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Jeffrey, the hard-headed shallow critic, who declared that Wordsworth 'would never do, cried, 'wept like anything, over your Little Nell. One still laughs as heartily as ever with Dick Swiveller; but who can cry over Little Nell?
In spite of Thorndyke's recommendation to study Marchmont's statement as it was summarized in those notes which I had copied, and of his hint that I should find in that statement something highly significant, I was borne irresistibly to one conclusion, and one only and the wrong one at that, as I suspected: that Jeffrey Blackmore's will was a perfectly regular, sound and valid document.
The carriage was waiting, his trunk was in its place, his hat was in his hand; to Madam Conway he said good-by, to Anna Jeffrey too; and still he lingered, looking wistfully round in quest of something which evidently was not there. "Where's Margaret?" he asked at last, and Madam Conway answered: "Surely, where can she be? Have you seen her, Anna?"
Jeffrey, her voice and manner indicating a little doubt, however, as to the truth of her assertion. But Maggie had hidden them, and no amount of coaxing could persuade her to bring them back.
Do you hear, a chance to live. "Think it over." Jeffrey Whiting thought, harder and faster than he had ever tried to think in his life. But he could make nothing of it. He thought of the people, old and young, on the hills, suddenly set adrift from their homes. He thought of his mother and Uncle Cassius and Aunt Letitia without their real home to come back to.
A later visitor, Miss Martineau, his old helper in days of struggle, was now thus esteemed: "Broken into utter wearisomeness, a mind reduced to these three elements imbecility, dogmatism, and unlimited hope. I never in my life was more heartily bored with any creature!" In 1847 there followed the last English glimpse of Jeffrey and the last of Dr.
While his rivals looked with envy on his exaltation, and mobs deemed it little enough that he should be entirely at their beck in requital for the support they gave him, Mr Jeffrey was sighing for the quiet of private life, groaning at his banishment from a happy country-home, and not a little disturbed by the troubled aspect of public affairs.
I mean the lady at the big house; the one that was married. She gave me money to go out of Washington, and, wanting to be a soldier, I followed Curly Jim. I didn't think he'd die he looked so strong What's the matter, sir? Have I said anything I shouldn't?" I had him by the arm. I fear that I was shaking him. "The lady!" I repeated. "She who was married who gave you money. Wasn't it Mrs. Jeffrey?"
But more than all he thought of Jeffrey Lansing and other desperate men up there in the hills fighting for their lives and their little all. He did not know who had started this fire. It might well have started accidentally. He did not know that the railroad people had sent men into the hills to start it.
He had come out to confess to her the lawlessness of his mind toward her, and she was deciding merely to go on living with him and her father, which meant, in the first place, dusting for Mary Nellen. They walked along the orchard in silence, and Jeffrey, with relief, also took a side track to the obvious.
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