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BLEAK HOUSE


by Charles Dickens


PREFACE


A Chancery judge once had the kindness to inform meas one of a
company of some hundred and fifty men and women not labouring under
any suspicions of lunacythat the Court of Chancerythough the
shining subject of much popular prejudice (at which point I thought
the judge's eye had a cast in my direction)was almost immaculate.
There had beenhe admitteda trivial blemish or so in its rate of
progressbut this was exaggerated and had been entirely owing to
the "parsimony of the public which guilty public, it appeared,
had been until lately bent in the most determined manner on by no
means enlarging the number of Chancery judges appointed--I believe
by Richard the Second, but any other king will do as well.


This seemed to me too profound a joke to be inserted in the body of
this book or I should have restored it to Conversation Kenge or to
Mr. Vholes, with one or other of whom I think it must have
originated. In such mouths I might have coupled it with an apt
quotation from one of Shakespeare's sonnets:


My nature is subdued
To what it works inlike the dyer's hand:
Pity methenand wish I were renewed!"


But as it is wholesome that the parsimonious public should know
what has been doingand still is doingin this connexionI
mention here that everything set forth in these pages concerning
the Court of Chancery is substantially trueand within the truth.
The case of Gridley is in no essential altered from one of actual
occurrencemade public by a disinterested person who was
professionally acquainted with the whole of the monstrous wrong
from beginning to end. At the present moment (August1853) there
is a suit before the court which was commenced nearly twenty years
agoin which from thirty to forty counsel have been known to
appear at one timein which costs have been incurred to the amount
of seventy thousand poundswhich is A FRIENDLY SUITand which is
(I am assured) no nearer to its termination now than when it was
begun. There is another well-known suit in Chancerynot yet
decidedwhich was commenced before the close of the last century
and in which more than double the amount of seventy thousand pounds
has been swallowed up in costs. If I wanted other authorities for
Jarndyce and JarndyceI could rain them on these pagesto the
shame of--a parsimonious public.


There is only one other point on which I offer a word of remark.
The possibility of what is called spontaneous combustion has been
denied since the death of Mr. Krook; and my good friend Mr. Lewes
(quite mistakenas he soon foundin supposing the thing to have
been abandoned by all authorities) published some ingenious letters
to me at the time when that event was chronicledarguing that
spontaneous combustion could not possibly be. I have no need to
observe that I do not wilfully or negligently mislead my readers
and that before I wrote that description I took pains to



investigate the subject. There are about thirty cases on record
of which the most famousthat of the Countess Cornelia de Baudi
Cesenatewas minutely investigated and described by Giuseppe
Bianchinia prebendary of Veronaotherwise distinguished in
letterswho published an account of it at Verona in 1731which he
afterwards republished at Rome. The appearancesbeyond all
rational doubtobserved in that case are the appearances observed
in Mr. Krook's case. The next most famous instance happened at
Rheims six years earlierand the historian in that case is Le Cat
one of the most renowned surgeons produced by France. The subject
was a womanwhose husband was ignorantly convicted of having
murdered her; but on solemn appeal to a higher courthe was
acquitted because it was shown upon the evidence that she had died
the death of which this name of spontaneous combustion is given. I
do not think it necessary to add to these notable factsand that
general reference to the authorities which will be found at page
30vol. ii.* the recorded opinions and experiences of
distinguished medical professorsFrenchEnglishand Scotchin
more modern dayscontenting myself with observing that I shall not
abandon the facts until there shall have been a considerable
spontaneous combustion of the testimony on which human occurrences
are usually received.

In Bleak House I have purposely dwelt upon the romantic side of
familiar things.

1853

* Another casevery clearly described by a dentistoccurred at
the town of Columbusin the United States of Americaquite
recently. The subject was a German who kept a liquor-shop aud was
an inveterate drunkard.
CHAPTER I

In Chancery

London. Michaelmas term lately overand the Lord Chancellor
sitting in Lincoln's Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. As
much mud in the streets as if the waters had but newly retired from
the face of the earthand it would not be wonderful to meet a
Megalosaurusforty feet long or sowaddling like an elephantine
lizard up Holborn Hill. Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots
making a soft black drizzlewith flakes of soot in it as big as
full-grown snowflakes--gone into mourningone might imaginefor
the death of the sun. Dogsundistinguishable in mire. Horses
scarcely better; splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers
jostling one another's umbrellas in a general infection of ill
temperand losing their foot-hold at street-cornerswhere tens of
thousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding
since the day broke (if this day ever broke)adding new deposits
to the crust upon crust of mudsticking at those points
tenaciously to the pavementand accumulating at compound interest.

Fog everywhere. Fog up the riverwhere it flows among green aits
and meadows; fog down the riverwhere it rolls deified among the
tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and
dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshesfog on the Kentish heights.
Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on


the yards and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping
on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and
throats of ancient Greenwich pensionerswheezing by the firesides
of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of
the wrathful skipperdown in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching
the toes and fingers of his shivering little 'prentice boy on deck.
Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a
nether sky of fogwith fog all round themas if they were up in a
balloon and hanging in the misty clouds.

Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streetsmuch
as the sun mayfrom the spongey fieldsbe seen to loom by
husbandman and ploughboy. Most of the shops lighted two hours
before their time--as the gas seems to knowfor it has a haggard
and unwilling look.

The raw afternoon is rawestand the dense fog is densestand the
muddy streets are muddiest near that leaden-headed old obstruction
appropriate ornament for the threshold of a leaden-headed old
corporationTemple Bar. And hard by Temple Barin Lincoln's Inn
Hallat the very heart of the fogsits the Lord High Chancellor
in his High Court of Chancery.

Never can there come fog too thicknever can there come mud and
mire too deepto assort with the groping and floundering condition
which this High Court of Chancerymost pestilent of hoary sinners
holds this day in the sight of heaven and earth.

On such an afternoonif everthe Lord High Chancellor ought to be
sitting her--as here he is--with a foggy glory round his head
softly fenced in with crimson cloth and curtainsaddressed by a
large advocate with great whiskersa little voiceand an
interminable briefand outwardly directing his contemplation to
the lantern in the roofwhere he can see nothing but fog. On such
an afternoon some score of members of the High Court of Chancery
bar ought to be--as here they are--mistily engaged in one of the
ten thousand stages of an endless causetripping one another up on
slippery precedentsgroping knee-deep in technicalitiesrunning
their goat-hair and horsehair warded heads against walls of words
and making a pretence of equity with serious facesas players
might. On such an afternoon the various solicitors in the cause
some two or three of whom have inherited it from their fatherswho
made a fortune by itought to be--as are they not?--ranged in a
linein a long matted well (but you might look in vain for truth
at the bottom of it) between the registrar's red table and the silk
gownswith billscross-billsanswersrejoindersinjunctions
affidavitsissuesreferences to mastersmasters' reports
mountains of costly nonsensepiled before them. Well may the
court be dimwith wasting candles here and there; well may the fog
hang heavy in itas if it would never get out; well may the
stained-glass windows lose their colour and admit no light of day
into the place; well may the uninitiated from the streetswho peep
in through the glass panes in the doorbe deterred from entrance
by its owlish aspect and by the drawllanguidly echoing to the
roof from the padded dais where the Lord High Chancellor looks into
the lantern that has no light in it and where the attendant wigs
are all stuck in a fog-bank! This is the Court of Chancerywhich
has its decaying houses and its blighted lands in every shire
which has its worn-out lunatic in every madhouse and its dead in
every churchyardwhich has its ruined suitor with his slipshod
heels and threadbare dress borrowing and begging through the round
of every man's acquaintancewhich gives to monied might the means
abundantly of wearying out the rightwhich so exhausts finances
patiencecouragehopeso overthrows the brain and breaks the


heartthat there is not an honourable man among its practitioners
who would not give--who does not often give--the warningSuffer
any wrong that can be done you rather than come here!

Who happen to be in the Lord Chancellor's court this murky
afternoon besides the Lord Chancellorthe counsel in the cause
two or three counsel who are never in any causeand the well of
solicitors before mentioned? There is the registrar below the
judgein wig and gown; and there are two or three macesor petty-
bagsor privy pursesor whatever they may bein legal court
suits. These are all yawningfor no crumb of amusement ever falls
from Jarndyce and Jarndyce (the cause in hand)which was squeezed
dry years upon years ago. The short-hand writersthe reporters of
the courtand the reporters of the newspapers invariably decamp
with the rest of the regulars when Jarndyce and Jarndyce comes on.
Their places are a blank. Standing on a seat at the side of the
hallthe better to peer into the curtained sanctuaryis a little
mad old woman in a squeezed bonnet who is always in courtfrom its
sitting to its risingand always expecting some incomprehensible
judgment to be given in her favour. Some say she really isor
wasa party to a suitbut no one knows for certain because no one
cares. She carries some small litter in a reticule which she calls
her documentsprincipally consisting of paper matches and dry
lavender. A sallow prisoner has come upin custodyfor the half-
dozenth time to make a personal application "to purge himself of
his contempt which, being a solitary surviving executor who has
fallen into a state of conglomeration about accounts of which it is
not pretended that he had ever any knowledge, he is not at all
likely ever to do. In the meantime his prospects in life are
ended. Another ruined suitor, who periodically appears from
Shropshire and breaks out into efforts to address the Chancellor at
the close of the day's business and who can by no means be made to
understand that the Chancellor is legally ignorant of his existence
after making it desolate for a quarter of a century, plants himself
in a good place and keeps an eye on the judge, ready to call out
My Lord!" in a voice of sonorous complaint on the instant of his
rising. A few lawyers' clerks and others who know this suitor by
sight linger on the chance of his furnishing some fun and
enlivening the dismal weather a little.

Jarndyce and Jarndyce drones on. This scarecrow of a suit hasin
course of timebecome so complicated that no man alive knows what
it means. The parties to it understand it leastbut it has been
observed that no two Chancery lawyers can talk about it for five
minutes without coming to a total disagreement as to all the
premises. Innumerable children have been born into the cause;
innumerable young people have married into it; innumerable old
people have died out of it. Scores of persons have deliriously
found themselves made parties in Jarndyce and Jarndyce without
knowing how or why; whole families have inherited legendary hatreds
with the suit. The little plaintiff or defendant who was promised
a new rocking-horse when Jarndyce and Jarndyce should be settled
has grown uppossessed himself of a real horseand trotted away
into the other world. Fair wards of court have faded into mothers
and grandmothers; a long procession of Chancellors has come in and
gone out; the legion of bills in the suit have been transformed
into mere bills of mortality; there are not three Jarndyces left
upon the earth perhaps since old Tom Jarndyce in despair blew his
brains out at a coffee-house in Chancery Lane; but Jarndyce and
Jarndyce still drags its dreary length before the court
perennially hopeless.

Jarndyce and Jarndyce has passed into a joke. That is the only
good that has ever come of it. It has been death to manybut it


is a joke in the profession. Every master in Chancery has had a
reference out of it. Every Chancellor was "in it for somebody or
other, when he was counsel at the bar. Good things have been said
about it by blue-nosed, bulbous-shoed old benchers in select port-
wine committee after dinner in hall. Articled clerks have been in
the habit of fleshing their legal wit upon it. The last Lord
Chancellor handled it neatly, when, correcting Mr. Blowers, the
eminent silk gown who said that such a thing might happen when the
sky rained potatoes, he observed, or when we get through Jarndyce
and JarndyceMr. Blowers"--a pleasantry that particularly tickled
the macesbagsand purses.

How many people out of the suit Jarndyce and Jarndyce has stretched
forth its unwholesome hand to spoil and corrupt would be a very
wide question. From the master upon whose impaling files reams of
dusty warrants in Jarndyce and Jarndyce have grimly writhed into
many shapesdown to the copying-clerk in the Six Clerks' Office
who has copied his tens of thousands of Chancery folio-pages under
that eternal headingno man's nature has been made better by it.
In trickeryevasionprocrastinationspoliationbotheration
under false pretences of all sortsthere are influences that can
never come to good. The very solicitors' boys who have kept the
wretched suitors at bayby protesting time out of mind that Mr.
ChizzleMizzleor otherwise was particularly engaged and had
appointments until dinnermay have got an extra moral twist and
shuffle into themselves out of Jarndyce and Jarndyce. The receiver
in the cause has acquired a goodly sum of money by it but has
acquired too a distrust of his own mother and a contempt for his
own kind. ChizzleMizzleand otherwise have lapsed into a habit
of vaguely promising themselves that they will look into that
outstanding little matter and see what can be done for Drizzle--who
was not well used--when Jarndyce and Jarndyce shall be got out of
the office. Shirking and sharking in all their many varieties have
been sown broadcast by the ill-fated cause; and even those who have
contemplated its history from the outermost circle of such evil
have been insensibly tempted into a loose way of letting bad things
alone to take their own bad courseand a loose belief that if the
world go wrong it was in some off-hand manner never meant to go
right.

Thusin the midst of the mud and at the heart of the fogsits the
Lord High Chancellor in his High Court of Chancery.

Mr. Tangle,says the Lord High Chancellorlatterly something
restless under the eloquence of that learned gentleman.

Mlud,says Mr. Tangle. Mr. Tangle knows more of Jarndyce and
Jarndyce than anybody. He is famous for it--supposed never to have
read anything else since he left school.

Have you nearly concluded your argument?

Mlud, no--variety of points--feel it my duty tsubmit--ludship,is
the reply that slides out of Mr. Tangle.

Several members of the bar are still to be heard, I believe?says
the Chancellor with a slight smile.

Eighteen of Mr. Tangle's learned friendseach armed with a little
summary of eighteen hundred sheetsbob up like eighteen hammers in
a pianofortemake eighteen bowsand drop into their eighteen
places of obscurity.

We will proceed with the hearing on Wednesday fortnight,says the


Chancellor. For the question at issue is only a question of costs
a mere bud on the forest tree of the parent suitand really will
come to a settlement one of these days.

The Chancellor rises; the bar rises; the prisoner is brought
forward in a hurry; the man from Shropshire criesMy lord!
Macesbagsand purses indignantly proclaim silence and frown at
the man from Shropshire.

In reference,proceeds the Chancellorstill on Jarndyce and
Jarndyceto the young girl--

Begludship's pardon--boy,says Mr. Tangle prematurely. "In
reference proceeds the Chancellor with extra distinctness, to
the young girl and boythe two young people"--Mr. Tangle crushed-"
whom I directed to be in attendance to-day and who are now in my
private roomI will see them and satisfy myself as to the
expediency of making the order for their residing with their
uncle."

Mr. Tangle on his legs again. "Begludship's pardon--dead."

With their--Chancellor looking through his double eyeglass at the
papers on his desk--"grandfather."

Begludship's pardon--victim of rash action--brains.

Suddenly a very little counsel with a terrific bass voice arises
fully inflatedin the back settlements of the fogand saysWill
your lordship allow me? I appear for him. He is a cousin, several
times removed. I am not at the moment prepared to inform the court
in what exact remove he is a cousin, but he IS a cousin.

Leaving this address (delivered like a sepulchral message) ringing
in the rafters of the roof, the very little counsel drops, and the
fog knows him no more. Everybody looks for him. Nobody can see
him.

I will speak with both the young people says the Chancellor
anew, and satisfy myself on the subject of their residing with
their cousin. I will mention the matter to-morrow morning when I
take my seat."

The Chancellor is about to bow to the bar when the prisoner is
presented. Nothing can possibly come of the prisoner's
conglomeration but his being sent back to prisonwhich is soon
done. The man from Shropshire ventures another remonstrative "My
lord!" but the Chancellorbeing aware of himhas dexterously
vanished. Everybody else quickly vanishes too. A battery of blue
bags is loaded with heavy charges of papers and carried off by
clerks; the little mad old woman marches off with her documents;
the empty court is locked up. If all the injustice it has
committed and all the misery it has caused could only be locked up
with itand the whole burnt away in a great funeral pyre--why so
much the better for other parties than the parties in Jarndyce and
Jarndyce!

CHAPTER II

In Fashion


It is but a glimpse of the world of fashion that we want on this
same miry afternoon. It is not so unlike the Court of Chancery but
that we may pass from the one scene to the otheras the crow
flies. Both the world of fashion and the Court of Chancery are
things of precedent and usage: oversleeping Rip Van Winkles who
have played at strange games through a deal of thundery weather;
sleeping beauties whom the knight will wake one daywhen all the
stopped spits in the kitchen shall begin to turn prodigiously!

It is not a large world. Relatively even to this world of ours
which has its limits too (as your Highness shall find when you have
made the tour of it and are come to the brink of the void beyond)
it is a very little speck. There is much good in it; there are
many good and true people in it; it has its appointed place. But
the evil of it is that it is a world wrapped up in too much
jeweller's cotton and fine wooland cannot hear the rushing of the
larger worldsand cannot see them as they circle round the sun.
It is a deadened worldand its growth is sometimes unhealthy for
want of air.

My Lady Dedlock has returned to her house in town for a few days
previous to her departure for Pariswhere her ladyship intends to
stay some weeksafter which her movements are uncertain. The
fashionable intelligence says so for the comfort of the Parisians
and it knows all fashionable things. To know things otherwise were
to be unfashionable. My Lady Dedlock has been down at what she
callsin familiar conversationher "place" in Lincolnshire. The
waters are out in Lincolnshire. An arch of the bridge in the park
has been sapped and sopped away. The adjacent low-lying ground for
half a mile in breadth is a stagnant river with melancholy trees
for islands in it and a surface punctured all overall day long
with falling rain. My Lady Dedlock's place has been extremely
dreary. The weather for many a day and night has been so wet that
the trees seem wet throughand the soft loppings and prunings of
the woodman's axe can make no crash or crackle as they fall. The
deerlooking soakedleave quagmires where they pass. The shot of
a rifle loses its sharpness in the moist airand its smoke moves
in a tardy little cloud towards the green risecoppice-topped
that makes a background for the falling rain. The view from my
Lady Dedlock's own windows is alternately a lead-coloured view and
a view in Indian ink. The vases on the stone terrace in the
foreground catch the rain all day; and the heavy drops fall--drip
dripdrip--upon the broad flagged pavementcalled from old time
the Ghost's Walkall night. On Sundays the little church in the
park is mouldy; the oaken pulpit breaks out into a cold sweat; and
there is a general smell and taste as of the ancient Dedlocks in
their graves. My Lady Dedlock (who is childless)looking out in
the early twilight from her boudoir at a keeper's lodge and seeing
the light of a fire upon the latticed panesand smoke rising from
the chimneyand a childchased by a womanrunning out into the
rain to meet the shining figure of a wrapped-up man coming through
the gatehas been put quite out of temper. My Lady Dedlock says
she has been "bored to death."

Therefore my Lady Dedlock has come away from the place in
Lincolnshire and has left it to the rainand the crowsand the
rabbitsand the deerand the partridges and pheasants. The
pictures of the Dedlocks past and gone have seemed to vanish into
the damp walls in mere lowness of spiritsas the housekeeper has
passed along the old rooms shutting up the shutters. And when they
will next come forth againthe fashionable intelligence--which
like the fiendis omniscient of the past and presentbut not the
future--cannot yet undertake to say.


Sir Leicester Dedlock is only a baronetbut there is no mightier
baronet than he. His family is as old as the hillsand infinitely
more respectable. He has a general opinion that the world might
get on without hills but would be done up without Dedlocks. He
would on the whole admit nature to be a good idea (a little low
perhapswhen not enclosed with a park-fence)but an idea
dependent for its execution on your great county families. He is a
gentleman of strict consciencedisdainful of all littleness and
meanness and ready on the shortest notice to die any death you may
please to mention rather than give occasion for the least
impeachment of his integrity. He is an honourableobstinate
truthfulhigh-spiritedintensely prejudicedperfectly
unreasonable man.

Sir Leicester is twenty yearsfull measureolder than my Lady.
He will never see sixty-five againnor perhaps sixty-sixnor yet
sixty-seven. He has a twist of the gout now and then and walks a
little stiffly. He is of a worthy presencewith his light-grey
hair and whiskershis fine shirt-frillhis pure-white waistcoat
and his blue coat with bright buttons always buttoned. He is
ceremoniousstatelymost polite on every occasion to my Ladyand
holds her personal attractions in the highest estimation. His
gallantry to my Ladywhich has never changed since he courted her
is the one little touch of romantic fancy in him.

Indeedhe married her for love. A whisper still goes about that
she had not even family; howbeitSir Leicester had so much family
that perhaps he had enough and could dispense with any more. But
she had beautyprideambitioninsolent resolveand sense enough
to portion out a legion of fine ladies. Wealth and stationadded
to thesesoon floated her upwardand for years now my Lady
Dedlock has been at the centre of the fashionable intelligence and
at the top of the fashionable tree.

How Alexander wept when he had no more worlds to conquereverybody
knows--or has some reason to know by this timethe matter having
been rather frequently mentioned. My Lady Dedlockhaving
conquered HER worldfell not into the meltingbut rather into the
freezingmood. An exhausted composurea worn-out placidityan
equanimity of fatigue not to be ruffled by interest or satisfaction
are the trophies of her victory. She is perfectly well-bred.
If she could be translated to heaven to-morrowshe might be
expected to ascend without any rapture.

She has beauty stilland if it be not in its heydayit is not yet
in its autumn. She has a fine face--originally of a character that
would be rather called very pretty than handsomebut improved into
classicality by the acquired expression of her fashionable state.
Her figure is elegant and has the effect of being tall. Not that
she is sobut that "the most is made as the Honourable Bob
Stables has frequently asserted upon oath, of all her points."
The same authority observes that she is perfectly got up and
remarks in commendation of her hair especially that she is the
best-groomed woman in the whole stud.

With all her perfections on her headmy Lady Dedlock has come up
from her place in Lincolnshire (hotly pursued by the fashionable
intelligence) to pass a few days at her house in town previous to
her departure for Pariswhere her ladyship intends to stay some
weeksafter which her movements are uncertain. And at her house
in townupon this muddymurky afternoonpresents himself an old-
fashioned old gentlemanattorney-at-law and eke solicitor of the
High Court of Chancerywho has the honour of acting as legal
adviser of the Dedlocks and has as many cast-iron boxes in his


office with that name outside as if the present baronet were the
coin of the conjuror's trick and were constantly being juggled
through the whole set. Across the halland up the stairsand
along the passagesand through the roomswhich are very brilliant
in the season and very dismal out of it--fairy-land to visitbut a
desert to live in--the old gentleman is conducted by a Mercury in
powder to my Lady's presence.

The old gentleman is rusty to look atbut is reputed to have made
good thrift out of aristocratic marriage settlements and
aristocratic willsand to be very rich. He is surrounded by a
mysterious halo of family confidencesof which he is known to be
the silent depository. There are noble mausoleums rooted for
centuries in retired glades of parks among the growing timber and
the fernwhich perhaps hold fewer noble secrets than walk abroad
among menshut up in the breast of Mr. Tulkinghorn. He is of what
is called the old school--a phrase generally meaning any school
that seems never to have been young--and wears knee-breeches tied
with ribbonsand gaiters or stockings. One peculiarity of his
black clothes and of his black stockingsbe they silk or worsted
is that they never shine. Mutecloseirresponsive to any
glancing lighthis dress is like himself. He never converses when
not professionaly consulted. He is found sometimesspeechless but
quite at homeat corners of dinner-tables in great country houses
and near doors of drawing-roomsconcerning which the fashionable
intelligence is eloquentwhere everybody knows him and where half
the Peerage stops to say "How do you doMr. Tulkinghorn?" He
receives these salutations with gravity and buries them along with
the rest of his knowledge.

Sir Leicester Dedlock is with my Lady and is happy to see Mr.
Tulkinghorn. There is an air of prescription about him which is
always agreeable to Sir Leicester; he receives it as a kind of
tribute. He likes Mr. Tulkinghorn's dress; there is a kind of
tribute in that too. It is eminently respectableand likewisein
a general wayretainer-like. It expressesas it werethe
steward of the legal mysteriesthe butler of the legal cellarof
the Dedlocks.

Has Mr. Tulkinghorn any idea of this himself? It may be soor it
may notbut there is this remarkable circumstance to be noted in
everything associated with my Lady Dedlock as one of a class--as
one of the leaders and representatives of her little world. She
supposes herself to be an inscrutable Beingquite out of the reach
and ken of ordinary mortals--seeing herself in her glasswhere
indeed she looks so. Yet every dim little star revolving about
herfrom her maid to the manager of the Italian Operaknows her
weaknessesprejudicesfollieshaughtinessesand caprices and
lives upon as accurate a calculation and as nice a measure of her
moral nature as her dressmaker takes of her physical proportions.
Is a new dressa new customa new singera new dancera new
form of jewellerya new dwarf or gianta new chapela new
anythingto be set up? There are deferential people in a dozen
callings whom my Lady Dedlock suspects of nothing but prostration
before herwho can tell you how to manage her as if she were a
babywho do nothing but nurse her all their liveswhohumbly
affecting to follow with profound subserviencelead her and her
whole troop after them; whoin hooking onehook all and bear them
off as Lemuel Gulliver bore away the stately fleet of the majestic
Lilliput. "If you want to address our peoplesir say Blaze and
Sparkle, the jewellers--meaning by our people Lady Dedlock and the
rest--you must remember that you are not dealing with the general
public; you must hit our people in their weakest placeand their
weakest place is such a place." "To make this article go down


gentlemen say Sheen and Gloss, the mercers, to their friends the
manufacturers, you must come to usbecause we know where to have
the fashionable peopleand we can make it fashionable." "If you
want to get this print upon the tables of my high connexionsir
says Mr. Sladdery, the librarian, or if you want to get this dwarf
or giant into the houses of my high connexionsiror if you want
to secure to this entertainment the patronage of my high connexion
siryou must leave itif you pleaseto mefor I have been
accustomed to study the leaders of my high connexionsirand I
may tell you without vanity that I can turn them round my finger"-in
which Mr. Sladderywho is an honest mandoes not exaggerate at
all.

Thereforewhile Mr. Tulkinghorn may not know what is passing in
the Dedlock mind at presentit is very possible that he may.

My Lady's cause has been again before the Chancellor, has it, Mr.
Tulkinghorn?says Sir Leicestergiving him his hand.

Yes. It has been on again to-day,Mr. Tulkinghorn replies
making one of his quiet bows to my Ladywho is on a sofa near the
fireshading her face with a hand-screen.

It would be useless to ask,says my Lady with the dreariness of
the place in Lincolnshire still upon herwhether anything has
been done.

Nothing that YOU would call anything has been done to-day,
replies Mr. Tulkinghorn.

Nor ever will be,says my Lady.

Sir Leicester has no objection to an interminable Chancery suit.
It is a slowexpensiveBritishconstitutional kind of thing. To
be surehe has not a vital interest in the suit in questionher
part in which was the only property my Lady brought him; and he has
a shadowy impression that for his name--the name of Dedlock--to be
in a causeand not in the title of that causeis a most
ridiculous accident. But he regards the Court of Chanceryeven if
it should involve an occasional delay of justice and a trifling
amount of confusionas a something devised in conjunction with a
variety of other somethings by the perfection of human wisdom for
the eternal settlement (humanly speaking) of everything. And he is
upon the whole of a fixed opinion that to give the sanction of his
countenance to any complaints respecting it would be to encourage
some person in the lower classes to rise up somewhere--like Wat
Tyler.

As a few fresh affidavits have been put upon the file,says Mr.
Tulkinghornand as they are short, and as I proceed upon the
troublesome principle of begging leave to possess my clients with
any new proceedings in a cause--cautious man Mr. Tulkinghorn
taking no more responsibility than necessary--"and furtheras I
see you are going to ParisI have brought them in my pocket."

(Sir Leicester was going to Paris tooby the bybut the delight
of the fashionable intelligence was in his Lady.)

Mr. Tulkinghorn takes out his papersasks permission to place them
on a golden talisman of a table at my Lady's elbowputs on his
spectaclesand begins to read by the light of a shaded lamp.

'In Chancery. Between John Jarndyce--'


My Lady interruptsrequesting him to miss as many of the formal
horrors as he can.

Mr. Tulkinghorn glances over his spectacles and begins again lower
down. My Lady carelessly and scornfully abstracts her attention.
Sir Leicester in a great chair looks at the file and appears to
have a stately liking for the legal repetitions and prolixities as
ranging among the national bulwarks. It happens that the fire is
hot where my Lady sits and that the hand-screen is more beautiful
than usefulbeing priceless but small. My Ladychanging her
positionsees the papers on the table--looks at them nearer--looks
at them nearer still--asks impulsivelyWho copied that?

Mr. Tulkinghorn stops shortsurprised by my Lady's animation and
her unusual tone.

Is it what you people call law-hand?she askslooking full at
him in her careless way again and toying with her screen.

Not quite. Probably--Mr. Tulkinghorn examines it as he speaks-"
the legal character which it has was acquired after the original
hand was formed. Why do you ask?"

Anything to vary this detestable monotony. Oh, go on, do!

Mr. Tulkinghorn reads again. The heat is greater; my Lady screens
her face. Sir Leicester dozesstarts up suddenlyand criesEh?
What do you say?

I say I am afraid,says Mr. Tulkinghornwho had risen hastily
that Lady Dedlock is ill.

Faint,my Lady murmurs with white lipsonly that; but it is
like the faintness of death. Don't speak to me. Ring, and take me
to my room!

Mr. Tulkinghorn retires into another chamber; bells ringfeet
shuffle and pattersilence ensues. Mercury at last begs Mr.
Tulkinghorn to return.

Better now,quoth Sir Leicestermotioning the lawyer to sit down
and read to him alone. "I have been quite alarmed. I never knew
my Lady swoon before. But the weather is extremely tryingand she
really has been bored to death down at our place in Lincolnshire."

CHAPTER III

A Progress

I have a great deal of difficulty in beginning to write my portion
of these pagesfor I know I am not clever. I always knew that. I
can rememberwhen I was a very little girl indeedI used to say
to my doll when we were alone togetherNow, Dolly, I am not
clever, you know very well, and you must be patient with me, like a
dear!And so she used to sit propped up in a great arm-chair
with her beautiful complexion and rosy lipsstaring at me--or not
so much at meI thinkas at nothing--while I busily stitched away
and told her every one of my secrets.

My dear old doll! I was such a shy little thing that I seldom
dared to open my lipsand never dared to open my heartto anybody


else. It almost makes me cry to think what a relief it used to be
to me when I came home from school of a day to run upstairs to my
room and sayOh, you dear faithful Dolly, I knew you would be
expecting me!and then to sit down on the floorleaning on the
elbow of her great chairand tell her all I had noticed since we
parted. I had always rather a noticing way--not a quick wayoh
no!--a silent way of noticing what passed before me and thinking I
should like to understand it better. I have not by any means a
quick understanding. When I love a person very tenderly indeedit
seems to brighten. But even that may be my vanity.

I was brought upfrom my earliest remembrance--like some of the
princesses in the fairy storiesonly I was not charming--by my
godmother. At leastI only knew her as such. She was a good
good woman! She went to church three times every Sundayand to
morning prayers on Wednesdays and Fridaysand to lectures whenever
there were lectures; and never missed. She was handsome; and if
she had ever smiledwould have been (I used to think) like an
angel--but she never smiled. She was always grave and strict. She
was so very good herselfI thoughtthat the badness of other
people made her frown all her life. I felt so different from her
even making every allowance for the differences between a child and
a woman; I felt so poorso triflingand so far off that I never
could be unrestrained with her--nocould never even love her as I
wished. It made me very sorry to consider how good she was and how
unworthy of her I wasand I used ardently to hope that I might
have a better heart; and I talked it over very often with the dear
old dollbut I never loved my godmother as I ought to have loved
her and as I felt I must have loved her if I had been a better
girl.

This made meI dare saymore timid and retiring than I naturally
was and cast me upon Dolly as the only friend with whom I felt at
ease. But something happened when I was still quite a little thing
that helped it very much.

I had never heard my mama spoken of. I had never heard of my papa
eitherbut I felt more interested about my mama. I had never worn
a black frockthat I could recollect. I had never been shown my
mama's grave. I had never been told where it was. Yet I had never
been taught to pray for any relation but my godmother. I had more
than once approached this subject of my thoughts with Mrs. Rachael
our only servantwho took my light away when I was in bed (another
very good womanbut austere to me)and she had only said
Esther, good night!and gone away and left me.

Although there were seven girls at the neighbouring school where I
was a day boarderand although they called me little Esther
SummersonI knew none of them at home. All of them were older
than Ito be sure (I was the youngest there by a good deal)but
there seemed to be some other separation between us besides that
and besides their being far more clever than I was and knowing much
more than I did. One of them in the first week of my going to the
school (I remember it very well) invited me home to a little party
to my great joy. But my godmother wrote a stiff letter declining
for meand I never went. I never went out at all.

It was my birthday. There were holidays at school on other
birthdays--none on mine. There were rejoicings at home on other
birthdaysas I knew from what I heard the girls relate to one
another--there were none on mine. My birthday was the most
melancholy day at home in the whole year.

I have mentioned that unless my vanity should deceive me (as I know


it mayfor I may be very vain without suspecting itthough indeed
I don't)my comprehension is quickened when my affection is. My
disposition is very affectionateand perhaps I might still feel
such a wound if such a wound could be received more than once with
the quickness of that birthday.

Dinner was overand my godmother and I were sitting at the table
before the fire. The clock tickedthe fire clicked; not another
sound had been heard in the room or in the house for I don't know
how long. I happened to look timidly up from my stitchingacross
the table at my godmotherand I saw in her facelooking gloomily
at meIt would have been far better, little Esther, that you had
had no birthday, that you had never been born!

I broke out crying and sobbingand I saidOh, dear godmother,
tell me, pray do tell me, did Mama die on my birthday?

No,she returned. "Ask me no morechild!"

Oh, do pray tell me something of her. Do now, at last, dear
godmother, if you please! What did I do to her? How did I lose
her? Why am I so different from other children, and why is it my
fault, dear godmother? No, no, no, don't go away. Oh, speak to
me!

I was in a kind of fright beyond my griefand I caught hold of her
dress and was kneeling to her. She had been saying all the while
Let me go!But now she stood still.

Her darkened face had such power over me that it stopped me in the
midst of my vehemence. I put up my trembling little hand to clasp
hers or to beg her pardon with what earnestness I mightbut
withdrew it as she looked at meand laid it on my fluttering
heart. She raised mesat in her chairand standing me before
hersaid slowly in a coldlow voice--I see her knitted brow and
pointed finger--"Your motherEstheris your disgraceand you
were hers. The time will come--and soon enough--when you will
understand this better and will feel it tooas no one save a woman
can. I have forgiven her"--but her face did not relent--"the wrong
she did to meand I say no more of itthough it was greater than
you will ever know--than any one will ever know but Ithe
sufferer. For yourselfunfortunate girlorphaned and degraded
from the first of these evil anniversariespray daily that the
sins of others be not visited upon your headaccording to what is
written. Forget your mother and leave all other people to forget
her who will do her unhappy child that greatest kindness. Now
go!"

She checked mehoweveras I was about to depart from her--so
frozen as I was!--and added thisSubmission, self-denial,
diligent work, are the preparations for a life begun with such a
shadow on it. You are different from other children, Esther,
because you were not born, like them, in common sinfulness and
wrath. You are set apart.

I went up to my roomand crept to bedand laid my doll's cheek
against mine wet with tearsand holding that solitary friend upon
my bosomcried myself to sleep. Imperfect as my understanding of
my sorrow wasI knew that I had brought no joy at any time to
anybody's heart and that I was to no one upon earth what Dolly was
to me.

Deardearto think how much time we passed alone together
afterwardsand how often I repeated to the doll the story of my


birthday and confided to her that I would try as hard as ever I
could to repair the fault I had been born with (of which I
confessedly felt guilty and yet innocent) and would strive as I
grew up to be industriouscontentedand kind-hearted and to do
some good to some oneand win some love to myself if I could. I
hope it is not self-indulgent to shed these tears as I think of it.
I am very thankfulI am very cheerfulbut I cannot quite help
their coming to my eyes.

There! I have wiped them away now and can go on again properly.

I felt the distance between my godmother and myself so much more
after the birthdayand felt so sensible of filling a place in her
house which ought to have been emptythat I found her more
difficult of approachthough I was fervently grateful to her in my
heartthan ever. I felt in the same way towards my school
companions; I felt in the same way towards Mrs. Rachaelwho was a
widow; and ohtowards her daughterof whom she was proudwho
came to see her once a fortnight! I was very retired and quiet
and tried to be very diligent.

One sunny afternoon when I had come home from school with my books
and portfoliowatching my long shadow at my sideand as I was
gliding upstairs to my room as usualmy godmother looked out of
the parlour-door and called me back. Sitting with herI found-which
was very unusual indeed--a stranger. A portlyimportant-
looking gentlemandressed all in blackwith a white cravatlarge
gold watch sealsa pair of gold eye-glassesand a large seal-ring
upon his little finger.

This,said my godmother in an undertoneis the child.Then
she said in her naturally stern way of speakingThis is Esther,
sir.

The gentleman put up his eye-glasses to look at me and saidCome
here, my dear!He shook hands with me and asked me to take off my
bonnetlooking at me all the while. When I had compliedhe said
Ah!and afterwards "Yes!" And thentaking off his eye-glasses
and folding them in a red caseand leaning back in his arm-chair
turning the case about in his two handshe gave my godmother a
nod. Upon thatmy godmother saidYou may go upstairs, Esther!
And I made him my curtsy and left him.

It must have been two years afterwardsand I was almost fourteen
when one dreadful night my godmother and I sat at the fireside. I
was reading aloudand she was listening. I had come down at nine
o'clock as I always did to read the Bible to herand was reading
from St. John how our Saviour stooped downwriting with his finger
in the dustwhen they brought the sinful woman to him.

'So when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself and said
unto them, He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a
stone at her!'

I was stopped by my godmother's risingputting her hand to her
headand crying out in an awful voice from quite another part of
the book'Watch ye, therefore, lest coming suddenly he find you
sleeping. And what I say unto you, I say unto all, Watch!'

In an instantwhile she stood before me repeating these wordsshe
fell down on the floor. I had no need to cry out; her voice had
sounded through the house and been heard in the street.

She was laid upon her bed. For more than a week she lay there


little altered outwardlywith her old handsome resolute frown that
I so well knew carved upon her face. Many and many a timein the
day and in the nightwith my head upon the pillow by her that my
whispers might be plainer to herI kissed herthanked herprayed
for herasked her for her blessing and forgivenessentreated her
to give me the least sign that she knew or heard me. Nonono.
Her face was immovable. To the very lastand even afterwardsher
frown remained unsoftened.

On the day after my poor good godmother was buriedthe gentleman
in black with the white neckcloth reappeared. I was sent for by
Mrs. Rachaeland found him in the same placeas if he had never
gone away.

My name is Kenge,he said; "you may remember itmy child; Kenge
and CarboyLincoln'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 is really of no use carrying on a deception when no object is
to be gained by it,said Mr. Kenge smoothlyAunt 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. Rachael.

Is it possible,pursued Mr. Kengeputting up his eye-glasses
that our young friend--I BEG you won't distress yourself!--never
heard of Jarndyce and Jarndyce!

I shook my headwondering even what it was.

Not of Jarndyce and Jarndyce?said Mr. Kengelooking over his
glasses at me and softly turning the case about and about as if he
were petting something. "Not of one of the greatest Chancery suits
known? Not of Jarndyce and Jarndyce--the--a--in itself a monument
of Chancery practice. In which (I would say) every difficulty
every contingencyevery masterly fictionevery form of procedure
known in that courtis represented over and over again? It is a
cause that could not exist out of this free and great country. I
should say that the aggregate of costs in Jarndyce and Jarndyce
Mrs. Rachael"--I was afraid he addressed himself to her because I
appeared inattentive"--amounts at the present hour to from SIX-ty
to SEVEN-ty THOUSAND POUNDS!" said Mr. Kengeleaning back in his
chair.

I felt very ignorantbut what could I do? I was so entirely
unacquainted with the subject that I understood nothing about it
even then.

And she really never heard of the cause!said Mr. Kenge.
Surprising!

Miss Barbary, sir,returned Mrs. Rachaelwho is now among the
Seraphim--


I hope so, I am sure,said Mr. Kenge politely.

--Wished Esther only to know what would be serviceable to her.
And she knows, from any teaching she has had here, nothing more.

Well!said Mr. Kenge. "Upon the wholevery proper. Now to the
point addressing me. Miss Barbaryyour sole relation (in fact
that isfor I am bound to observe that in law you had none) being
deceased and it naturally not being to be expected that Mrs.
Rachael--"

Oh, dear no!said Mrs. Rachael quickly.

Quite so,assented Mr. Kenge; "--that Mrs. Rachael should charge
herself with your maintenance and support (I beg you won't distress
yourself)you are in a position to receive the renewal of an offer
which I was instructed to make to Miss Barbary some two years ago
and whichthough rejected thenwas understood to be renewable
under the lamentable circumstances that have since occurred. Now
if I avow that I representin Jarndyce and Jarndyce and otherwise
a highly humanebut at the same time singularmanshall I
compromise myself by any stretch of my professional caution?" said
Mr. Kengeleaning back in his chair again and looking calmly at us
both.

He appeared to enjoy beyond everything the sound of his own voice.
I couldn't wonder at thatfor it was mellow and full and gave
great importance to every word he uttered. He listened to himself
with obvious satisfaction and sometimes gently beat time to his own
music with his head or rounded a sentence with his hand. I was
very much impressed by him--even thenbefore I knew that he formed
himself on the model of a great lord who was his client and that he
was generally called Conversation Kenge.

Mr. Jarndyce,he pursuedbeing aware of the--I would say,
desolate--position of our young friend, offers to place her at a
first-rate establishment where her education shall be completed,
where her comfort shall be secured, where her reasonable wants
shall be anticipated, where she shall be eminently qualified to
discharge her duty in that station of life unto which it has
pleased--shall I say Providence?--to call her.

My heart was filled so fullboth by what he said and by his
affecting manner of saying itthat I was not able to speakthough
I tried.

Mr. Jarndyce,he went onmakes no condition beyond expressing
his expectation that our young friend will not at any time remove
herself from the establishment in question without his knowledge
and concurrence. That she will faithfully apply herself to the
acquisition of those accomplishments, upon the exercise of which
she will be ultimately dependent. That she will tread in the paths
of virtue and honour, and--the--a--so forth.

I was still less able to speak than before.

Now, what does our young friend say?proceeded MrKenge. "Take
timetake time! I pause for her reply. But take time!"

What the destitute subject of such an offer tried to sayI need
not repeat. What she did sayI could more easily tellif it were
worth the telling. What she feltand will feel to her dying hour
I could never relate.


This interview took place at Windsorwhere I had passed (as far as
I knew) my whole life. On that day weekamply provided with all
necessariesI left itinside the stagecoachfor Reading.

Mrs. Rachael was too good to feel any emotion at partingbut I was
not so goodand wept bitterly. I thought that I ought to have
known her better after so many years and ought to have made myself
enough of a favourite with her to make her sorry then. When she
gave me one cold parting kiss upon my foreheadlike a thaw-drop
from the stone porch--it was a very frosty day--I felt so miserable
and self-reproachful that I clung to her and told her it was my
faultI knewthat she could say good-bye so easily!

No, Esther!she returned. "It is your misfortune!"

The coach was at the little lawn-gate--we had not come out until we
heard the wheels--and thus I left herwith a sorrowful heart. She
went in before my boxes were lifted to the coach-roof and shut the
door. As long as I could see the houseI looked back at it from
the window through my tears. My godmother had left Mrs. Rachael
all the little property she possessed; and there was to be a sale;
and an old hearth-rug with roses on itwhich always seemed to me
the first thing in the world I had ever seenwas hanging outside
in the frost and snow. A day or two beforeI had wrapped the dear
old doll in her own shawl and quietly laid her--I am half ashamed
to tell it--in the garden-earth under the tree that shaded my old
window. I had no companion left but my birdand him I carried
with me in his cage.

When the house was out of sightI satwith my bird-cage in the
straw at my feetforward on the low seat to look out of the high
windowwatching the frosty treesthat were like beautiful pieces
of sparand the fields all smooth and white with last night's
snowand the sunso red but yielding so little heatand the ice
dark like metal where the skaters and sliders had brushed the snow
away. There was a gentleman in the coach who sat on the opposite
seat and looked very large in a quantity of wrappingsbut he sat
gazing out of the other window and took no notice of me.

I thought of my dead godmotherof the night when I read to herof
her frowning so fixedly and sternly in her bedof the strange
place I was going toof the people I should find thereand what
they would be likeand what they would say to mewhen a voice in
the coach gave me a terrible start.

It saidWhat the de-vil are you crying for?

I was so frightened that I lost my voice and could only answer in a
whisperMe, sir?For of course I knew it must have been the
gentleman in the quantity of wrappingsthough he was still looking
out of his window.

Yes, you,he saidturning round.

I didn't know I was crying, sir,I faltered.

But you are!said the gentleman. "Look here!" He came quite
opposite to me from the other corner of the coachbrushed one of
his large furry cuffs across my eyes (but without hurting me)and
showed me that it was wet.

There! Now you know you are,he said. "Don't you?"

Yes, sir,I said.


And what are you crying for?said the genflemanDon't you want
to go there?

Where, sir?

Where? Why, wherever you are going,said the gentleman.

I am very glad to go there, sir,I answered.

Well, then! Look glad!said the gentleman.

I thought he was very strangeor at least that what I could see of
him was very strangefor he was wrapped up to the chinand his
face was almost hidden in a fur cap with broad fur straps at the
side of his head fastened under his chin; but I was composed again
and not afraid of him. So I told him that I thought I must have
been crying because of my godmother's death and because of Mrs.
Rachael's not being sorry to part with me.

Confound Mrs. Rachael!said the gentleman. "Let her fly away in
a high wind on a broomstick!"

I began to be really afraid of him now and looked at him with the
greatest astonishment. But I thought that he had pleasant eyes
although he kept on muttering to himself in an angry manner and
calling Mrs. Rachael names.

After a little while he opened his outer wrapperwhich appeared to
me large enough to wrap up the whole coachand put his arm down
into a deep pocket in the side.

Now, look here!he said. "In this paper which was nicely
folded, is a piece of the best plum-cake that can be got for
money--sugar on the outside an inch thicklike fat on mutton
chops. Here's a little pie (a gem this isboth for size and
quality)made in France. And what do you suppose it's made of?
Livers of fat geese. There's a pie! Now let's see you eat 'em."

Thank you, sir,I replied; "thank you very much indeedbut I
hope you won't be offended--they are too rich for me."

Floored again!said the gentlemanwhich I didn't at all
understandand threw them both out of window.

He did not speak to me any more until he got out of the coach a
little way short of Readingwhen he advised me to be a good girl
and to be studiousand shook hands with me. I must say I was
relieved by his departure. We left him at a milestone. I often
walked past it afterwardsand never for a long time without
thinking of him and half expecting to meet him. But I never did;
and soas time went onhe passed out of my mind.

When the coach stoppeda very neat lady looked up at the window
and saidMiss Donny.

No, ma'am, Esther Summerson.

That is quite right,said the ladyMiss Donny.

I now understood that she introduced herself by that nameand
begged Miss Donny's pardon for my mistakeand pointed out my boxes
at her request. Under the direction of a very neat maidthey were
put outside a very small green carriage; and then Miss Donnythe


maidand I got inside and were driven away.

Everything is ready for you, Esther,said Miss Donnyand the
scheme of your pursuits has been arranged in exact accordance with
the wishes of your guardian, Mr. Jarndyce.

Of--did you say, ma'am?

Of your guardian, Mr. Jarndyce,said Miss Donny.

I was so bewildered that Miss Donny thought the cold had been too
severe for me and lent me her smelling-bottle.

Do you know my--guardian, Mr. Jarndyce, ma'am?I asked after a
good deal of hesitation.

Not personally, Esther,said Miss Donny; "merely through his
solicitorsMessrs. Kenge and Carboyof London. A very superior
gentlemanMr. Kenge. Truly eloquent indeed. Some of his periods
quite majestic!"

I felt this to be very true but was too confused to attend to it.
Our speedy arrival at our destinationbefore I had time to recover
myselfincreased my confusionand I never shall forget the
uncertain and the unreal air of everything at Greenleaf (Miss
Donny's house) that afternoon!

But I soon became used to it. I was so adapted to the routine of
Greenleaf before long that I seemed to have been there a great
while and almost to have dreamed rather than really lived my old
life at my godmother's. Nothing could be more preciseexactand
orderly than Greenleaf. There was a time for everything all round
the dial of the clockand everything was done at its appointed
moment.

We were twelve boardersand there were two Miss Donnystwins. It
was understood that I would have to dependby and byon my
qualifications as a governessand I was not only instructed in
everything that was taught at Greenleafbut was very soon engaged
in helping to instruct others. Although I was treated in every
other respect like the rest of the schoolthis single difference
was made in my case from the first. As I began to know moreI
taught moreand so in course of time I had plenty to dowhich I
was very fond of doing because it made the dear girls fond of me.
At lastwhenever a new pupil came who was a little downcast and
unhappyshe was so sure--indeed I don't know why--to make a friend
of me that all new-comers were confided to my care. They said I
was so gentlebut I am sure THEY were! I often thought of the
resolution I had made on my birthday to try to be industrious
contentedand true-hearted and to do some good to some one and win
some love if I could; and indeedindeedI felt almost ashamed to
have done so little and have won so much.

I passed at Greenleaf six happyquiet years. I never saw in any
face therethank heavenon my birthdaythat it would have been
better if I had never been born. When the day came roundit
brought me so many tokens of affectionate remembrance that my room
was beautiful with them from New Year's Day to Christmas.

In those six years I had never been away except on visits at
holiday time in the neighbourhood. After the first six months or
so I had taken Miss Donny's advice in reference to the propriety of
writing to Mr. Kenge to say that I was happy and gratefuland with
her approval I had written such a letter. I had received a formal


answer acknowledging its receipt and sayingWe note the contents
thereof, which shall be duly communicated to our client.After
that I sometimes heard Miss Donny and her sister mention how
regular my accounts were paidand about twice a year I ventured to
write a similar letter. I always received by return of post
exactly the same answer in the same round handwith the signature
of Kenge and Carboy in another writingwhich I supposed to be Mr.
Kenge's.

It seems so curious to me to be obliged to write all this about
myself! As if this narrative were the narrative of MY life! But
my little body will soon fall into the background now.

Six quiet years (I find I am saying it for the second time) I had
passed at Greenleafseeing in those around meas it might be in a
looking-glassevery stage of my own growth and change therewhen
one November morningI received this letter. I omit the date.

Old SquareLincoln's Inn

Madam

Jarndyce and Jarndyce

Our clt Mr. Jarndyce being abt to rece into his houseunder an
Order of the Ct of Chya Ward of the Ct in this causefor whom he
wishes to secure an elgble compndirects us to inform you that he
will be glad of your serces in the afsd capacity.

We have arrngd for your being fordedcarriage freepr eight
o'clock coach from Readingon Monday morning nextto White Horse
CellarPiccadillyLondonwhere one of our clks will be in
waiting to convey you to our offe as above.

We areMadamYour obedt Servts

Kenge and Carboy

Miss Esther Summerson

Ohnevernevernever shall I forget the emotion this letter
caused in the house! It was so tender in them to care so much for
meit was so gracious in that father who had not forgotten me to
have made my orphan way so smooth and easy and to have inclined so
many youthful natures towards methat I could hardly bear it. Not
that I would have had them less sorry--I am afraid not; but the
pleasure of itand the pain of itand the pride and joy of it
and the humble regret of it were so blended that my heart seemed
almost breaking while it was full of rapture.

The letter gave me only five days' notice of my removal. When
every minute added to the proofs of love and kindness that were
given me in those five daysand when at last the morning came and
when they took me through all the rooms that I might see them for
the last timeand when some criedEsther, dear, say good-bye to
me here at my bedside, where you first spoke so kindly to me!and
when others asked me only to write their namesWith Esther's
love,and when they all surrounded me with their parting presents
and clung to me weeping and criedWhat shall we do when dear,
dear Esther's gone!and when I tried to tell them how forbearing
and how good they had all been to me and how I blessed and thanked
them every onewhat a heart I had!


And when the two Miss Donnys grieved as much to part with me as the
least among themand when the maids saidBless you, miss,
wherever you go!and when the ugly lame old gardenerwho I
thought had hardly noticed me in all those yearscame panting
after the coach to give me a little nosegay of geraniums and told
me I had been the light of his eyes--indeed the old man said so!-what
a heart I had then!

And could I help it if with all thisand the coming to the little
schooland the unexpected sight of the poor children outside
waving their hats and bonnets to meand of a grey-haired gentleman
and lady whose daughter I had helped to teach and at whose house I
had visited (who were said to be the proudest people in all that
country)caring for nothing but calling outGood-bye, Esther.
May you be very happy!--could I help it if I was quite bowed down
in the coach by myself and said "OhI am so thankfulI am so
thankful!" many times over!

But of course I soon considered that I must not take tears where I
was going after all that had been done for me. Thereforeof
courseI made myself sob less and persuaded myself to be quiet by
saying very oftenEsther, now you really must! This WILL NOT
do!I cheered myself up pretty well at lastthough I am afraid I
was longer about it than I ought to have been; and when I had
cooled my eyes with lavender waterit was time to watch for
London.

I was quite persuaded that we were there when we were ten miles
offand when we really were therethat we should never get there.
Howeverwhen we began to jolt upon a stone pavementand
particularly when every other conveyance seemed to be running into
usand we seemed to be running into every other conveyanceI
began to believe that we really were approaching the end of our
journey. Very soon afterwards we stopped.

A young gentleman who had inked himself by accident addressed me
from the pavement and saidI am from Kenge and Carboy's, miss, of
Lincoln's Inn.

If you please, sir,said I.

He was very obligingand as he handed me into a fly after
superintending the removal of my boxesI asked him whether there
was a great fire anywhere? For the streets were so full of dense
brown smoke that scarcely anything was to be seen.

Oh, dear no, miss,he said. "This is a London particular."

I had never heard of such a thing.

A fog, miss,said the young gentleman.

Oh, indeed!said I.

We drove slowly through the dirtiest and darkest streets that ever
were seen in the world (I thought) and in such a distracting state
of confusion that I wondered how the people kept their senses
until we passed into sudden quietude under an old gateway and drove
on through a silent square until we came to an odd nook in a
cornerwhere there was an entrance up a steepbroad flight of
stairslike an entrance to a church. And there really was a
churchyard outside under some cloistersfor I saw the gravestones
from the staircase window.


This was Kenge and Carboy's. The young gentleman showed me through
an outer office into Mr. Kenge's room--there was no one in it--and
politely put an arm-chair for me by the fire. He then called my
attention to a little looking-glass hanging from a nail on one side
of the chimney-piece.

In case you should wish to look at yourself, miss, after the
journey, as you're going before the Chancellor. Not that it's
requisite, I am sure,said the young gentleman civilly.

Going before the Chancellor?I saidstartled for a moment.

Only a matter of form, miss,returned the young gentleman. "Mr.
Kenge is in court now. He left his complimentsand would you
partake of some refreshment"--there were biscuits and a decanter of
wine on a small table--"and look over the paper which the young
gentleman gave me as he spoke. He then stirred the fire and left
me.

Everything was so strange--the stranger from its being night in the
day-time, the candles burning with a white flame, and looking raw
and cold--that I read the words in the newspaper without knowing
what they meant and found myself reading the same words repeatedly.
As it was of no use going on in that way, I put the paper down,
took a peep at my bonnet in the glass to see if it was neat, and
looked at the room, which was not half lighted, and at the shabby,
dusty tables, and at the piles of writings, and at a bookcase full
of the most inexpressive-looking books that ever had anything to
say for themselves. Then I went on, thinking, thinking, thinking;
and the fire went on, burning, burning, burning; and the candles
went on flickering and guttering, and there were no snuffers--until
the young gentleman by and by brought a very dirty pair--for two
hours.

At last Mr. Kenge came. HE was not altered, but he was surprised
to see how altered I was and appeared quite pleased. As you are
going to be the companion of the young lady who is now in the
Chancellor's private roomMiss Summerson he said, we thought it
well that you should be in attendance also. You will not be
discomposed by the Lord ChancellorI dare say?"

No, sir,I saidI don't think I shall,really not seeing on
consideration why I should be.

So Mr. Kenge gave me his arm and we went round the cornerunder a
colonnadeand in at a side door. And so we camealong a passage
into a comfortable sort of room where a young lady and a young
gentleman were standing near a greatloud-roaring fire. A screen
was interposed between them and itand they were leaning on the
screentalking.

They both looked up when I came inand I saw in the young lady
with the fire shining upon hersuch a beautiful girl! With such
rich golden hairsuch soft blue eyesand such a brightinnocent
trusting face!

Miss Ada,said Mr. Kengethis is Miss Summerson.

She came to meet me with a smile of welcome and her hand extended
but seemed to change her mind in a moment and kissed me. In short
she had such a naturalcaptivatingwinning manner that in a few
minutes we were sitting in the window-seatwith the light of the
fire upon ustalking together as free and happy as could be.


What a load off my mind! It was so delightful to know that she
could confide in me and like me! It was so good of herand so
encouraging to me!

The young gentleman was her distant cousinshe told meand his
name Richard Carstone. He was a handsome youth with an ingenuous
face and a most engaging laugh; and after she had called him up to
where we sathe stood by usin the light of the firetalking
gailylike a light-hearted boy. He was very youngnot more than
nineteen thenif quite so muchbut nearly two years older than
she was. They were both orphans and (what was very unexpected and
curious to me) had never met before that day. Our all three coming
together for the first time in such an unusual place was a thing to
talk aboutand we talked about it; and the firewhich had left
off roaringwinked its red eyes at us--as Richard said--like a
drowsy old Chancery lion.

We conversed in a low tone because a full-dressed gentleman in a
bag wig frequenfly came in and outand when he did sowe could
hear a drawling sound in the distancewhich he said was one of the
counsel in our case addressing the Lord Chancellor. He told Mr.
Kenge that the Chancellor would be up in five minutes; and
presently we heard a bustle and a tread of feetand Mr. Kenge said
that the Court had risen and his lordship was in the next room.

The gentleman in the bag wig opened the door almost directly and
requested Mr. Kenge to come in. Upon thatwe all went into the
next roomMr. Kenge firstwith my darling--it is so natural to me
now that I can't help writing it; and thereplainly dressed in
black and sitting in an arm-chair at a table near the firewas his
lordshipwhose robetrimmed with beautiful gold lacewas thrown
upon another chair. He gave us a searching look as we enteredbut
his manner was both courtly and kind.

The gentleman in the bag wig laid bundles of papers on his
lordship's tableand his lordship silently selected one and turned
over the leaves.

Miss Clare,said the Lord Chancellor. "Miss Ada Clare?"

Mr. Kenge presented herand his lordship begged her to sit down
near him. That he admired her and was interested by her even I
could see in a moment. It touched me that the home of such a
beautiful young creature should be represented by that dry
official place. The Lord High Chancellorat his bestappeared so
poor a substitute for the love and pride of parents.

The Jarndyce in question,said the Lord Chancellorstill turning
over leavesis Jarndyce of Bleak House.

Jarndyce of Bleak House, my lord,said Mr. Kenge.

A dreary name,said the Lord Chancellor.

But not a dreary place at present, my lord,said Mr. Kenge.

And Bleak House,said his lordshipis in--

Hertfordshire, my lord.

Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House is not married?said his lordship.

He is not, my lord,said Mr. Kenge.


A pause.

Young Mr. Richard Carstone is present?said the Lord Chancellor
glancing towards him.

Richard bowed and stepped forward.

Hum!said the Lord Chancellorturning over more leaves.

Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House, my lord,Mr. Kenge observed in a low
voiceif I may venture to remind your lordship, provides a
suitable companion for--

For Mr. Richard Carstone?I thought (but I am not quite sure) I
heard his lordship say in an equally low voice and with a smile.

For Miss Ada Clare. This is the young lady. Miss Summerson.

His lordship gave me an indulgent look and acknowledged my curtsy
very graciously.

Miss Summerson is not related to any party in the cause, I think?

No, my lord.

Mr. Kenge leant over before it was quite said and whispered. His
lordshipwith his eyes upon his paperslistenednodded twice or
thriceturned over more leavesand did not look towards me again
until we were going away.

Mr. Kenge now retiredand Richard with himto where I wasnear
the doorleaving my pet (it is so natural to me that again I can't
help it!) sitting near the Lord Chancellorwith whom his lordship
spoke a little partasking heras she told me afterwardswhether
she had well reflected on the proposed arrangementand if she
thought she would be happy under the roof of Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak
Houseand why she thought so? Presently he rose courteously and
released herand then he spoke for a minute or two with Richard
Carstonenot seatedbut standingand altogether with more ease
and less ceremonyas if he still knewthough he WAS Lord
Chancellorhow to go straight to the candour of a boy.

Very well!said his lordship aloud. "I shall make the order.
Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House has chosenso far as I may judge and
this was when he looked at me, a very good companion for the young
ladyand the arrangement altogether seems the best of which the
circumstances admit."

He dismissed us pleasantlyand we all went outvery much obliged
to him for being so affable and politeby which he had certainly
lost no dignity but seemed to us to have gained some.

When we got under the colonnadeMr. Kenge remembered that he must
go back for a moment to ask a question and left us in the fogwith
the Lord Chancellor's carriage and servants waiting for him to come
out.

Well!said Richard Carstone. "THAT'S over! And where do we go
nextMiss Summerson?"

Don't you know?I said.

Not in the least,said he.


And don't YOU know, my love?I asked Ada.

No!said she. "Don't you?"

Not at all!said I.

We looked at one anotherhalf laughing at our being like the
children in the woodwhen a curious little old woman in a squeezed
bonnet and carrying a reticule came curtsying and smiling up to us
with an air of great ceremony.

Oh!said she. "The wards in Jarndyce! Ve-ry happyI am sure
to have the honour! It is a good omen for youthand hopeand
beauty when they find themselves in this placeand don't know
what's to come of it."

Mad!whispered Richardnot thinking she could hear him.

Right! Mad, young gentleman,she returned so quickly that he was
quite abashed. "I was a ward myself. I was not mad at that time
curtsying low and smiling between every little sentence. I had
youth and hope. I believebeauty. It matters very little now.
Neither of the three served or saved me. I have the honour to
attend court regularly. With my documents. I expect a judgment.
Shortly. On the Day of Judgment. I have discovered that the sixth
seal mentioned in the Revelations is the Great Seal. It has been
open a long time! Pray accept my blessing."

As Ada was a little frightenedI saidto humour the poor old
ladythat we were much obliged to her.

Ye-es!she said mincingly. "I imagine so. And here is
Conversation Kenge. With HIS documents! How does your honourable
worship do?"

Quite well, quite well! Now don't be troublesome, that's a good
soul!said Mr. Kengeleading the way back.

By no means,said the poor old ladykeeping up with Ada and me.
Anything but troublesome. I shall confer estates on both--which
is not being troublesome, I trust? I expect a judgment. Shortly.
On the Day of Judgment. This is a good omen for you. Accept my
blessing!

She stopped at the bottom of the steepbroad flight of stairs; but
we looked back as we went upand she was still theresaying
still with a curtsy and a smile between every little sentence
Youth. And hope. And beauty. And Chancery. And Conversation
Kenge! Ha! Pray accept my blessing!

CHAPTER IV

Telescopic Philanthropy

We were to pass the nightMr. Kenge told us when we arrived in his
roomat Mrs. Jellyby's; and then he turned to me and said he took
it for granted I knew who Mrs. Jellyby was.

I really don't, sir,I returned. "Perhaps Mr. Carstone--or Miss
Clare--"


But nothey knew nothing whatever about Mrs. Jellyby. "In-deed!
Mrs. Jellyby said Mr. Kenge, standing with his back to the fire
and casting his eyes over the dusty hearth-rug as if it were Mrs.
Jellyby's biography, is a lady of very remarkable strength of
character who devotes herself entirely to the public. She has
devoted herself to an extensive variety of public subjects at
various times and is at present (until something else attracts her)
devoted to the subject of Africawith a view to the general
cultivation of the coffee berry--AND the natives--and the happy
settlementon the banks of the African riversof our
superabundant home population. Mr. Jarndycewho is desirous to
aid any work that is considered likely to be a good work and who is
much sought after by philanthropistshasI believea very high
opinion of Mrs. Jellyby."

Mr. Kengeadjusting his cravatthen looked at us.

And Mr. Jellyby, sir?suggested Richard.

Ah! Mr. Jellyby,said Mr. Kengeis--a--I don't know that I can
describe him to you better than by saying that he is the husband of
Mrs. Jellyby.

A nonentity, sir?said Richard with a droll look.

I don't say that,returned Mr. Kenge gravely. "I can't say that
indeedfor I know nothing whatever OF Mr. Jellyby. I neverto my
knowledgehad the pleasure of seeing Mr. Jellyby. He may be a
very superior manbut he isso to speakmerged--merged--in the
more shining qualities of his wife." Mr. Kenge proceeded to tell
us that as the road to Bleak House would have been very longdark
and tedious on such an eveningand as we had been travelling
alreadyMr. Jarndyce had himself proposed this arrangement. A
carriage would be at Mrs. Jellyby's to convey us out of town early
in the forenoon of to-morrow.

He then rang a little belland the young gentleman came in.
Addressing him by the name of GuppyMr. Kenge inquired whether
Miss Summerson's boxes and the rest of the baggage had been "sent
round." Mr. Guppy said yesthey had been sent roundand a coach
was waiting to take us round too as soon as we pleased.

Then it only remains,said Mr. Kengeshaking hands with usfor
me to express my lively satisfaction in (good day, Miss Clare!) the
arrangement this day concluded and my (GOOD-bye to you, Miss
Summerson!) lively hope that it will conduce to the happiness, the
(glad to have had the honour of making your acquaintance, Mr.
Carstone!) welfare, the advantage in all points of view, of all
concerned! Guppy, see the party safely there.

Where IS 'there,' Mr. Guppy?said Richard as we went downstairs.

No distance,said Mr. Guppy; "round in Thavies Innyou know."

I can't say I know where it is, for I come from Winchester and am
strange in London.

Only round the corner,said Mr. Guppy. "We just twist up
Chancery Laneand cut along Holbornand there we are in four
minutes' timeas near as a toucher. This is about a London
particular NOWain't itmiss?" He seemed quite delighted with it
on my account.


The fog is very dense indeed!said I.

Not that it affects you, though, I'm sure,said Mr. Guppy
putting up the steps. "On the contraryit seems to do you good
missjudging from your appearance."

I knew he meant well in paying me this complimentso I laughed at
myself for blushing at it when he had shut the door and got upon
the box; and we all three laughed and chatted about our
inexperience and the strangeness of London until we turned up under
an archway to our destination--a narrow street of high houses like
an oblong cistern to hold the fog. There was a confused little
crowd of peopleprincipally childrengathered about the house at
which we stoppedwhich had a tarnished brass plate on the door
with the inscription JELLYBY.

Don't be frightened!said Mr. Guppylooking in at the coach-
window. "One of the young Jellybys been and got his head through
the area railings!"

Oh, poor child,said I; "let me outif you please!"

Pray be careful of yourself, miss. The young Jellybys are always
up to something,said Mr. Guppy.

I made my way to the poor childwho was one of the dirtiest little
unfortunates I ever sawand found him very hot and frightened and
crying loudlyfixed by the neck between two iron railingswhile a
milkman and a beadlewith the kindest intentions possiblewere
endeavouring to drag him back by the legsunder a general
impression that his skull was compressible by those means. As I
found (after pacifying him) that he was a little boy with a
naturally large headI thought that perhaps where his head could
gohis body could followand mentioned that the best mode of
extrication might be to push him forward. This was so favourably
received by the milkman and beadle that he would immediately have
been pushed into the area if I had not held his pinafore while
Richard and Mr. Guppy ran down through the kitchen to catch him
when he should be released. At last he was happily got down
without any accidentand then he began to beat Mr. Guppy with a
hoop-stick in quite a frantic manner.

Nobody had appeared belonging to the house except a person in
pattenswho had been poking at the child from below with a broom;
I don't know with what objectand I don't think she did. I
therefore supposed that Mrs. Jellyby was not at homeand was quite
surprised when the person appeared in the passage without the
pattensand going up to the back room on the first floor before
Ada and meannounced us asThem two young ladies, Missis
Jellyby!We passed several more children on the way upwhom it
was difficult to avoid treading on in the dark; and as we came into
Mrs. Jellyby's presenceone of the poor little things fell
downstairs--down a whole flight (as it sounded to me)with a great
noise.

Mrs. Jellybywhose face reflected none of the uneasiness which we
could not help showing in our own faces as the dear child's head
recorded its passage with a bump on every stair--Richard afterwards
said he counted sevenbesides one for the landing--received us
with perfect equanimity. She was a prettyvery diminutiveplump
woman of from forty to fiftywith handsome eyesthough they had a
curious habit of seeming to look a long way off. As if--I am
quoting Richard again--they could see nothing nearer than Africa!


I am very glad indeed,said Mrs. Jellyby in an agreeable voice
to have the pleasure of receiving you. I have a great respect for
Mr. Jarndyce, and no one in whom he is interested can be an object
of indifference to me.

We expressed our acknowledgments and sat down behind the door
where there was a lame invalid of a sofa. Mrs. Jellyby had very
good hair but was too much occupied with her African duties to
brush it. The shawl in which she had been loosely muffled dropped
onto her chair when she advanced to us; and as she turned to resume
her seatwe could not help noticing that her dress didn't nearly
meet up the back and that the open space was railed across with a
lattice-work of stay-lace--like a summer-house.

The roomwhich was strewn with papers and nearly filled by a great
writing-table covered with similar litterwasI must saynot
only very untidy but very dirty. We were obliged to take notice of
that with our sense of sighteven whilewith our sense of
hearingwe followed the poor child who had tumbled downstairs: I
think into the back kitchenwhere somebody seemed to stifle him.

But what principally struck us was a jaded and unhealthy-looking
though by no means plain girl at the writing-tablewho sat biting
the feather of her pen and staring at us. I suppose nobody ever
was in such a state of ink. And from her tumbled hair to her
pretty feetwhich were disfigured with frayed and broken satin
slippers trodden down at heelshe really seemed to have no article
of dress upon herfrom a pin upwardsthat was in its proper
condition or its right place.

You find me, my dears,said Mrs. Jellybysnuffing the two great
office candles in tin candlestickswhich made the room taste
strongly of hot tallow (the fire had gone outand there was
nothing in the grate but ashesa bundle of woodand a poker)
you find me, my dears, as usual, very busy; but that you will
excuse. The African project at present employs my whole time. It
involves me in correspondence with public bodies and with private
individuals anxious for the welfare of their species all over the
country. I am happy to say it is advancing. We hope by this time
next year to have from a hundred and fifty to two hundred healthy
families cultivating coffee and educating the natives of
Borrioboola-Gha, on the left bank of the Niger.

As Ada said nothingbut looked at meI said it must be very
gratifying.

It IS gratifying,said Mrs. Jellyby. "It involves the devotion
of all my energiessuch as they are; but that is nothingso that
it succeeds; and I am more confident of success every day. Do you
knowMiss SummersonI almost wonder that YOU never turned your
thoughts to Africa."

This application of the subject was really so unexpected to me that
I was quite at a loss how to receive it. I hinted that the
climate-


The finest climate in the world!said Mrs. Jellyby.

Indeed, ma'am?

Certainly. With precaution,said Mrs. Jellyby. "You may go into
Holbornwithout precautionand be run over. You may go into
Holbornwith precautionand never be run over. Just so with
Africa."


I saidNo doubt.I meant as to Holborn.

If you would like,said Mrs. Jellybyputting a number of papers
towards usto look over some remarks on that head, and on the
general subject, which have been extensively circulated, while I
finish a letter I am now dictating to my eldest daughter, who is my
amanuensis--

The girl at the table left off biting her pen and made a return to
our recognitionwhich was half bashful and half sulky.

--I shall then have finished for the present,proceeded Mrs.
Jellyby with a sweet smilethough my work is never done. Where
are you, Caddy?

'Presents her compliments to Mr. Swallow, and begs--'said Caddy.

'And begs,'said Mrs. Jellybydictating'to inform him, in
reference to his letter of inquiry on the African project--' No,
Peepy! Not on my account!

Peepy (so self-named) was the unfortunate child who had fallen
downstairswho now interrupted the correspondence by presenting
himselfwith a strip of plaster on his foreheadto exhibit his
wounded kneesin which Ada and I did not know which to pity most-the
bruises or the dirt. Mrs. Jellyby merely addedwith the
serene composure with which she said everythingGo along, you
naughty Peepy!and fixed her fine eyes on Africa again.

Howeveras she at once proceeded with her dictationand as I
interrupted nothing by doing itI ventured quietly to stop poor
Peepy as he was going out and to take him up to nurse. He looked
very much astonished at it and at Ada's kissing himbut soon fell
fast asleep in my armssobbing at longer and longer intervals
until he was quiet. I was so occupied with Peepy that I lost the
letter in detailthough I derived such a general impression from
it of the momentous importance of Africaand the utter
insignificance of all other places and thingsthat I felt quite
ashamed to have thought so little about it.

Six o'clock!said Mrs. Jellyby. "And our dinner hour is
nominally (for we dine at all hours) five! Caddyshow Miss Clare
and Miss Summerson their rooms. You will like to make some change
perhaps? You will excuse meI knowbeing so much occupied. Oh
that very bad child! Pray put him downMiss Summerson!"

I begged permission to retain himtruly saying that he was not at
all troublesomeand carried him upstairs and laid him on my bed.
Ada and I had two upper rooms with a door of communication between.
They were excessively bare and disorderlyand the curtain to my
window was fastened up with a fork.

You would like some hot water, wouldn't you?said Miss Jellyby
looking round for a jug with a handle to itbut looking in vain.

If it is not being troublesome,said we.

Oh, it's not the trouble,returned Miss Jellyby; "the question
isif there IS any."

The evening was so very cold and the rooms had such a marshy smell
that I must confess it was a little miserableand Ada was half
crying. We soon laughedhoweverand were busily unpacking when


Miss Jellyby came back to say that she was sorry there was no hot
waterbut they couldn't find the kettleand the boiler was out of
order.

We begged her not to mention it and made all the haste we could to
get down to the fire again. But all the little children had come
up to the landing outside to look at the phenomenon of Peepy lying
on my bedand our attention was distracted by the constant
apparition of noses and fingers in situations of danger between the
hinges of the doors. It was impossible to shut the door of either
roomfor my lockwith no knob to itlooked as if it wanted to be
wound up; and though the handle of Ada's went round and round with
the greatest smoothnessit was attended with no effect whatever on
the door. Therefore I proposed to the children that they should
come in and be very good at my tableand I would tell them the
story of Little Red Riding Hood while I dressed; which they did
and were as quiet as miceincluding Peepywho awoke opportunely
before the appearance of the wolf.

When we went downstairs we found a mug with "A Present from
Tunbridge Wells" on it lighted up in the staircase window with a
floating wickand a young womanwith a swelled face bound up in a
flannel bandage blowing the fire of the drawing-room (now connected
by an open door with Mrs. Jellyby's room) and choking dreadfully.
It smoked to that degreein shortthat we all sat coughing and
crying with the windows open for half an hourduring which Mrs.
Jellybywith the same sweetness of temperdirected letters about
Africa. Her being so employed wasI must saya great relief to
mefor Richard told us that he had washed his hands in a pie-dish
and that they had found the kettle on his dressing-tableand he
made Ada laugh so that they made me laugh in the most ridiculous
manner.

Soon after seven o'clock we went down to dinnercarefullyby Mrs.
Jellyby's advicefor the stair-carpetsbesides being very
deficient in stair-wireswere so torn as to be absolute traps. We
had a fine cod-fisha piece of roast beefa dish of cutletsand
a pudding; an excellent dinnerif it had had any cooking to speak
ofbut it was almost raw. The young woman with the flannel
bandage waitedand dropped everything on the table wherever it
happened to goand never moved it again until she put it on the
stairs. The person I had seen in pattenswho I suppose to have
been the cookfrequently came and skirmished with her at the door
and there appeared to be ill will between them.

All through dinner--which was longin consequence of such
accidents as the dish of potatoes being mislaid in the coal skuttle
and the handle of the corkscrew coming off and striking the young
woman in the chin--Mrs. Jellyby preserved the evenness of her
disposition. She told us a great deal that was interesting about
Borrioboola-Gha and the nativesand received so many letters that
Richardwho sat by hersaw four envelopes in the gravy at once.
Some of the letters were proceedings of ladies' committees or
resolutions of ladies' meetingswhich she read to us; others were
applications from people excited in various ways about the
cultivation of coffeeand natives; others required answersand
these she sent her eldest daughter from the table three or four
times to write. She was full of business and undoubtedly wasas
she had told usdevoted to the cause.

I was a little curious to know who a mild bald gentleman in
spectacles waswho dropped into a vacant chair (there was no top
or bottom in particular) after the fish was taken away and seemed
passively to submit himself to Borriohoola-Gha but not to be


actively interested in that settlement. As he never spoke a word
he might have been a native but for his complexion. It was not
until we left the table and he remained alone with Richard that the
possibility of his being Mr. Jellyby ever entered my head. But he
WAS Mr. Jellyby; and a loquacious young man called Mr. Qualewith
large shining knobs for temples and his hair all brushed to the
back of his headwho came in the eveningand told Ada he was a
philanthropistalso informed her that he called the matrimonial
alliance of Mrs. Jellyby with Mr. Jellyby the union of mind and
matter.

This young manbesides having a great deal to say for himself
about Africa and a project of his for teaching the coffee colonists
to teach the natives to turn piano-forte legs and establish an
export tradedelighted in drawing Mrs. Jellyby out by savingI
believe now, Mrs. Jellyby, you have received as many as from one
hundred and fifty to two hundred letters respecting Africa in a
single day, have you not?orIf my memory does not deceive me,
Mrs. Jellyby, you once mentioned that you had sent off five
thousand circulars from one post-office at one time?--always
repeating Mrs. Jellyby's answer to us like an interpreter. During
the whole eveningMr. Jellyby sat in a corner with his head
against the wall as if he were subject to low spirits. It seemed
that he had several times opened his mouth when alone with Richard
after dinneras if he had something on his mindbut had always
shut it againto Richard's extreme confusionwithout saying
anything.

Mrs. Jellybysitting in quite a nest of waste paperdrank coffee
all the evening and dictated at intervals to her eldest daughter.
She also held a discussion with Mr. Qualeof which the subject
seemed to be--if I understood it--the brotherhood of humanityand
gave utterance to some beautiful sentiments. I was not so
attentive an auditor as I might have wished to behoweverfor
Peepy and the other children came flocking about Ada and me in a
corner of the drawing-room to ask for another story; so we sat down
among them and told them in whispers "Puss in Boots" and I don't
know what else until Mrs. Jellybyaccidentally remembering them
sent them to bed. As Peepy cried for me to take him to bedI
carried him upstairswhere the young woman with the flannel
bandage charged into the midst of the little family like a dragon
and overturned them into cribs.

After that I occupied myself in making our room a little tidy and
in coaxing a very cross fire that had been lighted to burnwhich
at last it didquite brightly. On my return downstairsI felt
that Mrs. Jellyby looked down upon me rather for being so
frivolousand I was sorry for itthough at the same time I knew
that I had no higher pretensions.

It was nearly midnight before we found an opportunity of going to
bedand even then we left Mrs. Jellyby among her papers drinking
coffee and Miss Jellyby biting the feather of her pen.

What a strange house!said Ada when we got upstairs. "How
curious of my cousin Jarndyce to send us here!"

My love,said Iit quite confuses me. I want to understand it,
and I can't understand it at all.

What?asked Ada with her pretty smile.

All this, my dear,said I. "It MUST be very good of Mrs. Jellyby
to take such pains about a scheme for the benefit of natives--and


yet--Peepy and the housekeeping!"

Ada laughed and put her arm about my neck as I stood looking at the
fireand told me I was a quietdeargood creature and had won
her heart. "You are so thoughtfulEsther she said, and yet so
cheerful! And you do so muchso unpretendingly! You would make a
home out of even this house."

My simple darling! She was quite unconscious that she only praised
herself and that it was in the goodness of her own heart that she
made so much of me!

May I ask you a question?said I when we had sat before the fire
a little while.

Five hundred,said Ada.

Your cousin, Mr. Jarndyce. I owe so much to him. Would you mind
describing him to me?

Shaking her golden hairAda turned her eyes upon me with such
laughing wonder that I was full of wonder toopartly at her
beautypartly at her surprise.

Esther!she cried.

My dear!

You want a description of my cousin Jarndyce?

My dear, I never saw him.

And I never saw him!returned Ada.

Wellto be sure!

Noshe had never seen him. Young as she was when her mama died
she remembered how the tears would come into her eyes when she
spoke of him and of the noble generosity of his characterwhich
she had said was to be trusted above all earthly things; and Ada
trusted it. Her cousin Jarndyce had written to her a few months
ago--"a plainhonest letter Ada said--proposing the arrangement
we were now to enter on and telling her that in time it might heal
some of the wounds made by the miserable Chancery suit." She had
repliedgratefully accepting his proposal. Richard had received a
similar letter and had made a similar response. He HAD seen Mr.
Jarndyce oncebut only oncefive years agoat Winchester school.
He had told Adawhen they were leaning on the screen before the
fire where I found themthat he recollected him as "a bluffrosy
fellow." This was the utmost description Ada could give me.

It set me thinking so that when Ada was asleepI still remained
before the firewondering and wondering about Bleak Houseand
wondering and wondering that yesterday morning should seem so long
ago. I don't know where my thoughts had wandered when they were
recalled by a tap at the door.

I opened it softly and found Miss Jellyby shivering there with a
broken candle in a broken candlestick in one hand and an egg-cup in
the other.

Good night!she said very sulkily.

Good night!said I.


May I come in?she shortly and unexpectedly asked me in the same
sulky way.

Certainly,said I. "Don't wake Miss Clare."

She would not sit downbut stood by the fire dipping her inky
middle finger in the egg-cupwhich contained vinegarand smearing
it over the ink stains on her facefrowning the whole time and
looking very gloomy.

I wish Africa was dead!she said on a sudden.

I was going to remonstrate.

I do!she said "Don't talk to meMiss Summerson. I hate it and
detest it. It's a beast!"

I told her she was tiredand I was sorry. I put my hand upon her
headand touched her foreheadand said it was hot now but would
be cool tomorrow. She still stood pouting and frowning at mebut
presently put down her egg-cup and turned softly towards the bed
where Ada lay.

She is very pretty!she said with the same knitted brow and in
the same uncivil manner.

I assented with a smile.

An orphan. Ain't she?

Yes.

But knows a quantity, I suppose? Can dance, and play music, and
sing? She can talk French, I suppose, and do geography, and
globes, and needlework, and everything?

No doubt,said I.

I can't,she returned. "I can't do anything hardlyexcept
write. I'm always writing for Ma. I wonder you two were not
ashamed of yourselves to come in this afternoon and see me able to
do nothing else. It was like your ill nature. Yet you think
yourselves very fineI dare say!"

I could see that the poor girl was near cryingand I resumed my
chair without speaking and looked at her (I hope) as mildly as I
felt towards her.

It's disgraceful,she said. "You know it is. The whole house is
disgraceful. The children are disgraceful. I'M disgraceful. Pa's
miserableand no wonder! Priscilla drinks--she's always drinking.
It's a great shame and a great story of you if you say you didn't
smell her today. It was as bad as a public-housewaiting at
dinner; you know it was!"

My dear, I don't know it,said I.

You do,she said very shortly. "You shan't say you don't. You
do!"

Oh, my dear!said I. "If you won't let me speak--"

You're speaking now. You know you are. Don't tell stories, Miss


Summerson.

My dear,said Ias long as you won't hear me out--

I don't want to hear you out.

Oh, yes, I think you do,said Ibecause that would be so very
unreasonable. I did not know what you tell me because the servant
did not come near me at dinner; but I don't doubt what you tell me,
and I am sorry to hear it.

You needn't make a merit of that,said she.

No, my dear,said I. "That would be very foolish."

She was still standing by the bedand now stooped down (but still
with the same discontented face) and kissed Ada. That doneshe
came softly back and stood by the side of my chair. Her bosom was
heaving in a distressful manner that I greatly pitiedbut I
thought it better not to speak.

I wish I was dead!she broke out. "I wish we were all dead. It
would be a great deal better for us.

In a moment afterwardsshe knelt on the ground at my sidehid her
face in my dresspassionately begged my pardonand wept. I
comforted her and would have raised herbut she cried nono; she
wanted to stay there!

You used to teach girls,she saidIf you could only have taught
me, I could have learnt from you! I am so very miserable, and I
like you so much!

I could not persuade her to sit by me or to do anything but move a
ragged stool to where she was kneelingand take thatand still
hold my dress in the same manner. By degrees the poor tired girl
fell asleepand then I contrived to raise her head so that it
should rest on my lapand to cover us both with shawls. The fire
went outand all night long she slumbered thus before the ashy
grate. At first I was painfully awake and vainly tried to lose
myselfwith my eyes closedamong the scenes of the day. At
lengthby slow degreesthey became indistinct and mingled. I
began to lose the identity of the sleeper resting on me. Now it
was Adanow one of my old Reading friends from whom I could not
believe I had so recently parted. Now it was the little mad woman
worn out with curtsying and smilingnow some one in authority at
Bleak House. Lastlyit was no oneand I was no one.

The purblind day was feebly struggling with the fog when I opened
my eyes to encounter those of a dirty-faced little spectre fixed
upon me. Peepy had scaled his criband crept down in his bed-gown
and capand was so cold that his teeth were chattering as if he
had cut them all.

CHAPTER V

A Morning Adventure

Although the morning was rawand although the fog still seemed
heavy--I say seemedfor the windows were so encrusted with dirt
that they would have made midsummer sunshine dim--I was


sufficiently forewarned of the discomfort within doors at that
early hour and sufficiently curious about London to think it a good
idea on the part of Miss Jellyby when she proposed that we should
go out for a walk.

Ma won't be down for ever so long,she saidand then it's a
chance if breakfast's ready for an hour afterwards, they dawdle so.
As to Pa, he gets what he can and goes to the office. He never has
what you would call a regular breakfast. Priscilla leaves him out
the loaf and some milk, when there is any, overnight. Sometimes
there isn't any milk, and sometimes the cat drinks it. But I'm
afraid you must be tired, Miss Summerson, and perhaps you would
rather go to bed.

I am not at all tired, my dear,said Iand would much prefer to
go out.

If you're sure you would,returned Miss JellybyI'll get my
things on.

Ada said she would go tooand was soon astir. I made a proposal
to Peepyin default of being able to do anything better for him
that he should let me wash him and afterwards lay him down on my
bed again. To this he submitted with the best grace possible
staring at me during the whole operation as if he never had been
and never could again beso astonished in his life--looking very
miserable alsocertainlybut making no complaintand going
snugly to sleep as soon as it was over. At first I was in two
minds about taking such a libertybut I soon reflected that nobody
in the house was likely to notice it.

What with the bustle of dispatching Peepy and the bustle of getting
myself ready and helping AdaI was soon quite in a glow. We found
Miss Jellyby trying to warm herself at the fire in the writing-
roomwhich Priscilla was then lighting with a smutty parlour
candlestickthrowing the candle in to make it burn better.
Everything was just as we had left it last night and was evidently
intended to remain so. Below-stairs the dinner-cloth had not been
taken awaybut had been left ready for breakfast. Crumbsdust
and waste-paper were all over the house. Some pewter pots and a
milk-can hung on the area railings; the door stood open; and we met
the cook round the corner coming out of a public-housewiping her
mouth. She mentionedas she passed usthat she had been to see
what o'clock it was.

But before we met the cookwe met Richardwho was dancing up and
down Thavies Inn to warm his feet. He was agreeably surprised to
see us stirring so soon and said he would gladly share our walk.
So he took care of Adaand Miss Jellyby and I went first. I may
mention that Miss Jellyby had relapsed into her sulky manner and
that I really should not have thought she liked me much unless she
had told me so.

Where would you wish to go?she asked.

Anywhere, my dear,I replied.

Anywhere's nowhere,said Miss Jellybystopping perversely.

Let us go somewhere at any rate,said I.

She then walked me on very fast.

I don't care!she said. "Nowyou are my witnessMiss


SummersonI say I don't care-but if he was to come to our house
with his greatshininglumpy forehead night after night till he
was as old as MethuselahI wouldn't have anything to say to him.
Such ASSES as he and Ma make of themselves!"

My dear!I remonstratedin allusion to the epithet and the
vigorous emphasis Miss Jellyby set upon it. "Your duty as a child--"

Oh! Don't talk of duty as a child, Miss Summerson; where's Ma's
duty as a parent? All made over to the public and Africa, I
suppose! Then let the public and Africa show duty as a child; it's
much more their affair than mine. You are shocked, I dare say!
Very well, so am I shocked too; so we are both shocked, and there's
an end of it!

She walked me on faster yet.

But for all that, I say again, he may come, and come, and come,
and I won't have anything to say to him. I can't bear him. If
there's any stuff in the world that I hate and detest, it's the
stuff he and Ma talk. I wonder the very paving-stones opposite our
house can have the patience to stay there and be a witness of such
inconsistencies and contradictions as all that sounding nonsense,
and Ma's management!

I could not but understand her to refer to Mr. Qualethe young
gentleman who had appeared after dinner yesterday. I was saved the
disagreeable necessity of pursuing the subject by Richard and Ada
coming up at a round pacelaughing and asking us if we meant to
run a race. Thus interruptedMiss Jellyby became silent and
walked moodily on at my side while I admired the long successions
and varieties of streetsthe quantity of people already going to
and frothe number of vehicles passing and repassingthe busy
preparations in the setting forth of shop windows and the sweeping
out of shopsand the extraordinary creatures in rags secretly
groping among the swept-out rubbish for pins and other refuse.

So, cousin,said the cheerful voice of Richard to Ada behind me.
We are never to get out of Chancery! We have come by another way
to our place of meeting yesterday, and--by the Great Seal, here's
the old lady again!

Trulythere she wasimmediately in front of uscurtsyingand
smilingand saying with her yesterday's air of patronageThe
wards in Jarndyce! Ve-ry happy, I am sure!

You are out early, ma'am,said I as she curtsied to me.

Ye-es! I usually walk here early. Before the court sits. It's
retired. I collect my thoughts here for the business of the day,
said the old lady mincingly. "The business of the day requires a
great deal of thought. Chancery justice is so ve-ry difficult to
follow."

Who's this, Miss Summerson?whispered Miss Jellybydrawing my
arm tighter through her own.

The little old lady's hearing was remarkably quick. She answered
for herself directly.

A suitor, my child. At your service. I have the honour to attend
court regularly. With my documents. Have I the pleasure of
addressing another of the youthful parties in Jarndyce?said the
old ladyrecovering herselfwith her head on one sidefrom a


very low curtsy.

Richardanxious to atone for his thoughtlessness of yesterday
good-naturedly explained that Miss Jellyby was not connected with
the suit.

Ha!said the old lady. "She does not expect a judgment? She
will still grow old. But not so old. Ohdearno! This is the
garden of Lincoln's Inn. I call it my garden. It is quite a bower
in the summer-time. Where the birds sing melodiously. I pass the
greater part of the long vacation here. In contemplation. You
find the long vacation exceedingly longdon't you?"

We said yesas she seemed to expect us to say so.

When the leaves are falling from the trees and there are no more
flowers in bloom to make up into nosegays for the Lord Chancellor's
court,said the old ladythe vacation is fulfilled and the sixth
seal, mentioned in the Revelations, again prevails. Pray come and
see my lodging. It will be a good omen for me. Youth, and hope,
and beauty are very seldom there. It is a long, long time since I
had a visit from either.

She had taken my handand leading me and Miss Jellyby away
beckoned Richard and Ada to come too. I did not know how to excuse
myself and looked to Richard for aid. As he was half amused and
half curious and all in doubt how to get rid of the old lady
without offenceshe continued to lead us awayand he and Ada
continued to followour strange conductress informing us all the
timewith much smiling condescensionthat she lived close by.

It was quite trueas it soon appeared. She lived so close by that
we had not time to have done humouring her for a few moments before
she was at home. Slipping us out at a little side gatethe old
lady stopped most unexpectedly in a narrow back streetpart of
some courts and lanes immediately outside the wall of the innand
saidThis is my lodging. Pray walk up!

She had stopped at a shop over which was written KROOKRAG AND
BOTTLE WAREHOUSE. Alsoin long thin lettersKROOKDEALER IN
MARINE STORES. In one part of the window was a picture of a red
paper mill at which a cart was unloading a quantity of sacks of old
rags. In another was the inscription BONES BOUGHT. In another
KITCHEN-STUFF BOUGHT. In anotherOLD IRON BOUGHT. In another
WASTE-PAPER BOUGHT. In anotherLADIES' AND GENTLEMEN'S WARDROBES
BOUGHT. Everything seemed to be bought and nothing to be sold
there. In all parts of the window were quantities of dirty
bottles--blacking bottlesmedicine bottlesginger-beer and soda-
water bottlespickle bottleswine bottlesink bottles; I am
reminded by mentioning the latter that the shop had in several
little particulars the air of being in a legal neighbourhood and of
beingas it werea dirty hanger-on and disowned relation of the
law. There were a great many ink bottles. There was a little
tottering bench of shabby old volumes outside the doorlabelled
Law Books, all at 9d.Some of the inscriptions I have enumerated
were written in law-handlike the papers I had seen in Kenge and
Carboy's office and the letters I had so long received from the
firm. Among them was onein the same writinghaving nothing to
do with the business of the shopbut announcing that a respectable
man aged forty-five wanted engrossing or copying to execute with
neatness and dispatch: Address to Nemocare of Mr. Krookwithin.
There were several second-hand bagsblue and redhanging up. A
little way within the shop-door lay heaps of old crackled parchment
scrolls and discoloured and dog's-eared law-papers. I could have


fancied that all the rusty keysof which there must have been
hundreds huddled together as old ironhad once belonged to doors
of rooms or strong chests in lawyers' offices. The litter of rags
tumbled partly into and partly out of a one-legged wooden scale
hanging without any counterpoise from a beammight have been
counsellors' bands and gowns torn up. One had only to fancyas
Richard whispered to Ada and me while we all stood looking inthat
yonder bones in a cornerpiled together and picked very clean
were the bones of clientsto make the picture complete.

As it was still foggy and darkand as the shop was blinded besides
by the wall of Lincoln's Innintercepting the light within a
couple of yardswe should not have seen so much but for a lighted
lantern that an old man in spectacles and a hairy cap was carrying
about in the shop. Turning towards the doorhe now caught sight
of us. He was shortcadaverousand witheredwith his head sunk
sideways between his shoulders and the breath issuing in visible
smoke from his mouth as if he were on fire within. His throat
chinand eyebrows were so frosted with white hairs and so gnarled
with veins and puckered skin that he looked from his breast upward
like some old root in a fall of snow.

Hi, hi!said the old mancoming to the door. "Have you anything
to sell?"

We naturally drew back and glanced at our conductresswho had been
trying to open the house-door with a key she had taken from her
pocketand to whom Richard now said that as we had had the
pleasure of seeing where she livedwe would leave herbeing
pressed for time. But she was not to be so easily left. She
became so fantastically and pressingly earnest in her entreaties
that we would walk up and see her apartment for an instantand was
so bentin her harmless wayon leading me inas part of the good
omen she desiredthat I (whatever the others might do) saw nothing
for it but to comply. I suppose we were all more or less curious;
at any ratewhen the old man added his persuasions to hers and
saidAye, aye! Please her! It won't take a minute! Come in,
come in! Come in through the shop if t'other door's out of order!
we all went instimulated by Richard's laughing encouragement and
relying on his protection.

My landlord, Krook,said the little old ladycondescending to
him from her lofty station as she presented him to us. "He is
called among the neighbours the Lord Chancellor. His shop is
called the Court of Chancery. He is a very eccentric person. He
is very odd. OhI assure you he is very odd!"

She shook her head a great many times and tapped her forehead with
her finger to express to us that we must have the goodness to
excuse himFor he is a little--you know--M!said the old lady
with great stateliness. The old man overheardand laughed.

It's true enough,he saidgoing before us with the lantern
that they call me the lord chancellor and call my shop Chancery.
And why do you think they call me the Lord Chancellor and my shop
Chancery?

I don't know, I am sure!said Richard rather carelessly.

You see,said the old manstopping and turning roundthey--Hi!
Here's lovely hair! I have got three sacks of ladies' hair below,
but none so beautiful and fine as this. What colour, and what
texture!


That'll do, my good friend!said Richardstrongly disapproving
of his having drawn one of Ada's tresses through his yellow hand.
You can admire as the rest of us do without taking that liberty.

The old man darted at him a sudden look which even called my
attention from Adawhostartled and blushingwas so remarkably
beautiful that she seemed to fix the wandering attention of the
little old lady herself. But as Ada interposed and laughingly said
she could only feel proud of such genuine admirationMr. Krook
shrunk into his former self as suddenly as he had leaped out of it.

You see, I have so many things here,he resumedholding up the
lanternof so many kinds, and all as the neighbours think (but
THEY know nothing), wasting away and going to rack and ruin, that
that's why they have given me and my place a christening. And I
have so many old parchmentses and papers in my stock. And I have a
liking for rust and must and cobwebs. And all's fish that comes to
my net. And I can't abear to part with anything I once lay hold of
(or so my neighbours think, but what do THEY know?) or to alter
anything, or to have any sweeping, nor scouring, nor cleaning, nor
repairing going on about me. That's the way I've got the ill name
of Chancery. I don't mind. I go to see my noble and learned
brother pretty well every day, when he sits in the Inn. He don't
notice me, but I notice him. There's no great odds betwixt us. We
both grub on in a muddle. Hi, Lady Jane!

A large grey cat leaped from some neighbouring shelf on his
shoulder and startled us all.

Hi! Show 'em how you scratch. Hi! Tear, my lady!said her
master.

The cat leaped down and ripped at a bundle of rags with her
tigerish clawswith a sound that it set my teeth on edge to hear.

She'd do as much for any one I was to set her on,said the old
man. "I deal in cat-skins among other general mattersand hers
was offered to me. It's a very fine skinas you may seebut I
didn't have it stripped off! THAT warn't like Chancery practice
thoughsays you!"

He had by this time led us across the shopand now opened a door
in the back part of itleading to the house-entry. As he stood
with his hand upon the lockthe little old lady graciously
observed to him before passing outThat will do, Krook. You mean
well, but are tiresome. My young friends are pressed for time. I
have none to spare myself, having to attend court very soon. My
young friends are the wards in Jarndyce.

Jarndyce!said the old man with a start.

Jarndyce and Jarndyce. The great suit, Krook,returned his
lodger.

Hi!exclaimed the old man in a tone of thoughtful amazement and
with a wider stare than before. "Think of it!"

He seemed so rapt all in a moment and looked so curiously at us
that Richard saidWhy, you appear to trouble yourself a good deal
about the causes before your noble and learned brother, the other
Chancellor!

Yes,said the old man abstractedly. "Sure! YOUR name now will
be--"


Richard Carstone.

Carstone,he repeatedslowly checking off that name upon his
forefinger; and each of the others he went on to mention upon a
separate finger. "Yes. There was the name of Barbaryand the
name of Clareand the name of DedlocktooI think."

He knows as much of the cause as the real salaried Chancellor!
said Richardquite astonishedto Ada and me.

Aye!said the old mancoming slowly out of his abstraction.
Yes! Tom Jarndyce--you'll excuse me, being related; but he was
never known about court by any other name, and was as well known
there as--she is now,nodding slightly at his lodger. "Tom
Jarndyce was often in here. He got into a restless habit of
strolling about when the cause was onor expectedtalking to the
little shopkeepers and telling 'em to keep out of Chancery
whatever they did. 'For' says he'it's being ground to bits in a
slow mill; it's being roasted at a slow fire; it's being stung to
death by single bees; it's being drowned by drops; it's going mad
by grains.' He was as near making away with himselfjust where
the young lady standsas near could be."

We listened with horror.

He come in at the door,said the old manslowly pointing an
imaginary track along the shopon the day he did it--the whole
neighbourhood had said for months before that he would do it, of a
certainty sooner or later--he come in at the door that day, and
walked along there, and sat himself on a bench that stood there,
and asked me (you'll judge I was a mortal sight younger then) to
fetch him a pint of wine. 'For,' says he, 'Krook, I am much
depressed; my cause is on again, and I think I'm nearer judgment
than I ever was.' I hadn't a mind to leave him alone; and I
persuaded him to go to the tavern over the way there, t'other side
my lane (I mean Chancery Lane); and I followed and looked in at the
window, and saw him, comfortable as I thought, in the arm-chair by
the fire, and company with him. I hadn't hardly got back here when
I heard a shot go echoing and rattling right away into the inn. I
ran out--neighbours ran out--twenty of us cried at once, 'Tom
Jarndyce!'

The old man stoppedlooked hard at uslooked down into the
lanternblew the light outand shut the lantern up.

We were right, I needn't tell the present hearers. Hi! To be
sure, how the neighbourhood poured into court that afternoon while
the cause was on! How my noble and learned brother, and all the
rest of 'em, grubbed and muddled away as usual and tried to look as
if they hadn't heard a word of the last fact in the case or as if
they had--Oh, dear me!--nothing at all to do with it if they had
heard of it by any chance!

Ada's colour had entirely left herand Richard was scarcely less
pale. Nor could I wonderjudging even from my emotionsand I was
no party in the suitthat to hearts so untried and fresh it was a
shock to come into the inheritance of a protracted miseryattended
in the minds of many people with such dreadful recollections. I
had another uneasinessin the application of the painful story to
the poor half-witted creature who had brought us there; butto my
surpriseshe seemed perfectly unconscious of that and only led the
way upstairs againinforming us with the toleration of a superior
creature for the infirmities of a common mortal that her landlord


was "a little Myou know!"

She lived at the top of the housein a pretty large roomfrom
which she had a glimpse of Lincoln's Inn Hall. This seemed to have
been her principal inducementoriginallyfor taking up her
residence there. She could look at itshe saidin the night
especially in the moonshine. Her room was cleanbut veryvery
bare. I noticed the scantiest necessaries in the way of furniture;
a few old prints from booksof Chancellors and barristerswafered
against the wall; and some half-dozen reticles and work-bags
containing documents,as she informed us. There were neither
coals nor ashes in the grateand I saw no articles of clothing
anywherenor any kind of food. Upon a shelf in an open cupboard
were a plate or twoa cup or twoand so forthbut all dry and
empty. There was a more affecting meaning in her pinched
appearanceI thought as I looked roundthan I had understood
before.

Extremely honoured, I am sure,said our poor hostess with the
greatest suavityby this visit from the wards in Jarndyce. And
very much indebted for the omen. It is a retired situation.
Considering. I am limited as to situation. In consequence of the
necessity of attending on the Chancellor. I have lived here many
years. I pass my days in court, my evenings and my nights here. I
find the nights long, for I sleep but little and think much. That
is, of course, unavoidable, being in Chancery. I am sorry I cannot
offer chocolate. I expect a judgment shortly and shall then place
my establishment on a superior footing. At present, I don't mind
confessing to the wards in Jarndyce (in strict confidence) that I
sometimes find it difficult to keep up a genteel appearance. I
have felt the cold here. I have felt something sharper than cold.
It matters very little. Pray excuse the introduction of such mean
topics.

She partly drew aside the curtain of the longlow garret window
and called our attention to a number of bird-cages hanging there
some containing several birds. There were larkslinnetsand
goldfinches--I should think at least twenty.

I began to keep the little creatures,she saidwith an object
that the wards will readily comprehend. With the intention of
restoring them to liberty. When my judgment should be given. Ye-
es! They die in prison, though. Their lives, poor silly things,
are so short in comparison with Chancery proceedings that, one by
one, the whole collection has died over and over again. I doubt,
do you know, whether one of these, though they are all young, will
live to be free! Ve-ry mortifying, is it not?

