to discharge them. He and Jo listen to the music, probably with much the same amount of animal satisfaction ; likewise, as to awakened association, aspiration or regret, melancholy or joyful reference to things beyond the senses, they are probably upon a par. But, otherwise, how far above the human listener is the brute !
Turn that dog's descendants wild, like Jo, and in a very few years they will so degenerate that they will lose even their bark—but not their bite.
The day changes as it wears itself away, and becomes dark and drizzly. Jo fights it out, at his crossing, among the mud and wheels, the horses, whips, and umbrellas, and gets but a scanty sum to pay for the unsavory shelter of Tom-all-alone's. Twilight comes on ; gas begins to start up in the shops ; the lamplighter, with his ladder, runs along the margin of the pavement. A wretched evening is beginning to close in.
In his chambers, Mr. Tulkinghorn sits meditating an application to the nearest magistrate to-morrow morning for a warrant. Gridley, a disappointed suitor, has been here to-day, and has been alarming. We are not to be put in bodily fear, and that ill-conditioned fellow shall be held to bail again. From the ceiling, foreshortened allegory, in the person of one impossible Roman upside down, points with the arm of Samson (out of joint, and an odd one) obtrusively toward the window. Why should Mr. Tulkinghorn, for such no-reason, look out of window ? Is the hand not always pointing there ? So he does not look out of window.
And if he did, what would it be to see a woman going by ? There are women enough in the world, Mr. Tulkinghorn thinks—too many; they are at the bottom of all that goes wrong in it, though, for the matter of that, they create business for lawyers. What would it be to see a woman going by, even though she were going secretly? They are all secret. Mr. Tulkinghorn knows that, very well.
But they are not all like the woman who now leaves him and his house behind ; between whose plain dress, and her refined manner, there is something exceedingly inconsistent. She should be an upper servant by her attire, yet, in her air and step, though both are hurried and assumed—as far as she can assume in the muddy streets, which she treads with an unaccustomed foot—she is a lady. Her face is veiled, and still she sufficiently betrays herself to make more than one of those who pass her look round sharply.
She never turns her head. Lady or servant, she has a purpose in her, and can follow it. She never turns her head, until she comes to the crossing where Jo plies with his broom. He crosses with her, and begs. Still, she does not turn her head until she has landed on the other side. Then, she slightly beckons to him, and says " Come here ! "
Jo follows her, a pace or two, into a quiet court.
" Are you the boy I have read of in the papers?" she asks behind her veil.
" I don't know," says Jo, staring moodily at the veil, " nothink about no papers. I don't know nothink about nothink at all."
" Were you examined at an Inquest? "
" I dont know nothink about no—where I was took by the beadle, do you mean? " says Jo. "Was the boy's name at the Inkwhich, Jo? "
"Yes."
" That's me ! " says Jo.
