Холодный дом

On the Watch

           Withthisdifference,thatbeingrealitiesandnotphantoms,thereisthegreaterdangeroftheirbreakingin.ChesneyWoldisquitefullanyhow,sofullthataburningsenseofinjuryarisesinthebreastsofill-lodgedladies’-maids,andisnottobeextinguished.Onlyoneroomisempty.Itisaturretchamberofthethirdorderofmerit,plainlybutcomfortablyfurnishedandhavinganold-fashionedbusinessair.ItisMr.Tulkinghorn’sroom,andisneverbestowedonanybodyelse,forhemaycomeatanytime.Heisnotcomeyet.Itishisquiethabittowalkacrosstheparkfromthevillageinfineweather,todropintothisroomasifhehadneverbeenoutofitsincehewaslastseenthere,torequestaservanttoinformSirLeicesterthatheisarrivedincaseheshouldbewanted,andtoappeartenminutesbeforedinnerintheshadowofthelibrary-door.Hesleepsinhisturretwithacomplainingflag-staffoverhishead,andhassomeleadsoutsideonwhich,anyfinemorningwhenheisdownhere,hisblackfiguremaybeseenwalkingbeforebreakfastlikealargerspeciesofrook.Everydaybeforedinner,myLadylooksforhimintheduskofthelibrary,butheisnotthere.Everydayatdinner,myLadyglancesdownthetableforthevacantplacethatwouldbewaitingtoreceivehimifhehadjustarrived,butthereisnovacantplace.EverynightmyLadycasuallyaskshermaid,"IsMr.Tulkinghorncome?"Everynighttheansweris,"No,myLady,notyet.

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