Although she sometimes asked a questionshe never seemed to expect
a replybut rambled on as if she were in the habit of doing so
when no one but herself was present.

Indeed,she pursuedI positively doubt sometimes, I do assure
you, whether while matters are still unsettled, and the sixth or
Great Seal still prevails, I may not one day be found lying stark
and senseless here, as I have found so many birds!

Richardanswering what he saw in Ada's compassionate eyestook
the opportunity of laying some moneysoftly and unobservedon the
chimney-piece. We all drew nearer to the cagesfeigning to
examine the birds.

I can't allow them to sing much,said the little old ladyfor
(you'll think this curious) I find my mind confused by the idea


that they are singing while I am following the arguments in court.
And my mind requires to be so very clear, you know! Another time,
I'll tell you their names. Not at present. On a day of such good
omen, they shall sing as much as they like. In honour of youth,a
smile and curtsyhope,a smile and curtsyand beauty,a smile
and curtsy. "There! We'll let in the full light."

The birds began to stir and chirp.

I cannot admit the air freely,said the little old lady--the room
was closeand would have been the better for it--"because the cat
you saw downstairscalled Lady Janeis greedy for their lives.
She crouches on the parapet outside for hours and hours. I have
discovered whispering mysteriously, that her natural cruelty is
sharpened by a jealous fear of their regaining their liberty. In
consequence of the judgment I expect being shortly given. She is
sly and full of malice. I half believesometimesthat she is no
catbut the wolf of the old saying. It is so very difficult to
keep her from the door."

Some neighbouring bellsreminding the poor soul that it was half-
past ninedid more for us in the way of bringing our visit to an
end than we could easily have done for ourselves. She hurriedly
took up her little bag of documentswhich she had laid upon the
table on coming inand asked if we were also going into court. On
our answering noand that we would on no account detain hershe
opened the door to attend us downstairs.

With such an omen, it is even more necessary than usual that I
should be there before the Chancellor comes in,said shefor he
might mention my case the first thing. I have a presentiment that
he WILL mention it the first thing this morning

She stopped to tell us in a whisper as we were going down that the
whole house was filled with strange lumber which her landlord had
bought piecemeal and had no wish to sellin consequence of being a
little M. This was on the first floor. But she had made a
previous stoppage on the second floor and had silently pointed at a
dark door there.

The only other lodger,she now whispered in explanationa law-
writer. The children in the lanes here say he has sold himself to
the devil. I don't know what he can have done with the money.
Hush!

She appeared to mistrust that the lodger might hear her even there
and repeating "Hush!" went before us on tiptoe as though even the
sound of her footsteps might reveal to him what she had said.

Passing through the shop on our way outas we had passed through
it on our way inwe found the old man storing a quantity of
packets of waste-paper in a kind of well in the floor. He seemed
to be working hardwith the perspiration standing on his forehead
and had a piece of chalk by himwith whichas he put each
separate package or bundle downhe made a crooked mark on the
panelling of the wall.

Richard and Adaand Miss Jellybyand the little old lady had gone
by himand I was going when he touched me on the arm to stay me
and chalked the letter J upon the wall--in a very curious manner
beginning with the end of the letter and shaping it backward. It
was a capital letternot a printed onebut just such a letter as
any clerk in Messrs. Kenge and Carboy's office would have made.


Can you read it?he asked me with a keen glance.

Surely,said I. "It's very plain."

What is it?

J.

With another glance at meand a glance at the doorhe rubbed it
out and turned an "a" in its place (not a capital letter this
time)and saidWhat's that?

I told him. He then rubbed that out and turned the letter "r and
asked me the same question. He went on quickly until he had formed
in the same curious manner, beginning at the ends and bottoms of
the letters, the word Jarndyce, without once leaving two letters on
the wall together.

What does that spell?" he asked me.

When I told himhe laughed. In the same odd wayyet with the
same rapidityhe then produced singlyand rubbed out singlythe
letters forming the words Bleak House. Thesein some
astonishmentI also read; and he laughed again.

Hi!said the old manlaying aside the chalk. "I have a turn for
copying from memoryyou seemissthough I can neither read nor
write."

He looked so disagreeable and his cat looked so wickedly at meas
if I were a blood-relation of the birds upstairsthat I was quite
relieved by Richard's appearing at the door and sayingMiss
Summerson, I hope you are not bargaining for the sale of your hair.
Don't be tempted. Three sacks below are quite enough for Mr. Krook!

I lost no time in wishing Mr. Krook good morning and joining my
friends outsidewhere we parted with the little old ladywho gave
us her blessing with great ceremony and renewed her assurance of
yesterday in reference to her intention of settling estates on Ada
and me. Before we finally turned out of those laneswe looked
back and saw Mr. Krook standing at his shop-doorin his
spectacleslooking after uswith his cat upon his shoulderand
her tail sticking up on one side of his hairy cap like a tall
feather.

Quite an adventure for a morning in London!said Richard with a
sigh. "Ahcousincousinit's a weary word this Chancery!"

It is to me, and has been ever since I can remember,returned
Ada. "I am grieved that I should be the enemy---as I suppose I am
--of a great number of relations and othersand that they should be
my enemies--as I suppose they are--and that we should all be
ruining one another without knowing how or why and be in constant
doubt and discord all our lives. It seems very strangeas there
must be right somewherethat an honest judge in real earnest has
not been able to find out through all these years where it is."

Ah, cousin!said Richard. "Strangeindeed! All this wasteful
wanton chess-playing IS very strange. To see that composed court
yesterday jogging on so serenely and to think of the wretchedness
of the pieces on the board gave me the headache and the heartache
both together. My head ached with wondering how it happenedif
men were neither fools nor rascals; and my heart ached to think
they could possibly be either. But at all eventsAda--I may call


you Ada?"

Of course you may, cousin Richard.

At all events, Chancery will work none of its bad influences on
US. We have happily been brought together, thanks to our good
kinsman, and it can't divide us now!

Never, I hope, cousin Richard!said Ada gently.

Miss Jellyby gave my arm a squeeze and me a very significant look.
I smiled in returnand we made the rest of the way back very
pleasantly.

In half an hour after our arrivalMrs. Jellyby appeared; and in
the course of an hour the various things necessary for breakfast
straggled one by one into the dining-room. I do not doubt that
Mrs. Jellyby had gone to bed and got up in the usual mannerbut
she presented no appearance of having changed her dress. She was
greatly occupied during breakfastfor the morning's post brought a
heavy correspondence relative to Borrioboola-Ghawhich would
occasion her (she said) to pass a busy day. The children tumbled
aboutand notched memoranda of their accidents in their legs
which were perfect little calendars of distress; and Peepy was lost
for an hour and a halfand brought home from Newgate market by a
policeman. The equable manner in which Mrs. Jellyby sustained both
his absence and his restoration to the family circle surprised us
all.

She was by that time perseveringly dictating to Caddyand Caddy
was fast relapsing into the inky condition in which we had found
her. At one o'clock an open carriage arrived for usand a cart
for our luggage. Mrs. Jellyby charged us with many remembrances to
her good friend Mr. Jarndyce; Caddy left her desk to see us depart
kissed me in the passageand stood biting her pen and sobbing on
the steps; PeepyI am happy to saywas asleep and spared the pain
of separation (I was not without misgivings that he had gone to
Newgate market in search of me); and all the other children got up
behind the barouche and fell offand we saw themwith great
concernscattered over the surface of Thavies Inn as we rolled out
of its precincts.

CHAPTER VI

Quite at Home

The day had brightened very muchand still brightened as we went
westward. We went our way through the sunshine and the fresh air
wondering more and more at the extent of the streetsthe
brilliancy of the shopsthe great trafficand the crowds of
people whom the pleasanter weather seemed to have brought out like
many-coloured flowers. By and by we began to leave the wonderful
city and to proceed through suburbs whichof themselveswould
have made a pretty large town in my eyes; and at last we got into a
real country road againwith windmillsrick-yardsmilestones
farmers' waggonsscents of old hayswinging signsand horse
troughs: treesfieldsand hedge-rows. It was delightful to see
the green landscape before us and the immense metropolis behind;
and when a waggon with a train of beautiful horsesfurnished with
red trappings and clear-sounding bellscame by us with its music
I believe we could all three have sung to the bellsso cheerful


were the influences around.

The whole road has been reminding me of my name-sake Whittington,
said Richardand that waggon is the finishing touch. Halloa!
What's the matter?

We had stoppedand the waggon had stopped too. Its music changed
as the horses came to a standand subsided to a gentle tinkling
except when a horse tossed his head or shook himself and sprinkled
off a little shower of bell-ringing.

Our postilion is looking after the waggoner,said Richardand
the waggoner is coming back after us. Good day, friend!The
waggoner was at our coach-door. "Whyhere's an extraordinary
thing!" added Richardlooking closely at the man. "He has got
your nameAdain his hat!"

He had all our names in his hat. Tucked within the band were three
small notes--one addressed to Adaone to Richardone to me.
These the waggoner delivered to each of us respectivelyreading
the name aloud first. In answer to Richard's inquiry from whom
they camehe briefly answeredMaster, sir, if you please; and
putting on his hat again (which was like a soft bowl)cracked his
whipre-awakened his musicand went melodiously away.

Is that Mr. Jarndyce's waggon?said Richardcalling to our postboy.


Yes, sir,he replied. "Going to London."

We opened the notes. Each was a counterpart of the other and
contained these words in a solidplain hand.

I look forward, my dear, to our meeting easily and without
constraint on either side. I therefore have to propose that we
meet as old friends and take the past for granted. It will be a
relief to you possibly, and to me certainly, and so my love to you.

John Jarndyce

I had perhaps less reason to be surprised than either of my
companionshaving never yet enjoyed an opportunity of thanking one
who had been my benefactor and sole earthly dependence through so
many years. I had not considered how I could thank himmy
gratitude lying too deep in my heart for that; but I now began to
consider how I could meet him without thanking himand felt it
would be very difficult indeed.

The notes revived in Richard and Ada a general impression that they
both hadwithout quite knowing how they came by itthat their
cousin Jarndyce could never bear acknowledgments for any kindness
he performed and that sooner than receive any he would resort to
the most singular expedients and evasions or would even run away.
Ada dimly remembered to have heard her mother tellwhen she was a
very little childthat he had once done her an act of uncommon
generosity and that on her going to his house to thank himhe
happened to see her through a window coming to the doorand
immediately escaped by the back gateand was not heard of for
three months. This discourse led to a great deal more on the same
themeand indeed it lasted us all dayand we talked of scarcely
anything else. If we did by any chance diverge into another
subjectwe soon returned to thisand wondered what the house


would be likeand when we should get thereand whether we should
see Mr. Jarndyce as soon as we arrived or after a delayand what
he would say to usand what we should say to him. All of which we
wondered aboutover and over again.

The roads were very heavy for the horsesbut the pathway was
generally goodso we alighted and walked up all the hillsand
liked it so well that we prolonged our walk on the level ground
when we got to the top. At Barnet there were other horses waiting
for usbut as they had only just been fedwe had to wait for them
tooand got a long fresh walk over a common and an old battlefield
before the carriage came up. These delays so protracted the
journey that the short day was spent and the long night had closed
in before we came to St. Albansnear to which town Bleak House
waswe knew.

By that time we were so anxious and nervous that even Richard
confessedas we rattled over the stones of the old streetto
feeling an irrational desire to drive back again. As to Ada and
mewhom he had wrapped up with great carethe night being sharp
and frostywe trembled from head to foot. When we turned out of
the townround a cornerand Richard told us that the post-boy
who had for a long time sympathized with our heightened
expectationwas looking back and noddingwe both stood up in the
carriage (Richard holding Ada lest she should be jolted down) and
gazed round upon the open country and the starlight night for our
destination. There was a light sparkling on the top of a hill
before usand the driverpointing to it with his whip and crying
That's Bleak House!put his horses into a canter and took us
forward at such a rateuphill though it wasthat the wheels sent
the road drift flying about our heads like spray from a water-mill.
Presently we lost the lightpresently saw itpresently lost it
presently saw itand turned into an avenue of trees and cantered
up towards where it was beaming brightly. It was in a window of
what seemed to be an old-fashioned house with three peaks in the
roof in front and a circular sweep leading to the porch. A bell
was rung as we drew upand amidst the sound of its deep voice in
the still airand the distant barking of some dogsand a gush of
light from the opened doorand the smoking and steaming of the
heated horsesand the quickened beating of our own heartswe
alighted in no inconsiderable confusion.

Ada, my love, Esther, my dear, you are welcome. I rejoice to see
you! Rick, if I had a hand to spare at present, I would give it
you!

The gentleman who said these words in a clearbrighthospitable
voice had one of his arms round Ada's waist and the other round
mineand kissed us both in a fatherly wayand bore us across the
hall into a ruddy little roomall in a glow with a blazing fire.
Here he kissed us againand opening his armsmade us sit down
side by side on a sofa ready drawn out near the hearth. I felt
that if we had been at all demonstrativehe would have run away in
a moment.

Now, Rick!said he. "I have a hand at liberty. A word in
earnest is as good as a speech. I am heartily glad to see you.
You are at home. Warm yourself!"

Richard shook him by both hands with an intuitive mixture of
respect and franknessand only saying (though with an earnestness
that rather alarmed meI was so afraid of Mr. Jarndyce's suddenly
disappearing)You are very kind, sir! We are very much obliged
to you!laid aside his hat and coat and came up to the fire.


And how did you like the ride? And how did you like Mrs. Jellyby,
my dear?said Mr. Jarndyce to Ada.

While Ada was speaking to him in replyI glanced (I need not say
with how much interest) at his face. It was a handsomelively
quick facefull of change and motion; and his hair was a silvered
iron-grey. I took him to be nearer sixty than fiftybut he was
uprightheartyand robust. From the moment of his first speaking
to us his voice had connected itself with an association in my mind
that I could not define; but nowall at oncea something sudden
in his manner and a pleasant expression in his eyes recalled the
gentleman in the stagecoach six years ago on the memorable day of
my journey to Reading. I was certain it was he. I never was so
frightened in my life as when I made the discoveryfor he caught
my glanceand appearing to read my thoughtsgave such a look at
the door that I thought we had lost him.

HoweverI am happy to say he remained where he wasand asked me
what I thought of Mrs. Jellyby.

She exerts herself very much for Africa, sir,I said.

Nobly!returned Mr. Jarndyce. "But you answer like Ada." Whom I
had not heard. "You all think something elseI see."

We rather thought,said Iglancing at Richard and Adawho
entreated me with their eyes to speakthat perhaps she was a
little unmindful of her home.

Floored!cried Mr. Jarndyce.

I was rather alarmed again.

Well! I want to know your real thoughts, my dear. I may have
sent you there on purpose.

We thought that, perhaps,said Ihesitatingit is right to
begin with the obligations of home, sir; and that, perhaps, while
those are overlooked and neglected, no other duties can possibly be
substituted for them.

The little Jellybys,said Richardcoming to my reliefare
really--I can't help expressing myself strongly, sir--in a devil of
a state.

She means well,said Mr. Jarndyce hastily. "The wind's in the
east."

It was in the north, sir, as we came down,observed Richard.

My dear Rick,said Mr. Jarndycepoking the fireI'll take an
oath it's either in the east or going to be. I am always conscious
of an uncomfortable sensation now and then when the wind is blowing
in the east.

Rheumatism, sir?said Richard.

I dare say it is, Rick. I believe it is. And so the little Jell
--I had my doubts about 'em--are in a--oh, Lord, yes, it's
easterly!said Mr. Jarndyce.

He had taken two or three undecided turns up and down while
uttering these broken sentencesretaining the poker in one hand


and rubbing his hair with the otherwith a good-natured vexation
at once so whimsical and so lovable that I am sure we were more
delighted with him than we could possibly have expressed in any
words. He gave an arm to Ada and an arm to meand bidding Richard
bring a candlewas leading the way out when he suddenly turned us
all back again.

Those little Jellybys. Couldn't you--didn't you--now, if it had
rained sugar-plums, or three-cornered raspberry tarts, or anything
of that sort!said Mr. Jarndyce.

Oh, cousin--Ada hastily began.

Good, my pretty pet. I like cousin. Cousin John, perhaps, is
better.

Then, cousin John--Ada laughingly began again.

Ha, ha! Very good indeed!said Mr. Jarndyce with great
enjoyment. "Sounds uncommonly natural. Yesmy dear?"

It did better than that. It rained Esther.

Aye?said Mr. Jarndyce. "What did Esther do?"

Why, cousin John,said Adaclasping her hands upon his arm and
shaking her head at me across him--for I wanted her to be quiet-"
Esther was their friend directly. Esther nursed themcoaxed them
to sleepwashed and dressed themtold them storieskept them
quietbought them keepsakes"--My dear girl! I had only gone out
with Peepy after he was found and given him a littletiny horse!-"
andcousin Johnshe softened poor Carolinethe eldest oneso
much and was so thoughtful for me and so amiable! NonoI won't
be contradictedEsther dear! You knowyou knowit's true!"

The warm-hearted darling leaned across her cousin John and kissed
meand then looking up in his faceboldly saidAt all events,
cousin John, I WILL thank you for the companion you have given me.
I felt as if she challenged him to run away. But he didn't.

Where did you say the wind was, Rick?asked Mr. Jarndyce.

In the north as we came down, sir.

You are right. There's no east in it. A mistake of mine. Come,
girls, come and see your home!

It was one of those delightfully irregular houses where you go up
and down steps out of one room into anotherand where you come
upon more rooms when you think you have seen all there areand
where there is a bountiful provision of little halls and passages
and where you find still older cottage-rooms in unexpected places
with lattice windows and green growth pressing through them. Mine
which we entered firstwas of this kindwith an up-and-down roof
that had more corners in it than I ever counted afterwards and a
chimney (there was a wood fire on the hearth) paved all around with
pure white tilesin every one of which a bright miniature of the
fire was blazing. Out of this roomyou went down two steps into a
charming little sitting-room looking down upon a flower-garden
which room was henceforth to belong to Ada and me. Out of this you
went up three steps into Ada's bedroomwhich had a fine broad
window commanding a beautiful view (we saw a great expanse of
darkness lying underneath the stars)to which there was a hollow
window-seatin whichwith a spring-lockthree dear Adas might


have been lost at once. Out of this room you passed into a little
gallerywith which the other best rooms (only two) communicated
and soby a little staircase of shallow steps with a number of
corner stairs in itconsidering its lengthdown into the hall.
But if instead of going out at Ada's door you came back into my
roomand went out at the door by which you had entered itand
turned up a few crooked steps that branched off in an unexpected
manner from the stairsyou lost yourself in passageswith mangles
in themand three-cornered tablesand a native Hindu chairwhich
was also a sofaa boxand a bedsteadand looked in every form
something between a bamboo skeleton and a great bird-cageand had
been brought from India nobody knew by whom or when. From these
you came on Richard's roomwhich was part librarypart sitting-
roompart bedroomand seemed indeed a comfortable compound of
many rooms. Out of that you went straightwith a little interval
of passageto the plain room where Mr. Jarndyce sleptall the
year roundwith his window openhis bedstead without any
furniture standing in the middle of the floor for more airand his
cold bath gaping for him in a smaller room adjoining. Out of that
you came into another passagewhere there were back-stairs and
where you could hear the horses being rubbed down outside the
stable and being told to "Hold up" and "Get over as they slipped
about very much on the uneven stones. Or you might, if you came
out at another door (every room had at least two doors), go
straight down to the hall again by half-a-dozen steps and a low
archway, wondering how you got back there or had ever got out of
it.

The furniture, old-fashioned rather than old, like the house, was
as pleasantly irregular. Ada's sleeping-room was all flowers--in
chintz and paper, in velvet, in needlework, in the brocade of two
stiff courtly chairs which stood, each attended by a little page of
a stool for greater state, on either side of the fire-place. Our
sitting-room was green and had framed and glazed upon the walls
numbers of surprising and surprised birds, staring out of pictures
at a real trout in a case, as brown and shining as if it had been
served with gravy; at the death of Captain Cook; and at the whole
process of preparing tea in China, as depicted by Chinese artists.
In my room there were oval engravings of the months--ladies
haymaking in short waists and large hats tied under the chin, for
June; smooth-legged noblemen pointing with cocked-hats to village
steeples, for October. Half-length portraits in crayons abounded
all through the house, but were so dispersed that I found the
brother of a youthful officer of mine in the china-closet and the
grey old age of my pretty young bride, with a flower in her bodice,
in the breakfast-room. As substitutes, I had four angels, of Queen
Anne's reign, taking a complacent gentleman to heaven, in festoons,
with some difficulty; and a composition in needlework representing
fruit, a kettle, and an alphabet. All the movables, from the
wardrobes to the chairs and tables, hangings, glasses, even to the
pincushions and scent-bottles on the dressing-tables, displayed the
same quaint variety. They agreed in nothing but their perfect
neatness, their display of the whitest linen, and their storing-up,
wheresoever the existence of a drawer, small or large, rendered it
possible, of quantities of rose-leaves and sweet lavender. Such,
with its illuminated windows, softened here and there by shadows of
curtains, shining out upon the starlight night; with its light, and
warmth, and comfort; with its hospitable jingle, at a distance, of
preparations for dinner; with the face of its generous master
brightening everything we saw; and just wind enough without to
sound a low accompaniment to everything we heard, were our first
impressions of Bleak House.

I am glad you like it said Mr. Jarndyce when he had brought us


round again to Ada's sitting-room. It makes no pretensionsbut
it is a comfortable little placeI hopeand will be more so with
such bright young looks in it. You have barely half an hour before
dinner. There's no one here but the finest creature upon earth--a
child."

More children, Esther!said Ada.

I don't mean literally a child,pursued Mr. Jarndyce; "not a
child in years. He is grown up--he is at least as old as I am--but
in simplicityand freshnessand enthusiasmand a fine guileless
inaptitude for all worldly affairshe is a perfect child."

We felt that he must be very interesting.

He knows Mrs. Jellyby,said Mr. Jarndyce. "He is a musical man
an amateurbut might have been a professional. He is an artist
tooan amateurbut might have been a professional. He is a man
of attainments and of captivating manners. He has been unfortunate
in his affairsand unfortunate in his pursuitsand unfortunate in
his family; but he don't care--he's a child!"

Did you imply that he has children of his own, sir?inquired
Richard.

Yes, Rick! Half-a-dozen. More! Nearer a dozen, I should think.
But he has never looked after them. How could he? He wanted
somebody to look after HIM. He is a child, you know!said Mr.
Jarndyce.

And have the children looked after themselves at all, sir?
inquired Richard.

Why, just as you may suppose,said Mr. Jarndycehis countenance
suddenly falling. "It is said that the children of the very poor
are not brought upbut dragged up. Harold Skimpole's children
have tumbled up somehow or other. The wind's getting round again
I am afraid. I feel it rather!"

Richard observed that the situation was exposed on a sharp night.

It IS exposed,said Mr. Jarndyce. "No doubt that's the cause.
Bleak House has an exposed sound. But you are coming my way. Come
along!"

Our luggage having arrived and being all at handI was dressed in
a few minutes and engaged in putting my worldly goods away when a
maid (not the one in attendance upon Adabut anotherwhom I had
not seen) brought a basket into my room with two bunches of keys in
itall labelled.

For you, miss, if you please,said she.

For me?said I.

The housekeeping keys, miss.

I showed my surprisefor she added with some little surprise on
her own partI was told to bring them as soon as you was alone,
miss. Miss Summerson, if I don't deceive myself?

Yes,said I. "That is my name."

The large bunch is the housekeeping, and the little bunch is the


cellars, miss. Any time you was pleased to appoint tomorrow
morning, I was to show you the presses and things they belong to.

I said I would be ready at half-past sixand after she was gone
stood looking at the basketquite lost in the magnitude of my
trust. Ada found me thus and had such a delightful confidence in
me when I showed her the keys and told her about them that it would
have been insensibility and ingratitude not to feel encouraged.
knewto be surethat it was the dear girl's kindnessbut I liked
to be so pleasantly cheated.

When we went downstairswe were presented to Mr. Skimpolewho was
standing before the fire telling Richard how fond he used to bein
his school-timeof football. He was a little bright creature with
a rather large headbut a delicate face and a sweet voiceand
there was a perfect charm in him. All he said was so free from
effort and spontaneous and was said with such a captivating gaiety
that it was fascinating to hear him talk. Being of a more slender
figure than Mr. Jarndyce and having a richer complexionwith
browner hairhe looked younger. Indeedhe had more the
appearance in all respects of a damaged young man than a well-
preserved elderly one. There was an easy negligence in his manner
and even in his dress (his hair carelessly disposedand his
neckkerchief loose and flowingas I have seen artists paint their
own portraits) which I could not separate from the idea of a
romantic youth who had undergone some unique process of
depreciation. It struck me as being not at all like the manner or
appearance of a man who had advanced in life by the usual road of
yearscaresand experiences.

I gathered from the conversation that Mr. Skimpole had been
educated for the medical profession and had once livedin his
professional capacityin the household of a German prince. He
told ushoweverthat as he had always been a mere child in point
of weights and measures and had never known anything about them
(except that they disgusted him)he had never been able to
prescribe with the requisite accuracy of detail. In facthe said
he had no head for detail. And he told uswith great humourthat
when he was wanted to bleed the prince or physic any of his people
he was generally found lying on his back in bedreading the
newspapers or making fancy-sketches in penciland couldn't come.
The princeat lastobjecting to thisin which,said Mr.
Skimpolein the frankest mannerhe was perfectly right,the
engagement terminatedand Mr. Skimpole having (as he added with
delightful gaiety) "nothing to live upon but lovefell in love
and marriedand surrounded himself with rosy cheeks." His good
friend Jarndyce and some other of his good friends then helped him
in quicker or slower successionto several openings in lifebut
to no purposefor he must confess to two of the oldest infirmities
in the world: one was that he had no idea of timethe other that
he had no idea of money. In consequence of which he never kept an
appointmentnever could transact any businessand never knew the
value of anything! Well! So he had got on in lifeand here he
was! He was very fond of reading the papersvery fond of making
fancy-sketches with a pencilvery fond of naturevery fond of
art. All he asked of society was to let him live. THAT wasn't
much. His wants were few. Give him the papersconversation
musicmuttoncoffeelandscapefruit in the seasona few sheets
of Bristol-boardand a little claretand he asked no more. He
was a mere child in the worldbut he didn't cry for the moon. He
said to the worldGo your several ways in peace! Wear red coats,
blue coats, lawn sleeves; put pens behind your ears, wear aprons;
go after glory, holiness, commerce, trade, any object you prefer;
only--let Harold Skimpole live!


All this and a great deal more he told usnot only with the utmost
brilliancy and enjoymentbut with a certain vivacious candour-speaking
of himself as if he were not at all his own affairas if
Skimpole were a third personas if he knew that Skimpole had his
singularities but still had his claims toowhich were the general
business of the community and must not be slighted. He was quite
enchanting. If I felt at all confused at that early time in
endeavouring to reconcile anything he said with anything I had
thought about the duties and accountabilities of life (which I am
far from sure of)I was confused by not exactly understanding why
he was free of them. That he WAS free of themI scarcely doubted;
he was so very clear about it himself.

I covet nothing,said Mr. Skimpole in the same light way.
Possession is nothing to me. Here is my friend Jarndyce's
excellent house. I feel obliged to him for possessing it. I can
sketch it and alter it. I can set it to music. When I am here, I
have sufficient possession of it and have neither trouble, cost,
nor responsibility. My steward's name, in short, is Jarndyce, and
he can't cheat me. We have been mentioning Mrs. Jellyby. There is
a bright-eyed woman, of a strong will and immense power of business
detail, who throws herself into objects with surprising ardour! I
don't regret that I have not a strong will and an immense power of
business detail to throw myself into objects with surprising
ardour. I can admire her without envy. I can sympathize with the
objects. I can dream of them. I can lie down on the grass--in
fine weather--and float along an African river, embracing all the
natives I meet, as sensible of the deep silence and sketching the
dense overhanging tropical growth as accurately as if I were there.
I don't know that it's of any direct use my doing so, but it's all
I can do, and I do it thoroughly. Then, for heaven's sake, having
Harold Skimpole, a confiding child, petitioning you, the world, an
agglomeration of practical people of business habits, to let him
live and admire the human family, do it somehow or other, like good
souls, and suffer him to ride his rocking-horse!

It was plain enough that Mr. Jarndyce had not been neglectful of
the adjuration. Mr. Skimpole's general position there would have
rendered it so without the addition of what he presently said.

It's only you, the generous creatures, whom I envy,said Mr.
Skimpoleaddressing ushis new friendsin an impersonal manner.
I envy you your power of doing what you do. It is what I should
revel in myself. I don't feel any vulgar gratitude to you. I
almost feel as if YOU ought to be grateful to ME for giving you the
opportunity of enjoying the luxury of generosity. I know you like
it. For anything I can tell, I may have come into the world
expressly for the purpose of increasing your stock of happiness. I
may have been born to be a benefactor to you by sometimes giving
you an opportunity of assisting me in my little perplexities. Why
should I regret my incapacity for details and worldly affairs when
it leads to such pleasant consequences? I don't regret it
therefore.

Of all his playful speeches (playfulyet always fully meaning what
they expressed) none seemed to be more to the taste of Mr. Jarndyce
than this. I had often new temptationsafterwardsto wonder
whether it was really singularor only singular to methat he
who was probably the most grateful of mankind upon the least
occasionshould so desire to escape the gratitude of others.

We were all enchanted. I felt it a merited tribute to the engaging
qualities of Ada and Richard that Mr. Skimpoleseeing them for the


first timeshould he so unreserved and should lay himself out to
be so exquisitely agreeable. They (and especially Richard) were
naturally pleased; for similar reasonsand considered it no common
privilege to be so freely confided in by such an attractive man.
The more we listenedthe more gaily Mr. Skimpole talked. And what
with his fine hilarious manner and his engaging candour and his
genial way of lightly tossing his own weaknesses aboutas if he
had saidI am a child, you know! You are designing people
compared with me(he really made me consider myself in that light)
but I am gay and innocent; forget your worldly arts and play with
me!the effect was absolutely dazzling.

He was so full of feeling too and had such a delicate sentiment for
what was beautiful or tender that he could have won a heart by that
alone. In the eveningwhen I was preparing to make tea and Ada
was touching the piano in the adjoining room and softly humming a
tune to her cousin Richardwhich they had happened to mentionhe
came and sat down on the sofa near me and so spoke of Ada that I
almost loved him.

She is like the morning,he said. "With that golden hairthose
blue eyesand that fresh bloom on her cheekshe is like the
summer morning. The birds here will mistake her for it. We will
not call such a lovely young creature as thatwho is a joy to all
mankindan orphan. She is the child of the universe."

Mr. JarndyceI foundwas standing near us with his hands behind
him and an attentive smile upon his face.

The universe,he observedmakes rather an indifferent parent, I
am afraid.

Oh! I don't know!cried Mr. Skimpole buoyantly.

I think I do know,said Mr. Jarndyce.

Well!cried Mr. Skimpole. "You know the world (which in your
sense is the universe)and I know nothing of itso you shall have
your way. But if I had mine glancing at the cousins, there
should be no brambles of sordid realities in such a path as that.
It should be strewn with roses; it should lie through bowerswhere
there was no springautumnnor winterbut perpetual summer. Age
or change should never wither it. The base word money should never
be breathed near it!"

Mr. Jarndyce patted him on the head with a smileas if he had been
really a childand passing a step or two onand stopping a
momentglanced at the young cousins. His look was thoughtfulbut
had a benignant expression in it which I often (how often!) saw
againwhich has long been engraven on my heart. The room in which
they werecommunicating with that in which he stoodwas only
lighted by the fire. Ada sat at the piano; Richard stood beside
herbending down. Upon the walltheir shadows blended together
surrounded by strange formsnot without a ghostly motion caught
from the unsteady firethough reflecting from motionless objects.
Ada touched the notes so softly and sang so low that the wind
sighing away to the distant hillswas as audible as the music.
The mystery of the future and the little clue afforded to it by the
voice of the present seemed expressed in the whole picture.

But it is not to recall this fancywell as I remember itthat I
recall the scene. FirstI was not quite unconscious of the
contrast in respect of meaning and intention between the silent
look directed that way and the flow of words that had preceded it.


Secondlythough Mr. Jarndyce's glance as he withdrew it rested for
but a moment on meI felt as if in that moment he confided to me-and
knew that he confided to me and that I received the confidence
--his hope that Ada and Richard might one day enter on a dearer
relationship.

Mr. Skimpole could play on the piano and the violoncelloand he
was a composer--had composed half an opera oncebut got tired of
it--and played what he composed with taste. After tea we had quite
a little concertin which Richard--who was enthralled by Ada's
singing and told me that she seemed to know all the songs that ever
were written--and Mr. Jarndyceand I were the audience. After a
little while I missed first Mr. Skimpole and afterwards Richard
and while I was thinking how could Richard stay away so long and
lose so muchthe maid who had given me the keys looked in at the
doorsayingIf you please, miss, could you spare a minute?

When I was shut out with her in the hallshe saidholding up her
handsOh, if you please, miss, Mr. Carstone says would you come
upstairs to Mr. Skimpole's room. He has been took, miss!

Took?said I.

Took, miss. Sudden,said the maid.

I was apprehensive that his illness might be of a dangerous kind
but of course I begged her to be quiet and not disturb any one and
collected myselfas I followed her quickly upstairssufficiently
to consider what were the best remedies to be applied if it should
prove to be a fit. She threw open a door and I went into a
chamberwhereto my unspeakable surpriseinstead of finding Mr.
Skimpole stretched upon the bed or prostrate on the floorI found
him standing before the fire smiling at Richardwhile Richard
with a face of great embarrassmentlooked at a person on the sofa
in a white great-coatwith smooth hair upon his head and not much
of itwhich he was wiping smoother and making less of with a
pocket-handkerchief.

Miss Summerson,said Richard hurriedlyI am glad you are come.
You will be able to advise us. Our friend Mr. Skimpole--don't be
alarmed!--is arrested for debt.

And really, my dear Miss Summerson,said Mr. Skimpole with his
agreeable candourI never was in a situation in which that
excellent sense and quiet habit of method and usefulness, which
anybody must observe in you who has the happiness of being a
quarter of an hour in your society, was more needed.

The person on the sofawho appeared to have a cold in his head
gave such a very loud snort that he startled me.

Are you arrested for much, sir?I inquired of Mr. Skimpole.

My dear Miss Summerson,said heshaking his head pleasantlyI
don't know. Some pounds, odd shillings, and halfpence, I think,
were mentioned.

It's twenty-four pound, sixteen, and sevenpence ha'penny,
observed the stranger. "That's wot it is."

And it sounds--somehow it sounds,said Mr. Skimpolelike a
small sum?

The strange man said nothing but made another snort. It was such a


powerful one that it seemed quite to lift him out of his seat.

Mr. Skimpole,said Richard to mehas a delicacy in applying to
my cousin Jarndyce because he has lately--I think, sir, I
understood you that you had lately--

Oh, yes!returned Mr. Skimpolesmiling. "Though I forgot how
much it was and when it was. Jarndyce would readily do it again
but I have the epicure-like feeling that I would prefer a novelty
in helpthat I would rather and he looked at Richard and me,
develop generosity in a new soil and in a new form of flower."

What do you think will be best, Miss Summerson?said Richard
aside.

I ventured to inquiregenerallybefore replyingwhat would
happen if the money were not produced.

Jail,said the strange mancoolly putting his handkerchief into
his hatwhich was on the floor at his feet. "Or Coavinses."

May I ask, sir, what is--

Coavinses?said the strange man. "A 'ouse."

Richard and I looked at one another again. It was a most singular
thing that the arrest was our embarrassment and not Mr. Skimpole's.
He observed us with a genial interestbut there seemedif I may
venture on such a contradictionnothing selfish in it. He had
entirely washed his hands of the difficultyand it had become
ours.

I thought,he suggestedas if good-naturedly to help us out
that being parties in a Chancery suit concerning (as people say) a
large amount of property, Mr. Richard or his beautiful cousin, or
both, could sign something, or make over something, or give some
sort of undertaking, or pledge, or bond? I don't know what the
business name of it may be, but I suppose there is some instrument
within their power that would settle this?

Not a bit on it,said the strange man.

Really?returned Mr. Skimpole. "That seems oddnowto one who
is no judge of these things!"

Odd or even,said the stranger grufflyI tell you, not a bit on
it!

Keep your temper, my good fellow, keep your temper!Mr. Skimpole
gently reasoned with him as he made a little drawing of his head on
the fly-leaf of a book. "Don't be ruffled by your occupation. We
can separate you from your office; we can separate the individual
from the pursuit. We are not so prejudiced as to suppose that in
private life you are otherwise than a very estimable manwith a
great deal of poetry in your natureof which you may not be
conscious.

The stranger only answered with another violent snortwhether in
acceptance of the poetry-tribute or in disdainful rejection of it
he did not express to me.

Now, my dear Miss Summerson, and my dear Mr. Richard,said Mr.
Skimpole gailyinnocentlyand confidingly as he looked at his
drawing with his head on one sidehere you see me utterly


incapable of helping myself, and entirely in your hands! I only
ask to be free. The butterflies are free. Mankind will surely not
deny to Harold Skimpole what it concedes to the butterflies!

My dear Miss Summerson,said Richard in a whisperI have ten
pounds that I received from Mr. Kenge. I must try what that will
do.

I possessed fifteen poundsodd shillingswhich I had saved from
my quarterly allowance during several years. I had always thought
that some accident might happen which would throw me suddenly
without any relation or any propertyon the world and had always
tried to keep some little money by me that I might not be quite
penniless. I told Richard of my having this little store and
having no present need of itand I asked him delicately to inform
Mr. Skimpolewhile I should be gone to fetch itthat we would
have the pleasure of paying his debt.

When I came backMr. Skimpole kissed my hand and seemed quite
touched. Not on his own account (I was again aware of that
perplexing and extraordinary contradiction)but on oursas if
personal considerations were impossible with him and the
contemplation of our happiness alone affected him. Richard
begging mefor the greater grace of the transactionas he said
to settle with Coavinses (as Mr. Skimpole now jocularly called
him)I counted out the money and received the necessary
acknowledgment. Thistoodelighted Mr. Skimpole.

His compliments were so delicately administered that I blushed less
than I might have done and settled with the stranger in the white
coat without making any mistakes. He put the money in his pocket
and shortly saidWell, then, I'll wish you a good evening, miss.

My friend said Mr. Skimpole, standing with his back to the fire
after giving up the sketch when it was half finished, I should
like to ask you somethingwithout offence."

I think the reply wasCut away, then!

Did you know this morning, now, that you were coming out on this
errand?said Mr. Skimpole.

Know'd it yes'day aft'noon at tea-time,said Coavinses.

It didn't affect your appetite? Didn't make you at all uneasy?

Not a hit,said Coavinses. "I know'd if you wos missed to-day
you wouldn't be missed to-morrow. A day makes no such odds."

But when you came down here,proceeded Mr. Skimpoleit was a
fine day. The sun was shining, the wind was blowing, the lights
and shadows were passing across the fields, the birds were
singing.

Nobody said they warn't, in MY hearing,returned Coavinses.

No,observed Mr. Skimpole. "But what did you think upon the
road?"

Wot do you mean?growled Coavinses with an appearance of strong
resentment. "Think! I've got enough to doand little enough to
get for it without thinking. Thinking!" (with profound contempt).

Then you didn't think, at all events,proceeded Mr. Skimpoleto


this effect: 'Harold Skimpole loves to see the sun shine, loves to
hear the wind blow, loves to watch the changing lights and shadows,
loves to hear the birds, those choristers in Nature's great
cathedral. And does it seem to me that I am about to deprive
Harold Skimpole of his share in such possessions, which are his
only birthright!' You thought nothing to that effect?

I--certainly--did--NOT,said Coavinseswhose doggedness in
utterly renouncing the idea was of that intense kind that he could
only give adequate expression to it by putting a long interval
between each wordand accompanying the last with a jerk that might
have dislocated his neck.

Very odd and very curious, the mental process is, in you men of
business!said Mr. Skimpole thoughtfully. "Thank youmy friend.
Good night."

As our absence had been long enough already to seem strange
downstairsI returned at once and found Ada sitting at work by the
fireside talking to her cousin John. Mr. Skimpole presently
appearedand Richard shortly after him. I was sufficiently
engaged during the remainder of the evening in taking my first
lesson in backgammon from Mr. Jarndycewho was very fond of the
game and from whom I wished of course to learn it as quickly as I
could in order that I might be of the very small use of being able
to play when he had no better adversary. But I thought
occasionallywhen Mr. Skimpole played some fragments of his own
compositions or whenboth at the piano and the violoncelloand at
our tablehe preserved with an absence of all effort his
delightful spirits and his easy flow of conversationthat Richard
and I seemed to retain the transferred impression of having been
arrested since dinner and that it was very curious altogether.

It was late before we separatedfor when Ada was going at eleven
o'clockMr. Skimpole went to the piano and rattled hilariously
that the best of all ways to lengthen our days was to steal a few
hours from nightmy dear! It was past twelve before he took his
candle and his radiant face out of the roomand I think he might
have kept us thereif he had seen fituntil daybreak. Ada and
Richard were lingering for a few moments by the firewondering
whether Mrs. Jellyby had yet finished her dictation for the day
when Mr. Jarndycewho had been out of the roomreturned.

Oh, dear me, what's this, what's this!he saidrubbing his head
and walking about with his good-humoured vexation. "What's this
they tell me? Rickmy boyEsthermy dearwhat have you been
doing? Why did you do it? How could you do it? How much apiece
was it? The wind's round again. I feel it all over me!"

We neither of us quite knew what to answer.

Come, Rick, come! I must settle this before I sleep. How much
are you out of pocket? You two made the money up, you know! Why
did you? How could you? Oh, Lord, yes, it's due east--must be!

Really, sir,said RichardI don't think it would be honourable
in me to tell you. Mr. Skimpole relied upon us--

Lord bless you, my dear boy! He relies upon everybody!said Mr.
Jarndycegiving his head a great rub and stopping short.

Indeed, sir?

Everybody! And he'll be in the same scrape again next week!said


Mr. Jarndycewalking again at a great pacewith a candle in his
hand that had gone out. "He's always in the same scrape. He was
born in the same scrape. I verily believe that the announcement in
the newspapers when his mother was confined was 'On Tuesday last
at her residence in Botheration BuildingsMrs. Skimpole of a son
in difficulties.'"

Richard laughed heartily but addedStill, sir, I don't want to
shake his confidence or to break his confidence, and if I submit to
your better knowledge again, that I ought to keep his secret, I
hope you will consider before you press me any more. Of course, if
you do press me, sir, I shall know I am wrong and will tell you.

Well!cried Mr. Jarndycestopping againand making several
absent endeavours to put his candlestick in his pocket. "I--here!
Take it awaymy dear. I don't know what I am about with it; it's
all the wind--invariably has that effect--I won't press youRick;
you may be right. But really--to get hold of you and Esther--and
to squeeze you like a couple of tender young Saint Michael's
oranges! It'll blow a gale in the course of the night!"

He was now alternately putting his hands into his pockets as if he
were going to keep them there a long timeand taking them out
again and vehemently rubbing them all over his head.

I ventured to take this opportunity of hinting that Mr. Skimpole
being in all such matters quite a child-


Eh, my dear?said Mr. Jarndycecatching at the word.

Being quite a childsir said I, and so different from other
people--"

You are right!said Mr. Jarndycebrightening. "Your woman's wit
hits the mark. He is a child--an absolute child. I told you he
was a childyou knowwhen I first mentioned him."

Certainly! Certainly! we said.

And he IS a child. Now, isn't he?asked Mr. Jarndyce
brightening more and more.

He was indeedwe said.

When you come to think of it, it's the height of childishness in
you--I mean me--said Mr. Jarodyceto regard him for a moment as
a man. You can't make HIM responsible. The idea of Harold
Skimpole with designs or plans, or knowledge of consequences! Ha,
ha, ha!

It was so delicious to see the clouds about his bright face
clearingand to see him so heartily pleasedand to knowas it
was impossible not to knowthat the source of his pleasure was the
goodness which was tortured by condemningor mistrustingor
secretly accusing any onethat I saw the tears in Ada's eyes
while she echoed his laughand felt them in my own.

Why, what a cod's head and shoulders I am,said Mr. Jarndyceto
require reminding of it! The whole business shows the child from
beginning to end. Nobody but a child would have thought of
singling YOU two out for parties in the affair! Nobody but a child
would have thought of YOUR having the money! If it had been a
thousand pounds, it would have been just the same!said Mr.
Jarndyce with his whole face in a glow.


We all confirmed it from our night's experience.

To be sure, to be sure!said Mr. Jarndyce. "HoweverRick
Estherand you tooAdafor I don't know that even your little
purse is safe from his inexperience--I must have a promise all
round that nothing of this sort shall ever be done any more. No
advances! Not even sixpences."

We all promised faithfullyRichard with a merry glance at me
touching his pocket as if to remind me that there was no danger of
OUR transgressing.

As to Skimpole,said Mr. Jarndycea habitable doll's house with
good board and a few tin people to get into debt with and borrow
money of would set the boy up in life. He is in a child's sleep by
this time, I suppose; it's time I should take my craftier head to
my more worldly pillow. Good night, my dears. God bless you!

He peeped in againwith a smiling facebefore we had lighted our
candlesand saidOh! I have been looking at the weather-cock. I
find it was a false alarm about the wind. It's in the south!And
went away singing to himself.

Ada and I agreedas we talked together for a little while
upstairsthat this caprice about the wind was a fiction and that
he used the pretence to account for any disappointment he could not
concealrather than he would blame the real cause of it or
disparage or depreciate any one. We thought this very
characteristic of his eccentric gentleness and of the difference
between him and those petulant people who make the weather and the
winds (particularly that unlucky wind which he had chosen for such
a different purpose) the stalking-horses of their splenetic and
gloomy humours.

Indeedso much affection for him had been added in this one
evening to my gratitude that I hoped I already began to understand
him through that mingled feeling. Any seeming inconsistencies in
Mr. Skimpole or in Mrs. Jellyby I could not expect to be able to
reconcilehaving so little experience or practical knowledge.
Neither did I tryfor my thoughts were busy when I was alonewith
Ada and Richard and with the confidence I had seemed to receive
concerning them. My fancymade a little wild by the wind perhaps
would not consent to be all unselfisheitherthough I would have
persuaded it to be so if I could. It wandered back to my
godmother's house and came along the intervening trackraising up
shadowy speculations which had sometimes trembled there in the dark
as to what knowledge Mr. Jarndyce had of my earliest history--even
as to the possibility of his being my fatherthough that idle
dream was quite gone now.

It was all gone nowI rememberedgetting up from the fire. It was
not for me to muse over bygonesbut to act with a cheerful spirit
and a grateful heart. So I said to myselfEsther, Esther, Esther!
Duty, my dear!and gave my little basket of housekeeping keys such
a shake that they sounded like little bells and rang me hopefully to
bed.

CHAPTER VII

The Ghost's Walk


While Esther sleepsand while Esther wakesit is still wet weather
down at the place in Lincolnshire. The rain is ever falling--drip
dripdrip--by day and night upon the broad flagged terrace-
pavementthe Ghost's Walk. The weather is so very bad down in
Lincolnshire that the liveliest imagination can scarcely apprehend
its ever being fine again. Not that there is any superabundant life
of imagination on the spotfor Sir Leicester is not here (and
trulyeven if he werewould not do much for it in that
particular)but is in Paris with my Lady; and solitudewith dusky
wingssits brooding upon Chesney Wold.

There may be some motions of fancy among the lower animals at
Chesney Wold. The horses in the stables--the long stables in a
barrenred-brick court-yardwhere there is a great bell in a
turretand a clock with a large facewhich the pigeons who live
near it and who love to perch upon its shoulders seem to be always
consulting--THEY may contemplate some mental pictures of fine
weather on occasionsand may be better artists at them than the
grooms. The old roanso famous for cross-country workturning his
large eyeball to the grated window near his rackmay remember the
fresh leaves that glisten there at other times and the scents that
stream inand may have a fine run with the houndswhile the human
helperclearing out the next stallnever stirs beyond his
pitchfork and birch-broom. The greywhose place is opposite the
door and who with an impatient rattle of his halter pricks his ears
and turns his head so wistfully when it is openedand to whom the
opener says'Woa grey, then, steady! Noabody wants you to-day!
may know it quite as well as the man. The whole seemingly
monotonous and uncompanionable half-dozenstabled togethermay
pass the long wet hours when the door is shut in livelier
communication than is held in the servants' hall or at the Dedlock
Armsor may even beguile the time by improving (perhaps corrupting)
the pony in the loose-box in the corner.

So the mastiffdozing in his kennel in the court-yard with his
large head on his pawsmay think of the hot sunshine when the
shadows of the stable-buildings tire his patience out by changing
and leave him at one time of the day no broader refuge than the
shadow of his own housewhere he sits on endpanting and growling
shortand very much wanting something to worry besides himself and
his chain. So nowhalf-waking and all-winkinghe may recall the
house full of companythe coach-houses full of vehiclesthe
stables fall of horsesand the out-buildings full of attendants
upon horsesuntil he is undecided about the present and comes forth
to see how it is. Thenwith that impatient shake of himselfhe
may growl in the spiritRain, rain, rain! Nothing but rain--and
no family here!as he goes in again and lies down with a gloomy
yawn.

So with the dogs in the kennel-buildings across the parkwho have
their resfless fits and whose doleful voices when the wind has been
very obstinate have even made it known in the house itself-upstairs
downstairsand in my Lady's chamber. They may hunt the
whole country-sidewhile the raindrops are pattering round their
inactivity. So the rabbits with their self-betraying tails
frisking in and out of holes at roots of treesmay be lively with
ideas of the breezy days when their ears are blown about or of those
seasons of interest when there are sweet young plants to gnaw. The
turkey in the poultry-yardalways troubled with a class-grievance
(probably Christmas)may be reminiscent of that summer morning
wrongfully taken from him when he got into the lane among the felled
treeswhere there was a barn and barley. The discontented goose
who stoops to pass under the old gatewaytwenty feet highmay


gabble outif we only knew ita waddling preference for weather
when the gateway casts its shadow on the ground.

Be this as it maythere is not much fancy otherwise stirring at
Chesney Wold. If there be a little at any odd momentit goes
like a little noise in that old echoing placea long way and
usually leads off to ghosts and mystery.

It has rained so hard and rained so long down in Lincolnshire that
Mrs. Rouncewellthe old housekeeper at Chesney Woldhas several
times taken off her spectacles and cleaned them to make certain
that the drops were not upon the glasses. Mrs. Rouncewell might
have been sufficiently assured by hearing the rainbut that she is
rather deafwhich nothing will induce her to believe. She is a
fine old ladyhandsomestatelywonderfully neatand has such a
back and such a stomacher that if her stays should turn out when
she dies to have been a broad old-fashioned family fire-grate
nobody who knows her would have cause to be surprised. Weather
affects Mrs. Rouncewell little. The house is there in all
weathersand the houseas she expresses itis what she looks
at.She sits in her room (in a side passage on the ground floor
with an arched window commanding a smooth quadrangleadorned at
regular intervals with smooth round trees and smooth round blocks
of stoneas if the trees were going to play at bowls with the
stones)and the whole house reposes on her mind. She can open it
on occasion and be busy and flutteredbut it is shut up now and
lies on the breadth of Mrs. Rouncewell's iron-bound bosom in a
majestic sleep.

It is the next difficult thing to an impossibility to imagine
Chesney Wold without Mrs. Rouncewellbut she has only been here
fifty years. Ask her how longthis rainy dayand she shall
answer "fifty yearthree monthsand a fortnightby the blessing
of heavenif I live till Tuesday." Mr. Rouncewell died some time
before the decease of the pretty fashion of pig-tailsand modestly
hid his own (if he took it with him) in a corner of the churchyard
in the park near the mouldy porch. He was born in the market-town
and so was his young widow. Her progress in the family began in
the time of the last Sir Leicester and originated in the still-room.

The present representative of the Dedlocks is an excellent master.
He supposes all his dependents to be utterly bereft of individual
charactersintentionsor opinionsand is persuaded that he was
born to supersede the necessity of their having any. If he were to
make a discovery to the contraryhe would be simply stunned--would
never recover himselfmost likelyexcept to gasp and die. But he
is an excellent master stillholding it a part of his state to be
so. He has a great liking for Mrs. Rouncewell; he says she is a
most respectablecreditable woman. He always shakes hands with
her when he comes down to Chesney Wold and when he goes away; and
if he were very illor if he were knocked down by accidentor run
overor placed in any situation expressive of a Dedlock at a
disadvantagehe would say if he could speakLeave me, and send
Mrs. Rouncewell here!feeling his dignityat such a passsafer
with her than with anybody else.

Mrs. Rouncewell has known trouble. She has had two sonsof whom
the younger ran wildand went for a soldierand never came back.
Even to this hourMrs. Rouncewell's calm hands lose their
composure when she speaks of himand unfolding themselves from her
stomacherhover about her in an agitated manner as she says what a
likely ladwhat a fine ladwhat a gaygood-humouredclever lad
he was! Her second son would have been provided for at Chesney
Wold and would have been made steward in due seasonbut he took


when he was a schoolboyto constructing steam-engines out of
saucepans and setting birds to draw their own water with the least
possible amount of labourso assisting them with artful
contrivance of hydraulic pressure that a thirsty canary had only
in a literal senseto put his shoulder to the wheel and the job
was done. This propensity gave Mrs. Rouncewell great uneasiness.
She felt it with a mother's anguish to be a move in the Wat Tyler
directionwell knowing that Sir Leicester had that general
impression of an aptitude for any art to which smoke and a tall
chimney might be considered essential. But the doomed young rebel
(otherwise a mild youthand very persevering)showing no sign of
grace as he got older buton the contraryconstructing a model of
a power-loomshe was fainwith many tearsto mention his
backslidings to the baronet. "Mrs. Rouncewell said Sir
Leicester, I can never consent to argueas you knowwith any one
on any subject. You had better get rid of your boy; you had better
get him into some Works. The iron country farther north isI
supposethe congenial direction for a boy with these tendencies."
Farther north he wentand farther north he grew up; and if Sir
Leicester Dedlock ever saw him when he came to Chesney Wold to
visit his motheror ever thought of him afterwardsit is certain
that he only regarded him as one of a body of some odd thousand
conspiratorsswarthy and grimwho were in the habit of turning
out by torchlight two or three nights in the week for unlawful
purposes.

NeverthelessMrs. Rouncewell's son hasin the course of nature
and artgrown upand established himselfand marriedand called
unto him Mrs. Rouncewell's grandsonwhobeing out of his
apprenticeshipand home from a journey in far countrieswhither
he was sent to enlarge his knowledge and complete his preparations
for the venture of this lifestands leaning against the chimney-
piece this very day in Mrs. Rouncewell's room at Chesney Wold.

And, again and again, I am glad to see you, Watt! And, once
again, I am glad to see you, Watt!says Mrs. Rouncewell. "You are
a fine young fellow. You are like your poor uncle George. Ah!"
Mrs. Rouncewell's hands unquietas usualon this reference.

They say I am like my father, grandmother.

Like him, also, my dear--but most like your poor uncle George!
And your dear father.Mrs. Rouncewell folds her hands again. "He
is well?"

Thriving, grandmother, in every way.

I am thankful!Mrs. Rouncewell is fond of her son but has a
plaintive feeling towards himmuch as if he were a very honourable
soldier who had gone over to the enemy.

He is quite happy?says she.

Quite.

I am thankful! So he has brought you up to follow in his ways and
has sent you into foreign countries and the like? Well, he knows
best. There may be a world beyond Chesney Wold that I don't
understand. Though I am not young, either. And I have seen a
quantity of good company too!

Grandmother,says the young manchanging the subjectwhat a
very pretty girl that was I found with you just now. You called
her Rosa?


Yes, child. She is daughter of a widow in the village. Maids are
so hard to teach, now-a-days, that I have put her about me young.
She's an apt scholar and will do well. She shows the house
already, very pretty. She lives with me at my table here.

I hope I have not driven her away?

She supposes we have family affairs to speak about, I dare say.
She is very modest. It is a fine quality in a young woman. And
scarcer,says Mrs. Rouncewellexpanding her stomacher to its
utmost limitsthan it formerly was!

The young man inclines his head in acknowledgment of the precepts
of experience. Mrs. Rouncewell listens.

Wheels!says she. They have long been audible to the younger
ears of her companion. "What wheels on such a day as thisfor
gracious sake?"

After a short intervala tap at the door. "Come in!" A dark-
eyeddark-hairedshyvillage beauty comes in--so fresh in her
rosy and yet delicate bloom that the drops of rain which have
beaten on her hair look like the dew upon a flower fresh gathered.

What company is this, Rosa?says Mrs. Rouncewell.

It's two young men in a gig, ma'am, who want to see the house-yes,
and if you please, I told them so!in quick reply to a
gesture of dissent from the housekeeper. "I went to the hall-door
and told them it was the wrong day and the wrong hourbut the
young man who was driving took off his hat in the wet and begged me
to bring this card to you."

Read it, my dear Watt,says the housekeeper.

Rosa is so shy as she gives it to him that they drop it between
them and almost knock their foreheads together as they pick it up.
Rosa is shyer than before.

Mr. Guppyis all the information the card yields.

Guppy!repeats Mrs. RouncewellMR. Guppy! Nonsense, I never
heard of him!

If you please, he told ME that!says Rosa. "But he said that he
and the other young gentleman came from London only last night by
the mailon business at the magistrates' meetingten miles off
this morningand that as their business was soon overand they
had heard a great deal said of Chesney Woldand really didn't know
what to do with themselvesthey had come through the wet to see
it. They are lawyers. He says he is not in Mr. Tulkinghorn's
officebut he is sure he may make use of Mr. Tulkinghorn's name if
necessary." Findingnow she leaves offthat she has been making
quite a long speechRosa is shyer than ever.

NowMr. Tulkinghorn isin a mannerpart and parcel of the place
and besidesis supposed to have made Mrs. Rouncewell's will. The
old lady relaxesconsents to the admission of the visitors as a
favourand dismisses Rosa. The grandsonhoweverbeing smitten
by a sudden wish to see the house himselfproposes to join the
party. The grandmotherwho is pleased that he should have that
interestaccompanies him--though to do him justicehe is
exceedingly unwilling to trouble her.


Much obliged to you, ma'am!says Mr. Guppydivesting himself of
his wet dreadnought in the hall. "Us London lawyers don't often
get an outand when we dowe like to make the most of ityou
know."

The old housekeeperwith a gracious severity of deportmentwaves
her hand towards the great staircase. Mr. Guppy and his friend
follow Rosa; Mrs. Rouncewell and her grandson follow them; a young
gardener goes before to open the shutters.

As is usually the case with people who go over housesMr. Guppy
and his friend are dead beat before they have well begun. They
straggle about in wrong placeslook at wrong thingsdon't care
for the right thingsgape when more rooms are openedexhibit
profound depression of spiritsand are clearly knocked up. In
each successive chamber that they enterMrs. Rouncewellwho is as
upright as the house itselfrests apart in a window-seat or other
such nook and listens with stately approval to Rosa's exposition.
Her grandson is so attentive to it that Rosa is shyer than ever-and
prettier. Thus they pass on from room to roomraising the
pictured Dedlocks for a few brief minutes as the young gardener
admits the lightand reconsigning them to their graves as he shuts
it out again. It appears to the afflicted Mr. Guppy and his
inconsolable friend that there is no end to the Dedlockswhose
family greatness seems to consist in their never having done
anything to distinguish themselves for seven hundred years.

Even the long drawing-room of Chesney Wold cannot revive Mr.
Guppy's spirits. He is so low that he droops on the threshold and
has hardly strength of mind to enter. But a portrait over the
chimney-piecepainted by the fashionable artist of the dayacts
upon him like a charm. He recovers in a moment. He stares at it
with uncommon interest; he seems to be fixed and fascinated by it.

Dear me!says Mr. Guppy. "Who's that?"

The picture over the fire-place,says Rosais the portrait of
the present Lady Dedlock. It is considered a perfect likeness, and
the best work of the master.

'Blest,says Mr. Guppystaring in a kind of dismay at his
friendif I can ever have seen her. Yet I know her! Has the
picture been engraved, miss?

The picture has never been engraved. Sir Leicester has always
refused permission.

Well!says Mr. Guppy in a low voice. "I'll be shot if it ain't
very curious how well I know that picture! So that's Lady Dedlock
is it!"

The picture on the right is the present Sir Leicester Dedlock.
The picture on the left is his father, the late Sir Leicester.

Mr. Guppy has no eyes for either of these magnates. "It's
unaccountable to me he says, still staring at the portrait, how
well I know that picture! I'm dashed adds Mr. Guppy, looking
round, if I don't think I must have had a dream of that picture
you know!"

As no one present takes any especial interest in Mr. Guppy's
dreamsthe probability is not pursued. But he still remains so
absorbed by the portrait that he stands immovable before it until


the young gardener has closed the shutterswhen he comes out of
the room in a dazed state that is an odd though a sufficient
substitute for interest and follows into the succeeding rooms with
a confused stareas if he were looking everywhere for Lady Dedlock
again.

He sees no more of her. He sees her roomswhich are the last
shownas being very elegantand he looks out of the windows from
which she looked outnot long agoupon the weather that bored her
to death. All things have an endeven houses that people take
infinite pains to see and are tired of before they begin to see
them. He has come to the end of the sightand the fresh village
beauty to the end of her description; which is always this: "The
terrace below is much admired. It is calledfrom an old story in
the familythe Ghost's Walk."

No?says Mr. Guppygreedily curious. "What's the storymiss?
Is it anything about a picture?"

Pray tell us the story,says Watt in a half whisper.

I don't know it, sir.Rosa is shyer than ever.

It is not related to visitors; it is almost forgotten,says the
housekeeperadvancing. "It has never been more than a family
anecdote."

You'll excuse my asking again if it has anything to do with a
picture, ma'am,observes Mr. Guppybecause I do assure you that
the more I think of that picture the better I know it, without
knowing how I know it!

The story has nothing to do with a picture; the housekeeper can
guarantee that. Mr. Guppy is obliged to her for the information
and ismoreovergenerally obliged. He retires with his friend
guided down another staircase by the young gardenerand presently
is heard to drive away. It is now dusk. Mrs. Rouncewell can trust
to the discretion of her two young hearers and may tell THEM how
the terrace came to have that ghostly name.

She seats herself in a large chair by the fast-darkening window and
tells them: "In the wicked daysmy dearsof King Charles the
First--I meanof coursein the wicked days of the rebels who
leagued themselves against that excellent king--Sir Morbury Dedlock
was the owner of Chesney Wold. Whether there was any account of a
ghost in the family before those daysI can't say. I should think
it very likely indeed."

Mrs. Rouncewell holds this opinion because she considers that a
family of such antiquity and importance has a right to a ghost.
She regards a ghost as one of the privileges of the upper classes
a genteel distinction to which the common people have no claim.

Sir Morbury Dedlock,says Mrs. Rouncewellwas, I have no
occasion to say, on the side of the blessed martyr. But it IS
supposed that his Lady, who had none of the family blood in her
veins, favoured the bad cause. It is said that she had relations
among King Charles's enemies, that she was in correspondence with
them, and that she gave them information. When any of the country
gentlemen who followed his Majesty's cause met here, it is said
that my Lady was always nearer to the door of their council-room
than they supposed. Do you hear a sound like a footstep passing
along the terrace, Watt?


Rosa draws nearer to the housekeeper.

I hear the rain-drip on the stones,replies the young manand I
hear a curious echo--I suppose an echo--which is very like a
halting step.

The housekeeper gravely nods and continues: "Partly on account of
this division between themand partly on other accountsSir
Morbury and his Lady led a troubled life. She was a lady of a
haughty temper. They were not well suited to each other in age or
characterand they had no children to moderate between them.
After her favourite brothera young gentlemanwas killed in the
civil wars (by Sir Morbury's near kinsman)her feeling was so
violent that she hated the race into which she had married. When
the Dedlocks were about to ride out from Chesney Wold in the king's
causeshe is supposed to have more than once stolen down into the
stables in the dead of night and lamed their horses; and the story
is that once at such an hourher husband saw her gliding down the
stairs and followed her into the stall where his own favourite
horse stood. There he seized her by the wristand in a struggle
or in a fall or through the horse being frightened and lashing out
she was lamed in the hip and from that hour began to pine away."

The housekeeper has dropped her voice to a little more than a
whisper.

She had been a lady of a handsome figure and a noble carriage.
She never complained of the change; she never spoke to any one of
being crippled or of being in pain, but day by day she tried to
walk upon the terrace, and with the help of the stone balustrade,
went up and down, up and down, up and down, in sun and shadow, with
greater difficulty every day. At last, one afternoon her husband
(to whom she had never, on any persuasion, opened her lips since
that night), standing at the great south window, saw her drop upon
the pavement. He hastened down to raise her, but she repulsed him
as he bent over her, and looking at him fixedly and coldly, said,
'I will die here where I have walked. And I will walk here, though
I am in my grave. I will walk here until the pride of this house
is humbled. And when calamity or when disgrace is coming to it,
let the Dedlocks listen for my step!'

Watt looks at Rosa. Rosa in the deepening gloom looks down upon
the ground, half frightened and half shy.

There and then she died. And from those days says Mrs.
Rouncewell, the name has come down--the Ghost's Walk. If the
tread is an echoit is an echo that is only heard after darkand
is often unheard for a long while together. But it comes back from
time to time; and so sure as there is sickness or death in the
familyit will be heard then."

And disgrace, grandmother--says Watt.

Disgrace never comes to Chesney Wold,returns the housekeeper.

Her grandson apologizes with "True. True."

That is the story. Whatever the sound is, it is a worrying
sound,says Mrs. Rouncewellgetting up from her chair; "and what
is to be noticed in it is that it MUST BE HEARD. My Ladywho is
afraid of nothingadmits that when it is thereit must be heard.
You cannot shut it out. Wattthere is a tall French clock behind
you (placed there'a purpose) that has a loud beat when it is in
motion and can play music. You understand how those things are


managed?"

Pretty well, grandmother, I think.

Set it a-going.

Watt sets it a-going--music and all.

Now, come hither,says the housekeeper. "Hitherchildtowards
my Lady's pillow. I am not sure that it is dark enough yetbut
listen! Can you hear the sound upon the terracethrough the
musicand the beatand everything?"

I certainly can!

So my Lady says.

CHAPTER VIII

Covering a Multitude of Sins

It was interesting when I dressed before daylight to peep out of
windowwhere my candles were reflected in the black panes like two
beaconsand finding all beyond still enshrouded in the
indistinctness of last nightto watch how it turned out when the
day came on. As the prospect gradually revealed itself and
disclosed the scene over which the wind had wandered in the dark
like my memory over my lifeI had a pleasure in discovering the
unknown objects that had been around me in my sleep. At first they
were faintly discernible in the mistand above them the later
stars still glimmered. That pale interval overthe picture began
to enlarge and fill up so fast that at every new peep I could have
found enough to look at for an hour. Imperceptibly my candles
became the only incongruous part of the morningthe dark places in
my room all melted awayand the day shone bright upon a cheerful
landscapeprominent in which the old Abbey Churchwith its
massive towerthrew a softer train of shadow on the view than
seemed compatible with its rugged character. But so from rough
outsides (I hope I have learnt)serene and gentle influences often
proceed.

Every part of the house was in such orderand every one was so
attentive to methat I had no trouble with my two bunches of keys
though what with trying to remember the contents of each little
store-room drawer and cupboard; and what with making notes on a
slate about jamsand picklesand preservesand bottlesand
glassand chinaand a great many other things; and what with
being generally a methodicalold-maidish sort of foolish little
personI was so busy that I could not believe it was breakfast-
time when I heard the bell ring. Away I ranhoweverand made
teaas I had already been installed into the responsibility of the
tea-pot; and thenas they were all rather late and nobody was down
yetI thought I would take a peep at the garden and get some
knowledge of that too. I found it quite a delightful place--in
frontthe pretty avenue and drive by which we had approached (and
whereby the bywe had cut up the gravel so terribly with our
wheels that I asked the gardener to roll it); at the backthe
flower-gardenwith my darling at her window up therethrowing it
open to smile out at meas if she would have kissed me from that
distance. Beyond the flower-garden was a kitchen-gardenand then
a paddockand then a snug little rick-yardand then a dear little


farm-yard. As to the house itselfwith its three peaks in the
roof; its various-shaped windowssome so largesome so smalland
all so pretty; its trellis-workagainst the southfront for roses
and honey-suckleand its homelycomfortablewelcoming look--it
wasas Ada said when she came out to meet me with her arm through
that of its masterworthy of her cousin Johna bold thing to say
though he only pinched her dear cheek for it.

Mr. Skimpole was as agreeable at breakfast as he had been
overnight. There was honey on the tableand it led him into a
discourse about bees. He had no objection to honeyhe said (and I
should think he had notfor he seemed to like it)but he
protested against the overweening assumptions of bees. He didn't
at all see why the busy bee should be proposed as a model to him;
he supposed the bee liked to make honeyor he wouldn't do it-nobody
asked him. It was not necessary for the bee to make such a
merit of his tastes. If every confectioner went buzzing about the
world banging against everything that came in his way and
egotistically calling upon everybody to take notice that he was
going to his work and must not be interruptedthe world would be
quite an unsupportable place. Thenafter allit was a ridiculous
position to be smoked out of your fortune with brimstone as soon as
you had made it. You would have a very mean opinion of a
Manchester man if he spun cotton for no other purpose. He must say
he thought a drone the embodiment of a pleasanter and wiser idea.
The drone said unaffectedlyYou will excuse me; I really cannot
attend to the shop! I find myself in a world in which there is so
much to see and so short a time to see it in that I must take the
liberty of looking about me and begging to be provided for by
somebody who doesn't want to look about him.This appeared to Mr.
Skimpole to be the drone philosophyand he thought it a very good
philosophyalways supposing the drone to be willing to be on good
terms with the beewhichso far as he knewthe easy fellow
always wasif the consequential creature would only let himand
not be so conceited about his honey!

He pursued this fancy with the lightest foot over a variety of
ground and made us all merrythough again he seemed to have as
serious a meaning in what he said as he was capable of having. I
left them still listening to him when I withdrew to attend to my
new duties. They had occupied me for some timeand I was passing
through the passages on my return with my basket of keys on my arm
when Mr. Jarndyce called me into a small room next his bed-chamber
which I found to be in part a little library of books and papers
and in part quite a little museum of his boots and shoes and hatboxes.


Sit down, my dear,said Mr. Jarndyce. "Thisyou must knowis
the growlery. When I am out of humourI come and growl here."

You must be here very seldom, sir,said I.

Oh, you don't know me!he returned. "When I am deceived or
disappointed in--the windand it's easterlyI take refuge here.
The growlery is the best-used room in the house. You are not aware
of half my humours yet. My dearhow you are trembling!"

I could not help it; I tried very hardbut being alone with that
benevolent presenceand meeting his kind eyesand feeling so
happy and so honoured thereand my heart so full-


I kissed his hand. I don't know what I saidor even that I spoke.
He was disconcerted and walked to the window; I almost believed
with an intention of jumping outuntil he turned and I was


reassured by seeing in his eyes what he had gone there to hide. He
gently patted me on the headand I sat down.

There! There!he said. "That's over. Pooh! Don't be foolish."

It shall not happen again, sir,I returnedbut at first it is
difficult--

Nonsense!he said. "It's easyeasy. Why not? I hear of a good
little orphan girl without a protectorand I take it into my head
to be that protector. She grows upand more than justifies my
good opinionand I remain her guardian and her friend. What is
there in all this? Soso! Nowwe have cleared off old scores
and I have before me thy pleasanttrustingtrusty face again."

I said to myselfEsther, my dear, you surprise me! This really
is not what I expected of you!And it had such a good effect that
I folded my hands upon my basket and quite recovered myself. Mr.
Jarndyceexpressing his approval in his facebegan to talk to me
as confidentially as if I had been in the habit of conversing with
him every morning for I don't know how long. I almost felt as if I
had.

Of course, Esther,he saidyou don't understand this Chancery
business?

And of course I shook my head.

I don't know who does,he returned. "The lawyers have twisted it
into such a state of bedevilment that the original merits of the
case have long disappeared from the face of the earth. It's about
a will and the trusts under a will--or it was once. It's about
nothing but costs now. We are always appearingand disappearing
and swearingand interrogatingand filingand cross-filingand
arguingand sealingand motioningand referringand reporting
and revolving about the Lord Chancellor and all his satellitesand
equitably waltzing ourselves off to dusty deathabout costs.
That's the great question. All the restby some extraordinary
meanshas melted away."

But it was, sir,said Ito bring him backfor he began to rub
his headabout a will?

Why, yes, it was about a will when it was about anything,he
returned. "A certain Jarndycein an evil hourmade a great
fortuneand made a great will. In the question how the trusts
under that will are to be administeredthe fortune left by the
will is squandered away; the legatees under the will are reduced to
such a miserable condition that they would be sufficiently punished
if they had committed an enormous crime in having money left them
and the will itself is made a dead letter. All through the
deplorable causeeverything that everybody in itexcept one man
knows already is referred to that only one man who don't know it to
find out--all through the deplorable causeeverybody must have
copiesover and over againof everything that has accumulated
about it in the way of cartloads of papers (or must pay for them
without having themwhich is the usual coursefor nobody wants
them) and must go down the middle and up again through such an
infernal country-dance of costs and fees and nonsense and
corruption as was never dreamed of in the wildest visions of a
witch's Sabbath. Equity sends questions to lawlaw sends
questions back to equity; law finds it can't do thisequity finds
it can't do that; neither can so much as say it can't do anything
without this solicitor instructing and this counsel appearing for


Aand that solicitor instructing and that counsel appearing for B;
and so on through the whole alphabetlike the history of the apple
pie. And thusthrough years and yearsand lives and lives
everything goes onconstantly beginning over and over againand
nothing ever ends. And we can't get out of the suit on any terms
for we are made parties to itand MUST BE parties to itwhether
we like it or not. But it won't do to think of it! When my great
unclepoor Tom Jarndycebegan to think of itit was the
beginning of the end!"

The Mr. Jarndyce, sir, whose story I have heard?

He nodded gravely. "I was his heirand this was his house
Esther. When I came hereit was bleak indeed. He had left the
signs of his misery upon it."

How changed it must be now!I said.

It had been called, before his time, the Peaks. He gave it its
present name and lived here shut up, day and night poring over the
wicked heaps of papers in the suit and hoping against hope to
disentangle it from its mystification and bring it to a close. In
the meantime, the place became dilapidated, the wind whistled
through the cracked walls, the rain fell through the broken roof,
the weeds choked the passage to the rotting door. When I brought
what remained of him home here, the brains seemed to me to have
been blown out of the house too, it was so shattered and ruined.

He walked a little to and fro after saying this to himself with a
shudderand then looked at meand brightenedand came and sat
down again with his hands in his pockets.

I told you this was the growlery, my dear. Where was I?

I reminded himat the hopeful change he had made in Bleak House.

Bleak House; true. There is, in that city of London there, some
property of ours which is much at this day what Bleak House was
then; I say property of ours, meaning of the suit's, but I ought to
call it the property of costs, for costs is the only power on earth
that will ever get anything out of it now or will ever know it for
anything but an eyesore and a heartsore. It is a street of
perishing blind houses, with their eyes stoned out, without a pane
of glass, without so much as a window-frame, with the bare blank
shutters tumbling from their hinges and falling asunder, the iron
rails peeling away in flakes of rust, the chimneys sinking in, the
stone steps to every door (and every door might be death's door)
turning stagnant green, the very crutches on which the ruins are
propped decaying. Although Bleak House was not in Chancery, its
master was, and it was stamped with the same seal. These are the
Great Seal's impressions, my dear, all over England--the children
know them!

How changed it is!I said again.

Why, so it is,he answered much more cheerfully; "and it is
wisdom in you to keep me to the bright side of the picture." (The
idea of my wisdom!) "These are things I never talk about or even
think aboutexcepting in the growlery here. If you consider it
right to mention them to Rick and Ada looking seriously at me,
you can. I leave it to your discretionEsther."

I hope, sir--said I.


I think you had better call me guardian, my dear.

I felt that I was choking again--I taxed myself with itEsther,
now, you know you are!--when he feigned to say this slightlyas
if it were a whim instead of a thoughtful tenderness. But I gave
the housekeeping keys the least shake in the world as a reminder to
myselfand folding my hands in a still more determined manner on
the basketlooked at him quietly.

I hope, guardian,said Ithat you may not trust too much to my
discretion. I hope you may not mistake me. I am afraid it will be
a disappointment to you to know that I am not clever, but it really
is the truth, and you would soon find it out if I had not the
honesty to confess it.

He did not seem at all disappointed; quite the contrary. He told
mewith a smile all over his facethat he knew me very well
indeed and that I was quite clever enough for him.

I hope I may turn out so,said Ibut I am much afraid of it,
guardian.

You are clever enough to be the good little woman of our lives
here, my dear,he returned playfully; "the little old woman of the
child's (I don't mean Skimpole's) rhyme:

'Little old womanand whither so high?'

'To sweep the cobwebs out of the sky.'

You will sweep them so neatly out of OUR sky in the course of your
housekeepingEstherthat one of these days we shall have to
abandon the growlery and nail up the door."

This was the beginning of my being called Old Womanand Little Old
Womanand Cobweband Mrs. Shiptonand Mother Hubbardand Dame
Durdenand so many names of that sort that my own name soon became
quite lost among them.

However,said Mr. Jarndyceto return to our gossip. Here's
Rick, a fine young fellow full of promise. What's to be done with
him?

Ohmy goodnessthe idea of asking my advice on such a point!

Here he is, Esther,said Mr. Jarndycecomfortably putting his
hands into his pockets and stretching out his legs. "He must have
a profession; he must make some choice for himself. There will be
a world more wiglomeration about itI supposebut it must be
done."

More what, guardian?said I.

More wiglomeration,said he. "It's the only name I know for the
thing. He is a ward in Chancerymy dear. Kenge and Carboy will
have something to say about it; Master Somebody--a sort of
ridiculous sextondigging graves for the merits of causes in a
back room at the end of Quality CourtChancery Lane--will have
something to say about it; counsel will have something to say about
it; the Chancellor will have something to say about it; the
satellites will have something to say about it; they will all have
to be handsomely feedall roundabout it; the whole thing will be
vastly ceremoniouswordyunsatisfactoryand expensiveand I


call itin generalwiglomeration. How mankind ever came to be
afflicted with wiglomerationor for whose sins these young people
ever fell into a pit of itI don't know; so it is."

He began to rub his head again and to hint that he felt the wind.
But it was a delightful instance of his kindness towards me that
whether he rubbed his heador walked aboutor did bothhis face
was sure to recover its benignant expression as it looked at mine;
and he was sure to turn comfortable again and put his hands in his
pockets and stretch out his legs.

Perhaps it would be best, first of all,said Ito ask Mr.
Richard what he inclines to himself.

Exactly so,he returned. "That's what I mean! You knowjust
accustom yourself to talk it overwith your tact and in your quiet
waywith him and Adaand see what you all make of it. We are
sure to come at the heart of the matter by your meanslittle
woman."

I really was frightened at the thought of the importance I was
attaining and the number of things that were being confided to me.
I had not meant this at all; I had meant that he should speak to
Richard. But of course I said nothing in reply except that I would
do my bestthough I feared (I realty felt it necessary to repeat
this) that he thought me much more sagacious than I was. At which
my guardian only laughed the pleasantest laugh I ever heard.

Come!he saidrising and pushing back his chair. "I think we
may have done with the growlery for one day! Only a concluding
word. Esthermy deardo you wish to ask me anything?"

He looked so attentively at me that I looked attentively at him and
felt sure I understood him.

About myself, sir?said I.

Yes.

Guardian,said Iventuring to put my handwhich was suddenly
colder than I could have wishedin hisnothing! I am quite sure
that if there were anything I ought to know or had any need to
know, I should not have to ask you to tell it to me. If my whole
reliance and confidence were not placed in you, I must have a hard
heart indeed. I have nothing to ask you, nothing in the world.

He drew my hand through his arm and we went away to look for Ada.
From that hour I felt quite easy with himquite unreservedquite
content to know no morequite happy.

We livedat firstrather a busy life at Bleak Housefor we had
to become acquainted with many residents in and out of the
neighbourhood who knew Mr. Jarndyce. It seemed to Ada and me that
everybody knew him who wanted to do anything with anybody else's
money. It amazed us when we began to sort his letters and to
answer some of them for him in the growlery of a morning to find
how the great object of the lives of nearly all his correspondents
appeared to be to form themselves into committees for getting in
and laying out money. The ladies were as desperate as the
gentlemen; indeedI think they were even more so. They threw
themselves into committees in the most impassioned manner and
collected subscriptions with a vehemence quite extraordinary. It
appeared to us that some of them must pass their whole lives in
dealing out subscription-cards to the whole post-office directory-



shilling cardshalf-crown cardshalf-sovereign cardspenny
cards. They wanted everything. They wanted wearing apparelthey
wanted linen ragsthey wanted moneythey wanted coalsthey
wanted soupthey wanted interestthey wanted autographsthey
wanted flannelthey wanted whatever Mr. Jarndyce had--or had not.
Their objects were as various as their demands. They were going to
raise new buildingsthey were going to pay off debts on old
buildingsthey were going to establish in a picturesque building
(engraving of proposed west elevation attached) the Sisterhood of
Mediaeval Marysthey were going to give a testimonial to Mrs.
Jellybythey were going to have their secretary's portrait painted
and presented to his mother-in-lawwhose deep devotion to him was
well knownthey were going to get up everythingI really believe
from five hundred thousand tracts to an annuity and from a marble
monument to a silver tea-pot. They took a multitude of titles.
They were the Women of Englandthe Daughters of Britainthe
Sisters of all the cardinal virtues separatelythe Females of
Americathe Ladies of a hundred denominations. They appeared to
be always excited about canvassing and electing. They seemed to
our poor witsand according to their own accountsto be
constantly polling people by tens of thousandsyet never bringing
their candidates in for anything. It made our heads ache to think
on the wholewhat feverish lives they must lead.

Among the ladies who were most distinguished for this rapacious
benevolence (if I may use the expression) was a Mrs. Pardigglewho
seemedas I judged from the number of her letters to Mr. Jarndyce
to be almost as powerful a correspondent as Mrs. Jellyby herself.
We observed that the wind always changed when Mrs. Pardiggle became
the subject of conversation and that it invariably interrupted Mr.
Jarndyce and prevented his going any fartherwhen he had remarked
that there were two classes of charitable people; onethe people
who did a little and made a great deal of noise; the otherthe
people who did a great deal and made no noise at all. We were
therefore curious to see Mrs. Pardigglesuspecting her to be a
type of the former classand were glad when she called one day
with her five young sons.

She was a formidable style of lady with spectaclesa prominent
noseand a loud voicewho had the effect of wanting a great deal
of room. And she really didfor she knocked down little chairs
with her skirts that were quite a great way off. As only Ada and I
were at homewe received her timidlyfor she seemed to come in
like cold weather and to make the little Pardiggles blue as they
followed.

These, young ladies,said Mrs. Pardiggle with great volubility
after the first salutationsare my five boys. You may have seen
their names in a printed subscription list (perhaps more than one)
in the possession of our esteemed friend Mr. Jarndyce. Egbert, my
eldest (twelve), is the boy who sent out his pocket-money, to the
amount of five and threepence, to the Tockahoopo Indians. Oswald,
my second (ten and a half), is the child who contributed two and
nine-pence to the Great National Smithers Testimonial. Francis, my
third (nine), one and sixpence halfpenny; Felix, my fourth (seven),
eightpence to the Superannuated Widows; Alfred, my youngest (five),
has voluntarily enrolled himself in the Infant Bonds of Joy, and is
pledged never, through life, to use tobacco in any form.

We had never seen such dissatisfied children. It was not merely
that they were weazened and shrivelled--though they were certainly
that to--but they looked absolutely ferocious with discontent. At
the mention of the Tockahoopo IndiansI could really have supposed
Eghert to be one of the most baleful members of that tribehe gave


me such a savage frown. The face of each childas the amount of
his contribution was mentioneddarkened in a peculiarly vindictive
mannerbut his was by far the worst. I must excepthoweverthe
little recruit into the Infant Bonds of Joywho was stolidly and
evenly miserable.

You have been visiting, I understand,said Mrs. Pardiggleat
Mrs. Jellyby's?

We said yeswe had passed one night there.

Mrs. Jellyby,pursued the ladyalways speaking in the same
demonstrativeloudhard toneso that her voice impressed my
fancy as if it had a sort of spectacles on too--and I may take the
opportunity of remarking that her spectacles were made the less
engaging by her eyes being what Ada called "choking eyes meaning
very prominent--Mrs. Jellyby is a benefactor to society and
deserves a helping hand. My boys have contributed to the African
project--Egbertone and sixbeing the entire allowance of nine
weeks; Oswaldone and a penny halfpennybeing the same; the rest
according to their little means. NeverthelessI do not go with
Mrs. Jellyby in all things. I do not go with Mrs. Jellyby in her
treatment of her young family. It has been noticed. It has been
observed that her young family are excluded from participation in
the objects to which she is devoted. She may be rightshe may be
wrong; butright or wrongthis is not my course with MY young
family. I take them everywhere."

I was afterwards convinced (and so was Ada) that from the ill-
conditioned eldest childthese words extorted a sharp yell. He
turned it off into a yawnbut it began as a yell.

They attend matins with me (very prettily done) at half-past six
o'clock in the morning all the year round, including of course the
depth of winter,said Mrs. Pardiggle rapidlyand they are with
me during the revolving duties of the day. I am a School lady, I
am a Visiting lady, I am a Reading lady, I am a Distributing lady;
I am on the local Linen Box Committee and many general committees;
and my canvassing alone is very extensive--perhaps no one's more
so. But they are my companions everywhere; and by these means they
acquire that knowledge of the poor, and that capacity of doing
charitable business in general--in short, that taste for the sort
of thing--which will render them in after life a service to their
neighbours and a satisfaction to themselves. My young family are
not frivolous; they expend the entire amount of their allowance in
subscriptions, under my direction; and they have attended as many
public meetings and listened to as many lectures, orations, and
discussions as generally fall to the lot of few grown people.
Alfred (five), who, as I mentioned, has of his own election joined
the Infant Bonds of Joy, was one of the very few children who
manifested consciousness on that occasion after a fervid address of
two hours from the chairman of the evening.

Alfred glowered at us as if he never couldor wouldforgive the
injury of that night.

You may have observed, Miss Summerson,said Mrs. Pardigglein
some of the lists to which I have referred, in the possession of
our esteemed friend Mr. Jarndyce, that the names of my young family
are concluded with the name of O. A. Pardiggle, F.R.S., one pound.
That is their father. We usually observe the same routine. I put
down my mite first; then my young family enrol their contributions,
according to their ages and their little means; and then Mr.
Pardiggle brings up the rear. Mr. Pardiggle is happy to throw in


his limited donation, under my direction; and thus things are made
not only pleasant to ourselves, but, we trust, improving to
others.

Suppose Mr. Pardiggle were to dine with Mr. Jellybyand suppose
Mr. Jellyby were to relieve his mind after dinner to Mr. Pardiggle
would Mr. Pardigglein returnmake any confidential communication
to Mr. Jellyby? I was quite confused to find myself thinking this
but it came into my head.

You are very pleasantly situated here!said Mrs. Pardiggle.

We were glad to change the subjectand going to the window
pointed out the beauties of the prospecton which the spectacles
appeared to me to rest with curious indifference.

You know Mr. Gusher?said our visitor.

We were obliged to say that we had not the pleasure of Mr. Gusher's
acquaintance.

The loss is yours, I assure you,said Mrs. Pardiggle with her
commanding deportment. "He is a very fervidimpassioned speaker-
full of fire! Stationed in a waggon on this lawnnowwhichfrom
the shape of the landis naturally adapted to a public meetinghe
would improve almost any occasion you could mention for hours and
hours! By this timeyoung ladies said Mrs. Pardiggle, moving
back to her chair and overturning, as if by invisible agency, a
little round table at a considerable distance with my work-basket
on it, by this time you have found me outI dare say?"

This was really such a confusing question that Ada looked at me in
perfect dismay. As to the guilty nature of my own consciousness
after what I had been thinkingit must have been expressed in the
colour of my cheeks.

Found out, I mean,said Mrs. Pardigglethe prominent point in
my character. I am aware that it is so prominent as to be
discoverable immediately. I lay myself open to detection, I know.
Well! I freely admit, I am a woman of business. I love hard work;
I enjoy hard work. The excitement does me good. I am so
accustomed and inured to hard work that I don't know what fatigue
is.

We murmured that it was very astonishing and very gratifyingor
something to that effect. I don't think we knew what it was
eitherbut this is what our politeness expressed.

I do not understand what it is to be tired; you cannot tire me if
you try!said Mrs. Pardiggle. "The quantity of exertion (which is
no exertion to me)the amount of business (which I regard as
nothing)that I go through sometimes astonishes myself. I have
seen my young familyand Mr. Pardigglequite worn out with
witnessing itwhen I may truly say I have been as fresh as a
lark!"

If that dark-visaged eldest boy could look more malicious than he
had already lookedthis was the time when he did it. I observed
that he doubled his right fist and delivered a secret blow into the
crown of his capwhich was under his left arm.

This gives me a great advantage when I am making my rounds,said
Mrs. Pardiggle. "If I find a person unwilling to hear what I have
to sayI tell that person directly'I am incapable of fatiguemy


good friendI am never tiredand I mean to go on until I have
done.' It answers admirably! Miss SummersonI hope I shall have
your assistance in my visiting rounds immediatelyand Miss Clare's
very soon."

At first I tried to excuse myself for the present on the general
ground of having occupations to attend to which I must not neglect.
But as this was an ineffectual protestI then saidmore
particularlythat I was not sure of my qualifications. That I was
inexperienced in the art of adapting my mind to minds very
differently situatedand addressing them from suitable points of
view. That I had not that delicate knowledge of the heart which
must be essential to such a work. That I had much to learn
myselfbefore I could teach othersand that I could not confide
in my good intentions alone. For these reasons I thought it best
to be as useful as I couldand to render what kind services I
could to those immediately about meand to try to let that circle
of duty gradually and naturally expand itself. All this I said
with anything but confidencebecause Mrs. Pardiggle was much older
than Iand had great experienceand was so very military in her
manners.

You are wrong, Miss Summerson,said shebut perhaps you are not
equal to hard work or the excitement of it, and that makes a vast
difference. If you would like to see how I go through my work, I
am now about--with my young family--to visit a brickmaker in the
neighbourhood (a very bad character) and shall be glad to take you
with me. Miss Clare also, if she will do me the favour.

Ada and I interchanged looksand as we were going out in any case
accepted the offer. When we hastily returned from putting on our
bonnetswe found the young family languishing in a corner and Mrs.
Pardiggle sweeping about the roomknocking down nearly all the
light objects it contained. Mrs. Pardiggle took possession of Ada
and I followed with the family.

Ada told me afterwards that Mrs. Pardiggle talked in the same loud
tone (thatindeedI overheard) all the way to the brickmaker's
about an exciting contest which she had for two or three years
waged against another lady relative to the bringing in of their
rival candidates for a pension somewhere. There had been a
quantity of printingand promisingand proxyingand pollingand
it appeared to have imparted great liveliness to all concerned
except the pensioners--who were not elected yet.

I am very fond of being confided in by children and am happy in
being usually favoured in that respectbut on this occasion it
gave me great uneasiness. As soon as we were out of doorsEgbert
with the manner of a little footpaddemanded a shilling of me on
the ground that his pocket-money was "boned" from him. On my
pointing out the great impropriety of the wordespecially in
connexion with his parent (for he added sulkily "By her!")he
pinched me and saidOh, then! Now! Who are you! YOU wouldn't
like it, I think? What does she make a sham for, and pretend to
give me money, and take it away again? Why do you call it my
allowance, and never let me spend it?These exasperating
questions so inflamed his mind and the minds of Oswald and Francis
that they all pinched me at onceand in a dreadfully expert way-screwing
up such little pieces of my arms that I could hardly
forbear crying out. Felixat the same timestamped upon my toes.
And the Bond of Joywho on account of always having the whole of
his little income anticipated stood in fact pledged to abstain from
cakes as well as tobaccoso swelled with grief and rage when we
passed a pastry-cook's shop that he terrified me by becoming


purple. I never underwent so muchboth in body and mindin the
course of a walk with young people as from these unnaturally
constrained children when they paid me the compliment of being
natural.

I was glad when we came to the brickmaker's housethough it was
one of a cluster of wretched hovels in a brick-fieldwith pigsties
close to the broken windows and miserable little gardens before the
doors growing nothing but stagnant pools. Here and there an old
tub was put to catch the droppings of rain-water from a roofor
they were banked up with mud into a little pond like a large dirt-
pie. At the doors and windows some men and women lounged or
prowled aboutand took little notice of us except to laugh to one
another or to say something as we passed about gentlefolks minding
their own business and not troubling their heads and muddying their
shoes with coming to look after other people's.

Mrs. Pardiggleleading the way with a great show of moral
determination and talking with much volubility about the untidy
habits of the people (though I doubted if the best of us could have
been tidy in such a place)conducted us into a cottage at the
farthest cornerthe ground-floor room of which we nearly filled.
Besides ourselvesthere were in this dampoffensive room a woman
with a black eyenursing a poor little gasping baby by the fire; a
manall stained with clay and mud and looking very dissipated
lying at full length on the groundsmoking a pipe; a powerful
young man fastening a collar on a dog; and a bold girl doing some
kind of washing in very dirty water. They all looked up at us as
we came inand the woman seemed to turn her face towards the fire
as if to hide her bruised eye; nobody gave us any welcome.

Well, my friends,said Mrs. Pardigglebut her voice had not a
friendly soundI thought; it was much too businesslike and
systematic. "How do you doall of you? I am here again. I told
youyou couldn't tire meyou know. I am fond of hard workand
am true to my word."

There an't,growled the man on the floorwhose head rested on
his hand as he stared at usany more on you to come in, is
there?

No, my friend,said Mrs. Pardiggleseating herself on one stool
and knocking down another. "We are all here."

Because I thought there warn't enough of you, perhaps?said the
manwith his pipe between his lips as he looked round upon us.

The young man and the girl both laughed. Two friends of the young
manwhom we had attracted to the doorway and who stood there with
their hands in their pocketsechoed the laugh noisily.

You can't tire me, good people,said Mrs. Pardiggle to these
latter. "I enjoy hard workand the harder you make minethe
better I like it."

Then make it easy for her!growled the man upon the floor. "I
wants it doneand over. I wants a end of these liberties took
with my place. I wants an end of being drawed like a badger. Now
you're a-going to poll-pry and question according to custom--I know
what you're a-going to be up to. Well! You haven't got no
occasion to be up to it. I'll save you the trouble. Is my
daughter a-washin? Yesshe IS a-washin. Look at the water.
Smell it! That's wot we drinks. How do you like itand what do
you think of gin instead! An't my place dirty? Yesit is dirty-



it's nat'rally dirtyand it's nat'rally onwholesome; and we've had
five dirty and onwholesome childrenas is all dead infantsand so
much the better for themand for us besides. Have I read the
little book wot you left? NoI an't read the little book wot you
left. There an't nobody here as knows how to read it; and if there
wosit wouldn't be suitable to me. It's a book fit for a babby
and I'm not a babby. If you was to leave me a dollI shouldn't
nuss it. How have I been conducting of myself? WhyI've been
drunk for three days; and I'da been drunk four if I'da had the
money. Don't I never mean for to go to church? NoI don't never
mean for to go to church. I shouldn't be expected thereif I did;
the beadle's too gen-teel for me. And how did my wife get that
black eye? WhyI give it her; and if she says I didn'tshe's a
lie!"

He had pulled his pipe out of his mouth to say all thisand he now
turned over on his other side and smoked again. Mrs. Pardiggle
who had been regarding him through her spectacles with a forcible
composurecalculatedI could not help thinkingto increase his
antagonismpulled out a good book as if it were a constable's
staff and took the whole family into custody. I mean into
religious custodyof course; but she really did it as if she were
an inexorable moral policeman carrying them all off to a station-
house.

Ada and I were very uncomfortable. We both felt intrusive and out
of placeand we both thought that Mrs. Pardiggle would have got on
infinitely better if she had not had such a mechanical way of
taking possession of people. The children sulked and stared; the
family took no notice of us whateverexcept when the young man
made the dog barkwhich he usually did when Mrs. Pardiggle was
most emphatic. We both felt painfully sensible that between us and
these people there was an iron barrier which could not be removed
by our new friend. By whom or how it could be removedwe did not
knowbut we knew that. Even what she read and said seemed to us
to be ill-chosen for such auditorsif it had been imparted ever so
modestly and with ever so much tact. As to the little book to
which the man on the floor had referredwe acqulred a knowledge of
it afterwardsand Mr. Jarndyce said he doubted if Robinson Crusoe
could have read itthough he had had no other on his desolate
island.

We were much relievedunder these circumstanceswhen Mrs.
Pardiggle left off.

The man on the floorthen turning his bead round againsaid
moroselyWell! You've done, have you?

For to-day, I have, my friend. But I am never fatigued. I shall
come to you again in your regular order,returned Mrs. Pardiggle
with demonstrative cheerfulness.

So long as you goes now,said hefolding his arms and shutting
his eyes with an oathyou may do wot you like!

Mrs. Pardiggle accordingly rose and made a little vortex in the
confined room from which the pipe itself very narrowly escaped.
Taking one of her young family in each handand telling the others
to follow closelyand expressing her hope that the brickmaker and
all his house would be improved when she saw them nextshe then
proceeded to another cottage. I hope it is not unkind in me to say
that she certainly did makein this as in everything elsea show
that was not conciliatory of doing charity by wholesale and of
dealing in it to a large extent.


She supposed that we were following herbut as soon as the space
was left clearwe approached the woman sitting by the fire to ask
if the baby were ill.

She only looked at it as it lay on her lap. We had observed before
that when she looked at it she covered her discoloured eye with her
handas though she wished to separate any association with noise
and violence and ill treatment from the poor little child.

Adawhose gentle heart was moved by its appearancebent down to
touch its little face. As she did soI saw what happened and drew
her back. The child died.

Oh, Esther!cried Adasinking on her knees beside it. "Look
here! OhEsthermy lovethe little thing! The suffering
quietpretty little thing! I am so sorry for it. I am so sorry
for the mother. I never saw a sight so pitiful as this before!
Ohbabybaby!"

Such compassionsuch gentlenessas that with which she bent down
weeping and put her hand upon the mother's might have softened any
mother's heart that ever beat. The woman at first gazed at her in
astonishment and then burst into tears.

Presently I took the light burden from her lapdid what I could to
make the baby's rest the prettier and gentlerlaid it on a shelf
and covered it with my own handkerchief. We tried to comfort the
motherand we whispered to her what Our Saviour said of children.
She answered nothingbut sat weeping--weeping very much.

When I turnedI found that the young man had taken out the dog and
was standing at the door looking in upon us with dry eyesbut
quiet. The girl was quiet too and sat in a corner looking on the
ground. The man had risen. He still smoked his pipe with an air
of defiancebut he was silent.

An ugly womanvery poorly clothedhurried in while I was glancing
at themand coming straight up to the mothersaidJenny!
Jenny!The mother rose on being so addressed and fell upon the
woman's neck.

She also had upon her face and arms the marks of ill usage. She
had no kind of grace about herbut the grace of sympathy; but when
she condoled with the womanand her own tears fellshe wanted no
beauty. I say condoledbut her only words were "Jenny! Jenny!"
All the rest was in the tone in which she said them.

I thought it very touching to see these two womencoarse and
shabby and beatenso united; to see what they could be to one
another; to see how they felt for one anotherhow the heart of
each to each was softened by the hard trials of their lives. I
think the best side of such people is almost hidden from us. What
the poor are to the poor is little knownexcepting to themselves
and God.

We felt it better to withdraw and leave them uninterrupted. We
stole out quietly and without notice from any one except the man.
He was leaning against the wall near the doorand finding that
there was scarcely room for us to passwent out before us. He
seemed to want to hide that he did this on our accountbut we
perceived that be didand thanked him. He made no answer.

Ada was so full of grief all the way homeand Richardwhom we


found at homewas so distressed to see her in tears (though he
said to mewhen she was not presenthow beautiful it was too!)
that we arranged to return at night with some little comforts and
repeat our visit at the brick-maker's house. We said as little as
we could to Mr. Jarndycebut the wind changed directly.

Richard accompanied us at night to the scene of our morning
expedition. On our way therewe had to pass a noisy drinking-
housewhere a number of men were flocking about the door. Among
themand prominent in some disputewas the father of the little
child. At a short distancewe passed the young man and the dog
in congenial company. The sister was standing laughing and talking
with some other young women at the corner of the row of cottages
but she seemed ashamed and turned away as we went by.

We left our escort within sight of the brickmaker's dwelling and
proceeded by ourselves. When we came to the doorwe found the
woman who had brought such consolation with her standing there
looking anxiously out.

It's you, young ladies, is it?she said in a whisper. "I'm a-
watching for my master. My heart's in my mouth. If he was to
catch me away from homehe'd pretty near murder me."

Do you mean your husband?said I.

Yes, miss, my master. Jennys asleep, quite worn out. She's
scarcely had the child off her lap, poor thing, these seven days
and nights, except when I've been able to take it for a minute or
two.

As she gave way for usshe went softly in and put what we had
brought near the miserable bed on which the mother slept. No
effort had been made to clean the room--it seemed in its nature
almost hopeless of being clean; but the small waxen form from which
so much solemnity diffused itself had been composed afreshand
washedand neatly dressed in some fragments of white linen; and on
my handkerchiefwhich still covered the poor babya little bunch
of sweet herbs had been laid by the same roughscarred handsso
lightlyso tenderly!

May heaven reward you!we said to her. "You are a good woman."

Me, young ladies?she returned with surprise. "Hush! Jenny
Jenny!"

The mother had moaned in her sleep and moved. The sound of the
familiar voice seemed to calm her again. She was quiet once more.

How little I thoughtwhen I raised my handkerchief to look upon
the tiny sleeper underneath and seemed to see a halo shine around
the child through Ada's drooping hair as her pity bent her head-how
little I thought in whose unquiet bosom that handkerchief would
come to lie after covering the motionless and peaceful breast! I
only thought that perhaps the Angel of the child might not be all
unconscious of the woman who replaced it with so compassionate a
hand; not all unconscious of her presentlywhen we had taken
leaveand left her at the doorby turns lookingand listening in
terror for herselfand saying in her old soothing mannerJenny,
Jenny!

CHAPTER IX


Signs and Tokens

I don't know how it is I seem to be always writing about myself. I
mean all the time to write about other peopleand I try to think
about myself as little as possibleand I am surewhen I find
myself coming into the story againI am really vexed and say
Dear, dear, you tiresome little creature, I wish you wouldn't!
but it is all of no use. I hope any one who may read what I write
will understand that if these pages contain a great deal about me
I can only suppose it must be because I have really something to do
with them and can't be kept out.

My darling and I read togetherand workedand practisedand
found so much employment for our time that the winter days flew by
us like bright-winged birds. Generally in the afternoonsand
always in the eveningsRichard gave us his company. Although he
was one of the most restless creatures in the worldhe certainly
was very fond of our society.

He was veryveryvery fond of Ada. I mean itand I had better
say it at once. I had never seen any young people falling in love
beforebut I found them out quite soon. I could not say soof
courseor show that I knew anything about it. On the contraryI
was so demure and used to seem so unconscious that sometimes I
considered within myself while I was sitting at work whether I was
not growing quite deceitful.

But there was no help for it. All I had to do was to be quietand
I was as quiet as a mouse. They were as quiet as mice tooso far
as any words were concernedbut the innocent manner in which they
relied more and more upon me as they took more and more to one
another was so charming that I had great difficulty in not showing
how it interested me.

