which state of affairs Mr. Snagsby, trampled and crushed in. the piano-forte removal, and extremely timid and feeble, ventures to come out from behind the door in the drawing-room.
All this time, Jo has been standing on the spot where he woke up, ever picking his cap, and putting bits of fur in his mouth. He spits them out with a remorseful air, for he feels that it is in his nature to be an unimprovable reprobate, and that it's no good his trying to keep awake, for he won't never know nothink. Though it may be, Jo, that there is a history so interesting and affecting even to minds as near the brutes as thine, recording deeds done on this earth for common men, that if the Chadbands, removing their own persons from the light, would but show it thee in simple reverence, would but leave it unimproved, would but regard it as being eloquent enough without their modest aid—it might hold thee awake, and thou might learn from it yet!
Jo never heard of any such book. Its compilers, and the Reverend Chadband, are all one to him—except that he knows the reverend Chadband, and would rather run away from him for an hour than hear him talk for five minutes. “It an't no good my waiting here no longer,” thinks Jo. “Mr. Sangsby an't a going to say nothink to me to-night.” And down-stairs he shuffles.
But down-stairs is the charitable Guster, holding by the handrail of the kitchen stairs, and warding off a fit, as yet doubtfully, the same having been induced by Mrs. Snagsby's screaming. She has her own supper of bread and cheese to hand to Jo; with whom she ventures to interchange a word or so, for the first time.
“Here 's something to eat, poor boy,” says Guster.
“Thank'ee, mum,” says Jo.
“Are you hungry?”
“Jist!” says Jo.
“What 's gone of your father and your mother, eh?”
Jo stops in the middle of a bite, and looks petrified. For this orphan charge of the Christian Saint whose shrine was at Tooting, has patted him on the shoulder; and it is the first time in his life that any decent hand has been so laid upon him.
“I never know'd nothink about 'em,” says Jo.
“No more didn't I of mine,” cries Guster. She is repressing symptoms favourable to the fit, when she seems to take alarm at something, and vanishes down the stairs.
“Jo,” whispers the law-stationer softly, as the boy lingers on the step.
“Here I am, Mr. Sangsby?”
“I didn't know you were gone—there's another half-crown, Jo. It was quite right of you to say nothing about the lady the other night when we were out together. It would breed trouble. Ton can't be too quiet, Jo.”
“I am fly, master!”
And so, good night.
A ghostly shade, frilled and nightcapped, follows the law-stationer to the room he came from, and glides higher up. And henceforth he begins, go where he will, to be attended by another shadow than his own, hardly less constant than his own, hardly less quiet than his own. And into whatsoever atmosphere of secresy his own shadow may pass, let all concerned in the secresy beware! For the watchful Mrs. Snagsby is there too—bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh, shadow of his shadow.
