She was laid upon her bed. For more than a week she lay there, little altered outwardly; with her old handsome, resolute frown that I so well knew, carved upon her face. Many and many a time, in the day and in the night, with my head upon the pillow by her that my whispers might be plainer to her, I kissed her, thanked her, prayed for her, asked her for her blessing and forgiveness, entreated her to give me the least sign that she knew or heard me. No, no, no. Her face was immovable. To the very last, and even afterward, her frown remained unsoftened.
On the day after my poor good godmother was buried, the gentleman in black with the white neckcloth re-appeared. I was sent for by Mrs. Rachael, and found him in the same place, as if he had never gone away.
"My name is Kenge," he said; "you may remember it, my child; Kenge and Carboy, Lincoln's Inn."
I replied, that I remembered to have seen him once before.
"Pray be seated—here, near me. Don't distress yourself; it's of no use. Mrs. Rachael, I needn't inform you, who were acquainted with the late Miss Barbary's affairs, that her means die with her; and that this young lady, now her aunt is dead—"
"My aunt, sir!"
"It really is of no use carrying on a deception when no object is to be gained by it," said Mr. Kenge, smoothly. "Aunt in fact, though not in law. Don't distress yourself! Don't weep! Don't tremble! Mrs. Rachael, our young friend has no doubt heard of—the—a—Jarndyce and Jarndyce."
"Never," said Mrs. Rachel.
"Is it possible," pursued Mr. Kenge, putting up his eye-glasses, "that our young friend—I beg you won't distress yourself!—never heard of Jarndyce and Jarndyce?"
I shook my head, wondering even what it was.