Our dear little old woman is such a capital old woman,Richard
would saycoming up to meet me in the garden earlywith his
pleasant laugh and perhaps the least tinge of a blushthat I
can't get on without her. Before I begin my harum-scarum day-grinding
away at those books and instruments and then galloping up
hill and down dale, all the country round, like a highwayman--it
does me so much good to come and have a steady walk with our
comfortable friend, that here I am again!

You know, Dame Durden, dear,Ada would say at nightwith her
head upon my shoulder and the firelight shining in her thoughtful
eyesI don't want to talk when we come upstairs here. Only to
sit a little while thinking, with your dear face for company, and
to hear the wind and remember the poor sailors at sea--

Ah! Perhaps Richard was going to be a sailor. We had talked it
over very often nowand there was some talk of gratifying the
inclination of his childhood for the sea. Mr. Jarndyce had written
to a relation of the familya great Sir Leicester Dedlockfor his
interest in Richard's favourgenerally; and Sir Leicester had
replied in a gracious manner that he would be happy to advance the
prospects of the young gentleman if it should ever prove to be
within his powerwhich was not at all probableand that my Lady
sent her compliments to the young gentleman (to whom she perfectly
remembered that she was allied by remote consanguinity) and trusted
that he would ever do his duty in any honourable profession to
which he might devote himself.


So I apprehend it's pretty clear,said Richard to methat I
shall have to work my own way. Never mind! Plenty of people have
had to do that before now, and have done it. I only wish I had the
command of a clipping privateer to begin with and could carry off
the Chancellor and keep him on short allowance until he gave
judgment in our cause. He'd find himself growing thin, if he
didn't look sharp!

With a buoyancy and hopefulness and a gaiety that hardly ever
flaggedRichard had a carelessness in his character that quite
perplexed meprincipally because he mistook itin such a very odd
wayfor prudence. It entered into all his calculations about
money in a singular manner which I don't think I can better explain
than by reverting for a moment to our loan to Mr. Skimpole.

Mr. Jarndyce had ascertained the amounteither from Mr. Skimpole
himself or from Coavinsesand had placed the money in my hands
with instructions to me to retain my own part of it and hand the
rest to Richard. The number of little acts of thoughtless
expenditure which Richard justified by the recovery of his ten
poundsand the number of times he talked to me as if he had saved
or realized that amountwould form a sum in simple addition.

My prudent Mother Hubbard, why not?he said to me when he wanted
without the least considerationto bestow five pounds on the
brickmaker. "I made ten poundsclearout of Coavinses'
business."

How was that?said I.

Why, I got rid of ten pounds which I was quite content to get rid
of and never expected to see any more. You don't deny that?

No,said I.

Very well! Then I came into possession of ten pounds--

The same ten pounds,I hinted.

That has nothing to do with it!returned Richard. "I have got
ten pounds more than I expected to haveand consequently I can
afford to spend it without being particular."

In exactly the same waywhen he was persuaded out of the sacrifice
of these five pounds by being convinced that it would do no good
he carried that sum to his credit and drew upon it.

Let me see!he would say. "I saved five pounds out of the
brickmaker's affairso if I have a good rattle to London and back
in a post-chaise and put that down at four poundsI shall have
saved one. And it's a very good thing to save onelet me tell
you: a penny saved is a penny got!"

I believe Richard's was as frank and generous a nature as there
possibly can be. He was ardent and braveand in the midst of all
his wild restlessnesswas so gentle that I knew him like a brother
in a few weeks. His gentleness was natural to him and would have
shown itself abundantly even without Ada's influence; but with it
he became one of the most winning of companionsalways so ready to
be interested and always so happysanguineand light-hearted.
am sure that Isitting with themand walking with themand
talking with themand noticing from day to day how they went on
falling deeper and deeper in loveand saying nothing about itand
each shyly thinking that this love was the greatest of secrets


perhaps not yet suspected even by the other--I am sure that I was
scarcely less enchanted than they were and scarcely less pleased
with the pretty dream.

We were going on in this waywhen one morning at breakfast Mr.
Jarndyce received a letterand looking at the superscription
saidFrom Boythorn? Aye, aye!and opened and read it with
evident pleasureannouncing to us in a parenthesis when he was
about half-way throughthat Boythorn was "coming down" on a visit.
Now who was Boythornwe all thought. And I dare say we all
thought too--I am sure I didfor one--would Boythorn at all
interfere with what was going forward?

I went to school with this fellow, Lawrence Boythorn,said Mr.
Jarndycetapping the letter as he laid it on the tablemore than
five and forty years ago. He was then the most impetuous boy in
the world, and he is now the most impetuous man. He was then the
loudest boy in the world, and he is now the loudest man. He was
then the heartiest and sturdiest boy in the world, and he is now
the heartiest and sturdiest man. He is a tremendous fellow.

In stature, sir?asked Richard.

Pretty well, Rick, in that respect,said Mr. Jarndyce; "being
some ten years older than I and a couple of inches tallerwith his
head thrown back like an old soldierhis stalwart chest squared
his hands like a clean blacksmith'sand his lungs! There's no
simile for his lungs. Talkinglaughingor snoringthey make the
beams of the house shake."

As Mr. Jarndyce sat enjoying the image of his friend Boythornwe
observed the favourable omen that there was not the least
indication of any change in the wind.

But it's the inside of the man, the warm heart of the man, the
passion of the man, the fresh blood of the man, Rick--and Ada, and
little Cobweb too, for you are all interested in a visitor--that I
speak of,he pursued. "His language is as sounding as his voice.
He is always in extremesperpetually in the superlative degree.
In his condemnation he is all ferocity. You might suppose him to
be an ogre from what he saysand I believe he has the reputation
of one with some people. There! I tell you no more of him
beforehand. You must not be surprised to see him take me under his
protectionfor he has never forgotten that I was a low boy at
school and that our friendship began in his knocking two of my head
tyrant's teeth out (he says six) before breakfast. Boythorn and
his man to me, will be here this afternoonmy dear."

I took care that the necessary preparations were made for Mr.
Boythorn's receptionand we looked forward to his arrival with
some curiosity. The afternoon wore awayhoweverand he did not
appear. The dinner-hour arrivedand still he did not appear. The
dinner was put back an hourand we were sitting round the fire
with no light but the blaze when the hall-door suddenly burst open
and the hall resounded with these wordsuttered with the greatest
vehemence and in a stentorian tone: "We have been misdirected
Jarndyceby a most abandoned ruffianwho told us to take the
turning to the right instead of to the left. He is the most
intolerable scoundrel on the face of the earth. His father must
have been a most consummate villainever to have such a son. I
would have had that fellow shot without the least remorse!"

Did he do it on purpose?Mr. Jarndyce inquired.


I have not the slightest doubt that the scoundrel has passed his
whole existence in misdirecting travellers!returned the other.
By my soul, I thought him the worst-looking dog I had ever beheld
when he was telling me to take the turning to the right. And yet I
stood before that fellow face to face and didn't knock his brains
out!

Teeth, you mean?said Mr. Jarndyce.

Ha, ha, ha!laughed Mr. Lawrence Boythornreally making the
whole house vibrate. "Whatyou have not forgotten it yet! Ha
haha! And that was another most consummate vagabond! By my
soulthe countenance of that fellow when he was a boy was the
blackest image of perfidycowardiceand cruelty ever set up as a
scarecrow in a field of scoundrels. If I were to meet that most
unparalleled despot in the streets to-morrowI would fell him like
a rotten tree!"

I have no doubt of it,said Mr. Jarndyce. "Nowwill you come
upstairs?"

By my soul, Jarndyce,returned his guestwho seemed to refer to
his watchif you had been married, I would have turned back at
the garden-gate and gone away to the remotest summits of the
Himalaya Mountains sooner than I would have presented myself at
this unseasonable hour.

Not quite so far, I hope?said Mr. Jarndyce.

By my life and honour, yes!cried the visitor. "I wouldn't be
guilty of the audacious insolence of keeping a lady of the house
waiting all this time for any earthly consideration. I would
infinitely rather destroy myself--infinitely rather!"

Talking thusthey went upstairsand presently we heard him in his
bedroom thundering "Hahaha!" and again "Hahaha!" until the
flattest echo in the neighbourhood seemed to catch the contagion
and to laugh as enjoyingly as he did or as we did when we heard him
laugh.

We all conceived a prepossession in his favourfor there was a
sterling quality in this laughand in his vigoroushealthy voice
and in the roundness and fullness with which he uttered every word
he spokeand in the very fury of his superlativeswhich seemed to
go off like blank cannons and hurt nothing. But we were hardly
prepared to have it so confirmed by his appearance when Mr.
Jarndyce presented him. He was not only a very handsome old
gentleman--upright and stalwart as he had been described to us-with
a massive grey heada fine composure of face when silenta
figure that might have become corpulent but for his being so
continually in earnest that he gave it no restand a chin that
might have subsided into a double chin but for the vehement
emphasis in which it was constantly required to assist; but he was
such a true gentleman in his mannerso chivalrously politehis
face was lighted by a smile of so much sweetness and tenderness
and it seemed so plain that he had nothing to hidebut showed
himself exactly as he was--incapableas Richard saidof anything
on a limited scaleand firing away with those blank great guns
because he carried no small arms whatever--that really I could not
help looking at him with equal pleasure as he sat at dinner
whether he smilingly conversed with Ada and meor was led by Mr.
Jarndyce into some great volley of superlativesor threw up his
head like a bloodhound and gave out that tremendous "Hahaha!"


You have brought your bird with you, I suppose?said Mr.
Jarndyce.

By heaven, he is the most astonishing bird in Europe!replied the
other. "He IS the most wonderful creature! I wouldn't take ten
thousand guineas for that bird. I have left an annuity for his
sole support in case he should outlive me. He isin sense and
attachmenta phenomenon. And his father before him was one of the
most astonishing birds that ever lived!"

The subject of this laudation was a very little canarywho was so
tame that he was brought down by Mr. Boythorn's manon his
forefingerand after taking a gentle flight round the room
alighted on his master's head. To hear Mr. Boythorn presently
expressing the most implacable and passionate sentimentswith this
fragile mite of a creature quietly perched on his foreheadwas to
have a good illustration of his characterI thought.

By my soul, Jarndyce,he saidvery gently holding up a bit of
bread to the canary to peck atif I were in your place I would
seize every master in Chancery by the throat tomorrow morning and
shake him until his money rolled out of his pockets and his bones
rattled in his skin. I would have a settlement out of somebody, by
fair means or by foul. If you would empower me to do it, I would
do it for you with the greatest satisfaction!(All this time the
very small canary was eating out of his hand.)

I thank you, Lawrence, but the suit is hardly at such a point at
present,returned Mr. Jarndycelaughingthat it would be
greatly advanced even by the legal process of shaking the bench and
the whole bar.

There never was such an infernal cauldron as that Chancery on the
face of the earth!said Mr. Boythorn. "Nothing but a mine below
it on a busy day in term timewith all its recordsrulesand
precedents collected in it and every functionary belonging to it
alsohigh and lowupward and downwardfrom its son the
Accountant-General to its father the Deviland the whole blown to
atoms with ten thousand hundredweight of gunpowderwould reform it
in the least!"

It was impossible not to laugh at the energetic gravity with which
he recommended this strong measure of reform. When we laughedhe
threw up his head and shook his broad chestand again the whole
country seemed to echo to his "Hahaha!" It had not the least
effect in disturbing the birdwhose sense of security was complete
and who hopped about the table with its quick head now on this side
and now on thatturning its bright sudden eye on its master as if
he were no more than another bird.

But how do you and your neighbour get on about the disputed right
of way?said Mr. Jarndyce. "You are not free from the toils of
the law yourself!"

The fellow has brought actions against ME for trespass, and I have
brought actions against HIM for trespass,returned Mr. Boythorn.
By heaven, he is the proudest fellow breathing. It is morally
impossible that his name can be Sir Leicester. It must be Sir
Lucifer.

Complimentary to our distant relation!said my guardian
laughingly to Ada and Richard.

I would beg Miss Clare's pardon and Mr. Carstone's pardon,


resumed our visitorif I were not reassured by seeing in the fair
face of the lady and the smile of the gentleman that it is quite
unnecessary and that they keep their distant relation at a
comfortable distance.

Or he keeps us,suggested Richard.

By my soul,exclaimed Mr. Boythornsuddenly firing another
volleythat fellow is, and his father was, and his grandfather
was, the most stiff-necked, arrogant imbecile, pig-headed numskull,
ever, by some inexplicable mistake of Nature, born in any station
of life but a walking-stick's! The whole of that family are the
most solemnly conceited and consummate blockheads! But it's no
matter; he should not shut up my path if he were fifty baronets
melted into one and living in a hundred Chesney Wolds, one within
another, like the ivory balls in a Chinese carving. The fellow, by
his agent, or secretary, or somebody, writes to me 'Sir Leicester
Dedlock, Baronet, presents his compliments to Mr. Lawrence
Boythorn, and has to call his attention to the fact that the green
pathway by the old parsonage-house, now the property of Mr.
Lawrence Boythorn, is Sir Leicester's right of way, being in fact a
portion of the park of chesney Wold, and that Sir Leicester finds
it convenient to close up the same.' I write to the fellow, 'Mr.
Lawrence Boythorn presents his compliments to Sir Leicester
Dedlock, Baronet, and has to call HIS attention to the fact that he
totally denies the whole of Sir Leicester Dedlock's positions on
every possible subject and has to add, in reference to closing up
the pathway, that he will be glad to see the man who may undertake
to do it.' The fellow sends a most abandoned villain with one eye
to construct a gateway. I play upon that execrable scoundrel with
a fire-engine until the breath is nearly driven out of his body.
The fellow erects a gate in the night. I chop it down and burn it
in the morning. He sends his myrmidons to come over the fence and
pass and repass. I catch them in humane man traps, fire split peas
at their legs, play upon them with the engine--resolve to free
mankind from the insupportable burden of the existence of those
lurking ruffians. He brings actions for trespass; I bring actions
for trespass. He brings actions for assault and battery; I defend
them and continue to assault and batter. Ha, ha, ha!

To hear him say all this with unimaginable energyone might have
thought him the angriest of mankind. To see him at the very same
timelooking at the bird now perched upon his thumb and softly
smoothing its feathers with his forefingerone might have thought
him the gentlest. To hear him laugh and see the broad good nature
of his face thenone might have supposed that he had not a care in
the worldor a disputeor a dislikebut that his whole existence
was a summer joke.

No, no,he saidno closing up of my paths by any Dedlock!
Though I willingly confess,here he softened in a momentthat
Lady Dedlock is the most accomplished lady in the world, to whom I
would do any homage that a plain gentleman, and no baronet with a
head seven hundred years thick, may. A man who joined his regiment
at twenty and within a week challenged the most imperious and
presumptuous coxcomb of a commanding officer that ever drew the
breath of life through a tight waist--and got broke for it--is not
the man to be walked over by all the Sir Lucifers, dead or alive,
locked or unlocked. Ha, ha, ha!

Nor the man to allow his junior to be walked over either?said my
guardian.

Most assuredly not!said Mr. Boythornclapping him on the


shoulder with an air of protection that had something serious in
itthough he laughed. "He will stand by the low boyalways.
Jarndyceyou may rely upon him! But speaking of this trespass-with
apologies to Miss Clare and Miss Summerson for the length at
which I have pursued so dry a subject--is there nothing for me from
your men Kenge and Carboy?"

I think not, Esther?said Mr. Jarndyce.

Nothing, guardian.

Much obliged!said Mr. Boythorn. "Had no need to askafter even
my slight experience of Miss Summerson's forethought for every one
about her." (They all encouraged me; they were determined to do
it.) "I inquired becausecoming from LincolnshireI of course
have not yet been in townand I thought some letters might have
been sent down here. I dare say they will report progress tomorrow
morning."

I saw him so often in the course of the eveningwhich passed very
pleasantlycontemplate Richard and Ada with an interest and a
satisfaction that made his fine face remarkably agreeable as he sat
at a little distance from the piano listening to the music--and he
had small occasion to tell us that he was passionately fond of
musicfor his face showed it--that I asked my guardian as we sat
at the backgammon board whether Mr. Boythorn had ever been married.

No,said he. "No."

But he meant to be!said I.

How did you find out that?he returned with a smile. "Why
guardian I explained, not without reddening a little at hazarding
what was in my thoughts, there is something so tender in his
mannerafter alland he is so very courtly and gentle to usand
--"

Mr. Jarndyce directed his eyes to where he was sitting as I have
just described him.

I said no more.

You are right, little woman,he answered. "He was all but
married once. Long ago. And once."

Did the lady die?

No--but she died to him. That time has had its influence on all
his later life. Would you suppose him to have a head and a heart
full of romance yet?

I think, guardian, I might have supposed so. But it is easy to
say that when you have told me so.

He has never since been what he might have been,said Mr.
Jarndyceand now you see him in his age with no one near him but
his servant and his little yellow friend. It's your throw, my
dear!

I feltfrom my guardian's mannerthat beyond this point I could
not pursue the subject without changing the wind. I therefore
forbore to ask any further questions. I was interestedbut not
curious. I thought a little while about this old love story in the
nightwhen I was awakened by Mr. Boythorn's lusty snoring; and I


tried to do that very difficult thingimagine old people young
again and invested with the graces of youth. But I fell asleep
before I had succeededand dreamed of the days when I lived in my
godmother's house. I am not sufficiently acquainted with such
subjects to know whether it is at all remarkable that I almost
always dreamed of that period of my life.

With the morning there came a letter from Messrs. Kenge and Carboy
to Mr. Boythorn informing him that one of their clerks would wait
upon him at noon. As it was the day of the week on which I paid the
billsand added up my booksand made all the household affairs as
compact as possibleI remained at home while Mr. JarndyceAdaand
Richard took advantage of a very fine day to make a little
excursionMr. Boythorn was to wait for Kenge and Carboy's clerk and
then was to go on foot to meet them on their return.

Well! I was full of businessexamining tradesmen's booksadding
up columnspaying moneyfiling receiptsand I dare say making a
great bustle about it when Mr. Guppy was announced and shown in. I
had had some idea that the clerk who was to be sent down might be
the young gentleman who had met me at the coach-officeand I was
glad to see himbecause he was associated with my present
happiness.

I scarcely knew him againhe was so uncommonly smart. He had an
entirely new suit of glossy clothes ona shining hatlilac-kid
glovesa neckerchief of a variety of coloursa large hot-house
flower in his button-holeand a thick gold ring on his little
finger. Besides whichhe quite scented the dining-room with
bear's-grease and other perfumery. He looked at me with an
attention that quite confused me when I begged him to take a seat
until the servant should return; and as he sat there crossing and
uncrossing his legs in a cornerand I asked him if he had had a
pleasant rideand hoped that Mr. Kenge was wellI never looked at
himbut I found him looking at me in the same scrutinizing and
curious way.

When the request was brought to him that he would go up-stairs to
Mr. Boythorn's roomI mentioned that he would find lunch prepared
for him when he came downof which Mr. Jarndyce hoped he would
partake. He said with some embarrassmentholding the handle of the
door'"Shall I have the honour of finding you heremiss?" I
replied yesI should be there; and he went out with a bow and
another look.

I thought him only awkward and shyfor he was evidently much
embarrassed; and I fancied that the best thing I could do would be
to wait until I saw that he had everything he wanted and then to
leave him to himself. The lunch was soon broughtbut it remained
for some time on the table. The interview with Mr. Boythorn was a
long oneand a stormy one tooI should thinkfor although his
room was at some distance I heard his loud voice rising every now
and then like a high windand evidently blowing perfect broadsides
of denunciation.

At last Mr. Guppy came backlooking something the worse for the
conference. "My eyemiss he said in a low voice, he's a
Tartar!"

Pray take some refreshment, sir,said I.

Mr. Guppy sat down at the table and began nervously sharpening the
carving-knife on the carving-forkstill looking at me (as I felt
quite sure without looking at him) in the same unusual manner. The


sharpening lasted so long that at last I felt a kind of obligation
on me to raise my eyes in order that I might break the spell under
which he seemed to labourof not being able to leave off.

He immediately looked at the dish and began to carve.

What will you take yourself, miss? You'll take a morsel of
something?

No, thank you,said I.

Shan't I give you a piece of anything at all, miss?said Mr.
Guppyhurriedly drinking off a glass of wine.

Nothing, thank you,said I. "I have only waited to see that you
have everything you want. Is there anything I can order for you?"

No, I am much obliged to you, miss, I'm sure. I've everything that
I can require to make me comfortable--at least I--not comfortable-I'm
never that.He drank off two more glasses of wineone after
another.

I thought I had better go.

I beg your pardon, miss!said Mr. Guppyrising when he saw me
rise. "But would you allow me the favour of a minute's private
conversation?"

Not knowing what to sayI sat down again.

What follows is without prejudice, miss?said Mr. Guppyanxiously
bringing a chair towards my table.

I don't understand what you mean,said Iwondering.

It's one of our law terms, miss. You won't make any use of it to
my detriment at Kenge and Carboy's or elsewhere. If our
conversation shouldn't lead to anything, I am to be as I was and am
not to be prejudiced in my situation or worldly prospects. In
short, it's in total confidence.

I am at a loss, sir,said Ito imagine what you can have to
communicate in total confidence to me, whom you have never seen but
once; but I should be very sorry to do you any injury.

Thank you, miss. I'm sure of it--that's quite sufficient.All
this time Mr. Guppy was either planing his forehead with his
handkerchief or tightly rubbing the palm of his left hand with the
palm of his right. "If you would excuse my taking another glass of
winemissI think it might assist me in getting on without a
continual choke that cannot fail to be mutually unpleasant."

He did soand came back again. I took the opportunity of moving
well behind my table.

You wouldn't allow me to offer you one, would you miss?said Mr.
Guppyapparently refreshed.

Not any,said I.

Not half a glass?said Mr. Guppy. "Quarter? No! Thento
proceed. My present salaryMiss Summersonat Kenge and Carboy's
is two pound a week. When I first had the happiness of looking upon
youit was one fifteenand had stood at that figure for a


lengthened period. A rise of five has since taken placeand a
further rise of five is guaranteed at the expiration of a term not
exceeding twelve months from the present date. My mother has a
little propertywhich takes the form of a small life annuityupon
which she lives in an independent though unassuming manner in the
Old Street Road. She is eminently calculated for a mother-in-law.
She never interferesis all for peaceand her disposition easy.
She has her failings--as who has not?--but I never knew her do it
when company was presentat which time you may freely trust her
with winesspiritsor malt liquors. My own abode is lodgings at
Penton PlacePentonville. It is lowlybut airyopen at the back
and considered one of the 'ealthiest outlets. Miss Summerson! In
the mildest languageI adore you. Would you be so kind as to allow
me (as I may say) to file a declaration--to make an offer!"

Mr. Guppy went down on his knees. I was well behind my table and
not much frightened. I saidGet up from that ridiculous position
lmmediately, sir, or you will oblige me to break my implied promise
and ring the bell!

Hear me out, miss!said Mr. Guppyfolding his hands.

I cannot consent to hear another word, sir,I returnedUnless
you get up from the carpet directly and go and sit down at the table
as you ought to do if you have any sense at all.

He looked piteouslybut slowly rose and did so.

Yet what a mockery it is, miss,he said with his hand upon his
heart and shaking his head at me in a melancholy manner over the
trayto be stationed behind food at such a moment. The soul
recoils from food at such a moment, miss.

I beg you to conclude,said I; "you have asked me to hear you out
and I beg you to conclude."

I will, miss,said Mr. Guppy. "As I love and honourso likewise
I obey. Would that I could make thee the subject of that vow before
the shrine!"

That is quite impossible,said Iand entirely out of the
question.

I am aware,said Mr. Guppyleaning forward over the tray and
regarding meas I again strangely feltthough my eyes were not
directed to himwith his late intent lookI am aware that in a
worldly point of view, according to all appearances, my offer is a
poor one. But, Miss Summerson! Angel! No, don't ring--I have been
brought up in a sharp school and am accustomed to a variety of
general practice. Though a young man, I have ferreted out evidence,
got up cases, and seen lots of life. Blest with your hand, what
means might I not find of advancing your interests and pushing your
fortunes! What might I not get to know, nearly concerning you?
know nothing now, certainly; but what MIGHT I not if I had your
confidence, and you set me on?

I told him that he addressed my interest or what he supposed to be
my interest quite as unsuccessfully as he addressed my inclination
and he would now understand that I requested himif he pleasedto
go away immediately.

Cruel miss,said Mr. Guppyhear but another word! I think you
must have seen that I was struck with those charms on the day when I
waited at the Whytorseller. I think you must have remarked that I


could not forbear a tribute to those charms when I put up the steps
of the 'ackney-coach. It was a feeble tribute to thee, but it was
well meant. Thy image has ever since been fixed in my breast. I
have walked up and down of an evening opposite Jellyby's house only
to look upon the bricks that once contained thee. This out of today,
quite an unnecessary out so far as the attendance, which was
its pretended object, went, was planned by me alone for thee alone.
If I speak of interest, it is only to recommend myself and my
respectful wretchedness. Love was before it, and is before it.

I should be pained, Mr. Guppy,said Irising and putting my hand
upon the bell-ropeto do you or any one who was sincere the
injustice of slighting any honest feeling, however disagreeably
expressed. If you have really meant to give me a proof of your good
opinion, though ill-timed and misplaced, I feel that I ought to
thank you. I have very little reason to be proud, and I am not
proud. I hope,I think I addedwithout very well knowing what I
saidthat you will now go away as if you had never been so
exceedingly foolish and attend to Messrs. Kenge and Carboy's
business.

Half a minute, miss!cried Mr. Guppychecking me as I was about
to ring. "This has been without prejudice?"

I will never mention it,said Iunless you should give me future
occasion to do so.

A quarter of a minute, miss! In case you should think better at
any time, however distant--THAT'S no consequence, for my feelings
can never alter--of anything I have said, particularly what might I
not do, Mr. William Guppy, eighty-seven, Penton Place, or if
removed, or dead (of blighted hopes or anything of that sort), care
of Mrs. Guppy, three hundred and two, Old Street Road, will be
sufficient.

I rang the bellthe servant cameand Mr. Guppylaying his written
card upon the table and making a dejected bowdeparted. Raising my
eyes as he went outI once more saw him looking at me after he had
passed the door.

I sat there for another hour or morefinishing my books and
payments and getting through plenty of business. Then I arranged my
deskand put everything awayand was so composed and cheerful that
I thought I had quite dismissed this unexpected incident. Butwhen
I went upstairs to my own roomI surprised myself by beginning to
laugh about it and then surprised myself still more by beginning to
cry about it. In shortI was in a flutter for a little while and
felt as if an old chord had been more coarsely touched than it ever
had been since the days of the dear old dolllong buried in the
garden.

CHAPTER X

The Law-Writer

On the eastern borders of Chancery Lanethat is to saymore
particularly in Cook's CourtCursitor StreetMr. Snagsbylaw-
stationerpursues his lawful calling. In the shade of Cook's
Courtat most times a shady placeMr. Snagsby has dealt in all
sorts of blank forms of legal process; in skins and rolls of
parchment; in paper--foolscapbriefdraftbrownwhitewhitey



brownand blotting; in stamps; in office-quillspensinkIndia-
rubberpouncepinspencilssealing-waxand wafers; in red tape
and green ferret; in pocket-booksalmanacsdiariesand law lists;
in string boxesrulersinkstands--glass and leaden--pen-knives
scissorsbodkinsand other small office-cutlery; in shortin
articles too numerous to mentionever since he was out of his time
and went into partnership with Peffer. On that occasionCook's
Court was in a manner revolutionized by the new inscription in fresh
paintPEFFER AND SNAGSBYdisplacing the time-honoured and not
easily to be deciphered legend PEFFER only. For smokewhich is the
London ivyhad so wreathed itself round Peffer's name and clung to
his dwelling-place that the affectionate parasite quite overpowered
the parent tree.

Peffer is never seen in Cook's Court now. He is not expected there
for he has been recumbent this quarter of a century in the
churchyard of St. AndrewsHolbornwith the waggons and hackney-
coaches roaring past him all the day and half the night like one
great dragon. If he ever steal forth when the dragon is at rest to
air himself again in Cook's Court until admonished to return by the
crowing of the sanguine cock in the cellar at the little dairy in
Cursitor Streetwhose ideas of daylight it would be curious to
ascertainsince he knows from his personal observation next to
nothing about it--if Peffer ever do revisit the pale glimpses of
Cook's Courtwhich no law-stationer in the trade can positively
denyhe comes invisiblyand no one is the worse or wiser.

In his lifetimeand likewise in the period of Snagsby's "time" of
seven long yearsthere dwelt with Peffer in the same lawstationering
premises a niece--a shortshrewd niecesomething too
violently compressed about the waistand with a sharp nose like a
sharp autumn eveninginclining to be frosty towards the end. The
Cook's Courtiers had a rumour flying among them that the mother of
this niece didin her daughter's childhoodmoved by too jealous a
solicitude that her figure should approach perfectionlace her up
every morning with her maternal foot against the bed-post for a
stronger hold and purchase; and furtherthat she exhibited
internally pints of vinegar and lemon-juicewhich acidsthey held
had mounted to the nose and temper of the patient. With whichsoever
of the many tongues of Rumour this frothy report originatedit
either never reached or never influenced the ears of young Snagsby
whohaving wooed and won its fair subject on his arrival at man's
estateentered into two partnerships at once. So nowin Cook's
CourtCursitor StreetMr. Snagsby and the niece are one; and the
niece still cherishes her figurewhichhowever tastes may differ
is unquestionably so far precious that there is mighty little of it.

Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby are not only one bone and one fleshbutto
the neighbours' thinkingone voice too. That voiceappearing to
proceed from Mrs. Snagsby aloneis heard in Cook's Court very
often. Mr. Snagsbyotherwise than as he finds expression through
these dulcet tonesis rarely heard. He is a mildbaldtimid man
with a shining head and a scrubby clump of black hair sticking out
at the back. He tends to meekness and obesity. As he stands at his
door in Cook's Court in his grey shop-coat and black calico sleeves
looking up at the cloudsor stands behind a desk in his dark shop
with a heavy flat rulersnipping and slicing at sheepskin in
company with his two 'prenticeshe is emphatically a retiring and
unassuming man. From beneath his feetat such timesas from a
shrill ghost unquiet in its gravethere frequently arise
complainings and lamentations in the voice already mentioned; and
haplyon some occasions when these reach a sharper pitch than
usualMr. Snagsby mentions to the 'prenticesI think my little
woman is a-giving it to Guster!


This proper nameso used by Mr. Snagsbyhas before now sharpened
the wit of the Cook's Courtiers to remark that it ought to be the
name of Mrs. Snagsbyseeing that she might with great force and
expression be termed a Gusterin compliment to her stormy
character. It ishoweverthe possessionand the only possession
except fifty shillings per annum and a very small box indifferently
filled with clothingof a lean young woman from a workhouse (by
some supposed to have been christened Augusta) whoalthough she was
farmed or contracted for during her growing time by an amiable
benefactor of his species resident at Tootingand cannot fail to
have been developed under the most favourable circumstanceshas
fits,which the parish can't account for.

Gusterreally aged three or four and twentybut looking a round
ten years oldergoes cheap with this unaccountable drawback of
fitsand is so apprehensive of being returned on the hands of her
patron saint that except when she is found with her head in the
pailor the sinkor the copperor the dinneror anything else
that happens to be near her at the time of her seizureshe is
always at work. She is a satisfaction to the parents and guardians
of the 'prenticeswho feel that there is little danger of her
inspiring tender emotions in the breast of youth; she is a
satisfaction to Mrs. Snagsbywho can always find fault with her;
she is a satisfaction to Mr. Snagsbywho thinks it a charity to
keep her. The law-stationer's establishment isin Guster's eyesa
temple of plenty and splendour. She believes the little drawing-
room upstairsalways keptas one may saywith its hair in papers
and its pinafore onto be the most elegant apartment in
Christendom. The view it commands of Cook's Court at one end (not
to mention a squint into Cursitor Street) and of Coavinses' the
sheriff's officer's backyard at the other she regards as a prospect
of unequalled beauty. The portraits it displays in oil--and plenty
of it too--of Mr. Snagsby looking at Mrs. Snagsby and of Mrs.
Snagsby looking at Mr. Snagsby are in her eyes as achievements of
Raphael or Titian. Guster has some recompenses for her many
privations.

Mr. Snagsby refers everything not in the practical mysteries of the
business to Mrs. Snagsby. She manages the moneyreproaches the
tax-gatherersappoints the times and places of devotion on Sundays
licenses Mr. Snagsby's entertainmentsand acknowledges no
responsibility as to what she thinks fit to provide for dinner
insomuch that she is the high standard of comparison among the
neighbouring wives a long way down Chancery Lane on both sidesand
even out in Holbornwho in any domestic passages of arms habitually
call upon their husbands to look at the difference between their
(the wives') position and Mrs. Snagsby'sand their (the husbands')
behaviour and Mr. Snagsby's. Rumouralways flying bat-like about
Cook's Court and skimming in and out at everybody's windowsdoes
say that Mrs. Snagsby is jealous and inquisitive and that Mr.
Snagsby is sometimes worried out of house and homeand that if he
had the spirit of a mouse he wouldn't stand it. It is even observed
that the wives who quote him to their self-willed husbands as a
shining example in reality look down upon him and that nobody does
so with greater superciliousness than one particular lady whose lord
is more than suspected of laying his umbrella on her as an
instrument of correction. But these vague whisperings may arise
from Mr. Snagsby's being in his way rather a meditative and poetical
manloving to walk in Staple Inn in the summer-time and to observe
how countrified the sparrows and the leaves arealso to lounge
about the Rolls Yard of a Sunday afternoon and to remark (if in good
spirits) that there were old times once and that you'd find a stone
coffin or two now under that chapelhe'll be boundif you was to


dig for it. He solaces his imaginationtooby thinking of the
many Chancellors and Vicesand Masters of the Rolls who are
deceased; and he gets such a flavour of the country out of telling
the two 'prentices how he HAS heard say that a brook "as clear as
crystial" once ran right down the middle of Holbornwhen Turnstile
really was a turnstileleading slap away into the meadows--gets
such a flavour of the country out of this that he never wants to go
there.

The day is closing in and the gas is lightedbut is not yet fully
effectivefor it is not quite dark. Mr. Snagsby standing at his
shop-door looking up at the clouds sees a crow who is out late skim
westward over the slice of sky belonging to Cook's Court. The crow
flies straight across Chancery Lane and Lincoln's Inn Garden into
Lincoln's Inn Fields.

Herein a large houseformerly a house of statelives Mr.
Tulkinghorn. It is let off in sets of chambers nowand in those
shrunken fragments of its greatnesslawyers lie like maggots in
nuts. But its roomy staircasespassagesand antechambers still
remain; and even its painted ceilingswhere Allegoryin Roman
helmet and celestial linensprawls among balustrades and pillars
flowerscloudsand big-legged boysand makes the head ache--as
would seem to be Allegory's object alwaysmore or less. Here
among his many boxes labelled with transcendent nameslives Mr.
Tulkinghornwhen not speechlessly at home in country-houses where
the great ones of the earth are bored to death. Here he is to-day
quiet at his table. An oyster of the old school whom nobody can
open.

Like as he is to look atso is his apartment in the dusk of the
present afternoon. Rustyout of datewithdrawing from attention
able to afford it. Heavybroad-backedold-fashionedmahogany-
and-horsehair chairsnot easily lifted; obsolete tables with
spindle-legs and dusty baize covers; presentation prints of the
holders of great titles in the last generation or the last but one
environ him. A thick and dingy Turkey-carpet muffles the floor
where he sitsattended by two candles in old-fashioned silver
candlesticks that give a very insufficient light to his large room.
The titles on the backs of his books have retired into the binding;
everything that can have a lock has got one; no key is visible.
Very few loose papers are about. He has some manuscript near him
but is not referring to it. With the round top of an inkstand and
two broken bits of sealing-wax he is silently and slowly working out
whatever train of indecision is in his mind. Now tbe inkstand top
is in the middlenow the red bit of sealing-waxnow the black bit.
That's not it. Mr. Tulkinghorn must gather them all up and begin
again.

Herebeneath the painted ceilingwith foreshortened Allegory
staring down at his intrusion as if it meant to swoop upon himand
he cutting it deadMr. Tulkinghorn has at once his house and
office. He keeps no staffonly one middle-aged manusually a
little out at elbowswho sits in a high pew in the hall and is
rarely overburdened with business. Mr. Tulkinghorn is not in a
common way. He wants no clerks. He is a great reservoir of
confidencesnot to be so tapped. His clients want HIM; he is all
in all. Drafts that he requires to be drawn are drawn by special-
pleaders in the temple on mysterious instructions; fair copies that
he requires to be made are made at the stationers'expense being no
consideration. The middle-aged man in the pew knows scarcely more
of the affairs of the peerage than any crossing-sweeper in Holborn.

The red bitthe black bitthe inkstand topthe other inkstand


topthe little sand-box. So! You to the middleyou to the right
you to the left. This train of indecision must surely be worked out
now or never. Now! Mr. Tulkinghorn gets upadjusts his
spectaclesputs on his hatputs the manuscript in his pocketgoes
outtells the middle-aged man out at elbowsI shall be back
presently.Very rarely tells him anything more explicit.

Mr. Tulkinghorn goesas the crow came--not quite so straightbut
nearly--to Cook's CourtCursitor Street. To Snagsby'sLawStationer's
Deeds engrossed and copiedLaw-Writing executed in all
its branches&c.&c.&c.

It is somewhere about five or six o'clock in the afternoonand a
balmy fragrance of warm tea hovers in Cook's Court. It hovers about
Snagsby's door. The hours are early there: dinner at half-past one
and supper at half-past nine. Mr. Snagsby was about to descend into
the subterranean regions to take tea when he looked out of his door
just now and saw the crow who was out late.

Master at home?

Guster is minding the shopfor the 'prentices take tea in the
kitchen with Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby; consequentlythe robe-maker's
two daughterscombing their curls at the two glasses in the two
second-floor windows of the opposite houseare not driving the two
'prentices to distraction as they fondly supposebut are merely
awakening the unprofitable admiration of Gusterwhose hair won't
growand never wouldand it is confidently thoughtnever will.

Master at home?says Mr. Tulkinghorn.

Master is at homeand Guster will fetch him. Guster disappears
glad to get out of the shopwhich she regards with mingled dread
and veneration as a storehouse of awful implements of the great
torture of the law--a place not to be entered after the gas is
turned off.

Mr. Snagsby appearsgreasywarmherbaceousand chewing. Bolts a
bit of bread and butter. SaysBless my soul, sir! Mr.
Tulkinghorn!

I want half a word with you, Snagsby.

Certainly, sir! Dear me, sir, why didn't you send your young man
round for me? Pray walk into the back shop, sir.Snagsby has
brightened in a moment.

The confined roomstrong of parchment-greaseis warehouse
counting-houseand copying-office. Mr. Tulkinghorn sitsfacing
roundon a stool at the desk.

Jarndyce and Jarndyce, Snagsby.

Yes, sir.Mr. Snagsby turns up the gas and coughs behind his
handmodestly anticipating profit. Mr. Snagsbyas a timid manis
accustomed to cough with a variety of expressionsand so to save
words.

You copied some affidavits in that cause for me lately.

Yes, sir, we did.

There was one of them,says Mr. Tulkinghorncarelessly feeling-tight
unopenable oyster of the old school!--in the wrong coat



pocketthe handwriting of which is peculiar, and I rather like.
As I happened to be passing, and thought I had it about me, I looked
in to ask you--but I haven't got it. No matter, any other time will
do. Ah! here it is! I looked in to ask you who copied this.

'"Who copied thissir?" says Mr. Snagsbytaking itlaying it flat
on the deskand separating all the sheets at once with a twirl and
a twist of the left hand peculiar to lawstationers. "We gave this
outsir. We were giving out rather a large quantity of work just
at that time. I can tell you in a moment who copied itsirby
referring to my book."

Mr. Snagsby takes his book down from the safemakes another bolt of
the bit of bread and butter which seemed to have stopped shorteyes
the affidavit asideand brings his right forefinger travelling down
a page of the bookJewby--Packer--Jarndyce.

Jarndyce! Here we are, sir,says Mr. Snagsby. "To be sure! I
might have remembered it. This was given outsirto a writer who
lodges just over on the opposite side of the lane."

Mr. Tulkinghorn has seen the entryfound it before the law-
stationerread it while the forefinger was coming down the hill.

WHAT do you call him? Nemo?says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "Nemosir.
Here it is. Forty-two folio. Given out on the Wednesday night at
eight o'clockbrought in on the Thursday morning at half after
nine."

Nemo!repeats Mr. Tulkinghorn. "Nemo is Latin for no one."

It must be English for some one, sir, I think,Mr. Snagsby submits
with his deferential cough. "It is a person's name. Here it is
you seesir! Forty-two folio. Given out Wednesday nighteight
o'clock; brought in Thursday morninghalf after nine."

The tail of Mr. Snagsby's eye becomes conscious of the head of Mrs.
Snagsby looking in at the shop-door to know what he means by
deserting his tea. Mr. Snagsby addresses an explanatory cough to
Mrs. Snagsbyas who should sayMy dear, a customer!

Half after nine, sir,repeats Mr. Snagsby. "Our law-writerswho
live by job-workare a queer lot; and this may not be his namebut
it's the name he goes by. I remember nowsirthat he gives it in
a written advertisement he sticks up down at the Rule Officeand
the King's Bench Officeand the Judges' Chambersand so forth.
You know the kind of documentsir--wanting employ?"

Mr. Tulkinghorn glances through the little window at the back of
Coavinses'the sheriff's officer'swhere lights shine in
Coavinses' windows. Coavinses' coffee-room is at the backand the
shadows of several gentlemen under a cloud loom cloudily upon the
blinds. Mr. Snagsby takes the opportunity of slightly turning his
head to glance over his shoulder at his little woman and to make
apologetic motions with his mouth to this effect: "Tul-king-horn-rich--
in-flu-en-tial!"

Have you given this man work before?asks Mr. Tulkinghorn.

Oh, dear, yes, sir! Work of yours.

Thinking of more important matters, I forget where you said he
lived?


Across the lane, sir. In fact, he lodges at a--Mr. Snagsby makes
another boltas if the bit of bread and buffer were insurmountable
--at a rag and bottle shop.

Can you show me the place as I go back?

With the greatest pleasure, sir!

Mr. Snagsby pulls off his sleeves and his grey coatpulls on his
black coattakes his hat from its peg. "Oh! Here is my little
woman!" he says aloud. "My dearwill you be so kind as to tell one
of the lads to look after the shop while I step across the lane with
Mr. Tulkinghorn? Mrs. Snagsbysir--I shan't be two minutesmy
love!"

Mrs. Snagsby bends to the lawyerretires behind the counterpeeps
at them through the window-blindgoes softly into the back office
refers to the entries in the book still lying open. Is evidently
curious.

You will find that the place is rough, sir,says Mr. Snagsby
walking deferentially in the road and leaving the narrow pavement to
the lawyer; "and the party is very rough. But they're a wild lot in
generalsir. The advantage of this particular man is that he never
wants sleep. He'll go at it right on end if you want him toas
long as ever you like."

It is quite dark nowand the gas-lamps have acquired their full
effect. Jostling against clerks going to post the day's letters
and against counsel and attorneys going home to dinnerand against
plaintiffs and defendants and suitors of all sortsand against the
general crowdin whose way the forensic wisdom of ages has
interposed a million of obstacles to the transaction of the
commonest business of life; diving through law and equityand
through that kindred mysterythe street mudwhich is made of
nobody knows what and collects about us nobody knows whence or how-we
only knowing in general that when there is too much of it we find
it necessary to shovel it away--the lawyer and the law-stationer
come to a rag and bottle shop and general emporium of much
disregarded merchandiselying and being in the shadow of the wall
of Lincoln's Innand keptas is announced in paintto all whom it
may concernby one Krook.

This is where he lives, sir,says the law-stationer.

This is where he lives, is it?says the lawyer unconcernedly.
Thank you.

Are you not going in, sir?

No, thank you, no; I am going on to the Fields at present. Good
evening. Thank you!Mr. Snagsby lifts his hat and returns to his
little woman and his tea.

But Mr. Tulkinghorn does not go on to the Fields at present. He
goes a short wayturns backcomes again to the shop of Mr. Krook
and enters it straight. It is dim enoughwith a blot-headed candle
or so in the windowsand an old man and a cat sitting in the back
part by a fire. The old man rises and comes forwardwith another
blot-headed candle in his hand.

Pray is your lodger within?

Male or female, sir?says Mr. Krook.


Male. The person who does copying.

Mr. Krook has eyed his man narrowly. Knows him by sight. Has an
indistinct impression of his aristocratic repute.

Did you wish to see him, sir?

Yes.

It's what I seldom do myself,says Mr. Krook with a grin. "Shall
I call him down? But it's a weak chance if he'd comesir!"

I'll go up to him, then,says Mr. Tulkinghorn.

Second floor, sir. Take the candle. Up there!Mr. Krookwith
his cat beside himstands at the bottom of the staircaselooking
after Mr. Tulkinghorn. "Hi-hi!" he says when Mr. Tulkinghorn has
nearly disappeared. The lawyer looks down over the hand-rail. The
cat expands her wicked mouth and snarls at him.

Order, Lady Jane! Behave yourself to visitors, my lady! You know
what they say of my lodger?whispers Krookgoing up a step or two.

What do they say of him?

They say he has sold himself to the enemy, but you and I know
better--he don't buy. I'll tell you what, though; my lodger is so
black-humoured and gloomy that I believe he'd as soon make that
bargain as any other. Don't put him out, sir. That's my advice!

Mr. Tulkinghorn with a nod goes on his way. He comes to the dark
door on the second floor. He knocksreceives no answeropens it
and accidentally extinguishes his candle in doing so.

The air of the room is almost bad enough to have extinguished it if
he had not. It is a small roomnearly black with sootand grease
and dirt. In the rusty skeleton of a gratepinched at the middle
as if poverty had gripped ita red coke fire burns low. In the
corner by the chimney stand a deal table and a broken deska
wilderness marked with a rain of ink. In another corner a ragged
old portmanteau on one of the two chairs serves for cabinet or
wardrobe; no larger one is neededfor it collapses like the cheeks
of a starved man. The floor is bareexcept that one old mat
trodden to shreds of rope-yarnlies perishing upon the hearth. No
curtain veils the darkness of the nightbut the discoloured
shutters are drawn togetherand through the two gaunt holes pierced
in themfamine might be staring in--the banshee of the man upon the
bed.

Foron a low bed opposite the firea confusion of dirty patchwork
lean-ribbed tickingand coarse sackingthe lawyerhesitating just
within the doorwaysees a man. He lies theredressed in shirt and
trouserswith bare feet. He has a yellow look in the spectral
darkness of a candle that has guttered down until the whole length
of its wick (still burning) has doubled over and left a tower of
winding-sheet above it. His hair is raggedmingling with his
whiskers and his beard--the latterragged tooand grownlike the
scum and mist around himin neglect. Foul and filthy as the room
isfoul and filthy as the air isit is not easy to perceive what
fumes those are which most oppress the senses in it; but through the
general sickliness and faintnessand the odour of stale tobacco
there comes into the lawyer's mouth the bittervapid taste of
opium.


Hallo, my friend!he criesand strikes his iron candlestick
against the door.

He thinks he has awakened his friend. He lies a little turned away
but his eyes are surely open.

Hallo, my friend!he cries again. "Hallo! Hallo!"

As he rattles on the doorthe candle which has drooped so long goes
out and leaves him in the darkwith the gaunt eyes in the shutters
staring down upon the bed.

CHAPTER XI

Our Dear Brother

A touch on the lawyer's wrinkled hand as he stands in the dark room
irresolutemakes him start and sayWhat's that?

It's me,returns the old man of the housewhose breath is in his
ear. "Can't you wake him?"

No.

What have you done with your candle?

It's gone out. Here it is.

Krook takes itgoes to the firestoops over the red embersand
tries to get a light. The dying ashes have no light to spareand
his endeavours are vain. Mutteringafter an ineffectual call to
his lodgerthat he will go downstairs and bring a lighted candle
from the shopthe old man departs. Mr. Tulkinghornfor some new
reason that he hasdoes not await his return in the roombut on
the stairs outside.

The welcome light soon shines upon the wallas Krook comes slowly
up with his green-eyed cat following at his heels. "Does the man
generally sleep like this?" inquired the lawyer in a low voice.
Hi! I don't know,says Krookshaking his head and lifting his
eyebrows. "I know next to nothing of his habits except that he
keeps himself very close."

Thus whisperingthey both go in together. As the light goes in
the great eyes in the shuttersdarkeningseem to close. Not so
the eyes upon the bed.

God save us!exclaims Mr. Tulkinghorn. "He is dead!" Krook drops
the heavy hand he has taken up so suddenly that the arm swings over
the bedside.

They look at one another for a moment.

Send for some doctor! Call for Miss Flite up the stairs, sir.
Here's poison by the bed! Call out for Flite, will you?says
Krookwith his lean hands spread out above the body like a
vampire's wings.

Mr. Tulkinghorn hurries to the landing and callsMiss Flite!
Flite! Make haste, here, whoever you are! Flite!Krook follows


him with his eyesand while he is callingfinds opportunity to
steal to the old portmanteau and steal back again.

Run, Flite, run! The nearest doctor! Run!So Mr. Krook
addresses a crazy little woman who is his female lodgerwho appears
and vanishes in a breathwho soon returns accompanied by a testy
medical man brought from his dinnerwith a broadsnuffy upper lip
and a broad Scotch tongue.

Ey! Bless the hearts o' ye,says the medical manlooking up at
them after a moment's examination. "He's just as dead as Phairy!"

Mr. Tulkinghorn (standing by the old portmanteau) inquires if he has
been dead any time.

Any time, sir?says the medical gentleman. "It's probable he wull
have been dead aboot three hours."

About that time, I should say,observes a dark young man on the
other side of the bed.

Air you in the maydickle prayfession yourself, sir?inquires the
first.

The dark young man says yes.

Then I'll just tak' my depairture,replies the otherfor I'm nae
gude here!With which remark he finishes his brief attendance and
returns to finish his dinner.

The dark young surgeon passes the candle across and across the face
and carefully examines the law-writerwho has established his
pretensions to his name by becoming indeed No one.

I knew this person by sight very well,says he. "He has purchased
opium of me for the last year and a half. Was anybody present
related to him?" glancing round upon the three bystanders.

I was his landlord,grimly answers Krooktaking the candle from
the surgeon's outstretched hand. "He told me once I was the nearest
relation he had."

He has died,says the surgeonof an over-dose of opium, there is
no doubt. The room is strongly flavoured with it. There is enough
here now,taking an old teapot from Mr. Krookto kill a dozen
people.

Do you think he did it on purpose?asks Krook.

Took the over-dose?

Yes!Krook almost smacks his lips with the unction of a horrible
interest.

I can't say. I should think it unlikely, as he has been in the
habit of taking so much. But nobody can tell. He was very poor, I
suppose?

I suppose he was. His room--don't look rich,says Krookwho
might have changed eyes with his catas he casts his sharp glance
around. "But I have never been in it since he had itand he was
too close to name his circumstances to me."

Did he owe you any rent?


Six weeks.

He will never pay it!says the young manresuming his
examination. "It is beyond a doubt that he is indeed as dead as
Pharaoh; and to judge from his appearance and conditionI should
think it a happy release. Yet he must have been a good figure when
a youthand I dare saygood-looking." He says thisnot
unfeelinglywhile sitting on the bedstead's edge with his face
towards that other face and his hand upon the region of the heart.
I recollect once thinking there was something in his manner,
uncouth as it was, that denoted a fall in life. Was that so?he
continueslooking round.

Krook repliesYou might as well ask me to describe the ladies
whose heads of hair I have got in sacks downstairs. Than that he
was my lodger for a year and a half and lived--or didn't live--by
law-writing, I know no more of him.

During this dialogue Mr. Tulkinghorn has stood aloof by the old
portmanteauwith his hands behind himequally removedto all
appearancefrom all three kinds of interest exhibited near the
bed--from the young surgeon's professional interest in death
noticeable as being quite apart from his remarks on the deceased as
an individual; from the old man's unction; and the little crazy
woman's awe. His imperturbable face has been as inexpressive as
his rusty clothes. One could not even say he has been thinking all
this while. He has shown neither patience nor impatiencenor
attention nor abstraction. He has shown nothing but his shell. As
easily might the tone of a delicate musical instrument be inferred
from its caseas the tone of Mr. Tulkinghorn from his case.

He now interposesaddressing the young surgeon in his unmoved
professional way.

I looked in here,he observesjust before you, with the
intention of giving this deceased man, whom I never saw alive, some
employment at his trade of copying. I had heard of him from my
stationer--Snagsby of Cook's Court. Since no one here knows
anything about him, it might be as well to send for Snagsby. Ah!
to the little crazy womanwho has often seen him in courtand
whom he has often seenand who proposesin frightened dumb-show
to go for the law-stationer. "Suppose you do!"

While she is gonethe surgeon abandons his hopeless investigation
and covers its subject with the patchwork counterpane. Mr. Krook
and he interchange a word or two. Mr. Tulkinghorn says nothing
but standsevernear the old portmanteau.

Mr. Snagsby arrives hastily in his grey coat and his black sleeves.
Dear me, dear me,he says; "and it has come to thishas it!
Bless my soul!"

Can you give the person of the house any information about this
unfortunate creature, Snagsby?inquires Mr. Tulkinghorn. "He was
in arrears with his rentit seems. And he must be buriedyou
know."

Well, sir,says Mr. Snagsbycoughing his apologetic cough behind
his handI really don't know what advice I could offer, except
sending for the beadle.

I don't speak of advice,returns Mr. Tulkinghorn. "I could
advise--"


No one better, sir, I am sure,says Mr. Snagsbywith his
deferential cough.

I speak of affording some clue to his connexions, or to where he
came from, or to anything concerning him.

I assure you, sir,says Mr. Snagsby after prefacing his reply
with his cough of general propitiationthat I no more know where
he came from than I know--

Where he has gone to, perhaps,suggests the surgeon to help him
out.

A pause. Mr. Tulkinghorn looking at the law-stationer. Mr. Krook
with his mouth openlooking for somebody to speak next.

As to his connexions, sir,says Mr. Snagsbyif a person was to
say to me, Snagsbyhere's twenty thousand pound downready for
you in the Bank of England if you'll only name one of 'em' I
couldn't do itsir! About a year and a half ago--to the best of my
beliefat the time when he first came to lodge at the present rag
and bottle shop--"

That was the time!says Krook with a nod.

About a year and a half ago,says Mr. Snagsbystrengthenedhe
came into our place one morning after breakfast, and finding my
little woman (which I name Mrs. Snagsby when I use that appellation)
in our shop, produced a specimen of his handwriting and gave her to
understand that he was in want of copying work to do and was, not to
put too fine a point upon it,a favourite apology for plain
speaking with Mr. Snagsbywhich he always offers with a sort of
argumentative franknesshard up! My little woman is not in
general partial to strangers, particular--not to put too fine a
point upon it--when they want anything. But she was rather took by
something about this person, whether by his being unshaved, or by
his hair being in want of attention, or by what other ladies'
reasons, I leave you to judge; and she accepted of the specimen, and
likewise of the address. My little woman hasn't a good ear for
names,proceeds Mr. Snagsby after consulting his cough of
consideration behind his handand she considered Nemo equally the
same as Nimrod. In consequence of which, she got into a habit of
saying to me at meals, 'Mr. Snagsby, you haven't found Nimrod any
work yet!' or 'Mr. Snagsby, why didn't you give that eight and
thirty Chancery folio in Jarndyce to Nimrod?' or such like. And
that is the way he gradually fell into job-work at our place; and
that is the most I know of him except that he was a quick hand, and
a hand not sparing of night-work, and that if you gave him out, say,
five and forty folio on the Wednesday night, you would have it
brought in on the Thursday morning. All of which--Mr. Snagsby
concludes by politely motioning with his hat towards the bedas
much as to addI have no doubt my honourable friend would confirm
if he were in a condition to do it.

Hadn't you better see,says Mr. Tulkinghorn to Krookwhether he
had any papers that may enlighten you? There will be an inquest,
and you will be asked the question. You can read?

No, I can't,returns the old man with a sudden grin.

Snagsby,says Mr. Tulkinghornlook over the room for him. He
will get into some trouble or difficulty otherwise. Being here,
I'll wait if you make haste, and then I can testify on his behalf,


if it should ever be necessary, that all was fair and right. If you
will hold the candle for Mr. Snagsby, my friend, he'll soon see
whether there is anything to help you.

In the first place, here's an old portmanteau, sir,says Snagsby.

Ahto be sureso there is! Mr. Tulkinghorn does not appear to
have seen it beforethough he is standing so close to itand
though there is very little elseheaven knows.

The marine-store merchant holds the lightand the law-stationer
conducts the search. The surgeon leans against the corner of the
chimney-piece; Miss Flite peeps and trembles just within the door.
The apt old scholar of the old schoolwith his dull black breeches
tied with ribbons at the kneeshis large black waistcoathis long-
sleeved black coatand his wisp of limp white neckerchief tied in
the bow the peerage knows so wellstands in exactly the same place
and attitude.

There are some worthless articles of clothing in the old
portmanteau; there is a bundle of pawnbrokers' duplicatesthose
turnpike tickets on the road of poverty; there is a crumpled paper
smelling of opiumon which are scrawled rough memoranda--astook
such a dayso many grains; tooksuch another dayso many more-begun
some time agoas if with the intention of being regularly
continuedbut soon left off. There are a few dirty scraps of
newspapersall referring to coroners' inquests; there is nothing
else. They search the cupboard and the drawer of the ink-splashed
table. There is not a morsel of an old letter or of any other
writing in either. The young surgeon examines the dress on the law-
writer. A knife and some odd halfpence are all he finds. Mr.
Snagsby's suggestion is the practical suggestion after alland the
beadle must be called in.

So the little crazy lodger goes for the beadleand the rest come
out of the room. "Don't leave the cat there!" says the surgeon;
that won't do!Mr. Krook therefore drives her out before himand
she goes furtively downstairswinding her lithe tail and licking
her lips.

Good night!says Mr. Tulkinghornand goes home to Allegory and
meditation.

By this time the news has got into the court. Groups of its
inhabitants assemble to discuss the thingand the outposts of the
army of observation (principally boys) are pushed forward to Mr.
Krook's windowwhich they closely invest. A policeman has already
walked up to the roomand walked down again to the doorwhere he
stands like a toweronly condescending to see the boys at his base
occasionally; but whenever he does see themthey quail and fall
back. Mrs. Perkinswho has not been for some weeks on speaking
terms with Mrs. Piper in consequence for an unpleasantness
originating in young Perkins' having "fetched" young Piper "a
crack renews her friendly intercourse on this auspicious occasion.
The potboy at the corner, who is a privileged amateur, as possessing
official knowledge of life and having to deal with drunken men
occasionally, exchanges confidential communications with the
policeman and has the appearance of an impregnable youth,
unassailable by truncheons and unconfinable in station-houses.
People talk across the court out of window, and bare-headed scouts
come hurrying in from Chancery Lane to know what's the matter. The
general feeling seems to be that it's a blessing Mr. Krook warn't
made away with first, mingled with a little natural disappointment
that he was not. In the midst of this sensation, the beadle


arrives.

The beadle, though generally understood in the neighbourhood to be a
ridiculous institution, is not without a certain popularity for the
moment, if it were only as a man who is going to see the body. The
policeman considers him an imbecile civilian, a remnant of the
barbarous watchmen times, but gives him admission as something that
must be borne with until government shall abolish him. The
sensation is heightened as the tidings spread from mouth to mouth
that the beadle is on the ground and has gone in.

By and by the beadle comes out, once more intensifying the
sensation, which has rather languished in the interval. He is
understood to be in want of witnesses for the inquest to-morrow who
can tell the coroner and jury anything whatever respecting the
deceased. Is immediately referred to innumerable people who can
tell nothing whatever. Is made more imbecile by being constantly
informed that Mrs. Green's son was a law-writer his-self and knowed
him better than anybody which son of Mrs. Green's appears, on
inquiry, to be at the present time aboard a vessel bound for China,
three months out, but considered accessible by telegraph on
application to the Lords of the Admiralty. Beadle goes into various
shops and parlours, examining the inhabitants, always shutting the
door first, and by exclusion, delay, and general idiotcy
exasperating the public. Policeman seen to smile to potboy. Public
loses interest and undergoes reaction. Taunts the beadle in shrill
youthful voices with having boiled a boy, choruses fragments of a
popular song to that effect and importing that the boy was made into
soup for the workhouse. Policeman at last finds it necessary to
support the law and seize a vocalist, who is released upon the
flight of the rest on condition of his getting out of this then,
come, and cutting it--a condition he immediately observes. So the
sensation dies off for the time; and the unmoved policeman (to whom
a little opium, more or less, is nothing), with his shining hat,
stiff stock, inflexible great-coat, stout belt and bracelet, and all
things fitting, pursues his lounging way with a heavy tread, beating
the palms of his white gloves one against the other and stopping now
and then at a street-corner to look casually about for anything
between a lost child and a murder.

Under cover of the night, the feeble-minded beadle comes flitting
about Chancery Lane with his summonses, in which every juror's name
is wrongly spelt, and nothing rightly spelt but the beadle's own
name, which nobody can read or wants to know. The summonses served
and his witnesses forewarned, the beadle goes to Mr. Krook's to keep
a small appointment he has made with certain paupers, who, presently
arriving, are conducted upstairs, where they leave the great eyes in
the shutter something new to stare at, in that last shape which
earthly lodgings take for No one--and for Every one.

And all that night the coffin stands ready by the old portmanteau;
and the lonely figure on the bed, whose path in life has lain
through five and forty years, lies there with no more track behind
him that any one can trace than a deserted infant.

Next day the court is all alive--is like a fair, as Mrs. Perkins,
more than reconciled to Mrs. Piper, says in amicable conversation
with that excellent woman. The coroner is to sit in the first-floor
room at the Sol's Arms, where the Harmonic Meetings take place twice
a week and where the chair is filled by a gentleman of professional
celebrity, faced by Little Swills, the comic vocalist, who hopes
(according to the bill in the window) that his friends will rally
round him and support first-rate talent. The Sol's Arms does a
brisk stroke of business all the morning. Even children so require


sustaining under the general excitement that a pieman who has
established himself for the occasion at the corner of the court says
his brandy-balls go off like smoke. What time the beadle, hovering
between the door of Mr. Krook's establishment and the door of the
Sol's Arms, shows the curiosity in his keeping to a few discreet
spirits and accepts the compliment of a glass of ale or so in
return.

At the appointed hour arrives the coroner, for whom the jurymen are
waiting and who is received with a salute of skittles from the good
dry skittle-ground attached to the Sol's Arms. The coroner
frequents more public-houses than any man alive. The smell of
sawdust, beer, tobacco-smoke, and spirits is inseparable in his
vocation from death in its most awful shapes. He is conducted by
the beadle and the landlord to the Harmonic Meeting Room, where he
puts his hat on the piano and takes a Windsor-chair at the head of a
long table formed of several short tables put together and
ornamented with glutinous rings in endless involutions, made by pots
and glasses. As many of the jury as can crowd together at the table
sit there. The rest get among the spittoons and pipes or lean
against the piano. Over the coroner's head is a small iron garland,
the pendant handle of a bell, which rather gives the majesty of the
court the appearance of going to be hanged presently.

Call over and swear the jury! While the ceremony is in progress,
sensation is created by the entrance of a chubby little man in a
large shirt-collar, with a moist eye and an inflamed nose, who
modestly takes a position near the door as one of the general
public, but seems familiar with the room too. A whisper circulates
that this is Little Swills. It is considered not unlikely that he
will get up an imitation of the coroner and make it the principal
feature of the Harmonic Meeting in the evenlng.

Wellgentlemen--" the coroner begins.

Silence there, will you!says the beadle. Not to the coroner
though it might appear so.

Well, gentlemen,resumes the coroner. "You are impanelled here to
inquire into the death of a certain man. Evidence will be given
before you as to the circumstances attending that deathand you
will give your verdict according to the--skittles; they must be
stoppedyou knowbeadle!--evidenceand not according to anything
else. The first thing to be done is to view the body."

Make way there!cries the beadle.

So they go out in a loose processionsomething after the manner of
a straggling funeraland make their inspection in Mr. Krook's back
second floorfrom which a few of the jurymen retire pale and
precipitately. The beadle is very careful that two gentlemen not
very neat about the cuffs and buttons (for whose accommodation he
has provided a special little table near the coroner in the Harmonic
Meeting Room) should see all that is to be seen. For they are the
public chroniclers of such inquiries by the line; and he is not
superior to the universal human infirmitybut hopes to read in
print what "Mooneythe active and intelligent beadle of the
district said and did and even aspires to see the name of Mooney
as familiarly and patronizingly mentioned as the name of the hangman
is, according to the latest examples.

Little Swills is waiting for the coroner and jury on their return.
Mr. Tulkinghorn, also. Mr. Tulkinghorn is received with distinction
and seated near the coroner between that high judicial officer, a


bagatelle-board, and the coal-box. The inquiry proceeds. The jury
learn how the subject of their inquiry died, and learn no more about
him. A very eminent solicitor is in attendancegentlemen says
the coroner, whoI am informedwas accidentally present when
discovery of the death was madebut he could only repeat the
evidence you have already heard from the surgeonthe landlordthe
lodgerand the law-stationerand it is not necessary to trouble
him. Is anybody in attendance who knows anything more?"

Mrs. Piper pushed forward by Mrs. Perkins. Mrs. Piper sworn.

Anastasia Pipergentlemen. Married woman. NowMrs. Piperwhat
have you got to say about this?

WhyMrs. Piper has a good deal to saychiefly in parentheses and
without punctuationbut not much to tell. Mrs. Piper lives in the
court (which her husband is a cabinet-maker)and it has long been
well beknown among the neighbours (counting from the day next but
one before the half-baptizing of Alexander James Piper aged eighteen
months and four days old on accounts of not being expected to live
such was the sufferings gentlemen of that child in his gums) as the
plaintive--so Mrs. Piper insists on calling the deceased--was
reported to have sold himself. Thinks it was the plaintive's air in
which that report originatinin. See the plaintive often and
considered as his air was feariocious and not to be allowed to go
about some children being timid (and if doubted hoping Mrs. Perkins
may be brought forard for she is here and will do credit to her
husband and herself and family). Has seen the plaintive wexed and
worrited by the children (for children they will ever be and you
cannot expect them specially if of playful dispositions to be
Methoozellers which you was not yourself). On accounts of this and
his dark looks has often dreamed as she see him take a pick-axe from
his pocket and split Johnny's head (which the child knows not fear
and has repeatually called after him close at his eels). Never
however see the plaintive take a pick-axe or any other wepping far
from it. Has seen him hurry away when run and called after as if
not partial to children and never see him speak to neither child nor
grown person at any time (excepting the boy that sweeps the crossing
down the lane over the way round the corner which if he was here
would tell you that he has been seen a-speaking to him frequent).

Says the coroneris that boy here? Says the beadlenosirhe is
not here. Says the coronergo and fetch him then. In the absence
of the active and intelligentthe coroner converses with Mr.
Tulkinghorn.

Oh! Here's the boygentlemen!

Here he isvery muddyvery hoarsevery ragged. Nowboy! But
stop a minute. Caution. This boy must be put through a few
preliminary paces.

NameJo. Nothing else that he knows on. Don't know that everybody
has two names. Never heerd of sich a think. Don't know that Jo is
short for a longer name. Thinks it long enough for HIM. HE don't
find no fault with it. Spell it? No. HE can't spell it. No
fatherno motherno friends. Never been to school. What's home?
Knows a broom's a broomand knows it's wicked to tell a lie. Don't
recollect who told him about the broom or about the liebut knows
both. Can't exactly say what'll be done to him arter he's dead if
he tells a lie to the gentlemen herebut believes it'll be
something wery bad to punish himand serve him right--and so he'll
tell the truth.


This won't do, gentlemen!says the coroner with a melancholy shake
of the head.

Don't you think you can receive his evidence, sir?asks an
attentive juryman.

Out of the question,says the coroner. "You have heard the boy.
'Can't exactly say' won't doyou know. We can't take THAT in a
court of justicegentlemen. It's terrible depravity. Put the boy
aside."

Boy put asideto the great edification of the audienceespecially
of Little Swillsthe comic vocalist.

Now. Is there any other witness? No other witness.

Very wellgentlemen! Here's a man unknownproved to have been in
the habit of taking opium in large quantities for a year and a half
found dead of too much opium. If you think you have any evidence to
lead you to the conclusion that he committed suicideyou will come
to that conclusion. If you think it is a case of accidental death
you will find a verdict accordingly.

Verdict accordingly. Accidental death. No doubt. Gentlemenyou
are discharged. Good afternoon.

While the coroner buttons his great-coatMr. Tulkinghorn and he
give private audience to the rejected witness in a corner.

That graceless creature only knows that the dead man (whom he
recognized just now by his yellow face and black hair) was sometimes
hooted and pursued about the streets. That one cold winter night
when hethe boywas shivering in a doorway near his crossingthe
man turned to look at himand came backand having questioned him
and found that he had not a friend in the worldsaidNeither have

I. Not one!and gave him the price of a supper and a night's
lodging. That the man had often spoken to him since and asked him
whether he slept sound at nightand how he bore cold and hunger
and whether he ever wished to dieand similar strange questions.
That when the man had no moneyhe would say in passingI am as
poor as you to-day, Jo,but that when he had anyhe had always (as
the boy most heartily believes) been glad to give him some.
He was wery good to me,says the boywiping his eyes with his
wretched sleeve. "Wen I see him a-layin' so stritched out just now
I wished he could have heerd me tell him so. He wos wery good to
mehe wos!"

As he shuffles downstairsMr. Snagsbylying in wait for himputs
a half-crown in his hand. "If you ever see me coming past your
crossing with my little woman--I mean a lady--" says Mr. Snagsby
with his finger on his nosedon't allude to it!

For some little time the jurymen hang about the Sol's Arms
colloquially. In the sequelhalf-a-dozen are caught up in a cloud
of pipe-smoke that pervades the parlour of the Sol's Arms; two
stroll to Hampstead; and four engage to go half-price to the play at
nightand top up with oysters. Little Swills is treated on several
hands. Being asked what he thinks of the proceedingscharacterizes
them (his strength lying in a slangular direction) as "a rummy
start." The landlord of the Sol's Armsfinding Little Swills so
popularcommends him highly to the jurymen and publicobserving
that for a song in character he don't know his equal and that that
man's character-wardrobe would fill a cart.


Thusgradually the Sol's Arms melts into the shadowy night and then
flares out of it strong in gas. The Harmonic Meeting hour arriving
the gentleman of professional celebrity takes the chairis faced
(red-faced) by Little Swills; their friends rally round them and
support first-rate talent. In the zenith of the eveningLittle
Swills saysGentlemen, if you'll permit me, I'll attempt a short
description of a scene of real life that came off here to-day.Is
much applauded and encouraged; goes out of the room as Swills; comes
in as the coroner (not the least in the world like him); describes
the inquestwith recreative intervals of piano-forte accompaniment
to the refrain: With his (the coroner's) tippy tol li dolltippy
tol lo dolltippy tol li dollDee!

The jingling piano at last is silentand the Harmonic friends rally
round their pillows. Then there is rest around the lonely figure
now laid in its last earthly habitation; and it is watched by the
gaunt eyes in the shutters through some quiet hours of night. If
this forlorn man could have been prophetically seen lying here by
the mother at whose breast he nestleda little childwith eyes
upraised to her loving faceand soft hand scarcely knowing how to
close upon the neck to which it creptwhat an impossibility the
vision would have seemed! Ohif in brighter days the now-
extinguished fire within him ever burned for one woman who held him
in her heartwhere is shewhile these ashes are above the ground!

It is anything but a night of rest at Mr. Snagsby'sin Cook's
Courtwhere Guster murders sleep by goingas Mr. Snagsby himself
allows--not to put too fine a point upon it--out of one fit into
twenty. The occasion of this seizure is that Guster has a tender
heart and a susceptible something that possibly might have been
imaginationbut for Tooting and her patron saint. Be it what it
maynowit was so direfully impressed at tea-time by Mr. Snagsby's
account of the inquiry at which he had assisted that at supper-time
she projected herself into the kitchenpreceded by a flying Dutch
cheeseand fell into a fit of unusual durationwhich she only came
out of to go into anotherand anotherand so on through a chain of
fitswith short intervals betweenof which she has pathetically
availed herself by consuming them in entreaties to Mrs. Snagsby not
to give her warning "when she quite comes to and also in appeals
to the whole establishment to lay her down on the stones and go to
bed. Hence, Mr. Snagsby, at last hearing the cock at the little
dairy in Cursitor Street go into that disinterested ecstasy of his
on the subject of daylight, says, drawing a long breath, though the
most patient of men, I thought you was deadI am sure!"

What question this enthusiastic fowl supposes he settles when he
strains himself to such an extentor why he should thus crow (so
men crow on various triumphant public occasionshowever) about what
cannot be of any moment to himis his affair. It is enough that
daylight comesmorning comesnoon comes.

Then the active and intelligentwho has got into the morning papers
as suchcomes with his pauper company to Mr. Krook's and bears off
the body of our dear brother here departed to a hemmed-in
churchyardpestiferous and obscenewhence malignant diseases are
communicated to the bodies of our dear brothers and sisters who have
not departedwhile our dear brothers and sisters who hang about
official back-stairs--would to heaven they HAD departed!--are very
complacent and agreeable. Into a beastly scrap of ground which a
Turk would reject as a savage abomination and a Caffre would shudder
atthey bring our dear brother here departed to receive Christian
burial.


With houses looking onon every sidesave where a reeking little
tunnel of a court gives access to the iron gate--with every villainy
of life in action close on deathand every poisonous element of
death in action close on life--here they lower our dear brother down
a foot or twohere sow him in corruptionto be raised in
corruption: an avenging ghost at many a sick-bedsidea shameful
testimony to future ages how civilization and barbarism walked this
boastful island together.

Come nightcome darknessfor you cannot come too soon or stay too
long by such a place as this! Comestraggling lights into the
windows of the ugly houses; and you who do iniquity thereindo it
at least with this dread scene shut out! Comeflame of gas
burning so sullenly above the iron gateon which the poisoned air
deposits its witch-ointment slimy to the touch! It is well that you
should call to every passerbyLook here!

With the night comes a slouching figure through the tunnel-court to
the outside of the iron gate. It holds the gate with its hands and
looks in between the barsstands looking in for a little while.

It thenwith an old broom it carriessoftly sweeps the step and
makes the archway clean. It does so very busily and trimlylooks
in again a little whileand so departs.

Jois it thou? Wellwell! Though a rejected witnesswho "can't
exactly say" what will be done to him in greater hands than men's
thou art not quite in outer darkness. There is something like a
distant ray of light in thy muttered reason for this: "He wos wery
good to mehe wos!"

CHAPTER XII

On the Watch

It has left off raining down in Lincolnshire at lastand Chesney
Wold has taken heart. Mrs. Rouncewell is full of hospitable cares
for Sir Leicester and my Lady are coming home from Paris. The
fashionable intelligence has found it out and communicates the glad
tidings to benighted England. It has also found out that they will
entertain a brilliant and distinguished circle of the ELITE of the
BEAU MONDE (the fashionable intelligence is weak in Englishbut a
giant refreshed in French) at the ancient and hospitable family seat
in Lincolnshire.

For the greater honour of the brilliant and distinguished circle
and of Chesney Wold into the bargainthe broken arch of the bridge
in the park is mended; and the waternow retired within its proper
limits and again spanned gracefullymakes a figure in the prospect
from the house. The clearcold sunshine glances into the brittle
woods and approvingly beholds the sharp wind scattering the leaves
and drying the moss. It glides over the park after the moving
shadows of the cloudsand chases themand never catches themall
day. It looks in at the windows and touches the ancestral portraits
with bars and patches of brightness never contemplated by the
painters. Athwart the picture of my Ladyover the great chimney-
pieceit throws a broad bend-sinister of light that strikes down
crookedly into the hearth and seems to rend it.

Through the same cold sunshine and the same sharp windmy Lady and
Sir Leicesterin their travelling chariot (my Lady's woman and Sir


Leicester's man affectionate in the rumble)start for home. With a
considerable amount of jingling and whip-crackingand many plunging
demonstrations on the part of two bare-backed horses and two
centaurs with glazed hatsjack-bootsand flowing manes and tails
they rattle out of the yard of the Hotel Bristol in the Place
Vendome and canter between the sun-and-shadow-chequered colonnade of
the Rue de Rivoli and the garden of the ill-fated palace of a
headless king and queenoff by the Place of Concordand the
Elysian Fieldsand the Gate of the Starout of Paris.

Sooth to saythey cannot go away too fastfor even here my Lady
Dedlock has been bored to death. Concertassemblyoperatheatre
drivenothing is new to my Lady under the worn-out heavens. Only
last Sundaywhen poor wretches were gay--within the walls playing
with children among the clipped trees and the statues in the Palace
Garden; walkinga score abreastin the Elysian Fieldsmade more
Elysian by performing dogs and wooden horses; between whiles
filtering (a few) through the gloomy Cathedral of Our Lady to say a
word or two at the base of a pillar within flare of a rusty little
gridiron-full of gusty little tapers; without the walls encompassing
Paris with dancinglove-makingwine-drinkingtobacco-smoking
tomb-visitingbilliard card and domino playingquack-doctoring
and much murderous refuseanimate and inanimate--only last Sunday
my Ladyin the desolation of Boredom and the clutch of Giant
Despairalmost hated her own maid for being in spirits.

She cannotthereforego too fast from Paris. Weariness of soul
lies before heras it lies behind--her Ariel has put a girdle of it
round the whole earthand it cannot be unclasped--but the imperfect
remedy is always to fly from the last place where it has been
experienced. Fling Paris back into the distancethenexchanging
it for endless avenues and cross-avenues of wintry trees! Andwhen
next beheldlet it be some leagues awaywith the Gate of the Star
a white speck glittering in the sunand the city a mere mound in a
plain--two dark square towers rising out of itand light and shadow
descending on it aslantlike the angels in Jacob's dream!

Sir Leicester is generally in a complacent stateand rarely bored.
When he has nothing else to dohe can always contemplate his own
greatness. It is a considerable advantage to a man to have so
inexhaustible a subject. After reading his lettershe leans back
in his corner of the carriage and generally reviews his importance
to society.

You have an unusual amount of correspondence this morning?says my
Lady after a long time. She is fatigued with reading. Has almost
read a page in twenty miles.

Nothing in it, though. Nothing whatever.

I saw one of Mr. Tulkinghorn's long effusions, I think?

You see everything,says Sir Leicester with admiration.

Ha!sighs my Lady. "He is the most tiresome of men!"

He sends--I really beg your pardon--he sends,says Sir Leicester
selecting the letter and unfolding ita message to you. Our
stopping to change horses as I came to his postscript drove it out
of my memory. I beg you'll excuse me. He says--Sir Leicester is
so long in taking out his eye-glass and adjusting it that my Lady
looks a little irritated. "He says 'In the matter of the right of
way--' I beg your pardonthat's not the place. He says--yes!
Here I have it! He says'I beg my respectful compliments to my


LadywhoI hopehas benefited by the change. Will you do me the
favour to mention (as it may interest her) that I have something to
tell her on her return in reference to the person who copied the
affidavit in the Chancery suitwhich so powerfully stimulated her
curiosity. I have seen him.'"

My Ladyleaning forwardlooks out of her window.

That's the message,observes Sir Leicester.

I should like to walk a little,says my Ladystill looking out of
her window.

Walk?repeats Sir Leicester in a tone of surprise.

I should like to walk a little,says my Lady with unmistakable
distinctness. "Please to stop the carriage."

The carriage is stoppedthe affectionate man alights from the
rumbleopens the doorand lets down the stepsobedient to an
impatient motion of my Lady's hand. My Lady alights so quickly and
walks away so quickly that Sir Leicesterfor all his scrupulous
politenessis unable to assist herand is left behind. A space of
a minute or two has elapsed before he comes up with her. She
smileslooks very handsometakes his armlounges with him for a
quarter of a mileis very much boredand resumes her seat in the
carriage.

The rattle and clatter continue through the greater part of three
dayswith more or less of bell-jingling and whip-crackingand more
or less plunging of centaurs and bare-backed horses. Their courtly
politeness to each other at the hotels where they tarry is the theme
of general admiration. Though my Lord IS a little aged for my Lady
says Madamethe hostess of the Golden Apeand though he might be
her amiable fatherone can see at a glance that they love each
other. One observes my Lord with his white hairstandinghat in
handto help my Lady to and from the carriage. One observes my
Ladyhow recognisant of my Lord's politenesswith an inclination
of her gracious head and the concession of her so-genteel fingers!
It is ravishing!

The sea has no appreciation of great menbut knocks them about like
the small fry. It is habitually hard upon Sir Leicesterwhose
countenance it greenly mottles in the manner of sage-cheese and in
whose aristocratic system it effects a dismal revolution. It is the
Radical of Nature to him. Neverthelesshis dignity gets over it
after stopping to refitand he goes on with my Lady for Chesney
Woldlying only one night in London on the way to Lincolnshire.

Through the same cold sunlightcolder as the day declinesand
through the same sharp windsharper as the separate shadows of bare
trees gloom together in the woodsand as the Ghost's Walktouched
at the western corner by a pile of fire in the skyresigns itself
to coming nightthey drive into the park. The rooksswinging in
their lofty houses in the elm-tree avenueseem to discuss the
question of the occupancy of the carriage as it passes underneath
some agreeing that Sir Leicester and my Lady are come downsome
arguing with malcontents who won't admit itnow all consenting to
consider the question disposed ofnow all breaking out again in
violent debateincited by one obstinate and drowsy bird who will
persist in putting in a last contradictory croak. Leaving them to
swing and cawthe travelling chariot rolls on to the housewhere
fires gleam warmly through some of the windowsthough not through
so many as to give an inhabited expression to the darkening mass of


front. But the brilliant and distinguished circle will soon do
that.

Mrs. Rouncewell is in attendance and receives Sir Leicester's
customary shake of the hand with a profound curtsy.

How do you do, Mrs. Rouncewell? I am glad to see you.

I hope I have the honour of welcoming you in good health, Sir
Leicester?

In excellent health, Mrs. Rouncewell.

My Lady is looking charmingly well,says Mrs. Rouncewell with
another curtsy.

My Lady signifieswithout profuse expenditure of wordsthat she is
as wearily well as she can hope to be.

But Rosa is in the distancebehind the housekeeper; and my Lady
who has not subdued the quickness of her observationwhatever else
she may have conqueredasksWho is that girl?

A young scholar of mine, my Lady. Rosa.

Come here, Rosa!Lady Dedlock beckons herwith even an
appearance of interest. "Whydo you know how pretty you are
child?" she saystouching her shoulder with her two forefingers.

Rosavery much abashedsaysNo, if you please, my Lady!and
glances upand glances downand don't know where to lookbut
looks all the prettier.

How old are you?

Nineteen, my Lady.

Nineteen,repeats my Lady thoughtfully. "Take care they don't
spoil you by flattery."

Yes, my Lady.

My Lady taps her dimpled cheek with the same delicate gloved fingers
and goes on to the foot of the oak staircasewhere Sir Leicester
pauses for her as her knightly escort. A staring old Dedlock in a
panelas large as life and as dulllooks as if he didn't know what
to make of itwhich was probably his general state of mind in the
days of Queen Elizabeth.

That eveningin the housekeeper's roomRosa can do nothing but
murmur Lady Dedlock's praises. She is so affableso gracefulso
beautifulso elegant; has such a sweet voice and such a thrilling
touch that Rosa can feel it yet! Mrs. Rouncewell confirms all this
not without personal pridereserving only the one point of
affability. Mrs. Rouncewell is not quite sure as to that. Heaven
forbid that she should say a syllable in dispraise of any member of
that excellent familyabove allof my Ladywhom the whole world
admires; but if my Lady would only be "a little more free not
quite so cold and distant, Mrs. Rounceweil thinks she would be more
affable.

'Tis almost a pity Mrs. Rouncewell adds--only almost" because it
borders on impiety to suppose that anything could be better than it
isin such an express dispensation as the Dedlock affairs--"that my


Lady has no family. If she had had a daughter nowa grown young
ladyto interest herI think she would have had the only kind of
excellence she wants."

Might not that have made her still more proud, grandmother?says
Wattwho has been home and come back againhe is such a good
grandson.

More and most, my dear,returns the housekeeper with dignityare
words it's not my place to use--nor so much as to hear--applied to
any drawback on my Lady.

I beg your pardon, grandmother. But she is proud, is she not?

If she is, she has reason to be. The Dedlock family have always
reason to be.

Well,says Wattit's to be hoped they line out of their prayer-
books a certain passage for the common people about pride and
vainglory. Forgive me, grandmother! Only a joke!

Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, my dear, are not fit subjects for
joking.

Sir Leicester is no joke by any means,says Wattand I humbly
ask his pardon. I suppose, grandmother, that even with the family
and their guests down here, there is no ojection to my prolonging my
stay at the Dedlock Arms for a day or two, as any other traveller
might?

Surely, none in the world, child.

I am glad of that,says Wattbecause I have an inexpressible
desire to extend my knowledge of this beautiful neighbourhood.

He happens to glance at Rosawho looks down and is very shy indeed.
But according to the old superstitionit should be Rosa's ears that
burnand not her fresh bright cheeksfor my Lady's maid is holding
forth about her at this moment with surpassing energy.

My Lady's maid is a Frenchwoman of two and thirtyfrom somewhere in
the southern country about Avignon and Marseillesa large-eyed
brown woman with black hair who would be handsome but for a certain
feline mouth and general uncomfortable tightness of facerendering
the jaws too eager and the skull too prominent. There is something
indefinably keen and wan about her anatomyand she has a watchful
way of looking out of the corners of her eyes without turning her
head which could be pleasantly dispensed withespecially when she
is in an ill humour and near knives. Through all the good taste of
her dress and little adornmentsthese objections so express
themselves that she seems to go about like a very neat she-wolf
imperfectly tamed. Besides being accomplished in all the knowledge
appertaining to her postshe is almost an Englishwoman in her
acquaintance with the language; consequentlyshe is in no want of
words to shower upon Rosa for having attracted my Lady's attention
and she pours them out with such grim ridicule as she sits at dinner
that her companionthe affectionate manis rather relieved when
she arrives at the spoon stage of that performance.

Hahaha! SheHortensebeen in my Lady's service since five
years and always kept at the distanceand this dollthis puppet
caressed--absolutely caressed--by my Lady on the moment of her
arriving at the house! Hahaha! "And do you know how pretty you
arechild?" "Nomy Lady." You are right there! "And how old are


youchild! And take care they do not spoil you by flattery
child!" Ohhow droll! It is the BEST thing altogether.

In shortit is such an admirable thing that Mademoiselle Hortense
can't forget it; but at meals for days afterwardseven among her
countrywomen and others attached in like capacity to the troop of
visitorsrelapses into silent enjoyment of the joke--an enjoyment
expressedin her own convivial mannerby an additional tightness
of facethin elongation of compressed lipsand sidewise look
which intense appreciation of humour is frequently reflected in my
Lady's mirrors when my Lady is not among them.

All the mirrors in the house are brought into action nowmany of
them after a long blank. They reflect handsome facessimpering
facesyouthful facesfaces of threescore and ten that will not
submit to be old; the entire collection of faces that have come to
pass a January week or two at Chesney Woldand which the
fashionable intelligencea mighty hunter before the Lordhunts
with a keen scentfrom their breaking cover at the Court of St.
James's to their being run down to death. The place in Lincolnshire
is all alive. By day guns and voices are heard ringing in the
woodshorsemen and carriages enliven the park roadsservants and
hangers-on pervade the village and the Dedlock Arms. Seen by night
from distant openings in the treesthe row of windows in the long
drawing-roomwhere my Lady's picture hangs over the great chimney-
pieceis like a row of jewels set in a black frame. On Sunday the
chill little church is almost warmed by so much gallant companyand
the general flavour of the Dedlock dust is quenched in delicate
perfumes.

The brilliant and distinguished circle comprehends within it no
contracted amount of educationsensecouragehonourbeautyand
virtue. Yet there is something a little wrong about it in despite
of its immense advantages. What can it be?

Dandyism? There is no King George the Fourth now (more the pity) to
set the dandy fashion; there are no clear-starched jack-towel
neckclothsno short-waisted coatsno false calvesno stays.
There are no caricaturesnowof effeminate exquisites so arrayed
swooning in opera boxes with excess of delight and being revived by
other dainty creatures poking long-necked scent-bottles at their
noses. There is no beau whom it takes four men at once to shake
into his buckskinsor who goes to see all the executionsor who is
troubled with the self-reproach of having once consumed a pea. But
is there dandyism in the brilliant and distinguished circle
notwithstandingdandyism of a more mischievous sortthat has got
below the surface and is doing less harmless things than jack-
towelling itself and stopping its own digestionto which no
rational person need particularly object?

Whyyes. It cannot be disguised. There ARE at Chesney Wold this
January week some ladies and gentlemen of the newest fashionwho
have set up a dandyism--in religionfor instance. Who in mere
lackadaisical want of an emotion have agreed upon a little dandy
talk about the vulgar wanting faith in things in generalmeaning in
the things that have been tried and found wantingas though a low
fellow should unaccountably lose faith in a bad shilling after
finding it out! Who would make the vulgar very picturesque and
faithful by putting back the hands upon the clock of time and
cancelling a few hundred years of history.

There are also ladies and gentlemen of another fashionnot so new
but very elegantwho have agreed to put a smooth glaze on the world
and to keep down all its realities. For whom everything must be


languid and pretty. Who have found out the perpetual stoppage. Who
are to rejoice at nothing and be sorry for nothing. Who are not to
be disturbed by ideas. On whom even the fine artsattending in
powder and walking backward like the Lord Chamberlainmust array
themselves in the milliners' and tailors' patterns of past
generations and be particularly careful not to be in earnest or to
receive any impress from the moving age.

Then there is my Lord Boodleof considerable reputation with his
partywho has known what office is and who tells Sir Leicester
Dedlock with much gravityafter dinnerthat he really does not see
to what the present age is tending. A debate is not what a debate
used to be; the House is not what the House used to be; even a
Cabinet is not what it formerly was. He perceives with astonishment
that supposing the present government to be overthrownthe limited
choice of the Crownin the formation of a new ministrywould lie
between Lord Coodle and Sir Thomas Doodle--supposing it to be
impossible for the Duke of Foodle to act with Goodlewhich may be
assumed to be the case in consequence of the breach arising out of
that affair with Hoodle. Thengiving the Home Department and the
leadership of the House of Commons to Joodlethe Exchequer to
Koodlethe Colonies to Loodleand the Foreign Office to Moodle
what are you to do with Noodle? You can't offer him the Presidency
of the Council; that is reserved for Poodle. You can't put him in
the Woods and Forests; that is hardly good enough for Quoodle. What
follows? That the country is shipwreckedlostand gone to pieces
(as is made manifest to the patriotism of Sir Leicester Dedlock)
because you can't provide for Noodle!

On the other handthe Right Honourable William BuffyM.P.
contends across the table with some one else that the shipwreck of
the country--about which there is no doubt; it is only the manner of
it that is in question--is attributable to Cuffy. If you had done
with Cuffy what you ought to have done when he first came into
Parliamentand had prevented him from going over to Duffyyou
would have got him into alliance with Fuffyyou would have had with
you the weight attaching as a smart debater to Guffyyou would have
brought to bear upon the elections the wealth of Huffyyou would
have got in for three counties JuffyKuffyand Luffyand you
would have strengthened your administration by the official
knowledge and the business habits of Muffy. All thisinstead of
being as you now aredependent on the mere caprice of Puffy!

As to this pointand as to some minor topicsthere are differences
of opinion; but it is perfectly clear to the brilliant and
distinguished circleall roundthat nobody is in question but
Boodle and his retinueand Buffy and HIS retinue. These are the
great actors for whom the stage is reserved. A People there areno
doubt--a certain large number of supernumerarieswho are to be
occasionally addressedand relied upon for shouts and chorusesas
on the theatrical stage; but Boodle and Buffytheir followers and
familiestheir heirsexecutorsadministratorsand assignsare
the born first-actorsmanagersand leadersand no others can
appear upon the scene for ever and ever.

In thistoothere is perhaps more dandyism at Chesney Wold than
the brilliant and distinguished circle will find good for itself in
the long run. For it iseven with the stillest and politest
circlesas with the circle the necromancer draws around him--very
strange appearances may be seen in active motion outside. With this
differencethat being realities and not phantomsthere is the
greater danger of their breaking in.

Chesney Wold is quite full anyhowso full that a burning sense of


injury arises in the breasts of ill-lodged ladies'-maidsand is not
to he extinguished. Only one room is empty. It is a turret chamber
of the third order of meritplainly but comfortably furnished and
having an old-fashioned business air. It is Mr. Tulkinghorn's room
and is never bestowed on anybody elsefor he may come at any time.
He is not come yet. It is his quiet habit to walk across the park
from the village in fine weatherto drop into this room as if he
had never been out of it since he was last seen thereto request a
servant to inform Sir Leicester that he is arrived in case he should
be wantedand to appear ten minutes before dinner in the shadow of
the library-door. He sleeps in his turret with a complaining flagstaff
over his headand has some leads outside on whichany fine
morning when he is down herehis black figure may be seen walking
before breakfast like a larger species of rook.

Every day before dinnermy Lady looks for him in the dusk of the
librarybut he is not there. Every day at dinnermy Lady glances
down the table for the vacant place that would be waiting to receive
him if he had just arrivedbut there is no vacant place. Every
night my Lady casually asks her maidIs Mr. Tulkinghorn come?

Every night the answer isNo, my Lady, not yet.

One nightwhile having her hair undressedmy Lady loses herself in
deep thought after this reply until she sees her own brooding face
in the opposite glassand a pair of black eyes curiously observing
her.

Be so good as to attend,says my Lady thenaddressing the
reflection of Hortenseto your business. You can contemplate your
beauty at another time.

Pardon! It was your Ladyship's beauty.

That,says my Ladyyou needn't contemplate at all.

At lengthone afternoon a little before sunsetwhen the bright
groups of figures which have for the last hour or two enlivened the
Ghost's Walk are all dispersed and only Sir Leicester and my Lady
remain upon the terraceMr. Tulkinghorn appears. He comes towards
them at his usual methodical pacewhich is never quickenednever
slackened. He wears his usual expressionless mask--if it be a mask
--and carries family secrets in every limb of his body and every
crease of his dress. Whether his whole soul is devoted to the great
or whether he yields them nothing beyond the services he sells is
his personal secret. He keeps itas he keeps the secrets of his
clients; he is his own client in that matterand will never betray
himself.

How do you do, Mr. Tulkinghorn?says Sir Leicestergiving him his
hand.

Mr. Tulkinghorn is quite well. Sir Leicester is quite well. My
Lady is quite well. All highly satisfactory. The lawyerwith his
hands behind himwalks at Sir Leicester's side along the terrace.
My Lady walks upon the other side.

We expected you before,says Sir Leicester. A gracious
observation. As much as to sayMr. Tulkinghorn, we remember your
existence when you are not here to remind us of it by your presence.
We bestow a fragment of our minds upon you, sir, you see!

Mr. Tulkinghorncomprehending itinclines his head and says he is
much obliged.


I should have come down sooner,he explainsbut that I have been
much engaged with those matters in the several suits between
yourself and Boythorn.

A man of a very ill-regulated mind,observes Sir Leicester with
severity. "An extremely dangerous person in any community. A man
of a very low character of mind."

He is obstinate,says Mr. Tulkinghorn.

It is natural to such a man to be so,says Sir Leicesterlooking
most profoundly obstinate himself. "I am not at all surprised to
hear it."

The only question is,pursues the lawyerwhether you will give
up anything.

No, sir,replies Sir Leicester. "Nothing. I give up?"

I don't mean anything of importance. That, of course, I know you
would not abandon. I mean any minor point.

Mr. Tulkinghorn,returns Sir Leicesterthere can be no minor
point between myself and Mr. Boythorn. If I go farther, and observe
that I cannot readily conceive how ANY right of mine can be a minor
point, I speak not so much in reference to myself as an individual
as in reference to the family position I have it in charge to
maintain.

Mr. Tulkinghorn inclines his head again. "I have now my
instructions he says. Mr. Boythorn will give us a good deal of
trouble--"

It is the character of such a mind, Mr. Tulkinghorn,Sir Leicester
interrupts himTO give trouble. An exceedingly ill-conditioned,
levelling person. A person who, fifty years ago, would probably
have been tried at the Old Bailey for some demagogue proceeding, and
severely punished--if not,adds Sir Leicester after a moment's
pauseif not hanged, drawn, and quartered.

Sir Leicester appears to discharge his stately breast of a burden in
passing this capital sentenceas if it were the next satisfactory
thing to having the sentence executed.

But night is coming on,says heand my Lady will take cold. My
dear, let us go in.

As they turn towards the hall-doorLady Dedlock addresses Mr.
Tulkinghorn for the first time.

You sent me a message respecting the person whose writing I
happened to inquire about. It was like you to remember the
circumstance; I had quite forgotten it. Your message reminded me of
it again. I can't imagine what association I had with a hand like
that, but I surely had some.

You had some?Mr. Tulkinghorn repeats.

Oh, yes!returns my Lady carelessly. "I think I must have had
some. And did you really take the trouble to find out the writer of
that actual thing--what is it!--affidavit?"

Yes.


How very odd!

They pass into a sombre breakfast-room on the ground floorlighted
in the day by two deep windows. It is now twilight. The fire glows
brightly on the panelled wall and palely on the window-glasswhere
through the cold reflection of the blazethe colder landscape
shudders in the wind and a grey mist creeps alongthe only
traveller besides the waste of clouds.

My Lady lounges in a great chair in the chimney-cornerand Sir
Leicester takes another great chair opposite. The lawyer stands
before the fire with his hand out at arm's lengthshading his face.
He looks across his arm at my Lady.

Yes,he saysI inquired about the man, and found him. And, what
is very strange, I found him--

Not to be any out-of-the-way person, I am afraid!Lady Dedlock
languidly anticipates.

I found him dead.

Oh, dear me!remonstrated Sir Leicester. Not so much shocked by
the fact as by the fact of the fact being mentioned.

I was directed to his lodging--a miserable, poverty-stricken place
--and I found him dead.

You will excuse me, Mr. Tulkinghorn,observes Sir Leicester. "I
think the less said--"

Pray, Sir Leicester, let me hear the story out(it is my Lady
speaking). "It is quite a story for twilight. How very shocking!
Dead?"

MrTulkinghorn re-asserts it by another inclination of his head.
Whether by his own hand--

Upon my honour!cries Sir Leicester. "Really!"

Do let me hear the story!says my Lady.

Whatever you desire, my dear. But, I must say--

No, you mustn't say! Go on, Mr. Tulkinghorn.

Sir Leicester's gallantry concedes the pointthough he still feels
that to bring this sort of squalor among the upper classes is
really--really-


I was about to say,resumes the lawyer with undisturbed calmness
that whether he had died by his own hand or not, it was beyond my
power to tell you. I should amend that phrase, however, by saying
that he had unquestionably died of his own act, though whether by
his own deliberate intention or by mischance can never certainly be
known. The coroner's jury found that he took the poison
accidentally.

And what kind of man,my Lady askswas this deplorable
creature?

Very difficult to say,returns the lawyershaking his bead. "He
had lived so wretchedly and was so neglectedwith his gipsy colour


and his wild black hair and beardthat I should have considered him
the commonest of the common. The surgeon had a notion that he had
once been something betterboth in appearance and condition."

What did they call the wretched being?

They called him what he had called himself, but no one knew his
name.

Not even any one who had attended on him?

No one had attended on him. He was found dead. In fact, I found
him.

Without any clue to anything more?

Without any; there was,says the lawyer meditativelyan old
portmanteau, but--No, there were no papers.

During the utterance of every word of this short dialogueLady
Dedlock and Mr. Tulkinghornwithout any other alteration in their
customary deportmenthave looked very steadily at one another--as
was naturalperhapsin the discussion of so unusual a subject.
Sir Leicester has looked at the firewith the general expression of
the Dedlock on the staircase. The story being toldhe renews his
stately protestsaying that as it is quite clear that no
association in my Lady's mind can possibly be traceable to this poor
wretch (unless he was a begging-letter writer)he trusts to hear no
more about a subject so far removed from my Lady's station.

Certainly, a collection of horrors,says my Ladygathering up her
mantles and fursbut they interest one for the moment! Have the
kindness, Mr. Tulkinghorn, to open the door for me.

Mr. Tulkinghorn does so with deference and holds it open while she
passes out. She passes close to himwith her usual fatigued manner
and insolent grace. They meet again at dinner--againnext day-again
for many days in succession. Lady Dedlock is always the same
exhausted deitysurrounded by worshippersand terribly liable to
be bored to deatheven while presiding at her own shrine. Mr.
Tulkinghorn is always the same speechless repository of noble
confidencesso oddly but of place and yet so perfectly at home.
They appear to take as little note of one another as any two people
enclosed within the same walls could. But whether each evermore
watches and suspects the otherevermore mistrustful of some great
reservation; whether each is evermore prepared at all points for the
otherand never to be taken unawares; what each would give to know
how much the other knows--all this is hiddenfor the timein their
own hearts.

CHAPTER XIII

Esther's Narrative

We held many consultations about what Richard was to befirst
without Mr. Jarndyceas he had requestedand afterwards with him
but it was a long time before we seemed to make progress. Richard
said he was ready for anything. When Mr. Jarndyce doubted whether
he might not already be too old to enter the NavyRichard said he
had thought of thatand perhaps he was. When Mr. Jarndyce asked
him what he thought of the ArmyRichard said he had thought of


thattooand it wasn't a bad idea. When Mr. Jarndyce advised him
to try and decide within himself whether his old preference for the
sea was an ordinary boyish inclination or a strong impulseRichard
answeredWell he really HAD tried very oftenand he couldn't make
out.

How much of this indecision of character,Mr. Jarndyce said to me
is chargeable on that incomprehensible heap of uncertainty and
procrastination on which he has been thrown from his birth, I don't
pretend to say; but that Chancery, among its other sins, is
responsible for some of it, I can plainly see. It has engendered or
confirmed in him a habit of putting off--and trusting to this, that,
and the other chance, without knowing what chance--and dismissing
everything as unsettled, uncertain, and confused. The character of
much older and steadier people may be even changed by the
circumstances surrounding them. It would be too much to expect that
a boy's, in its formation, should be the subject of such influences
and escape them.

I felt this to be true; though if I may venture to mention what I
thought besidesI thought it much to be regretted that Richard's
education had not counteracted those influences or directed his
character. He had been eight years at a public school and had
learntI understoodto make Latin verses of several sorts in the
most admirable manner. But I never heard that it had been anybody's
business to find out what his natural bent wasor where his
failings layor to adapt any kind of knowledge to HIM. HE had been
adapted to the verses and had learnt the art of making them to such
perfection that if he had remained at school until he was of ageI
suppose he could only have gone on making them over and over again
unless he had enlarged his education by forgetting how to do it.
Stillalthough I had no doubt that they were very beautifuland
very improvingand very sufficient for a great many purposes of
lifeand always remembered all through lifeI did doubt whether
Richard would not have profited by some one studying him a little
instead of his studying them quite so much.

To be sureI knew nothing of the subject and do not even now know
whether the young gentlemen of classic Rome or Greece made verses to
the same extent--or whether the young gentlemen of any country ever
did.

I haven't the least idea,said Richardmusingwhat I had better
be. Except that I am quite sure I don't want to go into the Church,
it's a toss-up.

You have no inclination in Mr. Kenge's way?suggested Mr.
Jarndyce.

