 have truth and justice on his side; he must have law and
lawyers,« exclaims the old girl, apparently persuaded that the latter form a
separate establishment, and have dissolved partnership with truth and justice
for ever and a day.
    »He shall have,« says Mrs. Rouncewell, »all the help that can be got for him
in the world, my dear. I will spend all I have, and thankfully, to procure it.
Sir Leicester will do his best, the whole family will do their best. I - I know
something, my dear; and will make my own appeal, as his mother parted from him
all these years, and finding him in a jail at last.«
    The extreme disquietude of the old housekeeper's manner in saying this, her
broken words, and her wringing of her hands, make a powerful impression on Mrs.
Bagnet, and would astonish her but that she refers them all to her sorrow for
her son's condition. And yet Mrs. Bagnet wonders, too, why Mrs. Rouncewell
should murmur so distractedly, »My Lady, my Lady, my Lady!« over and over again.
    The frosty night wears away, and the dawn breaks, and the post-chaise comes
rolling on through the early mist, like the ghost of a chaise departed. It has
plenty of spectral company, in ghosts of trees and hedges, slowly vanishing and
giving place to the realities of day. London reached, the travellers alight; the
old housekeeper in great tribulation and confusion; Mrs. Bagnet, quite fresh and
collected - as she would be, if her next point, with no new equipage and outfit,
were the Cape of Good Hope, the Island of Ascension, Hong Kong, or any other
military station.
    But when they set out for the prison where the trooper is confined, the old
lady has managed to draw about her, with her lavender-coloured dress, much of
the staid calmness which is its usual accompaniment. A wonderfully grave,
precise, and handsome piece of old china she looks; though her heart beats fast,
and her stomacher is ruffled, more than even the remembrance of this wayward son
has ruffled it these many years.
    Approaching the cell, they find the door opening and a warder in the act of
coming out. The old girl promptly makes a sign of entreaty to him to say
nothing; assenting, with a nod, he suffers them to enter as he shuts the door.
    So George, who is writing at his table, supposing himself to be alone, does
not
