two days later I had this note, dated from
his house off Piccadilly:

"Dear sir. I have returned
disappointed. If I should feel at all able to
see you, I shall write to ask you kindly to
call. At present I am too low, and, in
fact, simply unable to say all I wish to say.
Pray don't mention my name to my friends.
I can see no one. By-and-by, please God,
you shall hear from me. I mean to take a
run into Shropshire, where some of my
people are. God bless you! May we, on
my return, meet more happily than I can
now write."

About a week after this I saw Lady
Mary at her own house, the last person,
she said, left in town, and just on the wing
for Brighton, for the London season was
quite over. She told me that she had heard
from Mr. Jennings's niece, Martha, in
Shropshire. There was nothing to be
gathered from her letter, more than that
he was low and nervous. In those words,
of which healthy people think so lightly,
what a world of suffering is sometimes
hidden!

Nearly five weeks passed without any
further news of Mr. Jennings. At the end
of that time I received a note from him.
He wrote:

"I have been in the country, and have
had change of air, change of scene, change
of faces, change of everything and in everything
—but myself. I have made up my
mind, so far as the most irresolute creature
on earth can do it, to tell my case fully to
you. If your engagements will permit,
pray come to me to-day, to-morrow, or
the next day; but, pray defer as little
as possible. You know not how much I
need help. I have a quiet house at
Richmond, where I now am. Perhaps you can
manage to come to dinner, or to luncheon,
or even to tea. You shall have no trouble
in finding me out. The servant at Blank-street,
who takes this note, will have a
carriage at your door at any hour you
please; and I am always to be found. You
will say that I ought not to be alone. I
have tried everything. Come and see."

I called up the servant, and decided on
going out the same evening, which accordingly
I did.

He would have been much better in a
lodging-house, or a hotel, I thought, as I
drove, up through a short double row of
sombre elms to a very old-fashioned brick
house, darkened by the foliage of these
trees, which over-topped, and nearly
surrounded it. It was a perverse choice, for
nothing could be imagined more triste and
silent. The house, I found, belonged to him.
He had stayed for a day or two in town,
and, finding it for some cause insupportable,
had come out here, probably because being
furnished and his own, he was relieved of
the thought and delay of selection, by
coming here.

The sun had already set, and the red
reflected light of the western sky illuminated
the scene with the peculiar effect
with which we are all familiar. The hall
seemed very dark, but, getting to the back
drawing-room, whose windows command
the west, I was again in the same dusky
light. I sat down, looking out upon the
richly-wooded landscape that glowed in the
grand and melancholy light which was
every moment fading. The corners of the
room were already dark; all was growing
dim, and the gloom was insensibly toning
my mind, already prepared for what was
sinister. I was waiting alone for his
arrival, which soon took place. The door
communicating with the front room opened,
and the tall figure of Mr. Jennings, faintly
seen in the ruddy twilight, came, with quiet
stealthy steps, into the room.

We shook hands, and, taking a chair to
the window, where there was still light
enough to enable us to see each other's
faces, he sat down beside me, and, placing
his hand upon my arm, with scarcely a
word of preface, began his narrative.

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  MR. CHARLES DICKENS'S FINAL READINGS.

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