I don't know that, sir!replied Richard. "I am fond of boating.
Articled clerks go a good deal on the water. It's a capital
profession!"

Surgeon--suggested Mr. Jarndyce.

That's the thing, sir!cried Richard.

I doubt if he had ever once thought of it before.

That's the thing, sir,repeated Richard with the greatest
enthusiasm. "We have got it at last. M.R.C.S.!"

He was not to be laughed out of itthough he laughed at it
heartily. He said he had chosen his professionand the more he


thought of itthe more he felt that his destiny was clear; the art
of healing was the art of all others for him. Mistrusting that he
only came to this conclusion becausehaving never had much chance
of finding out for himself what he was fitted for and having never
been guided to the discoveryhe was taken by the newest idea and
was glad to get rid of the trouble of considerationI wondered
whether the Latin verses often ended in this or whether Richard's
was a solitary case.

Mr. Jarndyce took great pains to talk with him seriously and to put
it to his good sense not to deceive himself in so important a
matter. Richard was a little grave after these interviewsbut
invariably told Ada and me that it was all rightand then began to
talk about something else.

By heaven!cried Mr. Boythornwho interested himself strongly in
the subject--though I need not say thatfor he could do nothing
weakly; "I rejoice to find a young gentleman of spirit and gallantry
devoting himself to that noble profession! The more spirit there is
in itthe better for mankind and the worse for those mercenary
task-masters and low tricksters who delight in putting that
illustrious art at a disadvantage in the world. By all that is base
and despicable cried Mr. Boythorn, the treatment of surgeons
aboard ship is such that I would submit the legs--both legs--of
every member of the Admiralty Board to a compound fracture and
render it a transportable offence in any qualified practitioner to
set them if the system were not wholly changed in eight and forty
hours!"

Wouldn't you give them a week?asked Mr. Jarndyce.

No!cried Mr. Boythorn firmly. "Not on any consideration! Eight
and forty hours! As to corporationsparishesvestry-boardsand
similar gatherings of jolter-headed clods who assemble to exchange
such speeches thatby heaventhey ought to be worked in
quicksilver mines for the short remainder of their miserable
existenceif it were only to prevent their detestable English from
contaminating a language spoken in the presence of the sun--as to
those fellowswho meanly take advantage of the ardour of gentlemen
in the pursuit of knowledge to recompense the inestimable services
of the best years of their livestheir long studyand their
expensive education with pittances too small for the acceptance of
clerksI would have the necks of every one of them wrung and their
skulls arranged in Surgeons' Hall for the contemplation of the whole
profession in order that its younger members might understand from
actual measurementin early lifeHOW thick skulls may become!"

He wound up this vehement declaration by looking round upon us with
a most agreeable smile and suddenly thunderingHa, ha, ha!over
and over againuntil anybody else might have been expected to be
quite subdued by the exertion.

As Richard still continued to say that he was fixed in his choice
after repeated periods for consideration had been recommended by Mr.
Jarndyce and had expiredand he still continued to assure Ada and
me in the same final manner that it was "all right it became
advisable to take Mr. Kenge into council. Mr. Kenge, therefore,
came down to dinner one day, and leaned back in his chair, and
turned his eye-glasses over and over, and spoke in a sonorous voice,
and did exactly what I remembered to have seen him do when I was a
little girl.

Ah!" said Mr. Kenge. "Yes. Well! A very good professionMr.
Jarndycea very good profession."


The course of study and preparation requires to be diligently
pursued,observed my guardian with a glance at Richard.

Oh, no doubt,said Mr. Kenge. "Diligently."

But that being the case, more or less, with all pursuits that are
worth much,said Mr. Jarndyceit is not a special consideration
which another choice would be likely to escape.

Truly,said Mr. Kenge. "And Mr. Richard Carstonewho has so
meritoriously acquitted himself in the--shall I say the classic
shades?--in which his youth had been passedwillno doubtapply
the habitsif not the principles and practiceof versification in
that tongue in which a poet was said (unless I mistake) to be born
not madeto the more eminently practical field of action on which
he enters."

You may rely upon it,said Richard in his off-hand mannerthat I
shall go at it and do my best.

Very well, Mr. Jarndyce!said Mr. Kengegently nodding his head.
Really, when we are assured by Mr. Richard that he means to go at
it and to do his best,nodding feelingly and smoothly over those
expressionsI would submit to you that we have only to inquire
into the best mode of carrying out the object of his ambition. Now,
with reference to placing Mr. Richard with some sufficiently eminent
practitioner. Is there any one in view at present?

No one, Rick, I think?said my guardian.

No one, sir,said Richard.

Quite so!observed Mr. Kenge. "As to situationnow. Is there
any particular feeling on that head?"

N--no,said Richard.

Quite so!observed Mr. Kenge again.

I should like a little variety,said Richard; "I mean a good range
of experience."

Very requisite, no doubt,returned Mr. Kenge. "I think this may
be easily arrangedMr. Jarndyce? We have onlyin the first place
to discover a sufficiently eligible practitioner; and as soon as we
make our want--and shall I addour ability to pay a premium?-known
our only difficulty will be in the selection of one from a
large number. We have onlyin the second placeto observe those
little formalities which are rendered necessary by our time of life
and our being under the guardianship of the court. We shall soon
be--shall I sayin Mr. Richard's own light-hearted manner'going
at it'--to our heart's content. It is a coincidence said Mr.
Kenge with a tinge of melancholy in his smile, one of those
coincidences which may or may not require an explanation beyond our
present limited facultiesthat I have a cousin in the medical
profession. He might be deemed eligible by you and might be
disposed to respond to this proposal. I can answer for him as
little as for youbut he MIGHT!"

As this was an opening in the prospectit was arranged that Mr.
Kenge should see his cousin. And as Mr. Jarndyce had before
proposed to take us to London for a few weeksit was settled next
day that we should make our visit at once and combine Richard's


business with it.

Mr. Boythorn leaving us within a weekwe took up our abode at a
cheerful lodging near Oxford Street over an upholsterer's shop.
London was a great wonder to usand we were out for hours and hours
at a timeseeing the sightswhich appeared to be less capable of
exhaustion than we were. We made the round of the principal
theatrestoowith great delightand saw all the plays that were
worth seeing. I mention this because it was at the theatre that I
began to be made uncomfortable again by Mr. Guppy.

I was sitting in front of the box one night with Adaand Richard
was in the place he liked bestbehind Ada's chairwhenhappening
to look down into the pitI saw Mr. Guppywith his hair flattened
down upon his head and woe depicted in his facelooking up at me.
I felt all through the performance that he never looked at the
actors but constantly looked at meand always with a carefully
prepared expression of the deepest misery and the profoundest
dejection.

It quite spoiled my pleasure for that night because it was so very
embarrassing and so very ridiculous. But from that time forthwe
never went to the play without my seeing Mr. Guppy in the pit
always with his hair straight and flathis shirt-collar turned
downand a general feebleness about him. If he were not there when
we went inand I began to hope he would not come and yielded myself
for a little while to the interest of the sceneI was certain to
encounter his languishing eyes when I least expected it andfrom
that timeto be quite sure that they were fixed upon me all the
evening.

I really cannot express how uneasy this made me. If he would only
have brushed up his hair or turned up his collarit would have been
bad enough; but to know that that absurd figure was always gazing at
meand always in that demonstrative state of despondencyput such
a constraint upon me that I did not like to laugh at the playor to
cry at itor to moveor to speak. I seemed able to do nothing
naturally. As to escaping Mr. Guppy by going to the back of the
boxI could not bear to do that because I knew Richard and Ada
relied on having me next them and that they could never have talked
together so happily if anybody else had been in my place. So there
I satnot knowing where to look--for wherever I lookedI knew Mr.
Guppy's eyes were following me--and thinking of the dreadful expense
to which this young man was putting himself on my account.

Sometimes I thought of telling Mr. Jarndyce. Then I feared that the
young man would lose his situation and that I might ruin him.
Sometimes I thought of confiding in Richardbut was deterred by the
possibility of his fighting Mr. Guppy and giving him black eyes.
Sometimes I thoughtshould I frown at him or shake my head. Then I
felt I could not do it. Sometimes I considered whether I should
write to his motherbut that ended in my being convinced that to
open a correspondence would he to make the matter worse. I always
came to the conclusionfinallythat I could do nothing. Mr.
Guppy's perseveranceall this timenot only produced him regularly
at any theatre to which we wentbut caused him to appear in the
crowd as we were coming outand even to get up behind our fly-where
I am sure I saw himtwo or three timesstruggling among the
most dreadful spikes. After we got homehe haunted a post opposite
our house. The upholsterer's where we lodged being at the corner of
two streetsand my bedroom window being opposite the postI was
afraid to go near the window when I went upstairslest I should see
him (as I did one moonlight night) leaning against the post and
evidenfly catching cold. If Mr. Guppy had not beenfortunately for


meengaged in the daytimeI really should have had no rest from
him.

While we were making this round of gaietiesin which Mr. Guppy so
extraordinarily participatedthe business which had helped to bring
us to town was not neglected. Mr. Kenge's cousin was a Mr. Bayham
Badgerwho had a good practice at Chelsea and attended a large
public institution besides. He was quite willing to receive Richard
into his house and to superintend his studiesand as it seemed that
those could be pursued advantageously under Mr. Badger's roofand
Mr. Badger liked Richardand as Richard said he liked Mr. Badger
well enough,an agreement was madethe Lord Chancellor's consent
was obtainedand it was all settled.

On the day when matters were concluded between Richard and Mr.
Badgerwe were all under engagement to dine at Mr. Badger's house.
We were to be "merely a family party Mrs. Badger's note said; and
we found no lady there but Mrs. Badger herself. She was surrounded
in the drawing-room by various objects, indicative of her painting a
little, playing the piano a little, playing the guitar a little,
playing the harp a little, singing a little, working a little,
reading a little, writing poetry a little, and botanizing a little.
She was a lady of about fifty, I should think, youthfully dressed,
and of a very fine complexion. If I add to the little list of her
accomplishments that she rouged a little, I do not mean that there
was any harm in it.

Mr. Bayham Badger himself was a pink, fresh-faced, crisp-looking
gentleman with a weak voice, white teeth, light hair, and surprised
eyes, some years younger, I should say, than Mrs. Bayham Badger. He
admired her exceedingly, but principally, and to begin with, on the
curious ground (as it seemed to us) of her having had three
husbands. We had barely taken our seats when he said to Mr.
Jarndyce quite triumphantly, You would hardly suppose that I am
Mrs. Bayham Badger's third!"

Indeed?said Mr. Jarndyce.

Her third!said Mr. Badger. "Mrs. Bayham Badger has not the
appearanceMiss Summersonof a lady who has had two former
husbands?"

I said "Not at all!"

And most remarkable men!said Mr. Badger in a tone of confidence.
Captain Swosser of the Royal Navy, who was Mrs. Badger's first
husband, was a very distinguished officer indeed. The name of
Professor Dingo, my immediate predecessor, is one of European
reputation.

Mrs. Badger overheard him and smiled.

Yes, my dear!Mr. Badger replied to the smileI was observing to
Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson that you had had two former
husbands--both very distinguished men. And they found it, as people
generally do, difficult to believe.

I was barely twenty,said Mrs. Badgerwhen I married Captain
Swosser of the Royal Navy. I was in the Mediterranean with him; I
am quite a sailor. On the twelfth anniversary of my wedding-day, I
became the wife of Professor Dingo.

Of European reputation,added Mr. Badger in an undertone.


And when Mr. Badger and myself were married,pursued Mrs. Badger
we were married on the same day of the year. I had become attached
to the day.

So that Mrs. Badger has been married to three husbands--two of them
highly distinguished men,said Mr. Badgersumming up the facts
and each time upon the twenty-first of March at eleven in the
forenoon!

We all expressed our admiration.

But for Mr. Badger's modesty,said Mr. JarndyceI would take
leave to correct him and say three distinguished men.

Thank you, Mr. Jarndyce! What I always tell him!observed Mrs.
Badger.

And, my dear,said Mr. Badgerwhat do I always tell you? That
without any affectation of disparaging such professional distinction
as I may have attained (which our friend Mr. Carstone will have many
opportunities of estimating), I am not so weak--no, really,said
Mr. Badger to us generallyso unreasonable--as to put my
reputation on the same footing with such first-rate men as Captain
Swosser and Professor Dingo. Perhaps you may be interested, Mr.
Jarndyce,continued Mr. Bayham Badgerleading the way into the
next drawing-roomin this portrait of Captain Swosser. It was
taken on his return home from the African station, where he had
suffered from the fever of the country. Mrs. Badger considers it
too yellow. But it's a very fine head. A very fine head!

We all echoedA very fine head!

I feel when I look at it,said Mr. Badger'That's a man I should
like to have seen!' It strikingly bespeaks the first-class man that
Captain Swosser pre-eminently was. On the other side, Professor
Dingo. I knew him well--attended him in his last illness--a
speaking likeness! Over the piano, Mrs. Bayham Badger when Mrs.
Swosser. Over the sofa, Mrs. Bayham Badger when Mrs. Dingo. Of
Mrs. Bayham Badger IN ESSE, I possess the original and have no
copy.

Dinner was now announcedand we went downstairs. It was a very
genteel entertainmentvery handsomely served. But the captain and
the professor still ran in Mr. Badger's headand as Ada and I had
the honour of being under his particular carewe had the full
benefit of them.

Water, Miss Summerson? Allow me! Not in that tumbler, pray.
Bring me the professor's goblet, James!

Ada very much admired some artificial flowers under a glass.

Astonishing how they keep!said Mr. Badger. "They were presented
to Mrs. Bayham Badger when she was in the Mediterranean."

He invited Mr. Jarndyce to take a glass of claret.

Not that claret!he said. "Excuse me! This is an occasionand
ON an occasion I produce some very special claret I happen to have.
(JamesCaptain Swosser's wine!) Mr. Jarndycethis is a wine that
was imported by the captainwe will not say how many years ago.
You will find it very curious. My dearI shall he happy to take
some of this wine with you. (Captain Swosser's claret to your
mistressJames!) My loveyour health!"


After dinnerwhen we ladies retiredwe took Mrs. Badger's first
and second husband with us. Mrs. Badger gave us in the drawing-room
a biographical sketch of the life and services of Captain Swosser
before his marriage and a more minute account of him dating from the
time when he fell in love with her at a ball on board the Crippler
given to the officers of that ship when she lay in Plymouth Harbour.

The dear old Crippler!said Mrs. Badgershaking her head. "She
was a noble vessel. Trimship-shapeall a tauntoas Captain
Swosser used to say. You must excuse me if I occasionally introduce
a nautical expression; I was quite a sailor once. Captain Swosser
loved that craft for my sake. When she was no longer in commission
he frequently said that if he were rich enough to buy her old hulk
he would have an inscription let into the timbers of the quarterdeck
where we stood as partners in the dance to mark the spot where
he fell--raked fore and aft (Captain Swosser used to say) by the
fire from my tops. It was his naval way of mentioning my eyes."

Mrs. Badger shook her headsighedand looked in the glass.

It was a great change from Captain Swosser to Professor Dingo,she
resumed with a plaintive smile. "I felt it a good deal at first.
Such an entire revolution in my mode of life! But customcombined
with science--particularly science--inured me to it. Being the
professor's sole companion in his botanical excursionsI almost
forgot that I had ever been afloatand became quite learned. It is
singular that the professor was the antipodes of Captain Swosser and
that Mr. Badger is not in the least like either!"

We then passed into a narrative of the deaths of Captain Swosser and
Professor Dingoboth of whom seem to have had very bad complaints.
In the course of itMrs. Badger signified to us that she had never
madly loved but once and that the object of that wild affection
never to be recalled in its fresh enthusiasmwas Captain Swosser.
The professor was yet dying by inches in the most dismal mannerand
Mrs. Badger was giving us imitations of his way of sayingwith
great difficultyWhere is Laura? Let Laura give me my toast and
water!when the entrance of the gentlemen consigned him to the
tomb.

NowI observed that eveningas I had observed for some days past
that Ada and Richard were more than ever attached to each other's
societywhich was but naturalseeing that they were going to be
separated so soon. I was therefore not very much surprised when we
got homeand Ada and I retired upstairsto find Ada more silent
than usualthough I was not quite prepared for her coming into my
arms and beginning to speak to mewith her face hidden.

My darling Esther!murmured Ada. "I have a great secret to tell
you!"

A mighty secretmy pretty oneno doubt!

What is it, Ada?

Oh, Esther, you would never guess!

Shall I try to guess?said I.

Oh, no! Don't! Pray don't!cried Adavery much startled by the
idea of my doing so.

Now, I wonder who it can be about?said Ipretending to consider.


It's about--said Ada in a whisper. "It's about--my cousin
Richard!"

Well, my own!said Ikissing her bright hairwhich was all I
could see. "And what about him?"

Oh, Esther, you would never guess!

It was so pretty to have her clinging to me in that wayhiding her
faceand to know that she was not crying in sorrow but in a little
glow of joyand prideand hopethat I would not help her just
yet.

He says--I know it's very foolish, we are both so young--but he
says,with a burst of tearsthat he loves me dearly, Esther.

Does he indeed?said I. "I never heard of such a thing! Whymy
pet of petsI could have told you that weeks and weeks ago!"

To see Ada lift up her flushed face in joyful surpriseand hold me
round the neckand laughand cryand blushwas so pleasant!

Why, my darling,said Iwhat a goose you must take me for! Your
cousin Richard has been loving you as plainly as he could for I
don't know how long!

And yet you never said a word about it!cried Adakissing me.

No, my love,said I. "I waited to be told."

But now I have told you, you don't think it wrong of me, do you?
returned Ada. She might have coaxed me to say no if I had been the
hardest-hearted duenna in the world. Not being that yetI said no
very freely.

And now,said II know the worst of it.

Oh, that's not quite the worst of it, Esther dear!cried Ada
holding me tighter and laying down her face again upon my breast.

No?said I. "Not even that?"

No, not even that!said Adashaking her head.

Why, you never mean to say--I was beginning in joke.

But Adalooking up and smiling through her tear'scriedYes, I
do! You know, you know I do!And then sobbed outWith all my
heart I do! With all my whole heart, Esther!

I told herlaughingwhy I had known thattoojust as well as I
had known the other! And we sat before the fireand I had all the
talking to myself for a little while (though there was not much of
it); and Ada was soon quiet and happy.

Do you think my cousin John knows, dear Dame Durden?she asked.

Unless my cousin John is blind, my pet,said II should think my
cousin John knows pretty well as much as we know.

We want to speak to him before Richard goes,said Ada timidly
and we wanted you to advise us, and to tell him so. Perhaps you
wouldn't mind Richard's coming in, Dame Durden?


Oh! Richard is outside, is he, my dear?said I.

I am not quite certain,returned Ada with a bashful simplicity
that would have won my heart if she had not won it long beforebut
I think he's waiting at the door.

There he wasof course. They brought a chair on either side of me
and put me between themand really seemed to have fallen in love
with me instead of one anotherthey were so confidingand so
trustfuland so fond of me. They went on in their own wild way for
a little while--I never stopped them; I enjoyed it too much myself-and
then we gradually fell to considering how young they wereand
how there must be a lapse of several years before this early love
could come to anythingand how it could come to happiness only if
it were real and lasting and inspired them with a steady resolution
to do their duty to each otherwith constancyfortitudeand
perseveranceeach always for the other's sake. Well! Richard said
that he would work his fingers to the bone for Adaand Ada said
that she would work her fingers to the bone for Richardand they
called me all sorts of endearing and sensible namesand we sat
thereadvising and talkinghalf the night. Finallybefore we
partedI gave them my promise to speak to their cousin John tomorrow.


Sowhen to-morrow cameI went to my guardian after breakfastin
the room that was our town-substitute for the growleryand told him
that I had it in trust to tell him something.

Well, little woman,said heshutting up his bookif you have
accepted the trust, there can be no harm in it.

I hope not, guardian,said I. "I can guarantee that there is no
secrecy in it. For it only happened yesterday."

Aye? And what is it, Esther?

Guardian,said Iyou remember the happy night when first we came
down to Bleak House? When Ada was singing in the dark room?

I wished to call to his remembrance the look he had given me then.
Unless I am much mistakenI saw that I did so.

Because--said I with a little hesitation.

Yes, my dear!said he. "Don't hurry."

Because,said IAda and Richard have fallen in love. And have
told each other so.

Already!cried my guardianquite astonished.

Yes!said I. "And to tell you the truthguardianI rather
expected it."

The deuce you did!said he.

He sat considering for a minute or twowith his smileat once so
handsome and so kindupon his changing faceand then requested me
to let them know that he wished to see them. When they camehe
encircled Ada with one arm in his fatherly way and addressed himself
to Richard with a cheerful gravity.

Rick,said Mr. JarndyceI am glad to have won your confidence.


I hope to preserve it. When I contemplated these relations between
us four which have so brightened my life and so invested it with new
interests and pleasures, I certainly did contemplate, afar off, the
possibility of you and your pretty cousin here (don't be shy, Ada,
don't be shy, my dear!) being in a mind to go through life together.
I saw, and do see, many reasons to make it desirable. But that was
afar off, Rick, afar off!

We look afar off, sir,returned Richard.

Well!said Mr. Jarndyce. "That's rational. Nowhear memy
dears! I might tell you that you don't know your own minds yet
that a thousand things may happen to divert you from one another
that it is well this chain of flowers you have taken up is very
easily brokenor it might become a chain of lead. But I will not
do that. Such wisdom will come soon enoughI dare sayif it is to
come at all. I will assume that a few years hence you will be in
your hearts to one another what you are to-day. All I say before
speaking to you according to that assumption isif you DO change-if
you DO come to find that you are more commonplace cousins to each
other as man and woman than you were as boy and girl (your manhood
will excuse meRick!)--don't be ashamed still to confide in mefor
there will be nothing monstrous or uncommon in it. I am only your
friend and distant kinsman. I have no power over you whatever. But
I wish and hope to retain your confidence if I do nothing to forfeit
it."

I am very sure, sir,returned Richardthat I speak for Ada too
when I say that you have the strongest power over us both--rooted in
respect, gratitude, and affection--strengthening every day.

Dear cousin John,said Adaon his shouldermy father's place
can never be empty again. All the love and duty I could ever have
rendered to him is transferred to you.

Come!said Mr. Jarndyce. "Now for our assumption. Now we lift
our eyes up and look hopefully at the distance! Rickthe world is
before you; and it is most probable that as you enter itso it will
receive you. Trust in nothing but in Providence and your own
efforts. Never separate the twolike the heathen waggoner.
Constancy in love is a good thingbut it means nothingand is
nothingwithout constancy in every kind of effort. If you had the
abilities of all the great menpast and presentyou could do
nothing well without sincerely meaning it and setting about it. If
you entertain the supposition that any real successin great things
or in smallever was or could beever will or can bewrested from
Fortune by fits and startsleave that wrong idea here or leave your
cousin Ada here."

I will leave IT here, sir,replied Richard smilingif I brought
it here just now (but I hope I did not), and will work my way on to
my cousin Ada in the hopeful distance.

Right!said Mr. Jarndyce. "If you are not to make her happywhy
should you pursue her?"

I wouldn't make her unhappy--no, not even for her love,retorted
Richard proudly.

Well said!cried Mr. Jarndyce. "That's well said! She remains
herein her home with me. Love herRickin your active lifeno
less than in her home when you revisit itand all will go well.
Otherwiseall will go ill. That's the end of my preaching. I
think you and Ada had better take a walk."


Ada tenderly embraced himand Richard heartily shook hands with
himand then the cousins went out of the roomlooking back again
directlythoughto say that they would wait for me.

The door stood openand we both followed them with our eyes as
they passed down the adjoining roomon which the sun was shining
and out at its farther end. Richard with his head bentand her
hand drawn through his armwas talking to her very earnestly; and
she looked up in his facelisteningand seemed to see nothing
else. So youngso beautifulso full of hope and promisethey
went on lightly through the sunlight as their own happy thoughts
might then be traversing the years to come and making them all
years of brightness. So they passed away into the shadow and were
gone. It was only a burst of light that had been so radiant. The
room darkened as they went outand the sun was clouded over.

Am I right, Esther?said my guardian when they were gone.

He was so good and wise to ask ME whether he was right!

Rick may gain, out of this, the quality he wants. Wants, at the
core of so much that is good!said Mr. Jarndyceshaking his head.
I have said nothing to Ada, Esther. She has her friend and
counsellor always near.And he laid his hand lovingly upon my
head.

I could not help showing that I was a little movedthough I did
all I could to conceal it.

Tut tut!said he. "But we must take caretoothat our little
woman's life is not all consumed in care for others."

Care? My dear guardian, I believe I am the happiest creature in
the world!

I believe so, too,said he. "But some one may find out what
Esther never will--that the little woman is to be held in
remembrance above all other people!"

I have omitted to mention in its place that there was some one else
at the family dinner party. It was not a lady. It was a
gentleman. It was a gentleman of a dark complexion--a young
surgeon. He was rather reservedbut I thought him very sensible
and agreeable. At leastAda asked me if I did notand I said
yes.

CHAPTER XIV

Deportment

Richard left us on the very next evening to begin his new career
and committed Ada to my charge with great love for her and great
trust in me. It touched me then to reflectand it touches me now
more nearlyto remember (having what I have to tell) how they both
thought of meeven at that engrossing time. I was a part of all
their plansfor the present and the futureI was to write Richard
once a weekmaking my faithful report of Adawho was to write to
him every alternate day. I was to be informedunder his own hand
of all his labours and successes; I was to observe how resolute and
persevering he would be; I was to be Ada's bridesmaid when they


were married; I was to live with them afterwards; I was to keep all
the keys of their house; I was to be made happy for ever and a day.

And if the suit SHOULD make us rich, Esther--which it may, you
know!said Richard to crown all.

A shade crossed Ada's face.

My dearest Ada,asked Richardwhy not?

It had better declare us poor at once,said Ada.

Oh! I don't know about that,returned Richardbut at all
events, it won't declare anything at once. It hasn't declared
anything in heaven knows how many years.

Too true,said Ada.

Yes, but,urged Richardanswering what her look suggested rather
than her wordsthe longer it goes on, dcar cousin, the nearer it
must be to a settlement one way or other. Now, is not that
reasonable?

You know best, Richard. But I am afraid if we trust to it, it
will make us unhappy.

But, my Ada, we are not going to trust to it!cried Richard
gaily. "We know it better than to trust to it. We only say that
if it SHOULD make us richwe have no constitutional objection to
being rich. The court isby solemn settlement of lawour grim
old guardianand we are to suppose that what it gives us (when it
gives us anything) is our right. It is not necessary to quarrel
with our right."

No,Said Adabut it may be better to forget all about it.

Well, well,cried Richardthen we will forget all about it! We
consign the whole thing to oblivion. Dame Durden puts on her
approving face, and it's done!

Dame Durden's approving face,said Ilooking out of the box in
which I was packing his bookswas not very visible when you
called it by that name; but it does approve, and she thinks you
can't do better.

SoRichard said there was an end of itand immediately beganon
no other foundationto build as many castles in the air as would
man the Great Wall of China. He went away in high spirits. Ada
and Iprepared to miss him very muchcommenced our quieter
career.

On our arrival in Londonwe had called with Mr. Jarndyce at Mrs.
Jellyby's but had not been so fortunate as to find her at home. It
appeared that she had gone somewhere to a tea-drinking and had
taken Miss Jellyby with her. Besides the tea-drinkingthere was
to be some considerable speech-making and letter-writing on the
general merits of the cultivation of coffeeconjointly with
nativesat the Settlement of Borrioboola-Gha. All this involved
no doubtsufficient active exercise of pen and ink to make her
daughter's part in the proceedings anything but a holiday.

It being now beyond the time appointed for Mrs. Jellyby's return
we called again. She was in townbut not at homehaving gone to
Mile End directly after breakfast on some Borrioboolan business


arising out of a society called the East London Branch Aid
Ramification. As I had not seen Peepy on the occasion of our last
call (when he was not to be found anywhereand when the cook
rather thought he must have strolled away with the dustman's cart)
I now inquired for him again. The oyster shells he had been
building a house with were still in the passagebut he was nowhere
discoverableand the cook supposed that he had "gone after the
sheep." When we repeatedwith some surpriseThe sheep?she
saidOhyeson market days he sometimes followed them quite out
of town and came back in such a state as never was!

I was sitting at the window with my guardian on the following
morningand Ada was busy writing-of course to Richard--when Miss
Jellyby was announcedand enteredleading the identical Peepy
whom she had made some endeavours to render presentable by wiping
the dirt into corners of his face and hands and making his hair
very wet and then violently frizzling it with her fingers.
Everything the dear child wore was either too large for him or too
small. Among his other contradictory decorations he had the hat of
a bishop and the little gloves of a baby. His boots wereon a
small scalethe boots of a ploughmanwhile his legsso crossed
and recrossed with scratches that they looked like mapswere bare
below a very short pair of plaid drawers finished off with two
frills of perfectly different patterns. The deficient buttons on
his plaid frock had evidently been supplied from one of Mr.
Jellyby's coatsthey were so extremely brazen and so much too
large. Most extraordinary specimens of needlework appeared on
several parts of his dresswhere it had been hastily mendedand I
recognized the same hand on Miss Jellyby's. She washowever
unaccountably improved in her appearance and looked very pretty.
She was conscious of poor little Peepy being but a failure after
all her troubleand she showed it as she came in by the way in
which she glanced first at him and then at us.

Oh, dear me!said my guardian. "Due east!"

Ada and I gave her a cordial welcome and presented her to Mr.
Jarndyceto whom she said as she sat downMa's compliments, and
she hopes you'll excuse her, because she's correcting proofs of the
plan. She's going to put out five thousand new circulars, and she
knows you'll be interested to hear that. I have brought one of
them with me. Ma's compliments.With which she presented it
sulkily enough.

Thank you,said my guardian. "I am much obliged to Mrs. Jellyby.
Ohdear me! This is a very trying wind!"

We were busy with Peepytaking off his clerical hatasking him if
he remembered usand so on. Peepy retired behind his elbow at
firstbut relented at the sight of sponge-cake and allowed me to
take him on my lapwhere he sat munching quietly. Mr. Jarndyce
then withdrawing into the temporary growleryMiss Jellyby opened a
conversation with her usual abruptness.

We are going on just as bad as ever in Thavies Inn,said she. "I
have no peace of my life. Talk of Africa! I couldn't be worse off
if I was a what's-his-name--man and a brother!"

I tried to say something soothing.

Oh, it's of no use, Miss Summerson,exclaimed Miss Jellyby
though I thank you for the kind intention all the same. I know
how I am used, and I am not to be talked over. YOU wouldn't be
talked over if you were used so. Peepy, go and play at Wild Beasts


under the piano!

I shan't!said Peepy.

Very well, you ungrateful, naughty, hard-hearted boy!returned
Miss Jellyby with tears in her eyes. "I'll never take pains to
dress you any more."

Yes, I will go, Caddy!cried Peepywho was really a good child
and who was so moved by his sister's vexation that he went at once.

It seems a little thing to cry about,said poor Miss Jellyby
apologeticallybut I am quite worn out. I was directing the new
circulars till two this morning. I detest the whole thing so that
that alone makes my head ache till I can't see out of my eyes. And
look at that poor unfortunate child! Was there ever such a fright
as he is!

Peepyhappily unconscious of the defects in his appearancesat on
the carpet behind one of the legs of the pianolooking calmly out
of his den at us while he ate his cake.

I have sent him to the other end of the room,observed Miss
Jellybydrawing her chair nearer oursbecause I don't want him
to hear the conversation. Those little things are so sharp! I was
going to say, we really are going on worse than ever. Pa will be a
bankrupt before long, and then I hope Ma will be satisfied.
There'll he nobody but Ma to thank for it.

We said we hoped Mr. Jellyby's affairs were not in so bad a state
as that.

It's of no use hoping, though it's very kind of you,returned
Miss Jellybyshaking her head. "Pa told me only yesterday morning
(and dreadfully unhappy he is) that he couldn't weather the storm.
I should be surprised if he could. When all our tradesmen send
into our house any stuff they likeand the servants do what they
like with itand I have no time to improve things if I knew how
and Ma don't care about anythingI should like to make out how Pa
is to weather the storm. I declare if I was PaI'd run away."

My dear!said Ismiling. "Your papano doubtconsiders his
family."

Oh, yes, his family is all very fine, Miss Summerson,replied
Miss Jellyby; "but what comfort is his family to him? His family
is nothing but billsdirtwastenoisetumbles downstairs
confusionand wretchedness. His scrambling homefrom week's end
to week's endis like one great washing-day--only nothing's
washed!"

Miss Jellyby tapped her foot upon the floor and wiped her eyes.

I am sure I pity Pa to that degree,she saidand am so angry
with Ma that I can't find words to express myself! However, I am
not going to bear it, I am determined. I won't be a slave all my
life, and I won't submit to be proposed to by Mr. Quale. A pretty
thing, indeed, to marry a philanthropist. As if I hadn't had enough
of THAT!said poor Miss Jellyby.

I must confess that I could not help feeling rather angry with Mrs.
Jellyby myselfseeing and hearing this neglected girl and knowing
how much of bitterly satirical truth there was in what she said.


If it wasn't that we had been intimate when you stopped at our
house,pursued Miss JellybyI should have been ashamed to come
here to-day, for I know what a figure I must seem to you two. But
as it is, I made up my mind to call, especially as I am not likely
to see you again the next time you come to town.

She said this with such great significance that Ada and I glanced
at one anotherforeseeing something more.

No!said Miss Jellybyshaking her head. "Not at all likely! I
know I may trust you two. I am sure you won't betray me. I am
engaged."

Without their knowledge at home?said I.

Why, good gracious me, Miss Summerson,she returnedjustifying
herself in a fretful but not angry mannerhow can it be
otherwise? You know what Ma is--and I needn't make poor Pa more
miserable by telling HIM.

But would it not he adding to his unhappiness to marry without his
knowledge or consent, my dear?said I.

No,said Miss Jellybysoftening. ""I hope not. I should try to
make him happy and comfortable when he came to see meand Peepy
and the others should take it in turns to come and stay with me
and they should have some care taken of them then."

There was a good deal of affection in poor Caddy. She softened
more and more while saying this and cried so much over the unwonted
little home-picture she had raised in her mind that Peepyin his
cave under the pianowas touchedand turned himself over on his
back with loud lamentations. It was not until I had brought him to
kiss his sisterand had restored him to his place on my lapand
had shown him that Caddy was laughing (she laughed expressly for
the purpose)that we could recall his peace of mind; even then it
was for some time conditional on his taking us in turns by the chin
and smoothing our faces all over with his hand. At lastas his
spirits were not equal to the pianowe put him on a chair to look
out of window; and Miss Jellybyholding him by one legresumed
her confidence.

It began in your coming to our house,she said.

We naturally asked how.

I felt I was so awkward,she repliedthat I made up my mind to
be improved in that respect at all events and to learn to dance. I
told Ma I was ashamed of myself, and I must be taught to dance. Ma
looked at me in that provoking way of hers as if I wasn't in sight,
but I was quite determined to be taught to dance, and so I went to
Mr. Turveydrop's Academy in Newman Street.

And was it there, my dear--I began.

Yes, it was there,said Caddyand I am engaged to Mr.
Turveydrop. There are two Mr. Turveydrops, father and son. My Mr.
Turveydrop is the son, of course. I only wish I had been better
brought up and was likely to make him a better wife, for I am very
fond of him.

I am sorry to hear this,said II must confess.

I don't know why you should be sorry,she retorted a little


anxiouslybut I am engaged to Mr. Turveydrop, whether or no, and
he is very fond of me. It's a secret as yet, even on his side,
because old Mr. Turveydrop has a share in the connexion and it
might break his heart or give him some other shock if he was told
of it abruptly. Old Mr. Turveydrop is a very gentlemanly man
indeed--very gentlemanly.

Does his wife know of it?asked Ada.

Old Mr. Turveydrop's wife, Miss Clare?returned Miss Jellyby
opening her eyes. "There's no such person. He is a widower."

We were here interrupted by Peepywhose leg had undergone so much
on account of his sister's unconsciously jerking it like a bell-
rope whenever she was emphatic that the afflicted child now
bemoaned his sufferings with a very low-spirited noise. As he
appealed to me for compassionand as I was only a listenerI
undertook to hold him. Miss Jellyby proceededafter begging
Peepy's pardon with a kiss and assuring him that she hadn't meant
to do it.

That's the state of the case,said Caddy. "If I ever blame
myselfI still think it's Ma's fault. We are to be married
whenever we canand then I shall go to Pa at the office and write
to Ma. It won't much agitate Ma; I am only pen and ink to HER.
One great comfort is said Caddy with a sob, that I shall never
hear of Africa after I am married. Young Mr. Turveydrop hates it
for my sakeand if old Mr. Turveydrop knows there is such a place
it's as much as he does."

It was he who was very gentlemanly, I think!said I.

Very gentlemanly indeed,said Caddy. "He is celebrated almost
everywhere for his deportment."

Does he teach?asked Ada.

No, he don't teach anything in particular,replied Caddy. "But
his deportment is beautiful."

Caddy went on to say with considerable hesitation and reluctance
that there was one thing more she wished us to knowand felt we
ought to knowand which she hoped would not offend us. It was
that she had improved her acquaintance with Miss Flitethe little
crazy old ladyand that she frequently went there early in the
morning and met her lover for a few minutes before breakfast--only
for a few minutes. "I go there at other times said Caddy, but
Prince does not come then. Young Mr. Turveydrop's name is Prince;
I wish it wasn'tbecause it sounds like a dogbut of course be
didn't christen himself. Old Mr. Turveydrop had him christened
Prince in remembrance of the Prince Regent. Old Mr. Turveydrop
adored the Prince Regent on account of his deportment. I hope you
won't think the worse of me for having made these little
appointments at Miss Flite'swhere I first went with youbecause
I like the poor thing for her own sake and I believe she likes me.
If you could see young Mr. TurveydropI am sure you would think
well of him--at leastI am sure you couldn't possibly think any
ill of him. I am going there now for my lesson. I couldn't ask
you to go with meMiss Summerson; but if you would said Caddy,
who had said all this earnestly and tremblingly, I should be very
glad--very glad."

It happened that we had arranged with my guardian to go to Miss
Flite's that day. We had told him of our former visitand our


account had interested him; but something had always happened to
prevent our going there again. As I trusted that I might have
sufficient influence with Miss Jellyby to prevent her taking any
very rash step if I fully accepted the confidence she was so
willing to place in mepoor girlI proposed that she and I and
Peepy should go to the academy and afterwards meet my guardian and
Ada at Miss Flite'swhose name I now learnt for the first time.
This was on condition that Miss Jellyby and Peepy should come back
with us to dinner. The last article of the agreement being
joyfully acceded to by bothwe smartened Peepy up a little with
the assistance of a few pinssome soap and waterand a hairbrush
and went outbending our steps towards Newman Streetwhich
was very near.

I found the academy established in a sufficiently dingy house at
the corner of an archwaywith busts in all the staircase windows.
In the same house there were also establishedas I gathered from
the plates on the doora drawing-mastera coal-merchant (there
wascertainlyno room for his coals)and a lithographic artist.
On the plate whichin size and situationtook precedence of all
the restI readMR. TURVEYDROP. The door was openand the hall
was blocked up by a grand pianoa harpand several other musical
instruments in casesall in progress of removaland all looking
rakish in the daylight. Miss Jellyby informed me that the academy
had been lentlast nightfor a concert.

We went upstairs--it had been quite a fine house oncewhen it was
anybody's business to keep it clean and freshand nobody's
business to smoke in it all day--and into Mr. Turveydrop's great
roomwhich was built out into a mews at the back and was lighted
by a skylight. It was a bareresounding room smelling of stables
with cane forms along the wallsand the walls ornamented at
regular intervals with painted lyres and little cut-glass branches
for candleswhich seemed to be shedding their old-fashioned drops
as other branches might shed autumn leaves. Several young lady
pupilsranging from thirteen or fourteen years of age to two or
three and twentywere assembled; and I was looking among them for
their instructor when Caddypinching my armrepeated the ceremony
of introduction. "Miss SummersonMr. Prince Turveydrop!"

I curtsied to a little blue-eyed fair man of youthful appearance
with flaxen hair parted in the middle and curling at the ends all
round his head. He had a little fiddlewhich we used to call at
school a kitunder his left armand its little bow in the same
hand. His little dancing-shoes were particularly diminutiveand
he had a little innocentfeminine manner which not only appealed
to me in an amiable waybut made this singular effect upon me
that I received the impression that he was like his mother and that
his mother had not been much considered or well used.

I am very happy to see Miss Jellyby's friend,he saidbowing low
to me. "I began to fear with timid tenderness, as it was past
the usual timethat Miss Jellyby was not coming."

I beg you will have the goodness to attribute that to me, who have
detained her, and to receive my excuses, sir,said I.

Oh, dear!said he.

And pray,I entreateddo not allow me to be the cause of any
more delay.

With that apology I withdrew to a seat between Peepy (whobeing
well used to ithad already climbed into a corner place) and an


old lady of a censorious countenance whose two nieces were in the
class and who was very indignant with Peepy's boots. Prince
Turveydrop then tinkled the strings of his kit with his fingers
and the young ladies stood up to dance. Just then there appeared
from a side-door old Mr. Turveydropin the full lustre of his
deportment.

He was a fat old gentleman with a false complexionfalse teeth
false whiskersand a wig. He had a fur collarand he had a
padded breast to his coatwhich only wanted a star or a broad blue
ribbon to be complete. He was pinched inand swelled outand got
upand strapped downas much as he could possibly bear. He had
such a neckcloth on (puffing his very eyes out of their natural
shape)and his chin and even his ears so sunk into itthat it
seemed as though be must inevitably double up if it were cast
loose. He had under his arm a hat of great size and weight
shelving downward from the crown to the brimand in his hand a
pair of white gloves with which he flapped it as he stood poised on
one leg in a high-shoulderedround-elbowed state of elegance not
to be surpassed. He had a canehe had an eye-glasshe had a
snuff-boxhe had ringshe had wristbandshe had everything but
any touch of nature; he was not like youthhe was not like agehe
was not like anything in the world but a model of deportment.

Father! A visitor. Miss Jellyby's friend, Miss Summerson.

Distinguished,said Mr. Turveydropby Miss Summerson's
presence.As he bowed to me in that tight stateI almost believe
I saw creases come into the whites of his eyes.

My father,said the sonasideto me with quite an affecting
belief in himis a celebrated character. My father is greatly
admired.

Go on, Prince! Go on!said Mr. Turveydropstanding with his
back to the fire and waving his gloves condescendingly. "Go onmy
son!"

At this commandor by this gracious permissionthe lesson went
on. Prince Turveydrop sometimes played the kitdancing; sometimes
played the pianostanding; sometimes hummed the tune with what
little breath he could sparewhile he set a pupil right; always
conscientiously moved with the least proficient through every step
and every part of the figure; and never rested for an instant. His
distinguished father did nothing whatever but stand before the
firea model of deportment.

And he never does anything else,said the old lady of the
censorious countenance. "Yet would you believe that it's HIS name
on the door-plate?"

His son's name is the same, you know,said I.

He wouldn't let his son have any name if he could take it from
him,returned the old lady. "Look at the son's dress!" It
certainly was plain--threadbare--almost shabby. "Yet the father
must be garnished and tricked out said the old lady, because of
his deportment. I'd deport him! Transport him would be better!"

I felt curious to know more concerning this person. I askedDoes
he give lessons in deportment now?

Now!returned the old lady shortly. "Never did."


After a moment's considerationI suggested that perhaps fencing
had been his accomplishment.

I don't believe he can fence at all, ma'am,said the old lady.

I looked surprised and inquisitive. The old ladybecoming more
and more incensed against the master of deportment as she dwelt
upon the subjectgave me some particulars of his careerwith
strong assurances that they were mildly stated.

He had married a meek little dancing-mistresswith a tolerable
connexion (having never in his life before done anything but deport
himself)and had worked her to deathor hadat the best
suffered her to work herself to deathto maintain him in those
expenses which were indispensable to his position. At once to
exhibit his deportment to the best models and to keep the best
models constantly before himselfhe had found it necessary to
frequent all public places of fashionable and lounging resortto
be seen at Brighton and elsewhere at fashionable timesand to lead
an idle life in the very best clothes. To enable him to do this
the affectionate little dancing-mistress had toiled and laboured
and would have toiled and laboured to that hour if her strength had
lasted so long. For the mainspring of the story was that in spite
of the man's absorbing selfishnesshis wife (overpowered by his
deportment) hadto the lastbelieved in him and hadon her
death-bedin the most moving termsconfided him to their son as
one who had an inextinguishable claim upon him and whom he could
never regard with too much pride and deference. The son
inheriting his mother's beliefand having the deportment always
before himhad lived and grown in the same faithand nowat
thirty years of ageworked for his father twelve hours a day and
looked up to him with veneration on the old imaginary pinnacle.

The airs the fellow gives himself!said my informantshaking her
head at old Mr. Turveydrop with speechless indignation as he drew
on his tight glovesof course unconscious of the homage she was
rendering. "He fully believes he is one of the aristocracy! And
he is so condescending to the son he so egregiously deludes that
you might suppose him the most virtuous of parents. Oh!" said the
old ladyapostrophizing him with infinite vehemence. "I could
bite you!"

I could not help being amusedthough I heard the old lady out with
feelings of real concern. It was difficult to doubt her with the
father and son before me. What I might have thought of them
without the old lady's accountor what I might have thought of the
old lady's account without themI cannot say. There was a fitness
of things in the whole that carried conviction with it.

My eyes were yet wanderingfrom young Mr. Turveydrop working so
hardto old Mr. Turveydrop deporting himself so beautifullywhen
the latter came ambling up to me and entered into conversation.

He asked mefirst of allwhether I conferred a charm and a
distinction on London by residing in it? I did not think it
necessary to reply that I was perfectly aware I should not do that
in any casebut merely told him where I did reside.

A lady so graceful and accomplished,he saidkissing his right
glove and afterwards extending it towards the pupilswill look
leniently on the deficiencies here. We do our best to polish-polish--
polish!

He sat down beside metaking some pains to sit on the form. I


thoughtin imitation of the print of his illustrious model on the
sofa. And really he did look very like it.

To polish--polish--polish!he repeatedtaking a pinch of snuff
and gently fluttering his fingers. "But we are notif I may say
so to one formed to be graceful both by Nature and Art--" with the
high-shouldered bowwhich it seemed impossible for him to make
without lifting up his eyebrows and shutting his eyes "--we are not
what we used to be in point of deportment."

Are we not, sir?said I.

We have degenerated,he returnedshaking his headwhich he
could do to a very limited extent in his cravat. "A levelling age
is not favourable to deportment. It develops vulgarity. Perhaps I
speak with some little partiality. It may not be for me to say
that I have been calledfor some years nowGentleman Turveydrop
or that his Royal Highness the Prince Regent did me the honour to
inquireon my removing my hat as he drove out of the Pavilion at
Brighton (that fine building)'Who is he? Who the devil is he?
Why don't I know him? Why hasn't he thirty thousand a year?' But
these are little matters of anecdote--the general propertyma'am-still
repeated occasionally among the upper classes."

Indeed?said I.

He replied with the high-shouldered bow. "Where what is left among
us of deportment he added, still lingers. England--alasmy
country!--has degenerated very muchand is degenerating every day.
She has not many gentlemen left. We are few. I see nothing to
succeed us but a race of weavers."

One might hope that the race of gentlemen would be perpetuated
here,said I.

You are very good.He smiled with a high-shouldered bow again.
You flatter me. But, no--no! I have never been able to imbue my
poor boy with that part of his art. Heaven forbid that I should
disparage my dear child, but he has--no deportment.

He appears to be an excellent master,I observed.

Understand me, my dear madam, he IS an excellent master. All that
can be acquired, he has acquired. All that can be imparted, he can
impart. But there ARE things--He took another pinch of snuff
and made the bow againas if to addThis kind of thing, for
instance.

I glanced towards the centre of the roomwhere Miss Jellyby's
lovernow engaged with single pupilswas undergoing greater
drudgery than ever.

My amiable child,murmured Mr. Turveydropadjusting his cravat.

Your son is indefatigable,said I.

It is my reward,said Mr. Turveydropto hear you say so. In
some respects, he treads in the footsteps of his sainted mother.
She was a devoted creature. But wooman, lovely wooman,said Mr.
Turveydrop with very disagreeable gallantrywhat a sex you are!

I rose and joined Miss Jellybywho was by this time putting on her
bonnet. The time allotted to a lesson having fully elapsedthere
was a general putting on of bonnets. When Miss Jellyby and the


unfortunate Prince found an opportunity to become betrothed I don't
knowbut they certainly found none on this occasion to exchange a
dozen words.

My dear,said Mr. Turveydrop benignly to his sondo you know
the hour?

No, father.The son had no watch. The father had a handsome
gold onewhich he pulled out with an air that was an example to
mankind.

My son,said heit's two o'clock. Recollect your school at
Kensington at three.

That's time enough for me, father,said Prince. "I can take a
morsel of dinner standing and be off."

My dear boy,returned his fatheryou must be very quick. You
will find the cold mutton on the table.

Thank you, father. Are YOU off now, father?

Yes, my dear. I suppose,said Mr. Turveydropshutting his eyes
and lifting up his shoulders with modest consciousnessthat I
must show myself, as usual, about town.

You had better dine out comfortably somewhere,said his son.

My dear child, I intend to. I shall take my little meal, I think,
at the French house, in the Opera Colonnade.

That's right. Good-bye, father!said Princeshaking hands.

Good-bye, my son. Bless you!

Mr. Turveydrop said this in quite a pious mannerand it seemed to
do his son goodwhoin parting from himwas so pleased with him
so dutiful to himand so proud of him that I almost felt as if it
were an unkindness to the younger man not to be able to believe
implicitly in the elder. The few moments that were occupied by
Prince in taking leave of us (and particularly of one of usas I
sawbeing in the secret)enhanced my favourable impression of his
almost childish character. I felt a liking for him and a
compassion for him as he put his little kit in his pocket--and with
it his desire to stay a little while with Caddy--and went away
good-humouredly to his cold mutton and his school at Kensington
that made me scarcely less irate with his father than the
censorious old lady.

The father opened the room door for us and bowed us out in a
mannerI must acknowledgeworthy of his shining original. In the
same style he presently passed us on the other side of the street
on his way to the aristocratic part of the townwhere he was going
to show himself among the few other gentlemen left. For some
momentsI was so lost in reconsidering what I had heard and seen
in Newman Street that I was quite unable to talk to Caddy or even
to fix my attention on what she said to meespecially when I began
to inquire in my mind whether there wereor ever had beenany
other gentlemennot in the dancing professionwho lived and
founded a reputation entirely on their deportment. This became so
bewildering and suggested the possibility of so many Mr.
Turveydrops that I saidEsther, you must make up your mind to
abandon this subject altogether and attend to Caddy.I
accordingly did soand we chatted all the rest of the way to


Lincoln's Inn.

Caddy told me that her lover's education had been so neglected that
it was not always easy to read his notes. She said if he were not
so anxious about his spelling and took less pains to make it clear
he would do better; but he put so many unnecessary letters into
short words that they sometimes quite lost their English
appearance. "He does it with the best intention observed Caddy,
but it hasn't the effect he meanspoor fellow!" Caddy then went
on to reasonhow could he be expected to be a scholar when he had
passed his whole life in the dancing-school and had done nothing
but teach and fagfag and teachmorningnoonand night! And
what did it matter? She could write letters enough for bothas
she knew to her costand it was far better for him to be amiable
than learned. "Besidesit's not as if I was an accomplished girl
who had any right to give herself airs said Caddy. I know
little enoughI am surethanks to Ma!

There's another thing I want to tell you, now we are alone,
continued Caddywhich I should not have liked to mention unless
you had seen Prince, Miss Summerson. You know what a house ours
is. It's of no use my trying to learn anything that it would be
useful for Prince's wife to know in OUR house. We live in such a
state of muddle that it's impossible, and I have only been more
disheartened whenever I have tried. So I get a little practice
with--who do you think? Poor Miss Flite! Early in the morning I
help her to tidy her room and clean her birds, and I make her cup
of coffee for her (of course she taught me), and I have learnt to
make it so well that Prince says it's the very best coffee he ever
tasted, and would quite delight old Mr. Turveydrop, who is very
particular indeed about his coffee. I can make little puddings
too; and I know how to buy neck of mutton, and tea, and sugar, and
butter, and a good many housekeeping things. I am not clever at my
needle, yet,said Caddyglancing at the repairs on Peepy's frock
but perhaps I shall improve, and since I have been engaged to
Prince and have been doing all this, I have felt better-tempered, I
hope, and more forgiving to Ma. It rather put me out at first this
morning to see you and Miss Clare looking so neat and pretty and to
feel ashamed of Peepy and myself too, but on the whole I hope I am
better-tempered than I was and more forgiving to Ma.

The poor girltrying so hardsaid it from her heartand touched
mine. "Caddymy love I replied, I begin to have a great
affection for youand I hope we shall become friends."

Oh, do you?cried Caddy. "How happy that would make me!"

My dear Caddy,said Ilet us be friends from this time, and let
us often have a chat about these matters and try to find the right
way through them.Caddy was overjoyed. I said everything I could
in my old-fashioned way to comfort and encourage herand I would
not have objected to old Mr. Turveydrop that day for any smaller
consideration than a settlement on his daughter-in-law.

By this time we were come to Mr. Krook'swhose private door stood
open. There was a billpasted on the door-postannouncing a room
to let on the second floor. It reminded Caddy to tell me as we
proceeded upstairs that there had been a sudden death there and an
inquest and that our little friend had been ill of the fright. The
door and window of the vacant room being openwe looked in. It
was the room with the dark door to which Miss Flite had secretly
directed my attention when I was last in the house. A sad and
desolate place it wasa gloomysorrowful place that gave me a
strange sensation of mournfulness and even dread. "You look pale


said Caddy when we came out, and cold!" I felt as if the room had
chilled me.

We had walked slowly while we were talkingand my guardian and Ada
were here before us. We found them in Miss Flite's garret. They
were looking at the birdswhile a medical gentleman who was so
good as to attend Miss Flite with much solicitude and compassion
spoke with her cheerfully by the fire.

I have finished my professional visit,he saidcoming forward.
Miss Flite is much better and may appear in court (as her mind is
set upon it) to-morrow. She has been greatly missed there, I
understand.

Miss Flite received the compliment with complacency and dropped a
general curtsy to us.

Honoured, indeed,said sheby another visit from the wards in
Jarndyce! Ve-ry happy to receive Jarndyce of Bleak House beneath
my humble roof!with a special curtsy. "Fitz-Jarndycemy dear"-she
had bestowed that name on Caddyit appearedand always called
her by it--"a double welcome!"

Has she been very ill?asked Mr. Jarndyce of the gentleman whom
we had found in attendance on her. She answered for herself
directlythough he had put the question in a whisper.

Oh, decidedly unwell! Oh, very unwell indeed,she said
confidentially. "Not painyou know--trouble. Not bodily so much
as nervousnervous! The truth is in a subdued voice and
trembling, we have had death here. There was poison in the house.
I am very susceptible to such horrid things. It frightened me.
Only Mr. Woodcourt knows how much. My physicianMrWoodcourt!"
with great stateliness. "The wards in Jarndyce--Jarndyce of Bleak
House--Fitz-Jarndyce!"

Miss Flite,said Mr. Woodcourt in a grave kind of voiceas if he
were appealing to her while speaking to usand laying his hand
gently on her armMiss Flite describes her illness with her usual
accuracy. She was alarmed by an occurrence in the house which
might have alarmed a stronger person, and was made ill by the
distress and agitation. She brought me here in the first hurry of
the discovery, though too late for me to be of any use to the
unfortunate man. I have compensated myself for that disappointment
by coming here since and being of some small use to her.

The kindest physician in the college,whispered Miss Flite to me.
I expect a judgment. On the day of judgment. And shall then
confer estates.

She will be as well in a day or two,said Mr. Woodcourtlooking
at her with an observant smileas she ever will be. In other
words, quite well of course. Have you heard of her good fortune?

Most extraordinary!said Miss Flitesmiling brightly. "You
never heard of such a thingmy dear! Every SaturdayConversation
Kenge or Guppy (clerk to Conversation K.) places in my hand a paper
of shillings. Shillings. I assure you! Always the same number in
the paper. Always one for every day in the week. Now you know
really! So well-timedis it not? Ye-es! From whence do these
papers comeyou say? That is the great question. Naturally.
Shall I tell you what I think? I think said Miss Flite, drawing
herself back with a very shrewd look and shaking her right
forefinger in a most significant manner, that the Lord Chancellor


aware of the length of time during which the Great Seal has been
open (for it has been open a long time!)forwards them. Until the
judgment I expect is given. Now that's very creditableyou know.
To confess in that way that he IS a little slow for human life. So
delicate! Attending court the other day--I attend it regularly
with my documents--I taxed him with itand he almost confessed.
That isI smiled at him from my benchand HE smiled at me from
his bench. But it's great good fortuneis it not? And Fitz-
Jarndyce lays the money out for me to great advantage. OhI
assure you to the greatest advantage!"

I congratulated her (as she addressed herself to me) upon this
fortunate addition to her income and wished her a long continuance
of it. I did not speculate upon the source from which it came or
wonder whose humanity was so considerate. My guardian stood before
mecontemplating the birdsand I had no need to look beyond him.

And what do you call these little fellows, ma'am?said he in his
pleasant voice. "Have they any names?"

I can answer for Miss Elite that they have,said Ifor she
promised to tell us what they were. Ada remembers?

Ada remembered very well.

Did I?said Miss Elite. "Who's that at my door? What are you
listening at my door forKrook?"

The old man of the housepushing it open before himappeared
there with his fur cap in his hand and his cat at his heels.

I warn't listening, Miss Flite,he saidI was going to give a
rap with my knuckles, only you're so quick!

Make your cat go down. Drive her away!the old lady angrily
exclaimed.

Bah, bah! There ain't no danger, gentlefolks,said Mr. Krook
looking slowly and sharply from one to another until he had looked
at all of us; "she'd never offer at the birds when I was here
unless I told her to it."

You will excuse my landlord,said the old lady with a dignified
air. "Mquite M! What do you wantKrookwhen I have company?"

Hi!said the old man. "You know I am the Chancellor."

Well?returned Miss Elite. "What of that?"

For the Chancellor,said the old man with a chucklenot to be
acquainted with a Jarndyce is queer, ain't it, Miss Flite?
Mightn't I take the liberty? Your servant, sir. I know Jarndyce
and Jarndyce a'most as well as you do, sir. I knowed old Squire
Tom, sir. I never to my knowledge see you afore though, not even
in court. Yet, I go there a mortal sight of times in the course of
the year, taking one day with another.

I never go there,said Mr. Jarndyce (which he never did on any
consideration). "I would sooner go--somewhere else."

Would you though?returned Krookgrinning. "You're bearing hard
upon my noble and learned brother in your meaningsirthough
perhaps it is but nat'ral in a Jarndyce. The burnt childsir!
Whatyou're looking at my lodger's birdsMr. Jarndyce?" The old


man had come by little and little into the room until he now
touched my guardian with his elbow and looked close up into his
face with his spectacled eyes. "It's one of her strange ways that
she'll never tell the names of these birds if she can help it
though she named 'em all." This was in a whisper. "Shall I run
'em overFlite?" he asked aloudwinking at us and pointing at her
as she turned awayaffecting to sweep the grate.

If you like,she answered hurriedly.

The old manlooking up at the cages after another look at uswent
through the list.

Hope, Joy, Youth, Peace, Rest, Life, Dust, Ashes, Waste, Want,
Ruin, Despair, Madness, Death, Cunning, Folly, Words, Wigs, Rags,
Sheepskin, Plunder, Precedent, Jargon, Gammon, and Spinach. That's
the whole collection,said the old manall cooped up together,
by my noble and learned brother.

This is a bitter wind!muttered my guardian.

When my noble and learned brother gives his judgment, they're to
be let go free,said Krookwinking at us again. "And then he
added, whispering and grinning, if that ever was to happen--which
it won't--the birds that have never been caged would kill 'em."

If ever the wind was in the east,said my guardianpretending to
look out of the window for a weathercockI think it's there today!


We found it very difficult to get away from the house. It was not
Miss Flite who detained us; she was as reasonable a little creature
in consulting the convenience of others as there possibly could be.
It was Mr. Krook. He seemed unable to detach himself from Mr.
Jarndyce. If he had been linked to himhe could hardly have
attended him more closely. He proposed to show us his Court of
Chancery and all the strange medley it contained; during the whole
of our inspection (prolonged by himself) he kept close to Mr.
Jarndyce and sometimes detained him under one pretence or other
until we had passed onas if he were tormented by an inclination
to enter upon some secret subject which he could not make up his
mind to approach. I cannot imagine a countenance and manner more
singularly expressive of caution and indecisionand a perpetual
impulse to do something he could not resolve to venture onthan
Mr. Krook's was that day. His watchfulness of my guardian was
incessant. He rarely removed his eyes from his face. If he went
on beside himhe observed him with the slyness of an old white
fox. If he went beforehe looked back. When we stood stillhe
got opposite to himand drawing his hand across and across his
open mouth with a curious expression of a sense of powerand
turning up his eyesand lowering his grey eyebrows until they
appeared to be shutseemed to scan every lineament of his face.

At lasthaving been (always attended by the cat) all over the
house and having seen the whole stock of miscellaneous lumber
which was certainly curiouswe came into the back part of the
shop. Here on the head of an empty barrel stood on end were an
ink-bottlesome old stumps of pensand some dirty playbills; and
against the wall were pasted several large printed alphabets in
several plain hands.

What are you doing here?asked my guardian.

Trying to learn myself to read and write,said Krook.


And how do you get on?

Slow. Bad,returned the old man impatiently. "It's hard at my
time of life."

It would be easier to be taught by some one,said my guardian.

Aye, but they might teach me wrong!returned the old man with a
wonderfully suspicious flash of his eye. "I don't know what I may
have lost by not being learned afore. I wouldn't like to lose
anything by being learned wrong now."

Wrong?said my guardian with his good-humoured smile. "Who do
you suppose would teach you wrong?"

I don't know, Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House!replied the old man
turning up his spectacles on his forehead and rubbing his hands.
I don't suppose as anybody would, but I'd rather trust my own self
than another!

These answers and his manner were strange enough to cause my
guardian to inquire of Mr. Woodcourtas we all walked across
Lincoln's Inn togetherwhether Mr. Krook were reallyas his
lodger represented himderanged. The young surgeon repliedno
he had seen no reason to think so. He was exceedingly distrustful
as ignorance usually wasand he was always more or less under the
influence of raw ginof which he drank great quantities and of
which he and his back-shopas we might have observedsmelt
strongly; but he did not think him mad as yet.

On our way homeI so conciliated Peepy's affections by buying him
a windmill and two flour-sacks that he would suffer nobody else to
take off his hat and gloves and would sit nowhere at dinner but at
my side. Caddy sat upon the other side of menext to Adato whom
we imparted the whole history of the engagement as soon as we got
back. We made much of Caddyand Peepy too; and Caddy brightened
exceedingly; and my guardian was as merry as we were; and we were
all very happy indeed until Caddy went home at night in a hackney-
coachwith Peepy fast asleepbut holding tight to the windmill.

I have forgotten to mention--at least I have not mentioned--that
Mr. Woodcourt was the same dark young surgeon whom we had met at
Mr. Badger's. Or that Mr. Jarndyce invited him to dinner that day.
Or that he came. Or that when they were all gone and I said to
AdaNow, my darling, let us have a little talk about Richard!
Ada laughed and said-


But I don't think it matters what my darling said. She was always
merry.

CHAPTER XV

Bell Yard

While we were in London Mr. Jarndyce was constantly beset by the
crowd of excitable ladies and gentlemen whose proceedings had so
much astonished us. Mr. Qualewho presented himself soon after
our arrivalwas in all such excitements. He seemed to project
those two shining knobs of temples of his into everything that went
on and to brush his hair farther and farther backuntil the very


roots were almost ready to fly out of his head in inappeasable
philanthropy. All objects were alike to himbut he was always
particularly ready for anything in the way of a testimonial to any
one. His great power seemed to be his power of indiscriminate
admiration. He would sit for any length of timewith the utmost
enjoymentbathing his temples in the light of any order of
luminary. Having first seen him perfectly swallowed up in
admiration of Mrs. JellybyI had supposed her to be the absorbing
object of his devotion. I soon discovered my mistake and found him
to be train-bearer and organ-blower to a whole procession of
people.

Mrs. Pardiggle came one day for a subscription to somethingand
with herMr. Quale. Whatever Mrs. Pardiggle saidMr. Quale
repeated to us; and just as he had drawn Mrs. Jellyby outhe drew
Mrs. Pardiggle out. Mrs. Pardiggle wrote a letter of introduction
to my guardian in behalf of her eloquent friend Mr. Gusher. With
Mr. Gusher appeared Mr. Quale again. Mr. Gusherbeing a flabby
gentleman with a moist surface and eyes so much too small for his
moon of a face that they seemed to have been originally made for
somebody elsewas not at first sight prepossessing; yet he was
scarcely seated before Mr. Quale asked Ada and menot inaudibly
whether he was not a great creature--which he certainly was
flabbily speakingthough Mr. Quale meant in intellectual beauty-and
whether we were not struck by his massive configuration of
brow. In shortwe heard of a great many missions of various sorts
among this set of peoplebut nothing respecting them was half so
clear to us as that it was Mr. Quale's mission to be in ecstasies
with everybody else's mission and that it was the most popular
mission of all.

Mr. Jarndyce had fallen into this company in the tenderness of his
heart and his earnest desire to do all the good in his power; but
that he felt it to be too often an unsatisfactory companywhere
benevolence took spasmodic formswhere charity was assumed as a
regular uniform by loud professors and speculators in cheap
notorietyvehement in professionrestless and vain in action
servile in the last degree of meanness to the greatadulatory of
one anotherand intolerable to those who were anxious quietly to
help the weak from failing rather than with a great deal of bluster
and self-laudation to raise them up a little way when they were
downhe plainly told us. When a testimonial was originated to Mr.
Quale by Mr. Gusher (who had already got oneoriginated by Mr.
Quale)and when Mr. Gusher spoke for an hour and a half on the
subject to a meetingincluding two charity schools of small boys
and girlswho were specially reminded of the widow's miteand
requested to come forward with halfpence and be acceptable
sacrificesI think the wind was in the east for three whole weeks.

I mention this because I am coming to Mr. Skimpole again. It
seemed to me that his off-hand professions of childishness and
carelessness were a great relief to my guardianby contrast with
such thingsand were the more readily believed in since to find
one perfectly undesigning and candid man among many opposites could
not fail to give him pleasure. I should be sorry to imply that Mr.
Skimpole divined this and was politic; I really never understood
him well enough to know. What he was to my guardianhe certainly
was to the rest of the world.

He had not been very well; and thusthough he lived in Londonwe
had seen nothing of him until now. He appeared one morning in his
usual agreeable way and as full of pleasant spirits as ever.

Wellhe saidhere he was! He had been biliousbut rich men were


often biliousand therefore he had been persuading himself that he
was a man of property. So he wasin a certain point of view--in
his expansive intentions. He had been enriching his medical
attendant in the most lavish manner. He had always doubledand
sometimes quadrupledhis fees. He had said to the doctorNow,
my dear doctor, it is quite a delusion on your part to suppose that
you attend me for nothing. I am overwhelming you with money--in my
expansive intentions--if you only knew it!And really (he said)
he meant it to that degree that he thought it much the same as
doing it. If he had had those bits of metal or thin paper to which
mankind attached so much importance to put in the doctor's handhe
would have put them in the doctor's hand. Not having themhe
substituted the will for the deed. Very well! If he really meant
it--if his will were genuine and realwhich it was--it appeared to
him that it was the same as coinand cancelled the obligation.

It may be, partly, because I know nothing of the value of money,
said Mr. Skimpolebut I often feel this. It seems so reasonable!
My butcher says to me he wants that little bill. It's a part of
the pleasant unconscious poetry of the man's nature that he always
calls it a 'little' bill--to make the payment appear easy to both
of us. I reply to the butcher, 'My good friend, if you knew it,
you are paid. You haven't had the trouble of coming to ask for the
little bill. You are paid. I mean it.'

But, suppose,said my guardianlaughinghe had meant the meat
in the bill, instead of providing it?

My dear Jarndyce,he returnedyou surprise me. You take the
butcher's position. A butcher I once dealt with occupied that very
ground. Says he, 'Sir, why did you eat spring lamb at eighteen
pence a pound?' 'Why did I eat spring lamb at eighteen-pence a
pound, my honest friend?' said I, naturally amazed by the question.
'I like spring lamb!' This was so far convincing. 'Well, sir,'
says he, 'I wish I had meant the lamb as you mean the money!' 'My
good fellow,' said I, 'pray let us reason like intellectual beings.
How could that be? It was impossible. You HAD got the lamb, and I
have NOT got the money. You couldn't really mean the lamb without
sending it in, whereas I can, and do, really mean the money without
paying it!' He had not a word. There was an end of the subject.

Did he take no legal proceedings?inquired my guardian.

Yes, he took legal proceedings,said Mr. Skimpole. "But in that
he was influenced by passionnot by reason. Passion reminds me of
Boythorn. He writes me that you and the ladies have promised him a
short visit at his bachelor-house in Lincolnshire."

He is a great favourite with my girls,said Mr. Jarndyceand I
have promised for them.

Nature forgot to shade him off, I think,observed Mr. Skimpole to
Ada and me. "A little too boisterous--like the sea. A little too
vehement--like a bull who has made up his mind to consider every
colour scarlet. But I grant a sledge-hammering sort of merit in
him!"

I should have been surprised if those two could have thought very
highly of one anotherMr. Boythorn attaching so much importance to
many things and Mr. Skimpole caring so little for anything.
Besides whichI had noticed Mr. Boythorn more than once on the
point of breaking out into some strong opinion when Mr. Skimpole
was referred to. Of course I merely joined Ada in saying that we
had been greatly pleased with him.


He has invited me,said Mr. Skimpole; "and if a child may trust
himself in such hands--which the present child is encouraged to do
with the united tenderness of two angels to guard him--I shall go.
He proposes to frank me down and back again. I suppose it will
cost money? Shillings perhaps? Or pounds? Or something of that
sort? By the byCoavinses. You remember our friend Coavinses
Miss Summerson?"

He asked me as the subject arose in his mindin his graceful
light-hearted manner and without the least embarrassment.

Oh, yes!said I.

Coavinses has been arrested by the Great Bailiff,said Mr.
Skimpole. "He will never do violence to the sunshine any more."

It quite shocked me to hear itfor I had already recalled with
anything but a serious association the image of the man sitting on
the sofa that night wiping his head.

His successor informed me of it yesterday,said Mr. Skimpole.
His successor is in my house now--in possession, I think he calls
it. He came yesterday, on my blue-eyed daughter's birthday. I put
it to him, 'This is unreasonable and inconvenient. If you had a
blue-eyed daughter you wouldn't like ME to come, uninvited, on HER
birthday?' But he stayed.

Mr. Skimpole laughed at the pleasant absurdity and lightly touched
the piano by which he was seated.

And he told me,he saidplaying little chords where I shall put
full stopsThe Coavinses had left. Three children. No mother.
And that Coavinses' profession. Being unpopular. The rising
Coavinses. Were at a considerable disadvantage.

Mr. Jarndyce got uprubbing his headand began to walk about.
Mr. Skimpole played the melody of one of Ada's favourite songs.
Ada and I both looked at Mr. Jarndycethinking that we knew what
was passing in his mind.

After walking and stoppingand several times leaving off rubbing
his headand beginning againmy guardian put his hand upon the
keys and stopped Mr. Skimpole's playing. "I don't like this
Skimpole he said thoughtfully.

Mr. Skimpole, who had quite forgotten the subject, looked up
surprised.

The man was necessary pursued my guardian, walking backward and
forward in the very short space between the piano and the end of
the room and rubbing his hair up from the back of his head as if a
high east wind had blown it into that form. If we make such men
necessary by our faults and folliesor by our want of worldly
knowledgeor by our misfortuneswe must not revenge ourselves
upon them. There was no harm in his trade. He maintained his
children. One would like to know more about this."

Oh! Coavinses?cried Mr. Skimpoleat length perceiving what he
meant. "Nothing easier. A walk to Coavinses' headquartersand
you can know what you will."

Mr. Jarndyce nodded to uswho were only waiting for the signal.
Come! We will walk that way, my dears. Why not that way as soon


as another!We were quickly ready and went out. Mr. Skimpole
went with us and quite enjoyed the expedition. It was so new and
so refreshinghe saidfor him to want Coavinses instead of
Coavinses wanting him!

He took usfirstto Cursitor StreetChancery Lanewhere there
was a house with barred windowswhich he called Coavinses' Castle.
On our going into the entry and ringing a bella very hideous boy
came out of a sort of office and looked at us over a spiked wicket.

Who did you want?said the boyfitting two of the spikes into
his chin.

There was a follower, or an officer, or something, here,said Mr.
Jarndycewho is dead.

Yes?said the boy. "Well?"

I want to know his name, if you please?

Name of Neckett,said the boy.

And his address?

Bell Yard,said the boy. "Chandler's shopleft hand sidename
of Blinder."

Was he--I don't know how to shape the question--murmured my
guardianindustrious?

Was Neckett?said the boy. "Yeswery much so. He was never
tired of watching. He'd set upon a post at a street corner eight
or ten hours at a stretch if he undertook to do it."

He might have done worse,I heard my guardian soliloquize. "He
might have undertaken to do it and not done it. Thank you. That's
all I want."

We left the boywith his head on one side and his arms on the
gatefondling and sucking the spikesand went back to Lincoln's
Innwhere Mr. Skimpolewho had not cared to remain nearer
Coavinsesawaited us. Then we all went to Bell Yarda narrow
alley at a very short distance. We soon found the chandler's shop.
In it was a good-natured-looking old woman with a dropsyor an
asthmaor perhaps both.

Neckett's children?said she in reply to my inquiry. "Yes
Surelymiss. Three pairif you please. Door right opposite the
stairs." And she handed me the key across the counter.

I glanced at the key and glanced at herbut she took it for
granted that I knew what to do with it. As it could only be
intended for the children's doorI came out without askmg any more
questions and led the way up the dark stairs. We went as quietly
as we couldbut four of us made some noise on the aged boardsand
when we came to the second story we found we had disturbed a man
who was standing there looking out of his room.

Is it Gridley that's wanted?he saidfixing his eyes on me with
an angry stare.

No, sir,said I; "I am going higher up."

He looked at Adaand at Mr. Jarndyceand at Mr. Skimpolefixing


the same angry stare on each in succession as they passed and
followed me. Mr. Jarndyce gave him good day. "Good day!" he said
abruptly and fiercely. He was a tallsallow man with a careworn
head on which but little hair remaineda deeply lined faceand
prominent eyes. He had a combative look and a chafingirritable
manner whichassociated with his figure--still large and powerful
though evidently in its decline--rather alarmed me. He had a pen
in his handand in the glimpse I caught of his room in passingI
saw that it was covered with a litter of papers.

Leaving him standing therewe went up to the top room. I tapped
at the doorand a little shrill voice inside saidWe are locked
in. Mrs. Blinder's got the key!

I applied the key on hearing this and opened the door. In a poor
room with a sloping ceiling and containing very little furniture
was a mite of a boysome five or six years oldnursing and
hushing a heavy child of eighteen months. There was no fire
though the weather was cold; both children were wrapped in some
poor shawls and tippets as a substitute. Their clothing was not so
warmhoweverbut that their noses looked red and pinched and
their small figures shrunken as the boy walked up and down nursing
and hushing the child with its head on his shoulder.

Who has locked you up here alone?we naturally asked.

Charley,said the boystanding still to gaze at us.

Is Charley your brother?

No. She's my sister, Charlotte. Father called her Charley.

Are there any more of you besides Charley?

Me,said the boyand Emma,patting the limp bonnet of the
child he was nursing. "And Charley."

Where is Charley now?

Out a-washing,said the boybeginning to walk up and down again
and taking the nankeen bonnet much too near the bedstead by trying
to gaze at us at the same time.

We were looking at one another and at these two children when there
came into the room a very little girlchildish in figure but
shrewd and older-looking in the face--pretty-faced too--wearing a
womanly sort of bonnet much too large for her and drying her bare
arms on a womanly sort of apron. Her fingers were white and
wrinkled with washingand the soap-suds were yet smoking which she
wiped off her arms. But for thisshe might have been a child
playing at washing and imitating a poor working-woman with a quick
observation of the truth.

She had come running from some place in the neighbourhood and had
made all the haste she could. Consequentlythough she was very
lightshe was out of breath and could not speak at firstas she
stood pantingand wiping her armsand looking quietly at us.

Oh, here's Charley!said the boy.

The child he was nursing stretched forth its arms and cried out to
be taken by Charley. The little girl took itin a womanly sort of
manner belonging to the apron and the bonnetand stood looking at
us over the burden that clung to her most affectionately.


Is it possible,whispered my guardian as we put a chair for the
little creature and got her to sit down with her loadthe boy
keeping close to herholding to her apronthat this child works
for the rest? Look at this! For God's sake, look at this!

It was a thing to look at. The three children close togetherand
two of them relying solely on the thirdand the third so young and
yet with an air of age and steadiness that sat so strangely on the
childish figure.

Charley, Charley!said my guardian. "How old are you?"

Over thirteen, sir,replied the child.

Oh! What a great age,said my guardian. "What a great age
Charley!"

I cannot describe the tenderness with which he spoke to herhalf
playfully yet all the more compassionately and mournfully.

And do you live alone here with these babies, Charley?said my
guardian.

Yes, sir,returned the childlooking up into his face with
perfect confidencesince father died.

And how do you live, Charley? Oh! Charley,said my guardian
turning his face away for a momenthow do you live?

Since father died, sir, I've gone out to work. I'm out washing
to-day.

God help you, Charley!said my guardian. "You're not tall enough
to reach the tub!"

In pattens I am, sir,she said quickly. "I've got a high pair as
belonged to mother."

And when did mother die? Poor mother!

Mother died just after Emma was born,said the childglancing at
the face upon her bosom. "Then father said I was to be as good a
mother to her as I could. And so I tried. And so I worked at home
and did cleaning and nursing and washing for a long time before I
began to go out. And that's how I know how; don't you seesir?"

And do you often go out?

As often as I can,said Charleyopening her eyes and smiling
because of earning sixpences and shillings!

And do you always lock the babies up when you go out?

'To keep 'em safesirdon't you see?" said Charley. "Mrs.
Blinder comes up now and thenand Mr. Gridley comes up sometimes
and perhaps I can run in sometimesand they can play you knowand
Tom an't afraid of being locked upare youTom?"

'"No-o!" said Tom stoutly.

When it comes on dark, the lamps are lighted down in the court,
and they show up here quite bright--almost quite bright. Don't
they, Tom?


Yes, Charley,said Tomalmost quite bright.

Then he's as good as gold,said the little creature--Ohin such
a motherlywomanly way! "And when Emma's tiredhe puts her to
bed. And when he's tired he goes to bed himself. And when I come
home and light the candle and has a bit of supperhe sits up again
and has it with me. Don't youTom?"

Oh, yes, Charley!said Tom. "That I do!" And either in this
glimpse of the great pleasure of his life or in gratitude and love
for Charleywho was all in all to himhe laid his face among the
scanty folds of her frock and passed from laughing into crying.

It was the first time since our entry that a tear had been shed
among these children. The little orphan girl had spoken of their
father and their mother as if all that sorrow were subdued by the
necessity of taking courageand by her childish importance in
being able to workand by her bustling busy way. But nowwhen
Tom criedalthough she sat quite tranquillooking quietly at us
and did not by any movement disturb a hair of the head of either of
her little chargesI saw two silent tears fall down her face.

I stood at the window with Adapretending to look at the
housetopsand the blackened stack of chimneysand the poor
plantsand the birds in little cages belonging to the neighbours
when I found that Mrs. Blinderfrom the shop belowhad come in
(perhaps it had taken her all this time to get upstairs) and was
talking to my guardian.

It's not much to forgive 'em the rent, sir,she said; "who could
take it from them!"

'"Wellwell!" said my guardian to us two. "It is enough that the
time will come when this good woman will find that it WAS muchand
that forasmuch as she did it unto the least of these--This child
he added after a few moments, could she possibly continue this?"

Really, sir, I think she might,said Mrs. Blindergetting her
heavy breath by painful degrees. "She's as handy as it's possible
to be. Bless yousirthe way she tended them two children after
the mother died was the talk of the yard! And it was a wonder to
see her with him after he was took illit really was! 'Mrs.
Blinder' he said to me the very last he spoke--he was lying there
--'Mrs. Blinderwhatever my calling may have beenI see a angel
sitting in this room last night along with my childand I trust
her to Our Father!'"

He had no other calling?said my guardian.

No, sir,returned Mrs. Blinderhe was nothing but a follerers.
When he first came to lodge here, I didn't know what he was, and I
confess that when I found out I gave him notice. It wasn't liked
in the yard. It wasn't approved by the other lodgers. It is NOT a
genteel calling,said Mrs. Blinderand most people do object to
it. Mr. Gridley objected to it very strong, and he is a good
lodger, though his temper has been hard tried.

So you gave him notice?said my guardian.

So I gave him notice,said Mrs. Blinder. "But really when the
time cameand I knew no other ill of himI was in doubts. He was
punctual and diligent; he did what he had to dosir said Mrs.
Blinder, unconsciously fixing Mr. Skimpole with her eye, and it's


something in this world even to do that."

So you kept him after all?

Why, I said that if he could arrange with Mr. Gridley, I could
arrange it with the other lodgers and should not so much mind its
being liked or disliked in the yard. Mr. Gridley gave his consent
gruff--but gave it. He was always gruff with him, but he has been
kind to the children since. A person is never known till a person
is proved.

Have many people been kind to the children?asked Mr. Jarndyce.

Upon the whole, not so bad, sir,said Mrs. Blinder; "but
certainly not so many as would have been if their father's calling
had been different. Mr. Coavins gave a guineaand the follerers
made up a little purse. Some neighbours in the yard that had
always joked and tapped their shoulders when he went by came
forward with a little subscriptionand--in general--not so bad.
Similarly with Charlotte. Some people won't employ her because she
was a follerer's child; some people that do employ her cast it at
her; some make a merit of having her to work for themwith that
and all her draw-backs upon herand perhaps pay her less and put
upon her more. But she's patienter than others would beand is
clever tooand always willingup to the full mark of her strength
and over. So I should sayin generalnot so badsirbut might
be better."

Mrs. Blinder sat down to give herself a more favourable opportunity
of recovering her breathexhausted anew by so much talking before
it was fully restored. Mr. Jarndyce was turning to speak to us
when his attention was attracted by the abrupt entrance into the
room of the Mr. Gridley who had been mentioned and whom we had seen
on our way up.

I don't know what you may be doing here, ladies and gentlemen,he
saidas if he resented our presencebut you'll excuse my coming
in. I don't come in to stare about me. Well, Charley! Well, Tom!
Well, little one! How is it with us all to-day?

He bent over the group in a caressing way and clearly was regarded
as a friend by the childrenthough his face retained its stern
character and his manner to us was as rude as it could be. My
guardian noticed it and respected it.

No one, surely, would come here to stare about him,he said
mildly.

May be so, sir, may be so,returned the othertaking Tom upon
his knee and waving him off impatiently. "I don't want to argue
with ladies and gentlemen. I have had enough of arguing to last
one man his life."

You have sufficient reason, I dare say,said Mr. Jarndycefor
being chafed and irritated--

There again!exclaimed the manbecoming violently angry. "I am
of a quarrelsome temper. I am irascible. I am not polite!"

Not very, I think.

Sir,said Gridleyputting down the child and going up to him as
if he meant to strike himdo you know anything of Courts of
Equity?


Perhaps I do, to my sorrow.

To your sorrow?said the manpausing in his wrath. "if soI
beg your pardon. I am not politeI know. I beg your pardon!
Sir with renewed violence, I have been dragged for five and
twenty years over burning ironand I have lost the habit of
treading upon velvet. Go into the Court of Chancery yonder and ask
what is one of the standing jokes that brighten up their business
sometimesand they will tell you that the best joke they have is
the man from Shropshire. I he said, beating one hand on the
other passionately, am the man from Shropshire."

I believe I and my family have also had the honour of furnishing
some entertainment in the same grave place,said my guardian
composedly. "You may have heard my name--Jarndyce."

Mr. Jarndyce,said Gridley with a rough sort of salutationyou
bear your wrongs more quietly than I can bear mine. More than
that, I tell you--and I tell this gentleman, and these young
ladies, if they are friends of yours--that if I took my wrongs in
any other way, I should be driven mad! It is only by resenting
them, and by revenging them in my mind, and by angrily demanding
the justice I never get, that I am able to keep my wits together.
It is only that!he saidspeaking in a homelyrustic way and
with great vehemence. "You may tell me that I over-excite myself.
I answer that it's in my nature to do itunder wrongand I must
do it. There's nothing between doing itand sinking into the
smiling state of the poor little mad woman that haunts the court.
If I was once to sit down under itI should become imbecile."

The passion and heat in which he wasand the manner in which his
face workedand the violent gestures with which he accompanied
what he saidwere most painful to see.

Mr. Jarndyce,he saidconsider my case. As true as there is a
heaven above us, this is my case. I am one of two brothers. My
father (a farmer) made a will and left his farm and stock and so
forth to my mother for her life. After my mother's death, all was
to come to me except a legacy of three hundred pounds that I was
then to pay my brother. My mother died. My brother some time
afterwards claimed his legacy. I and some of my relations said
that he had had a part of it already in board and lodging and some
other things. Now mind! That was the question, and nothing else.
No one disputed the will; no one disputed anything but whether part
of that three hundred pounds had been already paid or not. To
settle that question, my brother filing a bill, I was obliged to go
into this accursed Chancery; I was forced there because the law
forced me and would let me go nowhere else. Seventeen people were
made defendants to that simple suit! It first came on after two
years. It was then stopped for another two years while the master
(may his head rot off!) inquired whether I was my father's son,
about which there was no dispute at all with any mortal creature.
He then found out that there were not defendants enough--remember,
there were only seventeen as yet!--but that we must have another
who had been left out and must begin all over again. The costs at
that time--before the thing was begun!--were three times the
legacy. My brother would have given up the legacy, and joyful, to
escape more costs. My whole estate, left to me in that will of my
father's, has gone in costs. The suit, still undecided, has fallen
into rack, and ruin, and despair, with everything else--and here I
stand, this day! Now, Mr. Jarndyce, in your suit there are
thousands and thousands involved, where in mine there are hundreds.
Is mine less hard to bear or is it harder to bear, when my whole


living was in it and has been thus shamefully sucked away?

Mr. Jarndyce said that he condoled with him with all his heart and
that he set up no monopoly himself in being unjustly treated by
this monstrous system.

There again!said Mr. Gridley with no diminution of his rage.
The system! I am told on all hands, it's the system. I mustn't
look to individuals. It's the system. I mustn't go into court and
say, 'My Lord, I beg to know this from you--is this right or wrong?
Have you the face to tell me I have received justice and therefore
am dismissed?' My Lord knows nothing of it. He sits there to
administer the system. I mustn't go to Mr. Tulkinghorn, the
solicitor in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and say to him when he makes me
furious by being so cool and satisfied--as they all do, for I know
they gain by it while I lose, don't I?--I mustn't say to him, 'I
will have something out of some one for my ruin, by fair means or
foul!' HE is not responsible. It's the system. But, if I do no
violence to any of them, here--I may! I don't know what may happen
if I am carried beyond myself at last! I will accuse the
individual workers of that system against me, face to face, before
the great eternal bar!

His passion was fearful. I could not have believed in such rage
without seeing it.

I have done!he saidsitting down and wiping his face. "Mr.
JarndyceI have done! I am violentI know. I ought to know it.
I have been in prison for contempt of court. I have been in prison
for threatening the solicitor. I have been in this troubleand
that troubleand shall be again. I am the man from Shropshire
and I sometimes go beyond amusing themthough they have found it
amusingtooto see me committed into custody and brought up in
custody and all that. It would be better for methey tell meif
I restrained myself. I tell them that if I did restrain myself I
should become imbecile. I was a good-enough-tempered man onceI
believe. People in my part of the country say they remember me so
but now I must have this vent under my sense of injury or nothing
could hold my wits together. It would be far better for youMr.
Gridley' the Lord Chancellor told me last week'not to waste your
time hereand to stayusefully employeddown in Shropshire.'
'My Lordmy LordI know it would' said I to him'and it would
have been far better for me never to have heard the name of your
high officebut unhappily for meI can't undo the pastand the
past drives me here!' Besides he added, breaking fiercely out,
I'll shame them. To the lastI'll show myself in that court to
its shame. If I knew when I was going to dieand could be carried
thereand had a voice to speak withI would die theresaying
'You have brought me here and sent me from here many and many a
time. Now send me out feet foremost!'"

His countenance hadperhaps for yearsbecome so set in its
contentious expression that it did not softeneven now when he was
quiet.

I came to take these babies down to my room for an hour,he said
going to them againand let them play about. I didn't mean to
say all this, but it don't much signify. You're not afraid of me,
Tom, are you?

No!said Tom. "You ain't angry with ME."

You are right, my child. You're going back, Charley? Aye? Come
then, little one!He took the youngest child on his armwhere


she was willing enough to be carried. "I shouldn't wonder if we
found a ginger-bread soldier downstairs. Let's go and look for
him!"

He made his former rough salutationwhich was not deficient in a
certain respectto Mr. Jarndyceand bowing slightly to uswent
downstairs to his room.

Upon thatMr. Skimpole began to talkfor the first time since our
arrivalin his usual gay strain. He saidWellit was really
very pleasant to see how things lazily adapted themselves to
purposes. Here was this Mr. Gridleya man of a robust will and
surprising energy--intellectually speakinga sort of inharmonious
blacksmith--and he could easily imagine that there Gridley was
years agowandering about in life for something to expend his
superfluous combativeness upon--a sort of Young Love among the
thorns--when the Court of Chancery came in his way and accommodated
him with the exact thing he wanted. There they werematchedever
afterwards! Otherwise he might have been a great generalblowing
up all sorts of townsor he might have been a great politician
dealing in all sorts of parliamentary rhetoric; but as it washe
and the Court of Chancery had fallen upon each other in the
pleasantest wayand nobody was much the worseand Gridley wasso
to speakfrom that hour provided for. Then look at Coavinses!
How delightfully poor Coavinses (father of these charming children)
illustrated the same principle! HeMr. Skimpolehimselfhad
sometimes repined at the existence of Coavinses. He had found
Coavinses in his way. He could had dispensed with Coavinses.
There had been times whenif he had been a sultanand his grand
vizier had said one morningWhat does the Commander of the
Faithful require at the hands of his slave?he might have even
gone so far as to replyThe head of Coavinses!But what turned
out to be the case? Thatall that timehe had been giving
employment to a most deserving manthat he had been a benefactor
to Coavinsesthat he had actually been enabling Coavinses to bring
up these charming children in this agreeable waydeveloping these
social virtues! Insomuch that his heart had just now swelled and
the tears had come into his eyes when he had looked round the room
and thoughtI was the great patron of Coavinses, and his little
comforts were MY work!

There was something so captivating in his light way of touching
these fantastic stringsand he was such a mirthful child by the
side of the graver childhood we had seenthat he made my guardian
smile even as he turned towards us from a little private talk with
Mrs. Blinder. We kissed Charleyand took her downstairs with us
and stopped outside the house to see her run away to her work. I
don't know where she was goingbut we saw her runsuch a little
little creature in her womanly bonnet and apronthrough a covered
way at the bottom of the court and melt into the city's strife and
sound like a dewdrop in an ocean.

CHAPTER XVI

Tom-all-Alone's

My Lady Dedlock is restlessvery restless. The astonished
fashionable intelligence hardly knows where to have her. To-day
she is at Chesney Wold; yesterday she was at her house in town; tomorrow
she may be abroadfor anything the fashionable intelligence
can with confidence predict. Even Sir Leicester's gallantry has


some trouble to keep pace with her. It would have more but that
his other faithful allyfor better and for worse--the gout--darts
into the old oak bedchamber at Chesney Wold and grips him by both
legs.

Sir Leicester receives the gout as a troublesome demonbut still a
demon of the patrician order. All the Dedlocksin the direct male
linethrough a course of time during and beyond which the memory
of man goeth not to the contraryhave had the gout. It can be
provedsir. Other men's fathers may have died of the rheumatism
or may have taken base contagion from the tainted blood of the sick
vulgarbut the Dedlock family have communicated something
exclusive even to the levelling process of dying by dying of their
own family gout. It has come down through the illustrious line
like the plateor the picturesor the place in Lincolnshire. It
is among their dignities. Sir Leicester is perhaps not wholly
without an impressionthough he has never resolved it into words
that the angel of death in the discharge of his necessary duties
may observe to the shades of the aristocracyMy lords and
gentlemen, I have the honour to present to you another Dedlock
certified to have arrived per the family gout.

Hence Sir Leicester yields up his family legs to the family
disorder as if he held his name and fortune on that feudal tenure.
He feels that for a Dedlock to be laid upon his back and
spasmodically twitched and stabbed in his extremities is a liberty
taken somewherebut he thinksWe have all yielded to this; it
belongs to us; it has for some hundreds of years been understood
that we are not to make the vaults in the park interesting on more
ignoble terms; and I submit myself to the compromise.

And a goodly show he makes, lying in a flush of crimson and gold in
the midst of the great drawing-room before his favourite picture of
my Lady, with broad strips of sunlight shining in, down the long
perspective, through the long line of windows, and alternating with
soft reliefs of shadow. Outside, the stately oaks, rooted for ages
in the green ground which has never known ploughshare, but was
still a chase when kings rode to battle with sword and shield and
rode a-hunting with bow and arrow, bear witness to his greatness.
Inside, his forefathers, looking on him from the walls, say, Each
of us was a passing reality here and left this coloured shadow of
himself and melted into remembrance as dreamy as the distant voices
of the rooks now lulling you to rest and hear their testimony to
his greatness too. And he is very great this day. And woe to
Boythorn or other daring wight who shall presumptuously contest an
inch with him!

My Lady is at present represented, near Sir Leicester, by her
portrait. She has flitted away to town, with no intention of
remaining there, and will soon flit hither again, to the confusion
of the fashionable intelligence. The house in town is not prepared
for her reception. It is muffled and dreary. Only one Mercury in
powder gapes disconsolate at the hall-window; and he mentioned last
night to another Mercury of his acquaintance, also accustomed to
good society, that if that sort of thing was to last--which it
couldn't, for a man of his spirits couldn't bear it, and a man of
his figure couldn't be expected to bear it--there would be no
resource for him, upon his honour, but to cut his throat!

What connexion can there be between the place in Lincolnshire, the
house in town, the Mercury in powder, and the whereabout of Jo the
outlaw with the broom, who had that distant ray of light upon him
when he swept the churchyard-step? What connexion can there have
been between many people in the innumerable histories of this world


who from opposite sides of great gulfs have, nevertheless, been
very curiously brought together!

Jo sweeps his crossing all day long, unconscious of the link, if
any link there be. He sums up his mental condition when asked a
question by replying that he don't know nothink." He knows that
it's hard to keep the mud off the crossing in dirty weatherand
harder still to live by doing it. Nobody taught him even that
much; he found it out.

Jo lives--that is to sayJo has not yet died--in a ruinous place
known to the like of him by the name of Tom-all-Alone's. It is a
blackdilapidated streetavoided by all decent peoplewhere the
crazy houses were seized uponwhen their decay was far advanced
by some bold vagrants who after establishing their own possession
took to letting them out in lodgings. Nowthese tumbling
tenements containby nighta swarm of misery. As on the ruined
human wretch vermin parasites appearso these ruined shelters have
bred a crowd of foul existence that crawls in and out of gaps in
walls and boards; and coils itself to sleepin maggot numbers
where the rain drips in; and comes and goesfetching and carrying
fever and sowing more evil in its every footprint than Lord Coodle
and Sir Thomas Doodleand the Duke of Foodleand all the fine
gentlemen in officedown to Zoodleshall set right in five
hundred years--though born expressly to do it.

Twice lately there has been a crash and a cloud of dustlike the
springing of a minein Tom-all-Alone's; and each time a house has
fallen. These accidents have made a paragraph in the newspapers
and have filled a bed or two in the nearest hospital. The gaps
remainand there are not unpopular lodgings among the rubbish. As
several more houses are nearly ready to gothe next crash in Tomall-
Alone's may be expected to be a good one.

This desirable property is in Chanceryof course. It would be an
insult to the discernment of any man with half an eye to tell him
so. Whether "Tom" is the popular representative of the original
plaintiff or defendant in Jarndyce and Jarndyceor whether Tom
lived here when the suit had laid the street wasteall alone
until other settlers came to join himor whether the traditional
title is a comprehensive name for a retreat cut off from honest
company and put out of the pale of hopeperhaps nobody knows.
Certainly Jo don't know.

For I don't,says JoI don't know nothink.

It must be a strange state to be like Jo! To shuffle through the
streetsunfamiliar with the shapesand in utter darkness as to
the meaningof those mysterious symbolsso abundant over the
shopsand at the corners of streetsand on the doorsand in the
windows! To see people readand to see people writeand to see
the postmen deliver lettersand not to have the least idea of all
that language--to beto every scrap of itstone blind and dumb!
It must be very puzzling to see the good company going to the
churches on Sundayswith their books in their handsand to think
(for perhaps Jo DOES think at odd times) what does it all meanand
if it means anything to anybodyhow comes it that it means nothing
to me? To be hustledand jostledand moved on; and really to
feel that it would appear to be perfectly true that I have no
business hereor thereor anywhere; and yet to be perplexed by
the consideration that I AM here somehowtooand everybody
overlooked me until I became the creature that I am! It must be a
strange statenot merely to be told that I am scarcely human (as
in the case of my offering myself for a witness)but to feel it of


my own knowledge all my life! To see the horsesdogsand cattle
go by me and to know that in ignorance I belong to them and not to
the superior beings in my shapewhose delicacy I offend! Jo's
ideas of a criminal trialor a judgeor a bishopor a govemment
or that inestimable jewel to him (if he only knew it) the
Constitutionshould be strange! His whole material and immaterial
life is wonderfully strange; his deaththe strangest thing of all.

Jo comes out of Tom-all-Alone'smeeting the tardy morning which is
always late in getting down thereand munches his dirty bit of
bread as he comes along. His way lying through many streetsand
the houses not yet being openhe sits down to breakfast on the
door-step of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in
Foreign Parts and gives it a brush when he has finished as an
acknowledgment of the accommodation. He admires the size of the
edifice and wonders what it's all about. He has no ideapoor
wretchof the spiritual destitution of a coral reef in the Pacific
or what it costs to look up the precious souls among the coco-nuts
and bread-fruit.

He goes to his crossing and begins to lay it out for the day. The
town awakes; the great tee-totum is set up for its daily spin and
whirl; all that unaccountable reading and writingwhich has been
suspended for a few hoursrecommences. Jo and the other lower
animals get on in the unintelligible mess as they can. It is
market-day. The blinded oxenover-goadedover-drivennever
guidedrun into wrong places and are beaten outand plunge red-
eyed and foaming at stone wallsand often sorely hurt the
innocentand often sorely hurt themselves. Very like Jo and his
order; veryvery like!

A band of music comes and plays. Jo listens to it. So does a dog
--a drover's dogwaiting for his master outside a butcher's shop
and evidently thinking about those sheep he has had upon his mind
for some hours and is happily rid of. He seems perplexed
respecting three or fourcan't remember where he left themlooks
up and down the street as half expecting to see them astray
suddenly pricks up his ears and remembers all about it. A
thoroughly vagabond dogaccustomed to low company and public-
houses; a terrific dog to sheepready at a whistle to scamper over
their backs and tear out mouthfuls of their wool; but an educated
improveddeveloped dog who has been taught his duties and knows
how to discharge them. He and Jo listen to the musicprobably
with much the same amount of animal satisfaction; likewise as to
awakened associationaspirationor regretmelancholy or joyful
reference to things beyond the sensesthey are probably upon a
par. Butotherwisehow far above the human listener is the
brute!

Turn that dog's descendants wildlike Joand in a very few years
they will so degenerate that they will lose even their bark--but
not their bite.

The day changes as it wears itself away and becomes dark and
drizzly. Jo fights it out at his crossing among the mud and
wheelsthe horseswhipsand umbrellasand gets but a scanty sum
to pay for the unsavoury shelter of Tom-all-Alone's. Twilight
comes on; gas begins to start up in the shops; the lamplighter
with his ladderruns along the margin of the pavement. A wretched
evening is beginning to close in.

In his chambers Mr. Tulkinghorn sits meditating an application to
the nearest magistrate to-morrow morning for a warrant. Gridleya
disappointed suitorhas been here to-day and has been alarming.


We are not to be put in bodily fearand that ill-conditioned
fellow shall be held to bail again. From the ceiling
foreshortened Allegoryin the person of one impossible Roman
upside downpoints with the arm of Samson (out of jointand an
odd one) obtrusively toward the window. Why should Mr.
Tulkinghornfor such no reasonlook out of window? Is the hand
not always pointing there? So he does not look out of window.

And if he didwhat would it be to see a woman going by? There are
women enough in the worldMr. Tulkinghorn thinks--too many; they
are at the bottom of all that goes wrong in itthoughfor the
matter of thatthey create business for lawyers. What would it be
to see a woman going byeven though she were going secretly? They
are all secret. Mr. Tulkinghorn knows that very well.

But they are not all like the woman who now leaves him and his
house behindbetween whose plain dress and her refined manner
there is something exceedingly inconsistent. She should be an
upper servant by her attireyet in her air and stepthough both
are hurried and assumed--as far as she can assume in the muddy
streetswhich she treads with an unaccustomed foot--she is a lady.
Her face is veiledand still she sufficiently betrays herself to
make more than one of those who pass her look round sharply.

She never turns her head. Lady or servantshe has a purpose in
her and can follow it. She never turns her head until she comes to
the crossing where Jo plies with his broom. He crosses with her
and begs. Stillshe does not turn her head until she has landed
on the other side. Then she slightly beckons to him and says
Come here!

Jo follows her a pace or two into a quiet court.

Are you the boy I've read of in the papers?she asked behind her
veil.

I don't know,says Jostaring moodily at the veilnothink
about no papers. I don't know nothink about nothink at all.

Were you examined at an inquest?

I don't know nothink about no--where I was took by the beadle, do
you mean?says Jo. "Was the boy's name at the inkwhich Jo?"

Yes.

That's me!says Jo.

Come farther up.

You mean about the man?says Jofollowing. "Him as wos dead?"

Hush! Speak in a whisper! Yes. Did he look, when he was living,
so very ill and poor?

Oh, jist!says Jo.

Did he look like--not like YOU?says the woman with abhorrence.

Oh, not so bad as me,says Jo. "I'm a reg'lar one I am! You
didn't know himdid you?"

How dare you ask me if I knew him?


No offence, my lady,says Jo with much humilityfor even he has
got at the suspicion of her being a lady.

I am not a lady. I am a servant.

You are a jolly servant!says Jo without the least idea of saying
anything offensivemerely as a tribute of admiration.

Listen and be silent. Don't talk to me, and stand farther from
me! Can you show me all those places that were spoken of in the
account I read? The place he wrote for, the place he died at, the
place where you were taken to, and the place where he was buried?
Do you know the place where he was buried?

Jo answers with a nodhaving also nodded as each other place was
mentioned.

Go before me and show me all those dreadful places. Stop opposite
to each, and don't speak to me unless I speak to you. Don't look
back. Do what I want, and I will pay you well.

Jo attends closely while the words are being spoken; tells them off
on his broom-handlefinding them rather hard; pauses to consider
their meaning; considers it satisfactory; and nods his ragged head.

