt at ease。 But something happened when I was still
quite a little thing； that helped it very much。
I had never heard my mama spoken of。 I had never heard of my
papa either； but I felt more interested about my mama。 I had
never worn a black frock； that I could recollect。 I had never been
shown my mama’s grave。 I had never been told where it was。 Yet I
had never been taught to pray for any relation but my godmother。
I had more than once approached this subject of my thoughts with
Mrs Rachael； our only servant； who took my light away when I was
in bed （another very good woman； but austere to me）； and she had
only said； “Esther； good night！” and gone away and left me。
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Although there were seven girls at the neighbouring school
where I was a day boarder； and although they called me little
Esther Summerson； I knew none of them at home。 All of them
were older than I； to be sure （I was the youngest there by a good
deal）； but there seemed to be some other separation between us
besides that； and besides their being far more clever than I was；
and knowing much more than I did。 One of them； in the first week
of my going to the school （I remember it very well）； invited me
home to a little party； to my great joy。 But my godmother wrote a
stiff letter； declining for me； and I never went。 I never went out at
all。
It was my birthday。 There were holidays at school on other
birthdays—none on mine。 There were rejoicings at home on other
birthdays； as I knew from what I heard the girls relate to one
another—there were none on mine。 My birthday was the most
melancholy day at home； in the whole year。
I have mentioned； that； unless my vanity should deceive me （as
I know it may； for I may be very vain； without suspecting it—
though indeed I don’t）； my comprehension is quickened when my
affection is。 My disposition is very affectionate； and p