I'm fly,says Jo. "But fen larksyou know. Stow hooking it!"

What does the horrible creature mean?exclaims the servant
recoiling from him.

Stow cutting away, you know!says Jo.

I don't understand you. Go on before! I will give you more money
than you ever had in your life.

Jo screws up his mouth into a whistlegives his ragged head a rub
takes his broom under his armand leads the waypassing deftly
with his bare feet over the hard stones and through the mud and
mire.

Cook's Court. Jo stops. A pause.

Who lives here?

Him wot give him his writing and give me half a bull,says Jo in
a whisper without looking over his shoulder.

Go on to the next.

Krook's house. Jo stops again. A longer pause.

Who lives here?

HE lived here,Jo answers as before.

After a silence he is askedIn which room?

In the back room up there. You can see the winder from this
corner. Up there! That's where I see him stritched out. This is
the public-ouse where I was took to.

Go on to the next!

It is a longer walk to the nextbut Jorelieved of his first


suspicionssticks to the forms imposed upon him and does not look
round. By many devious waysreeking with offence of many kinds
they come to the little tunnel of a courtand to the gas-lamp
(lighted now)and to the iron gate.

He was put there,says Joholding to the bars and looking in.

Where? Oh, what a scene of horror!

There!says Jopointing. "Over yinder. Arnong them piles of
bonesand close to that there kitchin winder! They put him wery
nigh the top. They was obliged to stamp upon it to git it in. I
could unkiver it for you with my broom if the gate was open.
That's why they locks itI s'pose giving it a shake. It's
always locked. Look at the rat!" cries Joexcited. "Hi! Look!
There he goes! Ho! Into the ground!"

The servant shrinks into a cornerinto a corner of that hideous
archwaywith its deadly stains contaminating her dress; and
putting out her two hands and passionately telling him to keep away
from herfor he is loathsome to herso remains for some moments.
Jo stands staring and is still staring when she recovers herself.

Is this place of abomination consecrated ground?

I don't know nothink of consequential ground,says Jostill
staring.

Is it blessed?

Which?says Join the last degree amazed.

Is it blessed?

I'm blest if I know,says Jostaring more than ever; "but I
shouldn't think it warn't. Blest?" repeats Josomething troubled
in his mind. "It an't done it much good if it is. Blest? I
should think it was t'othered myself. But I don't know nothink!"

The servant takes as little heed of what he says as she seems to
take of what she has said herself. She draws off her glove to get
some money from her purse. Jo silently notices how white and small
her hand is and what a jolly servant she must be to wear such
sparkling rings.

She drops a piece of money in his hand without touching itand
shuddering as their hands approach. "Now she adds, show me the
spot again!"

Jo thrusts the handle of his broom between the bars of the gate
and with his utmost power of elaborationpoints it out. At
lengthlooking aside to see if he has made himself intelligible
he finds that he is alone.

His first proceeding is to hold the piece of money to the gas-light
and to be overpowered at finding that it is yellow--gold. His next
is to give it a one-sided bite at the edge as a test of its
quality. His nextto put it in his mouth for safety and to sweep
the step and passage with great care. His job donehe sets off
for Tom-all-Alone'sstopping in the light of innumerable gas-lamps
to produce the piece of gold and give it another one-sided bite as
a reassurance of its being genuine.

The Mercury in powder is in no want of society to-nightfor my


Lady goes to a grand dinner and three or four balls. Sir Leicester
is fidgety down at Chesney Woldwith no better company than the
goat; he complains to Mrs. Rouncewell that the rain makes such a
monotonous pattering on the terrace that he can't read the paper
even by the fireside in his own snug dressing-room.

Sir Leicester would have done better to try the other side of the
house, my dear,says Mrs. Rouncewell to Rosa. "His dressing-room
is on my Lady's side. And in all these years I never heard the
step upon the Ghost's Walk more distinct than it is to-night!"

CHAPTER XVII

Esther's Narrative

Richard very often came to see us while we remained in London
(though he soon failed in his letter-writing)and with his quick
abilitieshis good spiritshis good temperhis gaiety and
freshnesswas always delightful. But though I liked him more and
more the better I knew himI still felt more and more how much it
was to be regretted that he had been educated in no habits of
application and concentration. The system which had addressed him
in exactly the same manner as it had addressed hundreds of other
boysall varying in character and capacityhad enabled him to
dash through his tasksalways with fair credit and often with
distinctionbut in a fitfuldazzling way that had confirmed his
reliance on those very qualities in himself which it had been most
desirable to direct and train. They were good qualitieswithout
which no high place can be meritoriously wonbut like fire and
waterthough excellent servantsthey were very bad masters. If
they had been under Richard's directionthey would have been his
friends; but Richard being under their directionthey became his
enemies.

I write down these opinions not because I believe that this or any
other thing was so because I thought sobut only because I did
think so and I want to be quite candid about all I thought and did.
These were my thoughts about Richard. I thought I often observed
besides how right my guardian was in what he had saidand that the
uncertainties and delays of the Chancery suit had imparted to his
nature something of the careless spirit of a gamester who felt that
he was part of a great gaming system.

Mr. and Mrs. Bayham Badger coming one afternoon when my guardian
was not at homein the course of conversation I naturally inquired
after Richard.

Why, Mr. Carstone,said Mrs. Badgeris very well and is, I
assure you, a great acquisition to our society. Captain Swosser
used to say of me that I was always better than land a-head and a
breeze a-starn to the midshipmen's mess when the purser's junk had
become as tough as the fore-topsel weather earings. It was his
naval way of mentioning generally that I was an acquisition to any
society. I may render the same tribute, I am sure, to Mr.
Carstone. But I--you won't think me premature if I mention it?

I said noas Mrs. Badger's insinuating tone seemed to require such
an answer.

Nor Miss Clare?said Mrs. Bayham Badger sweetly.


Ada said notooand looked uneasy.

Why, you see, my dears,said Mrs. Badger--you'll excuse me
calling you my dears?

We entreated Mrs. Badger not to mention it.

Because you really are, if I may take the liberty of saying so,
pursued Mrs. Badgerso perfectly charming. You see, my dears,
that although I am still young--or Mr. Bayham Badger pays me the
compliment of saying so--

No,Mr. Badger called out like some one contradicting at a public
meeting. "Not at all!"

Very well,smiled Mrs. Badgerwe will say still young.

Undoubtedly,said Mr. Badger.

My dears, though still young, I have had many opportunities of
observing young men. There were many such on board the dear old
Crippler, I assure you. After that, when I was with Captain
Swosser in the Mediterranean, I embraced every opportunity of
knowing and befriending the midshipmen under Captain Swosser's
command. YOU never heard them called the young gentlemen, my
dears, and probably wonld not understand allusions to their pipe-
claying their weekly accounts, but it is otherwise with me, for
blue water has been a second home to me, and I have been quite a
sailor. Again, with Professor Dingo.

A man of European reputation,murmured Mr. Badger.

When I lost my dear first and became the wife of my dear second,
said Mrs. Badgerspeaking of her former husbands as if they were
parts of a charadeI still enjoyed opportunities of observing
youth. The class attendant on Professor Dingo's lectures was a
large one, and it became my pride, as the wife of an eminent
scientific man seeking herself in science the utmost consolation it
could impart, to throw our house open to the students as a kind of
Scientific Exchange. Every Tuesday evening there was lemonade and
a mixed biscuit for all who chose to partake of those refreshments.
And there was science to an unlimited extent.

Remarkable assemblies those, Miss Summerson,said Mr. Badger
reverentially. "There must have been great intellectual friction
going on there under the auspices of such a man!"

And now,pursued Mrs. Badgernow that I am the wife of my dear
third, Mr. Badger, I still pursue those habits of observation which
were formed during the lifetime of Captain Swosser and adapted to
new and unexpected purposes during the lifetime of Professor Dingo.
I therefore have not come to the consideration of Mr. Carstone as a
neophyte. And yet I am very much of the opinion, my dears, that he
has not chosen his profession advisedly.

Ada looked so very anxious now that I asked Mrs. Badger on what she
founded her supposition.

My dear Miss Summerson,she repliedon Mr. Carstone's character
and conduct. He is of such a very easy disposition that probably
he would never think it worthwhile to mention how he really feels,
but he feels languid about the profession. He has not that
positive interest in it which makes it his vocation. If he has any
decided impression in reference to it, I should say it was that it


is a tiresome pursuit. Now, this is not promising. Young men like
Mr. Allan Woodcourt who take it from a strong interest in all that
it can do will find some reward in it through a great deal of work
for a very little money and through years of considerable endurance
and disappointment. But I am quite convinced that this would never
be the case with Mr. Carstone.

Does Mr. Badger think so too?asked Ada timidly.

Why,said Mr. Badgerto tell the truth, Miss Clare, this view
of the matter had not occurred to me until Mrs. Badger mentioned
it. But when Mrs. Badger put it in that light, I naturally gave
great consideration to it, knowing that Mrs. Badger's mind, in
addition to its natural advantages, has had the rare advantage of
being formed by two such very distinguished (I will even say
illustrious) public men as Captain Swosser of the Royal Navy and
Professor Dingo. The conclusion at which I have arrived is--in
short, is Mrs. Badger's conclusion.

It was a maxim of Captain Swosser's,said Mrs. Badgerspeaking
in his figurative naval manner, that when you make pitch hot, you
cannot make it too hot; and that if you only have to swab a plank,
you should swab it as if Davy Jones were after you. It appears to
me that this maxim is applicable to the medical as well as to the
nautical profession.

To all professions observed Mr. Badger. It was admirably said
by Captain Swosser. Beautifully said."

People objected to Professor Dingo when we were staying in the
north of Devon after our marriage,said Mrs. Badgerthat he
disfigured some of the houses and other buildings by chipping off
fragments of those edifices with his little geological hammer. But
the professor replied that he knew of no building save the Temple
of Science. The principle is the same, I think?

Precisely the same,said Mr. Badger. "Finely expressed! The
professor made the same remarkMiss Summersonin his last
illnesswhen (his mind wandering) he insisted on keeping his
little hammer under the pillow and chipping at the countenances of
the attendants. The ruling passion!"

Although we could have dispensed with the length at which Mr. and
Mrs. Badger pursued the conversationwe both felt that it was
disinterested in them to express the opinion they had communicated
to us and that there was a great probability of its being sound.
We agreed to say nothing to Mr. Jarndyce until we had spoken to
Richard; and as he was coming next eveningwe resolved to have a
very serious talk with him.

So after he had been a little while with AdaI went in and found
my darling (as I knew she would be) prepared to consider him
thoroughly right in whatever he said.

And how do you get on, Richard?said I. I always sat down on the
other side of him. He made quite a sister of me.

Oh! Well enough!said Richard.

He can't say better than that, Esther, can he?cried my pet
triumphantly.

I tried to look at my pet in the wisest mannerbut of course I
couldn't.


Well enough?I repeated.

Yes,said Richardwell enough. It's rather jog-trotty and
humdrum. But it'll do as well as anything else!

Oh! My dear Richard!I remonstrated.

What's the matter?said Richard.

Do as well as anything else!

I don't think there's any harm in that, Dame Durden,said Ada
looking so confidingly at me across him; "because if it will do as
well as anything elseit will do very wellI hope."

Oh, yes, I hope so,returned Richardcarelessly tossing his hair
from his forehead. "After allit may be only a kind of probation
till our suit is--I forgot though. I am not to mention the suit.
Forbidden ground! Ohyesit's all right enough. Let us talk
about something else."

Ada would have done so willinglyand with a full persuasion that
we had brought the question to a most satisfactory state. But I
thought it would be useless to stop thereso I began again.

No, but Richard,said Iand my dear Ada! Consider how
important it is to you both, and what a point of honour it is
towards your cousin, that you, Richard, should be quite in earnest
without any reservation. I think we had better talk about this,
really, Ada. It will be too late very soon.

Oh, yes! We must talk about it!said Ada. "But I think Richard
is right."

What was the use of my trying to look wise when she was so pretty
and so engagingand so fond of him!

Mr. and Mrs. Badger were here yesterday, Richard,said Iand
they seemed disposed to think that you had no great liking for the
profession.

Did they though?said Richard. "Oh! Wellthat rather alters the
casebecause I had no idea that they thought soand I should not
have liked to disappoint or inconvenience them. The fact isI
don't care much about it. Butohit don't matter! It'll do as
well as anything else!"

You hear him, Ada!said I.

The fact is,Richard proceededhalf thoughtfully and half
jocoselyit is not quite in my way. I don't take to it. And I
get too much of Mrs. Bayham Badger's first and second.

I am sure THAT'S very natural!cried Adaquite delighted. "The
very thing we both said yesterdayEsther!"

Then,pursued Richardit's monotonous, and to-day is too like
yesterday, and to-morrow is too like to-day.

But I am afraid,said Ithis is an objection to all kinds of
application--to life itself, except under some very uncommon
circumstances.


Do you think so?returned Richardstill considering. "Perhaps!
Ha! Whythenyou know he added, suddenly becoming gay again,
we travel outside a circle to what I said just now. It'll do as
well as anything else. Ohit's all right enough! Let us talk
about something else."

But even Adawith her loving face--and if it had seemed innocent
and trusting when I first saw it in that memorable November fog
how much more did it seem now when I knew her innocent and trusting
heart--even Ada shook her head at this and looked serious. So I
thought it a good opportunity to hint to Richard that if he were
sometimes a little careless of himselfI was very sure he never
meant to be careless of Adaand that it was a part of his
affectionate consideration for her not to slight the importance of
a step that might influence both their lives. This made him almost
grave.

My dear Mother Hubbard,he saidthat's the very thing! I have
thought of that several times and have been quite angry with myself
for meaning to be so much in earnest and--somehow--not exactly
being so. I don't know how it is; I seem to want something or
other to stand by. Even you have no idea how fond I am of Ada (my
darling cousin, I love you, so much!), but I don't settle down to
constancy in other things. It's such uphill work, and it takes
such a time!said Richard with an air of vexation.

That may be,I suggestedbecause you don't like what you have
chosen.

Poor fellow!said Ada. "I am sure I don't wonder at it!"

No. It was not of the least use my trying to look wise. I tried
againbut how could I do itor how could it have any effect if I
couldwhile Ada rested her clasped hands upon his shoulder and
while he looked at her tender blue eyesand while they looked at
him!

You see, my precious girl,said Richardpassing her golden curls
through and through his handI was a little hasty perhaps; or I
misunderstood my own inclinations perhaps. They don't seem to lie
in that direction. I couldn't tell till I tried. Now the question
is whether it's worth-while to undo all that has been done. It
seems like making a great disturbance about nothing particular.

My dear Richard,said Ihow CAN you say about nothing
particular?

I don't mean absolutely that,he returned. "I mean that it MAY
be nothing particular because I may never want it."

Both Ada and I urgedin replynot only that it was decidedly
worth-while to undo what had been donebut that it must be undone.
I then asked Richard whether he had thought of any more congenial
pursuit.

There, my dear Mrs. Shipton,said Richardyou touch me home.
Yes, I have. I have been thinking that the law is the boy for me.

The law!repeated Ada as if she were afraid of the name.

If I went into Kenge's office,said Richardand if I were
placed under articles to Kenge, I should have my eye on the--hum!-the
forbidden ground--and should be able to study it, and master
it, and to satisfy myself that it was not neglected and was being


properly conducted. I should be able to look after Ada's interests
and my own interests (the same thing!); and I should peg away at
Blackstone and all those fellows with the most tremendous ardour.

I was not by any means so sure of thatand I saw how his hankering
after the vague things yet to come of those long-deferred hopes
cast a shade on Ada's face. But I thought it best to encourage him
in any project of continuous exertionand only advised him to be
quite sure that his mind was made up now.

My dear Minerva,said RichardI am as steady as you are. I
made a mistake; we are all liable to mistakes; I won't do so any
more, and I'll become such a lawyer as is not often seen. That is,
you know,said Richardrelapsing into doubtif it really is
worth-while, after all, to make such a disturbance about nothing
particular!

This led to our saying againwith a great deal of gravityall
that we had said already and to our coming to much the same
conclusion afterwards. But we so strongly advised Richard to be
frank and open with Mr. Jarndycewithout a moment's delayand his
disposition was naturally so opposed to concealment that he sought
him out at once (taking us with him) and made a full avowal.
Rick,said my guardianafter hearing him attentivelywe can
retreat with honour, and we will. But we must he careful--for our
cousin s sake, Rick, for our cousin's sake--that we make no more
such mistakes. Therefore, in the matter of the law, we will have a
good trial before we decide. We will look before we leap, and take
plenty of time about it.

Richard's energy was of such an impatient and fitful kind that he
would have liked nothing better than to have gone to Mr. Kenge's
office in that hour and to have entered into articles with him on
the spot. Submittinghoweverwith a good grace to the caution
that we had shown to be so necessaryhe contented himself with
sitting down among us in his lightest spirits and talking as if his
one unvarying purpose in life from childhood had been that one
which now held possession of him. My guardian was very kind and
cordial with himbut rather graveenough so to cause Adawhen he
had departed and we were going upstairs to bedto sayCousin
John, I hope you don't think the worse of Richard?

No, my love,said he.

Because it was very natural that Richard should be mistaken in
such a difficult case. It is not uncommon.

No, no, my love,said he. "Don't look unhappy."

Oh, I am not unhappy, cousin John!said Adasmiling cheerfully
with her hand upon his shoulderwhere she had put it in bidding
him good night. "But I should be a little so if you thought at all
the worse of Richard."

My dear,said Mr. JarndyceI should think the worse of him only
if you were ever in the least unhappy through his means. I should
be more disposed to quarrel with myself even then, than with poor
Rick, for I brought you together. But, tut, all this is nothing!
He has time before him, and the race to run. I think the worse of
him? Not I, my loving cousin! And not you, I swear!

No, indeed, cousin John,said AdaI am sure I could not--I am
sure I would not--think any ill of Richard if the whole world did.
I could, and I would, think better of him then than at any other


time!

So quietly and honestly she said itwith her hands upon his
shoulders--both hands now--and looking up into his facelike the
picture of truth!

I think,said my guardianthoughtfully regarding herI think
it must be somewhere written that the virtues of the mothers shall
occasionally be visited on the children, as well as the sins of the
father. Good night, my rosebud. Good night, little woman.
Pleasant slumbers! Happy dreams!

This was the first time I ever saw him follow Ada with his eyes
with something of a shadow on their benevolent expression. I well
remembered the look with which he had contemplated her and Richard
when she was singing in the firelight; it was but a very little
while since he had watched them passing down the room in which the
sun was shiningand away into the shade; but his glance was
changedand even the silent look of confidence in me which now
followed it once more was not quite so hopeful and untroubled as it
had originally been.

Ada praised Richard more to me that night than ever she had praised
him yet. She went to sleep with a little bracelet he had given her
clasped upon her arm. I fancied she was dreaming of him when I
kissed her cheek after she had slept an hour and saw how tranquil
and happy she looked.

For I was so little inclined to sleep myself that night that I sat
up working. It would not be worth mentioning for its own sakebut
I was wakeful and rather low-spirited. I don't know why. At least
I don't think I know why. At leastperhaps I dobut I don't
think it matters.

At any rateI made up my mind to be so dreadfully industrious that
I would leave myself not a moment's leisure to be low-spirited.
For I naturally saidEsther! You to be low-spirited. YOU!And
it really was time to say sofor I--yesI really did see myself
in the glassalmost crying. "As if you had anything to make you
unhappyinstead of everything to make you happyyou ungrateful
heart!" said I.

If I could have made myself go to sleepI would have done it
directlybut not being able to do thatI took out of my basket
some ornamental work for our house (I mean Bleak House) that I was
busy with at that time and sat down to it with great determination.
It was necessary to count all the stitches in that workand I
resolved to go on with it until I couldn't keep my eyes openand
then to go to bed.

I soon found myself very busy. But I had left some silk downstairs
in a work-table drawer in the temporary growleryand coming to a
stop for want of itI took my candle and went softly down to get
it. To my great surpriseon going in I found my guardian still
thereand sitting looking at the ashes. He was lost in thought
his book lay unheeded by his sidehis silvered iron-grey hair was
scattered confusedly upon his forehead as though his hand had been
wandering among it while his thoughts were elsewhereand his face
looked worn. Almost frightened by coming upon him so unexpectedly
I stood still for a moment and should have retired without speaking
had he notin again passing his hand abstractedly through his
hairseen me and started.

Esther!


I told him what I had come for.

At work so late, my dear?

I am working late to-night,said Ibecause I couldn't sleep and
wished to tire myself. But, dear guardian, you are late too, and
look weary. You have no trouble, I hope, to keep you waking?

None, little woman, that YOU would readily understand,said he.

He spoke in a regretful tone so new to me that I inwardly repeated
as if that would help me to his meaningThat I could readily
understand!

Remain a moment, Esther,said heYou were in my thoughts.

I hope I was not the trouble, guardian?

He slightly waved his hand and fell into his usual manner. The
change was so remarkableand he appeared to make it by dint of so
much self-commandthat I found myself again inwardly repeating
None that I could understand!

Little woman,said my guardianI was thinking--that is, I have
been thinking since I have been sitting here--that you ought to
know of your own history all I know. It is very little. Next to
nothing.

Dear guardian,I repliedwhen you spoke to me before on that
subject--

But since then,he gravely interposedanticipating what I meant
to sayI have reflected that your having anything to ask me, and
my having anything to tell you, are different considerations,
Esther. It is perhaps my duty to impart to you the little I know.

If you think so, guardian, it is right.

I think so,he returned very gentlyand kindlyand very
distinctly. "My dearI think so now. If any real disadvantage
can attach to your position in the mind of any man or woman worth a
thoughtit is right that you at least of all the world should not
magnify it to yourself by having vague impressions of its nature."

I sat down and said after a little effort to be as calm as I ought
to beOne of my earliest remembrances, guardian, is of these
words: 'Your mother, Esther, is your disgrace, and you were hers.
The time will come, and soon enough, when you will understand this
better, and will feel it too, as no one save a woman can.'I had
covered my face with my hands in repeating the wordsbut I took
them away now with a better kind of shameI hopeand told him
that to him I owed the blessing that I had from my childhood to
that hour nevernevernever felt it. He put up his hand as if to
stop me. I well knew that he was never to be thankedand said no
more.

Nine years, my dear,he said after thinking for a little while
have passed since I received a letter from a lady living in
seclusion, written with a stern passion and power that rendered it
unlike all other letters I have ever read. It was written to me
(as it told me in so many words), perhaps because it was the
writer's idiosyncrasy to put that trust in me, perhaps because it
was mine to justify it. It told me of a child, an orphan girl then


twelve years old, in some such cruel words as those which live in
your remembrance. It told me that the writer had bred her in
secrecy from her birth, had blotted out all trace of her existence,
and that if the writer were to die before the child became a woman,
she would be left entirely friendless, nameless, and unknown. It
asked me to consider if I would, in that case, finish what the
writer had begun.

I listened in silence and looked attentively at him.

Your early recollection, my dear, will supply the gloomy medium
through which all this was seen and expressed by the writer, and
the distorted religion which clouded her mind with impressions of
the need there was for the child to expiate an offence of which she
was quite innocent. I felt concerned for the little creature, in
her darkened life, and replied to the letter.

I took his hand and kissed it.

It laid the injunction on me that I should never propose to see
the writer, who had long been estranged from all intercourse with
the world, but who would see a confidential agent if I would
appoint one. I accredited Mr. Kenge. The lady said, of her own
accord and not of his seeking, that her name was an assumed one.
That she was, if there were any ties of blood in such a case, the
child's aunt. That more than this she would never (and he was well
persuaded of the steadfastness of her resolution) for any human
consideration disclose. My dear, I have told you all.

I held his hand for a little while in mine.

I saw my ward oftener than she saw me,he addedcheerily making
light of itand I always knew she was beloved, useful, and happy.
She repays me twenty-thousandfold, and twenty more to that, every
hour in every day!

And oftener still,said I'"she blesses the guardian who is a
father to her!"

At the word fatherI saw his former trouble come into his face.
He subdued it as beforeand it was gone in an instant; but it had
been there and it had come so swiftly upon my words that I felt as
if they had given him a shock. I again inwardly repeated
wonderingThat I could readily understand. None that I could
readily understand!Noit was true. I did not understand it.
Not for many and many a day.

Take a fatherly good night, my dear,said hekissing me on the
foreheadand so to rest. These are late hours for working and
thinking. You do that for all of us, all day long, little
housekeeper!

I neither worked nor thought any more that night. I opened my
grateful heart to heaven in thankfulness for its providence to me
and its care of meand fell asleep.

We had a visitor next day. Mr. Allan Woodcourt came. He came to
take leave of us; he had settled to do so beforehand. He was going
to China and to India as a surgeon on board ship. He was to be
away a longlong time.

I believe--at least I know--that he was not rich. All his widowed
mother could spare had been spent in qualifying him for his
profession. It was not lucrative to a young practitionerwith


very little influence in London; and although he wasnight and
dayat the service of numbers of poor people and did wonders of
gentleness and skill for themhe gained very little by it in
money. He was seven years older than I. Not that I need mention
itfor it hardly seems to belong to anything.

I think--I meanhe told us--that he had been in practice three or
four years and that if he could have hoped to contend through three
or four morehe would not have made the voyage on which he was
bound. But he had no fortune or private meansand so he was going
away. He had been to see us several times altogether. We thought
it a pity he should go away. Because he was distinguished in his
art among those who knew it bestand some of the greatest men
belonging to it had a high opinion of him.

When he came to bid us good-byehe brought his mother with him for
the first time. She was a pretty old ladywith bright black eyes
but she seemed proud. She came from Wales and had hada long time
agoan eminent person for an ancestorof the name of Morgan apKerrig--
of some place that sounded like Gimlet--who was the most
illustrious person that ever was known and all of whose relations
were a sort of royal family. He appeared to have passed his life
in always getting up into mountains and fighting somebody; and a
bard whose name sounded like Crumlinwallinwer had sung his praises
in a piece which was calledas nearly as I could catch it
Mewlinnwillinwodd.

Mrs. Woodcourtafter expatiating to us on the fame of her great
kinsmansaid that no doubt wherever her son Allan went he would
remember his pedigree and would on no account form an alliance
below it. She told him that there were many handsome English
ladies in India who went out on speculationand that there were
some to be picked up with propertybut that neither charms nor
wealth would suffice for the descendant from such a line without
birthwhich must ever be the first consideration. She talked so
much about birth that for a moment I half fanciedand with pain--
But what an idle fancy to suppose that she could think or care what
MINE was!

Mr. Woodcourt seemed a little distressed by her prolixitybut he
was too considerate to let her see it and contrived delicately to
bring the conversation round to making his acknowledgments to my
guardian for his hospitality and for the very happy hours--he
called them the very happy hours--he had passed with us. The
recollection of themhe saidwould go with him wherever he went
and would be always treasured. And so we gave him our handsone
after another--at leastthey did--and I did; and so he put his
lips to Ada's hand--and to mine; and so he went away upon his long
long voyage!

I was very busy indeed all day and wrote directions home to the
servantsand wrote notes for my guardianand dusted his books and
papersand jingled my housekeeping keys a good dealone way and
another. I was still busy between the lightssinging and working
by the windowwhen who should come in but Caddywhom I had no
expectation of seeing!

Why, Caddy, my dear,said Iwhat beautiful flowers!

She had such an exquisite little nosegay in her hand.

Indeed, I think so, Esther,replied Caddy. "They are the
loveliest I ever saw."


Prince, my dear?said I in a whisper.

No,answered Caddyshaking her head and holding them to me to
smell. "Not Prince."

Well, to be sure, Caddy!said I. "You must have two lovers!"

What? Do they look like that sort of thing?said Caddy.

Do they look like that sort of thing?I repeatedpinching her
cheek.

Caddy only laughed in returnand telling me that she had come for
half an hourat the expiration of which time Prince would be
waiting for her at the cornersat chatting with me and Ada in the
windowevery now and then handing me the flowers again or trying
how they looked against my hair. At lastwhen she was goingshe
took me into my room and put them in my dress.

For me?said Isurprised.

For you,said Caddy with a kiss. "They were left behind by
somebody."

Left behind?

At poor Miss Flite's,said Caddy. "Somebody who has been very
good to her was hurrying away an hour ago to join a ship and left
these flowers behind. Nono! Don't take them out. Let the
pretty little things lie here said Caddy, adjusting them with a
careful hand, because I was present myselfand I shouldn't wonder
if somebody left them on purpose!"

Do they look like that sort of thing?said Adacoming laughingly
behind me and clasping me merrily round the waist. "Ohyes
indeed they doDame Durden! They look veryvery like that sort
of thing. Ohvery like it indeedmy dear!"

CHAPTER XVIII

Lady Dedlock

It was not so easy as it had appeared at first to arrange for
Richard's making a trial of Mr. Kenge's office. Richard himself
was the chief impediment. As soon as he had it in his power to
leave Mr. Badger at any momenthe began to doubt whether he wanted
to leave him at all. He didn't knowhe saidreally. It wasn't a
bad profession; he couldn't assert that he disliked it; perhaps he
liked it as well as he liked any other--suppose he gave it one more
chance! Upon thathe shut himself up for a few weeks with some
books and some bones and seemed to acquire a considerable fund of
information with great rapidity. His fervourafter lasting about
a monthbegan to cooland when it was quite cooledbegan to grow
warm again. His vacillations between law and medicine lasted so
long that midsummer arrived before he finally separated from Mr.
Badger and entered on an experimental course of Messrs. Kenge and
Carboy. For all his waywardnesshe took great credit to himself
as being determined to be in earnest "this time." And he was so
good-natured throughoutand in such high spiritsand so fond of
Adathat it was very difficult indeed to be otherwise than pleased
with him.


As to Mr. Jarndyce,whoI may mentionfound the wind much
givenduring this periodto stick in the east; "As to Mr.
Jarndyce Richard would say to me, he is the finest fellow in the
worldEsther! I must be particularly carefulif it were only for
his satisfactionto take myself well to task and have a regular
wind-up of this business now."

The idea of his taking himself well to taskwith that laughing
face and heedless manner and with a fancy that everything could
catch and nothing could holdwas ludicrously anomalous. However
he told us between-whiles that he was doing it to such an extent
that he wondered his hair didn't turn grey. His regular wind-up of
the business was (as I have said) that he went to Mr. Kenge's about
midsummer to try how he liked it.

All this time he wasin money affairswhat I have described him
in a former illustration--generousprofusewildly carelessbut
fully persuaded that he was rather calculating and prudent. I
happened to say to Adain his presencehalf jestinglyhalf
seriouslyabout the time of his going to Mr. Kenge'sthat he
needed to have Fortunatus' pursehe made so light of moneywhich
he answered in this wayMy jewel of a dear cousin, you hear this
old woman! Why does she say that? Because I gave eight pounds odd
(or whatever it was) for a certain neat waistcoat and buttons a few
days ago. Now, if I had stayed at Badger's I should have been
obliged to spend twelve pounds at a blow for some heart-breaking
lecture-fees. So I make four pounds--in a lump--by the
transaction!

It was a question much discussed between him and my guardian what
arrangements should be made for his living in London while he
experimented on the lawfor we had long since gone back to Bleak
Houseand it was too far off to admit of his coming there oftener
than once a week. My guardian told me that if Richard were to
settle down at Mr. Kenge's he would take some apartments or
chambers where we too could occasionally stay for a few days at a
time; "butlittle woman he added, rubbing his head very
significantly, he hasn't settled down there yet!" The discussions
ended in our hiring for himby the montha neat little furnished
lodging in a quiet old house near Queen Square. He immediately
began to spend all the money he had in buying the oddest little
ornaments and luxuries for this lodging; and so often as Ada and I
dissuaded him from making any purchase that he had in contemplation
which was particularly unnecessary and expensivehe took credit
for what it would have cost and made out that to spend anything
less on something else was to save the difference.

While these affairs were in abeyanceour visit to Mr. Boythorn's
was postponed. At lengthRichard having taken possession of his
lodgingthere was nothing to prevent our departure. He could have
gone with us at that time of the year very wellbut he was in the
full novelty of his new position and was making most energetic
attempts to unravel the mysteries of the fatal suit. Consequently
we went without himand my darling was delighted to praise him for
being so busy.

We made a pleasant journey down into Lincolnshire by the coach and
had an entertaining companion in Mr. Skimpole. His furniture had
been all cleared offit appearedby the person who took
possession of it on his blue-eyed daughter's birthdaybut he
seemed quite relieved to think that it was gone. Chairs and table
he saidwere wearisome objects; they were monotonous ideasthey
had no variety of expressionthey looked you out of countenance


and you looked them out of countenance. How pleasantthento be
bound to no particular chairs and tablesbut to sport like a
butterfly among all the furniture on hireand to flit from
rosewood to mahoganyand from mahogany to walnutand from this
shape to thatas the humour took one!

The oddity of the thing is,said Mr. Skimpole with a quickened
sense of the ludicrousthat my chairs and tables were not paid
for, and yet my landlord walks off with them as composedly as
possible. Now, that seems droll! There is something grotesque in
it. The chair and table merchant never engaged to pay my landlord
my rent. Why should my landlord quarrel with HIM? If I have a
pimple on my nose which is disagreeable to my landlord's peculiar
ideas of beauty, my landlord has no business to scratch my chair
and table merchant's nose, which has no pimple on it. His
reasoning seems defective!

Well,said my guardian good-humouredlyit's pretty clear that
whoever became security for those chairs and tables will have to
pay for them.

Exactly!returned Mr. Skimpole. "That's the crowning point of
unreason in the business! I said to my landlord'My good manyou
are not aware that my excellent friend Jarndyce will have to pay
for those things that you are sweeping off in that indelicate
manner. Have you no consideration for HIS property?' He hadn't the
least."

And refused all proposals,said my guardian.

Refused all proposals,returned Mr. Skimpole. "I made him
business proposals. I had him into my room. I said'You are a
man of businessI believe?' He replied'I am' 'Very well'
said I'now let us be business-like. Here is an inkstandhere
are pens and paperhere are wafers. What do you want? I have
occupied your house for a considerable periodI believe to our
mutual satisfaction until this unpleasant misunderstanding arose;
let us be at once friendly and business-like. What do you want?'
In reply to thishe made use of the figurative expression--which
has something Eastern about it--that he had never seen the colour
of my money. 'My amiable friend' said I'I never have any money.
I never know anything about money.' 'Wellsir' said he'what do
you offer if I give you time?' 'My good fellow' said I'I have
no idea of time; but you say you are a man of businessand
whatever you can suggest to be done in a business-like way with
penand inkand paper--and wafers--I am ready to do. Don't pay
yourself at another man's expense (which is foolish)but be
business-like!' Howeverhe wouldn't beand there was an end of
it."

If these were some of the inconveniences of Mr. Skimpole's
childhoodit assuredly possessed its advantages too. On the
journey he had a very good appetite for such refreshment as came in
our way (including a basket of choice hothouse peaches)but never
thought of paying for anything. So when the coachman came round
for his feehe pleasantly asked him what he considered a very good
fee indeednow--a liberal one--and on his replying half a crown
for a single passengersaid it was little enough tooall things
consideredand left Mr. Jarndyce to give it him.

It was delightful weather. The green corn waved so beautifully
the larks sang so joyfullythe hedges were so full of wild
flowersthe trees were so thickly out in leafthe bean-fields
with a light wind blowing over themfilled the air with such a


delicious fragrance! Late in the afternoon we came to the market-
town where we were to alight from the coach--a dull little town
with a church-spireand a marketplaceand a market-crossand one
intensely sunny streetand a pond with an old horse cooling his
legs in itand a very few men sleepily lying and standing about in
narrow little bits of shade. After the rustling of the leaves and
the waving of the corn all along the roadit looked as stillas
hotas motionless a little town as England could produce.

At the inn we found Mr. Boythorn on horsebackwaiting with an open
carriage to take us to his housewhich was a few miles off. He
was over-joyed to see us and dismounted with great alacrity.

By heaven!said he after giving us a courteous greeting. This a
most infamous coach. It is the most flagrant example of an
abominable public vehicle that ever encumbered the face of the
earth. It is twenty-five minutes after its time this afternoon.
The coachman ought to be put to death!"

IS he after his time?said Mr. Skimpoleto whom he happened to
address himself. "You know my infirmity."

Twenty-five minutes! Twenty-six minutes!replied Mr. Boythorn
referring to his watch. "With two ladies in the coachthis
scoundrel has deliberately delayed his arrival six and twenty
minutes. Deliberately! It is impossible that it can be
accidental! But his father--and his uncle--were the most
profligate coachmen that ever sat upon a box."

While he said this in tones of the greatest indignationhe handed
us into the little phaeton with the utmost gentleness and was all
smiles and pleasure.

I am sorry, ladies,he saidstanding bare-headed at the
carriage-door when all was readythat I am obliged to conduct you
nearly two miles out of the way. But our direct road lies through
Sir Leicester Dedlock's park, and in that fellow's property I have
sworn never to set foot of mine, or horse's foot of mine, pending
the present relations between us, while I breathe the breath of
life!And herecatching my guardian's eyehe broke into one of
his tremendous laughswhich seemed to shake even the motionless
little market-town.

Are the Dedlocks down here, Lawrence?said my guardian as we
drove along and Mr. Boythorn trotted on the green turf by the
roadside.

Sir Arrogant Numskull is here,replied Mr. Boythorn. "Ha ha ha!
Sir Arrogant is hereand I am glad to sayhas been laid by the
heels here. My Lady in naming whom he always made a courtly
gesture as if particularly to exclude her from any part in the
quarrel, is expectedI believedaily. I am not in the least
surprised that she postpones her appearance as long as possible.
Whatever can have induced that transcendent woman to marry that
effigy and figure-head of a baronet is one of the most impenetrable
mysteries that ever baffled human inquiry. Ha ha ha ha!"

I suppose, said my guardian, laughing, WE may set foot in the
park while we are here? The prohibition does not extend to us
does it?"

I can lay no prohibition on my guests,he saidbending his head
to Ada and me with the smiling politeness which sat so gracefully
upon himexcept in the matter of their departure. I am only


sorry that I cannot have the happiness of being their escort about
Chesney Wold, which is a very fine place! But by the light of this
summer day, Jarndyce, if you call upon the owner while you stay
with me, you are likely to have but a cool reception. He carries
himself like an eight-day clock at all times, like one of a race of
eight-day clocks in gorgeous cases that never go and never went--Ha
ha ha!--but he will have some extra stiffness, I can promise you,
for the friends of his friend and neighbour Boythorn!

I shall not put him to the proof,said my guardian. "He is as
indifferent to the honour of knowing meI dare sayas I am to the
honour of knowing him. The air of the grounds and perhaps such a
view of the house as any other sightseer might get are quite enough
for me."

Well!said Mr. Boythorn. "I am glad of it on the whole. It's in
better keeping. I am looked upon about here as a second Ajax
defying the lightning. Ha ha ha ha! When I go into our little
church on a Sundaya considerable part of the inconsiderable
congregation expect to see me dropscorched and witheredon the
pavement under the Dedlock displeasure. Ha ha ha ha! I have no
doubt he is surprised that I don't. For he isby heaventhe most
self-satisfiedand the shallowestand the most coxcombical and
utterly brainless ass!"

Our coming to the ridge of a hill we had been ascending enabled our
friend to point out Chesney Wold itself to us and diverted his
attention from its master.

It was a picturesque old house in a fine park richly wooded. Among
the trees and not far from the residence he pointed out the spire
of the little church of which he had spoken. Ohthe solemn woods
over which the light and shadow travelled swiftlyas if heavenly
wings were sweeping on benignant errands through the summer air;
the smooth green slopesthe glittering waterthe garden where the
flowers were so symmetrically arranged in clusters of the richest
colourshow beautiful they looked! The housewith gable and
chimneyand towerand turretand dark doorwayand broad
terrace-walktwining among the balustrades of whichand lying
heaped upon the vasesthere was one great flush of rosesseemed
scarcely real in its light solidity and in the serene and peaceful
hush that rested on all around it. To Ada and to methat above
all appeared the pervading influence. On everythinghouse
gardenterracegreen slopeswaterold oaksfernmosswoods
againand far away across the openings in the prospect to the
distance lying wide before us with a purple bloom upon itthere
seemed to be such undisturbed repose.

When we came into the little village and passed a small inn with
the sign of the Dedlock Arms swinging over the road in frontMr.
Boythorn interchanged greetings with a young gentleman sitting on a
bench outside the inn-door who had some fishing-tackle lying beside
him.

That's the housekeeper's grandson, Mr. Rouncewell by name,said
heand he is in love with a pretty girl up at the house. Lady
Dedlock has taken a fancy to the pretty girl and is going to keep
her about her own fair person--an honour which my young friend
himself does not at all appreciate. However, he can't marry just
yet, even if his Rosebud were willing; so he is fain to make the
best of it. In the meanwhile, he comes here pretty often for a day
or two at a time to--fish. Ha ha ha ha!

Are he and the pretty girl engaged, Mr. Boythorn?asked Ada.


Why, my dear Miss Clare,he returnedI think they may perhaps
understand each other; but you will see them soon, I dare say, and
I must learn from you on such a point--not you from me.

Ada blushedand Mr. Boythorntrotting forward on his comely grey
horsedismounted at his own door and stood ready with extended arm
and uncovered head to welcome us when we arrived.

He lived in a pretty houseformerly the parsonage housewith a
lawn in fronta bright flower-garden at the sideand a well-
stocked orchard and kitchen-garden in the rearenclosed with a
venerable wall that had of itself a ripened ruddy look. But
indeedeverything about the place wore an aspect of maturity and
abundance. The old lime-tree walk was like green cloistersthe
very shadows of the cherry-trees and apple-trees were heavy with
fruitthe gooseberry-bushes were so laden that their branches
arched and rested on the earththe strawberries and raspberries
grew in like profusionand the peaches basked by the hundred on
the wall. Tumbled about among the spread nets and the glass frames
sparkling and winking in the sun there were such heaps of drooping
podsand marrowsand cucumbersthat every foot of ground
appeared a vegetable treasurywhile the smell of sweet herbs and
all kinds of wholesome growth (to say nothing of the neighbouring
meadows where the hay was carrying) made the whole air a great
nosegay. Such stillness and composure reigned within the orderly
precincts of the old red wall that even the feathers hung in
garlands to scare the birds hardly stirred; and the wall had such a
ripening influence that wherehere and there high upa disused
nail and scrap of list still clung to itit was easy to fancy that
they had mellowed with the changing seasons and that they had
rusted and decayed according to the common fate.

The housethough a little disorderly in comparison with the
gardenwas a real old house with settles in the chimney of the
brick-floored kitchen and great beams across the ceilings. On one
side of it was the terrible piece of ground in disputewhere Mr.
Boythorn maintained a sentry in a smock-frock day and nightwhose
duty was supposed to bein cases of aggressionimmediately to
ring a large bell hung up there for the purposeto unchain a great
bull-dog established in a kennel as his allyand generally to deal
destruction on the enemy. Not content with these precautionsMr.
Boythorn had himself composed and posted thereon painted boards
to which his name was attached in large lettersthe following
solemn warnings: "Beware of the bull-dog. He is most ferocious.
Lawrence Boythorn." "The blunderbus is loaded with slugs.
Lawrence Boythorn." "Man-traps and spring-guns are set here at all
times of the day and night. Lawrence Boythorn." "Take notice.
That any person or persons audaciously presuming to trespass on
this property will be punished with the utmost severity of private
chastisement and prosecuted with the utmost rigour of the law.
Lawrence Boythorn." These he showed us from the drawing-room
windowwhile his bird was hopping about his headand he laughed
Ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha!to that extent as he pointed them out
that I really thought he would have hurt himself.

But this is taking a good deal of trouble,said Mr. Skimpole in
his light waywhen you are not in earnest after all.

Not in earnest!returned Mr. Boythorn with unspeakable warmth.
Not in earnest! If I could have hoped to train him, I would have
bought a lion instead of that dog and would have turned him loose
upon the first intolerable robber who should dare to make an
encroachment on my rights. Let Sir Leicester Dedlock consent to


come out and decide this question by single combat, and I will meet
him with any weapon known to mankind in any age or country. I am
that much in earnest. Not more!

We arrived at his house on a Saturday. On the Sunday morning we
all set forth to walk to the little church in the park. Entering
the parkalmost immediately by the disputed groundwe pursued a
pleasant footpath winding among the verdant turf and the beautiful
trees until it brought us to the church-porch.

The congregation was extremely small and quite a rustic one with
the exception of a large muster of servants from the housesome of
whom were already in their seatswhile others were yet dropping
in. There were some stately footmenand there was a perfect
picture of an old coachmanwho looked as if he were the official
representative of all the pomps and vanities that had ever been put
into his coach. There was a very pretty show of young womenand
above themthe handsome old face and fine responsible portly
figure of the housekeeper towered pre-eminent. The pretty girl of
whom Mr. Boythorn had told us was close by her. She was so very
pretty that I might have known her by her beauty even if I had not
seen how blushingly conscious she was of the eyes of the young
fishermanwhom I discovered not far off. One faceand not an
agreeable onethough it was handsomeseemed maliciously watchful
of this pretty girland indeed of every one and everything there.
It was a Frenchwoman's.

As the bell was yet ringing and the great people were not yet come
I had leisure to glance over the churchwhich smelt as earthy as a
graveand to think what a shadyancientsolemn little church it
was. The windowsheavily shaded by treesadmitted a subdued
light that made the faces around me paleand darkened the old
brasses in the pavement and the time and damp-worn monumentsand
rendered the sunshine in the little porchwhere a monotonous
ringer was working at the bellinestimably bright. But a stir in
that directiona gathering of reverential awe in the rustic faces
and a blandly ferocious assumption on the part of Mr. Boythorn of
being resolutely unconscious of somebody's existence forewarned me
that the great people were come and that the service was going to
begin.

'Enter not into judgment with thy servant, O Lord, for in thy
sight--'

Shall I ever forget the rapid beating at my heartoccasioned by
the look I met as I stood up! Shall I ever forget the manner in
which those handsome proud eyes seemed to spring out of their
languor and to hold mine! It was only a moment before I cast mine
down--released againif I may say so--on my book; but I knew the
beautiful face quite well in that short space of time.

Andvery strangelythere was something quickened within me
associated with the lonely days at my godmother's; yesaway even
to the days when I had stood on tiptoe to dress myself at my little
glass after dressing my doll. And thisalthough I had never seen
this lady's face before in all my life--I was quite sure of it-absolutely
certain.

It was easy to know that the ceremoniousgoutygrey-haired
gentlemanthe only other occupant of the great pewwas Sir
Leicester Dedlockand that the lady was Lady Dedlock. But why her
face should bein a confused waylike a broken glass to mein
which I saw scraps of old remembrancesand why I should be so
fluttered and troubled (for I was still) by having casually met her


eyesI could not think.

I felt it to be an unmeaning weakness in me and tried to overcome
it by attending to the words I heard. Thenvery strangelyI
seemed to hear themnot in the reader's voicebut in the well-
remembered voice of my godmother. This made me thinkdid Lady
Dedlock's face accidentally resemble my godmother's? It might be
that it dida little; but the expression was so differentand the
stern decision which had worn into my godmother's facelike
weather into rockswas so completely wanting in the face before me
that it could not be that resemblance which had struck me. Neither
did I know the loftiness and haughtiness of Lady Dedlock's faceat
allin any one. And yet I--Ilittle Esther Summersonthe child
who lived a life apart and on whose birthday there was no
rejoicing--seemed to arise before my own eyesevoked out of the
past by some power in this fashionable ladywhom I not only
entertained no fancy that I had ever seenbut whom I perfectly
well knew I had never seen until that hour.

It made me tremble so to be thrown into this unaccountable
agitation that I was conscious of being distressed even by the
observation of the French maidthough I knew she had been looking
watchfully hereand thereand everywherefrom the moment of her
coming into the church. By degreesthough very slowlyI at last
overcame my strange emotion. After a long timeI looked towards
Lady Dedlock again. It was while they were preparing to sing
before the sermon. She took no heed of meand the beating at my
heart was gone. Neither did it revive for more than a few moments
when she once or twice afterwards glanced at Ada or at me through
her glass.

The service being concludedSir Leicester gave his arm with much
taste and gallantry to Lady Dedlock--though he was obliged to walk
by the help of a thick stick--and escorted her out of church to the
pony carriage in which they had come. The servants then dispersed
and so did the congregationwhom Sir Leicester had contemplated
all along (Mr. Skimpole said to Mr. Boythorn's infinite delight) as
if he were a considerable landed proprietor in heaven.

He believes he is!said Mr. Boythorn. "He firmly believes it.
So did his fatherand his grandfatherand his great-grandfather!"

Do you know,pursued Mr. Skimpole very unexpectedly to Mr.
Boythornit's agreeable to me to see a man of that sort.

IS it!said Mr. Boytborn.

Say that he wants to patronize me,pursued Mr. Skimpole. "Very
well! I don't object."

I do,said Mr. Boythorn with great vigour.

Do you really?returned Mr. Skimpole in his easy light vein.
But that's taking trouble, surely. And why should you take
trouble? Here am I, content to receive things childishly as they
fall out, and I never take trouble! I come down here, for
instance, and I find a mighty potentate exacting homage. Very
well! I say 'Mighty potentate, here IS my homage! It's easier to
give it than to withhold it. Here it is. If you have anything of
an agreeable nature to show me, I shall be happy to see it; if you
have anything of an agreeable nature to give me, I shall be happy
to accept it.' Mighty potentate replies in effect, 'This is a
sensible fellow. I find him accord with my digestion and my
bilious system. He doesn't impose upon me the necessity of rolling


myself up like a hedgehog with my points outward. I expand, I
open, I turn my silver lining outward like Milton's cloud, and it's
more agreeable to both of us.' That's my view of such things,
speaking as a child!

But suppose you went down somewhere else to-morrow,said Mr.
Boythornwhere there was the opposite of that fellow--or of this
fellow. How then?

How then?said Mr. Skimpole with an appearance of the utmost
simplicity and candour. "Just the same then! I should say'My
esteemed Boythorn'--to make you the personification of our
imaginary friend--'my esteemed Boythornyou object to the mighty
potentate? Very good. So do I. I take it that my business in the
social system is to be agreeable; I take it that everybody's
business in the social system is to be agreeable. It's a system of
harmonyin short. Therefore if you objectI object. Now
excellent Boythornlet us go to dinner!'"

But excellent Boythorn might say,returned our hostswelling and
growing very redI'll be--

I understand,said Mr. Skimpole. "Very likely he would."

--if I WILL go to dinner!cried Mr. Boythorn in a violent burst
and stopping to strike his stick upon the ground. "And he would
probably add'Is there such a thing as principleMr. Harold
Skimpole?'"

To which Harold Skimpole would reply, you know,he returned in
his gayest manner and with his most ingenuous smile'Upon my life
I have not the least idea! I don't know what it is you call by
that name, or where it is, or who possesses it. If you possess it
and find it comfortable, I am quite delighted and congratulate you
heartily. But I know nothing about it, I assure you; for I am a
mere child, and I lay no claim to it, and I don't want it!' So,
you see, excellent Boythorn and I would go to dinner after all!

This was one of many little dialogues between them which I always
expected to endand which I dare say would have ended under other
circumstancesin some violent explosion on the part of our host.
But he had so high a sense of his hospitable and responsible
position as our entertainerand my guardian laughed so sincerely
at and with Mr. Skimpoleas a child who blew bubbles and broke
them all day longthat matters never went beyond this point. Mr.
Skimpolewho always seemed quite unconscious of having been on
delicate groundthen betook himself to beginning some sketch in
the park which be never finishedor to playing fragments of airs
on the pianoor to singing scraps of songsor to lying down on
his back under a tree and looking at the sky--which he couldn't
help thinkinghe saidwas what he was meant for; it suited him so
exactly.

Enterprise and effort,he would say to us (on his back)are
delightful to me. I believe I am truly cosmopolitan. I have the
deepest sympathy with them. I lie in a shady place like this and
think of adventurous spirits going to the North Pole or penetrating
to the heart of the Torrid Zone with admiration. Mercenary
creatures ask'What is the use of a man's going to the North Pole?
What good does it do?' I can't say; butfor anything I CAN say
he may go for the purpose--though he don't know it--of employing my
thoughts as I lie here. Take an extreme case. Take the case of
the slaves on American plantations. I dare say they are worked
hardI dare say they don't altogether like it. I dare say theirs


is an unpleasant experience on the whole; but they people the
landscape for methey give it a poetry for meand perhaps that is
one of the pleasanter objects of their existence. I am very
sensible of itif it beand I shouldn't wonder if it were!"

I always wondered on these occasions whether he ever thought of
Mrs. Skimpole and the childrenand in what point of view they
presented themselves to his cosmopolitan mind. So far as I could
understandthey rarely presented themselves at all.

The week had gone round to the Saturday following that beating of
my heart in the church; and every day had been so bright and blue
that to ramble in the woodsand to see the light striking down
among the transparent leaves and sparkling in the beautiful
interlacings of the shadows of the treeswhile the birds poured
out their songs and the air was drowsy with the hum of insectshad
been most delightful. We had one favourite spotdeep in moss and
last year's leaveswhere there were some felled trees from which
the bark was all stripped off. Seated among thesewe looked
through a green vista supported by thousands of natural columns
the whitened stems of treesupon a distant prospect made so
radiant by its contrast with the shade in which we sat and made so
precious by the arched perspective through which we saw it that it
was like a glimpse of the better land. Upon the Saturday we sat
hereMr. JarndyceAdaand Iuntil we heard thunder muttering in
the distance and felt the large raindrops rattle through the
leaves.

The weather had been all the week extremely sultrybut the storm
broke so suddenly--upon usat leastin that sheltered spot--that
before we reached the outskirts of the wood the thunder and
lightning were frequent and the rain came plunging through the
leaves as if every drop were a great leaden bead. As it was not a
time for standing among treeswe ran out of the woodand up and
down the moss-grown steps which crossed the plantation-fence like
two broad-staved ladders placed back to backand made for a
keeper's lodge which was close at hand. We had often noticed the
dark beauty of this lodge standing in a deep twilight of treesand
how the ivy clustered over itand how there was a steep hollow
nearwhere we had once seen the keeper's dog dive down into the
fern as if it were water.

The lodge was so dark withinnow the sky was overcastthat we
only clearly saw the man who came to the door when we took shelter
there and put two chairs for Ada and me. The lattice-windows were
all thrown openand we sat just within the doorway watching the
storm. It was grand to see how the wind awokeand bent the trees
and drove the rain before it like a cloud of smoke; and to hear the
solemn thunder and to see the lightning; and while thinking with
awe of the tremendous powers by which our little lives are
encompassedto consider how beneficent they are and how upon the
smallest flower and leaf there was already a freshness poured from
all this seeming rage which seemed to make creation new again.

Is it not dangerous to sit in so exposed a place?

Oh, no, Esther dear!said Ada quietly.

Ada said it to mebut I had not spoken.

The beating of my heart came back again. I had never heard the
voiceas I had never seen the facebut it affected me in the same
strange way. Againin a momentthere arose before my mind
innumerable pictures of myself.


Lady Dedlock had taken shelter in the lodge before our arrival
there and had come out of the gloom within. She stood behind my
chair with her hand upon it. I saw her with her hand close to my
shoulder when I turned my head.

I have frightened you?she said.

No. It was not fright. Why should I be frightened!

I believe,said Lady Dedlock to my guardianI have the pleasure
of speaking to Mr. Jarndyce.

Your remembrance does me more honour than I had supposed it would,
Lady Dedlock,he returned.

I recognized you in church on Sunday. I am sorry that any local
disputes of Sir Leicester's--they are not of his seeking, however,
I believe--should render it a matter of some absurd difficulty to
show you any attention here.

I am aware of the circumstances,returned my guardian with a
smileand am sufficiently obliged.

She had given him her hand in an indifferent way that seemed
habitual to her and spoke in a correspondingly indifferent manner
though in a very pleasant voice. She was as graceful as she was
beautifulperfectly self-possessedand had the airI thoughtof
being able to attract and interest any one if she had thought it
worth her while. The keeper had brought her a chair on which she
sat in the middle of the porch between us.

Is the young gentleman disposed of whom you wrote to Sir Leicester
about and whose wishes Sir Leicester was sorry not to have it in
his power to advance in any way?she said over her shoulder to my
guardian.

I hope so,said he.

She seemed to respect him and even to wish to conciliate him.
There was something very winning in her haughty mannerand it
became more familiar--I was going to say more easybut that could
hardly be--as she spoke to him over her shoulder.

I presume this is your other ward, Miss Clare?

He presented Adain form.

You will lose the disinterested part of your Don Quixote
character,said Lady Dedlock to Mr. Jarndyce over her shoulder
againif you only redress the wrongs of beauty like this. But
present me,and she turned full upon meto this young lady too!

Miss Summerson really is my ward,said Mr. Jarndyce. "I am
responsible to no Lord Chancellor in her case."

Has Miss Summerson lost both her parents?said my Lady.

Yes.

She is very fortunate in her guardian.

Lady Dedlock looked at meand I looked at her and said I was
indeed. All at once she turned from me with a hasty airalmost


expressive of displeasure or dislikeand spoke to him over her
shoulder again.

Ages have passed since we were in the habit of meeting, Mr.
Jarndyce.

A long time. At least I thought it was a long time, until I saw
you last Sunday,he returned.

What! Even you are a courtier, or think it necessary to become
one to me!she said with some disdain. "I have achieved that
reputationI suppose."

You have achieved so much, Lady Dedlock,said my guardianthat
you pay some little penalty, I dare say. But none to me.

So much!she repeatedslightly laughing. "Yes!"

With her air of superiorityand powerand fascinationand I know
not whatshe seemed to regard Ada and me as little more than
children. Soas she slightly laughed and afterwards sat looking
at the rainshe was as self-possessed and as free to occupy
herself with her own thoughts as if she had been alone.

I think you knew my sister when we were abroad together better
than you know me?she saidlooking at him again.

Yes, we happened to meet oftener,he returned.

We went our several ways,said Lady Dedlockand had little in
common even before we agreed to differ. It is to be regretted, I
suppose, but it could not be helped.

Lady Dedlock again sat looking at the rain. The storm soon began
to pass upon its way. The shower greatly abatedthe lightning
ceasedthe thunder rolled among the distant hillsand the sun
began to glisten on the wet leaves and the falling rain. As we sat
theresilentlywe saw a little pony phaeton coming towards us at
a merry pace.

The messenger is coming back, my Lady,said the keeperwith the
carriage.

As it drove upwe saw that there were two people inside. There
alighted from itwith some cloaks and wrappersfirst the
Frenchwoman whom I had seen in churchand secondly the pretty
girlthe Frenchwoman with a defiant confidencethe pretty girl
confused and hesitating.

What now?said Lady Dedlock. "Two!"

I am your maid, my Lady, at the present,said the Frenchwoman.
The message was for the attendant.

I was afraid you might mean me, my Lady,said the pretty girl.

I did mean you, child,replied her mistress calmly. "Put that
shawl on me."

She slightly stooped her shoulders to receive itand the pretty
girl lightly dropped it in its place. The Frenchwoman stood
unnoticedlooking on with her lips very tightly set.

I am sorry,said Lady Dedlock to Mr. Jarndycethat we are not


likely to renew our former acquaintance. You will allow me to send
the carriage back for your two wards. It shall be here directly.

But as he would on no account accept this offershe took a
graceful leave of Ada--none of me--and put her hand upon his
proffered armand got into the carriagewhich was a littlelow
park carriage with a hood.

Come in, child,she said to the pretty girl; "I shall want you.
Go on!"

The carriage rolled awayand the Frenchwomanwith the wrappers
she had brought hanging over her armremained standing where she
had alighted.

I suppose there is nothing pride can so little bear with as pride
itselfand that she was punished for her imperious manner. Her
retaliation was the most singular I could have imagined. She
remained perfectly still until the carriage had turned into the
driveand thenwithout the least discomposure of countenance
slipped off her shoesleft them on the groundand walked
deliberately in the same direction through the wettest of the wet
grass.

Is that young woman mad?said my guardian.

Oh, no, sir!said the keeperwhowith his wifewas looking
after her. "Hortense is not one of that sort. She has as good a
head-piece as the best. But she's mortal high and passionate-powerful
high and passionate; and what with having notice to leave
and having others put above hershe don't take kindly to it."

But why should she walk shoeless through all that water?said my
guardian.

Why, indeed, sir, unless it is to cool her down!said the man.

Or unless she fancies it's blood,said the woman. "She'd as soon
walk through that as anything elseI thinkwhen her own's up!"

We passed not far from the house a few minutes afterwards.
Peaceful as it had looked when we first saw itit looked even more
so nowwith a diamond spray glittering all about ita light wind
blowingthe birds no longer hushed but singing strongly
everything refreshed by the late rainand the little carriage
shining at the doorway like a fairy carriage made of silver.
Stillvery steadfastly and quietly walking towards ita peaceful
figure too in the landscapewent Mademoiselle Hortenseshoeless
through the wet grass.

CHAPTER XIX

Moving On

It is the long vacation in the regions of Chancery Lane. The good
ships Law and Equitythose teak-builtcopper-bottomediron-
fastenedbrazen-facedand not by any means fast-sailing clippers
are laid up in ordinary. The Flying Dutchmanwith a crew of
ghostly clients imploring all whom they may encounter to peruse
their papershas driftedfor the time beingheaven knows where.
The courts are all shut up; the public offices lie in a hot sleep.


Westminster Hall itself is a shady solitude where nightingales
might singand a tenderer class of suitors than is usually found
therewalk.

The TempleChancery LaneSerjeants' Innand Lincoln's Inn even
unto the Fields are like tidal harbours at low waterwhere
stranded proceedingsoffices at anchoridle clerks lounging on
lop-sided stools that will not recover their perpendicular until
the current of Term sets inlie high and dry upon the ooze of the
long vacation. Outer doors of chambers are shut up by the score
messages and parcels are to be left at the Porter's Lodge by the
bushel. A crop of grass would grow in the chinks of the stone
pavement outside Lincoln's Inn Hallbut that the ticket-porters
who have nothing to do beyond sitting in the shade therewith
their white aprons over their heads to keep the flies offgrub it
up and eat it thoughtfully.

There is only one judge in town. Even he only comes twice a week
to sit in chambers. If the country folks of those assize towns on
his circuit could see him now! No full-bottomed wigno red
petticoatsno furno javelin-menno white wands. Merely a
close-shaved gentleman in white trousers and a white hatwith sea-
bronze on the judicial countenanceand a strip of bark peeled by
the solar rays from the judicial nosewho calls in at the shellfish
shop as he comes along and drinks iced ginger-beer!

The bar of England is scattered over the face of the earth. How
England can get on through four long summer months without its bar
--which is its acknowledged refuge in adversity and its only
legitimate triumph in prosperity--is beside the question; assuredly
that shield and buckler of Britannia are not in present wear. The
learned gentleman who is always so tremendously indignant at the
unprecedented outrage committed on the feelings of his client by
the opposite party that he never seems likely to recover it is
doing infinitely better than might be expected in Switzerland. The
learned gentleman who does the withering business and who blights
all opponents with his gloomy sarcasm is as merry as a grig at a
French watering-place. The learned gentleman who weeps by the pint
on the smallest provocation has not shed a tear these six weeks.
The very learned gentleman who has cooled the natural heat of his
gingery complexion in pools and fountains of law until he has
become great in knotty arguments for term-timewhen he poses the
drowsy bench with legal "chaff inexplicable to the uninitiated
and to most of the initiated too, is roaming, with a characteristic
delight in aridity and dust, about Constantinople. Other dispersed
fragments of the same great palladium are to be found on the canals
of Venice, at the second cataract of the Nile, in the baths of
Germany, and sprinkled on the sea-sand all over the English coast.
Scarcely one is to be encountered in the deserted region of
Chancery Lane. If such a lonely member of the bar do flit across
the waste and come upon a prowling suitor who is unable to leave
off haunting the scenes of his anxiety, they frighten one another
and retreat into opposite shades.

It is the hottest long vacation known for many years. All the
young clerks are madly in love, and according to their various
degrees, pine for bliss with the beloved object, at Margate,
Ramsgate, or Gravesend. All the middle-aged clerks think their
families too large. All the unowned dogs who stray into the Inns
of Court and pant about staircases and other dry places seeking
water give short howls of aggravation. All the blind men's dogs in
the streets draw their masters against pumps or trip them over
buckets. A shop with a sun-blind, and a watered pavement, and a
bowl of gold and silver fish in the window, is a sanctuary. Temple


Bar gets so hot that it is, to the adjacent Strand and Fleet
Street, what a heater is in an urn, and keeps them simmering all
night.

There are offices about the Inns of Court in which a man might be
cool, if any coolness were worth purchasing at such a price in
dullness; but the little thoroughfares immediately outside those
retirements seem to blaze. In Mr. Krook's court, it is so hot that
the people turn their houses inside out and sit in chairs upon the
pavement--Mr. Krook included, who there pursues his studies, with
his cat (who never is too hot) by his side. The Sol's Arms has
discontinued the Harmonic Meetings for the season, and Little
Swills is engaged at the Pastoral Gardens down the river, where he
comes out in quite an innocent manner and sings comic ditties of a
juvenile complexion calculated (as the bill says) not to wound the
feelings of the most fastidious mind.

Over all the legal neighbourhood there hangs, like some great veil
of rust or gigantic cobweb, the idleness and pensiveness of the
long vacation. Mr. Snagsby, law-stationer of Cook's Court,
Cursitor Street, is sensible of the influence not only in his mind
as a sympathetic and contemplative man, but also in his business as
a law-stationer aforesaid. He has more leisure for musing in
Staple Inn and in the Rolls Yard during the long vacation than at
other seasons, and he says to the two 'prentices, what a thing it
is in such hot weather to think that you live in an island with the
sea a-rolling and a-bowling right round you.

Guster is busy in the little drawing-room on this present afternoon
in the long vacation, when Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby have it in
contemplation to receive company. The expected guests are rather
select than numerous, being Mr. and Mrs. Chadband and no more.
From Mr. Chadband's being much given to describe himself, both
verbally and in writing, as a vessel, he is occasionally mistaken
by strangers for a gentleman connected with navigation, but he is,
as he expresses it, in the ministry." Mr. Chadband is attached to
no particular denomination and is considered by his persecutors to
have nothing so very remarkable to say on the greatest of subjects
as to render his volunteeringon his own accountat all incumbent
on his conscience; but he has his followersand Mrs. Snagsby is of
the number. Mrs. Snagsby has but recently taken a passage upward
by the vesselChadband; and her attention was attracted to that
Bark A 1 when she was something flushed by the hot weather.

My little woman,says Mr. Snagsby to the sparrows in Staple Inn
likes to have her religion rather sharp, you see!

So Gustermuch impressed by regarding herself for the time as the
handmaid of Chadbandwhom she knows to be endowed with the gift of
holding forth for four hours at a stretchprepares the little
drawing-room for tea. All the furniture is shaken and dustedthe
portraits of Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby are touched up with a wet cloth
the best tea-service is set forthand there is excellent provision
made of dainty new breadcrusty twistscool fresh butterthin
slices of hamtongueand German sausageand delicate little rows
of anchovies nestling in parsleynot to mention new-laid eggsto
be brought up warm in a napkinand hot buttered toast. For
Chadband is rather a consuming vessel--the persecutors say a
gorging vessel--and can wield such weapons of the flesh as a knife
and fork remarkably well.

Mr. Snagsby in his best coatlooking at all the preparations when
they are completed and coughing his cough of deference behind his
handsays to Mrs. SnagsbyAt what time did you expect Mr. and


Mrs. Chadband, my love?

At six,says Mrs. Snagsby.

Mr. Snagsby observes in a mild and casual way that "it's gone
that."

Perhaps you'd like to begin without them,is Mrs. Snagsby's
reproachful remark.

Mr. Snagsby does look as if he would like it very muchbut he
sayswith his cough of mildnessNo, my dear, no. I merely named
the time.

What's time,says Mrs. Snagsbyto eternity?

Very true, my dear,says Mr. Snagsby. "Only when a person lays
in victuals for teaa person does it with a view--perhaps--more to
time. And when a time is named for having teait's better to come
up to it."

To come up to it!Mrs. Snagsby repeats with severity. "Up to it!
As if Mr. Chadband was a fighter!"

Not at all, my dear,says Mr. Snagsby.

HereGusterwho had been looking out of the bedroom windowcomes
rustling and scratching down the little staircase like a popular
ghostand falling flushed into the drawing-roomannounces that
Mr. and Mrs. Chadband have appeared in the court. The bell at the
inner door in the passage immediately thereafter tinklingshe is
admonished by Mrs. Snagsbyon pain of instant reconsignment to her
patron saintnot to omit the ceremony of announcement. Much
discomposed in her nerves (which were previously in the best order)
by this threatshe so fearfully mutilates that point of state as
to announce "Mr. and Mrs. Cheesemingleast whichImeantersay
whatsername!" and retires conscience-stricken from the presence.

Mr. Chadband is a large yellow man with a fat smile and a general
appearance of having a good deal of train oil in his system. Mrs.
Chadband is a sternsevere-lookingsilent woman. Mr. Chadband
moves softly and cumbrouslynot unlike a bear who has been taught
to walk upright. He is very much embarrassed about the armsas if
they were inconvenient to him and he wanted to grovelis very much
in a perspiration about the headand never speaks without first
putting up his great handas delivering a token to his hearers
that he is going to edify them.

My friends,says Mr. Chadbandpeace be on this house! On the
master thereof, on the mistress thereof, on the young maidens, and
on the young men! My friends, why do I wish for peace? What is
peace? Is it war? No. Is it strife? No. Is it lovely, and
gentle, and beautiful, and pleasant, and serene, and joyful? Oh,
yes! Therefore, my friends, I wish for peace, upon you and upon
yours.

In consequence of Mrs. Snagsby looking deeply edifiedMr. Snagsby
thinks it expedient on the whole to say amenwhich is well
received.

Now, my friends,proceeds Mr. Chadbandsince I am upon this
theme--

Guster presents herself. Mrs. Snagsbyin a spectral bass voice


and without removing her eyes from Chadbandsays with dreadful
distinctnessGo away!

Now, my friends,says Chadbandsince I am upon this theme, and
in my lowly path improving it--

Guster is heard unaccountably to murmur "one thousing seven hundred
and eighty-two." The spectral voice repeats more solemnlyGo
away!

Now, my friends,says Mr. Chadbandwe will inquire in a spirit
of love--

Still Guster reiterates "one thousing seven hundred and eighty-
two."

Mr. Chadbandpausing with the resignation of a man accustomed to
be persecuted and languidly folding up his chin into his fat smile
saysLet us hear the maiden! Speak, maiden!

One thousing seven hundred and eighty-two, if you please, sir.
Which he wish to know what the shilling ware for,says Guster
breathless.

For?returns Mrs. Chadband. "For his fare!"

Guster replied that "he insistes on one and eightpence or on
summonsizzing the party." Mrs. Snagsby and Mrs. Chadband are
proceeding to grow shrill in indignation when Mr. Chadband quiets
the tumult by lifting up his hand.

My friends,says heI remember a duty unfulfilled yesterday.
It is right that I should be chastened in some penalty. I ought
not to murmur. Rachael, pay the eightpence!

While Mrs. Snagsbydrawing her breathlooks hard at Mr. Snagsby
as who should sayYou hear this apostle!and while Mr. Chadband
glows with humility and train oilMrs. Chadband pays the money.
It is Mr. Chadband's habit--it is the head and front of his
pretensions indeed--to keep this sort of debtor and creditor
account in the smallest items and to post it publicly on the most
trivial occasions.

My friends,says Chadbandeightpence is not much; it might
justly have been one and fourpence; it might justly have been half
a crown. O let us be joyful, joyful! O let us be joyful!

With which remarkwhich appears from its sound to be an extract in
verseMr. Chadband stalks to the tableand before taking a chair
lifts up his admonitory hand.

My friends,says hewhat is this which we now behold as being
spread before us? Refreshment. Do we need refreshment then, my
friends? We do. And why do we need refreshment, my friends?
Because we are but mortal, because we are but sinful, because we
are but of the earth, because we are not of the air. Can we fly,
my friends? We cannot. Why can we not fly, my friends?

Mr. Snagsbypresuming on the success of his last pointventures
to observe in a cheerful and rather knowing toneNo wings.But
is immediately frowned down by Mrs. Snagsby.

I say, my friends,pursues Mr. Chadbandutterly rejecting and
obliterating Mr. Snagsby's suggestionwhy can we not fly? Is it


because we are calculated to walk? It is. Could we walk, my
friends, without strength? We could not. What should we do
without strength, my friends? Our legs would refuse to bear us,
our knees would double up, our ankles would turn over, and we
should come to the ground. Then from whence, my friends, in a
human point of view, do we derive the strength that is necessary to
our limbs? Is it,says Chadbandglancing over the tablefrom
bread in various forms, from butter which is churned from the milk
which is yielded unto us by the cow, from the eggs which are laid
by the fowl, from ham, from tongue, from sausage, and from such
like? It is. Then let us partake of the good things which are set
before us!

The persecutors denied that there was any particular gift in Mr.
Chadband's piling verbose flights of stairsone upon another
after this fashion. But this can only be received as a proof of
their determination to persecutesince it must be within
everybody's experience that the Chadband style of oratory is widely
received and much admired.

Mr. Chadbandhoweverhaving concluded for the presentsits down
at Mr. Snagsby's table and lays about him prodigiously. The
conversion of nutriment of any sort into oil of the quality already
mentioned appears to be a process so inseparable from the
constitution of this exemplary vessel that in beginning to eat and
drinkhe may be described as always becoming a kind of
considerable oil mills or other large factory for the production of
that article on a wholesale scale. On the present evening of the
long vacationin Cook's CourtCursitor Streethe does such a
powerful stroke of business that the warehouse appears to be quite
full when the works cease.

At this period of the entertainmentGusterwho has never
recovered her first failurebut has neglected no possible or
impossible means of bringing the establishment and herself into
contempt--among which may be briefly enumerated her unexpectedly
performing clashing military music on Mr. Chadband's head with
platesand afterwards crowning that gentleman with muffins--at
which period of the entertainmentGuster whispers Mr. Snagsby that
he is wanted.

And being wanted in the--not to put too fine a point upon it--in
the shop,says Mr. Snagsbyrisingperhaps this good company
will excuse me for half a minute.

Mr. Snagsby descends and finds the two 'prentices intently
contemplating a police constablewho holds a ragged boy by the
arm.

Why, bless my heart,says Mr. Snagsbywhat's the matter!

This boy,says the constablealthough he's repeatedly told to,
won't move on--

I'm always a-moving on, sar, cries the boy, wiping away his grimy
tears with his arm. I've always been a-moving and a-moving on
ever since I was born. Where can I possibly move tosirmore nor
I do move!"

He won't move on,says the constable calmlywith a slight
professional hitch of his neck involving its better settlement in
his stiff stockalthough he has been repeatedly cautioned, and
therefore I am obliged to take him into custody. He's as obstinate
a young gonoph as I know. He WON'T move on.


Oh, my eye! Where can I move to!cries the boyclutching quite
desperately at his hair and beating his bare feet upon the floor of
Mr. Snagsby's passage.

Don't you come none of that or I shall make blessed short work of
you!says the constablegiving him a passionless shake. "My
instructions are that you are to move on. I have told you so five
hundred times."

But where?cries the boy.

Well! Really, constable, you know,says Mr. Snagsby wistfully
and coughing behind his hand his cough of great perplexity and
doubtreally, that does seem a question. Where, you know?

My instructions don't go to that,replies the constable. "My
instructions are that this boy is to move on."

Do you hearJo? It is nothing to you or to any one else that the
great lights of the parliamentary sky have failed for some few
years in this business to set you the example of moving on. The
one grand recipe remains for you--the profound philosophical
prescription--the be-all and the end-all of your strange existence
upon earth. Move on! You are by no means to move offJofor the
great lights can't at all agree about that. Move on!

Mr. Snagsby says nothing to this effectsays nothing at all
indeedbut coughs his forlornest coughexpressive of no
thoroughfare in any direction. By this time Mr. and Mrs. Chadband
and Mrs. Snagsbyhearing the altercationhave appeared upon the
stairs. Guster having never left the end of the passagethe whole
household are assembled.

The simple question is, sir,says the constablewhether you
know this boy. He says you do.

Mrs. Snagsbyfrom her elevationinstantly cries outNo he
don't!

My lit-tle woman!says Mr. Snagsbylooking up the staircase.
My love, permit me! Pray have a moment's patience, my dear. I do
know something of this lad, and in what I know of him, I can't say
that there's any harm; perhaps on the contrary, constable.To
whom the law-stationer relates his Joful and woful experience
suppressing the half-crown fact.

Well!says the constableso far, it seems, he had grounds for
what he said. When I took him into custody up in Holborn, he said
you knew him. Upon that, a young man who was in the crowd said he
was acquainted with you, and you were a respectable housekeeper,
and if I'd call and make the inquiry, he'd appear. The young man
don't seem inclined to keep his word, but--Oh! Here IS the young
man!

Enter Mr. Guppywho nods to Mr. Snagsby and touches his hat with
the chivalry of clerkship to the ladies on the stairs.

I was strolling away from the office just now when I found this
row going on,says Mr. Guppy to the law-stationerand as your
name was mentioned, I thought it was right the thing should be
looked into.

It was very good-natured of you, sir,says Mr. Snagsbyand I am


obliged to you.And Mr. Snagsby again relates his experience
again suppressing the half-crown fact.

Now, I know where you live,says the constablethento Jo.
You live down in Tom-all-Alone's. That's a nice innocent place to
live in, ain't it?

I can't go and live in no nicer place, sir,replies Jo. "They
wouldn't have nothink to say to me if I wos to go to a nice
innocent place fur to live. Who ud go and let a nice innocent
lodging to such a reg'lar one as me!"

You are very poor, ain't you?says the constable.

Yes, I am indeed, sir, wery poor in gin'ral,replies Jo. "I
leave you to judge now! I shook these two half-crowns out of him
says the constable, producing them to the company, in only putting
my hand upon him!"

They're wot's left, Mr. Snagsby,says Joout of a sov-ring as
wos give me by a lady in a wale as sed she wos a servant and as
come to my crossin one night and asked to be showd this 'ere ouse
and the ouse wot him as you giv the writin to died at, and the
berrin-ground wot he's berrid in. She ses to me she ses 'are you
the boy at the inkwhich?' she ses. I ses 'yes' I ses. She ses to
me she ses 'can you show me all them places?' I ses 'yes I can' I
ses. And she ses to me 'do it' and I dun it and she giv me a
sov'ring and hooked it. And I an't had much of the sov'ring
neither,says Jowith dirty tearsfur I had to pay five bob,
down in Tom-all-Alone's, afore they'd square it fur to give me
change, and then a young man he thieved another five while I was
asleep and another boy he thieved ninepence and the landlord he
stood drains round with a lot more on it.

You don't expect anybody to believe this, about the lady and the
sovereign, do you?says the constableeyeing him aside with
ineffable disdain.

I don't know as I do, sir,replies Jo. "I don't expect nothink
at allsirmuchbut that's the true hist'ry on it."

You see what he is!the constable observes to the audience.
Well, Mr. Snagsby, if I don't lock him up this time, will you
engage for his moving on?

No!cries Mrs. Snagsby from the stairs.

My little woman!pleads her husband. "ConstableI have no doubt
he'll move on. You know you really must do it says Mr. Snagsby.

I'm everyways agreeablesir says the hapless Jo.

Do itthen observes the constable. You know what you have got
to do. Do it! And recollect you won't get off so easy next time.
Catch hold of your money. Nowthe sooner you're five mile off
the better for all parties."

With this farewell hint and pointing generally to the setting sun
as a likely place to move on tothe constable bids his auditors
good afternoon and makes the echoes of Cook's Court perform slow
music for him as he walks away on the shady sidecarrying his
iron-bound hat in his hand for a little ventilation.

NowJo's improbable story concerning the lady and the sovereign


has awakened more or less the curiosity of all the company. Mr.
Guppywho has an inquiring mind in matters of evidence and who has
been suffering severely from the lassitude of the long vacation
takes that interest in the case that he enters on a regular cross-
examination of the witnesswhich is found so interesting by the
ladies that Mrs. Snagsby politely invites him to step upstairs and
drink a cup of teaif he will excuse the disarranged state of the
tea-tableconsequent on their previous exertions. Mr. Guppy
yielding his assent to this proposalJo is requested to follow
into the drawing-room doorwaywhere Mr. Guppy takes him in hand as
a witnesspatting him into this shapethat shapeand the other
shape like a butterman dealing with so much butterand worrying
him according to the best models. Nor is the examination unlike
many such model displaysboth in respect of its eliciting nothing
and of its being lengthyfor Mr. Guppy is sensible of his talent
and Mrs. Snagsby feels not only that it gratifies her inquisitive
dispositionbut that it lifts her husband's establishment higher
up in the law. During the progress of this keen encounterthe
vessel Chadbandbeing merely engaged in the oil tradegets
aground and waits to be floated off.

Well!says Mr. Guppy. "Either this boy sticks to it like
cobbler's-wax or there is something out of the common here that
beats anything that ever came into my way at Kenge and Carboy's."

Mrs. Chadband whispers Mrs. Snagsbywho exclaimsYou don't say
so!

For years!replied Mrs. Chadband.

Has known Kenge and Carboy's office for years,Mrs. Snagsby
triumphantly explains to Mr. Guppy. "Mrs. Chadband--this
gentleman's wife--Reverend Mr. Chadband."

Oh, indeed!says Mr. Guppy.

Before I married my present husband,says Mrs. Chadband.

Was you a party in anything, ma'am?says Mr. Guppytransferring
his cross-examination.

No.

NOT a party in anything, ma'am?says Mr. Guppy.

Mrs. Chadband shakes her head.

Perhaps you were acquainted with somebody who was a party in
something, ma'am?says Mr. Guppywho likes nothing better than to
model his conversation on forensic principles.

Not exactly that, either,replies Mrs. Chadbandhumouring the
joke with a hard-favoured smile.

Not exactly that, either!repeats Mr. Guppy. "Very good. Pray
ma'amwas it a lady of your acquaintance who had some transactions
(we will not at present say what transactions) with Kenge and
Carboy's officeor was it a gentleman of your acquaintance? Take
timema'am. We shall come to it presently. Man or womanma'am?"

Neither,says Mrs. Chadband as before.

Oh! A child!says Mr. Guppythrowing on the admiring Mrs.
Snagsby the regular acute professional eye which is thrown on


British jurymen. "Nowma'amperhaps you'll have the kindness to
tell us WHAT child."

You have got it at last, sir,says Mrs. Chadband with another
hard-favoured smile. "Wellsirit was before your timemost
likelyjudging from your appearance. I was left in charge of a
child named Esther Summersonwho was put out in life by Messrs.
Kenge and Carboy."

Miss Summerson, ma'am!cries Mr. Guppyexcited.

I call her Esther Summerson,says Mrs. Chadband with austerity.
There was no Miss-ing of the girl in my time. It was Esther.
'Esther, do this! Esther, do that!' and she was made to do it.

My dear ma'am,returns Mr. Guppymoving across the small
apartmentthe humble individual who now addresses you received
that young lady in London when she first came here from the
establishment to which you have alluded. Allow me to have the
pleasure of taking you by the hand.

Mr. Chadbandat last seeing his opportunitymakes his accustomed
signal and rises with a smoking headwhich he dabs with his
pocket-handkerchief. Mrs. Snagsby whispers "Hush!"

My friends,says Chadbandwe have partaken in moderation
(which was certainly not the case so far as he was concerned) "of
the comforts which have been provided for us. May this house live
upon the fatness of the land; may corn and wine be plentiful
therein; may it growmay it thrivemay it prospermay it
advancemay it proceedmay it press forward! Butmy friends
have we partaken of any-hing else? We have. My friendsof what
else have we partaken? Of spiritual profit? Yes. From whence
have we derived that spiritual profit? My young friendstand
forth!"

Jothus apostrophizedgives a slouch backwardand another slouch
forwardand another slouch to each sideand confronts the
eloquent Chadband with evident doubts of his intentions.

My young friend,says Chadbandyou are to us a pearl, you are
to us a diamond, you are to us a gem, you are to us a jewel. And
why, my young friend?

I don't know,replies Jo. "I don't know nothink."

My young friend,says Chadbandit is because you know nothing
that you are to us a gem and jewel. For what are you, my young
friend? Are you a beast of the field? No. A bird of the air?
No. A fish of the sea or river? No. You are a human boy, my
young friend. A human boy. O glorious to be a human boy! And why
glorious, my young friend? Because you are capable of receiving
the lessons of wisdom, because you are capable of profiting by this
discourse which I now deliver for your good, because you are not a
stick, or a staff, or a stock, or a stone, or a post, or a pillar.

O running stream of sparkling joy

To be a soaring human boy!

And do you cool yourself in that stream now, my young friend? No.
Why do you not cool yourself in that stream now? Because you are
in a state of darkness, because you are in a state of obscurity,


because you are in a state of sinfulness, because you are in a
state of bondage. My young friend, what is bondage? Let us, in a
spirit of love, inquire.

At this threatening stage of the discourseJowho seems to have
been gradually going out of his mindsmears his right arm over his
face and gives a terrible yawn. Mrs. Snagsby indignantly expresses
her belief that he is a limb of the arch-fiend.

My friends,says Mr. Chadband with his persecuted chin folding
itself into its fat smile again as he looks roundit is right
that I should be humbled, it is right that I should be tried, it is
right that I should be mortified, it is right that I should be
corrected. I stumbled, on Sabbath last, when I thought with pride
of my three hours' improving. The account is now favourably
balanced: my creditor has accepted a composition. O let us be
joyful, joyful! O let us be joyful!

Great sensation on the part of Mrs. Snagsby.

My friends,says Chadbandlooking round him in conclusionI
will not proceed with my young friend now. Will you come tomorrow,
my young friend, and inquire of this good lady where I am
to be found to deliver a discourse unto you, and will you come like
the thirsty swallow upon the next day, and upon the day after that,
and upon the day after that, and upon many pleasant days, to hear
discourses?(This with a cow-like lightness.)

Jowhose immediate object seems to be to get away on any terms
gives a shuffling nod. Mr. Guppy then throws him a pennyand Mrs.
Snagsby calls to Guster to see him safely out of the house. But
before he goes downstairsMr. Snagsby loads him with some broken
meats from the tablewhich he carries awayhugging in his arms.

SoMr. Chadband--of whom the persecutors say that it is no wonder
he should go on for any length of time uttering such abominable
nonsensebut that the wonder rather is that he should ever leave
offhaving once the audacity to begin--retires into private life
until he invests a little capital of supper in the oil-trade. Jo
moves onthrough the long vacationdown to Blackfriars Bridge
where he finds a baking stony corner wherein to settle to his
repast.

And there he sitsmunching and gnawingand looking up at the
great cross on the summit of St. Paul's Cathedralglittering above
a red-and-violet-tinted cloud of smoke. From the boy's face one
might suppose that sacred emblem to bein his eyesthe crowning
confusion of the greatconfused city--so goldenso high upso
far out of his reach. There he sitsthe sun going downthe river
running fastthe crowd flowing by him in two streams--everything
moving on to some purpose and to one end--until he is stirred up
and told to "move on" too.

CHAPTER XX

A New Lodger

The long vacation saunters on towards term-time like an idle river
very leisurely strolling down a flat country to the sea. Mr. Guppy
saunters along with it congenially. He has blunted the blade of
his penknife and broken the point off by sticking that instrument


into his desk in every direction. Not that he bears the desk any
ill willbut he must do somethingand it must be something of an
unexciting naturewhich will lay neither his physical nor his
intellectual energies under too heavy contribution. He finds that
nothing agrees with him so well as to make little gyrations on one
leg of his stooland stab his deskand gape.

Kenge and Carboy are out of townand the articled clerk has taken
out a shooting license and gone down to his father'sand Mr.
Guppy's two fellow-stipendiaries are away on leave. Mr. Guppy and
Mr. Richard Carstone divide the dignity of the office. But Mr.
Carstone is for the time being established in Kenge's roomwhereat
Mr. Guppy chafes. So exceedingly that he with biting sarcasm
informs his motherin the confidential moments when he sups with
her off a lobster and lettuce in the Old Street Roadthat he is
afraid the office is hardly good enough for swellsand that if he
had known there was a swell cominghe would have got it painted.

Mr. Guppy suspects everybody who enters on the occupation of a
stool in Kenge and Carboy's office of entertainingas a matter of
coursesinister designs upon him. He is clear that every such
person wants to depose him. If he be ever asked howwhywhenor
whereforehe shuts up one eye and shakes his head. On the
strength of these profound viewshe in the most ingenious manner
takes infinite pains to counterplot when there is no plotand
plays the deepest games of chess without any adversary.

It is a source of much gratification to Mr. Guppythereforeto
find the new-comer constantly poring over the papers in Jarndyce
and Jarndycefor he well knows that nothing but confusion and
failure can come of that. His satisfaction communicates itself to
a third saunterer through the long vacation in Kenge and Carboy's
officeto witYoung Smallweed.

Whether Young Smallweed (metaphorically called Small and eke Chick
Weedas it were jocularly to express a fledgling) was ever a boy
is much doubted in Lincoln's Inn. He is now something under
fifteen and an old limb of the law. He is facetiously understood
to entertain a passion for a lady at a cigar-shop in the
neighbourhood of Chancery Lane and for her sake to have broken off
a contract with another ladyto whom he had been engaged some
years. He is a town-made articleof small stature and weazen
featuresbut may be perceived from a considerable distance by
means of his very tall hat. To become a Guppy is the object of his
ambition. He dresses at that gentleman (by whom he is patronized)
talks at himwalks at himfounds himself entirely on him. He is
honoured with Mr. Guppy's particular confidence and occasionally
advises himfrom the deep wells of his experienceon difficult
points in private life.

Mr. Guppy has been lolling out of window all the morning after
trying all the stools in succession and finding none of them easy
and after several times putting his head into the iron safe with a
notion of cooling it. Mr. Smallweed has been twice dispatched for
effervescent drinksand has twice mixed them in the two official
tumblers and stirred them up with the ruler. Mr. Guppy propounds
for Mr. Smallweed's consideration the paradox that the more you
drink the thirstier you are and reclines his head upon the windowsill
in a state of hopeless languor.

While thus looking out into the shade of Old SquareLincoln's Inn
surveying the intolerable bricks and mortarMr. Guppy becomes
conscious of a manly whisker emerging from the cloistered walk
below and turning itself up in the direction of his face. At the


same timea low whistle is wafted through the Inn and a suppressed
voice criesHip! Gup-py!

Why, you don't mean it!says Mr. Guppyaroused. "Small! Here's
Jobling!" Small's head looks out of window too and nods to
Jobling.

Where have you sprung up from?inquires Mr. Guppy.

From the market-gardens down by Deptford. I can't stand it any
longer. I must enlist. I say! I wish you'd lend me half a crown.
Upon my soul, I'm hungry.

Jobling looks hungry and also has the appearance of having run to
seed in the market-gardens down by Deptford.

I say! Just throw out half a crown if you have got one to spare.
I want to get some dinner.

Will you come and dine with me?says Mr. Guppythrowing out the
coinwhich Mr. Jobling catches neatly.

How long should I have to hold out?says Jobling.

Not half an hour. I am only waiting here till the enemy goes,
returns Mr. Guppy, butting inward with his head.

What enemy?"

A new one. Going to be articled. Will you wait?

Can you give a fellow anything to read in the meantime?says Mr
Jobling.

Smallweed suggests the law list. But Mr. Jobling declares with
much earnestness that he "can't stand it."

You shall have the paper,says Mr. Guppy. "He shall bring it
down. But you had better not be seen about here. Sit on our
staircase and read. It's a quiet place."

Jobling nods intelligence and acquiescence. The sagacious
Smallweed supplies him with the newspaper and occasionally drops
his eye upon him from the landing as a precaution against his
becoming disgusted with waiting and making an untimely departure.
At last the enemy retreatsand then Smallweed fetches Mr. Jobling
up.

Well, and how are you?says Mr. Guppyshaking hands with him.

So, so. How are you?

Mr. Guppy replying that he is not much to boast ofMr. Jobling
ventures on the questionHow is SHE?This Mr. Guppy resents as
a libertyretortingJobling, there ARE chords in the human
mind--Jobling begs pardon.

Any subject but that!says Mr. Guppy with a gloomy enjoyment of
his injury. "For there ARE chordsJobling--"

Mr. Jobling begs pardon again.

During this short colloquythe active Smallweedwho is of the
dinner partyhas written in legal characters on a slip of paper


Return immediately.This notification to all whom it may
concernhe inserts in the letter-boxand then putting on the tall
hat at the angle of inclination at which Mr. Guppy wears his
informs his patron that they may now make themselves scarce.

Accordingly they betake themselves to a neighbouring dining-house
of the class known among its frequenters by the denomination slap-
bangwhere the waitressa bouncing young female of fortyis
supposed to have made some impression on the susceptible Smallweed
of whom it may be remarked that he is a weird changeling to whom
years are nothing. He stands precociously possessed of centuries
of owlish wisdom. If he ever lay in a cradleit seems as if he
must have lain there in a tail-coat. He has an oldold eyehas
Smallweed; and he drinks and smokes in a monkeyish way; and his
neck is stiff in his collar; and he is never to be taken in; and he
knows all about itwhatever it is. In shortin his bringing up
he has been so nursed by Law and Equity that he has become a kind
of fossil impto account for whose terrestrial existence it is
reported at the public offices that his father was John Doe and his
mother the only female member of the Roe familyalso that his
first long-clothes were made from a blue bag.

Into the dining-houseunaffected by the seductive show in the
window of artificially whitened cauliflowers and poultryverdant
baskets of peascoolly blooming cucumbersand joints ready for
the spitMr. Smallweed leads the way. They know him there and
defer to him. He has his favourite boxhe bespeaks all the
papershe is down upon bald patriarchswho keep them more than
ten minutes afterwards. It is of no use trying him with anything
less than a full-sized "bread" or proposing to him any joint in cut
unless it is in the very best cut. In the matter of gravy he is
adamant.

Conscious of his elfin power and submitting to his dread
experienceMr. Guppy consults him in the choice of that day's
banquetturning an appealing look towards him as the waitress
repeats the catalogue of viands and saying "What do YOU take
Chick?" Chickout of the profundity of his artfulnesspreferring
veal and ham and French beans--and don't you forget the stuffing,
Polly(with an unearthly cock of his venerable eye)Mr. Guppy and
Mr. Jobling give the like order. Three pint pots of half-and-half
are superadded. Quickly the waitress returns bearing what is
apparently a model of the Tower of Babel but what is really a pile
of plates and flat tin dish-covers. Mr. Smallweedapproving of
what is set before himconveys intelligent benignity into his
ancient eye and winks upon her. Thenamid a constant coming in
and going outand running aboutand a clatter of crockeryand a
rumbling up and down of the machine which brings the nice cuts from
the kitchenand a shrill crying for more nice cuts down the
speaking-pipeand a shrill reckoning of the cost of nice cuts that
have been disposed ofand a general flush and steam of hot joints
cut and uncutand a considerably heated atmosphere in which the
soiled knives and tablecloths seem to break out spontaneously into
eruptions of grease and blotches of beerthe legal triumvirate
appease their appetites.

Mr. Jobling is buttoned up closer than mere adornment might
require. His hat presents at the rims a peculiar appearance of a
glistening natureas if it had been a favourite snail-promenade.
The same phenomenon is visible on some parts of his coatand
particularly at the seams. He has the faded appearance of a
gentleman in embarrassed circumstances; even his light whiskers
droop with something of a shabby air.


His appetite is so vigorous that it suggests spare living for some
little time back. He makes such a speedy end of his plate of veal
and hambringing it to a close while his companions are yet midway
in theirsthat Mr. Guppy proposes another. "Thank youGuppy
says Mr. Jobling, I really don't know but what I WILL take
another."

Another being broughthe falls to with great goodwill.

Mr. Guppy takes silent notice of him at intervals until he is half
way through this second plate and stops to take an enjoying pull at
his pint pot of half-and-half (also renewed) and stretches out his
legs and rubs his hands. Beholding him in which glow of
contentmentMr. Guppy saysYou are a man again, Tony!

Well, not quite yet,says Mr. Jobling. "Sayjust born."

Will you take any other vegetables? Grass? Peas? Summer
cabbage?

Thank you, Guppy,says Mr. Jobling. "I really don't know but
what I WILL take summer cabbage."

Order given; with the sarcastic addition (from Mr. Smallweed) of
Without slugs, Polly!And cabbage produced.

I am growing up, Guppy,says Mr. Joblingplying his knife and
fork with a relishing steadiness.

Glad to hear it.

In fact, I have just turned into my teens,says Mr. Jobling.

He says no more until he has performed his taskwhich he achieves
as Messrs. Guppy and Smallweed finish theirsthus getting over the
ground in excellent style and beating those two gentlemen easily by
a veal and ham and a cabbage.

Now, Small,says Mr. Guppywhat would you recommend about
pastry?

Marrow puddings,says Mr. Smallweed instantly.

Aye, aye!cries Mr. Jobling with an arch look. "You're there
are you? Thank youMr. GuppyI don't know but what I WILL take a
marrow pudding."

Three marrow puddings being producedMr. Jobling adds in a
pleasant humour that he is coming of age fast. To these succeed
by command of Mr. Smallweedthree Cheshires,and to those "three
small rums." This apex of the entertainment happily reachedMr.
Jobling puts up his legs on the carpeted seat (having his own side
of the box to himself)leans against the walland saysI am
grown up now, Guppy. I have arrived at maturity.

What do you think, now,says Mr. Guppyabout--you don't mind
Smallweed?

Not the least in the worid. I have the pleasure of drinking his
good health.

Sir, to you!says Mr. Smallweed.

I was saying, what do you think NOW,pursues Mr. Guppyof


enlisting?

Why, what I may think after dinner,returns Mr. Joblingis one
thing, my dear Guppy, and what I may think before dinner is another
thing. Still, even after dinner, I ask myself the question, What
am I to do? How am I to live? Ill fo manger, you know,says Mr.
Joblingpronouncing that word as if he meant a necessary fixture
in an English stable. "Ill fo manger. That's the French saying
and mangering is as necessary to me as it is to a Frenchman. Or
more so."

Mr. Smallweed is decidedly of opinion "much more so."

If any man had told me,pursues Joblingeven so lately as when
you and I had the frisk down in Lincolnshire, Guppy, and drove over
to see that house at Castle Wold--

Mr. Smallweed corrects him--Chesney Wold.

Chesney Wold. (I thank my honourable friend for that cheer.) If
any man had told me then that I should be as hard up at the present
time as I literally find myself, I should have--well, I should have
pitched into him,says Mr. Joblingtaking a little rum-and-water
with an air of desperate resignation; "I should have let fly at his
head."

Still, Tony, you were on the wrong side of the post then,
remonstrates Mr. Guppy. "You were talking about nothing else in
the gig."

Guppy,says Mr. JoblingI will not deny it. I was on the wrong
side of the post. But I trusted to things coming round.

That very popular trust in flat things coming round! Not in their
being beaten roundor worked roundbut in their "coming" round!
As though a lunatic should trust in the world's "coming"
triangular!

I had confident expectations that things would come round and be
all square,says Mr. Jobling with some vagueness of expression and
perhaps of meaning too. "But I was disappointed. They never did.
And when it came to creditors making rows at the office and to
people that the office dealt with making complaints about dirty
trifles of borrowed moneywhy there was an end of that connexion.
And of any new professional connexion toofor if I was to give a
reference to-morrowit would be mentioned and would sew me up.
Then what's a fellow to do? I have been keeping out of the way and
living cheap down about the market-gardensbut what's the use of
living cheap when you have got no money? You might as well live
dear."

Better,Mr. Smallweed thinks.

Certainly. It's the fashionable way; and fashion and whiskers
have been my weaknesses, and I don't care who knows it,says Mr.
Jobling. "They are great weaknesses--Dammesirthey are great.
Well proceeds Mr. Jobling after a defiant visit to his rum-andwater,
what can a fellow doI ask youBUT enlist?"

Mr. Guppy comes more fully into the conversation to state whatin
his opiniona fellow can do. His manner is the gravely impressive
manner of a man who has not committed himself in life otherwise
than as he has become the victim of a tender sorrow of the heart.


Jobling,says Mr. Guppymyself and our mutual friend Smallweed--

Mr. Smallweed modestly observesGentlemen both!and drinks.

--Have had a little conversation on this matter more than once
since you--

Say, got the sack!cries Mr. Jobling bitterly. "Say itGuppy.
You mean it."

No-o-o! Left the Inn,Mr. Smallweed delicately suggests.

Since you left the Inn, Jobling,says Mr. Guppy; "and I have
mentioned to our mutual friend Smallweed a plan I have lately
thought of proposing. You know Snagsby the stationer?"

I know there is such a stationer,returns Mr. Jobling. "He was
not oursand I am not acquainted with him."

He IS ours, Jobling, and I AM acquainted with him,Mr. Guppy
retorts. "Wellsir! I have lately become better acquainted with
him through some accidental circumstances that have made me a
visitor of his in private life. Those circumstances it is not
necessary to offer in argument. They may--or they may not--have
some reference to a subject which may--or may not--have cast its
shadow on my existence."

As it is Mr. Guppy's perplexing way with boastful misery to tempt
his particular friends into this subjectand the moment they touch
itto turn on them with that trenchant severity about the chords
in the human mindboth Mr. Jobling and Mr. Smallweed decline the
pitfall by remaining silent.

Such things may be,repeats Mr. Guppyor they may not be. They
are no part of the case. It is enough to mention that both Mr. and
Mrs. Snagsby are very willing to oblige me and that Snagsby has, in
busy times, a good deal of copying work to give out. He has all
Tulkinghorn's, and an excellent business besides. I believe if our
mutual friend Smallweed were put into the box, he could prove
this?

Mr. Smallweed nods and appears greedy to be sworn.

Now, gentlemen of the jury,says Mr. Guppy--I mean, now,
Jobling--you may say this is a poor prospect of a living. Granted.
But it's better than nothing, and better than enlistment. You want
time. There must be time for these late affairs to blow over. You
might live through it on much worse terms than by writing for
Snagsby.

Mr. Jobling is about to interrupt when the sagacious Smallweed
checks him with a dry cough and the wordsHem! Shakspeare!

There are two branches to this subject, Jobling,says Mr. Guppy.
That is the first. I come to the second. You know Krook, the
Chancellor, across the lane. Come, Jobling,says Mr. Guppy in his
encouraging cross-examination-toneI think you know Krook, the
Chancellor, across the lane?

I know him by sight,says Mr. Jobling.

You know him by sight. Very well. And you know little Flite?

Everybody knows her,says Mr. Jobling.


Everybody knows her. VERY well. Now it has been one of my duties
of late to pay Flite a certain weekly allowance, deducting from it
the amount of her weekly rent, which I have paid (in consequence of
instructions I have received) to Krook himself, regularly in her
presence. This has brought me into communication with Krook and
into a knowledge of his house and his habits. I know he has a room
to let. You may live there at a very low charge under any name you
like, as quietly as if you were a hundred miles off. He'll ask no
questions and would accept you as a tenant at a word from me-before
the clock strikes, if you chose. And I tell you another
thing, Jobling,says Mr. Guppywho has suddenly lowered his voice
and become familiar againhe's an extraordinary old chap--always
rummaging among a litter of papers and grubbing away at teaching
himself to read and write, without getting on a bit, as it seems to
me. He is a most extraordinary old chap, sir. I don't know but
what it might be worth a fellow's while to look him up a bit.

You don't mean--Mr. Jobling begins.

I mean,returns Mr. Guppyshrugging his shoulders with becoming
modestythat I can't make him out. I appeal to our mutual friend
Smallweed whether he has or has not heard me remark that I can't
make him out.

Mr. Smallweed bears the concise testimonyA few!

I have seen something of the profession and something of life,
Tony,says Mr. Guppyand it's seldom I can't make a man out,
more or less. But such an old card as this, so deep, so sly, and
secret (though I don't believe he is ever sober), I never came
across. Now, he must be precious old, you know, and he has not a
soul about him, and he is reported to be immensely rich; and
whether he is a smuggler, or a receiver, or an unlicensed
pawnbroker, or a money-lender--all of which I have thought likely
at different times--it might pay you to knock up a sort of
knowledge of him. I don't see why you shouldn't go in for it, when
everything else suits.

Mr. JoblingMr. Guppyand Mr. Smallweed all lean their elbows on
the table and their chins upon their handsand look at the
ceiling. After a timethey all drinkslowly lean backput their
hands in their pocketsand look at one another.

If I had the energy I once possessed, Tony!says Mr. Guppy with a
sigh. "But there are chords in the human mind--"

Expressing the remainder of the desolate sentiment in rum-andwater
Mr. Guppy concludes by resigning the adventure to Tony
Jobling and informing him that during the vacation and while things
are slackhis purseas far as three or four or even five pound
goes,will be at his disposal. "For never shall it be said Mr.
Guppy adds with emphasis, that William Guppy turned his back upon
his friend!"

The latter part of the proposal is so directly to the purpose that
Mr. Jobling says with emotionGuppy, my trump, your fist!Mr.
Guppy presents itsayingJobling, my boy, there it is!Mr.
Jobling returnsGuppy, we have been pals now for some years!
Mr. Guppy repliesJobling, we have.

They then shake handsand Mr. Jobling adds in a feeling manner
Thank you, Guppy, I don't know but what I WILL take another glass
for old acquaintance sake.


Krook's last lodger died there,observes Mr. Guppy in an
incidental way.

Did he though!says Mr. Jobling.

There was a verdict. Accidental death. You don't mind that?

No,says Mr. JoblingI don't mind it; but he might as well have
died somewhere else. It's devilish odd that he need go and die at
MY place!Mr. Jobling quite resents this libertyseveral times
returning to it with such remarks asThere are places enough to
die in, I should think!orHe wouldn't have liked my dying at
HIS place, I dare say!

Howeverthe compact being virtually madeMr. Guppy proposes to
dispatch the trusty Smallweed to ascertain if Mr. Krook is at home
as in that case they may complete the negotiation without delay.
Mr. Jobling approvingSmallweed puts himself under the tall hat
and conveys it out of the dining-rooms in the Guppy manner. He
soon returns with the intelligence that Mr. Krook is at home and
that he has seen him through the shop-doorsitting in the back
premisessleeping "like one o'clock."

Then I'll pay,says Mr. Guppyand we'll go and see him. Small,
what will it be?

Mr. Smallweedcompelling the attendance of the waitress with one
hitch of his eyelashinstantly replies as follows: "Four veals and
hams is threeand four potatoes is three and fourand one summer
cabbage is three and sixand three marrows is four and sixand
six breads is fiveand three Cheshires is five and threeand four
half-pints of half-and-half is six and threeand four small rums
is eight and threeand three Pollys is eight and six. Eight and
six in half a sovereignPollyand eighteenpence out!"

Not at all excited by these stupendous calculationsSmallweed
dismisses his friends with a cool nod and remains behind to take a
little admiring notice of Pollyas opportunity may serveand to
read the daily paperswhich are so very large in proportion to
himselfshorn of his hatthat when he holds up the Times to run
his eye over the columnshe seems to have retired for the night
and to have disappeared under the bedclothes.

Mr. Guppy and Mr. Jobling repair to the rag and bottle shopwhere
they find Krook still sleeping like one o'clockthat is to say
breathing stertorously with his chin upon his breast and quite
insensible to any external sounds or even to gentle shaking. On
the table beside himamong the usual lumberstand an empty gin-
bottle and a glass. The unwholesome air is so stained with this
liquor that even the green eyes of the cat upon her shelfas they
open and shut and glimmer on the visitorslook drunk.

Hold up here!says Mr. Guppygiving the relaxed figure of the
old man another shake. "Mr. Krook! Halloasir!"

But it would seem as easy to wake a bundle of old clothes with a
spirituous heat smouldering in it. "Did you ever see such a stupor
as he falls intobetween drink and sleep?" says Mr. Guppy.

If this is his regular sleep,returns Joblingrather alarmed
it'll last a long time one of these days, I am thinking.

It's always more like a fit than a nap,says Mr. Guppyshaking


him again. "Halloayour lordship! Whyhe might be robbed fifty
times over! Open your eyes!"

After much adohe opens thembut without appearing to see his
visitors or any other objects. Though he crosses one leg on
anotherand folds his handsand several times closes and opens
his parched lipshe seems to all intents and purposes as
insensible as before.

He is alive, at any rate,says Mr. Guppy. "How are youmy Lord
Chancellor. I have brought a friend of minesiron a little
matter of business."

The old man still sitsoften smacking his dry lips without the
least consciousness. After some minutes he makes an attempt to
rise. They help him upand he staggers against the wall and
stares at them.

How do you do, Mr. Krook?says Mr. Guppy in some discomfiture.
How do you do, sir? You are looking charming, Mr. Krook. I hope
you are pretty well?

The old manin aiming a purposeless blow at Mr. Guppyor at
nothingfeebly swings himself round and comes with his face
against the wall. So he remains for a minute or twoheaped up
against itand then staggers down the shop to the front door. The
airthe movement in the courtthe lapse of timeor the
combination of these things recovers him. He comes back pretty
steadilyadjusting his fur cap on his head and looking keenly at
them.

Your servant, gentlemen; I've been dozing. Hi! I am hard to wake,
odd times.

Rather so, indeed, sir,responds Mr. Guppy.

What? You've been a-trying to do it, have you?says the
suspicious Krook.

Only a little,Mr. Guppy explains.

The old man's eye resting on the empty bottlehe takes it up
examines itand slowly tilts it upside down.

I say!he cries like the hobgoblin in the story. "Somebody's
been making free here!"

I assure you we found it so,says Mr. Guppy. "Would you allow me
to get it filled for you?"

Yes, certainly I would!cries Krook in high glee. "Certainly I
would! Don't mention it! Get it filled next door--Sol's Arms--the
Lord Chancellor's fourteenpenny. Bless youthey know ME!"

He so presses the empty bottle upon Mr. Guppy that that gentleman
with a nod to his friendaccepts the trust and hurries out and
hurries in again with the bottle filled. The old man receives it
in his arms like a beloved grandchild and pats it tenderly.

But, I say,he whisperswith his eyes screwed upafter tasting
itthis ain't the Lord Chancellor's fourteenpenny. This is
eighteenpenny!

I thought you might like that better,says Mr. Guppy.


You're a nobleman, sir,returns Krook with another tasteand his
hot breath seems to come towards them like a flame. "You're a
baron of the land."

Taking advantage of this auspicious momentMr. Guppy presents his
friend under the impromptu name of Mr. Weevle and states the object
of their visit. Krookwith his bottle under his arm (he never
gets beyond a certain point of either drunkenness or sobriety)
takes time to survey his proposed lodger and seems to approve of
him. "You'd like to see the roomyoung man?" he says. "Ah! It's
a good room! Been whitewashed. Been cleaned down with soft soap
and soda. Hi! It's worth twice the rentletting alone my company
when you want it and such a cat to keep the mice away."

Commending the room after this mannerthe old man takes them
upstairswhere indeed they do find it cleaner than it used to be
and also containing some old articles of furniture which he has dug
up from his inexhaustible stores. The terms are easily concluded-for
the Lord Chancellor cannot be hard on Mr. Guppyassociated as
he is with Kenge and CarboyJarndyce and Jarndyceand other
famous claims on his professional consideration--and it is agreed
that Mr. Weevle shall take possession on the morrow. Mr. Weevle
and Mr. Guppy then repair to Cook's CourtCursitor Streetwhere
the personal introduction of the former to Mr. Snagsby is effected
and (more important) the vote and interest of Mrs. Snagsby are
secured. They then report progress to the eminent Smallweed
waiting at the office in his tall hat for that purposeand
separateMr. Guppy explaining that he would terminate his little
entertainment by standing treat at the play but that there are
chords in the human mind which would render it a hollow mockery.

On the morrowin the dusk of eveningMr. Weevle modestly appears
at Krook'sby no means incommoded with luggageand establishes
himself in his new lodgingwhere the two eyes in the shutters
stare at him in his sleepas if they were full of wonder. On the
following day Mr. Weevlewho is a handy good-for-nothing kind of
young fellowborrows a needle and thread of Miss Flite and a
hammer of his landlord and goes to work devising apologies for
window-curtainsand knocking up apologies for shelvesand hanging
up his two teacupsmilkpotand crockery sundries on a pennyworth
of little hookslike a shipwrecked sailor making the best of it.

But what Mr. Weevle prizes most of all his few possessions (next
after his light whiskersfor which he has an attachment that only
whiskers can awaken in the breast of man) is a choice collection of
copper-plate impressions from that truly national work The
Divinities of Albionor Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty
representing ladies of title and fashion in every variety of smirk
that artcombined with capitalis capable of producing. With
these magnificent portraitsunworthily confined in a band-box
during his seclusion among the market-gardenshe decorates his
apartment; and as the Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty wears every
variety of fancy dressplays every variety of musical instrument
fondles every variety of dogogles every variety of prospectand
is backed up by every variety of flower-pot and balustradethe
result is very imposing.

But fashion is Mr. Weevle'sas it was Tony Jobling'sweakness.
To borrow yesterday's paper from the Sol's Arms of an evening and
read about the brilliant and distinguished meteors that are
shooting across the fashionable sky in every direction is
unspeakable consolation to him. To know what member of what
brilliant and distinguished circle accomplished the brilliant and


distinguished feat of joining it yesterday or contemplates the no
less brilliant and distinguished feat of leaving it to-morrow gives
him a thrill of joy. To be informed what the Galaxy Gallery of
British Beauty is aboutand means to be aboutand what Galaxy
marriages are on the tapisand what Galaxy rumours are in
circulationis to become acquainted with the most glorious
destinies of mankind. Mr. Weevle reverts from this intelligence to
the Galaxy portraits implicatedand seems to know the originals
and to be known of them.

For the rest he is a quiet lodgerfull of handy shifts and devices
as before mentionedable to cook and clean for himself as well as
to carpenterand developing social inclinations after the shades
of evening have fallen on the court. At those timeswhen he is
not visited by Mr. Guppy or by a small light in his likeness
quenched in a dark hathe comes out of his dull room--where he has
inherited the deal wilderness of desk bespattered with a rain of
ink--and talks to Krook or is "very free as they call it in the
court, commendingly, with any one disposed for conversation.
Wherefore, Mrs. Piper, who leads the court, is impelled to offer
two remarks to Mrs. Perkins: firstly, that if her Johnny was to
have whiskers, she could wish 'em to be identically like that young
man's; and secondly, Mark my wordsMrs. Perkinsma'amand don't
you be surprisedLord bless youif that young man comes in at
last for old Krook's money!"

CHAPTER XXI

The Smallweed Family

In a rather ill-favoured and ill-savoured neighbourhoodthough one
of its rising grounds bears the name of Mount Pleasantthe Elfin
Smallweedchristened Bartholomew and known on the domestic hearth
as Bartpasses that limited portion of his time on which the
office and its contingencies have no claim. He dwells in a little
narrow streetalways solitaryshadyand sadclosely bricked in
on all sides like a tombbut where there yet lingers the stump of
an old forest tree whose flavour is about as fresh and natural as
the Smallweed smack of youth.

There has been only one child in the Smallweed family for several
generations. Little old men and women there have beenbut no
childuntil Mr. Smallweed's grandmothernow livingbecame weak
in her intellect and fell (for the first time) into a childish
state. With such infantine graces as a total want of observation
memoryunderstandingand interestand an eternal disposition to
fall asleep over the fire and into itMr. Smallweed's grandmother
has undoubtedly brightened the family.

Mr. Smallweed's grandfather is likewise of the party. He is in a
helpless condition as to his lowerand nearly so as to his upper
limbsbut his mind is unimpaired. It holdsas well as it ever
heldthe first four rules of arithmetic and a certain small
collection of the hardest facts. In respect of ideality
reverencewonderand other such phrenological attributesit is
no worse off than it used to be. Everything that Mr. Smallweed's
grandfather ever put away in his mind was a grub at firstand is a
grub at last. In all his life he has never bred a single
butterfly.

The father of this pleasant grandfatherof the neighbourhood of


Mount Pleasantwas a horny-skinnedtwo-leggedmoney-getting
species of spider who spun webs to catch unwary flies and retired
into holes until they were entrapped. The name of this old pagan's
god was Compound Interest. He lived for itmarried itdied of
it. Meeting with a heavy loss in an honest little enterprise in
which all the loss was intended to have been on the other sidehe
broke something--something necessary to his existencetherefore it
couldn't have been his heart--and made an end of his career. As
his character was not goodand he had been bred at a charity
school in a complete courseaccording to question and answerof
those ancient people the Amorites and Hittiteshe was frequently
quoted as an example of the failure of education.

His spirit shone through his sonto whom he had always preached of
going outearly in life and whom he made a clerk in a sharp
scrivener's office at twelve years old. There the young gentleman
improved his mindwhich was of a lean and anxious characterand
developing the family giftsgradually elevated himself into the
discounting profession. Going out early in life and marrying late
as his father had done before himhe too begat a lean and anxious-
minded sonwho in his turngoing out early in life and marrying
latebecame the father of Bartholomew and Judith Smallweedtwins.
During the whole time consumed in the slow growth of this family
treethe house of Smallweedalways early to go out and late to
marryhas strengthened itself in its practical characterhas
discarded all amusementsdiscountenanced all story-booksfairy-
talesfictionsand fablesand banished all levities whatsoever.
Hence the gratifying fact that it has had no child born to it and
that the complete little men and women whom it has produced have
been observed to bear a likeness to old monkeys with something
depressing on their minds.

At the present timein the dark little parlour certain feet below
the level of the street--a grimharduncouth parlouronly
ornamented with the coarsest of baize table-coversand the hardest
of sheet-iron tea-traysand offering in its decorative character
no bad allegorical representation of Grandfather Smallweed's mind-seated
in two black horsehair porter's chairsone on each side of
the fire-placethe superannuated Mr. and Mrs. Smallweed while away
the rosy hours. On the stove are a couple of trivets for the pots
and kettles which it is Grandfather Smallweed's usual occupation to
watchand projecting from the chimney-piece between them is a sort
of brass gallows for roastingwhich he also superintends when it
is in action. Under the venerable Mr. Smallweed's seat and guarded
by his spindle legs is a drawer in his chairreported to contain
property to a fabulous amount. Beside him is a spare cushion with
which he is always provided in order that he may have something to
throw at the venerable partner of his respected age whenever she
makes an allusion to money--a subject on which he is particularly
sensitive.

And where's Bart?Grandfather Smallweed inquires of JudyBart's
twin sister.

He an't come in yet,says Judy.

It's his tea-time, isn't it?

No.

How much do you mean to say it wants then?

Ten minutes.


Hey?

Ten minutes.(Loud on the part of Judy.)

Ho!says Grandfather Smallweed. "Ten minutes."

Grandmother Smallweedwho has been mumbling and shaking her head
at the trivetshearing figures mentionedconnects them with money
and screeches like a horrible old parrot without any plumageTen
ten-pound notes!

Grandfather Smallweed immediately throws the cushion at her.

Drat you, be quiet!says the good old man.

The effect of this act of jaculation is twofold. It not only
doubles up Mrs. Smallweed's head against the side of her porter's
chair and causes her to presentwhen extricated by her
granddaughtera highly unbecoming state of capbut the necessary
exertion recoils on Mr. Smallweed himselfwhom it throws back into
HIS porter's chair like a broken puppet. The excellent old
gentleman being at these times a mere clothes-bag with a black
skull-cap on the top of itdoes not present a very animated
appearance until he has undergone the two operations at the hands
of his granddaughter of being shaken up like a great bottle and
poked and punched like a great bolster. Some indication of a neck
being developed in him by these meanshe and the sharer of his
life's evening again fronting one another in their two porter's
chairslike a couple of sentinels long forgotten on their post by
the Black SerjeantDeath.

Judy the twin is worthy company for these associates. She is so
indubitably sister to Mr. Smallweed the younger that the two
kneaded into one would hardly make a young person of average
proportionswhile she so happily exemplifies the before-mentioned
family likeness to the monkey tribe that attired in a spangled robe
and cap she might walk about the table-land on the top of a barrel-
organ without exciting much remark as an unusual specimen. Under
existing circumstanceshowevershe is dressed in a plainspare
gown of brown stuff.

Judy never owned a dollnever heard of Cinderellanever played at
any game. She once or twice fell into children's company when she
was about ten years oldbut the children couldn't get on with
Judyand Judy couldn't get on with them. She seemed like an
animal of another speciesand there was instinctive repugnance on
both sides. It is very doubtful whether Judy knows how to laugh.
She has so rarely seen the thing done that the probabilities are
strong the other way. Of anything like a youthful laughshe
certainly can have no conception. If she were to try oneshe
would find her teeth in her waymodelling that action of her face
as she has unconsciously modelled all its other expressionson her
pattern of sordid age. Such is Judy.

And her twin brother couldn't wind up a top for his life. He knows
no more of Jack the Giant Killer or of Sinbad the Sailor than he
knows of the people in the stars. He could as soon play at leapfrog
or at cricket as change into a cricket or a frog himself. But
he is so much the better off than his sister that on his narrow
world of fact an opening has dawned into such broader regions as
lie within the ken of Mr. Guppy. Hence his admiration and his
emulation of that shining enchanter.

Judywith a gong-like clash and clattersets one of the sheet



iron tea-trays on the table and arranges cups and saucers. The
bread she puts on in an iron basketand the butter (and not much
of it) in a small pewter plate. Grandfather Smallweed looks hard
after the tea as it is served out and asks Judy where the girl is.

Charley, do you mean?says Judy.

Hey?from Grandfather Smallweed.

Charley, do you mean?

This touches a spring in Grandmother Smallweedwhochuckling as
usual at the trivetscriesOver the water! Charley over the
water, Charley over the water, over the water to Charley, Charley
over the water, over the water to Charley!and becomes quite
energetic about it. Grandfather looks at the cushion but has not
sufficiently recovered his late exertion.

Ha!he says when there is silence. "If that's her name. She
eats a deal. It would be better to allow her for her keep."

Judywith her brother's winkshakes her head and purses up her
mouth into no without saying it.

No?returns the old man. "Why not?"

She'd want sixpence a day, and we can do it for less,says Judy.

Sure?

Judy answers with a nod of deepest meaning and callsas she
scrapes the butter on the loaf with every precaution against waste
and cuts it into slicesYou, Charley, where are you?Timidly
obedient to the summonsa little girl in a rough apron and a large
bonnetwith her hands covered with soap and water and a scrubbing
brush in one of themappearsand curtsys.

What work are you about now?says Judymaking an ancient snap at
her like a very sharp old beldame.

I'm a-cleaning the upstairs back room, miss,replies Charley.

Mind you do it thoroughly, and don't loiter. Shirking won't do
for me. Make haste! Go along!cries Judy with a stamp upon the
ground. "You girls are more trouble than you're worthby half."

On this severe matronas she returns to her task of scraping the
butter and cutting the breadfalls the shadow of her brother
looking in at the window. For whomknife and loaf in handshe
opens the street-door.

Aye, aye, Bart!says Grandfather Smallweed. "Here you arehey?"

Here I am,says Bart.

Been along with your friend again, Bart?

Small nods.

Dining at his expense, Bart?

Small nods again.

That's right. Live at his expense as much as you can, and take


warning by his foolish example. That's the use of such a friend.
The only use you can put him to,says the venerable sage.

His grandsonwithout receiving this good counsel as dutifully as
he mighthonours it with all such acceptance as may lie in a
slight wink and a nod and takes a chair at the tea-table. The four
old faces then hover over teacups like a company of ghastly
cherubimMrs. Smallweed perpetually twitching her head and
chattering at the trivets and Mr. Smallweed requiring to be
repeatedly shaken up like a large black draught.

Yes, yes,says the good old gentlemanreverting to his lesson of
wisdom. "That's such advice as your father would have given you
Bart. You never saw your father. More's the pity. He was my true
son." Whether it is intended to be conveyed that he was
particularly pleasant to look aton that accountdoes not appear.

He was my true son,repeats the old gentlemanfolding his bread
and butter on his kneea good accountant, and died fifteen years
ago.

Mrs. Smallweedfollowing her usual instinctbreaks out with
Fifteen hundred pound. Fifteen hundred pound in a black box,
fifteen hundred pound locked up, fifteen hundred pound put away and
hid!Her worthy husbandsetting aside his bread and butter
immediately discharges the cushion at hercrushes her against the
side of her chairand falls back in his ownoverpowered. His
appearanceafter visiting Mrs. Smallweed with one of these
admonitionsis particularly impressive and not wholly
prepossessingfirstly because the exertion generally twists his
black skull-cap over one eye and gives him an air of goblin
rakishnesssecondly because he mutters violent imprecations
against Mrs. Smallweedand thirdly because the contrast between
those powerful expressions and his powerless figure is suggestive
of a baleful old malignant who would be very wicked if he could.
All thishoweveris so common in the Smallweed family circle that
it produces no impression. The old gentleman is merely shaken and
has his internal feathers beaten upthe cushion is restored to its
usual place beside himand the old ladyperhaps with her cap
adjusted and perhaps notis planted in her chair againready to
be bowled down like a ninepin.

Some time elapses in the present instance before the old gentleman
is sufficiently cool to resume his discourseand even then he
mixes it up with several edifying expletives addressed to the
unconscious partner of his bosomwho holds communication with
nothing on earth but the trivets. As thus: "If your fatherBart
had lived longerhe might have been worth a deal of money--you
brimstone chatterer!--but just as he was beginning to build up the
house that he had been making the foundations forthrough many a
year--you jade of a magpiejackdawand poll-parrotwhat do you
mean!--he took ill and died of a low feveralways being a sparing
and a spare manfule been a good sonand I think I meant to
have been one. But I wasn't. I was a thundering bad sonthat's
the long and the short of itand never was a credit to anybody."

Surprising!cries the old man.

However,Mr. George resumesthe less said about it, the better
now. Come! You know the agreement. Always a pipe out of the two
months' interest! (Bosh! It's all correct. You needn't be afraid
to order the pipe. Here's the new bill, and here's the two months'
interest-money, and a devil-and-all of a scrape it is to get it
together in my business.)


Mr. George sitswith his arms foldedconsuming the family and the
parlour while Grandfather Smallweed is assisted by Judy to two
black leathern cases out of a locked bureauin one of which he
secures the document he has just receivedand from the other takes
another similar document which hl of business care--I should like to throw a
cat at you instead of a cushionand I will too if you make such a
confounded fool of yourself!--and your motherwho was a prudent
woman as dry as a chipjust dwindled away like touchwood after you
and Judy were born--you are an old pig. You are a brimstone pig.
You're a head of swine!"

Judynot interested in what she has often heardbegins to collect
in a basin various tributary streams of teafrom the bottoms of
cups and saucers and from the bottom of the teapot for the little
charwoman's evening meal. In like manner she gets togetherin the
iron bread-basketas many outside fragments and worn-down heels of
loaves as the rigid economy of the house has left in existence.

But your father and me were partners, Bart,says the old
gentlemanand when I am gone, you and Judy will have all there
is. It's rare for you both that you went out early in life--Judy
to the flower business, and you to the law. You won't want to
spend it. You'll get your living without it, and put more to it.
When I am gone, Judy will go back to the flower business and you'll
still stick to the law.

One might infer from Judy's appearance that her business rather lay
with the thorns than the flowersbut she has in her time been
apprenticed to the art and mystery of artificial flower-making. A
close observer might perhaps detect both in her eye and her
brother'swhen their venerable grandsire anticipates his being
gonesome little impatience to know when he may be goingand some
resentful opinion that it is time he went.

Now, if everybody has done,says Judycompleting her
preparationsI'll have that girl in to her tea. She would never
leave off if she took it by herself in the kitchen.

Charley is accordingly introducedand under a heavy fire of eyes
sits down to her basin and a Druidical ruin of bread and butter.
In the active superintendence of this young personJudy Smallweed
appears to attain a perfectly geological age and to date from the
remotest periods. Her systematic manner of flying at her and
pouncing on herwith or without pretencewhether or nois
wonderfulevincing an accomplishment in the art of girl-driving
seldom reached by the oldest practitioners.

Now, don't stare about you all the afternoon,cries Judyshaking
her head and stamping her foot as she happens to catch the glance
which has been previously sounding the basin of teabut take your
victuals and get back to your work.

Yes, miss,says Charley.

Don't say yes,returns Miss Smallweedfor I know what you girls
are. Do it without saying it, and then I may begin to believe
you.

Charley swallows a great gulp of tea in token of submission and so
disperses the Druidical ruins that Miss Smallweed charges her not
to gormandizewhich "in you girls she observes, is disgusting.
Charley might find some more difficulty in meeting her views on the
general subject of girls but for a knock at the door.


See who it isand don't chew when you open it!" cries Judy.

The object of her attentions withdrawing for the purposeMiss
Smallweed takes that opportunity of jumbling the remainder of the
bread and butter together and launching two or three dirty tea-cups
into the ebb-tide of the basin of tea as a hint that she considers
the eating and drinking terminated.

Now! Who is it, and what's wanted?says the snappish Judy.

It is one Mr. Georgeit appears. Without other announcement or
ceremonyMr. George walks in.

Whew!says Mr. George. "You are hot here. Always a fireeh?
Well! Perhaps you do right to get used to one." Mr. George makes
the latter remark to himself as he nods to Grandfather Smallweed.

Ho! It's you!cries the old gentleman. "How de do? How de do?"

Middling,replies Mr. Georgetaking a chair. "Your
granddaughter I have had the honour of seeing before; my service to
youmiss."

This is my grandson,says Grandfather Smallweed. "You ha'n't
seen him before. He is in the law and not much at home."

My service to him, too! He is like his sister. He is very like
his sister. He is devilish like his sister,says Mr. George
laying a great and not altogether complimentary stress on his last
adjective.

And how does the world use you, Mr. George?Grandfather Smallweed
inquiresslowly rubbing his legs.

Pretty much as usual. Like a football.

He is a swarthy brown man of fiftywell madeand good looking
with crisp dark hairbright eyesand a broad chest. His sinewy
and powerful handsas sunburnt as his facehave evidently been
used to a pretty rough life. What is curious about him is that he
sits forward on his chair as if he werefrom long habitallowing
space for some dress or accoutrements that he has altogether laid
aside. His step too is measured and heavy and would go well with a
weighty clash and jingle of spurs. He is close-shaved nowbut his
mouth is set as if his upper lip had been for years familiar with a
great moustache; and his manner of occasionally laying the open
palm of his broad brown hand upon it is to the same effect.
Altogether one might guess Mr. George to have been a trooper once
upon a time.

A special contrast Mr. George makes to the Smallweed family.
Trooper was never yet billeted upon a household more unlike him.
It is a broadsword to an oyster-knife. His developed figure and
their stunted formshis large manner filling any amount of room
and their little narrow pinched wayshis sounding voice and their
sharp spare tonesare in the strongest and the strangest
opposition. As he sits in the middle of the grim parlourleaning
a little forwardwith his hands upon his thighs and his elbows
squaredhe looks as thoughif he remained there longhe would
absorb into himself the whole family and the whole four-roomed
houseextra little back-kitchen and all.

Do you rub your legs to rub life into 'em?he asks of Grandfather


Smallweed after looking round the room.

Why, it's partly a habit, Mr. George, and--yes--it partly helps
the circulation,he replies.

The cir-cu-la-tion!repeats Mr. Georgefolding his arms upon his
chest and seeming to become two sizes larger. "Not much of thatI
should think."

Truly I'm old, Mr. George,says Grandfather Smallweed. "But I
can carry my years. I'm older than HER nodding at his wife, and
see what she is? You're a brimstone chatterer!" with a sudden
revival of his late hostility.

Unlucky old soul!says Mr. Georgeturning his head in that
direction. "Don't scold the old lady. Look at her herewith her
poor cap half off her head and her poor hair all in a muddle. Hold
upma'am. That's better. There we are! Think of your mother
Mr. Smallweed says Mr. George, coming back to his seat from
assisting her, if your wife an't enough."

I suppose you were an excellent son, Mr. George?the old man
hints with a leer.

The colour of Mr. George's face rather deepens as he repliesWhy
no. I wasn't.

I am astonished at it.

So am I. I ought to have hands to Mr. George, who twists
it up for a pipelight. As the old man inspects, through his
glasses, every up-stroke and down-stroke of both documents before
he releases them from their leathern prison, and as he counts the
money three times over and requires Judy to say every word she
utters at least twice, and is as tremulously slow of speech and
action as it is possible to be, this business is a long time in
progress. When it is quite concluded, and not before, he
disengages his ravenous eyes and fingers from it and answers Mr.
George's last remark by saying, Afraid to order the pipe? We are
not so mercenary as thatsir. Judysee directly to the pipe and
the glass of cold brandy-and-water for Mr. George."

The sportive twinswho have been looking straight before them all
this time except when they have been engrossed by the black
leathern casesretire togethergenerally disdainful of the
visitorbut leaving him to the old man as two young cubs might
leave a traveller to the parental bear.

And there you sit, I suppose, all the day long, eh?says Mr.
George with folded arms.

Just so, just so,the old man nods.

And don't you occupy yourself at all?

I watch the fire--and the boiling and the roasting--

When there is any,says Mr. George with great expression.

Just so. When there is any.

Don't you read or get read to?

The old man shakes his head with sharp sly triumph. "Nono. We


have never been readers in our family. It don't pay. Stuff.
Idleness. Folly. Nono!"

There's not much to choose between your two states,says the
visitor in a key too low for the old man's dull hearing as he looks
from him to the old woman and back again. "I say!" in a louder
voice.

I hear you.

You'll sell me up at last, I suppose, when I am a day in arrear.

My dear friend!cries Grandfather Smallweedstretching out both
hands to embrace him. "Never! Nevermy dear friend! But my
friend in the city that I got to lend you the money--HE might!"

Oh! You can't answer for him?says Mr. Georgefinishing the
inquiry in his lower key with the words "You lying old rascal!"

My dear friend, he is not to be depended on. I wouldn't trust
him. He will have his bond, my dear friend.

Devil doubt him,says Mr. George. Charley appearing with a tray
on which are the pipea small paper of tobaccoand the brandyand-
waterhe asks herHow do you come here! You haven't got the
family face.

I goes out to work, sir,returns Charley.

The trooper (if trooper he be or have been) takes her bonnet off
with a light touch for so strong a handand pats her on the head.
You give the house almost a wholesome look. It wants a bit of
youth as much as it wants fresh air.Then he dismisses her
lights his pipeand drinks to Mr. Smallweed's friend in the city-the
one solitary flight of that esteemed old gentleman's
imagination.

So you think he might be hard upon me, eh?

I think he might--I am afraid he would. I have known him do it,
says Grandfather Smallweed incautiouslytwenty times.

Incautiouslybecause his stricken better-halfwho has been dozing
over the fire for some timeis instantly aroused and jabbers
Twenty thousand pounds, twenty twenty-pound notes in a money-box,
twenty guineas, twenty million twenty per cent, twenty--and is
then cut short by the flying cushionwhich the visitorto whom
this singular experiment appears to be a noveltysnatches from her
face as it crushes her in the usual manner.

You're a brimstone idiot. You're a scorpion--a brimstone
scorpion! You're a sweltering toad. You're a chattering
clattering broomstick witch that ought to be burnt!gasps the old
manprostrate in his chair. "My dear friendwill you shake me up
a little?"

Mr. Georgewho has been looking first at one of them and then at
the otheras if he were dementedtakes his venerable acquaintance
by the throat on receiving this requestand dragging him upright
in his chalr as easily as if he were a dollappears in two minds
whether or no to shake all future power of cushioning out of him
and shake him into his grave. Resisting the temptationbut
agitating him violently enough to make his head roll like a
harlequin'she puts him smartly down in his chair again and


adjusts his skull-cap with such a rub that the old man winks with
both eyes for a minute afterwards.

O Lord!gasps Mr. Smallweed. "That'll do. Thank youmy dear
friendthat'll do. Ohdear meI'm out of breath. O Lord!" And
Mr. Smallweed says it not without evident apprehensions of his dear
friendwho still stands over him looming larger than ever.

The alarming presencehowevergradually subsides into its chair
and falls to smoking in long puffsconsoling itself with the
philosophical reflectionThe name of your friend in the city
begins with a D, comrade, and you're about right respecting the
bond.

Did you speak, Mr. George?inquires the old man.

The trooper shakes his headand leaning forward with his right
elbow on his right knee and his pipe supported in that handwhile
his other handresting on his left legsquares his left elbow in
a martial mannercontinues to smoke. Meanwhile he looks at Mr.
Smallweed with grave attention and now and then fans the cloud of
smoke away in order that he may see him the more clearly.

I take it,he saysmaking just as much and as little change in
his position as will enable him to reach the glass to his lips with
a roundfull actionthat I am the only man alive (or dead
either) that gets the value of a pipe out of YOU?

Well,returns the old manit's true that I don't see company,
Mr. George, and that I don't treat. I can't afford to it. But as
you, in your pleasant way, made your pipe a condition--

Why, it's not for the value of it; that's no great thing. It was
a fancy to get it out of you. To have something in for my money.

Ha! You're prudent, prudent, sir!cries Grandfather Smallweed
rubbing his legs.

Very. I always was.Puff. "It's a sure sign of my prudence
that I ever found the way here." Puff. "Alsothat I am what I
am." Puff. "I am well known to be prudent says Mr. George,
composedly smoking. I rose in life that way."

Don't he down-hearted, sir. You may rise yet.

Mr. George laughs and drinks.

Ha'n't you no relations, now,asks Grandfather Smallweed with a
twinkle in his eyeswho would pay off this little principal or
who would lend you a good name or two that I could persuade my
friend in the city to make you a further advance upon? Two good
names would be sufficient for my friend in the city. Ha'n't you no
such relations, Mr. George?

Mr. Georgestill composedly smokingrepliesIf I had, I
shouldn't trouble them. I have been trouble enough to my
belongings in my day. It MAY be a very good sort of penitence in a
vagabond, who has wasted the best time of his life, to go back then
to decent people that he never was a credit to and live upon them,
but it's not my sort. The best kind of amends then for having gone
away is to keep away, in my opinion.

But natural affection, Mr. George,hints Grandfather Smallweed.


For two good names, hey?says Mr. Georgeshaking his head and
still composedly smoking. "No. That's not my sort either."

Grandfather Smallweed has been gradually sliding down in his chair
since his last adjustment and is now a bundle of clothes with a
voice in it calling for Judy. That houriappearingshakes him up
in the usual manner and is charged by the old gentleman to remain
near him. For he seems chary of putting his visitor to the trouble
of repeating his late attentions.

Ha!he observes when he is in trim again. "If you could have
traced out the captainMr. Georgeit would have been the making
of you. If when you first came herein consequence of our
advertisement in the newspapers--when I say 'our' I'm alluding to
the advertisements of my friend in the cityand one or two others
who embark their capital in the same wayand are so friendly
towards me as sometimes to give me a lift with my little pittance-if
at that time you could have helped usMr. Georgeit would have
been the making of you."

I was willing enough to be 'made,' as you call it,says Mr.
Georgesmoking not quite so placidly as beforefor since the
entrance of Judy he has been in some measure disturbed by a
fascinationnot of the admiring kindwhich obliges him to look at
her as she stands by her grandfather's chairbut on the whole, I
am glad I wasn't now.

Why, Mr. George? In the name of--of brimstone, why?says
Grandfather Smallweed with a plain appearance of exasperation.
(Brimstone apparently suggested by his eye lighting on Mrs.
Smallweed in her slumber.)

For two reasons, comrade.

And what two reasons, Mr. George? In the name of the--

Of our friend in the city?suggests Mr. Georgecomposedly
drinking.

Aye, if you like. What two reasons?

In the first place,returns Mr. Georgebut still looking at Judy
as if she being so old and so like her grandfather it is
indifferent which of the two he addressesyou gentlemen took me
in. You advertised that Mr. Hawdon (Captain Hawdon, if you hold to
the saying 'Once a captain, always a captain') was to hear of
something to his advantage.

Well?returns the old man shrilly and sharply.

Well!says Mr. Georgesmoking on. "It wouldn't have been much
to his advantage to have been clapped into prison by the whole bill
and judgment trade of London."

How do you know that? Some of his rich relations might have paid
his debts or compounded for 'em. Besides, he had taken US in. He
owed us immense sums all round. I would sooner have strangled him
than had no return. If I sit here thinking of him,snarls the old
manholding up his impotent ten fingersI want to strangle him
now.And in a sudden access of furyhe throws the cushion at the
unoffending Mrs. Smallweedbut it passes harmlessly on one side of
her chair.

I don't need to be told,returns the troopertaking his pipe


from his lips for a moment and carrying his eyes back from
following the progress of the cushion to the pipe-bowl which is
burning lowthat he carried on heavily and went to ruin. I have
been at his right hand many a day when he was charging upon ruin
full-gallop. I was with him when he was sick and well, rich and
poor. I laid this hand upon him after he had run through
everything and broken down everything beneath him--when he held a
pistol to his head.

I wish he had let it off,says the benevolent old manand blown
his head into as many pieces as he owed pounds!

That would have been a smash indeed,returns the trooper coolly;
any way, he had been young, hopeful, and handsome in the days gone
by, and I am glad I never found him, when he was neither, to lead
to a result so much to his advantage. That's reason number one.

I hope number two's as good?snarls the old man.

Why, no. It's more of a selfish reason. If I had found him, I
must have gone to the other world to look. He was there.

How do you know he was there?

He wasn't here.

How do you know he wasn't here?

Don't lose your temper as well as your money,says Mr. George
calmly knocking the ashes out of his pipe. "He was drowned long
before. I am convinced of it. He went over a ship's side.
Whether intentionally or accidentallyI don't know. Perhaps your
friend in the city does. Do you know what that tune isMr.
Smallweed?" he adds after breaking off to whistle oneaccompanied
on the table with the empty pipe.

Tune!replied the old man. "No. We never have tunes here."

That's the Dead March in Saul. They bury soldiers to it, so it's
the natural end of the subject. Now, if your pretty granddaughter
--excuse me, miss--will condescend to take care of this pipe for two
months, we shall save the cost of one next time. Good evening, Mr.
Smallweed!

My dear friend!the old man gives him both his hands.

So you think your friend in the city will be hard upon me if I
fall in a payment?says the trooperlooking down upon him like a
giant.

My dear friend, I am afraid he will,returns the old manlooking
up at him like a pygmy.

Mr. George laughsand with a glance at Mr. Smallweed and a parting
salutation to the scornful Judystrides out of the parlour
clashing imaginary sabres and other metallic appurtenances as he
goes.

You're a damned rogue,says the old gentlemanmaking a hideous
grimace at the door as he shuts it. "But I'll lime youyou dog
I'll lime you!"

After this amiable remarkhis spirit soars into those enchanting
regions of reflection which its education and pursuits have opened


to itand again he and Mrs. Smallweed while away the rosy hours
two unrelieved sentinels forgotten as aforesaid by the Black
Serjeant.

While the twain are faithful to their postMr. George strides
through the streets with a massive kind of swagger and a grave-
enough face. It is eight o'clock nowand the day is fast drawing
in. He stops hard by Waterloo Bridge and reads a playbilldecides
to go to Astley's Theatre. Being thereis much delighted with the
horses and the feats of strength; looks at the weapons with a
critical eye; disapproves of the combats as giving evidences of
unskilful swordsmanship; but is touched home by the sentiments. In
the last scenewhen the Emperor of Tartary gets up into a cart and
condescends to bless the united lovers by hovering over them with
the Union Jackhis eyelashes are moistened with emotion.

The theatre overMr. George comes across the water again and makes
his way to that curious region lying about the Haymarket and
Leicester Square which is a centre of attraction to indifferent
foreign hotels and indifferent foreignersracket-courtsfighting-
menswordsmenfootguardsold chinagaming-housesexhibitions
and a large medley of shabbiness and shrinking out of sight.
Penetrating to the heart of this regionhe arrives by a court and
a long whitewashed passage at a great brick building composed of
bare wallsfloorsroof-raftersand skylightson the front of
whichif it can be said to have any frontis painted GEORGE'S
SHOOTING GALLERY&c.

Into George's Shooting Gallery&c.he goes; and in it there are
gaslights (partly turned off now)and two whitened targets for
rifle-shootingand archery accommodationand fencing appliances
and all necessaries for the British art of boxing. None of these
sports or exercises being pursued in George's Shooting Gallery tonight
which is so devoid of company that a little grotesque man
with a large head has it all to himself and lies asleep upon the
floor.

The little man is dressed something like a gunsmithin a green-
baize apron and cap; and his face and hands are dirty with
gunpowder and begrimed with the loading of guns. As he lies in the
light before a glaring white targetthe black upon him shines
again. Not far off is the strongroughprimitive table with a
vice upon it at which he has been working. He is a little man with
a face all crushed togetherwho appearsfrom a certain blue and
speckled appearance that one of his cheeks presentsto have been
blown upin the way of businessat some odd time or times.

Phil!says the trooper in a quiet voice.

All right!cries Philscrambling to his feet.

Anything been doing?

Flat as ever so much swipes,says Phil. "Five dozen rifle and a
dozen pistol. As to aim!" Phil gives a howl at the recollection.

Shut up shop, Phil!

As Phil moves about to execute this orderit appears that he is
lamethough able to move very quickly. On the speckled side of
his face he has no eyebrowand on the other side he has a bushy
black onewhich want of uniformity gives him a very singular and
rather sinister appearance. Everything seems to have happened to
his hands that could possibly take place consistently with the


retention of all the fingersfor they are notchedand seamedand
crumpled all over. He appears to be very strong and lifts heavy
benches about as if he had no idea what weight was. He has a
curious way of limping round the gallery with his shoulder against
the wall and tacking off at objects he wants to lay hold of instead
of going straight to themwhich has left a smear all round the
four wallsconventionally called "Phil's mark."

This custodian of George's Gallery in George's absence concludes
his proceedingswhen he has locked the great doors and turned out
all the lights but onewhich he leaves to glimmerby dragging out
from a wooden cabin in a corner two mattresses and bedding. These
being drawn to opposite ends of the gallerythe trooper makes his
own bed and Phil makes his.

Phil!says the masterwalking towards him without his coat and
waistcoatand looking more soldierly than ever in his braces.
You were found in a doorway, weren't you?

Gutter,says Phil. "Watchman tumbled over me."

Then vagabondizing came natural to YOU from the beginning.

As nat'ral as possible,says Phil.

Good night!

Good night, guv'ner.

Phil cannot even go straight to bedbut finds it necessary to
shoulder round two sides of the gallery and then tack off at his
mattress. The trooperafter taking a turn or two in the rifle-
distance and looking up at the moon now shining through the
skylightsstrides to his own mattress by a shorter route and goes
to bed too.

CHAPTER XXII

Mr. Bucket

Allegory looks pretty cool in Lincoln's Inn Fieldsthough the
evening is hotfor both Mr. Tulkinghorn's windows are wide open
and the room is loftygustyand gloomy. These may not be
desirable characteristics when November comes with fog and sleet or
January with ice and snowbut they have their merits in the sultry
long vacation weather. They enable Allegorythough it has cheeks
like peachesand knees like bunches of blossomsand rosy
swellings for calves to its legs and muscles to its armsto look
tolerably cool to-night.

Plenty of dust comes in at Mr. Tulkinghorn's windowsand plenty
more has generated among his furniture and papers. It lies thick
everywhere. When a breeze from the country that has lost its way
takes fright and makes a blind hurry to rush out againit flings
as much dust in the eyes of Allegory as the law-or Mr. Tulkinghorn
one of its trustiest representatives--may scatteron occasionin
the eyes of the laity.

In his lowering magazine of dustthe universal article into which
his papers and himselfand all his clientsand all things of
earthanimate and inanimateare resolvingMr. Tulkinghorn sits


at one of the open windows enjoying a bottle of old port. Though a
hard-grained manclosedryand silenthe can enjoy old wine
with the best. He has a priceless bin of port in some artful
cellar under the Fieldswhich is one of his many secrets. When he
dines alone in chambersas he has dined to-dayand has his bit of
fish and his steak or chicken brought in from the coffee-househe
descends with a candle to the echoing regions below the deserted
mansionand heralded by a remote reverberation of thundering
doorscomes gravely back encircled by an earthy atmosphere and
carrying a bottle from which he pours a radiant nectartwo score
and ten years oldthat blushes in the glass to find itself so
famous and fills the whole room with the fragrance of southern
grapes.

Mr. Tulkinghornsitting in the twilight by the open windowenjoys
his wine. As if it whispered to him of its fifty years of silence
and seclusionit shuts him up the closer. More impenetrable than
everhe sitsand drinksand mellows as it were in secrecy
pondering at that twilight hour on all the mysteries he knows
associated with darkening woods in the countryand vast blank
shut-up houses in townand perhaps sparing a thought or two for
himselfand his family historyand his moneyand his will--all a
mystery to every one--and that one bachelor friend of hisa man of
the same mould and a lawyer toowho lived the same kind of life
until he was seventy-five years oldand then suddenly conceiving
(as it is supposed) an impression that it was too monotonousgave
his gold watch to his hair-dresser one summer evening and walked
leisurely home to the Temple and hanged himself.

But Mr. Tulkinghorn is not alone to-night to ponder at his usual
length. Seated at the same tablethough with his chair modestly
and uncomfortably drawn a little way from itsits a baldmild
shining man who coughs respectfully behind his hand when the lawyer
bids him fill his glass.

Now, Snagsby,says Mr. Tulkinghornto go over this odd story
again.

If you please, sir.

You told me when you were so good as to step round here last
night--

For which I must ask you to excuse me if it was a liberty, sir;
but I remember that you had taken a sort of an interest in that
person, and I thought it possible that you might--just--wish--to--

Mr. Tulkinghorn is not the man to help him to any conclusion or to
admit anything as to any possibility concerning himself. So Mr.
Snagsby trails off into sayingwith an awkward coughI must ask
you to excuse the liberty, sir, I am sure.

Not at all,says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "You told meSnagsbythat
you put on your hat and came round without mentioning your
intention to your wife. That was prudent I thinkbecause it's not
a matter of such importance that it requires to be mentioned."

Well, sir,returns Mr. Snagsbyyou see, my little woman is--not
to put too fine a point upon it--inquisitive. She's inquisitive.
Poor little thing, she's liable to spasms, and it's good for her to
have her mind employed. In consequence of which she employs it--I
should say upon every individual thing she can lay hold of, whether
it concerns her or not--especially not. My little woman has a very
active mind, sir.


Mr. Snagsby drinks and murmurs with an admiring cough behind his
handDear me, very fine wine indeed!

Therefore you kept your visit to yourself last night?says Mr.
Tulkinghorn. "And to-night too?"

Yes, sir, and to-night, too. My little woman is at present in-not
to put too fine a point on it--in a pious state, or in what she
considers such, and attends the Evening Exertions (which is the
name they go by) of a reverend party of the name of Chadband. He
has a great deal of eloquence at his command, undoubtedly, but I am
not quite favourable to his style myself. That's neither here nor
there. My little woman being engaged in that way made it easier
for me to step round in a quiet manner.

Mr. Tulkinghorn assents. "Fill your glassSnagsby."

Thank you, sir, I am sure,returns the stationer with his cough
of deference. "This is wonderfully fine winesir!"

It is a rare wine now,says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "It is fifty years
old."

Is it indeed, sir? But I am not surprised to hear it, I am sure.
It might be--any age almost.After rendering this general tribute
to the portMr. Snagsby in his modesty coughs an apology behind
his hand for drinking anything so precious.

Will you run over, once again, what the boy said?asks Mr.
Tulkinghornputting his hands into the pockets of his rusty
smallclothes and leaning quietly back in his chair.

With pleasure, sir.

Thenwith fidelitythough with some prolixitythe law-stationer
repeats Jo's statement made to the assembled guests at his house.
On coming to the end of his narrativehe gives a great start and
breaks off withDear me, sir, I wasn't aware there was any other
gentleman present!

Mr. Snagsby is dismayed to seestanding with an attentive face
between himself and the lawyer at a little distance from the table
a person with a hat and stick in his hand who was not there when he
himself came in and has not since entered by the door or by either
of the windows. There is a press in the roombut its hinges have
not creakednor has a step been audible upon the floor. Yet this
third person stands there with his attentive faceand his hat and
stick in his handsand his hands behind hima composed and quiet
listener. He is a stoutly builtsteady-lookingsharp-eyed man in
blackof about the middle-age. Except that he looks at Mr.
Snagsby as if he were going to take his portraitthere is nothing
remarkable about him at first sight but his ghostly manner of
appearing.

Don't mind this gentleman,says Mr. Tulkinghorn in his quiet way.
This is only Mr. Bucket.

Oh, indeed, sir?returns the stationerexpressing by a cough
that he is quite in the dark as to who Mr. Bucket may be.

I wanted him to hear this story,says the lawyerbecause I have
half a mind (for a reason) to know more of it, and he is very
intelligent in such things. What do you say to this, Bucket?


It's very plain, sir. Since our people have moved this boy on,
and he's not to be found on his old lay, if Mr. Snagsby don't
object to go down with me to Tom-all-Alone's and point him out, we
can have him here in less than a couple of hours' time. I can do
it without Mr. Snagsby, of course, but this is the shortest way.

Mr. Bucket is a detective officer, Snagsby,says the lawyer in
explanation.

Is he indeed, sir?says Mr. Snagsby with a strong tendency in his
clump of hair to stand on end.

And if you have no real objection to accompany Mr. Bucket to the
place in question,pursues the lawyerI shall feel obliged to
you if you will do so.

In a moment's hesitation on the part of Mr. SnagsbyBucket dips
down to the bottom of his mind.

Don't you be afraid of hurting the boy,he says. "You won't do
that. It's all right as far as the boy's concerned. We shall only
bring him here to ask him a question or so I want to put to him
and he'll be paid for his trouble and sent away again. It'll be a
good job for him. I promise youas a manthat you shall see the
boy sent away all right. Don't you be afraid of hurting him; you
an't going to do that."

Very well, Mr. Tulkinghorn!cries Mr. Snagsby cheerfully. And
reassuredSince that's the case--

Yes! And lookee here, Mr. Snagsby,resumes Buckettaking him
aside by the armtapping him familiarly on the breastand
speaking in a confidential tone. "You're a man of the worldyou
knowand a man of businessand a man of sense. That's what YOU
are."

I am sure I am much obliged to you for your good opinion,returns
the stationer with his cough of modestybut--

That's what YOU are, you know,says Bucket. "Nowit an't
necessary to say to a man like youengaged in your businesswhich
is a business of trust and requires a person to be wide awake and
have his senses about him and his head screwed on tight (I had an
uncle in your business once)--it an't necessary to say to a man
like you that it's the best and wisest way to keep little matters
like this quiet. Don't you see? Quiet!"

Certainly, certainly,returns the other.

I don't mind telling YOU,says Bucket with an engaging appearance
of franknessthat as far as I can understand it, there seems to
be a doubt whether this dead person wasn't entitled to a little
property, and whether this female hasn't been up to some games
respecting that property, don't you see?

Oh!says Mr. Snagsbybut not appearing to see quite distinctly.

Now, what YOU want,pursues Bucketagain tapping Mr. Snagsby on
the breast in a comfortable and soothing manneris that every
person should have their rights according to justice. That's what
YOU want.

To be sure,returns Mr. Snagsby with a nod.


On account of which, and at the same time to oblige a--do you call
it, in your business, customer or client? I forget how my uncle
used to call it.

Why, I generally say customer myself,replies Mr. Snagsby.

You're right!returns Mr. Bucketshaking hands with him quite
affectionately. "--On account of whichand at the same time to
oblige a real good customeryou mean to go down with mein
confidenceto Tom-all-Alone's and to keep the whole thing quiet
ever afterwards and never mention it to any one. That's about your
intentionsif I understand you?"

You are right, sir. You are right,says Mr. Snagsby.

Then here's your hat,returns his new friendquite as intimate
with it as if he had made it; "and if you're readyI am."

They leave Mr. Tulkinghornwithout a ruffle on the surface of his
unfathomable depthsdrinking his old wineand go down into the
streets.

You don't happen to know a very good sort of person of the name of
Gridley, do you?says Bucket in friendly converse as they descend
the stairs.

No,says Mr. SnagsbyconsideringI don't know anybody of that
name. Why?

Nothing particular,says Bucket; "only having allowed his temper
to get a little the better of him and having been threatening some
respectable peoplehe is keeping out of the way of a warrant I
have got against him--which it's a pity that a man of sense should
do."

As they walk alongMr. Snagsby observesas a noveltythat
however quick their pace may behis companion still seems in some
undefinable manner to lurk and lounge; alsothat whenever he is
going to turn to the right or lefthe pretends to have a fixed
purpose in his mind of going straight aheadand wheels off
sharplyat the very last moment. Now and thenwhen they pass a
police-constable on his beatMr. Snagsby notices that both the
constable and his guide fall into a deep abstraction as they come
towards each otherand appear entirely to overlook each otherand
to gaze into space. In a few instancesMr. Bucketcoming behind
some under-sized young man with a shining hat onand his sleek
hair twisted into one flat curl on each side of his headalmost
without glancing at him touches him with his stickupon which the
young manlooking roundinstantly evaporates. For the most part
Mr. Bucket notices things in generalwith a face as unchanging as
the great mourning ring on his little finger or the brooch
composed of not much diamond and a good deal of settingwhich he
wears in his shirt.

When they come at last to Tom-all-Alone'sMr. Bucket stops for a
moment at the corner and takes a lighted bull's-eye from the
constable on duty therewho then accompanies him with his own
particular bull's-eye at his waist. Between his two conductors
Mr. Snagsby passes along the middle of a villainous street
undrainedunventilateddeep in black mud and corrupt water-though
the roads are dry elsewhere--and reeking with such smells
and sights that hewho has lived in London all his lifecan
scarce believe his senses. Branching from this street and its


heaps of ruins are other streets and courts so infamous that Mr.
Snagsby sickens in body and mind and feels as if he were going
every moment deeper down into the infernal gulf.

Draw off a bit here, Mr. Snagsby,says Bucket as a kind of shabby
palanquin is borne towards themsurrounded by a noisy crowd.
Here's the fever coming up the street!

As the unseen wretch goes bythe crowdleaving that object of
attractionhovers round the three visitors like a dream of
horrible faces and fades away up alleys and into ruins and behind
wallsand with occasional cries and shrill whistles of warning
thenceforth flits about them until they leave the place.

Are those the fever-houses, Darby?Mr. Bucket coolly asks as he
turns his bull's-eye on a line of stinking ruins.

Darby replies that "all them are and further that in all, for
months and months, the people have been down by dozens" and have
been carried out dead and dying "like sheep with the rot." Bucket
observing to Mr. Snagsby as they go on again that he looks a little
poorlyMr. Snagsby answers that he feels as if he couldn't breathe
the dreadful air.

There is inquiry made at various houses for a boy named Jo. As few
people are known in Tom-all-Alone's by any Christian signthere is
much reference to Mr. Snagsby whether he means Carrotsor the
Colonelor Gallowsor Young Chiselor Terrier Tipor Lankyor
the Brick. Mr. Snagsby describes over and over again. There are
conflicting opinions respecting the original of his picture. Some
think it must be Carrotssome say the Brick. The Colonel is
producedbut is not at all near the thing. Whenever Mr. Snagsby
and his conductors are stationarythe crowd flows roundand from
its squalid depths obsequious advice heaves up to Mr. Bucket.
Whenever they moveand the angry bull's-eyes glareit fades away
and flits about them up the alleysand in the ruinsand behind
the wallsas before.

At last there is a lair found out where Toughyor the Tough
Subjectlays him down at night; and it is thought that the Tough
Subject may be Jo. Comparison of notes between Mr. Snagsby and the
proprietress of the house--a drunken face tied up in a black
bundleand flaring out of a heap of rags on the floor of a dog-
hutch which is her private apartment--leads to the establishment of
this conclusion. Toughy has gone to the doctor's to get a bottle
of stuff for a sick woman but will be here anon.

And who have we got here to-night?says Mr. Bucketopening
another door and glaring in with his bull's-eye. "Two drunken men
eh? And two women? The men are sound enough turning back each
sleeper's arm from his face to look at him. Are these your good
menmy dears?"

Yes, sir,returns one of the women. "They are our husbands."

Brickmakers, eh?

Yes, sir.

What are you doing here? You don't belong to London.

No, sir. We belong to Hertfordshire.

Whereabouts in Hertfordshire?


Saint Albans.

Come up on the tramp?

We walked up yesterday. There's no work down with us at present,
but we have done no good by coming here, and shall do none, I
expect.

That's not the way to do much good,says Mr. Bucketturning his
head in the direction of the unconscious figures on the ground.

It an't indeed,replies the woman with a sigh. "Jenny and me
knows it full well."

The roomthough two or three feet higher than the dooris so low
that the head of the tallest of the visitors would touch the
blackened ceiling if he stood upright. It is offensive to every
sense; even the gross candle burns pale and sickly in the polluted
air. There are a couple of benches and a higher bench by way of
table. The men lie asleep where they stumbled downbut the women
sit by the candle. Lying in the arms of the woman who has spoken
is a very young child.

Why, what age do you call that little creature?says Bucket. "It
looks as if it was born yesterday." He is not at all rough about
it; and as he turns his light gently on the infantMr. Snagsby is
strangely reminded of another infantencircled with lightthat he
has seen in pictures.

He is not three weeks old yet, sir,says the woman.

Is he your child?

Mine.

The other womanwho was bending over it when they came instoops
down again and kisses it as it lies asleep.

You seem as fond of it as if you were the mother yourself,says
Mr. Bucket.

I was the mother of one like it, master, and it died.

Ah, Jenny, Jenny!says the other woman to her. "Better so. Much
better to think of dead than aliveJenny! Much better!"

Why, you an't such an unnatural woman, I hope,returns Bucket
sternlyas to wish your own child dead?

God knows you are right, master,she returns. "I am not. I'd
stand between it and death with my own life if I couldas true as
any pretty lady."

Then don't talk in that wrong manner,says Mr. Bucketmollified
again. "Why do you do it?"

It's brought into my head, master,returns the womanher eyes
filling with tearswhen I look down at the child lying so. If it
was never to wake no more, you'd think me mad, I should take on so.
I know that very well. I was with Jenny when she lost hers--warn't
I, Jenny?--and I know how she grieved. But look around you at this
place. Look at them,glancing at the sleepers on the ground.
Look at the boy you're waiting for, who's gone out to do me a good


turn. Think of the children that your business lays with often and
often, and that YOU see grow up!

Well, well,says Mr. Bucketyou train him respectable, and
he'll be a comfort to you, and look after you in your old age, you
know.

I mean to try hard,she answerswiping her eyes. "But I have
been a-thinkingbeing over-tired to-night and not well with the
agueof all the many things that'll come in his way. My master
will be against itand he'll be beatand see me beatand made to
fear his homeand perhaps to stray wild. If I work for him ever
so muchand ever so hardthere's no one to help me; and if he
should be turned bad 'spite of all I could doand the time should
come when I should sit by him in his sleepmade hard and changed
an't it likely I should think of him as he lies in my lap now and
wish he had died as Jenny's child died!"

There, there!says Jenny. "Lizyou're tired and ill. Let me
take him."

In doing soshe displaces the mother's dressbut quickly
readjusts it over the wounded and bruised bosom where the baby has
been lying.

It's my dead child,says Jennywalking up and down as she
nursesthat makes me love this child so dear, and it's my dead
child that makes her love it so dear too, as even to think of its
being taken away from her now. While she thinks that, I think what
fortune would I give to have my darling back. But we mean the same
thing, if we knew how to say it, us two mothers does in our poor
hearts!

As Mr. Snagsby blows his nose and coughs his cough of sympathya
step is heard without. Mr. Bucket throws his light into the
doorway and says to Mr. SnagsbyNow, what do you say to Toughy?
Will HE do?

That's Jo,says Mr. Snagsby.

Jo stands amazed in the disk of lightlike a ragged figure in a
magic-lanterntrembling to think that he has offended against the
law in not having moved on far enough. Mr. Snagsbyhowever
giving him the consolatory assuranceIt's only a job you will be
paid for, Jo,he recovers; and on being taken outside by Mr.
Bucket for a little private confabulationtells his tale
satisfactorilythough out of breath.

I have squared it with the lad,says Mr. Bucketreturningand
it's all right. Now, Mr. Snagsby, we're ready for you.

FirstJo has to complete his errand of good nature by handing over
the physic he has been to getwhich he delivers with the laconic
verbal direction that "it's to be all took d'rectly." Secondly
Mr. Snagsby has to lay upon the table half a crownhis usual
panacea for an immense variety of afflictions. ThirdlyMr. Bucket
has to take Jo by the arm a little above the elbow and walk him on
before himwithout which observance neither the Tough Subject nor
any other Subject could be professionally conducted to Lincoln's
Inn Fields. These arrangements completedthey give the women good
night and come out once more into black and foul Tom-all-Alone's.

By the noisome ways through which they descended into that pit
they gradually emerge from itthe crowd flittingand whistling


and skulking about them until they come to the vergewhere
restoration of the bull's-eyes is made to Darby. Here the crowd
like a concourse of imprisoned demonsturns backyellingand is
seen no more. Through the clearer and fresher streetsnever so
clear and fresh to Mr. Snagsby's mind as nowthey walk and ride
until they come to Mr. Tulkinghorn's gate.

As they ascend the dim stairs (Mr. Tulkinghorn's chambers being on
the first floor)Mr. Bucket mentions that he has the key of the
outer door in his pocket and that there is no need to ring. For a
man so expert in most things of that kindBucket takes time to
open the door and makes some noise too. It may be that he sounds a
note of preparation.

Howbeitthey come at last into the hallwhere a lamp is burning
and so into Mr. Tulkinghorn's usual room--the room where he drank
his old wine to-night. He is not therebut his two old-fashioned
candlesticks areand the room is tolerably light.

Mr. Bucketstill having his professional hold of Jo and appearing
to Mr. Snagsby to possess an unlimited number of eyesmakes a
little way into this roomwhen Jo starts and stops.

What's the matter?says Bucket in a whisper.

There she is!cries Jo.

Who!

The lady!

A female figureclosely veiledstands in the middle of the room
where the light falls upon it. It is quite still and silent. The
front of the figure is towards thembut it takes no notice of
their entrance and remains like a statue.

Now, tell me,says Bucket aloudhow you know that to be the
lady.

I know the wale,replies Jostaringand the bonnet, and the
gownd.

Be quite sure of what you say, Tough,returns Bucketnarrowly
observant of him. "Look again."

I am a-looking as hard as ever I can look,says Jo with starting
eyesand that there's the wale, the bonnet, and the gownd.

What about those rings you told me of?asks Bucket.

A-sparkling all over here,says Jorubbing the fingers of his
left hand on the knuckles of his right without taking his eyes from
the figure.

The figure removes the right-hand glove and shows the hand.

Now, what do you say to that?asks Bucket.

Jo shakes his head. "Not rings a bit like them. Not a hand like
that."

What are you talking of?says Bucketevidently pleased though
and well pleased too.


Hand was a deal whiter, a deal delicater, and a deal smaller,
returns Jo.

Why, you'll tell me I'm my own mother next,says Mr. Bucket. "Do
you recollect the lady's voice?"

I think I does,says Jo.

The figure speaks. "Was it at all like this? I will speak as long
as you like if you are not sure. Was it this voiceor at all like
this voice?"

Jo looks aghast at Mr. Bucket. "Not a bit!"

Then, what,retorts that worthypointing to the figuredid you
say it was the lady for?

Cos,says Jo with a perplexed stare but without being at all
shaken in his certaintycos that there's the wale, the bonnet,
and the gownd. It is her and it an't her. It an't her hand, nor
yet her rings, nor yet her woice. But that there's the wale, the
bonnet, and the gownd, and they're wore the same way wot she wore
'em, and it's her height wot she wos, and she giv me a sov'ring and
hooked it.

Well!says Mr. Bucket slightlywe haven't got much good out of
YOU. But, however, here's five shillings for you. Take care how
you spend it, and don't get yourself into trouble.Bucket
stealthily tells the coins from one hand into the other like
counters--which is a way he hashis principal use of them being in
these games of skill--and then puts themin a little pileinto
the boy's hand and takes him out to the doorleaving Mr. Snagsby
not by any means comfortable under these mysterious circumstances
alone with the veiled figure. But on Mr. Tulkinghorn's coming into
the roomthe veil is raised and a sufficiently good-looking
Frenchwoman is revealedthough her expression is something of the
intensest.

Thank you, Mademoiselle Hortense,says Mr. Tulkinghorn with his
usual equanimity. "I will give you no further trouble about this
little wager."

You will do me the kindness to remember, sir, that I am not at
present placed?says mademoiselle.

Certainly, certainly!

And to confer upon me the favour of your distinguished
recommendation?

By all means, Mademoiselle Hortense.

A word from Mr. Tulkinghorn is so powerful.

It shall not be wanting, mademoiselle.

Receive the assurance of my devoted gratitude, dear sir.

Good night.

Mademoiselle goes out with an air of native gentility; and Mr.
Bucketto whom it ison an emergencyas natural to be groom of
the ceremonies as it is to be anything elseshows her downstairs
not without gallantry.


Well, Bucket?quoth Mr. Tulkinghorn on his return.

It's all squared, you see, as I squared it myself, sir. There
an't a doubt that it was the other one with this one's dress on.
The boy was exact respecting colours and everything. Mr. Snagsby,
I promised you as a man that he should be sent away all right.
Don't say it wasn't done!

You have kept your word, sir,returns the stationer; "and if I
can be of no further useMr. TulkinghornI thinkas my little
woman will be getting anxious--"

Thank you, Snagsby, no further use,says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "I am
quite indebted to you for the trouble you have taken already."

Not at all, sir. I wish you good night.

You see, Mr. Snagsby,says Mr. Bucketaccompanying him to the
door and shaking hands with him over and over againwhat I like
in you is that you're a man it's of no use pumping; that's what YOU
are. When you know you have done a right thing, you put it away,
and it's done with and gone, and there's an end of it. That's what
YOU do.

That is certainly what I endeavour to do, sir,returns Mr.
Snagsby.

No, you don't do yourself justice. It an't what you endeavour to
do,says Mr. Bucketshaking hands with him and blessing him in
the tenderest mannerit's what you DO. That's what I estimate in
a man in your way of business.

Mr. Snagsby makes a suitable response and goes homeward so confused
by the events of the evening that he is doubtful of his being awake
and out--doubtful of the reality of the streets through which he
goes--doubtful of the reality of the moon that shines above him.
He is presently reassured on these subjects by the unchallengeable
reality of Mrs. Snagsbysitting up with her head in a perfect
beehive of curl-papers and night-capwho has dispatched Guster to
the police-station with official intelligence of her husband's
being made away withand who within the last two hours has passed
through every stage of swooning with the greatest decorum. But as
the little woman feelingly saysmany thanks she gets for it!

CHAPTER XXIII

Esther's Narrative

We came home from Mr. Boythorn's after six pleasant weeks. We were
often in the park and in the woods and seldom passed the lodge
where we had taken shelter without looking in to speak to the
keeper's wife; but we saw no more of Lady Dedlockexcept at church
on Sundays. There was company at Chesney Wold; and although
several beautiful faces surrounded herher face retained the same
influence on me as at first. I do not quite know even now whether
it was painful or pleasurablewhether it drew me towards her or
made me shrink from her. I think I admired her with a kind of
fearand I know that in her presence my thoughts always wandered
backas they had done at firstto that old time of my life.


I had a fancyon more than one of these Sundaysthat what this
lady so curiously was to meI was to her--I mean that I disturbed
her thoughts as she influenced minethough in some different way.
But when I stole a glance at her and saw her so composed and
distant and unapproachableI felt this to be a foolish weakness.
IndeedI felt the whole state of my mind in reference to her to be
weak and unreasonableand I remonstrated with myself about it as
much as I could.

One incident that occurred before we quitted Mr. Boythorn's house
I had better mention in this place.

I was walking in the garden with Ada and when I was told that some
one wished to see me. Going into the breakfast-room where this
person was waitingI found it to be the French maid who had cast
off her shoes and walked through the wet grass on the day when it
thundered and lightened.

Mademoiselle,she beganlooking fixedly at me with her too-eager
eyesthough otherwise presenting an agreeable appearance and
speaking neither with boldness nor servilityI have taken a great
liberty in coming here, but you know how to excuse it, being so
amiable, mademoiselle.

No excuse is necessary,I returnedif you wish to speak to me.

That is my desire, mademoiselle. A thousand thanks for the
permission. I have your leave to speak. Is it not?she said in a
quicknatural way.

Certainly,said I.

Mademoiselle, you are so amiable! Listen then, if you please.
have left my Lady. We could not agree. My Lady is so high, so
very high. Pardon! Mademoiselle, you are right!Her quickness
anticipated what I might have said presently but as yet had only
thought. "It is not for me to come here to complain of my Lady.
But I say she is so highso very high. I will not say a word
more. All the world knows that."

Go on, if you please,said I.

Assuredly; mademoiselle, I am thankful for your politeness.
Mademoiselle, I have an inexpressible desire to find service with a
young lady who is good, accomplished, beautiful. You are good,
accomplished, and beautiful as an angel. Ah, could I have the
honour of being your domestic!

I am sorry--I began.

Do not dismiss me so soon, mademoiselle!she said with an
involuntary contraction of her fine black eyebrows. "Let me hope a
moment! MademoiselleI know this service would be more retired
than that which I have quitted. Well! I wish that. I know this
service would be less distinguished than that which I have quitted.
Well! I wish thatI know that I should win lessas to wages here.
Good. I am content."

I assure you,said Iquite embarrassed by the mere idea of
having such an attendantthat I keep no maid--

Ah, mademoiselle, but why not? Why not, when you can have one so
devoted to you! Who would be enchanted to serve you; who would be
so true, so zealous, and so faithful every day! Mademoiselle, I


wish with all my heart to serve you. Do not speak of money at
present. Take me as I am. For nothing!

She was so singularly earnest that I drew backalmost afraid of
her. Without appearing to notice itin her ardour she still
pressed herself upon mespeaking in a rapid subdued voicethough
always with a certain grace and propriety.

Mademoiselle, I come from the South country where we are quick and
where we like and dislike very strong. My Lady was too high for
me; I was too high for her. It is done--past--finlshed! Receive
me as your domestic, and I will serve you well. I will do more for
you than you figure to yourself now. Chut! Mademoiselle, I will-no
matter, I will do my utmost possible in all things. If you
accept my service, you will not repent it. Mademoiselle, you will
not repent it, and I will serve you well. You don't know how
well!

There was a lowering energy in her face as she stood looking at me
while I explained the impossibility of my engagmg her (without
thinking it necessary to say how very little I desired to do so)
which seemed to bring visibly before me some woman from the streets
of Paris in the reign of terror.

She heard me out without interruption and then said with her pretty
accent and in her mildest voiceHey, mademoiselle, I have
received my answer! I am sorry of it. But I must go elsewhere and
seek what I have not found here. Will you graciously let me kiss
your hand?

She looked at me more intently as she took itand seemed to take
notewith her momentary touchof every vein in it. "I fear I
surprised youmademoiselleon the day of the storm?" she said
with a parting curtsy.

I confessed that she had surprised us all.

I took an oath, mademoiselle,she saidsmilingand I wanted to
stamp it on my mind so that I might keep it faithfully. And I
will! Adieu, mademoiselle!

So ended our conferencewhich I was very glad to bring to a close.
I supposed she went away from the villagefor I saw her no more;
and nothing else occurred to disturb our tranquil summer pleasures
until six weeks were out and we returned home as I began just now
by saying.

At that timeand for a good many weeks after that timeRichard
was constant in his visits. Besides coming every Saturday or
Sunday and remaining with us until Monday morninghe sometimes
rode out on horseback unexpectedly and passed the evening with us
and rode back again early next day. He was as vivacious as ever
and told us he was very industriousbut I was not easy in my mind
about him. It appeared to me that his industry was all
misdirected. I could not find that it led to anything but the
formation of delusive hopes in connexion with the suit already the
pernicious cause of so much sorrow and ruin. He had got at the
core of that mystery nowhe told usand nothing could be plainer
than that the will under which he and Ada were to take I don't know
how many thousands of pounds must be finally established if there
were any sense or justice in the Court of Chancery--but ohwhat a
great IF that sounded in my ears--and that this happy conclusion
could not be much longer delayed. He proved this to himself by all
the weary arguments on that side he had readand every one of them


sunk him deeper in the infatuation. He had even begun to haunt the
court. He told us how he saw Miss Flite there dailyhow they
talked togetherand how he did her little kindnessesand how
while he laughed at herhe pitied her from his heart. But he
never thought--nevermy poordearsanguine Richardcapable of
so much happiness thenand with such better things before him-what
a fatal link was riveting between his fresh youth and her
faded agebetween his free hopes and her caged birdsand her
hungry garretand her wandering mind.

Ada loved him too well to mistrust him much in anything he said or
didand my guardianthough he frequently complained of the east
wind and read more than usual in the growlerypreserved a strict
silence on the subject. So I thought one day when I went to London
to meet Caddy Jellybyat her solicitationI would ask Richard to
be in waiting for me at the coach-officethat we might have a
little talk together. I found him there when I arrivedand we
walked away arm in arm.

Well, Richard,said I as soon as I could begin to be grave with
himare you beginning to feel more settled now?

Oh, yes, my dear!returned Richard. "I'm all right enough."

But settled?said I.

How do you mean, settled?returned Richard with his gay laugh.

Settled in the law,said I.

Oh, aye,replied RichardI'm all right enough.

You said that before, my dear Richard.

And you don't think it's an answer, eh? Well! Perhaps it's not.
Settled? You mean, do I feel as if I were settling down?

Yes.

Why, no, I can't say I am settling down,said Richardstrongly
emphasizing "down as if that expressed the difficulty, because
one can't settle down while this business remains in such an
unsettled state. When I say this businessof course I mean the-forbidden
subject."

Do you think it will ever be in a settled state?said I.

Not the least doubt of it,answered Richard.

We walked a little way without speakingand presently Richard
addressed me in his frankest and most feeling mannerthus: "My
dear EstherI understand youand I wish to heaven I were a more
constant sort of fellow. I don't mean constant to Adafor I love
her dearly--better and better every day--but constant to myself.
(SomehowI mean something that I can't very well expressbut
you'll make it out.) If I were a more constant sort of fellowI
should have held on either to Badger or to Kenge and Carboy like
grim deathand should have begun to be steady and systematic by
this timeand shouldn't be in debtand--"

ARE you in debt, Richard?

Yes,said RichardI am a little so, my dear. Also, I have
taken rather too much to billiards and that sort of thing. Now the


murder's out; you despise me, Esther, don't you?

You know I don't,said I.

You are kinder to me than I often am to myself,he returned. "My
dear EstherI am a very unfortunate dog not to be more settled
but how CAN I be more settled? If you lived in an unfinished
houseyou couldn't settle down in it; if you were condemned to
leave everything you undertook unfinishedyou would find it hard
to apply yourself to anything; and yet that's my unhappy case. I
was born into this unfinished contention with all its chances and
changesand it began to unsettle me before I quite knew the
difference between a suit at law and a suit of clothes; and it has
gone on unsettling me ever since; and here I am nowconscious
sometimes that I am but a worthless fellow to love my confiding
cousin Ada."

We were in a solitary placeand he put his hands before his eyes
and sobbed as he said the words.

Oh, Richard!said I. "Do not be so moved. You have a noble
natureand Ada's love may make you worthier every day."

I know, my dear,he repliedpressing my armI know all that.
You mustn't mind my being a little soft now, for I have had all
this upon my mind for a long time, and have often meant to speak to
you, and have sometimes wanted opportunity and sometimes courage.
I know what the thought of Ada ought to do for me, but it doesn't
do it. I am too unsettled even for that. I love her most
devotedly, and yet I do her wrong, in doing myself wrong, every day
and hour. But it can't last for ever. We shall come on for a
final hearing and get judgment in our favour, and then you and Ada
shall see what I can really be!

It had given me a pang to hear him sob and see the tears start out
between his fingersbut that was infinitely less affecting to me
than the hopeful animation with which he said these words.

I have looked well into the papers, Esther. I have been deep in
them for months,he continuedrecovering his cheerfulness in a
momentand you may rely upon it that we shall come out
triumphant. As to years of delay, there has been no want of them,
heaven knows! And there is the greater probability of our bringing
the matter to a speedy close; in fact, it's on the paper now. It
will be all right at last, and then you shall see!

Recalling how he had just now placed Messrs. Kenge and Carboy in
the same category with Mr. BadgerI asked him when he intended to
be articled in Lincoln's Inn.

There again! I think not at all, Esther,he returned with an
effort. "I fancy I have had enough of it. Having worked at
Jarndyce and Jarndyce like a galley slaveI have slaked my thirst
for the law and satisfied myself that I shouldn't like it.
BesidesI find it unsettles me more and more to be so constantly
upon the scene of action. So what continued Richard, confident
again by this time, do I naturally turn my thoughts to?"

I can't imagine,said I.

Don't look so serious,returned Richardbecause it's the best
thing I can do, my dear Esther, I am certain. It's not as if I
wanted a profession for life. These proceedings will come to a
termination, and then I am provided for. No. I look upon it as a


pursuit which is in its nature more or less unsettled, and
therefore suited to my temporary condition--I may say, precisely
suited. What is it that I naturally turn my thoughts to?

I looked at him and shook my head.

What,said Richardin a tone of perfect convictionbut the
army!

The army?said I.

The army, of course. What I have to do is to get a commission;
and--there I am, you know!said Richard.

And then he showed meproved by elaborate calculations in his
pocket-bookthat supposing he had contractedsaytwo hundred
pounds of debt in six months out of the army; and that he
contracted no debt at all within a corresponding period in the
army--as to which he had quite made up his mind; this step must
involve a saving of four hundred pounds in a yearor two thousand
pounds in five yearswhich was a considerable sum. And then he
spoke so ingenuously and sincerely of the sacrifice he made in
withdrawing himself for a time from Adaand of the earnestness
with which he aspired--as in thought he always didI know full
well--to repay her loveand to ensure her happinessand to
conquer what was amiss in himselfand to acquire the very soul of
decisionthat he made my heart ache keenlysorely. ForI
thoughthow would this endhow could this endwhen so soon and
so surely all his manly qualities were touched by the fatal blight
that ruined everything it rested on!

I spoke to Richard with all the earnestness I feltand all the
hope I could not quite feel thenand implored him for Ada's sake
not to put any trust in Chancery. To all I saidRichard readily
assentedriding over the court and everything else in his easy way
and drawing the brightest pictures of the character he was to
settle into--alaswhen the grievous suit should loose its hold
upon him! We had a long talkbut it always came back to thatin
substance.

At last we came to Soho Squarewhere Caddy Jellyby had appointed
to wait for meas a quiet place in the neighbourhood of Newman
Street. Caddy was in the garden in the centre and hurried out as
soon as I appeared. After a few cheerful wordsRichard left us
together.

Prince has a pupil over the way, Esther,said Caddyand got the
key for us. So if you will walk round and round here with me, we
can lock ourselves in and I can tell you comfortably what I wanted
to see your dear good face about.

Very well, my dear,said I. "Nothing could be better." So
Caddyafter affectionately squeezing the dear good face as she
called itlocked the gateand took my armand we began to walk
round the garden very cosily.

You see, Esther,said Caddywho thoroughly enjoyed a little
confidenceafter you spoke to me about its being wrong to marry
without Ma's knowledge, or even to keep Ma long in the dark
respecting our engagement--though I don't believe Ma cares much for
me, I must say--I thought it right to mention your opinions to
Prince. In the first place because I want to profit by everything
you tell me, and in the second place because I have no secrets from
Prince.


I hope he approved, Caddy?

Oh, my dear! I assure you he would approve of anything you could
say. You have no idea what an opimon he has of you!

Indeed!

Esther, it's enough to make anybody but me jealous,said Caddy
laughing and shaking her head; "but it only makes me joyfulfor
you are the first friend I ever hadand the best friend I ever can
haveand nobody can respect and love you too much to please me."

Upon my word, Caddy,said Iyou are in the general conspiracy
to keep me in a good humour. Well, my dear?

Well! I am going to tell you,replied Caddycrossing her hands
confidentially upon my arm. "So we talked a good deal about it
and so I said to Prince'Princeas Miss Summerson--"

I hope you didn't say 'Miss Summerson'?

No. I didn't!cried Caddygreatly pleased and with the
brightest of faces. "I said'Esther.' I said to Prince'As
Esther is decidedly of that opinionPrinceand has expressed it
to meand always hints it when she writes those kind noteswhich
you are so fond of hearing me read to youI am prepared to
disclose the truth to Ma whenever you think proper. And I think
Prince' said I'that Esther thinks that I should be in a better
and truerand more honourable position altogether if you did the
same to your papa.'"

Yes, my dear,said I. "Esther certainly does think so."

So I was right, you see!exclaimed Caddy. "Well! This troubled
Prince a good dealnot because he had the least doubt about it
but because he is so considerate of the feelings of old Mr.
Turveydrop; and he had his apprehensions that old Mr. Turveydrop
might break his heartor faint awayor be very much overcome in
some affecting manner or other if he made such an announcement. He
feared old Mr. Turveydrop might consider it undutiful and might
receive too great a shock. For old Mr. Turveydrop's deportment is
very beautifulyou knowEsther said Caddy, and his feelings
are extremely sensitive."

Are they, my dear?

Oh, extremely sensitive. Prince says so. Now, this has caused my
darling child--I didn't mean to use the expression to you, Esther,
Caddy apologizedher face suffused with blushesbut I generally
call Prince my darling child.

I laughed; and Caddy laughed and blushedand went on'

This has caused him, Esther--

Caused whom, my dear?

Oh, you tiresome thing!said Caddylaughingwith her pretty
face on fire. "My darling childif you insist upon it! This has
caused him weeks of uneasiness and has made him delayfrom day to
dayin a very anxious manner. At last he said to me'Caddyif
Miss Summersonwho is a great favourite with my fathercould be
prevailed upon to be present when I broke the subjectI think I


could do it.' So I promised I would ask you. And I made up my
mindbesides said Caddy, looking at me hopefully but timidly,
that if you consentedI would ask you afterwards to come with me
to Ma. This is what I meant when I said in my note that I had a
great favour and a great assistance to beg of you. And if you
thought you could grant itEstherwe should both be very
grateful."

Let me see, Caddy,said Ipretending to consider. "ReallyI
think I could do a greater thing than that if the need were
pressing. I am at your service and the darling child'smy dear
whenever you like."

Caddy was quite transported by this reply of minebeingI
believeas susceptible to the least kindness or encouragement as
any tender heart that ever beat in this world; and after another
turn or two round the gardenduring which she put on an entirely
new pair of gloves and made herself as resplendent as possible that
she might do no avoidable discredit to the Master of Deportmentwe
went to Newman Street direct.

Prince was teachingof course. We found him engaged with a not
very hopeful pupil--a stubborn little girl with a sulky foreheada
deep voiceand an inanimatedissatisfied mama--whose case was
certainly not rendered more hopeful by the confusion into which we
threw her preceptor. The lesson at last came to an endafter
proceeding as discordantly as possible; and when the little girl
had changed her shoes and had had her white muslin extinguished in
shawlsshe was taken away. After a few words of preparationwe
then went in search of Mr. Turveydropwhom we foundgrouped with
his hat and glovesas a model of deportmenton the sofa in his
private apartment--the only comfortable room in the house. He
appeared to have dressed at his leisure in the intervals of a light
collationand his dressing-casebrushesand so forthall of
quite an elegant kindlay about.

Father, Miss Summerson; Miss Jellyby.

Charmed! Enchanted!said Mr. Turveydroprising with his high-
shouldered bow. "Permit me!" Handing chairs. "Be seated!"
Kissing the tips of his left fingers. "Overjoyed!" Shutting his
eyes and rolling. "My little retreat is made a paradise."
Recomposing himself on the sofa like the second gentleman in
Europe.

Again you find us, Miss Summerson,said heusing our little
arts to polish, polish! Again the sex stimulates us and rewards us
by the condescension of its lovely presence. It is much in these
times (and we have made an awfully degenerating business of it
since the days of his Royal Highness the Prince Regent--my patron,
if I may presume to say so) to experience that deportment is not
wholly trodden under foot by mechanics. That it can yet bask in
the smile of beauty, my dear madam.

I said nothingwhich I thought a suitable reply; and he took a
pinch of snuff.

My dear son,said Mr. Turveydropyou have four schools this
afternoon. I would recommend a hasty sandwich.

Thank you, father,returned PrinceI will be sure to be
punctual. My dear father, may I beg you to prepare your mind for
what I am going to say?


Good heaven!exclaimed the modelpale and aghast as Prince and
Caddyhand in handbent down before him. "What is this? Is this
lunacy! Or what is this?"

Father,returned Prince with great submissionI love this young
lady, and we are engaged.

Engaged!cried Mr. Turveydropreclining on the sofa and shutting
out the sight with his hand. "An arrow launched at my brain by my
own child!"

We have been engaged for some time, father,faltered Princeand
Miss Summerson, hearing of it, advised that we should declare the
fact to you and was so very kind as to attend on the present
occasion. Miss Jellyby is a young lady who deeply respects you,
father.

Mr. Turveydrop uttered a groan.

No, pray don't! Pray don't, father,urged his son. "Miss
Jellyby is a young lady who deeply respects youand our first
desire is to consider your comfort."

Mr. Turveydrop sobbed.

No, pray don't, father!cried his son.

Boy,said Mr. Turveydropit is well that your sainted mother is
spared this pang. Strike deep, and spare not. Strike home, sir,
strike home!

Pray don't say so, father,implored Princein tears. "It goes
to my heart. I do assure youfatherthat our first wish and
intention is to consider your comfort. Caroline and I do not
forget our duty--what is my duty is Caroline'sas we have often
said together--and with your approval and consentfatherwe will
devote ourselves to making your life agreeable."

Strike home,murmured Mr. Turveydrop. "Strike home!" But he
seemed to listenI thoughttoo.

My dear father,returned Princewe well know what little
comforts you are accustomed to and have a right to, and it will
always be our study and our pride to provide those before anything.
If you will bless us with your approval and consent, father, we
shall not think of being married until it is quite agreeable to
you; and when we ARE married, we shall always make you--of course-our
first consideration. You must ever be the head and master
here, father; and we feel how truly unnatural it would be in us if
we failed to know it or if we failed to exert ourselves in every
possible way to please you.

Mr. Turveydrop underwent a severe internal struggle and came
upright on the sofa again with his cheeks puffing over his stiff
cravata perfect model of parental deportment.

My son!said Mr. Turveydrop. "My children! I cannot resist your
prayer. Be happy!"

His benignity as he raised his future daughter-in-law and stretched
out his hand to his son (who kissed it with affectionate respect
and gratitude) was the most confusing sight I ever saw.

My children,said Mr. Turveydroppaternally encircling Caddy


with his left arm as she sat beside himand putting his right hand
gracefully on his hip. "My son and daughteryour happiness shall
be my care. I will watch over you. You shall always live with
me"--meaningof courseI will always live with you--"this house
is henceforth as much yours as mine; consider it your home. May
you long live to share it with me!"

The power of his deportment was such that they really were as much
overcome with thankfulness as ifinstead of quartering himself
upon them for the rest of his lifehe were making some munificent
sacrifice in their favour.

For myself, my children,said Mr. TurveydropI am falling into
the sear and yellow leaf, and it is impossible to say how long the
last feeble traces of gentlemanly deportment may linger in this
weaving and spinning age. But, so long, I will do my duty to
society and will show myself, as usual, about town. My wants are
few and simple. My little apartment here, my few essentials for
the toilet, my frugal morning meal, and my little dinner will
suffice. I charge your dutiful affection with the supply of these
requirements, and I charge myself with all the rest.

They were overpowered afresh by his uncommon generosity.

My son,said Mr. Turveydropfor those little points in which
you are deficient--points of deportment, which are born with a man,
which may be improved by cultivation, but can never be originated-you
may still rely on me. I have been faithful to my post since
the days of his Royal Highness the Prince Regent, and I will not
desert it now. No, my son. If you have ever contemplated your
father's poor position with a feeling of pride, you may rest
assured that he will do nothing to tarnish it. For yourself,
Prince, whose character is different (we cannot be all alike, nor
is it advisable that we should), work, be industrious, earn money,
and extend the connexion as much as possible.

That you may depend I will do, dear father, with all my heart,
replied Prince.

I have no doubt of it,said Mr. Turveydrop. "Your qualities are
not shiningmy dear childbut they are steady and useful. And to
both of youmy childrenI would merely observein the spirit of
a sainted wooman on whose path I had the happiness of castingI
believeSOME ray of lighttake care of the establishmenttake
care of my simple wantsand bless you both!"

Old Mr. Turveydrop then became so very gallantin honour of the
occasionthat I told Caddy we must really go to Thavies Inn at
once if we were to go at all that day. So we took our departure
after a very loving farewell between Caddy and her betrothedand
during our walk she was so happy and so full of old Mr.
Turveydrop's praises that I would not have said a word in his
disparagement for any consideration.

The house in Thavies Inn had bills in the windows annoucing that it
was to letand it looked dirtier and gloomier and ghastlier than
ever. The name of poor Mr. Jellyby had appeared in the list of
bankrupts but a day or two beforeand he was shut up in the
dining-room with two gentlemen and a heap of blue bagsaccount-
booksand papersmaking the most desperate endeavours to
understand his affairs. They appeared to me to be quite beyond his
comprehensionfor when Caddy took me into the dining-room by
mistake and we came upon Mr. Jellyby in his spectaclesforlornly
fenced into a corner by the great dining-table and the two


gentlemenhe seemed to have given up the whole thing and to be
speechless and insensible.

Going upstairs to Mrs. Jellyby's room (the children were all
screaming in the kitchenand there was no servant to be seen)we
found that lady in the midst of a voluminous correspondence
openingreadingand sorting letterswith a great accumulation of
torn covers on the floor. She was so preoccupied that at first she
did not know methough she sat looking at me with that curious
bright-eyedfar-off look of hers.

Ah! Miss Summerson!she said at last. "I was thinking of
something so different! I hope you are well. I am happy to see
you. Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Clare quite well?"

I hoped in return that Mr. Jellyby was quite well.

Why, not quite, my dear,said Mrs. Jellyby in the calmest manner.
He has been unfortunate in his affairs and is a little out of
spirits. Happily for me, I am so much engaged that I have no time
to think about it. We have, at the present moment, one hundred and
seventy families, Miss Summerson, averaging five persons in each,
either gone or going to the left bank of the Niger.

I thought of the one family so near us who were neither gone nor
going to the left bank of the Nigerand wondered how she could be
so placid.

You have brought Caddy back, I see,observed Mrs. Jellyby with a
glance at her daughter. "It has become quite a novelty to see her
here. She has almost deserted her old employment and in fact
obliges me to employ a boy."

I am sure, Ma--began Caddy.

Now you know, Caddy,her mother mildly interposedthat I DO
employ a boy, who is now at his dinner. What is the use of your
contradicting?

I was not going to contradict, Ma,returned Caddy. "I was only
going to say that surely you wouldn't have me be a mere drudge all
my life."

I believe, my dear,said Mrs. Jellybystill opening her letters
casting her bright eyes smilingly over themand sorting them as
she spokethat you have a business example before you in your
mother. Besides. A mere drudge? If you had any sympathy with the
destinies of the human race, it would raise you high above any such
idea. But you have none. I have often told you, Caddy, you have
no such sympathy.

Not if it's Africa, Ma, I have not.

Of course you have not. Now, if I were not happily so much
engaged, Miss Summerson,said Mrs. Jellybysweetly casting her
eyes for a moment on me and considering where to put the particular
letter she had just openedthis would distress and disappoint me.
But I have so much to think of, in connexion with Borrioboola-Gha
and it is so necessary I should concentrate myself that there is my
remedy, you see.

As Caddy gave me a glance of entreatyand as Mrs. Jellyby was
looking far away into Africa straight through my bonnet and headI
thought it a good opportunity to come to the subject of my visit


and to attract Mrs. Jellyby's attention.

Perhaps,I beganyou will wonder what has brought me here to
interrupt you.

I am always delighted to see Miss Summerson,said Mrs. Jellyby
pursuing her employment with a placid smile. "Though I wish and
she shook her head, she was more interested in the Borrioboolan
project."

I have come with Caddy,said Ibecause Caddy justly thinks she
ought not to have a secret from her mother and fancies I shall
encourage and aid her (though I am sure I don't know how) in
imparting one.

Caddy,said Mrs. Jellybypausing for a moment in her occupation
and then serenely pursuing it after shaking her headyou are
going to tell me some nonsense.

Caddy untied the strings of her bonnettook her bonnet offand
letting it dangle on the floor by the stringsand crying heartily
saidMa, I am engaged.

Oh, you ridiculous child!observed Mrs. Jellyby with an
abstracted air as she looked over the dispatch last opened; "what a
goose you are!"

I am engaged, Ma,sobbed Caddyto young Mr. Turveydrop, at the
academy; and old Mr. Turveydrop (who is a very gentlemanly man
indeed) has given his consent, and I beg and pray you'll give us
yours, Ma, because I never could be happy without it. I never,
never could!sobbed Caddyquite forgetful of her general
complainings and of everything but her natural affection.

You see again, Miss Summerson,observed Mrs. Jellyby serenely
what a happiness it is to be so much occupied as I am and to have
this necessity for self-concentration that I have. Here is Caddy
engaged to a dancing-master's son--mixed up with people who have no
more sympathy with the destinies of the human race than she has
herself! This, too, when Mr. Quale, one of the first
philanthropists of our time, has mentioned to me that he was really
disposed to be interested in her!

Ma, I always hated and detested Mr. Quale!sobbed Caddy.

Caddy, Caddy!returned Mrs. Jellybyopening another letter with
the greatest complacency. "I have no doubt you did. How could you
do otherwisebeing totally destitute of the sympathies with which
he overflows! Nowif my public duties were not a favourite child
to meif I were not occupied with large measures on a vast scale
these petty details might grieve me very muchMiss Summerson. But
can I permit the film of a silly proceeding on the part of Caddy
(from whom I expect nothing else) to interpose between me and the
great African continent? No. No repeated Mrs. Jellyby in a calm
clear voice, and with an agreeable smile, as she opened more
letters and sorted them. Noindeed."

I was so unprepared for the perfect coolness of this reception
though I might have expected itthat I did not know what to say.
Caddy seemed equally at a loss. Mrs. Jellyby continued to open and
sort letters and to repeat occasionally in quite a charming tone of
voice and with a smile of perfect composureNo, indeed.

I hope, Ma,sobbed poor Caddy at lastyou are not angry?


Oh, Caddy, you really are an absurd girl,returned Mrs. Jellyby
to ask such questions after what I have said of the preoccupation
of my mind.

And I hope, Ma, you give us your consent and wish us well?said
Caddy.

You are a nonsensical child to have done anything of this kind,
said Mrs. Jellyby; "and a degenerate childwhen you might have
devoted yourself to the great public measure. But the step is
takenand I have engaged a boyand there is no more to be said.
NowprayCaddy said Mrs. Jellyby, for Caddy was kissing her,
don't delay me in my workbut let me clear off this heavy batch
of papers before the afternoon post comes in!"

I thought I could not do better than take my leave; I was detained
for a moment by Caddy's sayingYou won't object to my bringing
him to see you, Ma?

Oh, dear me, Caddy,cried Mrs. Jellybywho had relapsed into
that distant contemplationhave you begun again? Bring whom?

Him, Ma.

Caddy, Caddy!said Mrs. Jellybyquite weary of such little
matters. "Then you must bring him some evening which is not a
Parent Society nightor a Branch nightor a Ramification night.
You must accommodate the visit to the demands upon my time. My
dear Miss Summersonit was very kind of you to come here to help
out this silly chit. Good-bye! When I tell you that I have fifty-
eight new letters from manufacturing families anxious to understand
the details of the native and coffee-cultivation question this
morningI need not apologize for having very little leisure."

I was not surprised by Caddy's being in low spirits when we went
downstairsor by her sobbing afresh on my neckor by her saying
she would far rather have been scolded than treated with such
indifferenceor by her confiding to me that she was so poor in
clothes that how she was ever to be married creditably she didn't
know. I gradually cheered her up by dwelling on the many things
she would do for her unfortunate father and for Peepy when she had
a home of her own; and finally we went downstairs into the damp
dark kitchenwhere Peepy and his little brothers and sisters were
grovelling on the stone floor and where we had such a game of play
with them that to prevent myself from being quite torn to pieces I
was obliged to fall back on my fairy-tales. From time to time I
heard loud voices in the parlour overheadand occasionally a
violent tumbling about of the furniture. The last effect I am
afraid was caused by poor Mr. Jellyby's breaking away from the
dining-table and making rushes at the window with the intention of
throwing himself into the area whenever he made any new attempt to
understand his affairs.

As I rode quietly home at night after the day's bustleI thought a
good deal of Caddy's engagement and felt confirmed in my hopes (in
spite of the elder Mr. Turveydrop) that she would be the happier
and better for it. And if there seemed to be but a slender chance
of her and her husband ever finding out what the model of
deportment really waswhy that was all for the best tooand who
would wish them to be wiser? I did not wish them to be any wiser
and indeed was half ashamed of not entirely believing in him
myself. And I looked up at the starsand thought about travellers
in distant countries and the stars THEY sawand hoped I might


always be so blest and happy as to be useful to some one in my
small way.

They were so glad to see me when I got homeas they always were
that I could have sat down and cried for joy if that had not been a
method of making myself disagreeable. Everybody in the housefrom
the lowest to the highestshowed me such a bright face of welcome
and spoke so cheerilyand was so happy to do anything for methat
I suppose there never was such a fortunate little creature in the
world.

We got into such a chatty state that nightthrough Ada and my
guardian drawing me out to tell them all about Caddythat I went
on proseproseprosing for a length of time. At last I got up to
my own roomquite red to think how I had been holding forthand
then I heard a soft tap at my door. So I saidCome in!and
there came in a pretty little girlneatly dressed in mourningwho
dropped a curtsy.

If you please, miss,said the little girl in a soft voiceI am
Charley.

Why, so you are,said Istooping down in astonishment and giving
her a kiss. "How glad am I to see youCharley!"

If you please, miss,pursued Charley in the same soft voiceI'm
your maid.

Charley?

If you please, miss, I'm a present to you, with Mr. Jarndyce's
love.

I sat down with my hand on Charley's neck and looked at Charley.

And oh, miss,says Charleyclapping her handswith the tears
starting down her dimpled cheeksTom's at school, if you please,
and learning so good! And little Emma, she's with Mrs. Blinder,
miss, a-being took such care of! And Tom, he would have been at
school--and Emma, she would have been left with Mrs. Blinder--and
me, I should have been here--all a deal sooner, miss; only Mr.
Jarndyce thought that Tom and Emma and me had better get a little
used to parting first, we was so small. Don't cry, if you please,
miss!

I can't help it, Charley.

No, miss, nor I can't help it,says Charley. "And if you please
missMr. Jarndyce's loveand he thinks you'll like to teach me
now and then. And if you pleaseTom and Emma and me is to see
each other once a month. And I'm so happy and so thankfulmiss
cried Charley with a heaving heart, and I'll try to be such a good
maid!"

Oh, Charley dear, never forget who did all this!

No, miss, I never will. Nor Tom won't. Nor yet Emma. It was all
you, miss.

I have known nothing of it. It was Mr. Jarndyce, Charley.

Yes, miss, but it was all done for the love of you and that you
might be my mistress. If you please, miss, I am a little present
with his love, and it was all done for the love of you. Me and Tom


was to be sure to remember it.

Charley dried her eyes and entered on her functionsgoing in her
matronly little way about and about the room and folding up
everything she could lay her hands upon. Presently Charley came
creeping back to my side and saidOh, don't cry, if you please,
miss.

And I said againI can't help it, Charley.

And Charley said againNo, miss, nor I can't help it.And so
after allI did cry for joy indeedand so did she.

CHAPTER XXIV

An Appeal Case

As soon as Richard and I had held the conversation of which I have
given an accountRichard communicated the state of his mind to Mr.
Jarndyce. I doubt if my guardian were altogether taken by surprise
when he received the representationthough it caused him much
uneasiness and disappointment. He and Richard were often closeted
togetherlate at night and early in the morningand passed whole
days in Londonand had innumerable appointments with Mr. Kenge
and laboured through a quantity of disagreeable business. While
they were thus employedmy guardianthough he underwent
considerable inconvenience from the state of the wind and rubbed
his head so constantly that not a single hair upon it ever rested
in its right placewas as genial with Ada and me as at any other
timebut maintained a steady reserve on these matters. And as our
utmost endeavours could only elicit from Richard himself sweeping
assurances that everything was going on capitally and that it
really was all right at lastour anxiety was not much relieved by
him.

We learnthoweveras the time went onthat a new application was
made to the Lord Chancellor on Richard's behalf as an infant and a
wardand I don't know whatand that there was a quantity of
talkingand that the Lord Chancellor described him in open court
as a vexatious and capricious infantand that the matter was
adjourned and readjournedand referredand reported onand
petitioned about until Richard began to doubt (as he told us)
whetherif he entered the army at allit would not be as a
veteran of seventy or eighty years of age. At last an appointment
was made for him to see the Lord Chancellor again in his private
roomand there the Lord Chancellor very seriously reproved him for
trifling with time and not knowing his mind--"a pretty good jokeI
think said Richard, from that quarter!"--and at last it was
settled that his application should be granted. His name was
entered at the Horse Guards as an applicant for an ensign's
commission; the purchase-money was deposited at an agent's; and
Richardin his usual characteristic wayplunged into a violent
course of military study and got up at five o'clock every morning
to practise the broadsword exercise.

Thusvacation succeeded termand term succeeded vacation. We
sometimes heard of Jarndyce and Jarndyce as being in the paper or
out of the paperor as being to be mentionedor as being to be
spoken to; and it came onand it went off. Richardwho was now
in a professor's house in Londonwas able to be with us less
frequently than before; my guardian still maintained the same


reserve; and so time passed until the commission was obtained and
Richard received directions with it to join a regiment in Ireland.

He arrived post-haste with the intelligence one eveningand had a
long conference with my guardian. Upwards of an hour elapsed
before my guardian put his head into the room where Ada and I were
sitting and saidCome in, my dears!We went in and found
Richardwhom we had last seen in high spiritsleaning on the
chimney-piece looking mortified and angry.

Rick and I, Ada,said Mr. Jarndyceare not quite of one mind.
Come, come, Rick, put a brighter face upon it!

You are very hard with me, sir,said Richard. "The harder
because you have been so considerate to me in all other respects
and have done me kindnesses that I can never acknowledge. I never
could have been set right without yousir."

Well, well!said Mr. Jarndyce. "I want to set you more right
yet. I want to set you more right with yourself."

I hope you will excuse my saying, sir,returned Richard in a
fiery waybut yet respectfullythat I think I am the best judge
about myself.

I hope you will excuse my saying, my dear Rick,observed Mr.
Jarndyce with the sweetest cheerfulness and good humourthat's
it's quite natural in you to think so, but I don't think so. I
must do my duty, Rick, or you could never care for me in cool
blood; and I hope you will always care for me, cool and hot.

Ada had turned so pale that he made her sit down in his reading-
chair and sat beside her.

It's nothing, my dear,he saidit's nothing. Rick and I have
only had a friendly difference, which we must state to you, for you
are the theme. Now you are afraid of what's coming.

I am not indeed, cousin John,replied Ada with a smileif it is
to come from you.

Thank you, my dear. Do you give me a minute's calm attention,
without looking at Rick. And, little woman, do you likewise. My
dear girl,putting his hand on hers as it lay on the side of the
easy-chairyou recollect the talk we had, we four when the little
woman told me of a little love affair?

It is not likely that either Richard or I can ever forget your
kindness that day, cousin John.

I can never forget it,said Richard.

And I can never forget it,said Ada.

So much the easier what I have to say, and so much the easier for
us to agree,returned my guardianhis face irradiated by the
gentleness and honour of his heart. "Adamy birdyou should know
that Rick has now chosen his profession for the last time. All
that he has of certainty will be expended when he is fully
equipped. He has exhausted his resources and is bound henceforward
to the tree he has planted."

Quite true that I have exhausted my present resources, and I am
quite content to know it. But what I have of certainty, sir,said


Richardis not all I have.

Rick, Rick!cried my guardian with a sudden terror in his manner
and in an altered voiceand putting up his hands as if he would
have stopped his ears. "For the love of Goddon't found a hope or
expectation on the family curse! Whatever you do on this side the
gravenever give one lingering glance towards the horrible phantom
that has haunted us so many years. Better to borrowbetter to
begbetter to die!"

We were all startled by the fervour of this warning. Richard bit
his lip and held his breathand glanced at me as if he feltand
knew that I felt toohow much he needed it.

Ada, my dear,said Mr. Jarndycerecovering his cheerfulness
these are strong words of advice, but I live in Bleak House and
have seen a sight here. Enough of that. All Richard had to start
him in the race of life is ventured. I recommend to him and you,
for his sake and your own, that he should depart from us with the
understanding that there is no sort of contract between you. I
must go further. 1 will be plain with you both. You were to
confide freely in me, and I will confide freely in you. I ask you
wholly to relinquish, for the present, any tie but your
relationship.

Better to say at once, sir,returned Richardthat you renounce
all confidence in me and that you advise Ada to do the same.

Better to say nothing of the sort, Rick, because I don't mean it.

You think I have begun ill, sir,retorted Richard. "I HAVEI
know."

How I hoped you would begin, and how go on, I told you when we
spoke of these things last,said Mr. Jarndyce in a cordial and
encouraging manner. "You have not made that beginning yetbut
there is a time for all thingsand yours is not gone by; rather
it is just now fully come. Make a clear beginning altogether. You
two (very youngmy dears) are cousins. As yetyou are nothing
more. What more may come must come of being worked outRickand
no sooner."

You are very hard with me, sir,said Richard. "Harder than I
could have supposed you would be."

My dear boy,said Mr. JarndyceI am harder with myself when I
do anything that gives you pain. You have your remedy in your own
hands. Ada, it is better for him that he should be free and that
there should be no youthful engagement between you. Rick, it is
better for her, much better; you owe it to her. Come! Each of you
will do what is best for the other, if not what is best for
yourselves.

Why is it best, sir?returned Richard hastily. "It was not when
we opened our hearts to you. You did not say so then."

I have had experience since. I don't blame you, Rick, but I have
had experience since.

You mean of me, sir.

Well! Yes, of both of you,said Mr. Jarndyce kindly. "The time
is not come for your standing pledged to one another. It is not
rightand I must not recognize it. Comecomemy young cousins


begin afresh! Bygones shall be bygonesand a new page turned for
you to write your lives in."

Richard gave an anxious glance at Ada but said nothing.

I have avoided saying one word to either of you or to Esther,
said Mr. Jarndyceuntil now, in order that we might be open as
the day, and all on equal terms. I now affectionately advise, I
now most earnestly entreat, you two to part as you came here.
Leave all else to time, truth, and steadfastness. If you do
otherwise, you will do wrong, and you will have made me do wrong in
ever bringing you together.

A long silence succeeded.

Cousin Richard,said Ada thenraising her blue eyes tenderly to
his faceafter what our cousin John has said, I think no choice
is left us. Your mind may he quite at ease about me, for you will
leave me here under his care and will be sure that I can have
nothing to wish for--quite sure if I guide myself by his advice.
I--I don't doubt, cousin Richard,said Adaa little confused
that you are very fond of me, and I--I don't think you will fall
in love with anybody else. But I should like you to consider well
about it too, as I should like you to be in all things very happy.
You may trust in me, cousin Richard. I am not at all changeable;
but I am not unreasonable, and should never blame you. Even
cousins may be sorry to part; and in truth I am very, very sorry,
Richard, though I know it's for your welfare. I shall always think
of you affectionately, and often talk of you with Esther, and--and
perhaps you will sometimes think a little of me, cousin Richard.
So now,said Adagoing up to him and giving him her trembling
handwe are only cousins again, Richard--for the time perhaps-and
I pray for a blessing on my dear cousin, wherever he goes!

It was strange to me that Richard should not be able to forgive my
guardian for entertaining the very same opinion of him which he
himself had expressed of himself in much stronger terms to me. But
it was certainly the case. I observed with great regret that from
this hour he never was as free and open with Mr. Jarndyce as he had
been before. He had every reason given him to be sobut he was
not; and solely on his sidean estrangement began to arise between
them.

In the business of preparation and equipment he soon lost himself
and even his grief at parting from Adawho remained in
Hertfordshire while heMr. Jarndyceand I went up to London for a
week. He remembered her by fits and startseven with bursts of
tearsand at such times would confide to me the heaviest self-
reproaches. But in a few minutes he would recklessly conjure up
some undefinable means by which they were both to be made rich and
happy for everand would become as gay as possible.

It was a busy timeand I trotted about with him all day long
buying a variety of things of which he stood in need. Of the
things he would have bought if he had been left to his own ways I
say nothing. He was perfectly confidential with meand often
talked so sensibly and feelingly about his faults and his vigorous
resolutionsand dwelt so much upon the encouragement he derived
from these conversations that I could never have been tired if I
had tried.

There usedin that weekto come backward and forward to our
lodging to fence with Richard a person who had formerly been a
cavalry soldier; he was a fine bluff-looking manof a frank free


bearingwith whom Richard had practised for some months. I heard
so much about himnot only from Richardbut from my guardian too
that I was purposely in the room with my work one morning after
breakfast when he came.

Good morning, Mr. George,said my guardianwho happened to be
alone with me. "Mr. Carstone will be here directly. Meanwhile
Miss Summerson is very happy to see youI know. Sit down."

He sat downa little disconcerted by my presenceI thoughtand
without looking at medrew his heavy sunburnt hand across and
across his upper lip.

You are as punctual as the sun,said Mr. Jarndyce.

Military time, sir,he replied. "Force of habit. A mere habit
in mesir. I am not at all business-like."

Yet you have a large establishment, too, I am told?said Mr.
Jarndyce.

Not much of a one, sir. I keep a shooting gallery, but not much
of a one.

And what kind of a shot and what kind of a swordsman do you make
of Mr. Carstone?said my guardian.

Pretty good, sir,he repliedfolding his arms upon his broad
chest and looking very large. "If Mr. Carstone was to give his
full mind to ithe would come out very good."

But he don't, I suppose?said my guardian.

He did at first, sir, but not afterwards. Not his full mind.
Perhaps he has something else upon it--some young lady, perhaps.
His bright dark eyes glanced at me for the first time.

He has not me upon his mind, I assure you, Mr. George,said I
laughingthough you seem to suspect me.

He reddened a little through his brown and made me a trooper's bow.
No offence, I hope, miss. I am one of the roughs.

Not at all,said I. "I take it as a compliment."

If he had not looked at me beforehe looked at me now in three or
four quick successive glances. "I beg your pardonsir he said
to my guardian with a manly kind of diffidence, but you did me the
honour to mention the young lady's name--"

Miss Summerson.

Miss Summerson,he repeatedand looked at me again.

Do you know the name?I asked.

No, miss. To my knowledge I never heard it. I thought I had seen
you somewhere.

I think not,I returnedraising my head from my work to look at
him; and there was something so genuine in his speech and manner
that I was glad of the opportunity. "I remember faces very well."

So do I, miss!he returnedmeeting my look with the fullness of


his dark eyes and broad forehead. "Humph! What set me offnow
upon that!"

His once more reddening through his brown and being disconcerted by
his efforts to remember the association brought my guardian to his
relief.

Have you many pupils, Mr. George?

They vary in their number, sir. Mostly they're but a small lot to
live by.

And what classes of chance people come to practise at your
gallery?

All sorts, sir. Natives and foreigners. From gentlemen to
'prentices. I have had Frenchwomen come, before now, and show
themselves dabs at pistol-shooting. Mad people out of number, of
course, but THEY go everywhere where the doors stand open.

People don't come with grudges and schemes of finishing their
practice with live targets, I hope?said my guardiansmiling.

Not much of that, sir, though that HAS happened. Mostly they come
for skill--or idleness. Six of one, and half-a-dozen of the other.
I beg your pardon,said Mr. Georgesitting stiffly upright and
squaring an elbow on each kneebut I believe you're a Chancery
suitor, if I have heard correct?

I am sorry to say I am.

I have had one of YOUR compatriots in my time, sir.

A Chancery suitor?returned my guardian. "How was that?"

Why, the man was so badgered and worried and tortured by being
knocked about from post to pillar, and from pillar to post,said
Mr. Georgethat he got out of sorts. I don't believe he had any
idea of taking aim at anybody, but he was in that condition of
resentment and violence that he would come and pay for fifty shots
and fire away till he was red hot. One day I said to him when
there was nobody by and he had been talking to me angrily about his
wrongs, 'If this practice is a safety-valve, comrade, well and
good; but I don't altogether like your being so bent upon it in
your present state of mind; I'd rather you took to something else.'
I was on my guard for a blow, he was that passionate; but he
received it in very good part and left off directly. We shook
hands and struck up a sort of friendship.

What was that man?asked my guardian in a new tone of interest.

Why, he began by being a small Shropshire farmer before they made
a baited bull of him,said Mr. George.

Was his name Gridley?

It was, sir.

Mr. George directed another succession of quick bright glances at
me as my guardian and I exchanged a word or two of surprise at the
coincidenceand I therefore explained to him how we knew the name.
He made me another of his soldierly bows in acknowledgment of what
he called my condescension.


I don't know,he said as he looked at mewhat it is that sets
me off again--but--bosh! What's my head running against!He
passed one of his heavy hands over his crisp dark hair as if to
sweep the broken thoughts out of his mind and sat a little forward
with one arm akimbo and the other resting on his leglooking in a
brown study at the ground.

I am sorry to learn that the same state of mind has got this
Gridley into new troubles and that he is in hiding,said my
guardian.

So I am told, sir,returned Mr. Georgestill musing and looking
on the ground. "So I am told."

You don't know where?

No, sir,returned the trooperlifting up his eyes and coming out
of his reverie. "I can't say anything about him. He will be worn
out soonI expect. You may file a strong man's heart away for a
good many yearsbut it will tell all of a sudden at last."

Richard's entrance stopped the conversation. Mr. George rosemade
me another of his soldierly bowswished my guardian a good day
and strode heavily out of the room.

This was the morning of the day appointed for Richard's departure.
We had no more purchases to make now; I had completed all his
packing early in the afternoon; and our time was disengaged until
nightwhen he was to go to Liverpool for Holyhead. Jarndyce and
Jarndyce being again expected to come on that dayRichard proposed
to me that we should go down to the court and hear what passed. As
it was his last dayand he was eager to goand I had never been
thereI gave my consent and we walked down to Westminsterwhere
the court was then sitting. We beguiled the way with arrangements
concerning the letters that Richard was to write to me and the
letters that I was to write to him and with a great many hopeful
projects. My guardian knew where we were going and therefore was
not with us.

When we came to the courtthere was the Lord Chancellor--the same
whom I had seen in his private room in Lincoln's Inn--sitting in
great state and gravity on the benchwith the mace and seals on a
red table below him and an immense flat nosegaylike a little
gardenwhich scented the whole court. Below the tableagainwas
a long row of solicitorswith bundles of papers on the matting at
their feet; and then there were the gentlemen of the bar in wigs
and gowns--some awake and some asleepand one talkingand nobody
paying much attention to what he said. The Lord Chancellor leaned
back in his very easy chair with his elbow on the cushioned arm and
his forehead resting on his hand; some of those who were present
dozed; some read the newspapers; some walked about or whispered in
groups: all seemed perfectly at their easeby no means in a hurry
very unconcernedand extremely comfortable.

To see everything going on so smoothly and to think of the
roughness of the suitors' lives and deaths; to see all that full
dress and ceremony and to think of the wasteand wantand
beggared misery it represented; to consider that while the sickness
of hope deferred was raging in so many hearts this polite show went
calmly on from day to dayand year to yearin such good order and
composure; to behold the Lord Chancellor and the whole array of
practitioners under him looking at one another and at the
spectators as if nobody had ever heard that all over England the
name in which they were assembled was a bitter jestwas held in


universal horrorcontemptand indignationwas known for
something so flagrant and bad that little short of a miracle could
bring any good out of it to any one--this was so curious and self-
contradictory to mewho had no experience of itthat it was at
first incredibleand I could not comprehend it. I sat where
Richard put meand tried to listenand looked about me; but there
seemed to be no reality in the whole scene except poor little Miss
Flitethe madwomanstanding on a bench and nodding at it.

Miss Flite soon espied us and came to where we sat. She gave me a
gracious welcome to her domain and indicatedwith much
gratification and prideits principal attractions. Mr. Kenge also
came to speak to us and did the honours of the place in much the
same waywith the bland modesty of a proprietor. It was not a
very good day for a visithe said; he would have preferred the
first day of term; but it was imposingit was imposing.

When we had been there half an hour or sothe case in progress--if
I may use a phrase so ridiculous in such a connexion--seemed to die
out of its own vapiditywithout comingor being by anybody
expected to cometo any resuIt. The Lord Chancellor then threw
down a bundle of papers from his desk to the gentlemen below him
and somebody saidJarndyce and Jarndyce.Upon this there was a
buzzand a laughand a general withdrawal of the bystandersand
a bringing in of great heapsand pilesand bags and bags full of
papers.

I think it came on "for further directions"--about some bill of
coststo the best of my understandingwhich was confused enough.
But I counted twenty-three gentlemen in wigs who said they were "in
it and none of them appeared to understand it much better than I.
They chatted about it with the Lord Chancellor, and contradicted
and explained among themselves, and some of them said it was this
way, and some of them said it was that way, and some of them
jocosely proposed to read huge volumes of affidavits, and there was
more buzzing and laughing, and everybody concerned was in a state
of idle entertainment, and nothing could be made of it by anybody.
After an hour or so of this, and a good many speeches being begun
and cut short, it was referred back for the present as Mr. Kenge
said, and the papers were bundled up again before the clerks had
finished bringing them in.

I glanced at Richard on the termination of these hopeless
proceedings and was shocked to see the worn look of his handsome
young face. It can't last for everDame Durden. Better luck
next time!" was all he said.

I had seen Mr. Guppy bringing in papers and arranging them for Mr.
Kenge; and he had seen me and made me a forlorn bowwhich rendered
me desirous to get out of the court. Richard had given me his arm
and was taking me away when Mr. Guppy came up.

I beg your pardon, Mr. Carstone,said he in a whisperand Miss
Summerson's also, but there's a lady here, a friend of mine, who
knows her and wishes to have the pleasure of shaking hands.As he
spokeI saw before meas if she had started into bodily shape
from my remembranceMrs. Rachael of my godmother's house.

How do you do, Esther?said she. "Do you recollect me?"

I gave her my hand and told her yes and that she was very little
altered.

I wonder you remember those times, Esther,she returned with her


old asperity. "They are changed now. Well! I am glad to see you
and glad you are not too proud to know me." But indeed she seemed
disappointed that I was not.

Proud, Mrs. Rachael!I remonstrated.

I am married, Esther,she returnedcoldly correcting meand am
Mrs. Chadband. Well! I wish you good day, and I hope you'll do
well.

Mr. Guppywho had been attentive to this short dialogueheaved a
sigh in my ear and elbowed his own and Mrs. Rachael's way through
the confused little crowd of people coming in and going outwhich
we were in the midst of and which the change in the business had
brought together. Richard and I were making our way through it
and I was yet in the first chill of the late unexpected recognition
when I sawcoming towards usbut not seeing usno less a person
than Mr. George. He made nothing of the people about him as he
tramped onstaring over their heads into the body of the court.

George!said Richard as I called his attention to him.

You are well met, sir,he returned. "And youmiss. Could you
point a person out for meI want? I don't understand these
places."

Turning as he spoke and making an easy way for ushe stopped when
we were out of the press in a corner behind a great red curtain.

There's a little cracked old woman,he beganthat--

I put up my fingerfor Miss Flite was close by mehaving kept
beside me all the time and having called the attention of several
of her legal acquaintance to me (as I had overheard to my
confusion) by whispering in their earsHush! Fitz Jarndyce on my
left!

Hem!said Mr. George. "You remembermissthat we passed some
conversation on a certain man this morning? Gridley in a low
whisper behind his hand.

Yes said I.

He is hiding at my place. I couldn't mention it. Hadn't his
authority. He is on his last marchmissand has a whim to see
her. He says they can feel for one anotherand she has been
almost as good as a friend to him here. I came down to look for
herfor when I sat by Gridley this afternoonI seemed to hear the
roll of the muffled drums."

Shall I tell her?said I.

Would you be so good?he returned with a glance of something like
apprehension at Miss Flite. "It's a providence I met youmiss; I
doubt if I should have known how to get on with that lady." And he
put one hand in his breast and stood upright in a martial attitude
as I informed little Miss Flitein her earof the purport of his
kind errand.

My angry friend from Shropshire! Almost as celebrated as myself!
she exclaimed. "Now really! My dearI will wait upon him with
the greatest pleasure."

He is living concealed at Mr. George's,said I. "Hush! This is


Mr. George."

In--deed!returned Miss Flite. "Very proud to have the honour!
A military manmy dear. You knowa perfect general!" she
whispered to me.

Poor Miss Flite deemed it necessary to be so courtly and politeas
a mark of her respect for the armyand to curtsy so very often
that it was no easy matter to get her out of the court. When this
was at last doneand addressing Mr. George as "General she gave
him her arm, to the great entertainment of some idlers who were
looking on, he was so discomposed and begged me so respectfully
not to desert him" that I could not make up my mind to do it
especially as Miss Flite was always tractable with me and as she
too saidFitz Jarndyce, my dear, you will accompany us, of
course.As Richard seemed quite willingand even anxiousthat
we should see them safely to their destinationwe agreed to do so.
And as Mr. George informed us that Gridley's mind had run on Mr.
Jarndyce all the afternoon after hearing of their interview in the
morningI wrote a hasty note in pencil to my guardian to say where
we were gone and why. Mr. George sealed it at a coffee-housethat
it might lead to no discoveryand we sent it off by a ticket-
porter.

We then took a hackney-coach and drove away to the neighbourhood of
Leicester Square. We walked through some narrow courtsfor which
Mr. George apologizedand soon came to the shooting gallerythe
door of which was closed. As he pulled a bell-handle which hung by
a chain to the door-posta very respectable old gentleman with
grey hairwearing spectaclesand dressed in a black spencer and
gaiters and a broad-brimmed hatand carrying a large gold-beaded
caneaddressed him.

I ask your pardon, my good friend,said hebut is this George's
Shooting Gallery?

It is, sir,returned Mr. Georgeglancing up at the great letters
in which that inscription was painted on the whitewashed wall.

Oh! To be sure!said the old gentlemanfollowing his eyes.
Thank you. Have you rung the bell?

My name is George, sir, and I have rung the bell.

Oh, indeed?said the old gentleman. "Your name is George? Then
I am here as soon as youyou see. You came for meno doubt?"

No, sir. You have the advantage of me.

Oh, indeed?said the old gentleman. "Then it was your young man
who came for me. I am a physician and was requested--five minutes
ago--to come and visit a sick man at George's Shooting Gallery."

The muffled drums,said Mr. Georgeturning to Richard and me and
gravely shaking his head. "It's quite correctsir. Will you
please to walk in."

The door being at that moment opened by a very singular-looking
little man in a green-baize cap and apronwhose face and hands and
dress were blackened all overwe passed along a dreary passage
into a large building with bare brick walls where there were
targetsand gunsand swordsand other things of that kind. When
we had all arrived herethe physician stoppedand taking off his
hatappeared to vanish by magic and to leave another and quite a


different man in his place.

Now lookee here, George,said the manturning quickly round upon
him and tapping him on the breast with a large forefinger. "You
know meand I know you. You're a man of the worldand I'm a man
of the world. My name's Bucketas you are awareand I have got a
peace-warrant against Gridley. You have kept him out of the way a
long timeand you have been artful in itand it does you credit."

Mr. Georgelooking hard at himbit his lip and shook his head.

Now, George,said the otherkeeping close to himyou're a
sensible man and a well-conducted man; that's what YOU are, beyond
a doubt. And mind you, I don't talk to you as a common character,
because you have served your country and you know that when duty
calls we must obey. Consequently you're very far from wanting to
give trouble. If I required assistance, you'd assist me; that's
what YOU'D do. Phil Squod, don't you go a-sidling round the
gallery like that--the dirty little man was shuffling about with
his shoulder against the walland his eyes on the intruderin a
manner that looked threatening--"because I know you and won't have
it."

Phil!said Mr. George.

Yes, guv'ner.

Be quiet.

The little manwith a low growlstood still.

Ladies and gentlemen,said Mr. Bucketyou'll excuse anything
that may appear to be disagreeable in this, for my name's Inspector
Bucket of the Detective, and I have a duty to perform. George, I
know where my man is because I was on the roof last night and saw
him through the skylight, and you along with him. He is in there,
you know,pointing; "that's where HE is--on a sofy. Now I must
see my manand I must tell my man to consider himself in custody;
but you know meand you know I don't want to take any
uncomfortable measures. You give me your wordas from one man to
another (and an old soldiermind youlikewise)that it's
honourable between us twoand I'll accommodate you to the utmost
of my power."

I give it,was the reply. '"But it wasn't handsome in youMr.
Bucket."

Gammon, George! Not handsome?said Mr. Buckettapping him on
his broad breast again and shaking hands with him. "I don't say it
wasn't handsome in you to keep my man so closedo I? Be equally
good-tempered to meold boy! Old William TellOld Shawthe Life
Guardsman! Whyhe's a model of the whole British army in himself
ladies and gentlemen. I'd give a fifty-pun' note to be such a
figure of a man!"

The affair being brought to this headMr. Georgeafter a little
considerationproposed to go in first to his comrade (as he called
him)taking Miss Flite with him. Mr. Bucket agreeingthey went
away to the further end of the galleryleaving us sitting and
standing by a table covered with guns. Mr. Bucket took this
opportunity of entering into a little light conversationasking me
if I were afraid of fire-armsas most young ladies were; asking
Richard if he were a good shot; asking Phil Squod which he
considered the best of those rifles and what it might be worth


first-handtelling him in return that it was a pity he ever gave
way to his temperfor he was naturally so amiable that he might
have been a young womanand making himself generally agreeable.

After a time he followed us to the further end of the galleryand
Richard and I were going quietly away when Mr. George came after
us. He said that if we had no objection to see his comradehe
would take a visit from us very kindly. The words had hardly
passed his lips when the bell was rung and my guardian appeared
on the chance,he slightly observedof being able to do any
little thing for a poor fellow involved in the same misfortune as
himself.We all four went back together and went into the place
where Gridley was.

It was a bare roompartitioned off from the gallery with unpainted
wood. As the screening was not more than eight or ten feet high
and only enclosed the sidesnot the topthe rafters of the high
gallery roof were overheadand the skylight through which Mr.
Bucket had looked down. The sun was low--near setting--and its
light came redly in abovewithout descending to the ground. Upon
a plain canvas-covered sofa lay the man from Shropshiredressed
much as we had seen him lastbut so changed that at first I
recognized no likeness in his colourless face to what I
recollected.

He had been still writing in his hiding-placeand still dwelling
on his grievanceshour after hour. A table and some shelves were
covered with manuscript papers and with worn pens and a medley of
such tokens. Touchingly and awfully drawn togetherhe and the
little mad woman were side by side andas it werealone. She sat
on a chair holding his handand none of us went close to them.

His voice had fadedwith the old expression of his facewith his
strengthwith his angerwith his resistance to the wrongs that
had at last subdued him. The faintest shadow of an object full of
form and colour is such a picture of it as he was of the man from
Shropshire whom we had spoken with before.

He inclined his head to Richard and me and spoke to my guardian.

Mr. Jarndyce, it is very kind of you to come to see me. I am not
long to be seen, I think. I am very glad to take your hand, sir.
You are a good man, superior to injustice, and God knows I honour
you.

They shook hands earnestlyand my guardian said some words of
comfort to him.

It may seem strange to you, sir,returned Gridley; "I should not
have liked to see you if this had been the flrst time of our
meeting. But you know I made a fight for ityou know I stood up
with my single hand against them allyou know I told them the
truth to the lastand told them what they wereand what they had
done to me; so I don't mind your seeing methis wreck."

You have been courageous with them many and many a time,returned
my guardian.

Sir, I have been,with a faint smile. "I told you what would
come of it when I ceased to be soand see here! Look at us--look
at us!" He drew the hand Miss Flite held through her arm and
brought her something nearer to him.

This ends it. Of all my old associations, of all my old pursuits


and hopes, of all the living and the dead world, this one poor soul
alone comes natural to me, and I am fit for. There is a tie of
many suffering years between us two, and it is the only tie I ever
had on earth that Chancery has not broken.

Accept my blessing, Gridley,said Miss Flite in tears. "Accept
my blessing!"

I thought, boastfully, that they never could break my heart, Mr.
Jarndyce. I was resolved that they should not. I did believe that
I could, and would, charge them with being the mockery they were
until I died of some bodily disorder. But I am worn out. How long
I have been wearing out, I don't know; I seemed to break down in an
hour. I hope they may never come to hear of it. I hope everybody
here will lead them to believe that I died defying them,
consistently and perseveringly, as I did through so many years.

Here Mr. Bucketwho was sitting in a corner by the doorgoodnaturedly
offered such consolation as he could administer.

Come, come!he said from his corner. "Don't go on in that way
Mr. Gridley. You are only a little low. We are all of us a little
low sometimes. I am. Hold uphold up! You'll lose your temper
with the whole round of 'emagain and again; and I shall take you
on a score of warrants yetif I have luck."

He only shook his head.

Don't shake your head,said Mr. Bucket. "Nod it; that's what I
want to see you do. WhyLord bless your soulwhat times we have
had together! Haven't I seen you in the Fleet over and over again
for contempt? Haven't I come into courttwenty afternoons for no
other purpose than to see you pin the Chancellor like a bull-dog?
Don't you remember when you first began to threaten the lawyers
and the peace was sworn against you two or three times a week? Ask
the little old lady there; she has been always present. Hold up
Mr. Gridleyhold upsir!"

What are you going to do about him?asked George in a low voice.

I don't know yet,said Bucket in the same tone. Then resuming
his encouragementhe pursued aloud: "Worn outMr. Gridley? After
dodging me for all these weeks and forcing me to climb the roof
here like a tom cat and to come to see you as a doctor? That ain't
like being worn out. I should think not! Now I tell you what you
want. You want excitementyou knowto keep YOU up; that's what
YOU want. You're used to itand you can't do without it. I
couldn't myself. Very wellthen; here's this warrant got by Mr.
Tulkinghorn of Lincoln's Inn Fieldsand backed into half-a-dozen
counties since. What do you say to coming along with meupon this
warrantand having a good angry argument before the magistrates?
It'll do you good; it'll freshen you up and get you into training
for another turn at the Chancellor. Give in? WhyI am surprised
to hear a man of your energy talk of giving in. You mustn't do
that. You're half the fun of the fair in the Court of Chancery.
Georgeyou lend Mr. Gridley a handand let's see now whether he
won't be better up than down."

He is very weak,said the trooper in a low voice.

Is he?returned Bucket anxiously. "I only want to rouse him.
don't like to see an old acquaintance giving in like this. It
would cheer him up more than anything if I could make him a little
waxy with me. He's welcome to drop into meright and leftif he


likes. I shall never take advantage of it."

The roof rang with a scream from Miss Flitewhich still rings in
my ears.

Oh, no, Gridley!she cried as he fell heavily and calmly back
from before her. "Not without my blessing. After so many years!"

The sun was downthe light had gradually stolen from the roofand
the shadow had crept upward. But to me the shadow of that pair
one living and one deadfell heavier on Richard's departure than
the darkness of the darkest night. And through Richard's farewell
words I heard it echoed: "Of all my old associationsof all my old
pursuits and hopesof all the living and the dead worldthis one
poor soul alone comes natural to meand I am fit for. There is a
tie of many suffering years between us twoand it is the only tie
I ever had on earth that Chancery has not broken!"

CHAPTER XXV

Mrs. Snagsby Sees It All

There is disquietude in Cook's CourtCursitor Street. Black
suspicion hides in that peaceful region. The mass of Cook's
Courtiers are in their usual state of mindno better and no worse;
but Mr. Snagsby is changedand his little woman knows it.

For Tom-all-Alone's and Lincoln's Inn Fields persist in harnessing
themselvesa pair of ungovernable coursersto the chariot of Mr.
Snagsby's imagination; and Mr. Bucket drives; and the passengers
are Jo and Mr. Tulkinghorn; and the complete equipage whirls though
the law-stationery business at wild speed all round the clock.
Even in the little front kitchen where the family meals are taken
it rattles away at a smoking pace from the dinner-tablewhen Mr.
Snagsby pauses in carving the first slice of the leg of mutton
baked with potatoes and stares at the kitchen wall.

Mr. Snagsby cannot make out what it is that he has had to do with.
Something is wrong somewherebut what somethingwhat may come of
itto whomwhenand from which unthought of and unheard of
quarter is the puzzle of his life. His remote impressions of the
robes and coronetsthe stars and gartersthat sparkle through the
surface-dust of Mr. Tulkinghorn's chambers; his veneration for the
mysteries presided over by that best and closest of his customers
whom all the Inns of Courtall Chancery Laneand all the legal
neighbourhood agree to hold in awe; his remembrance of Detective
Mr. Bucket with his forefinger and his confidential manner
impossible to be evaded or declinedpersuade him that he is a
party to some dangerous secret without knowing what it is. And it
is the fearful peculiarity of this condition thatat any hour of
his daily lifeat any opening of the shop-doorat any pull of the
bellat any entrance of a messengeror any delivery of a letter
the secret may take air and fireexplodeand blow up--Mr. Bucket
only knows whom.

For which reasonwhenever a man unknown comes into the shop (as
many men unknown do) and saysIs Mr. Snagsby in?or words to
that innocent effectMr. Snagsby's heart knocks hard at his guilty
breast. He undergoes so much from such inquiries that when they
are made by boys he revenges himself by flipping at their ears over
the counter and asking the young dogs what they mean by it and why


they can't speak out at once? More impracticable men and boys
persist in walking into Mr. Snagsby's sleep and terrifying him with
unaccountable questionsso that often when the cock at the little
dairy in Cursitor Street breaks out in his usual absurd way about
the morningMr. Snagsby finds himself in a crisis of nightmare
with his little woman shaking him and saying "What's the matter
with the man!"

The little woman herself is not the least item in his difficulty.
To know that he is always keeping a secret from herthat he has
under all circumstances to conceal and hold fast a tender double
toothwhich her sharpness is ever ready to twist out of his head
gives Mr. Snagsbyin her dentistical presencemuch of the air of
a dog who has a reservation from his master and will look anywhere
rather than meet his eye.

These various signs and tokensmarked by the little womanare not
lost upon her. They impel her to saySnagsby has something on
his mind!And thus suspicion gets into Cook's CourtCursitor
Street. From suspicion to jealousyMrs. Snagsby finds the road as
natural and short as from Cook's Court to Chancery Lane. And thus
jealousy gets into Cook's CourtCursitor Street. Once there (and
it was always lurking thereabout)it is very active and nimble in
Mrs. Snagsby's breastprompting her to nocturnal examinations of
Mr. Snagsby's pockets; to secret perusals of Mr. Snagsby's letters;
to private researches in the day book and ledgertillcash-box
and iron safe; to watchings at windowslistenings behind doors
and a general putting of this and that together by the wrong end.

Mrs. Snagsby is so perpetually on the alert that the house becomes
ghostly with creaking boards and rustling garments. The 'prentices
think somebody may have been murdered there in bygone times.
Guster holds certain loose atoms of an idea (picked up at Tooting
where they were found floating among the orphans) that there is
buried money underneath the cellarguarded by an old man with a
white beardwho cannot get out for seven thousand years because he
said the Lord's Prayer backwards.

Who was Nimrod?Mrs. Snagsby repeatedly inquires of herself.
Who was that lady--that creature? And who is that boy?Now
Nimrod being as dead as the mighty hunter whose name Mrs. Snagsby
has appropriatedand the lady being unproducibleshe directs her
mental eyefor the presentwith redoubled vigilance to the boy.
And who,quoth Mrs. Snagsby for the thousand and first timeis
that boy? Who is that--!And there Mrs. Snagsby is seized with
an inspiration.

He has no respect for Mr. Chadband. Noto be sureand he
wouldn't haveof course. Naturally he wouldn'tunder those
contagious circumstances. He was invited and appointed by Mr.
Chadband--whyMrs. Snagsby heard it herself with her own ears!--to
come backand be told where he was to goto be addressed by Mr.
Chadband; and he never came! Why did he never come? Because he
was told not to come. Who told him not to come? Who? Haha!
Mrs. Snagsby sees it all.

But happily (and Mrs. Snagsby tightly shakes her head and tightly
smiles) that boy was met by Mr. Chadband yesterday in the streets;
and that boyas affording a subject which Mr. Chadband desires to
improve for the spiritual delight of a select congregationwas
seized by Mr. Chadband and threatened with being delivered over to
the police unless he showed the reverend gentleman where he lived
and unless he entered intoand fulfilledan undertaking to appear
in Cook's Court to-morrow night'to--mor--row--night,Mrs.


Snagsby repeats for mere emphasis with another tight smile and
another tight shake of her head; and to-morrow night that boy will
be hereand to-morrow night Mrs. Snagsby will have her eye upon
him and upon some one else; and ohyou may walk a long while in
your secret ways (says Mrs. Snagsby with haughtiness and scorn)
but you can't blind ME!

Mrs. Snagsby sounds no timbrel in anybody's earsbut holds her
purpose quietlyand keeps her counsel. To-morrow comesthe
savoury preparations for the Oil Trade comethe evening comes.
Comes Mr. Snagsby in his black coat; come the Chadbands; come (when
the gorging vessel is replete) the 'prentices and Gusterto be
edified; comes at lastwith his slouching headand his shuflle
backwardand his shuffle forwardand his shuffle to the right
and his shuffle to the leftand his bit of fur cap in his muddy
handwhich he picks as if it were some mangy bird he had caught
and was plucking before eating rawJothe veryvery tough
subject Mr. Chadband is to improve.

Mrs. Snagsby screws a watchful glance on Jo as he is brought into
the little drawing-room by Guster. He looks at Mr. Snagsby the
moment he comes in. Aha! Why does he look at Mr. Snagsby? Mr.
Snagsby looks at him. Why should he do thatbut that Mrs. Snagsby
sees it all? Why else should that look pass between themwhy else
should Mr. Snagsby be confused and cough a signal cough behind his
hand? It is as clear as crystal that Mr. Snagsby is that boy's
father.

'"Peacemy friends says Chadband, rising and wiping the oily
exudations from his reverend visage. Peace be with us! My
friendswhy with us? Because with his fat smile, it cannot be
against usbecause it must be for us; because it is not hardening
because it is softening; because it does not make war like the
hawkbut comes home unto us like the dove. Thereforemy friends
peace be with us! My human boycome forward!"

Stretching forth his flabby pawMr. Chadband lays the same on Jo's
arm and considers where to station him. Jovery doubtful of his
reverend friend's intentions and not at all clear but that
something practical and painful is going to be done to him
muttersYou let me alone. I never said nothink to you. You let
me alone.

No, my young friend,says Chadband smoothlyI will not let you
alone. And why? Because I am a harvest-labourer, because I am a
toiler and a moiler, because you are delivered over unto me and are
become as a precious instrument in my hands. My friends, may I so
employ this instrument as to use it to your advantage, to your
profit, to your gain, to your welfare, to your enrichment! My
young friend, sit upon this stool.

Joapparently possessed by an impression that the reverend
gentleman wants to cut his hairshields his head with both arms
and is got into the required position with great difficulty and
every possible manifestation of reluctance.

When he is at last adjusted like a lay-figureMr. Chadband
retiring behind the tableholds up his bear's-paw and saysMy
friends!This is the signal for a general settlement of the
audience. The 'prentices giggle internally and nudge each other.
Guster falls into a staring and vacant statecompounded of a
stunned admiration of Mr. Chadband and pity for the friendless
outcast whose condition touches her nearly. Mrs. Snagsby silently
lays trains of gunpowder. Mrs. Chadband composes herself grimly by


the fire and warms her kneesfinding that sensation favourable to
the reception of eloquence.

It happens that Mr. Chadband has a pulpit habit of fixing some
member of his congregation with his eye and fatly arguing his
points with that particular personwho is understood to be
expected to be moved to an occasional gruntgroangaspor other
audible expression of inward workingwhich expression of inward
workingbeing echoed by some elderly lady in the next pew and so
communicated like a game of forfeits through a circle of the more
fermentable sinners presentserves the purpose of parliamentary
cheering and gets Mr. Chadband's steam up. From mere force of
habitMr. Chadband in saying "My friends!" has rested his eye on
Mr. Snagsby and proceeds to make that ill-starred stationer
already sufficiently confusedthe immediate recipient of his
discourse.

We have here among us, my friends,says Chadbanda Gentile and
a heathen, a dweller in the tents of Tom-all-Alone's and a mover-on
upon the surface of the earth. We have here among us, my friends,
and Mr. Chadbanduntwisting the point with his dirty thumb-nail
bestows an oily smile on Mr. Snagsbysignifying that he will throw
him an argumentative back-fall presently if he be not already down
a brother and a boy. Devoid of parents, devoid of relations,
devoid of flocks and herds, devoid of gold and silver and of
precious stones. Now, my friends, why do I say he is devoid of
these possessions? Why? Why is he?Mr. Chadband states the
question as if he were propoundlng an entirely new riddle of much
ingenuity and merit to Mr. Snagsby and entreating him not to give
it up.

Mr. Snagsbygreatly perplexed by the mysterious look he received
just now from his little woman--at about the period when Mr.
Chadband mentioned the word parents--is tempted into modestly
remarkingI don't know, I'm sure, sir.On which interruption
Mrs. Chadband glares and Mrs. Snagsby saysFor shame!

I hear a voice,says Chadband; "is it a still small voicemy
friends? I fear notthough I fain would hope so--"

Ah--h!from Mrs. Snagsby.

Which says, 'I don't know.' Then I will tell you why. I say this
brother present here among us is devoid of parents, devoid of
relations, devoid of flocks and herds, devoid of gold, of silver,
and of precious stones because he is devoid of the light that
shines in upon some of us. What is that light? What is it? I ask
you, what is that light?

Mr. Chadband draws back his head and pausesbut Mr. Snagsby is not
to be lured on to his destruction again. Mr. Chadbandleaning
forward over the tablepierces what he has got to follow directly
into Mr. Snagsby with the thumb-nail already mentioned.

It is,says Chadbandthe ray of rays, the sun of suns, the moon
of moons, the star of stars. It is the light of Terewth.

Mr. Chadband draws himself up again and looks triumphantly at Mr.
Snagsby as if he would be glad to know how he feels after that.

Of Terewth,says Mr. Chadbandhitting him again. "Say not to me
that it is NOT the lamp of lamps. I say to you it is. I say to
youa million of times overit is. It is! I say to you that I
will proclaim it to youwhether you like it or not; naythat the


less you like itthe more I will proclaim it to you. With a
speaking-trumpet! I say to you that if you rear yourself against
ityou shall fallyou shall be bruisedyou shall be battered
you shall be flawedyou shall be smashed."

The present effect of this flight of oratory--much admired for its
general power by Mr. Chadband's followers--being not only to make
Mr. Chadband unpleasantly warmbut to represent the innocent Mr.
Snagsby in the light of a determined enemy to virtuewith a
forehead of brass and a heart of adamantthat unfortunate
tradesman becomes yet more disconcerted and is in a very advanced
state of low spirits and false position when Mr. Chadband
accidentally finishes him.

My friends,he resumes after dabbing his fat head for some time-and
it smokes to such an extent that he seems to light his pocket-
handkerchief at itwhich smokestooafter every dab--"to pursue
the subject we are endeavouring with our lowly gifts to improve
let us in a spirit of love inquire what is that Terewth to which I
have alluded. Formy young friends suddenly addressing the
'prentices and Guster, to their consternation, if I am told by the
doctor that calomel or castor-oil is good for meI may naturally
ask what is calomeland what is castor-oil. I may wish to be
informed of that before I dose myself with either or with both.
Nowmy young friendswhat is this Terewth then? Firstly (in a
spirit of love)what is the common sort of Terewth--the working
clothes--the every-day wearmy young friends? Is it deception?"

Ah--h!from Mrs. Snagsby.

Is it suppression?

A shiver in the negative from Mrs. Snagsby.

Is it reservation?

A shake of the head from Mrs. Snagsby--very long and very tight.

No, my friends, it is neither of these. Neither of these names
belongs to it. When this young heathen now among us--who is now,
my friends, asleep, the seal of indifference and perdition being
set upon his eyelids; but do not wake him, for it is right that I
should have to wrestle, and to combat and to struggle, and to
conquer, for his sake--when this young hardened heathen told us a
story of a cock, and of a bull, and of a lady, and of a sovereign,
was THAT the Terewth? No. Or if it was partly, was it wholly and
entirely? No, my friends, no!

If Mr. Snagsby could withstand his little woman's look as it enters
at his eyesthe windows of his souland searches the whole
tenementhe were other than the man he is. He cowers and droops.

Or, my juvenile friends,says Chadbanddescending to the level
of their comprehension with a very obtrusive demonstration in his
greasily meek smile of coming a long way downstairs for the
purposeif the master of this house was to go forth into the city
and there see an eel, and was to come back, and was to call unto
him the mistress of this house, and was to say, 'Sarah, rejoice
with me, for I have seen an elephant!' would THAT be Terewth?

Mrs. Snagsby in tears.

Or put it, my juvenile friends, that he saw an elephant, and
returning said 'Lo, the city is barren, I have seen but an eel,'


would THAT be Terewth?

Mrs. Snagsby sobbing loudly.

Or put it, my juvenile friends,said Chadbandstimulated by the
soundthat the unnatural parents of this slumbering heathen--for
parents he had, my juvenile friends, beyond a doubt--after casting
him forth to the wolves and the vultures, and the wild dogs and the
young gazelles, and the serpents, went back to their dwellings and
had their pipes, and their pots, and their flutings and their
dancings, and their malt liquors, and their butcher's meat and
poultry, would THAT be Terewth?

Mrs. Snagsby replies by delivering herself a prey to spasmsnot an
unresisting preybut a crying and a tearing oneso that Cook's
Court re-echoes with her shrieks. Finallybecoming cataleptic
she has to be carried up the narrow staircase like a grand piano.
After unspeakable sufferingproductive of the utmost
consternationshe is pronouncedby expresses from the bedroom
free from painthough much exhaustedin which state of affairs
Mr. Snagsbytrampled and crushed in the piano-forte removaland
extremely timid and feebleventures to come out from behind the
door in the drawing-room.

All this time Jo has been standing on the spot where he woke up
ever picking his cap and putting bits of fur in his mouth. He
spits them out with a remorseful airfor he feels that it is in
his nature to be an unimprovable reprobate and that it's no good
HIS trying to keep awakefor HE won't never know nothink. Though
it may beJothat there is a history so interesting and affecting
even to minds as near the brutes as thinerecording deeds done on
this earth for common menthat if the Chadbandsremoving their
own persons from the lightwould but show it thee in simple
reverencewould but leave it unimprovedwould but regard it as
being eloquent enough without their modest aid--it might hold thee
awakeand thou might learn from it yet!

Jo never heard of any such book. Its compilers and the Reverend
Chadband are all one to himexcept that he knows the Reverend
Chadband and would rather run away from him for an hour than hear
him talk for five minutes. "It an't no good my waiting here no
longer thinks Jo. Mr. Snagsby an't a-going to say nothink to me
to-night." And downstairs he shuffles.

But downstairs is the charitable Gusterholding by the handrail of
the kitchen stairs and warding off a fitas yet doubtfullythe
same having been induced by Mrs. Snagsby's screaming. She has her
own supper of bread and cheese to hand to Jowith whom she
ventures to interchange a word or so for the first time.

Here's something to eat, poor boy,says Guster.

Thank'ee, mum,says Jo.

Are you hungry?

Jist!says Jo.

What's gone of your father and your mother, eh?

Jo stops in the middle of a bite and looks petrified. For this
orphan charge of the Christian saint whose shrine was at Tooting
has patted him on the shoulderand it is the first time in his
life that any decent hand has been so laid upon him.


I never know'd nothink about 'em,says Jo.

No more didn't I of mine,cries Guster. She is repressing
symptoms favourable to the fit when she seems to take alarm at
something and vanishes down the stairs.

Jo,whispers the law-stationer softly as the boy lingers on the
step.

Here I am, Mr. Snagsby!

I didn't know you were gone--there's another half-crown, Jo. It
was quite right of you to say nothing about the lady the other
night when we were out together. It would breed trouble. You
can't be too quiet, Jo.

I am fly, master!

And sogood night.

A ghostly shadefrilled and night-cappedfollows the law-
stationer to the room he came from and glides higher up. And
henceforth he beginsgo where he willto be attended by another
shadow than his ownhardly less constant than his ownhardly less
quiet than his own. And into whatsoever atmosphere of secrecy his
own shadow may passlet all concerned in the secrecy beware! For
the watchful Mrs. Snagsby is there too--bone of his boneflesh of
his fleshshadow of his shadow.

CHAPTER XXVI

Sharpshooters

Wintry morninglooking with dull eyes and sallow face upon the
neighbourhood of Leicester Squarefinds its inhabitants unwilling
to get out of bed. Many of them are not early risers at the
brightest of timesbeing birds of night who roost when the sun is
high and are wide awake and keen for prey when the stars shine out.
Behind dingy blind and curtainin upper story and garretskulking
more or less under false namesfalse hairfalse titlesfalse
jewelleryand false historiesa colony of brigands lie in their
first sleep. Gentlemen of the green-baize road who could discourse
from personal experience of foreign galleys and home treadmills;
spies of strong governments that eternally quake with weakness and
miserable fearbroken traitorscowardsbulliesgamesters
shufflersswindlersand false witnesses; some not unmarked by the
branding-iron beneath their dirty braid; all with more cruelty in
them than was in Neroand more crime than is in Newgate. For
howsoever bad the devil can be in fustian or smock-frock (and he
can be very bad in both)he is a more designingcallousand
intolerable devil when he sticks a pin in his shirt-frontcalls
himself a gentlemanbacks a card or colourplays a game or so of
billiardsand knows a little about bills and promissory notes than
in any other form he wears. And in such form Mr. Bucket shall find
himwhen he willstill pervading the tributary channels of
Leicester Square.

But the wintry morning wants him not and wakes him not. It wakes
Mr. George of the shooting gallery and his familiar. They arise
roll up and stow away their mattresses. Mr. Georgehaving shaved


himself before a looking-glass of minute proportionsthen marches
outbare-headed and bare-chestedto the pump in the little yard
and anon comes back shining with yellow soapfrictiondrifting
rainand exceedingly cold water. As he rubs himself upon a large
jack-towelblowing like a military sort of diver just come uphis
hair curling tighter and tighter on his sunburnt temples the more
he rubs it so that it looks as if it never could be loosened by any
less coercive instrument than an iron rake or a curry-comb--as he
rubsand puffsand polishesand blowsturning his head from
side to side the more conveniently to excoriate his throatand
standing with his body well bent forward to keep the wet from his
martial legsPhilon his knees lighting a firelooks round as if
it were enough washing for him to see all that doneand sufficient
renovation for one day to take in the superfluous health his master
throws off.

When Mr. George is dryhe goes to work to brush his head with two
hard brushes at onceto that unmerciful degree that Phil
shouldering his way round the gallery in the act of sweeping it
winks with sympathy. This chafing overthe ornamental part of Mr.
George's toilet is soon performed. He fills his pipelights it
and marches up and down smokingas his custom iswhile Phil
raising a powerful odour of hot rolls and coffeeprepares
breakfast. He smokes gravely and marches in slow time. Perhaps
this morning's pipe is devoted to the memory of Gridley in his
grave.

And so, Phil,says George of the shooting gallery after several
turns in silenceyou were dreaming of the country last night?

Philby the bysaid as much in a tone of surprise as he scrambled
out of bed.

Yes, guv'ner.

What was it like?

I hardly know what it was like, guv'ner,said Philconsidering.

How did you know it was the country?

On account of the grass, I think. And the swans upon it,says
Phil after further consideration.

What were the swans doing on the grass?

They was a-eating of it, I expect,says Phil.

The master resumes his marchand the man resumes his preparation
of breakfast. It is not necessarily a lengthened preparation
being limited to the setting forth of very simple breakfast
requisites for two and the broiling of a rasher of bacon at the
fire in the rusty grate; but as Phil has to sidle round a
considerable part of the gallery for every object he wantsand
never brings two objects at onceit takes time under the
circumstances. At length the breakfast is ready. Phil announcing
itMr. George knocks the ashes out of his pipe on the hobstands
his pipe itself in the chimney cornerand sits down to the meal.
When he has helped himselfPhil follows suitsitting at the
extreme end of the little oblong table and taking his plate on his
knees. Either in humilityor to hide his blackened handsor
because it is his natural manner of eating.

The country,says Mr. Georgeplying his knife and fork; "whyI


suppose you never clapped your eyes on the countryPhil?"

I see the marshes once,says Philcontentedly eating his
breakfast.

What marshes?

THE marshes, commander,returns Phil.

Where are they?

I don't know where they are,says Phil; "but I see 'emguv'ner.
They was flat. And miste."

Governor and commander are interchangeable terms with Phil
expressive of the same respect and deference and applicable to
nobody but Mr. George.

I was born in the country, Phil.

Was you indeed, commander?

Yes. And bred there.

Phil elevates his one eyebrowand after respectfully staring at
his master to express interestswallows a great gulp of coffee
still staring at him.

There's not a bird's note that I don't know,says Mr. George.
Not many an English leaf or berry that I couldn't name. Not many
a tree that I couldn't climb yet if I was put to it. I was a real
country boy, once. My good mother lived in the country.

She must have been a fine old lady, guv'ner,Phil observes.

Aye! And not so old either, five and thirty years ago,says Mr.
George. "But I'll wager that at ninety she would be near as
upright as meand near as broad across the shoulders."

Did she die at ninety, guv'ner?inquires Phil.

No. Bosh! Let her rest in peace, God bless her!says the
trooper. "What set me on about country boysand runawaysand
good-for-nothings? Youto be sure! So you never clapped your
eyes upon the country--marshes and dreams excepted. Eh?"

Phil shakes his head.

Do you want to see it?

N-no, I don't know as I do, particular,says Phil.

The town's enough for you, eh?

Why, you see, commander,says PhilI ain't acquainted with
anythink else, and I doubt if I ain't a-getting too old to take to
novelties.

How old ARE you, Phil?asks the trooperpausing as he conveys
his smoking saucer to his lips.

I'm something with a eight in it,says Phil. "It can't be
eighty. Nor yet eighteen. It's betwixt 'emsomewheres."


Mr. Georgeslowly putting down his saucer without tasting its
contentsis laughingly beginningWhy, what the deuce, Phil--
when he stopsseeing that Phil is counting on his dirty fingers.

I was just eight,says Philagreeable to the parish
calculation, when I went with the tinker. I was sent on a errand,
and I see him a-sittin under a old buildin with a fire all to
himself wery comfortable, and he says, 'Would you like to come
along a me, my man?' I says 'Yes,' and him and me and the fire
goes home to Clerkenwell together. That was April Fool Day. I was
able to count up to ten; and when April Fool Day come round again,
I says to myself, 'Now, old chap, you're one and a eight in it.'
April Fool Day after that, I says, 'Now, old chap, you're two and a
eight in it.' In course of time, I come to ten and a eight in it;
two tens and a eight in it. When it got so high, it got the upper
hand of me, but this is how I always know there's a eight in it.

Ah!says Mr. Georgeresuming his breakfast. "And where's the
tinker?"

Drink put him in the hospital, guv'ner, and the hospital put him-in
a glass-case, I HAVE heerd,Phil replies mysteriously.

By that means you got promotion? Took the business, Phil?

Yes, commander, I took the business. Such as it was. It wasn't
much of a beat--round Saffron Hill, Hatton Garden, Clerkenwell,
Smiffeld, and there--poor neighbourhood, where they uses up the
kettles till they're past mending. Most of the tramping tinkers
used to come and lodge at our place; that was the best part of my
master's earnings. But they didn't come to me. I warn't like him.
He could sing 'em a good song. I couldn't! He could play 'em a
tune on any sort of pot you please, so as it was iron or block tin.
I never could do nothing with a pot but mend it or bile it--never
had a note of music in me. Besides, I was too ill-looking, and
their wives complained of me.

They were mighty particular. You would pass muster in a crowd,
Phil!says the trooper with a pleasant smile.

No, guv'ner,returns Philshaking his head. "NoI shouldn't.
I was passable enough when I went with the tinkerthough nothing
to boast of then; but what with blowing the fire with my mouth when
I was youngand spileing my complexionand singeing my hair off
and swallering the smokeand what with being nat'rally unfort'nate
in the way of running against hot metal and marking myself by sich
meansand what with having turn-ups with the tinker as I got
olderalmost whenever he was too far gone in drink--which was
almost always--my beauty was queerwery queereven at that time.
As to sincewhat with a dozen years in a dark forge where the men
was given to larkingand what with being scorched in a accident at
a gas-worksand what with being blowed out of winder case-filling
at the firework businessI am ugly enough to be made a show on!"

Resigning himself to which condition with a perfectly satisfied
mannerPhil begs the favour of another cup of coffee. While
drinking ithe saysIt was after the case-filling blow-up when I
first see you, commander. You remember?

I remember, Phil. You were walking along in the sun.

Crawling, guv'ner, again a wall--

True, Phil--shouldering your way on--


In a night-cap!exclaims Philexcited.

In a night-cap--

And hobbling with a couple of sticks!cries Philstill more
excited.

With a couple of sticks. When--

When you stops, you know,cries Philputting down his cup and
saucer and hastily removing his plate from his kneesand says to
me, 'What, comrade! You have been in the wars!' I didn't say much
to you, commander, then, for I was took by surprise that a person
so strong and healthy and bold as you was should stop to speak to
such a limping bag of bones as I was. But you says to me, says
you, delivering it out of your chest as hearty as possible, so that
it was like a glass of something hot, 'What accident have you met
with? You have been badly hurt. What's amiss, old boy? Cheer up,
and tell us about it!' Cheer up! I was cheered already! I says
as much to you, you says more to me, I says more to you, you says
more to me, and here I am, commander! Here I am, commander!cries
Philwho has started from his chair and unaccountably begun to
sidle away. "If a mark's wantedor if it will improve the
businesslet the customers take aim at me. They can't spoil MY
beauty. I'M all right. Come on! If they want a man to box at
let 'em box at me. Let 'em knock me well about the head. I don't
mind. If they want a light-weight to be throwed for practice
CornwallDevonshireor Lancashirelet 'em throw me. They won't
hurt ME. I have been throwedall sorts of stylesall my life!"

With this unexpected speechenergetically delivered and
accompanied by action illustrative of the various exercises
referred toPhil Squod shoulders his way round three sides of the
galleryand abruptly tacking off at his commandermakes a butt at
him with his headintended to express devotion to his service. He
then begins to clear away the breakfast.

Mr. Georgeafter laughing cheerfully and clapping him on the
shoulderassists in these arrangements and helps to get the
gallery into business order. That donehe takes a turn at the
dumb-bellsand afterwards weighing himself and opining that he is
getting "too fleshy engages with great gravity in solitary
broadsword practice. Meanwhile Phil has fallen to work at his
usual table, where he screws and unscrews, and cleans, and files,
and whistles into small apertures, and blackens himself more and
more, and seems to do and undo everything that can be done and
undone about a gun.

Master and man are at length disturbed by footsteps in the passage,
where they make an unusual sound, denoting the arrival of unusual
company. These steps, advancing nearer and nearer to the gallery,
bring into it a group at first sight scarcely reconcilable with any
day in the year but the fifth of November.

It consists of a limp and ugly figure carried in a chair by two
bearers and attended by a lean female with a face like a pinched
mask, who might be expected immediately to recite the popular
verses commemorative of the time when they did contrive to blow Old
England up alive but for her keeping her lips tightly and defiantly
closed as the chair is put down. At which point the figure in it
gasping, O Lord! Ohdear me! I am shaken!" addsHow de do, my
dear friend, how de do?Mr. George then descriesin the
processionthe venerable Mr. Smallweed out for an airingattended


by his granddaughter Judy as body-guard.

Mr. George, my dear friend,says Grandfather Smallweedremoving
his right arm from the neck of one of his bearerswhom he has
nearly throttled coming alonghow de do? You're surprised to see
me, my dear friend.

I should hardly have been more surprised to have seen your friend
in the city,returns Mr. George.

I am very seldom out,pants Mr. Smallweed. "I haven't been out
for many months. It's inconvenient--and it comes expensive. But I
longed so much to see youmy dear Mr. George. How de dosir?"

I am well enough,says Mr. George. "I hope you are the same."

You can't be too well, my dear friend.Mr. Smallweed takes him
by both hands. "I have brought my granddaughter Judy. I couldn't
keep her away. She longed so much to see you."

Hum! She hears it calmly!mutters Mr. George.

So we got a hackney-cab, and put a chair in it, and just round the
corner they lifted me out of the cab and into the chair, and
carried me here that I might see my dear friend in his own
establishment! This,says Grandfather Smallweedalluding to the
bearerwho has been in danger of strangulation and who withdraws
adjusting his windpipeis the driver of the cab. He has nothing
extra. It is by agreement included in his fare. This person,the
other bearerwe engaged in the street outside for a pint of beer.
Which is twopence. Judy, give the person twopence. I was not sure
you had a workman of your own here, my dear friend, or we needn't
have employed this person.

Grandfather Smallweed refers to Phil with a glance of considerable
terror and a half-subdued "O Lord! Ohdear me!" Nor in his
apprehensionon the surface of thingswithout some reasonfor
Philwho has never beheld the apparition in the black-velvet cap
beforehas stopped short with a gun in his hand with much of the
air of a dead shot intent on picking Mr. Smallweed off as an ugly
old bird of the crow species.

Judy, my child,says Grandfather Smallweedgive the person his
twopence. It's a great deal for what he has done.

The personwho is one of those extraordinary specimens of human
fungus that spring up spontaneously in the western streets of
Londonready dressed in an old red jacketwith a "mission" for
holding horses and calling coachesreceived his twopence with
anything but transporttosses the money into the aircatches it
over-handedand retires.

My dear Mr. George,says Grandfather Smallweedwould you be so
kind as help to carry me to the fire? I am accustomed to a fire,
and I am an old man, and I soon chill. Oh, dear me!

His closing exclamation is jerked out of the venerable gentleman by
the suddenness with which Mr. Squodlike a geniecatches him up
chair and alland deposits him on the hearth-stone.

O Lord!says Mr. Smallweedpanting. "Ohdear me! Ohmy
stars! My dear friendyour workman is very strong--and very
prompt. O Lordhe is very prompt! Judydraw me back a little.
I'm being scorched in the legs which indeed is testified to the


noses of all present by the smell of his worsted stockings.

The gentle Judy, having backed her grandfather a little way from
the fire, and having shaken him up as usual, and having released
his overshadowed eye from its black-velvet extinguisher, Mr.
Smallweed again says, Ohdear me! O Lord!" and looking about and
meeting Mr. George's glanceagain stretches out both hands.

My dear friend! So happy in this meeting! And this is your
establishment? It's a delightful place. It's a picture! You
never find that anything goes off here accidentally, do you, my
dear friend?adds Grandfather Smallweedvery ill at ease.

No, no. No fear of that.

And your workman. He--Oh, dear me!--he never lets anything off
without meaning it, does he, my dear friend?

He has never hurt anybody but himself,says Mr. Georgesmiling.

But he might, you know. He seems to have hurt himself a good
deal, and he might hurt somebody else,the old gentleman returns.
He mightn't mean it--or he even might. Mr. George, will you order
him to leave his infernal firearms alone and go away?

Obedient to a nod from the trooperPhil retiresempty-handedto
the other end of the gallery. Mr. Smallweedreassuredfalls to
rubbing his legs.

And you're doing well, Mr. George?he says to the trooper
squarely standing faced about towards him with his broadsword in
his hand. "You are prosperingplease the Powers?"

Mr. George answers with a cool nodaddingGo on. You have not
come to say that, I know.

You are so sprightly, Mr. George,returns the venerable
grandfather. "You are such good company."

Ha ha! Go on!says Mr. George.

My dear friend! But that sword looks awful gleaming and sharp.
It might cut somebody, by accident. It makes me shiver, Mr.
George. Curse him!says the excellent old gentleman apart to Judy
as the trooper takes a step or two away to lay it aside. "He owes
me moneyand might think of paying off old scores in this
murdering place. I wish your brimstone grandmother was hereand
he'd shave her head off."

Mr. Georgereturningfolds his armsand looking down at the old
mansliding every moment lower and lower in his chairsays
quietlyNow for it!

Ho!cries Mr. Smallweedrubbing his hands with an artful
chuckle. "Yes. Now for it. Now for whatmy dear friend?"

For a pipe,says Mr. Georgewho with great composure sets his
chair in the chimney-cornertakes his pipe from the gratefills
it and lights itand falls to smoking peacefully.

This tends to the discomfiture of Mr. Smallweedwho finds it so
difficult to resume his objectwhatever it may bethat he becomes
exasperated and secretly claws the air with an impotent
vindictiveness expressive of an intense desire to tear and rend the


visage of Mr. George. As the excellent old gentleman's nails are
long and leadenand his hands lean and veinousand his eyes green
and watery; andover and above thisas he continueswhile he
clawsto slide down in his chair and to collapse into a shapeless
bundlehe becomes such a ghastly spectacleeven in the accustomed
eyes of Judythat that young virgin pounces at him with something
more than the ardour of affection and so shakes him up and pats and
pokes him in divers parts of his bodybut particularly in that
part which the science of self-defence would call his windthat in
his grievous distress he utters enforced sounds like a paviour's
rammer.

When Judy has by these means set him up again in his chairwith a
white face and a frosty nose (but still clawing)she stretches out
her weazen forefinger and gives Mr. George one poke in the back.
The trooper raising his headshe makes another poke at her
esteemed grandfatherand having thus brought them togetherstares
rigidly at the fire.

Aye, aye! Ho, ho! U--u--u--ugh!chatters Grandfather Smallweed
swallowing his rage. "My dear friend!" (still clawing).

I tell you what,says Mr. George. "If you want to converse with
meyou must speak out. I am one of the roughsand I can't go
about and about. I haven't the art to do it. I am not clever
enough. It don't suit me. When you go winding round and round
me says the trooper, putting his pipe between his lips again,
dammeif I don't feel as if I was being smothered!"

And he inflates his broad chest to its utmost extent as if to
assure himself that he is not smothered yet.

If you have come to give me a friendly call,continues Mr.
GeorgeI am obliged to you; how are you? If you have come to see
whether there's any property on the premises, look about you; you
are welcome. If you want to out with something, out with it!

The blooming Judywithout removing her gaze from the firegives
her grandfather one ghostly poke.

You see! It's her opinion too. And why the devil that young
woman won't sit down like a Christian,says Mr. George with his
eyes musingly fixed on JudyI can't comprehend.

She keeps at my side to attend to me, sir,says Grandfather
Smallweed. "I am an old manmy dear Mr. Georgeand I need some
attention. I can carry my years; I am not a brimstone poll-parrot"
(snarling and looking unconsciously for the cushion)but I need
attention, my dear friend.

Well!returns the trooperwheeling his chair to face the old
man. "Now then?"

My friend in the city, Mr. George, has done a little business with
a pupil of yours.

Has he?says Mr. George. "I am sorry to hear it."

Yes, sir.Grandfather Smallweed rubs his legs. "He is a fine
young soldier nowMr. Georgeby the name of Carstone. Friends
came forward and paid it all uphonourable."

Did they?returns Mr. George. "Do you think your friend in the
city would like a piece of advice?"


I think he would, my dear friend. From you.

I advise him, then, to do no more business in that quarter.
There's no more to be got by it. The young gentleman, to my
knowledge, is brought to a dead halt.

No, no, my dear friend. No, no, Mr. George. No, no, no, sir,
remonstrates Grandfather Smallweedcunningly rubbing his spare
legs. "Not quite a dead haltI think. He has good friendsand
he is good for his payand he is good for the selling price of his
commissionand he is good for his chance in a lawsuitand he is
good for his chance in a wifeand--ohdo you knowMr. GeorgeI
think my friend would consider the young gentleman good for
something yet?" says Grandfather Smallweedturning up his velvet
cap and scratching his ear like a monkey.

Mr. Georgewho has put aside his pipe and sits with an arm on his
chair-backbeats a tattoo on the ground with his right foot as if
he were not particularly pleased with the turn the conversation has
taken.

But to pass from one subject to another,resumes Mr. Smallweed.
'To promote the conversation, as a joker might say. To pass, Mr.
George, from the ensign to the captain.

What are you up to, now?asks Mr. Georgepausing with a frown in
stroking the recollection of his moustache. "What captain?"

Our captain. The captain we know of. Captain Hawdon.

Oh! That's it, is it?says Mr. George with a low whistle as he
sees both grandfather and granddaughter looking hard at him. "You
are there! Well? What about it? ComeI won't be smothered any
more. Speak!"

My dear friend,returns the old manI was applied--Judy, shake
me up a little!--I was applied to yesterday about the captain, and
my opinion still is that the captain is not dead.

Bosh!observes Mr. George.

What was your remark, my dear friend?inquires the old man with
his hand to his ear.

Bosh!

Ho!says Grandfather Smallweed. "Mr. Georgeof my opinion you
can judge for yourself according to the questions asked of me and
the reasons given for asking 'em. Nowwhat do you think the
lawyer making the inquiries wants?"

A job,says Mr. George.

Nothing of the kind!

Can't be a lawyer, then,says Mr. Georgefolding his arms with
an air of confirmed resolution.

My dear friend, he is a lawyer, and a famous one. He wants to see
some fragment in Captain Hawdon's writing. He don't want to keep
it. He only wants to see it and compare it with a writing in his
possession.


Well?

Well, Mr. George. Happening to remember the advertisement
concerning Captain Hawdon and any information that could be given
respecting him, he looked it up and came to me--just as you did, my
dear friend. WILL you shake hands? So glad you came that day!
should have missed forming such a friendship if you hadn't come!

Well, Mr. Smallweed?says Mr. George again after going through
the ceremony with some stiffness.

I had no such thing. I have nothing but his signature. Plague
pestilence and famine, battle murder and sudden death upon him,
says the old manmaking a curse out of one of his few remembrances
of a prayer and squeezing up his velvet cap between his angry
handsI have half a million of his signatures, I think! But
you,breathlessly recovering his mildness of speech as Judy readjusts
the cap on his skittle-ball of a headyou, my dear Mr.
George, are likely to have some letter or paper that would suit the
purpose. Anything would suit the purpose, written in the hand.

Some writing in that hand,says the trooperpondering; "may be
I have."

My dearest friend!

May be, I have not.

Ho!says Grandfather Smallweedcrest-fallen.

But if I had bushels of it, I would not show as much as would make
a cartridge without knowing why.

Sir, I have told you why. My dear Mr. George, I have told you
why.

Not enough,says the troopershaking his head. "I must know
moreand approve it."

Then, will you come to the lawyer? My dear friend, will you come
and see the gentleman?urges Grandfather Smallweedpulling out a
lean old silver watch with hands like the leg of a skeleton. "I
told him it was probable I might call upon him between ten and
eleven this forenoonand it's now half after ten. Will you come
and see the gentlemanMr. George?"

Hum!says he gravely. "I don't mind that. Though why this
should concern you so muchI don't know."

Everything concerns me that has a chance in it of bringing
anything to light about him. Didn't he take us all in? Didn't he
owe us immense sums, all round? Concern me? Who can anything
about him concern more than me? Not, my dear friend,says
Grandfather Smallweedlowering his tonethat I want YOU to
betray anything. Far from it. Are you ready to come, my dear
friend?

Aye! I'll come in a moment. I promise nothing, you know.

No, my dear Mr. George; no.

And you mean to say you're going to give me a lift to this place,
wherever it is, without charging for it?Mr. George inquires
getting his hat and thick wash-leather gloves.


This pleasantry so tickles Mr. Smallweed that he laughslong and
lowbefore the fire. But ever while he laughshe glances over
his paralytic shoulder at Mr. George and eagerly watches him as he
unlocks the padlock of a homely cupboard at the distant end of the
gallerylooks here and there upon the higher shelvesand
ultimately takes something out with a rustling of paperfolds it
and puts it in his breast. Then Judy pokes Mr. Smallweed onceand
Mr. Smallweed pokes Judy once.

I am ready,says the troopercoming back. "Philyou can carry
this old gentleman to his coachand make nothing of him."

Oh, dear me! O Lord! Stop a moment!says Mr. Smallweed. "He's
so very prompt! Are you sure you can do it carefullymy worthy
man?"

Phil makes no replybut seizing the chair and its loadsidles
awaytightly bugged by the now speechless Mr. Smallweedand bolts
along the passage as if he had an acceptable commission to carry
the old gentleman to the nearest volcano. His shorter trust
howeverterminating at the cabhe deposits him there; and the
fair Judy takes her place beside himand the chair embellishes the
roofand Mr. George takes the vacant place upon the box.

Mr. George is quite confounded by the spectacle he beholds from
time to time as he peeps into the cab through the window behind
himwhere the grim Judy is always motionlessand the old
gentleman with his cap over one eye is always sliding off the seat
into the straw and looking upward at him out of his other eye with
a helpless expression of being jolted in the back.

CHAPTER XXVII

More Old Soldiers Than One

Mr. George has not far to ride with folded arms upon the boxfor
their destination is Lincoln's Inn Fields. When the driver stops
his horsesMr. George alightsand looking in at the windowsays
What, Mr. Tulkinghorn's your man, is he?

Yes, my dear friend. Do you know him, Mr. George?

Why, I have heard of him--seen him too, I think. But I don't know
him, and he don't know me.

There ensues the carrying of Mr. Smallweed upstairswhich is done
to perfection with the trooper's help. He is borne into Mr.
Tulkinghorn's great room and deposited on the Turkey rug before the
fire. Mr. Tulkinghorn is not within at the present moment but will
be back directly. The occupant of the pew in the hallhaving said
thus muchstirs the fire and leaves the triumvirate to warm
themselves.

Mr. George is mightily curious in respect of the room. He looks up
at the painted ceilinglooks round at the old law-books
contemplates the portraits of the great clientsreads aloud the
names on the boxes.

'Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,'Mr. George reads thoughtfully.
Ha! 'Manor of Chesney Wold.' Humph!Mr. George stands looking


at these boxes a long while--as if they were pictures--and comes
back to the fire repeatingSir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, and
Manor of Chesney Wold, hey?

Worth a mint of money, Mr. George!whispers Grandfather
Smallweedrubbing his legs. "Powerfully rich!"

Who do you mean? This old gentleman, or the Baronet?

This gentleman, this gentleman.

So I have heard; and knows a thing or two, I'll hold a wager. Not
bad quarters, either,says Mr. Georgelooking round again. "See
the strong-box yonder!"

This reply is cut short by Mr. Tulkinghorn's arrival. There is no
change in himof course. Rustily drestwith his spectacles in
his handand their very case worn threadbare. In mannerclose
and dry. In voicehusky and low. In facewatchful behind a
blind; habitually not uncensorious and contemptuous perhaps. The
peerage may have warmer worshippers and faithfuller believers than
Mr. Tulkinghornafter allif everything were known.

Good morning, Mr. Smallweed, good morning!he says as he comes
in. "You have brought the sergeantI see. Sit downsergeant."

As Mr. Tulkinghorn takes off his gloves and puts them in his hat
he looks with half-closed eyes across the room to where the trooper
stands and says within himself perchanceYou'll do, my friend!

Sit down, sergeant,he repeats as he comes to his tablewhich is
set on one side of the fireand takes his easy-chair. "Cold and
raw this morningcold and raw!" Mr. Tulkinghorn warms before the
barsalternatelythe palms and knuckles of his hands and looks
(from behind that blind which is always down) at the trio sitting
in a little semicircle before him.

Now, I can feel what I am about(as perhaps he can in two
senses)Mr. Smallweed.The old gentleman is newly shaken up by
Judy to bear his part in the conversation. "You have brought our
good friend the sergeantI see."

Yes, sir,returns Mr. Smallweedvery servile to the lawyer's
wealth and influence.

And what does the sergeant say about this business?

Mr. George,says Grandfather Smallweed with a tremulous wave of
his shrivelled handthis is the gentleman, sir.

Mr. George salutes the gentleman but otherwise sits bolt upright
and profoundly silent--very forward in his chairas if the full
complement of regulation appendages for a field-day hung about him.

Mr. Tulkinghorn proceedsWell, George--I believe your name is
George?

It is so, Sir.

What do you say, George?

I ask your pardon, sir,returns the trooperbut I should wish
to know what YOU say?


Do you mean in point of reward?

I mean in point of everything, sir.

This is so very trying to Mr. Smallweed's temper that he suddenly
breaks out with "You're a brimstone beast!" and as suddenly asks
pardon of Mr. Tulkinghornexcusing himself for this slip of the
tongue by saying to JudyI was thinking of your grandmother, my
dear.

I supposed, sergeant,Mr. Tulkinghorn resumes as he leans on one
side of his chair and crosses his legsthat Mr. Smallweed might
have sufficiently explained the matter. It lies in the smallest
compass, however. You served under Captain Hawdon at one time, and
were his attendant in illness, and rendered him many little
services, and were rather in his confidence, I am told. That is
so, is it not?

Yes, sir, that is so,says Mr. George with military brevity.

Therefore you may happen to have in your possession something-anything,
no matter what; accounts, instructions, orders, a letter,
anything--in Captain Hawdon's writing. I wish to compare his
writing with some that I have. If you can give me the opportunity,
you shall be rewarded for your trouble. Three, four, five,
guineas, you would consider handsome, I dare say.

Noble, my dear friend!cries Grandfather Smallweedscrewing up
his eyes.

If not, say how much more, in your conscience as a soldier, you
can demand. There is no need for you to part with the writing,
against your inclination--though I should prefer to have it.

Mr. George sits squared in exactly the same attitudelooks at the
painted ceilingand says never a word. The irascible Mr.
Smallweed scratches the air.

The question is,says Mr. Tulkinghorn in his methodicalsubdued
uninterested wayfirst, whether you have any of Captain Hawdon's
writing?

First, whether I have any of Captain Hawdon's writing, sir,
repeats Mr. George.

Secondly, what will satisfy you for the trouble of producing it?

Secondly, what will satisfy me for the trouble of producing it,
sir,repeats Mr. George.

Thirdly, you can judge for yourself whether it is at all like
that,says Mr. Tulkinghornsuddenly handing him some sheets of
written paper tied together.

Whether it is at all like that, sir. Just so,repeats Mr.
George.

All three repetitions Mr. George pronounces in a mechanical manner
looking straight at Mr. Tulkinghorn; nor does he so much as glance
at the affidavit in Jarndyce and Jarndycethat has been given to
him for his inspection (though he still holds it in his hand)but
continues to look at the lawyer with an air of troubled meditation.

Well?says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "What do you say?"


Well, sir,replies Mr. Georgerising erect and looking immense
I would rather, if you'll excuse me, have nothing to do with
this.

Mr. Tulkinghornoutwardly quite undisturbeddemandsWhy not?

Why, sir,returns the trooper. "Except on military compulsionI
am not a man of business. Among civilians I am what they call in
Scotland a ne'er-do-weel. I have no head for paperssir. I can
stand any fire better than a fire of cross questions. I mentioned
to Mr. Smallweedonly an hour or so agothat when I come into
things of this kind I feel as if I was being smothered. And that
is my sensation says Mr. George, looking round upon the company,
at the present moment."

With thathe takes three strides forward to replace the papers on
the lawyer's table and three strides backward to resume his former
stationwhere he stands perfectly uprightnow looking at the
ground and now at the painted ceillhgwith his hands behind him as
if to prevent himself from accepting any other document whatever.

Under this provocationMr. Smallweed's favourite adjective of
disparagement is so close to his tongue that he begins the words
my dear friendwith the monosyllable "brim thus converting the
possessive pronoun into brimmy and appearing to have an impediment
in his speech. Once past this difficulty, however, he exhorts his
dear friend in the tenderest manner not to be rash, but to do what
so eminent a gentleman requires, and to do it with a good grace,
confident that it must be unobjectionable as well as profitable.
Mr. Tulkinghorn merely utters an occasional sentence, as, You are
the best judge of your own interestsergeant." "Take care you do
no harm by this." "Please yourselfplease yourself." "If you
know what you meanthat's quite enough." These he utters with an
appearance of perfect indifference as he looks over the papers on
his table and prepares to write a letter.

Mr. George looks distrustfully from the painted ceiling to the
groundfrom the ground to Mr. Smallweedfrom Mr. Smallweed to Mr.
Tulkinghornand from Mr. Tulkinghorn to the painted ceiling again
often in his perplexity changing the leg on which he rests.

I do assure you, sir,says Mr. Georgenot to say it
offensively, that between you and Mr. Smallweed here, I really am
being smothered fifty times over. I really am, sir. I am not a
match for you gentlemen. Will you allow me to ask why you want to
see the captain's hand, in the case that I could find any specimen
of it?

Mr. Tulkinghorn quietly shakes his head. "No. If you were a man
of businesssergeantyou would not need to be informed that there
are confidential reasonsvery harmless in themselvesfor many
such wants in the profession to which I belong. But if you are
afraid of doing any injury to Captain Hawdonyou may set your mind
at rest about that."

Aye! He is dead, sir.

IS he?Mr. Tulkinghorn quietly sits down to write.

Well, sir,says the trooperlooking into his hat after another
disconcerted pauseI am sorry not to have given you more
satisfaction. If it would be any satisfaction to any one that I
should be confirmed in my judgment that I would rather have nothing


to do with this by a friend of mine who has a better head for
business than I have, and who is an old soldier, I am willing to
consult with him. I--I really am so completely smothered myself at
present,says Mr. Georgepassing his hand hopelessly across his
browthat I don't know but what it might be a satisfaction to
me.

Mr. Smallweedhearing that this authority is an old soldierso
strongly inculcates the expediency of the trooper's taking counsel
with himand particularly informing him of its being a question of
five guineas or morethat Mr. George engages to go and see him.
Mr. Tulkinghorn says nothing either way.

I'll consult my friend, then, by your leave, sir,says the
trooperand I'll take the liberty of looking in again with the
final answer in the course of the day. Mr. Smallweed, if you wish
to be carried downstairs--

In a moment, my dear friend, in a moment. Will you first let me
speak half a word with this gentleman in private?

Certainly, sir. Don't hurry yourself on my account.The trooper
retires to a distant part of the room and resumes his curious
inspection of the boxesstrong and otherwise.

If I wasn't as weak as a brimstone baby, sir,whispers
Grandfather Smallweeddrawing the lawyer down to his level by the
lapel of his coat and flashing some half-quenched green fire out of
his angry eyesI'd tear the writing away from him. He's got it
buttoned in his breast. I saw him put it there. Judy saw him put
it there. Speak up, you crabbed image for the sign of a walkingstick
shop, and say you saw him put it there!

This vehement conjuration the old gentleman accompanies with such a
thrust at his granddaughter that it is too much for his strength
and he slips away out of his chairdrawing Mr. Tulkinghorn with
himuntil he is arrested by Judyand well shaken.

Violence will not do for me, my friend,Mr. Tulkinghorn then
remarks coolly.

No, no, I know, I know, sir. But it's chafing and galling--it's-it's
worse than your smattering chattering magpie of a grandmother,
to the imperturbable Judywho only looks at the fireto know he
has got what's wanted and won't give it up. He, not to give it up!
HE! A vagabond! But never mind, sir, never mind. At the most, he
has only his own way for a little while. I have him periodically
in a vice. I'll twist him, sir. I'll screw him, sir. If he won't
do it with a good grace, I'll make him do it with a bad one, sir!
Now, my dear Mr. George,says Grandfather Smallweedwinking at
the lawyer hideously as he releases himI am ready for your kind
assistance, my excellent friend!

Mr. Tulkinghornwith some shadowy sign of amusement manifesting
itself through his self-possessionstands on the hearth-rug with
his back to the firewatching the disappearance of Mr. Smallweed
and acknowledging the trooper's parting salute with one slight nod.

It is more difficult to get rid of the old gentlemanMr. George
findsthan to bear a hand in carrying him downstairsfor when he
is replaced in his conveyancehe is so loquacious on the subject
of the guineas and retains such an affectionate hold of his button
--havingin trutha secret longing to rip his coat open and rob
him--that some degree of force is necessary on the trooper's part


to effect a separation. It is accomplished at lastand he
proceeds alone in quest of his adviser.

By the cloisterly Templeand by Whitefriars (therenot without a
glance at Hanging-Sword Alleywhich would seem to be something in
his way)and by Blackfriars Bridgeand Blackfriars RoadMr.
George sedately marches to a street of little shops lying somewhere
in that ganglion of roads from Kent and Surreyand of streets from
the bridges of Londoncentring in the far-famed elephant who has
lost his castle formed of a thousand four-horse coaches to a
stronger iron monster than heready to chop him into mince-meat
any day he dares. To one of the little shops in this streetwhich
is a musician's shophaving a few fiddles in the windowand some
Pan's pipes and a tambourineand a triangleand certain elongated
scraps of musicMr. George directs his massive tread. And halting
at a few paces from itas he sees a soldierly looking womanwith
her outer skirts tucked upcome forth with a small wooden tuband
in that tub commence a-whisking and a-splashing on the margin of
the pavementMr. George says to himselfShe's as usual, washing
greens. I never saw her, except upon a baggage-waggon, when she
wasn't washing greens!

The subject of this reflection is at all events so occupied in
washing greens at present that she remains unsuspicious of Mr.
George's approach untillifting up herself and her tub together
when she has poured the water off into the guttershe finds him
standing near her. Her reception of him is not flattering.

George, I never see you but I wish you was a hundred mile away!

The trooperwithout remarking on this welcomefollows into the
musical-instrument shopwhere the lady places her tub of greens
upon the counterand having shaken hands with himrests her arms
upon it.

I never,she saysGeorge, consider Matthew Bagnet safe a minute
when you're near him. You are that resfless and that roving--

Yes! I know I am, Mrs. Bagnet. I know I am.

You know you are!says Mrs. Bagnet. "What's the use of that?
WHY are you?"

The nature of the animal, I suppose,returns the trooper goodhumouredly.


Ah!cries Mrs. Bagnetsomething shrilly. "But what satisfaction
will the nature of the animal be to me when the animal shall have
tempted my Mat away from the musical business to New Zealand or
Australey?"

Mrs. Bagnet is not at all an ill-looking woman. Rather large-
boneda little coarse in the grainand freckled by the sun and
wind which have tanned her hair upon the foreheadbut healthy
wholesomeand bright-eyed. A strongbusyactivehonest-faced
woman of from forty-five to fifty. Cleanhardyand so
economically dressed (though substantially) that the only article
of ornament of which she stands possessed appear's to be her
wedding-ringaround which her finger has grown to be so large
since it was put on that it will never come off again until it
shall mingle with Mrs. Bagnet's dust.

Mrs. Bagnet,says the trooperI am on my parole with you. Mat
will get no harm from me. You may trust me so far.


Well, I think I may. But the very looks of you are unsettling,
Mrs. Bagnet rejoins. "AhGeorgeGeorge! If you had only settled
down and married Joe Pouch's widow when he died in North America
SHE'D have combed your hair for you."

It was a chance for me, certainly,returns the trooper half
laughinglyhalf seriouslybut I shall never settle down into a
respectable man now. Joe Pouch's widow might have done me good-there
was something in her, and something of her--but I couldn't
make up my mind to it. If I had had the luck to meet with such a
wife as Mat found!

Mrs. Bagnetwho seems in a virtuous way to be under little reserve
with a good sort of fellowbut to be another good sort of fellow
herself for that matterreceives this compliment by flicking Mr.
George in the face with a head of greens and taking her tub into
the little room behind the shop.

Why, Quebec, my poppet,says Georgefollowingon invitation
into that department. "And little Maltatoo! Come and kiss your
Bluffy!"

These young ladies--not supposed to have been actually christened
by the names applied to themthough always so called in the family
from the places of their birth in barracks--are respectively
employed on three-legged stoolsthe younger (some five or six
years old) in learning her letters out of a penny primerthe elder
(eight or nine perhaps) in teaching her and sewing with great
assiduity. Both hail Mr. George with acclamations as an old friend
and after some kissing and romping plant their stools beside him.

And how's young Woolwich?says Mr. George.

Ah! There now!cries Mrs. Bagnetturning about from her
saucepans (for she is cooking dinner) with a bright flush on her
face. "Would you believe it? Got an engagement at the theayter
with his fatherto play the fife in a military piece."

Well done, my godson!cries Mr. Georgeslapping his thigh.

I believe you!says Mrs. Bagnet. "He's a Briton. That's what
Woolwich is. A Briton!"

And Mat blows away at his bassoon, and you're respectable
civilians one and all,says Mr. George. "Family people. Children
growing up. Mat's old mother in Scotlandand your old father
somewhere elsecorresponded withand helped a littleand--well
well! To be sureI don't know why I shouldn't be wished a hundred
mile awayfor I have not much to do with all this!"

Mr. George is becoming thoughtfulsitting before the fire in the
whitewashed roomwhich has a sanded floor and a barrack smell and
contains nothing superfluous and has not a visible speck of dirt or
dust in itfrom the faces of Quebec and Malta to the bright tin
pots and pannikins upon the dresser shelves--Mr. George is becoming
thoughtfulsitting here while Mrs. Bagnet is busywhen Mr. Bagnet
and young Woolwich opportunely come home. Mr. Bagnet is an ex-
artillerymantall and uprightwith shaggy eyebrows and whiskers
like the fibres of a coco-nutnot a hair upon his headand a
torrid complexion. His voiceshortdeepand resonantis not at
all unlike the tones of the instrument to which he is devoted.
Indeed there may be generally observed in him an unbending
unyieldingbrass-bound airas if he were himself the bassoon of


the human orchestra. Young Woolwich is the type and model of a
young drummer.

Both father and son salute the trooper heartily. He sayingin due
seasonthat he has come to advise with Mr. BagnetMr. Bagnet
hospitably declares that he will hear of no business until after
dinner and that his friend shall not partake of his counsel without
first partaking of boiled pork and greens. The trooper yielding to
this invitationhe and Mr. Bagnetnot to embarrass the domestic
preparationsgo forth to take a turn up and down the little
streetwhich they promenade with measured tread and folded arms
as if it were a rampart.

George,says Mr. Bagnet. "You know me. It's my old girl that
advises. She has the head. But I never own to it before her.
Discipline must be maintained. Wait till the greens is off her
mind. Then we'll consult. Whatever the old girl saysdo--do it!"

I intend to, Mat,replies the other. "I would sooner take her
opinion than that of a college."

College,returns Mr. Bagnet in short sentencesbassoon-like.
What college could you leave--in another quarter of the world-with
nothing but a grey cloak and an umbrella--to make its way home
to Europe? The old girl would do it to-morrow. Did it once!

You are right,says Mr. George.

What college,pursues Bagnetcould you set up in life--with two
penn'orth of white lime--a penn'orth of fuller's earth--a ha'porth
of sand--and the rest of the change out of sixpence in money?
That's what the old girl started on. In the present business.

I am rejoiced to hear it's thriving, Mat.

The old girl,says Mr. Bagnetacquiescingsaves. Has a
stocking somewhere. With money in it. I never saw it. But I know
she's got it. Wait till the greens is off her mind. Then she'll
set you up.

She is a treasure!exclaims Mr. George.

She's more. But I never own to it before her. Discipline must be
maintained. It was the old girl that brought out my musical
abilities. I should have been in the artillery now but for the old
girl. Six years I hammered at the fiddle. Ten at the flute. The
old girl said it wouldn't do; intention good, but want of
flexibility; try the bassoon. The old girl borrowed a bassoon from
the bandmaster of the Rifle Regiment. I practised in the trenches.
Got on, got another, get a living by it!

George remarks that she looks as fresh as a rose and as sound as an
apple.

The old girl,says Mr. Bagnet in replyis a thoroughly fine
woman. Consequently she is like a thoroughly fine day. Gets finer
as she gets on. I never saw the old girl's equal. But I never own
to it before her. Discipline must be maintained!

Proceeding to converse on indifferent mattersthey walk up and
down the little streetkeeping step and timeuntil summoned by
Quebec and Malta to do justice to the pork and greensover which
Mrs. Bagnetlike a military chaplainsays a short grace. In the
distribution of these comestiblesas in every other household


dutyMrs. Bagnet developes an exact systemsitting with every
dish before herallotting to every portion of pork its own portion
of pot-liquorgreenspotatoesand even mustardand serving it
out complete. Having likewise served out the beer from a can and
thus supplied the mess with all things necessaryMrs. Bagnet
proceeds to satisfy her own hungerwhich is in a healthy state.
The kit of the messif the table furniture may be so denominated
is chiefly composed of utensils of horn and tin that have done duty
in several parts of the world. Young Woolwich's knifein
particularwhich is of the oyster kindwith the additional
feature of a strong shutting-up movement which frequently balks the
appetite of that young musicianis mentioned as having gone in
various hands the complete round of foreign service.

The dinner doneMrs. Bagnetassisted by the younger branches (who
polish their own cups and plattersknives and forks)makes all
the dinner garniture shine as brightly as before and puts it all
awayfirst sweeping the hearthto the end that Mr. Bagnet and the
visitor may not be retarded in the smoking of their pipes. These
household cares involve much pattening and counter-pattening in the
backyard and considerable use of a pailwhich is finally so happy
as to assist in the ablutions of Mrs. Bagnet herself. That old
girl reappearing by and byquite freshand sitting down to her
needleworkthen and only then--the greens being only then to be
considered as entirely off her mind--Mr. Bagnet requests the
trooper to state his case.

This Mr. George does with great discretionappearing to address
himself to Mr. Bagnetbut having an eye solely on the old girl all
the timeas Bagnet has himself. Sheequally discreetbusies
herself with her needlework. The case fully statedMr. Bagnet
resorts to his standard artifice for the maintenance of discipline.

That's the whole of it, is it, George?says he.

That's the whole of it.

You act according to my opinion?

I shall be guided,replies Georgeentirely by it.

Old girl,says Mr. Bagnetgive him my opinion. You know it.
Tell him what it is.

It is that he cannot have too little to do with people who are too
deep for him and cannot be too careful of interference with matters
he does not understand--that the plain rule is to do nothing in the
darkto be a party to nothing underhanded or mysteriousand never
to put his foot where he cannot see the ground. Thisin effect
is Mr. Bagnet's opinionas delivered through the old girland it
so relieves Mr. George's mind by confirming his own opinion and
banishing his doubts that he composes himself to smoke another pipe
on that exceptional occasion and to have a talk over old times with
the whole Bagnet familyaccording to their various ranges of
experience.

Through these means it comes to pass that Mr. George does not again
rise to his full height in that parlour until the time is drawing
on when the bassoon and fife are expected by a British public at
the theatre; and as it takes time even then for Mr. Georgein his
domestic character of Bluffyto take leave of Quebec and Malta and
insinuate a sponsorial shilling into the pocket of his godson with
felicitations on his success in lifeit is dark when Mr. George
again turns his face towards Lincoln's Inn Fields.


A family home,he ruminates as he marches alonghowever small
it is, makes a man like me look lonely. But it's well I never made
that evolution of matrimony. I shouldn't have been fit for it.
am such a vagabond still, even at my present time of life, that I
couldn't hold to the gallery a month together if it was a regular
pursuit or if I didn't camp there, gipsy fashion. Come! I
disgrace nobody and cumber nobody; that's something. I have not
done that for many a long year!

So he whistles it off and marches on.

Arrived in Lincoln's Inn Fields and mounting Mr. Tulkinghorn's
stairhe finds the outer door closed and the chambers shutbut
the trooper not knowing much about outer doorsand the staircase
being dark besideshe is yet fumbling and groping abouthoping to
discover a bell-handle or to open the door for himselfwhen Mr.
Tulkinghorn comes up the stairs (quietlyof course) and angrily
asksWho is that? What are you doing there?

I ask your pardon, sir. It's George. The sergeant.

And couldn't George, the sergeant, see that my door was locked?

Why, no, sir, I couldn't. At any rate, I didn't,says the
trooperrather nettled.

Have you changed your mind? Or are you in the same mind?Mr.
Tulkinghorn demands. But he knows well enough at a glance.

In the same mind, sir.

I thought so. That's sufficient. You can go. So you are the
man,says Mr. Tulkinghornopening his door with the keyin
whose hiding-place Mr. Gridley was found?

Yes, I AM the man,says the trooperstopping two or three stairs
down. "What thensir?"

What then? I don't like your associates. You should not have
seen the inside of my door this morning if I had thought of your
being that man. Gridley? A threatening, murderous, dangerous
fellow.

With these wordsspoken in an unusually high tone for himthe
lawyer goes into his rooms and shuts the door with a thundering
noise.

Mr. George takes his dismissal in great dudgeonthe greater
because a clerk coming up the stairs has heard the last words of
all and evidently applies them to him. "A pretty character to
bear the trooper growls with a hasty oath as he strides
downstairs. A threateningmurderousdangerous fellow!" And
looking uphe sees the clerk looking down at him and marking him
as he passes a lamp. This so intensifies his dudgeon that for five
minutes he is in an ill humour. But he whistles that off like the
rest of it and marches home to the shooting gallery.

CHAPTER XXVIII

The Ironmaster


Sir Leicester Dedlock has got the betterfor the time beingof
the family gout and is once morein a literal no less than in a
figurative point of viewupon his legs. He is at his place in
Lincolnshire; but the waters are out again on the low-lying
groundsand the cold and damp steal into Chesney Woldthough well
defendedand eke into Sir Leicester's bones. The blazing fires of
faggot and coal--Dedlock timber and antediluvian forest--that blaze
upon the broad wide hearths and wink in the twilight on the
frowning woodssullen to see how trees are sacrificeddo not
exclude the enemy. The hot-water pipes that trail themselves all
over the housethe cushioned doors and windowsand the screens
and curtains fail to supply the fires' deficiencies and to satisfy
Sir Leicester's need. Hence the fashionable intelligence proclaims
one morning to the listening earth that Lady Dedlock is expected
shortly to return to town for a few weeks.

It is a melancholy truth that even great men have their poor
relations. Indeed great men have often more than their fair share
of poor relationsinasmuch as very red blood of the superior
qualitylike inferior blood unlawfully shedWILL cry aloud and
WILL be heard. Sir Leicester's cousinsin the remotest degree
are so many murders in the respect that they "will out." Among
whom there are cousins who are so poor that one might almost dare
to think it would have been the happier for them never to have been
plated links upon the Dedlock chain of goldbut to have been made
of common iron at first and done base service.

Servicehowever (with a few limited reservationsgenteel but not
profitable)they may not dobeing of the Dedlock dignity. So
they visit their richer cousinsand get into debt when they can
and live but shabbily when they can'tand find--the women no
husbandsand the men no wives--and ride in borrowed carriagesand
sit at feasts that are never of their own makingand so go through
high life. The rich family sum has been divided by so many
figuresand they are the something over that nobody knows what to
do with.

Everybody on Sir Leicester Dedlock's side of the question and of
his way of thinking would appear to be his cousin more or less.
From my Lord Boodlethrough the Duke of Foodledown to Noodle
Sir Leicesterlike a glorious spiderstretches his threads of
relationship. But while he is stately in the cousinship of the
Everybodyshe is a kind and generous manaccording to his
dignified wayin the cousinship of the Nobodys; and at the present
timein despite of the damphe stays out the visit of several
such cousins at Chesney Wold with the constancy of a martyr.

Of theseforemost in the front rank stands Volumnia Dedlocka
young lady (of sixty) who is doubly highly relatedhaving the
honour to be a poor relationby the mother's sideto another
great family. Miss Volumniadisplaying in early life a pretty
talent for cutting ornaments out of coloured paperand also for
singing to the guitar in the Spanish tongueand propounding French
conundrums in country housespassed the twenty years of her
existence between twenty and forty in a sufficiently agreeable
manner. Lapsing then out of date and being considered to bore
mankind by her vocal performances in the Spanish languageshe
retired to Bathwhere she lives slenderly on an annual present
from Sir Leicester and whence she makes occasional resurrections in
the country houses of her cousins. She has an extensive
acquaintance at Bath among appalling old gentlemen with thin legs
and nankeen trousersand is of high standing in that dreary city.
But she is a little dreaded elsewhere in consequence of an


indiscreet profusion in the article of rouge and persistency in an
obsolete pearl necklace like a rosary of little bird's-eggs.

In any country in a wholesome stateVolumnia would be a clear case
for the pension list. Efforts have been made to get her on itand
when William Buffy came init was fully expected that her name
would be put down for a couple of hundred a year. But William
Buffy somehow discoveredcontrary to all expectationthat these
were not the times when it could be doneand this was the first
clear indication Sir Leicester Dedlock had conveyed to him that the
country was going to pieces.

There is likewise the Honourable Bob Stableswho can make warm
mashes with the skill of a veterinary surgeon and is a better shot
than most gamekeepers. He has been for some time particularly
desirous to serve his country in a post of good emoluments
unaccompanied by any trouble or responsibility. In a well-
regulated body politic this natural desire on the part of a
spirited young gentleman so highly connected would be speedily
recognizedbut somehow William Buffy found when he came in that
these were not times in which he could manage that little matter
eitherand this was the second indication Sir Leicester Dedlock
had conveyed to him that the country was going to pieces.

The rest of the cousins are ladies and gentlemen of various ages
and capacitiesthe major part amiable and sensible and likely to
have done well enough in life if they could have overcome their
cousinship; as it isthey are almost all a little worsted by it
and lounge in purposeless and listless pathsand seem to be quite
as much at a loss how to dispose of themselves as anybody else can
be how to dispose of them.

In this societyand where notmy Lady Dedlock reigns supreme.
Beautifulelegantaccomplishedand powerful in her little world
(for the world of fashion does not stretch ALL the way from pole to
pole)her influence in Sir Leicester's househowever haughty and
indifferent her manneris greatly to improve it and refine it.
The cousinseven those older cousins who were paralysed when Sir
Leicester married herdo her feudal homage; and the Honourable Bob
Stables daily repeats to some chosen person between breakfast and
lunch his favourite original remarkthat she is the best-groomed
woman in the whole stud.

Such the guests in the long drawing-room at Chesney Wold this
dismal night when the step on the Ghost's Walk (inaudible here
however) might be the step of a deceased cousin shut out in the
cold. It is near bed-time. Bedroom fires blaze brightly all over
the houseraising ghosts of grim furniture on wall and ceiling.
Bedroom candlesticks bristle on the distant table by the doorand
cousins yawn on ottomans. Cousins at the pianocousins at the
soda-water traycousins rising from the card-tablecousins
gathered round the fire. Standing on one side of his own peculiar
fire (for there are two)Sir Leicester. On the opposite side of
the broad hearthmy Lady at her table. Volumniaas one of the
more privileged cousinsin a luxurious chair between them. Sir
Leicester glancingwith magnificent displeasureat the rouge and
the pearl necklace.

I occasionally meet on my staircase here,drawls Volumniawhose
thoughts perhaps are already hopping up it to bedafter a long
evening of very desultory talkone of the prettiest girls, I
think, that I ever saw in my life.

A PROTEGEE of my Lady's,observes Sir Leicester.


I thought so. I felt sure that some uncommon eye must have picked
that girl out. She really is a marvel. A dolly sort of beauty
perhaps,says Miss Volumniareserving her own sortbut in its
way, perfect; such bloom I never saw!

Sir Leicesterwith his magnificent glance of displeasure at the
rougeappears to say so too.

Indeed,remarks my Lady languidlyif there is any uncommon eye
in the case, it is Mrs. Rouncewell's, and not mine. Rosa is her
discovery.

Your maid, I suppose?

No. My anything; pet--secretary--messenger--I don't know what.

You like to have her about you, as you would like to have a
flower, or a bird, or a picture, or a poodle--no, not a poodle,
though--or anything else that was equally pretty?says Volumnia
sympathizing. "Yeshow charming now! And how well that
delightful old soul Mrs. Rouncewell is looking. She must be an
immense ageand yet she is as active and handsome! She is the
dearest friend I havepositively!"

Sir Leicester feels it to be right and fitting that the housekeeper
of Chesney Wold should be a remarkable person. Apart from thathe
has a real regard for Mrs. Rouncewell and likes to hear her
praised. So he saysYou are right, Volumnia,which Volumnia is
extremely glad to hear.

She has no daughter of her own, has she?

Mrs. Rouncewell? No, Volumnia. She has a son. Indeed, she had
two.

My Ladywhose chronic malady of boredom has been sadly aggravated
by Volumnia this eveningglances wearily towards the candlesticks
and heaves a noiseless sigh.

And it is a remarkable example of the confusion into which the
present age has fallen; of the obliteration of landmarks, the
opening of floodgates, and the uprooting of distinctions,says Sir
Leicester with stately gloomthat I have been informed by Mr.
Tulkinghorn that Mrs. Rouncewell's son has been invited to go into
Parliament.

Miss Volumnia utters a little sharp scream.

Yes, indeed,repeats Sir Leicester. "Into Parliament."

I never heard of such a thing! Good gracious, what is the man?
exclaims Volumnia.

He is called, I believe--an--ironmaster.Sir Leicester says it
slowly and with gravity and doubtas not being sure but that he is
called a lead-mistress or that the right word may be some other
word expressive of some other relationship to some other metal.

Volumnia utters another little scream.

He has declined the proposal, if my information from Mr.
Tulkinghorn be correct, as I have no doubt it is. Mr. Tulkinghorn
being always correct and exact; still that does not,says Sir


Leicesterthat does not lessen the anomaly, which is fraught with
strange considerations--startling considerations, as it appears to
me.

Miss Volumnia rising with a look candlestick-wardsSir Leicester
politely performs the grand tour of the drawing-roombrings one
and lights it at my Lady's shaded lamp.

I must beg you, my Lady,he says while doing soto remain a few
moments, for this individual of whom I speak arrived this evening
shortly before dinner and requested in a very becoming note--Sir
Leicesterwith his habitual regard to truthdwells upon it--"I am
bound to sayin a very becoming and well-expressed notethe
favour of a short interview with yourself and MYself on the subject
of this young girl. As it appeared that he wished to depart tonight
I replied that we would see him before retiring."

Miss Volumnia with a third little scream takes flightwishing her
hosts--O Lud!--well rid of the--what is it?--ironmaster!

The other cousins soon disperseto the last cousin there. Sir
Leicester rings the bellMake my compliments to Mr. Rouncewell,
in the housekeeper's apartments, and say I can receive him now.

My Ladywho has beard all this with slight attention outwardly
looks towards Mr. Rouncewell as he comes in. He is a little over
fifty perhapsof a good figurelike his motherand has a clear
voicea broad forehead from which his dark hair has retiredand a
shrewd though open face. He is a responsible-looking gentleman
dressed in blackportly enoughbut strong and active. Has a
perfectly natural and easy air and is not in the least embarrassed
by the great presence into which he comes.

Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, as I have already apologized for
intruding on you, I cannot do better than be very brief. I thank
you, Sir Leicester.

The head of the Dedlocks has motioned towards a sofa between
himself and my Lady. Mr. Rouncewell quietly takes his seat there.

In these busy times, when so many great undertakings are in
progress, people like myself have so many workmen in so many places
that we are always on the flight.

Sir Leicester is content enough that the ironmaster should feel
that there is no hurry there; therein that ancient houserooted
in that quiet parkwhere the ivy and the moss have had time to
matureand the gnarled and warted elms and the umbrageous oaks
stand deep in the fern and leaves of a hundred years; and where the
sun-dial on the terrace has dumbly recorded for centuries that time
which was as much the property of every Dedlock--while he lasted-as
the house and lands. Sir Leicester sits down in an easy-chair
opposing his repose and that of Chesney Wold to the restless
flights of ironmasters.

Lady Dedlock has been so kind,proceeds Mr. Rouncewell with a
respectful glance and a bow that wayas to place near her a young
beauty of the name of Rosa. Now, my son has fallen in love with
Rosa and has asked my consent to his proposing marriage to her and
to their becoming engaged if she will take him--which I suppose she
will. I have never seen Rosa until to-day, but I have some
confidence in my son's good sense--even in love. I find her what
he represents her, to the best of my judgment; and my mother speaks
of her with great commendation.


She in all respects deserves it,says my Lady.

I am happy, Lady Dedlock, that you say so, and I need not comment
on the value to me of your kind opinion of her.

That,observes Sir Leicester with unspeakable grandeurfor he
thinks the ironmaster a little too glibmust be quite
unnecessary.

Quite unnecessary, Sir Leicester. Now, my son is a very young
man, and Rosa is a very young woman. As I made my way, so my son
must make his; and his being married at present is out of the
question. But supposing I gave my consent to his engaging himself
to this pretty girl, if this pretty girl will engage herself to
him, I think it a piece of candour to say at once--I am sure, Sir
Leicester and Lady Dedlock, you will understand and excuse me--I
should make it a condition that she did not remain at Chesney Wold.
Therefore, before communicating further with my son, I take the
liberty of saying that if her removal would be in any way
inconvenient or objectionable, I will hold the matter over with him
for any reasonable time and leave it precisely where it is.

Not remain at Chesney Wold! Make it a condition! All Sir
Leicester's old misgivings relative to Wat Tyler and the people in
the iron districts who do nothing but turn out by torchlight come
in a shower upon his headthe fine grey hair of whichas well as
of his whiskersactually stirs with indignation.

Am I to understand, sir,says Sir Leicesterand is my Lady to
understand--he brings her in thus speciallyfirst as a point of
gallantryand next as a point of prudencehaving great reliance
on her sense--"am I to understandMr. Rouncewelland is my Lady
to understandsirthat you consider this young woman too good for
Chesney Wold or likely to be injured by remaining here?"

Certainly not, Sir Leicester,

I am glad to hear it.Sir Leicester very lofty indeed.

Pray, Mr. Rouncewell,says my Ladywarning Sir Leicester off
with the slightest gesture of her pretty handas if he were a fly
explain to me what you mean.

Willingly, Lady Dedlock. There is nothing I could desire more.

Addressing her composed facewhose intelligencehoweveris too
quick and active to be concealed by any studied impassiveness
however habitualto the strong Saxon face of the visitora
picture of resolution and perseverancemy Lady listens with
attentionoccasionally slightly bending her head.

I am the son of your housekeeper, Lady Dedlock, and passed my
childhood about this house. My mother has lived here half a
century and will die here I have no doubt. She is one of those
examples--perhaps as good a one as there is--of love, and
attachment, and fidelity in such a nation, which England may well
be proud of, but of which no order can appropriate the whole pride
or the whole merit, because such an instance bespeaks high worth on
two sides--on the great side assuredly, on the small one no less
assuredly.

Sir Leicester snorts a little to hear the law laid down in this
waybut in his honour and his love of truthhe freelythough


silentlyadmits the justice of the ironmaster's proposition.

Pardon me for saying what is so obvious, but I wouldn't have it
hastily supposed,with the least turn of his eyes towards Sir
Leicesterthat I am ashamed of my mother's position here, or
wanting in all just respect for Chesney Wold and the family. I
certainly may have desired--I certainly have desired, Lady Dedlock
--that my mother should retire after so many years and end her days
with me. But as I have found that to sever this strong bond would
be to break her heart, I have long abandoned that idea.

Sir Leicester very magnificent again at the notion of Mrs.
Rouncewell being spirited off from her natural home to end her days
with an ironmaster.

I have been,proceeds the visitor in a modestclear wayan
apprentice and a workman. I have lived on workman's wages, years
and years, and beyond a certain point have had to educate myself.
My wife was a foreman's daughter, and plainly brought up. We have
three daughters besides this son of whom I have spoken, and being
fortunately able to give them greater advantages than we have had
ourselves, we have educated them well, very well. It has been one
of our great cares and pleasures to make them worthy of any
station.

A little boastfulness in his fatherly tone hereas if he added in
his hearteven of the Chesney Wold station.Not a little more
magnificencethereforeon the part of Sir Leicester.

All this is so frequent, Lady Dedlock, where I live, and among the
class to which I belong, that what would be generally called
unequal marriages are not of such rare occurrence with us as
elsewhere. A son will sometimes make it known to his father that
he has fallen in love, say, with a young woman in the factory. The
father, who once worked in a factory himself, will be a little
disappointed at first very possibly. It may be that he had other
views for his son. However, the chances are that having
ascertained the young woman to be of unblemished character, he will
say to his son, 'I must be quite sure you are in earnest here.
This is a serious matter for both of you. Therefore I shall have
this girl educated for two years,' or it may be, 'I shall place
this girl at the same school with your sisters for such a time,
during which you will give me your word and honour to see her only
so often. If at the expiration of that time, when she has so far
profited by her advantages as that you may be upon a fair equality,
you are both in the same mind, I will do my part to make you
happy.' I know of several cases such as I describe, my Lady, and I
think they indicate to me my own course now.

Sir Leicester's magnificence explodes. Calmlybut terribly.

Mr. Rouncewell,says Sir Leicester with his right hand in the
breast of his blue coatthe attitude of state in which he is
painted in the gallerydo you draw a parallel between Chesney
Wold and a--Here he resists a disposition to chokea factory?

I need not reply, Sir Leicester, that the two places are very
different; but for the purposes of this case, I think a parallel
may be justly drawn between them.

Sir Leicester directs his majestic glance down one side of the long
drawing-room and up the other before he can believe that he is
awake.


Are you aware, sir, that this young woman whom my Lady--my Lady-has
placed near her person was brought up at the village school
outside the gates?

Sir Leicester, I am quite aware of it. A very good school it is,
and handsomely supported by this family.

Then, Mr. Rouncewell,returns Sir Leicesterthe application of
what you have said is, to me, incomprehensible.

Will it be more comprehensible, Sir Leicester, if I say,the
ironmaster is reddening a littlethat I do not regard the village
school as teaching everything desirable to be known by my son's
wife?

From the village school of Chesney Woldintact as it is this
minuteto the whole framework of society; from the whole framework
of societyto the aforesaid framework receiving tremendous cracks
in consequence of people (iron-masterslead-mistressesand what
not) not minding their catechismand getting out of the station
unto which they are called--necessarily and for everaccording to
Sir Leicester's rapid logicthe first station in which they happen
to find themselves; and from thatto their educating other people
out of THEIR stationsand so obliterating the landmarksand
opening the floodgatesand all the rest of it; this is the swift
progress of the Dedlock mind.

My Lady, I beg your pardon. Permit me, for one moment!She has
given a faint indication of intending to speak. "Mr. Rouncewell
our views of dutyand our views of stationand our views of
educationand our views of--in shortALL our views--are so
diametrically opposedthat to prolong this discussion must be
repellent to your feelings and repellent to my own. This young
woman is honoured with my Lady's notice and favour. If she wishes
to withdraw herself from that notice and favour or if she chooses
to place herself under the influence of any one who may in his
peculiar opinions--you will allow me to sayin his peculiar
opinionsthough I readily admit that he is not accountable for
them to me--who mayin his peculiar opinionswithdraw her from
that notice and favourshe is at any time at liberty to do so. We
are obliged to you for the plainness with which you have spoken.
It will have no effect of itselfone way or otheron the young
woman's position here. Beyond thiswe can make no terms; and here
we beg--if you will be so good--to leave the subject."

The visitor pauses a moment to give my Lady an opportunitybut she
says nothing. He then rises and repliesSir Leicester and Lady
Dedlock, allow me to thank you for your attention and only to
observe that I shall very seriously recommend my son to conquer his
present inclinations. Good night!

Mr. Rouncewell,says Sir Leicester with all the nature of a
gentleman shining in himit is late, and the roads are dark. I
hope your time is not so precious but that you will allow my Lady
and myself to offer you the hospitality of Chesney Wold, for tonight
at least.

I hope so,adds my Lady.

I am much obliged to you, but I have to travel all night in order
to reach a distant part of the country punctually at an appointed
time in the morning.

Therewith the ironmaster takes his departureSir Leicester ringing


the bell and my Lady rising as he leaves the room.

When my Lady goes to her boudoirshe sits down thoughtfully by the
fireand inattentive to the Ghost's Walklooks at Rosawriting
in an inner room. Presently my Lady calls her.

Come to me, child. Tell me the truth. Are you in love?

Oh! My Lady!

My Ladylooking at the downcast and blushing facesays smiling
Who is it? Is it Mrs. Rouncewell's grandson?

Yes, if you please, my Lady. But I don't know that I am in love
with him--yet.

Yet, you silly little thing! Do you know that he loves YOU, yet?

I think he likes me a little, my Lady.And Rosa bursts into
tears.

Is this Lady Dedlock standing beside the village beautysmoothing
her dark hair with that motherly touchand watching her with eyes
so full of musing interest? Ayeindeed it is!

Listen to me, child. You are young and true, and I believe you
are attached to me.

Indeed I am, my Lady. Indeed there is nothing in the world I
wouldn't do to show how much.

And I don't think you would wish to leave me just yet, Rosa, even
for a lover?

No, my Lady! Oh, no!Rosa looks up for the first timequite
frightened at the thought.

Confide in me, my child. Don't fear me. I wish you to be happy,
and will make you so--if I can make anybody happy on this earth.

Rosawith fresh tearskneels at her feet and kisses her hand. My
Lady takes the hand with which she has caught itand standing with
her eyes fixed on the fireputs it about and about between her own
two handsand gradually lets it fall. Seeing her so absorbed
Rosa softly withdraws; but still my Lady's eyes are on the fire.

In search of what? Of any hand that is no moreof any hand that
never wasof any touch that might have magically changed her life?
Or does she listen to the Ghost's Walk and think what step does it
most resemble? A man's? A woman's? The pattering of a little
child's feetever coming on--on--on? Some melancholy influence is
upon heror why should so proud a lady close the doors and sit
alone upon the hearth so desolate?

Volumnia is away next dayand all the cousins are scattered before
dinner. Not a cousin of the batch but is amazed to hear from Sir
Leicester at breakfast-time of the obliteration of landmarksand
opening of floodgatesand cracking of the framework of society
manifested through Mrs. Rouncewell's son. Not a cousin of the
batch but is really indignantand connects it with the feebleness
of William Buffy when in officeand really does feel deprived of a
stake in the country--or the pension list--or something--by fraud
and wrong. As to Volumniashe is handed down the great staircase
by Sir Leicesteras eloquent upon the theme as if there were a


general rising in the north of England to obtain her rouge-pot and
pearl necklace. And thuswith a clatter of maids and valets--for
it is one appurtenance of their cousinship that however difficult
they may find it to keep themselvesthey MUST keep maids and
valets--the cousins disperse to the four winds of heaven; and the
one wintry wind that blows to-day shakes a shower from the trees
near the deserted houseas if all the cousins had been changed
into leaves.

CHAPTER XXIX

The Young Man

Chesney Wold is shut upcarpets are rolled into great scrolls in
corners of comfortless roomsbright damask does penance in brown
hollandcarving and gilding puts on mortificationand the Dedlock
ancestors retire from the light of day again. Around and around
the house the leaves fall thickbut never fastfor they come
circling down with a dead lightness that is sombre and slow. Let
the gardener sweep and sweep the turf as he willand press the
leaves into full barrowsand wheel them offstill they lie ankle-
deep. Howls the shrill wind round Chesney Wold; the sharp rain
beatsthe windows rattleand the chimneys growl. Mists hide in
the avenuesveil the points of viewand move in funeral-wise
across the rising grounds. On all the house there is a coldblank
smell like the smell of a little churchthough something dryer
suggesting that the dead and buried Dedlocks walk there in the long
nights and leave the flavour of their graves behind them.

But the house in townwhich is rarely in the same mind as Chesney
Wold at the same timeseldom rejoicing when it rejoices or
mourning when it mournsexpecting when a Dedlock dies--the house
in town shines out awakened. As warm and bright as so much state
may beas delicately redolent of pleasant scents that bear no
trace of winter as hothouse flowers can make itsoft and hushed so
that the ticking of the clocks and the crisp burning of the fires
alone disturb the stillness in the roomsit seems to wrap those
chilled bones of Sir Leicester's in rainbow-coloured wool. And Sir
Leicester is glad to repose in dignified contentment before the
great fire in the librarycondescendingly perusing the backs of
his books or honouring the fine arts with a glance of approbation.
For he has his picturesancient and modern. Some of the Fancy
Ball School in which art occasionally condescends to become a
masterwhich would be best catalogued like the miscellaneous
articles in a sale. As '"Three high-backed chairsa table and
coverlong-necked bottle (containing wine)one flaskone Spanish
female's costumethree-quarter face portrait of Miss Jogg the
modeland a suit of armour containing Don Quixote." Or "One stone
terrace (cracked)one gondola in distanceone Venetian senator's
dress completerichly embroidered white satin costume with profile
portrait of Miss Jogg the modelone Scimitar superbly mounted in
gold with jewelled handleelaborate Moorish dress (very rare)and
Othello."

Mr. Tulkinghorn comes and goes pretty oftenthere being estate
business to doleases to be renewedand so on. He sees my Lady
pretty oftentoo; and he and she are as composedand as
indifferentand take as little heed of one anotheras ever. Yet
it may be that my Lady fears this Mr. Tulkinghorn and that he knows
it. It may be that he pursues her doggedly and steadilywith no
touch of compunctionremorseor pity. It may be that her beauty


and all the state and brilliancy surrounding her only gives him the
greater zest for what he is set upon and makes him the more
inflexible in it. Whether he be cold and cruelwhether immovable
in what he has made his dutywhether absorbed in love of power
whether determined to have nothing hidden from him in ground where
he has burrowed among secrets all his lifewhether he in his heart
despises the splendour of which he is a distant beamwhether he is
always treasuring up slights and offences in the affability of his
gorgeous clients--whether he be any of thisor all of thisit may
be that my Lady had better have five thousand pairs of fashionahle
eyes upon herin distrustful vigilancethan the two eyes of this
rusty lawyer with his wisp of neckcloth and his dull black breeches
tied with ribbons at the knees.

Sir Leicester sits in my Lady's room--that room in which Mr.
Tulkinghorn read the affidavit in Jarndyce and Jarndyce-particularly
complacent. My Ladyas on that daysits before the
fire with her screen in her hand. Sir Leicester is particularly
complacent because he has found in his newspaper some congenial
remarks bearing directly on the floodgates and the framework of
society. They apply so happily to the late case that Sir Leicester
has come from the library to my Lady's room expressly to read them
aloud. "The man who wrote this article he observes by way of
preface, nodding at the fire as if he were nodding down at the man
from a mount, has a well-balanced mind."

The man's mind is not so well balanced but that he bores my Lady
whoafter a languid effort to listenor rather a languid
resignation of herself to a show of listeningbecomes distraught
and falls into a contemplation of the fire as if it were her fire
at Chesney Woldand she had never left it. Sir Leicesterquite
unconsciousreads on through his double eye-glassoccasionally
stopping to remove his glass and express approvalas "Very true
indeed Very properly put I have frequently made the same
remark myself invariably losing his place after each observation,
and going up and down the column to find it again.

Sir Leicester is reading with infinite gravity and state when the
door opens, and the Mercury in powder makes this strange
announcement, The young manmy Ladyof the name of Guppy."

Sir Leicester pausesstaresrepeats in a killing voiceThe
young man of the name of Guppy?

Looking roundhe beholds the young man of the name of Guppymuch
discomfited and not presenting a very impressive letter of
introduction in his manner and appearance.

Pray,says Sir Leicester to Mercurywhat do you mean by
announcing with this abruptness a young man of the name of Guppy?

I beg your pardon, Sir Leicester, but my Lady said she would see
the young man whenever he called. I was not aware that you were
here, Sir Leicester.

With this apologyMercury directs a scornful and indignant look at
the young man of the name of Guppy which plainly saysWhat do you
come calling here for and getting ME into a row?

It's quite right. I gave him those directions,says my Lady.
Let the young man wait.

By no means, my Lady. Since he has your orders to come, I will
not interrupt you.Sir Leicester in his gallantry retiresrather


declining to accept a bow from the young man as he goes out and
majestically supposing him to be some shoemaker of intrusive
appearance.

Lady Dedlock looks imperiously at her visitor when the servant has
left the roomcasting her eyes over him from head to foot. She
suffers him to stand by the door and asks him what he wants.

That your ladyship would have the kindness to oblige me with a
little conversation,returns Mr. Guppyembarrassed.

You are, of course, the person who has written me so many
letters?

Several, your ladyship. Several before your ladyship condescended
to favour me with an answer.

And could you not take the same means of rendering a Conversation
unnecessary? Can you not still?

Mr. Guppy screws his mouth into a silent "No!" and shakes his head.

You have been strangely importunate. If it should appear, after
all, that what you have to say does not concern me--and I don't
know how it can, and don't expect that it will--you will allow me
to cut you short with but little ceremony. Say what you have to
say, if you please.

My Ladywith a careless toss of her screenturns herself towards
the fire againsitting almost with her back to the young man of
the name of Guppy.

With your ladyship's permission, then,says the young manI
will now enter on my business. Hem! I am, as I told your ladyship
in my first letter, in the law. Being in the law, I have learnt
the habit of not committing myself in writing, and therefore I did
not mention to your ladyship the name of the firm with which I am
connected and in which my standing--and I may add income--is
tolerably good. I may now state to your ladyship, in confidence,
that the name of that firm is Kenge and Carboy, of Lincoln's Inn,
which may not be altogether unknown to your ladyship in connexion
with the case in Chancery of Jarndyce and Jarndyce.

My Lady's figure begins to be expressive of some attention. She
has ceased to toss the screen and holds it as if she were
listening.

Now, I may say to your ladyship at once,says Mr. Guppya little
emboldenedit is no matter arising out of Jarndyce and Jarndyce
that made me so desirous to speak to your ladyship, which conduct I
have no doubt did appear, and does appear, obtrusive--in fact,
almost blackguardly.

After waiting for a moment to receive some assurance to the
contraryand not receiving anyMr. Guppy proceedsIf it had
been Jarndyce and Jarndyce, I should have gone at once to your
ladyship's solicitor, Mr. Tulkinghorn, of the Fields. I have the
pleasure of being acquainted with Mr. Tulkinghorn--at least we move
when we meet one another--and if it had been any business of that
sort, I should have gone to him.

My Lady turns a little round and saysYou had better sit down.

Thank your ladyship.Mr. Guppy does so. "Nowyour ladyship"-



Mr. Guppy refers to a little slip of paper on which he has made
small notes of his line of argument and which seems to involve him
in the densest obscurity whenever he looks at it--"I--Ohyes!--I
place myself entirely in your ladyship's hands. If your ladyship
was to make any complaint to Kenge and Carboy or to Mr. Tulkinghorn
of the present visitI should be placed in a very disagreeable
situation. ThatI openly admit. ConsequentlyI rely upon your
ladyship's honour."

My Ladywith a disdainful gesture of the hand that holds the
screenassures him of his being worth no complaint from her.

Thank your ladyship,says Mr. Guppy; "quite satisfactory. Now-I--
dash it!--The fact is that I put down a head or two here of the
order of the points I thought of touching uponand they're written
shortand I can't quite make out what they mean. If your ladyship
will excuse me taking it to the window half a momentI--"

Mr. Guppygoing to the windowtumbles into a pair of love-birds
to whom he says in his confusionI beg your pardon, I am sure.
This does not tend to the greater legibility of his notes. He
murmursgrowing warm and red and holding the slip of paper now
close to his eyesnow a long way offC.S. What's C.S. for? Oh!
C.S.! Oh, I know! Yes, to be sure!And comes back enlightened.

I am not aware,says Mr. Guppystanding midway between my Lady
and his chairwhether your ladyship ever happened to hear of, or
to see, a young lady of the name of Miss Esther Summerson.

My Lady's eyes look at him full. "I saw a young lady of that name
not long ago. This past autumn."

Now, did it strike your ladyship that she was like anybody?asks
Mr. Guppycrossing his armsholding his head on one sideand
scratching the corner of his mouth with his memoranda.

My Lady removes her eyes from him no more.

No.

Not like your ladyship's family?

No.

I think your ladyship,says Mr. Guppycan hardly remember Miss
Summerson's face?

I remember the young lady very well. What has this to do with
me?

Your ladyship, I do assure you that having Miss Summerson's image
imprinted on my 'eart--which I mention in confidence--I found, when
I had the honour of going over your ladyship's mansion of Chesney
Wold while on a short out in the county of Lincolnshire with a
friend, such a resemblance between Miss Esther Summerson and your
ladyship's own portrait that it completely knocked me over, so much
so that I didn't at the moment even know what it WAS that knocked
me over. And now I have the honour of beholding your ladyship near
(I have often, since that, taken the liberty of looking at your
ladyship in your carriage in the park, when I dare say you was not
aware of me, but I never saw your ladyship so near), it's really
more surprising than I thought it.

Young man of the name of Guppy! There have been timeswhen ladies


lived in strongholds and had unscrupulous attendants within call
when that poor life of yours would NOT have been worth a minute's
purchasewith those beautiful eyes looking at you as they look at
this moment.

My Ladyslowly using her little hand-screen as a fanasks him
again what he supposes that his taste for likenesses has to do with
her.

Your ladyship,replies Mr. Guppyagain referring to his paper
I am coming to that. Dash these notes! Oh! 'Mrs. Chadband.'
Yes.Mr. Guppy draws his chair a little forward and seats himself
again. My Lady reclines in her chair composedlythough with a
trifle less of graceful ease than usual perhapsand never falters
in her steady gaze. "A--stop a minutethough!" Mr. Guppy refers
again. "E.S. twice? Ohyes! YesI see my way nowright on."

Rolling up the slip of paper as an instrument to point his speech
withMr. Guppy proceeds.

Your ladyship, there is a mystery about Miss Esther Summerson's
birth and bringing up. I am informed of that fact because--which I
mention in confidence--I know it in the way of my profession at
Kenge and Carboy's. Now, as I have already mentioned to your
ladyship, Miss Summerson's image is imprinted on my 'eart. If I
could clear this mystery for her, or prove her to be well related,
or find that having the honour to be a remote branch of your
ladyship's family she had a right to be made a party in Jarndyce
and Jarndyce, why, I might make a sort of a claim upon Miss
Summerson to look with an eye of more dedicated favour on my
proposals than she has exactly done as yet. In fact, as yet she
hasn't favoured them at all.

A kind of angry smile just dawns upon my Lady's face.

Now, it's a very singular circumstance, your ladyship,says Mr.
Guppythough one of those circumstances that do fall in the way
of us professional men--which I may call myself, for though not
admitted, yet I have had a present of my articles made to me by
Kenge and Carboy, on my mother's advancing from the principal of
her little income the money for the stamp, which comes heavy--that
I have encountered the person who lived as servant with the lady
who brought Miss Summerson up before Mr. Jarndyce took charge of
her. That lady was a Miss Barbary, your ladyship.

Is the dead colour on my Lady's face reflected from the screen
which has a green silk ground and which she holds in her raised
hand as if she had forgotten itor is it a dreadful paleness that
has fallen on her?

Did your ladyship,says Mr. Guppyever happen to hear of Miss
Barbary?

I don't know. I think so. Yes.

Was Miss Barbary at all connected with your ladyship's family?

My Lady's lips movebut they utter nothing. She shakes her head.

NOT connected?says Mr. Guppy. "Oh! Not to your ladyship's
knowledgeperhaps? Ah! But might be? Yes." After each of these
interrogatoriesshe has inclined her head. "Very good! Nowthis
Miss Barbary was extremely close--seems to have been
extraordinarily close for a femalefemales being generally (in


common life at least) rather given to conversation--and my witness
never had an idea whether she possessed a single relative. On one
occasionand only oneshe seems to have been confidential to my
witness on a single pointand she then told her that the little
girl's real name was not Esther Summersonbut Esther Hawdon."

My God!

Mr. Guppy stares. Lady Dedlock sits before him looking him
throughwith the same dark shade upon her facein the same
attitude even to the holding of the screenwith her lips a little
aparther brow a little contractedbut for the moment dead. He
sees her consciousness returnsees a tremor pass across her frame
like a ripple over watersees her lips shakesees her compose
them by a great effortsees her force herself back to the
knowledge of his presence and of what he has said. All thisso
quicklythat her exclamation and her dead condition seem to have
passed away like the features of those long-preserved dead bodies
sometimes opened up in tombswhichstruck by the air like
lightningvanish in a breath.

Your ladyship is acquainted with the name of Hawdon?

I have heard it before.

Name of any collateral or remote branch of your ladyship's
family?

No.

Now, your ladyship,says Mr. GuppyI come to the last point of
the case, so far as I have got it up. It's going on, and I shall
gather it up closer and closer as it goes on. Your ladyship must
know--if your ladyship don't happen, by any chance, to know
already--that there was found dead at the house of a person named
Krook, near Chancery Lane, some time ago, a law-writer in great
distress. Upon which law-writer there was an inquest, and which
law-writer was an anonymous character, his name being unknown.
But, your ladyship, I have discovered very lately that that law-
writer's name was Hawdon.

And what is THAT to me?

Aye, your ladyship, that's the question! Now, your ladyship, a
queer thing happened after that man's death. A lady started up, a
disguised lady, your ladyship, who went to look at the scene of
action and went to look at his grave. She hired a crossing-
sweeping boy to show it her. If your ladyship would wish to have
the boy produced in corroboration of this statement, I can lay my
hand upon him at any time.

The wretched boy is nothing to my Ladyand she does NOT wish to
have him produced.

Oh, I assure your ladyship it's a very queer start indeed,says
Mr. Guppy. "If you was to hear him tell about the rings that
sparkled on her fingers when she took her glove offyou'd think it
quite romantic."

There are diamonds glittering on the hand that holds the screen.
My Lady trifles with the screen and makes them glitter moreagain
with that expression which in other times might have been so
dangerous to the young man of the name of Guppy.


It was supposed, your ladyship, that he left no rag or scrap
behind him by which he could be possibly identified. But he did.
He left a bundle of old letters.

The screen still goesas before. All this time her eyes never
once release him.

They were taken and secreted. And to-morrow night, your ladyship,
they will come into my possession.

Still I ask you, what is this to me?

Your ladyship, I conclude with that.Mr. Guppy rises. "If you
think there's enough in this chain of circumstances put together-in
the undoubted strong likeness of this young lady to your
ladyshipwhich is a positive fact for a jury; in her having been
brought up by Miss Barbary; in Miss Barbary stating Miss
Summerson's real name to be Hawdon; in your ladyship's knowing both
these names VERY WELL; and in Hawdon's dying as he did--to give
your ladyship a family interest in going further into the caseI
will bring these papers here. I don't know what they areexcept
that they are old letters: I have never had them in my posession
yet. I will bring those papers here as soon as I get them and go
over them for the first time with your ladyship. I have told your
ladyship my object. I have told your ladyship that I should be
placed in a very disagreeable situation if any complaint was made
and all is in strict confidence."

Is this the full purpose of the young man of the name of Guppyor
has he any other? Do his words disclose the lengthbreadth
depthof his object and suspicion in coming here; or if notwhat
do they hide? He is a match for my Lady there. She may look at
himbut he can look at the table and keep that witness-box face of
his from telling anything.

You may bring the letters,says my Ladyif you choose.

Your ladyship is not very encouraging, upon my word and honour,
says Mr. Guppya little injured.

You may bring the letters,she repeats in the same toneif you
--please.

It shall he done. I wish your ladyship good day.

On a table near her is a rich bauble of a casketbarred and
clasped like an old strong-chest. Shelooking at him stilltakes
it to her and unlocks it.

Oh! I assure your ladyship I am not actuated by any motives of
that sort,says Mr. Guppyand I couldn't accept anything of the
kind. I wish your ladyship good day, and am much obliged to you
all the same.

So the young man makes his bow and goes downstairswhere the
supercilious Mercury does not consider himself called upon to leave
his Olympus by the hall-fire to let the young man out.

As Sir Leicester basks in his library and dozes over his newspaper
is there no influence in the house to startle himnot to say to
make the very trees at Chesney Wold fling up their knotted arms
the very portraits frownthe very armour stir?

No. Wordssobsand cries are but airand air is so shut in and


shut out throughout the house in town that sounds need be uttered
trumpet-tongued indeed by my Lady in her chamber to carry any faint
vibration to Sir Leicester's ears; and yet this cry is in the
housegoing upward from a wild figure on its knees.

O my child, my child! Not dead in the first hours of her life, as
my cruel sister told me, but sternly nurtured by her, after she had
renounced me and my name! O my child, O my child!

CHAPTER XXX

Esther's Narrative

Richard had been gone away some time when a visitor came to pass a
few days with us. It was an elderly lady. It was Mrs. Woodcourt
whohaving come from Wales to stay with Mrs. Bayham Badger and
having written to my guardianby her son Allan's desire,to
report that she had heard from him and that he was well "and sent
his kind remembrances to all of us had been invited by my
guardian to make a visit to Bleak House. She stayed with us nearly
three weeks. She took very kindly to me and was extremely
confidential, so much so that sometimes she almost made me
uncomfortable. I had no right, I knew very well, to be
uncomfortable because she confided in me, and I felt it was
unreasonable; still, with all I could do, I could not quite help it.

She was such a sharp little lady and used to sit with her hands
folded in each other looking so very watchful while she talked to
me that perhaps I found that rather irksome. Or perhaps it was her
being so upright and trim, though I don't think it was that,
because I thought that quaintly pleasant. Nor can it have been the
general expression of her face, which was very sparkling and pretty
for an old lady. I don't know what it was. Or at least if I do
now, I thought I did not then. Or at least--but it don't matter.

Of a night when I was going upstairs to bed, she would invite me
into her room, where she sat before the fire in a great chair; and,
dear me, she would tell me about Morgan ap-Kerrig until I was quite
low-spirited! Sometimes she recited a few verses from
Crumlinwallinwer and the Mewlinn-willinwodd (if those are the right
names, which I dare say they are not), and would become quite fiery
with the sentiments they expressed. Though I never knew what they
were (being in Welsh), further than that they were highly
eulogistic of the lineage of Morgan ap-Kerrig.

SoMiss Summerson she would say to me with stately triumph,
thisyou seeis the fortune inherited by my son. Wherever my
son goeshe can claim kindred with Ap-Kerrig. He may not have
moneybut he always has what is much better--familymy dear."

I had my doubts of their caring so very much for Morgan ap-Kerrig
in India and Chinabut of course I never expressed them. I used
to say it was a great thing to be so highly connected.

It IS, my dear, a great thing,Mrs. Woodcourt would reply. "It
has its disadvantages; my son's choice of a wifefor instanceis
limited by itbut the matrimonial choice of the royal family is
limited in much the same manner."

Then she would pat me on the arm and smooth my dressas much as to
assure me that she had a good opinion of methe distance between


us notwithstanding.

Poor Mr. Woodcourt, my dear,she would sayand always with some
emotionfor with her lofty pedigree she had a very affectionate
heartwas descended from a great Highland family, the MacCoorts
of MacCoort. He served his king and country as an officer in the
Royal Highlanders, and he died on the field. My son is one of the
last representatives of two old families. With the blessing of
heaven he will set them up again and unite them with another old
family.

It was in vain for me to try to change the subjectas I used to
tryonly for the sake of novelty or perhaps because--but I need
not be so particular. Mrs. Woodcourt never would let me change it.

My dear,she said one nightyou have so much sense and you look
at the world in a quiet manner so superior to your time of life
that it is a comfort to me to talk to you about these family
matters of mine. You don't know much of my son, my dear; but you
know enough of him, I dare say, to recollect him?

Yes, ma'am. I recollect him.

Yes, my dear. Now, my dear, I think you are a judge of character,
and I should like to have your opinion of him.

Oh, Mrs. Woodcourt,said Ithat is so difficult!

Why is it so difficult, my dear?she returned. "I don't see it
myself."

To give an opinion--

On so slight an acquaintance, my dear. THAT'S true.

I didn't mean thatbecause Mr. Woodcourt had been at our house a
good deal altogether and had become quite intimate with my
guardian. I said soand added that he seemed to be very clever in
his profession--we thought--and that his kindness and gentleness to
Miss Flite were above all praise.

You do him justice!said Mrs. Woodcourtpressing my hand. "You
define him exactly. Allan is a dear fellowand in his profession
faultless. I say itthough I am his mother. StillI must
confess he is not without faultslove."

None of us are,said I.

Ah! But his really are faults that he might correct, and ought to
correct,returned the sharp old ladysharply shaking her head.
I am so much attached to you that I may confide in you, my dear,
as a third party wholly disinterested, that he is fickleness
itself.

I said I should have thought it hardly possible that he could have
been otherwise than constant to his profession and zealous in the
pursuit of itjudging from the reputation he had earned.

You are right again, my dear,the old lady retortedbut I don't
refer to his profession, look you.

Oh!said I.

No,said she. "I refermy dearto his social conduct. He is


always paying trivial attentions to young ladiesand always has
beenever since he was eighteen. Nowmy dearhe has never
really cared for any one of them and has never meant in doing this
to do any harm or to express anything but politeness and good
nature. Stillit's not rightyou know; is it?"

No,said Ias she seemed to wait for me.

And it might lead to mistaken notions, you see, my dear.

I supposed it might.

Therefore, I have told him many times that he really should be
more careful, both in justice to himself and in justice to others.
And he has always said, 'Mother, I will be; but you know me better
than anybody else does, and you know I mean no harm--in short, mean
nothing.' All of which is very true, my dear, but is no
justification. However, as he is now gone so far away and for an
indefinite time, and as he will have good opportunities and
introductions, we may consider this past and gone. And you, my
dear,said the old ladywho was now all nods and smiles
regarding your dear self, my love?

Me, Mrs. Woodcourt?

Not to be always selfish, talking of my son, who has gone to seek
his fortune and to find a wife--when do you mean to seek YOUR
fortune and to find a husband, Miss Summerson? Hey, look you! Now
you blush!

I don't think I did blush--at all eventsit was not important if I
did--and I said my present fortune perfectly contented me and I had
no wish to change it.

Shall I tell you what I always think of you and the fortune yet to
come for you, my love?said Mrs. Woodcourt.

If you believe you are a good prophet,said I.

Why, then, it is that you will marry some one very rich and very
worthy, much older--five and twenty years, perhaps--than yourself.
And you will be an excellent wife, and much beloved, and very
happy.

That is a good fortune,said I. "But why is it to be mine?"

My dear,she returnedthere's suitability in it--you are so
busy, and so neat, and so peculiarly situated altogether that
there's suitability in it, and it will come to pass. And nobody,
my love, will congratulate you more sincerely on such a marriage
than I shall.

It was curious that this should make me uncomfortablebut I think
it did. I know it did. It made me for some part of that night
uncomfortable. I was so ashamed of my folly that I did not like to
confess it even to Adaand that made me more uncomfortable still.
I would have given anything not to have been so much in the bright
old lady's confidence if I could have possibly declined it. It
gave me the most inconsistent opinions of her. At one time I
thought she was a story-tellerand at another time that she was
the pink of truth. Now I suspected that she was very cunningnext
moment I believed her honest Welsh heart to be perfectly innocent
and simple. And after allwhat did it matter to meand why did
it matter to me? Why could not Igoing up to bed with my basket


of keysstop to sit down by her fire and accommodate myself for a
little while to herat least as well as to anybody elseand not
trouble myself about the harmless things she said to me? Impelled
towards heras I certainly wasfor I was very anxious that she
should like me and was very glad indeed that she didwhy should I
harp afterwardswith actual distress and painon every word she
said and weigh it over and over again in twenty scales? Why was it
so worrying to me to have her in our houseand confidential to me
every nightwhen I yet felt that it was better and safer somehow
that she should be there than anywhere else? These were
perplexities and contradictions that I could not account for. At
leastif I could--but I shall come to all that by and byand it
is mere idleness to go on about it now.

So when Mrs. Woodcourt went awayI was sorry to lose her but was
relieved too. And then Caddy Jellyby came downand Caddy brought
such a packet of domestic news that it gave us abundant occupation.

First Caddy declared (and would at first declare nothing else) that
I was the best adviser that ever was known. Thismy pet saidwas
no news at all; and thisI saidof coursewas nonsense. Then
Caddy told us that she was going to be married in a month and that
if Ada and I would be her bridesmaidsshe was the happiest girl in
the world. To be surethis was news indeed; and I thought we
never should have done talking about itwe had so much to say to
Caddyand Caddy had so much to say to us.

It seemed that Caddy's unfortunate papa had got over his
bankruptcy--"gone through the Gazette was the expression Caddy
used, as if it were a tunnel--with the general clemency and
commiseration of his creditors, and had got rid of his affairs in
some blessed manner without succeeding in understanding them, and
had given up everything he possessed (which was not worth much, I
should think, to judge from the state of the furniture), and had
satisfied every one concerned that he could do no more, poor man.
So, he had been honourably dismissed to the office" to begin the
world again. What he did at the officeI never knew; Caddy said
he was a "custom-house and general agent and the only thing I
ever understood about that business was that when he wanted money
more than usual he went to the docks to look for it, and hardly
ever found it.

As soon as her papa had tranquillized his mind by becoming this
shorn lamb, and they had removed to a furnished lodging in Hatton
Garden (where I found the children, when I afterwards went there,
cutting the horse hair out of the seats of the chairs and choking
themselves with it), Caddy had brought about a meeting between him
and old Mr. Turveydrop; and poor Mr. Jellyby, being very humble and
meek, had deferred to Mr. Turveydrop's deportment so submissively
that they had become excellent friends. By degrees, old Mr.
Turveydrop, thus familiarized with the idea of his son's marriage,
had worked up his parental feelings to the height of contemplating
that event as being near at hand and had given his gracious consent
to the young couple commencing housekeeping at the academy in
Newman Street when they would.

And your papaCaddy. What did he say?"

Oh! Poor Pa,said Caddyonly cried and said he hoped we might
get on better than he and Ma had got on. He didn't say so before
Prince, he only said so to me. And he said, 'My poor girl, you
have not been very well taught how to make a home for your husband,
but unless you mean with all your heart to strive to do it, you bad
better murder him than marry him--if you really love him.'


And how did you reassure him, Caddy?

Why, it was very distressing, you know, to see poor Pa so low and
hear him say such terrible things, and I couldn't help crying
myself. But I told him that I DID mean it with all my heart and
that I hoped our house would be a place for him to come and find
some comfort in of an evening and that I hoped and thought I could
be a better daughter to him there than at home. Then I mentioned
Peepy's coming to stay with me, and then Pa began to cry again and
said the children were Indians.

Indians, Caddy?

Yes,said Caddywild Indians. And Pa said--here she began to
sobpoor girlnot at all like the happiest girl in the world-"
that he was sensible the best thing that could happen to them was
their being all tomahawked together."

Ada suggested that it was comfortable to know that Mr. Jellyby did
not mean these destructive sentiments.

No, of course I know Pa wouldn't like his family to be weltering
in their blood,said Caddybut he means that they are very
unfortunate in being Ma's children and that he is very unfortunate
in being Ma's husband; and I am sure that's true, though it seems
unnatural to say so.

I asked Caddy if Mrs. Jellyby knew that her wedding-day was fixed.

Oh! You know what Ma is, Esther,she returned. "It's impossible
to say whether she knows it or not. She has been told it often
enough; and when she IS told itshe only gives me a placid look
as if I was I don't know what--a steeple in the distance said
Caddy with a sudden idea; and then she shakes her head and says
'OhCaddyCaddywhat a tease you are!' and goes on with the
Borrioboola letters."

And about your wardrobe, Caddy?said I. For she was under no
restraint with us.

Well, my dear Esther,'' she returned, drying her eyes, I must do
the best I can and trust to my dear Prince never to have an unkind
remembrance of my coming so shabbily to him. If the question
concerned an outfit for BorrioboolaMa would know all about it and
would be quite excited. Being what it isshe neither knows nor
cares."

Caddy was not at all deficient in natural affection for her mother
but mentioned this with tears as an undeniable factwhich I am
afraid it was. We were sorry for the poor dear girl and found so
much to admire in the good disposition which had survived under
such discouragement that we both at once (I mean Ada and I)
proposed a little scheme that made her perfectly joyful. This was
her staying with us for three weeksmy staying with her for one
and our all three contriving and cutting outand repairingand
sewingand savingand doing the very best we could think of to
make the most of her stock. My guardian being as pleased with the
idea as Caddy waswe took her home next day to arrange the matter
and brought her out again in triumph with her boxes and all the
purchases that could be squeezed out of a ten-pound notewhich Mr.
Jellyby had found in the docks I supposebut which he at all
events gave her. What my guardian would not have given her if we
had encouraged himit would be difficult to saybut we thought it


right to compound for no more than her wedding-dress and bonnet.
He agreed to this compromiseand if Caddy had ever been happy in
her lifeshe was happy when we sat down to work.

She was clumsy enough with her needlepoor girland pricked her
fingers as much as she had been used to ink them. She could not
help reddening a little now and thenpartly with the smart and
partly with vexation at being able to do no betterbut she soon
got over that and began to improve rapidly. So day after day she
and my darlingand my little maid Charleyand a milliner out of
the townand Isat hard at workas pleasantly as possible.

Over and above thisCaddy was very anxious "to learn
housekeeping as she said. Now, mercy upon us! The idea of her
learning housekeeping of a person of my vast experience was such a
joke that I laughed, and coloured up, and fell into a comical
confusion when she proposed it. However, I said, CaddyI am sure
you are very welcome to learn anything that you can learn of MEmy
dear and I showed her all my books and methods and all my fidgety
ways. You would have supposed that I was showing her some
wonderful inventions, by her study of them; and if you had seen
her, whenever I jingled my housekeeping keys, get up and attend me,
certainly you might have thought that there never was a greater
imposter than I with a blinder follower than Caddy Jellyby.

So what with working and housekeeping, and lessons to Charley, and
backgammon in the evening with my guardian, and duets with Ada, the
three weeks slipped fast away. Then I went home with Caddy to see
what could be done there, and Ada and Charley remained behind to
take care of my guardian.

When I say I went home with Caddy, I mean to the furnished lodging
in Hatton Garden. We went to Newman Street two or three times,
where preparations were in progress too--a good many, I observed,
for enhancing the comforts of old Mr. Turveydrop, and a few for
putting the newly married couple away cheaply at the top of the
house--but our great point was to make the furnished lodging decent
for the wedding-breakfast and to imbue Mrs. Jellyby beforehand with
some faint sense of the occasion.

The latter was the more difficult thing of the two because Mrs.
Jellyby and an unwholesome boy occupied the front sitting-room (the
back one was a mere closet), and it was littered down with wastepaper
and Borrioboolan documents, as an untidy stable might be
littered with straw. Mrs. Jellyby sat there all day drinking
strong coffee, dictating, and holding Borrioboolan interviews by
appointment. The unwholesome boy, who seemed to me to be going
into a decline, took his meals out of the house. When Mr. Jellyby
came home, he usually groaned and went down into the kitchen.
There he got something to eat if the servant would give him
anything, and then, feeling that he was in the way, went out and
walked about Hatton Garden in the wet. The poor children scrambled
up and tumbled down the house as they had always been accustomed to
do.

The production of these devoted little sacrifices in any
presentable condition being quite out of the question at a week's
notice, I proposed to Caddy that we should make them as happy as we
could on her marriage morning in the attic where they all slept,
and should confine our greatest efforts to her mama and her mama's
room, and a clean breakfast. In truth Mrs. Jellyby required a good
deal of attention, the lattice-work up her back having widened
considerably since I first knew her and her hair looking like the
mane of a dustman's horse.


Thinking that the display of Caddy's wardrobe would be the best
means of approaching the subject, I invited Mrs. Jellyby to come
and look at it spread out on Caddy's bed in the evening after the
unwholesome boy was gone.

My dear Miss Summerson said she, rising from her desk with her
usual sweetness of temper, these are really ridiculous
preparationsthough your assisting them is a proof of your
kindness. There is something so inexpressibly absurd to me in the
idea of Caddy being married! OhCaddyyou sillysillysilly
puss!"

She came upstairs with us notwithstanding and looked at the clothes
in her customary far-off manner. They suggested one distinct idea
to herfor she said with her placid smileand shaking her head
My good Miss Summerson, at half the cost, this weak child might
have been equipped for Africa!

On our going downstairs againMrs. Jellyby asked me whether this
troublesome business was really to take place next Wednesday. And
on my replying yesshe saidWill my room be required, my dear
Miss Summerson? For it's quite impossible that I can put my papers
away.

I took the liberty of saying that the room would certainly be
wanted and that I thought we must put the papers away somewhere.
Well, my dear Miss Summerson,said Mrs. Jellybyyou know best,
I dare say. But by obliging me to employ a boy, Caddy has
embarrassed me to that extent, overwhelmed as I am with public
business, that I don't know which way to turn. We have a
Ramification meeting, too, on Wednesday afternoon, and the
inconvenience is very serious.

It is not likely to occur again,said Ismiling. "Caddy will be
married but onceprobably."

That's true,Mrs. Jellyby replied; "that's truemy dear. I
suppose we must make the best of it!"

The next question was how Mrs. Jellyby should be dressed on the
occasion. I thought it very curious to see her looking on serenely
from her writing-table while Caddy and I discussed itoccasionally
shaking her head at us with a half-reproachful smile like a
superior spirit who could just bear with our trifling.

The state in which her dresses wereand the extraordinary
confusion in which she kept themadded not a little to our
difficulty; but at length we devised something not very unlike what
a common-place mother might wear on such an occasion. The
abstracted manner in which Mrs. Jellyby would deliver herself up to
having this attire tried on by the dressmakerand the sweetness
with which she would then observe to me how sorry she was that I
had not turned my thoughts to Africawere consistent with the rest
of her behaviour.

The lodging was rather confined as to spacebut I fancied that if
Mrs. Jellyby's household had been the only lodgers in Saint Paul's
or Saint Peter'sthe sole advantage they would have found in the
size of the building would have been its affording a great deal of
room to be dirty in. I believe that nothing belonging to the
family which it had been possible to break was unbroken at the time
of those preparations for Caddy's marriagethat nothing which it
had been possible to spoil in any way was unspoiltand that no


domestic object which was capable of collecting dirtfrom a dear
child's knee to the door-platewas without as much dirt as could
well accumulate upon it.

Poor Mr. Jellybywho very seldom spoke and almost always sat when
he was at home with his head against the wallbecame interested
when he saw that Caddy and I were attempting to establish some
order among all this waste and ruin and took off his coat to help.
But such wonderful things came tumbling out of the closets when
they were opened--bits of mouldy piesour bottlesMrs. Jellyby's
capslettersteaforksodd boots and shoes of children
firewoodwaferssaucepan-lidsdamp sugar in odds and ends of
paper bagsfootstoolsblacklead brushesbreadMrs. Jellyby's
bonnetsbooks with butter sticking to the bindingguttered candle
ends put out by being turned upside down in broken candlesticks
nutshellsheads and tails of shrimpsdinner-matsglovescoffee-
groundsumbrellas--that he looked frightenedand left off again.
But he came regularly every evening and sat without his coatwith
his head against the wallas though he would have helped us if he
had known how.

Poor Pa!said Caddy to me on the night before the great daywhen
we really had got things a little to rights. "It seems unkind to
leave himEsther. But what could I do if I stayed! Since I first
knew youI have tidied and tidied over and over againbut it's
useless. Ma and Africatogetherupset the whole house directly.
We never have a servant who don't drink. Ma's ruinous to
everything."

Mr. Jellyby could not hear what she saidbut he seemed very low
indeed and shed tearsI thought.

My heart aches for him; that it does!sobbed Caddy. "I can't
help thinking to-nightEstherhow dearly I hope to be happy with
Princeand how dearly Pa hopedI dare sayto be happy with Ma.
What a disappointed life!"

My dear Caddy!said Mr. Jellybylooking slowly round from the
wail. It was the first timeI thinkI ever heard him say three
words together.

Yes, Pa!cried Caddygoing to him and embracing him

affectionately.
My dear Caddy,said Mr. Jellyby. "Never have--"
Not Prince, Pa?faltered Caddy. "Not have Prince?"
Yes, my dear,said Mr. Jellyby. "Have himcertainly. But
never have--"

I mentioned in my account of our first visit in Thavies Inn that
Richard described Mr. Jellyby as frequently opening his mouth after
dinner without saying anything. It was a habit of his. He opened
his mouth now a great many times and shook his head in a melancholy
manner.

What do you wish me not to have? Don't have what, dear Pa?asked
Caddycoaxing himwith her arms round his neck.

Never have a mission, my dear child.

Mr. Jellyby groaned and laid his head against the wall againand
this was the only time I ever heard him make any approach to


expressing his sentiments on the Borrioboolan question. I suppose
he had been more talkative and lively oncebut he seemed to have
been completely exhausted long before I knew him.

I thought Mrs. Jellyby never would have left off serenely looking
over her papers and drinking coffee that night. It was twelve
o'clock before we could obtain possession of the roomand the
clearance it required then was so discouraging that Caddywho was
almost tired outsat down in the middle of the dust and cried.
But she soon cheered upand we did wonders with it before we went
to bed.

In the morning it lookedby the aid of a few flowers and a
quantity of soap and water and a little arrangementquite gay.
The plain breakfast made a cheerful showand Caddy was perfectly
charming. But when my darling cameI thought--and I think now-that
I never had seen such a dear face as my beautiful pet's.

We made a little feast for the children upstairsand we put Peepy
at the head of the tableand we showed them Caddy in her bridal
dressand they clapped their hands and hurrahedand Caddy cried
to think that she was going away from them and hugged them over and
over again until we brought Prince up to fetch her away--whenI am
sorry to sayPeepy bit him. Then there was old Mr. Turveydrop
downstairsin a state of deportment not to be expressedbenignly
blessing Caddy and giving my guardian to understand that his son's
happiness was his own parental work and that he sacrificed personal
considerations to ensure it. "My dear sir said Mr. Turveydrop,
these young people will live with me; my house is large enough for
their accommodationand they shall not want the shelter of my
roof. I could have wished--you will understand the allusionMr.
Jarndycefor you remember my illustrious patron the Prince Regent
--I could have wished that my son had married into a family where
there was more deportmentbut the will of heaven be done!"

Mr. and Mrs. Pardiggle were of the party--Mr. Pardigglean
obstinate-looking man with a large waistcoat and stubbly hairwho
was always talking in a loud bass voice about his miteor Mrs.
Pardiggle's miteor their five boys' mites. Mr. Qualewith his
hair brushed back as usual and his knobs of temples shining very
muchwas also therenot in the character of a disappointed lover
but as the accepted of a young--at leastan unmarried--ladya
Miss Wiskwho was also there. Miss Wisk's missionmy guardian
saidwas to show the world that woman's mission was man's mission
and that the only genuine mission of both man and woman was to be
always moving declaratory resolutions about things in general at
public meetings. The guests were fewbut wereas one might
expect at Mrs. Jellyby'sall devoted to public objects only.
Besides those I have mentionedthere was an extremely dirty lady
with her bonnet all awry and the ticketed price of her dress still
sticking on itwhose neglected homeCaddy told mewas like a
filthy wildernessbut whose church was like a fancy fair. A very
contentious gentlemanwho said it was his mission to be
everybody's brother but who appeared to be on terms of coolness
with the whole of his large familycompleted the party.

A partyhaving less in common with such an occasioncould hardly
have been got together by any ingenuity. Such a mean mission as
the domestic mission was the very last thing to be endured among
them; indeedMiss Wisk informed uswith great indignationbefore
we sat down to breakfastthat the idea of woman's mission lying
chiefly in the narrow sphere of home was an outrageous slander on
the part of her tyrantman. One other singularity was that nobody
with a mission--except Mr. Qualewhose missionas I think I have


formerly saidwas to be in ecstasies with everybody's mission-cared
at all for anybody's mission. Mrs. Pardiggle being as clear
that the only one infallible course was her course of pouncing upon
the poor and applying benevolence to them like a strait-waistcoat;
as Miss Wisk was that the only practical thing for the world was
the emancipation of woman from the thraldom of her tyrantman.
Mrs. Jellybyall the whilesat smiling at the limited vision that
could see anything but Borrioboola-Gha.

But I am anticipating now the purport of our conversation on the
ride home instead of first marrying Caddy. We all went to church
and Mr. Jellyby gave her away. Of the air with which old Mr.
Turveydropwith his hat under his left arm (the inside presented
at the clergyman like a cannon) and his eyes creasing themselves up
into his wigstood stiff and high-shouldered behind us bridesmaids
during the ceremonyand afterwards saluted usI could never say
enough to do it justice. Miss Wiskwhom I cannot report as
prepossessing in appearanceand whose manner was grimlistened to
the proceedingsas part of woman's wrongswith a disdainful face.
Mrs. Jellybywith her calm smile and her bright eyeslooked the
least concerned of all the company.

We duly came back to breakfastand Mrs. Jellyby sat at the head of
the table and Mr. Jellyby at the foot. Caddy had previously stolen
upstairs to hug the children again and tell them that her name was
Turveydrop. But this piece of informationinstead of being an
agreeable surprise to Peepythrew him on his back in such
transports of kicking grief that I could do nothing on being sent
for but accede to the proposal that he should be admitted to the
breakfast table. So he came down and sat in my lap; and Mrs.
Jellybyafter sayingin reference to the state of his pinafore
Oh, you naughty Peepy, what a shocking little pig you are!was
not at all discomposed. He was very good except that he brought
down Noah with him (out of an ark I had given him before we went to
church) and WOULD dip him head first into the wine-glasses and then
put him in his mouth.

My guardianwith his sweet temper and his quick perception and his
amiable facemade something agreeable even out of the ungenial
company. None of them seemed able to talk about anything but his
or herown one subjectand none of them seemed able to talk about
even that as part of a world in which there was anything else; but
my guardian turned it all to the merry encouragement of Caddy and
the honour of the occasionand brought us through the breakfast
nobly. What we should have done without himI am afraid to think
for all the company despising the bride and bridegroom and old Mr.
Turveydrop--and old Mr. Thrveydropin virtue of his deportment
considering himself vastly superior to all the company--it was a
very unpromising case.

At last the time came when poor Caddy was to go and when all her
property was packed on the hired coach and pair that was to take
her and her husband to Gravesend. It affected us to see Caddy
clingingthento her deplorable home and hanging on her mother's
neck with the greatest tenderness.

I am very sorry I couldn't go on writing from dictation, Ma,
sobbed Caddy. "I hope you forgive me now."

Oh, Caddy, Caddy!said Mrs. Jellyby. "I have told you over and
over again that I have engaged a boyand there's an end of it."

You are sure you are not the least angry with me, Ma? Say you are
sure before I go away, Ma?


You foolish Caddy,returned Mrs. Jellybydo I look angry, or
have I inclination to be angry, or time to be angry? How CAN you?

Take a little care of Pa while I am gone, Mama!

Mrs. Jellyby positively laughed at the fancy. "You romantic
child said she, lightly patting Caddy's back. Go along. I am
excellent friends with you. Nowgood-byeCaddyand be very
happy!"

Then Caddy hung upon her father and nursed his cheek against hers
as if he were some poor dull child in pain. All this took place in
the hall. Her father released hertook out his pocket
handkerchiefand sat down on the stairs with his head against the
wall. I hope he found some consolation in walls. I almost think
he did.

And then Prince took her arm in his and turned with great emotion
and respect to his fatherwhose deportment at that moment was
overwhelming.

Thank you over and over again, father!said Princekissing his
hand. "I am very grateful for all your kindness and consideration
regarding our marriageand soI can assure youis Caddy."

Very,sobbed Caddy. "Ve-ry!"

My dear son,said Mr. Turveydropand dear daughter, I have done
my duty. If the spirit of a sainted wooman hovers above us and
looks down on the occasion, that, and your constant affection, will
be my recompense. You will not fail in YOUR duty, my son and
daughter, I believe?

Dear father, never!cried Prince.

Never, never, dear Mr. Turveydrop!said Caddy.

This,returned Mr. Turveydropis as it should be. My children,
my home is yours, my heart is yours, my all is yours. I will never
leave you; nothing but death shall part us. My dear son, you
contemplate an absence of a week, I think?

A week, dear father. We shall return home this day week.

My dear child,said Mr. Turveydroplet me, even under the
present exceptional circumstances, recommend strict punctuality.
It is highly important to keep the connexion together; and schools,
if at all neglected, are apt to take offence.

This day week, father, we shall be sure to be home to dinner.

Good!said Mr. Turveydrop. "You will find firesmy dear
Carolinein your own roomand dinner prepared in my apartment.
YesyesPrince!" anticipating some self-denying objection on his
son's part with a great air. "You and our Caroline will be strange
in the upper part of the premises and willthereforedine that
day in my apartment. Nowbless ye!"

They drove awayand whether I wondered most at Mrs. Jellyby or at
Mr. TurveydropI did not know. Ada and my guardian were in the
same condition when we came to talk it over. But before we drove
away tooI received a most unexpected and eloquent compliment from
Mr. Jellyby. He came up to me in the halltook both my hands


pressed them earnestlyand opened his mouth twice. I was so sure
of his meaning that I saidquite flurriedYou are very welcome,
sir. Pray don't mention it!

I hope this marriage is for the best, guardian,said I when we
three were on our road home.

I hope it is, little woman. Patience. We shall see.

Is the wind in the east to-day?I ventured to ask him.

He laughed heartily and answeredNo.

But it must have been this morning, I think,said I.

He answered "No" againand this time my dear girl confidently
answered "No" too and shook the lovely head whichwith its
blooming flowers against the golden hairwas like the very spring.
Much YOU know of east winds, my ugly darling,said Ikissing her
in my admiration--I couldn't help it.

Well! It was only their love for meI know very welland it is a
long time ago. I must write it even if I rub it out againbecause
it gives me so much pleasure. They said there could be no east
wind where Somebody was; they said that wherever Dame Durden went
there was sunshine and summer air.

CHAPTER XXXI

Nurse and Patient

I had not been at home again many days when one evening I went
upstairs into my own room to take a peep over Charley's shoulder
and see how she was getting on with her copy-book. Writing was a
trying business to Charleywho seemed to have no natural power
over a penbut in whose hand every pen appeared to become
perversely animatedand to go wrong and crookedand to stopand
splashand sidle into corners like a saddle-donkey. It was very
odd to see what old letters Charley's young hand had madethey so
wrinkledand shrivelledand totteringit so plump and round.
Yet Charley was uncommonly expert at other things and had as nimble
little fingers as I ever watched.

Well, Charley,said Ilooking over a copy of the letter O in
which it was represented as squaretriangularpear-shapedand
collapsed in all kinds of wayswe are improving. If we only get
to make it round, we shall be perfect, Charley.

Then I made oneand Charley made oneand the pen wouldn't join
Charley's neatlybut twisted it up into a knot.

Never mind, Charley. We shall do it in time.

Charley laid down her penthe copy being finishedopened and shut
her cramped little handlooked gravely at the pagehalf in pride
and half in doubtand got upand dropped me a curtsy.

Thank you, miss. If you please, miss, did you know a poor person
of the name of Jenny?

A brickmaker's wife, Charley? Yes.


She came and spoke to me when I was out a little while ago, and
said you knew her, miss. She asked me if I wasn't the young lady's
little maid--meaning you for the young lady, miss--and I said yes,
miss.

I thought she had left this neighbourhood altogether, Charley.

So she had, miss, but she's come back again to where she used to
live--she and Liz. Did you know another poor person of the name of
Liz, miss?

I think I do, Charley, though not by name.

That's what she said!returned Chariey. "They have both come
backmissand have been tramping high and low."

Tramping high and low, have they, Charley?

Yes, miss.If Charley could only have made the letters in her
copy as round as the eyes with which she looked into my facethey
would have been excellent. "And this poor person came about the
house three or four dayshoping to get a glimpse of youmiss--all
she wantedshe said--but you were away. That was when she saw me.
She saw me a-going aboutmiss said Charley with a short laugh of
the greatest delight and pride, and she thought I looked like your
maid!"

Did she though, really, Charley?

Yes, miss!said Charley. "Really and truly." And Charleywith
another short laugh of the purest gleemade her eyes very round
again and looked as serious as became my maid. I was never tired
of seeing Charley in the full enjoyment of that great dignity
standing before me with her youthful face and figureand her
steady mannerand her childish exultation breaking through it now
and then in the pleasantest way.

And where did you see her, Charley?said I.

My little maid's countenance fell as she repliedBy the doctor's
shop, miss.For Charley wore her black frock yet.

I asked if the brickmaker's wife were illbut Charley said no. It
was some one else. Some one in her cottage who had tramped down to
Saint Albans and was tramping he didn't know where. A poor boy
Charley said. No fatherno motherno any one. "Like as Tom
might have beenmissif Emma and me had died after father said
Charley, her round eyes filling with tears.

And she was getting medicine for himCharley?"

She said, miss,returned Charleyhow that he had once done as
much for her.

My little maid's face was so eager and her quiet hands were folded
so closely in one another as she stood looking at me that I had no
great difficulty in reading her thoughts. "WellCharley said I,
it appears to me that you and I can do no better than go round to
Jenny's and see what's the matter."

The alacrity with which Charley brought my bonnet and veiland
having dressed mequaintly pinned herself into her warm shawl and
made herself look like a little old womansufficiently expressed


her readiness. So Charley and Iwithout saying anything to any
onewent out.

It was a coldwild nightand the trees shuddered in the wind.
The rain had been thick and heavy all dayand with little
intermission for many days. None was falling just thenhowever.
The sky had partly clearedbut was very gloomy--even above us
where a few stars were shining. In the north and north-westwhere
the sun had set three hours beforethere was a pale dead light
both beautiful and awful; and into it long sullen lines of cloud
waved up like a sea stricken immovable as it was heaving. Towards
London a lurid glare overhung the whole dark wasteand the
contrast between these two lightsand the fancy which the redder
light engendered of an unearthly firegleaming on all the unseen
buildings of the city and on all the faces of its many thousands of
wondering inhabitantswas as solemn as might be.

I had no thought that night--noneI am quite sure--of what was
soon to happen to me. But I have always remembered since that when
we had stopped at the garden-gate to look up at the skyand when
we went upon our wayI had for a moment an undefinable impression
of myself as being something different from what I then was. I
know it was then and there that I had it. I have ever since
connected the feeling with that spot and time and with everything
associated with that spot and timeto the distant voices in the
townthe barking of a dogand the sound of wheels coming down the
miry hill.

It was Saturday nightand most of the people belonging to the
place where we were going were drinking elsewhere. We found it
quieter than I had previously seen itthough quite as miserable.
The kilns were burningand a stifling vapour set towards us with a
pale-blue glare.

We came to the cottagewhere there was a feeble candle in the
patched window. We tapped at the door and went in. The mother of
the little child who had died was sitting in a chair on one side of
the poor fire by the bed; and opposite to hera wretched boy
supported by the chimney-piecewas cowering on the floor. He held
under his armlike a little bundlea fragment of a fur cap; and
as he tried to warm himselfhe shook until the crazy door and
window shook. The place was closer than before and had an
unhealthy and a very peculiar smell.

I had not lifted by veil when I first spoke to the womanwhich was
at the moment of our going in. The boy staggered up instantly and
stared at me with a remarkable expression of surprise and terror.

His action was so quick and my being the cause of it was so evident
that I stood still instead of advancing nearer.

I won't go no more to the berryin ground,muttered the boy; "I
ain't a-going thereso I tell you!"

I lifted my veil and spoke to the woman. She said to me in a low
voiceDon't mind him, ma'am. He'll soon come back to his head,
and said to himJo, Jo, what's the matter?

I know wot she's come for!cried the boy.

Who?

The lady there. She's come to get me to go along with her to the
berryin ground. I won't go to the berryin ground. I don't like


the name on it. She might go a-berryin ME.His shivering came on
againand as he leaned against the wallhe shook the hovel.

He has been talking off and on about such like all day, ma'am,
said Jenny softly. "Whyhow you stare! This is MY ladyJo."

Is it?returned the boy doubtfullyand surveying me with his arm
held out above his burning eyes. "She looks to me the t'other one.
It ain't the bonnetnor yet it ain't the gowndbut she looks to
me the t'other one."

My little Charleywith her premature experience of illness and
troublehad pulled off her bonnet and shawl and now went quietly
up to him with a chair and sat him down in it like an old sick
nurse. Except that no such attendant could have shown him
Charley's youthful facewhich seemed to engage his confidence.

I say!said the boy. "YOU tell me. Ain't the lady the t'other
lady?"

Charley shook her head as she methodically drew his rags about him
and made him as warm as she could.

Oh!the boy muttered. "Then I s'pose she ain't."

I came to see if I could do you any good,said I. "What is the
matter with you?"

I'm a-being froze,returned the boy hoarselywith his haggard
gaze wandering about meand then burnt up, and then froze, and
then burnt up, ever so many times in a hour. And my head's all
sleepy, and all a-going mad-like--and I'm so dry--and my bones
isn't half so much bones as pain.

When did he come here?" I asked the woman.

This morning, ma'am, I found him at the corner of the town. I had
known him up in London yonder. Hadn't I, Jo?

Tom-all-Alone's,the boy replied.

Whenever he fixed his attention or his eyesit was only for a very
little while. He soon began to droop his head againand roll it
heavilyand speak as if he were half awake.

When did he come from London?I asked.

I come from London yes'day,said the boy himselfnow flushed and
hot. "I'm a-going somewheres."

Where is he going?I asked.

Somewheres,repeated the boy in a louder tone. "I have been
moved onand moved onmore nor ever I was aforesince the
t'other one give me the sov'ring. Mrs. Snagsbyshe's always a-
watchingand a-driving of me--what have I done to her?--and
they're all a-watching and a-driving of me. Every one of 'em's
doing of itfrom the time when I don't get upto the time when I
don't go to bed. And I'm a-going somewheres. That's where I'm a-
going. She told medown in Tom-all-Alone'sas she came from
Stolbunsand so I took the Stolbuns Road. It's as good as
another."

He always concluded by addressing Charley.


What is to be done with him?said Itaking the woman aside. "He
could not travel in this state even if he had a purpose and knew
where he was going!"

I know no more, ma'am, than the dead,she repliedglancing
compassionately at him. "Perhaps the dead know betterif they
could only tell us. I've kept him here all day for pity's sake
and I've given him broth and physicand Liz has gone to try if any
one will take him in (here's my pretty in the bed--her childbut I
call it mine); but I can't keep him longfor if my husband was to
come home and find him herehe'd be rough in putting him out and
might do him a hurt. Hark! Here comes Liz back!"

The other woman came hurriedly in as she spokeand the boy got up
with a half-obscured sense that he was expected to be going. When
the little child awokeand when and how Charley got at ittook it
out of bedand began to walk about hushing itI don't know.
There she wasdoing all this in a quiet motherly manner as if she
were living in Mrs. Blinder's attic with Tom and Emma again.

The friend had been here and thereand had been played about from
hand to handand had come back as she went. At first it was too
early for the boy to be received into the proper refugeand at
last it was too late. One official sent her to anotherand the
other sent her back again to the firstand so backward and
forwarduntil it appeared to me as if both must have been
appointed for their skill in evading their duties instead of
performing them. And nowafter allshe saidbreathing quickly
for she had been running and was frightened tooJenny, your
master's on the road home, and mine's not far behind, and the Lord
help the boy, for we can do no more for him!They put a few
halfpence together and hurried them into his handand soin an
oblivioushalf-thankfulhalf-insensible wayhe shuffled out of
the house.

Give me the child, my dear,said its mother to Charleyand
thank you kindly too! Jenny, woman dear, good night!

Young lady, if my master don't fall out with me, I'll look down by
the kiln by and by, where the boy will be most like, and again in
the morning!She hurried offand presenfty we passed her hushing
and singing to her child at her own door and looking anxiously
along the road for her drunken husband.

I was afraid of staying then to speak to either womanlest I
should bring her into trouble. But I said to Charley that we must
not leave the boy to die. Charleywho knew what to do much better
than I didand whose quickness equalled her presence of mind
glided on before meand presently we came up with Jojust short
of the brick-kiln.

I think he must have begun his journey with some small bundle under
his arm and must have had it stolen or lost it. For he still
carried his wretched fragment of fur cap like a bundlethough he
went bareheaded through the rainwhich now fell fast. He stopped
when we called to him and again showed a dread of me when I came
upstanding with his lustrous eyes fixed upon meand even
arrested in his shivering fit.

I asked him to come with usand we would take care that he had
some shelter for the night.

I don't want no shelter,he said; "I can lay amongst the warm


bricks."

But don't you know that people die there?replied Charley.

They dies everywheres,said the boy. "They dies in their
lodgings--she knows where; I showed her--and they dies down in Tomall-
Alone's in heaps. They dies more than they livesaccording to
what I see." Then he hoarsely whispered CharleyIf she ain't the
t'other one, she ain't the forrenner. Is there THREE of 'em then?

Charley looked at me a little frightened. I felt half frightened
at myself when the boy glared on me so.

But he turned and followed when I beckoned to himand finding that
he acknowledged that influence in meI led the way straight home.
It was not faronly at the summit of the hill. We passed but one
man. I doubted if we should have got home without assistancethe
boy's steps were so uncertain and tremulous. He made no complaint
howeverand was strangely unconcerned about himselfif I may say
so strange a thing.

Leaving him in the hall for a momentshrunk into the corner of the
window-seat and staring with an indifference that scarcely could be
called wonder at the comfort and brightness about himI went into
the drawing-room to speak to my guardian. There I found Mr.
Skimpolewho had come down by the coachas he frequently did
without noticeand never bringing any clothes with himbut always
borrowing everything he wanted.

They came out with me directly to look at the boy. The servants
had gathered in the hall tooand he shivered in the window-seat
with Charley standing by himlike some wounded animal that had
been found in a ditch.

This is a sorrowful case,said my guardian after asking him a
question or two and touching him and examining his eyes. "What do
you sayHarold?"

You had better turn him out,said Mr. Skimpole.

What do you mean?inquired my guardianalmost sternly.

My dear Jarndyce,said Mr. Skimpoleyou know what I am: I am a
child. Be cross to me if I deserve it. But I have a
constitutional objection to this sort of thing. I always had, when
I was a medical man. He's not safe, you know. There's a very bad
sort of fever about him.

Mr. Skimpole had retreated from the hall to the drawing-room again
and said this in his airy wayseated on the music-stool as we
stood by.

You'll say it's childish,observed Mr. Skimpolelooking gaily at
us. "WellI dare say it may be; but I AM a childand I never
pretend to be anything else. If you put him out in the roadyou
only put him where he was before. He will be no worse off than he
wasyou know. Even make him better offif you like. Give him
sixpenceor five shillingsor five pound ten--you are
arithmeticiansand I am not--and get rid of him!"

And what is he to do then?asked my guardian.

Upon my life,said Mr. Skimpoleshrugging his shoulders with his
engaging smileI have not the least idea what he is to do then.


But I have no doubt he'll do it.

Now, is it not a horrible reflection,said my guardianto whom I
had hastily explained the unavailing efforts of the two womenis
it not a horrible reflection,walking up and down and rumpling his
hairthat if this wretched creature were a convicted prisoner,
his hospital would be wide open to him, and he would be as well
taken care of as any sick boy in the kingdom?

My dear Jarndyce,returned Mr. Skimpoleyou'll pardon the
simplicity of the question, coming as it does from a creature who
is perfectly simple in worldly matters, but why ISN'T he a prisoner
then?

My guardian stopped and looked at him with a whimsical mixture of
amusement and indignation in his face.

Our young friend is not to be suspected of any delicacy, I should
imagine,said Mr. Skimpoleunabashed and candid. "It seems to me
that it would be wiseras well as in a certain kind of way more
respectableif he showed some misdirected energy that got him into
prison. There would be more of an adventurous spirit in itand
consequently more of a certain sort of poetry."

I believe,returned my guardianresuming his uneasy walkthat
there is not such another child on earth as yourself.

Do you really?said Mr. Skimpole. "I dare say! But I confess I
don't see why our young friendin his degreeshould not seek to
invest himself with such poetry as is open to him. He is no doubt
born with an appetite--probablywhen he is in a safer state of
healthhe has an excellent appetite. Very well. At our young
friend's natural dinner hourmost likely about noonour young
friend says in effect to society'I am hungry; will you have the
goodness to produce your spoon and feed me?' Societywhich has
taken upon itself the general arrangement of the whole system of
spoons and professes to have a spoon for our young frienddoes NOT
produce that spoon; and our young friendthereforesays 'You
really must excuse me if I seize it.' Nowthis appears to me a
case of misdirected energywhich has a certain amount of reason in
it and a certain amount of romance; and I don't know but what I
should be more interested in our young friendas an illustration
of such a casethan merely as a poor vagabond--which any one can
be."

In the meantime,I ventured to observehe is getting worse.

In the meantime,said Mr. Skimpole cheerfullyas Miss
Summerson, with her practical good sense, observes, he is getting
worse. Therefore I recommend your turning him out before he gets
still worse.

The amiable face with which he said itI think I shall never
forget.

Of course, little woman,observed my guardiantuming to meI
can ensure his admission into the proper place by merely going
there to enforce it, though it's a bad state of things when, in his
condition, that is necessary. But it's growing late, and is a very
bad night, and the boy is worn out already. There is a bed in the
wholesome loft-room by the stable; we had better keep him there
till morning, when he can be wrapped up and removed. We'll do
that.


Oh!said Mr. Skimpolewith his hands upon the keys of the piano
as we moved away. "Are you going back to our young friend?"

Yes,said my guardian.

How I envy you your constitution, Jarndyce!returned Mr. Skimpole
with playful admiration. "You don't mind these things; neither
does Miss Summerson. You are ready at all times to go anywhere
and do anything. Such is will! I have no will at all--and no
won't--simply can't."

You can't recommend anything for the boy, I suppose?said my
guardianlooking back over his shoulder half angrily; only half
angrilyfor he never seemed to consider Mr. Skimpole an
accountable being.

My dear Jarndyce, I observed a bottle of cooling medicine in his
pocket, and it's impossible for him to do better than take it. You
can tell them to sprinkle a little vinegar about the place where he
sleeps and to keep it moderately cool and him moderately warm. But
it is mere impertinence in me to offer any recommendation. Miss
Summerson has such a knowledge of detail and such a capacity for
the administration of detail that she knows all about it.

We went back into the hall and explained to Jo what we proposed to
dowhich Charley explained to him again and which he received with
the languid unconcern I had already noticedwearily looking on at
what was done as if it were for somebody else. The servants
compassionating his miserable state and being very anxious to help
we soon got the loft-room ready; and some of the men about the
house carried him across the wet yardwell wrapped up. It was
pleasant to observe how kind they were to him and how there
appeared to be a general impression among them that frequently
calling him "Old Chap" was likely to revive his spirits. Charley
directed the operations and went to and fro between the loft-room
and the house with such little stimulants and comforts as we
thought it safe to give him. My guardian himself saw him before he
was left for the night and reported to me when he returned to the
growlery to write a letter on the boy's behalfwhich a messenger
was charged to deliver at day-light in the morningthat he seemed
easier and inclined to sleep. They had fastened his door on the
outsidehe saidin case of his being deliriousbut had so
arranged that he could not make any noise without being heard.

Ada being in our room with a coldMr. Skimpole was left alone all
this time and entertained himself by playing snatches of pathetic
airs and sometimes singing to them (as we heard at a distance) with
great expression and feeling. When we rejoined him in the drawing-
room he said he would give us a little ballad which had come into
his head "apropos of our young friend and he sang one about a
peasant boy,

Thrown on the wide worlddoomed to wander and roam
Bereft of his parentsbereft of a home."


quite exquisitely. It was a song that always made him cryhe told
us.

He was extremely gay all the rest of the eveningfor he absolutely
chirped--those were his delighted words--when he thought by what a
happy talent for business he was surrounded. He gave usin his
glass of negusBetter health to our young friend!and supposed


and gaily pursued the case of his being reserved like Whittington
to become Lord Mayor of London. In that eventno doubthe would
establish the Jarndyce Institution and the Summerson Almshouses
and a little annual Corporation Pilgrimage to St. Albans. He had
no doubthe saidthat our young friend was an excellent boy in
his waybut his way was not the Harold Skimpole way; what Harold
Skimpole wasHarold Skimpole had found himselfto his
considerable surprisewhen he first made his own acquaintance; he
had accepted himself with all his failings and had thought it sound
philosophy to make the best of the bargain; and he hoped we would
do the same.

Charley's last report was that the boy was quiet. I could see
from my windowthe lantern they had left him burning quietly; and
I went to bed very happy to think that he was sheltered.

There was more movement and more talking than usual a little before
daybreakand it awoke me. As I was dressingI looked out of my
window and asked one of our men who had been among the active
sympathizers last night whether there was anything wrong about the
house. The lantern was still burning in the loft-window.

It's the boy, miss,said he.

Is he worse?I inquired.

Gone, miss.

Dead!"

Dead, miss? No. Gone clean off.

At what time of the night he had goneor howor whyit seemed
hopeless ever to divine. The door remaining as it had been left
and the lantern standing in the windowit could only be supposed
that he had got out by a trap in the floor which communicated with
an empty cart-house below. But he had shut it down againif that
were so; and it looked as if it had not been raised. Nothing of
any kind was missing. On this fact being clearly ascertainedwe
all yielded to the painful belief that delirium had come upon him
in the night and thatallured by some imaginary object or pursued
by some imaginary horrorhe had strayed away in that worse than
helpless state; all of usthat is to saybut Mr. Skimpolewho
repeatedly suggestedin his usual easy light stylethat it had
occurred to our young friend that he was not a safe inmatehaving
a bad kind of fever upon himand that he had with great natural
politeness taken himself off.

Every possible inquiry was madeand every place was searched. The
brick-kilns were examinedthe cottages were visitedthe two women
were particularly questionedbut they knew nothing of himand
nobody could doubt that their wonder was genuine. The weather had
for some time been too wet and the night itself had been too wet to
admit of any tracing by footsteps. Hedge and ditchand walland
rick and stackwere examined by our men for a long distance round
lest the boy should be lying in such a place insensible or dead;
but nothing was seen to indicate that he had ever been near. From
the time when he was left in the loft-roomhe vanished.

The search continued for five days. I do not mean that it ceased
even thenbut that my attention was then diverted into a current
very memorable to me.

As Charley was at her writing again in my room in the eveningand


as I sat opposite to her at workI felt the table tremble.
Looking upI saw my little maid shivering from head to foot.

Charley,said Iare you so cold?

I think I am, miss,she replied. "I don't know what it is. I
can't hold myself still. I felt so yesterday at about this same
timemiss. Don't be uneasyI think I'm ill."

I heard Ada's voice outsideand I hurried to the door of
communication between my room and our pretty sitting-roomand
locked it. Just in timefor she tapped at it while my hand was
yet upon the key.

Ada called to me to let her inbut I saidNot now, my dearest.
Go away. There's nothing the matter; I will come to you
presently.Ah! It was a longlong time before my darling girl
and I were companions again.

Charley fell ill. In twelve hours she was very ill. I moved her
to my roomand laid her in my bedand sat down quietly to nurse
her. I told my guardian all about itand why I felt it was
necessary that I should seclude myselfand my reason for not
seeing my darling above all. At first she came very often to the
doorand called to meand even reproached me with sobs and tears;
but I wrote her a long letter saying that she made me anxious and
unhappy and imploring heras she loved me and wished my mind to be
at peaceto come no nearer than the garden. After that she came
beneath the window even oftener than she had come to the doorand
if I had learnt to love her dear sweet voice before when we were
hardly ever aparthow did I learn to love it thenwhen I stood
behind the window-curtain listening and replyingbut not so much
as looking out! How did I learn to love it afterwardswhen the
harder time came!

They put a bed for me in our sitting-room; and by keeping the door
wide openI turned the two rooms into onenow that Ada had
vacated that part of the houseand kept them always fresh and
airy. There was not a servant in or about the house but was so
good that they would all most gladly have come to me at any hour of
the day or night without the least fear or unwillingnessbut I
thought it best to choose one worthy woman who was never to see Ada
and whom I could trust to come and go with all precaution. Through
her means I got out to take the air with my guardian when there was
no fear of meeting Adaand wanted for nothing in the way of
attendanceany more than in any other respect.

And thus poor Charley sickened and grew worseand fell into heavy
danger of deathand lay severely ill for many a long round of day
and night. So patient she wasso uncomplainingand inspired by
such a gentle fortitude that very often as I sat by Charley holding
her head in my arms--repose would come to hersowhen it would
come to her in no other attitude--I silently prayed to our Father
in heaven that I might not forget the lesson which this little
sister taught me.

I was very sorrowful to think that Charley's pretty looks would
change and be disfiguredeven if she recovered--she was such a
child with her dimpled face--but that thought wasfor the greater
partlost in her greater peril. When she was at the worstand
her mind rambled again to the cares of her father's sick bed and
the little childrenshe still knew me so far as that she would be
quiet in my arms when she could lie quiet nowhere elseand murmur
out the wanderings of her mind less restlessly. At those times I


used to thinkhow should I ever tell the two remaining babies that
the baby who had learned of her faithful heart to be a mother to
them in their need was dead!

There were other times when Charley knew me well and talked to me
telling me that she sent her love to Tom and Emma and that she was
sure Tom would grow up to be a good man. At those times Charley
would speak to me of what she had read to her father as well as she
could to comfort himof that young man carried out to be buried
who was the only son of his mother and she was a widowof the
ruler's daughter raised up by the gracious hand upon her bed of
death. And Charley told me that when her father died she had
kneeled down and prayed in her first sorrow that he likewise might
be raised up and given back to his poor childrenand that if she
should never get better and should die tooshe thought it likely
that it might come into Tom's mind to offer the same prayer for
her. Then would I show Tom how these people of old days had been
brought back to life on earthonly that we might know our hope to
be restored to heaven!

But of all the various times there were in Charley's illnessthere
was not one when she lost the gentle qualities I have spoken of.
And there were manymany when I thought in the night of the last
high belief in the watching angeland the last higher trust in
Godon the part of her poor despised father.

And Charley did not die. She flutteringiy and slowly turned the
dangerous pointafter long lingering thereand then began to
mend. The hope that never had been givenfrom the firstof
Charley being in outward appearance Charley any more soon began to
be encouraged; and even that prosperedand I saw her growing into
her old childish likeness again.

It was a great morning when I could tell Ada all this as she stood
out in the garden; and it was a great evening when Charley and I at
last took tea together in the next room. But on that same evening
I felt that I was stricken cold.

Happily for both of usit was not until Charley was safe in bed
again and placidly asleep that I began to think the contagion of
her illness was upon me. I had been able easily to hide what I
felt at tea-timebut I was past that already nowand I knew that
I was rapidly following in Charley's steps.

I was well enoughhoweverto be up early in the morningand to
return my darling's cheerful blessing from the gardenand to talk
with her as long as usual. But I was not free from an impression
that I had been walking about the two rooms in the nighta little
beside myselfthough knowing where I was; and I felt confused at
times--with a curious sense of fullnessas if I were becoming too
large altogether.

In the evening I was so much worse that I resolved to prepare
Charleywith which view I saidYou're getting quite strong,
Charley, are you not?'

Ohquite!" said Charley.

Strong enough to be told a secret, I think, Charley?

Quite strong enough for that, miss!cried Charley. But Charley's
face fell in the height of her delightfor she saw the secret in
MY face; and she came out of the great chairand fell upon my
bosomand said "Ohmissit's my doing! It's my doing!" and a


great deal more out of the fullness of her grateful heart.

Now, Charley,said I after letting her go on for a little while
if I am to be ill, my great trust, humanly speaking, is in you.
And unless you are as quiet and composed for me as you always were
for yourself, you can never fulfil it, Charley.

If you'll let me cry a little longer, miss,said Charley. "Oh
my dearmy dear! If you'll only let me cry a little longer. Oh
my dear!"--how affectionately and devotedly she poured this out as
she clung to my neckI never can remember without tears--"I'll be
good."

So I let Charley cry a little longerand it did us both good.

Trust in me now, if you please, miss,said Charley quietly. "I
am listening to everything you say."

It's very little at present, Charley. I shall tell your doctor
to-night that I don't think I am well and that you are going to
nurse me.

For that the poor child thanked me with her whole heart. "And in
the morningwhen you hear Miss Ada in the gardenif I should not
be quite able to go to the window-curtain as usualdo you go
Charleyand say I am asleep--that I have rather tired myselfand
am asleep. At all times keep the room as I have kept itCharley
and let no one come."

Charley promisedand I lay downfor I was very heavy. I saw the
doctor that night and asked the favour of him that I wished to ask
relative to his saying nothing of my illness in the house as yet.
I have a very indistinct remembrance of that night melting into
dayand of day melting into night again; but I was just able on
the first morning to get to the window and speak to my darling.

On the second morning I heard her dear voice--Ohhow dear now!-outside;
and I asked Charleywith some difficulty (speech being
painful to me)to go and say I was asleep. I heard her answer
softlyDon't disturb her, Charley, for the world!

How does my own Pride look, Charley?I inquired.

Disappointed, miss,said Charleypeeping through the curtain.

But I know she is very beautiful this morning.

She is indeed, miss,answered Charleypeeping. "Still looking
up at the window."

With her blue clear eyesGod bless themalways loveliest when
raised like that!

I called Charley to me and gave her her last charge.

Now, Charley, when she knows I am ill, she will try to make her
way into the room. Keep her out, Charley, if you love me truly, to
the last! Charley, if you let her in but once, only to look upon
me for one moment as I lie here, I shall die.

I never will! I never will!she promised me.

I believe it, my dear Charley. And now come and sit beside me for
a little while, and touch me with your hand. For I cannot see you,


Charley; I am blind.

CHAPTER XXXII

The Appointed Time

It is night in Lincoln's Inn--perplexed and troublous valley of the
shadow of the lawwhere suitors generally find but little day--and
fat candles are snuffed out in officesand clerks have rattled
down the crazy wooden stairs and dispersed. The bell that rings at
nine o'clock has ceased its doleful clangour about nothing; the
gates are shut; and the night-portera solemn warder with a mighty
power of sleepkeeps guard in his lodge. From tiers of staircase
windows clogged lamps like the eyes of Equitybleared Argus with a
fathomless pocket for every eye and an eye upon itdimly blink at
the stars. In dirty upper casementshere and therehazy little
patches of candlelight reveal where some wise draughtsman and
conveyancer yet toils for the entanglement of real estate in meshes
of sheep-skinin the average ratio of about a dozen of sheep to an
acre of land. Over which bee-like industry these benefactors of
their species linger yetthough office-hours be pastthat they
may givefor every daysome good account at last.

In the neighbouring courtwhere the Lord Chancellor of the rag and
bottle shop dwellsthere is a general tendency towards beer and
supper. Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkinswhose respective sons
engaged with a circle of acquaintance in the game of hide and seek
have been lying in ambush about the by-ways of Chancery Lane for
some hours and scouring the plain of the same thoroughfare to the
confusion of passengers--Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins have but now
exchanged congratulations on the children being abedand they
still linger on a door-step over a few parting words. Mr. Krook
and his lodgerand the fact of Mr. Krook's being "continually in
liquor and the testamentary prospects of the young man are, as
usual, the staple of their conversation. But they have something
to say, likewise, of the Harmonic Meeting at the Sol's Arms, where
the sound of the piano through the partly opened windows jingles
out into the court, and where Little Swills, after keeping the
lovers of harmony in a roar like a very Yorick, may now be heard
taking the gruff line in a concerted piece and sentimentally
adjuring his friends and patrons to Listenlistenlistentew
the wa-ter fall!" Mrs. Perkins and Mrs. Piper compare opinions on
the subject of the young lady of professional celebrity who assists
at the Harmonic Meetings and who has a space to herself in the
manuscript announcement in the windowMrs. Perkins possessing
information that she has been married a year and a halfthough
announced as Miss M. Melvillesonthe noted sirenand that her
baby is clandestinely conveyed to the Sol's Arms every night to
receive its natural nourishment during the entertainments. "Sooner
than whichmyself says Mrs. Perkins, I would get my living by
selling lucifers." Mrs. Piperas in duty boundis of the same
opinionholding that a private station is better than public
applauseand thanking heaven for her own (andby implication
Mrs. Perkins') respectability. By this time the pot-boy of the
Sol's Arms appearing with her supper-pint well frothedMrs. Piper
accepts that tankard and retires indoorsfirst giving a fair good
night to Mrs. Perkinswho has had her own pint in her hand ever
since it was fetched from the same hostelry by young Perkins before
he was sent to bed. Now there is a sound of putting up shop-
shutters in the court and a smell as of the smoking of pipes; and
shooting stars are seen in upper windowsfurther indicating


retirement to rest. Nowtoothe policeman begins to push at
doors; to try fastenings; to be suspicious of bundles; and to
administer his beaton the hypothesis that every one is either
robbing or being robbed.

It is a close nightthough the damp cold is searching tooand
there is a laggard mist a little way up in the air. It is a fine
steaming night to turn the slaughter-housesthe unwholesome
tradesthe seweragebad waterand burial-grounds to accountand
give the registrar of deaths some extra business. It may be
something in the air--there is plenty in it--or it may be something
in himself that is in fault; but Mr. Weevleotherwise Joblingis
very ill at ease. He comes and goes between his own room and the
open street door twenty times an hour. He has been doing so ever
since it fell dark. Since the Chancellor shut up his shopwhich
he did very early to-nightMr. Weevle has been down and upand
down and up (with a cheap tight velvet skull-cap on his head
making his whiskers look out of all proportion)oftener than
before.

It is no phenomenon that Mr. Snagsby should be ill at ease toofor
he always is somore or lessunder the oppressive influence of
the secret that is upon him. Impelled by the mystery of which he
is a partaker and yet in which he is not a sharerMr. Snagsby
haunts what seems to be its fountain-head--the rag and bottle shop
in the court. It has an irresistible attraction for him. Even
nowcoming round by the Sol's Arms with the intention of passing
down the courtand out at the Chancery Lane endand so
terminating his unpremeditated after-supper stroll of ten minutes'
long from his own door and back againMr. Snagsby approaches.

What, Mr. Weevle?says the stationerstopping to speak. "Are
YOU there?"

Aye!says WeevleHere I am, Mr. Snagsby.

Airing yourself, as I am doing, before you go to bed?the
stationer inquires.

Why, there's not much air to be got here; and what there is, is
not very freshening,Weevle answersglancing up and down the
court.

Very true, sir. Don't you observe,says Mr. Snagsbypausing to
sniff and taste the air a littledon't you observe, Mr. Weevle,
that you're--not to put too fine a point upon it--that you're
rather greasy here, sir?

Why, I have noticed myself that there is a queer kind of flavour
in the place to-night,Mr. Weevle rejoins. "I suppose it's chops
at the Sol's Arms."

Chops, do you think? Oh! Chops, eh?Mr. Snagsby sniffs and
tastes again. "WellsirI suppose it is. But I should say their
cook at the Sol wanted a little looking after. She has been
burning 'emsir! And I don't think"--Mr. Snagsby sniffs and
tastes again and then spits and wipes his mouth--"I don't think-not
to put too fine a point upon it--that they were quite fresh
when they were shown the gridiron."

That's very likely. It's a tainting sort of weather.

It IS a tainting sort of weather,says Mr. Snagsbyand I find
it sinking to the spirits.


By George! I find it gives me the horrors,returns Mr. Weevle.

Then, you see, you live in a lonesome way, and in a lonesome room,
with a black circumstance hanging over it,says Mr. Snagsby
looking in past the other's shoulder along the dark passage and
then falling back a step to look up at the house. "I couldn't live
in that room aloneas you dosir. I should get so fidgety and
worried of an eveningsometimesthat I should be driven to come
to the door and stand here sooner than sit there. But then it's
very true that you didn't seein your roomwhat I saw there.
That makes a difference."

I know quite enough about it,returns Tony.

It's not agreeable, is it?pursues Mr. Snagsbycoughing his
cough of mild persuasion behind his hand. "Mr. Krook ought to
consider it in the rent. I hope he doesI am sure."

I hope he does,says Tony. "But I doubt it."

You find the rent too high, do you, sir?returns the stationer.
Rents ARE high about here. I don't know how it is exactly, but
the law seems to put things up in price. Not,adds Mr. Snagsby
with his apologetic coughthat I mean to say a word against the
profession I get my living by.

Mr. Weevle again glances up and down the court and then looks at
the stationer. Mr. Snagsbyblankly catching his eyelooks upward
for a star or so and coughs a cough expressive of not exactly
seeing his way out of this conversation.

It's a curious fact, sir,he observesslowly rubbing his hands
that he should have been--

Who's he?interrupts Mr. Weevle.

The deceased, you know,says Mr. Snagsbytwitching his head and
right eyebrow towards the staircase and tapping his acquaintance on
the button.

Ah, to be sure!returns the other as if he were not over-fond of
the subject. "I thought we had done with him."

I was only going to say it's a curious fact, sir, that he should
have come and lived here, and been one of my writers, and then that
you should come and live here, and be one of my writers too. Which
there is nothing derogatory, but far from it in the appellation,
says Mr. Snagsbybreaking off with a mistrust that he may have
unpolitely asserted a kind of proprietorship in Mr. Weevle
because I have known writers that have gone into brewers' houses
and done really very respectable indeed. Eminently respectable,
sir,adds Mr. Snagsby with a misgiving that he has not improved
the matter.

It's a curious coincidence, as you say,answers Weevleonce more
glancing up and down the court.

Seems a fate in it, don't there?suggests the stationer.

There does.

Just so,observes the stationer with his confirmatory cough.
Quite a fate in it. Quite a fate. Well, Mr. Weevle, I am afraid


I must bid you good night--Mr. Snagsby speaks as if it made him
desolate to gothough he has been casting about for any means of
escape ever since he stopped to speak--"my little woman will be
looking for me else. Good nightsir!"

If Mr. Snagsby hastens home to save his little woman the trouble of
looking for himhe might set his mind at rest on that score. His
little woman has had her eye upon him round the Sol's Arms all this
time and now glides after him with a pocket handkerchief wrapped
over her headhonourmg Mr. Weevle and his doorway with a searching
glance as she goes past.

You'll know me again, ma'am, at all events,says Mr. Weevle to
himself; "and I can't compliment you on your appearancewhoever
you arewith your head tied up in a bundle. Is this fellow NEVER
coming!"

This fellow approaches as he speaks. Mr. Weevle softly holds up
his fingerand draws him into the passageand closes the street
door. Then they go upstairsMr. Weevle heavilyand Mr. Guppy
(for it is he) very lightly indeed. When they are shut into the
back roomthey speak low.

I thought you had gone to Jericho at least instead of coming
here,says Tony.

Why, I said about ten.

You said about ten,Tony repeats. "Yesso you did say about
ten. But according to my countit's ten times ten--it's a hundred
o'clock. I never had such a night in my life!"

What has been the matter?

That's it!says Tony. "Nothing has been the matter. But here
have I been stewing and fuming in this jolly old crib till I have
had the horrors falling on me as thick as hail. THERE'S a blessed-
looking candle!" says Tonypointing to the heavily burning taper
on his table with a great cabbage head and a long winding-sheet.

That's easily improved,Mr. Guppy observes as he takes the
snuffers in hand.

IS it?returns his friend. "Not so easily as you think. It has
been smouldering like that ever since it was lighted."

Why, what's the matter with you, Tony?inquires Mr. Guppy
looking at himsnuffers in handas he sits down with his elbow on
the table.

William Guppy,replies the otherI am in the downs. It's this
unbearably dull, suicidal room--and old Boguey downstairs, I
suppose.Mr. Weevle moodily pushes the snuffers-tray from him
with his elbowleans his head on his handputs his feet on the
fenderand looks at the fire. Mr. Guppyobserving himslightly
tosses his head and sits down on the other side of the table in an
easy attitude.

Wasn't that Snagsby talking to you, Tony?

Yes, and he--yes, it was Snagsby,said Mr. Weevlealtering the
construction of his sentence.

On business?


No. No business. He was only sauntering by and stopped to
prose.

I thought it was Snagsby,says Mr. Guppyand thought it as well
that he shouldn't see me, so I waited till he was gone.

There we go again, William G.!cried Tonylooking up for an
instant. "So mysterious and secret! By Georgeif we were going
to commit a murderwe couldn't have more mystery about it!"

Mr. Guppy affects to smileand with the view of changing the
conversationlooks with an admirationreal or pretendedround
the room at the Galaxy Gallery of British Beautyterminating his
survey with the portrait of Lady Dedlock over the mantelshelfin
which she is represented on a terracewith a pedestal upon the
terraceand a vase upon the pedestaland her shawl upon the vase
and a prodigious piece of fur upon the shawland her arm on the
prodigious piece of furand a bracelet on her arm.

That's very like Lady Dedlock,says Mr. Guppy. "It's a speaking
likeness."

I wish it was,growls Tonywithout changing his position. "I
should have some fashionable conversationherethen."

Finding by this time that his friend is not to be wheedled into a
more sociable humourMr. Guppy puts about upon the ill-used tack
and remonstrates with him.

Tony,says heI can make allowances for lowness of spirits, for
no man knows what it is when it does come upon a man better than I
do, and no man perhaps has a better right to know it than a man who
has an unrequited image imprinted on his 'eart. But there are
bounds to these things when an unoffending party is in question,
and I will acknowledge to you, Tony, that I don't think your manner
on the present occasion is hospitable or quite gentlemanly.

This is strong language, William Guppy,returns Mr. Weevle.

Sir, it may be,retorts Mr. William Guppybut I feel strongly
when I use it.

Mr. Weevle admits that he has been wrong and begs Mr. William Guppy
to think no more about it. Mr. William Guppyhoweverhaving got
the advantagecannot quite release it without a little more
injured remonstrance.

No! Dash it, Tony,says that gentlemanyou really ought to be
careful how you wound the feelings of a man who has an unrequited
image imprinted on his 'eart and who is NOT altogether happy in
those chords which vibrate to the tenderest emotions. You, Tony,
possess in yourself all that is calculated to charm the eye and
allure the taste. It is not--happily for you, perhaps, and I may
wish that I could say the same--it is not your character to hover
around one flower. The ole garden is open to you, and your airy
pinions carry you through it. Still, Tony, far be it from me, I am
sure, to wound even your feelings without a cause!

Tony again entreats that the subject may be no longer pursued
saying emphaticallyWilliam Guppy, drop it!Mr. Guppy
acquiesceswith the replyI never should have taken it up, Tony,
of my own accord.


And now,says Tonystirring the firetouching this same bundle
of letters. Isn't it an extraordinary thing of Krook to have
appointed twelve o'clock to-night to hand 'em over to me?

Very. What did he do it for?

What does he do anything for? HE don't know. Said to-day was his
birthday and he'd hand 'em over to-night at twelve o'clock. He'll
have drunk himself blind by that time. He has been at it all day.

He hasn't forgotten the appointment, I hope?

Forgotten? Trust him for that. He never forgets anything. I saw
him to-night, about eight--helped him to shut up his shop--and he
had got the letters then in his hairy cap. He pulled it off and
showed 'em me. When the shop was closed, he took them out of his
cap, hung his cap on the chair-back, and stood turning them over
before the fire. I heard him a little while afterwards, through
the floor here, humming like the wind, the only song he knows-about
Bibo, and old Charon, and Bibo being drunk when he died, or
something or other. He has been as quiet since as an old rat
asleep in his hole.

And you are to go down at twelve?

At twelve. And as I tell you, when you came it seemed to me a
hundred.

Tony,says Mr. Guppy after considering a little with his legs
crossedhe can't read yet, can he?

Read! He'll never read. He can make all the letters separately,
and he knows most of them separately when he sees them; he has got
on that much, under me; but he can't put them together. He's too
old to acquire the knack of it now--and too drunk.

Tony,says Mr. Guppyuncrossing and recrossing his legshow do
you suppose he spelt out that name of Hawdon?

He never spelt it out. You know what a curious power of eye he
has and how he has been used to employ himself in copying things by
eye alone. He imitated it, evidently from the direction of a
letter, and asked me what it meant.

Tony,says Mr. Guppyuncrossing and recrossing his legs again
should you say that the original was a man's writing or a
woman's?

A woman's. Fifty to one a lady's--slopes a good deal, and the end
of the letter 'n,' long and hasty.

Mr. Guppy has been biting his thumb-nail during this dialogue
generally changing the thumb when he has changed the cross leg. As
he is going to do so againhe happens to look at his coat-sleeve.
It takes his attention. He stares at itaghast.

Why, Tony, what on earth is going on in this house to-night? Is
there a chimney on fire?

Chimney on fire!

Ah!returns Mr. Guppy. "See how the soot's falling. See here
on my arm! See againon the table here! Confound the stuffit
won't blow off--smears like black fat!"


They look at one anotherand Tony goes listening to the doorand
a little way upstairsand a little way downstairs. Comes back and
says it's all right and all quietand quotes the remark he lately
made to Mr. Snagsby about their cooking chops at the Sol's Arms.

And it was then,resumes Mr. Guppystill glancing with
remarkable aversion at the coat-sleeveas they pursue their
conversation before the fireleaning on opposite sides of the
tablewith their heads very near togetherthat he told you of
his having taken the bundle of letters from his lodger's
portmanteau?

That was the time, sir,answers Tonyfaintly adjusting his
whiskers. "Whereupon I wrote a line to my dear boythe Honourable
William Guppyinforming him of the appointment for to-night and
advising him not to call beforeBoguey being a slyboots."

The light vivacious tone of fashionable life which is usually
assumed by Mr. Weevle sits so ill upon him to-night that he
abandons that and his whiskers togetherand after looking over his
shoulderappears to yield himself up a prey to the horrors again.

You are to bring the letters to your room to read and compare, and
to get yourself into a position to tell him all about them. That's
the arrangement, isn't it, Tony?asks Mr. Guppyanxiously biting
his thumb-nail.

You can't speak too low. Yes. That's what he and I agreed.

I tell you what, Tony--

You can't speak too low,says Tony once more. Mr. Guppy nods his
sagacious headadvances it yet closerand drops into a whisper.

I tell you what. The first thing to be done is to make another
packet like the real one so that if he should ask to see the real
one while it's in my possession, you can show him the dummy.

And suppose he detects the dummy as soon as he sees it, which with
his biting screw of an eye is about five hundred times more likely
than not,suggests Tony.

Then we'll face it out. They don't belong to him, and they never
did. You found that, and you placed them in my hands--a legal
friend of yours--for security. If he forces us to it, they'll be
producible, won't they?

Ye-es,is Mr. Weevle's reluctant admission.

Why, Tony,remonstrates his friendhow you look! You don't
doubt William Guppy? You don't suspect any harm?

I don't suspect anything more than I know, William,returns the
other gravely.

And what do you know?urges Mr. Guppyraising his voice a
little; but on his friend's once more warning himI tell you, you
can't speak too low,he repeats his question without any sound at
allforming with his lips only the wordsWhat do you know?

I know three things. First, I know that here we are whispering in
secrecy, a pair of conspirators.


Well!says Mr. Guppy. "And we had better be that than a pair of
noodleswhich we should be if we were doing anything elsefor
it's the only way of doing what we want to do. Secondly?"

Secondly, it's not made out to me how it's likely to be
profitable, after all.

Mr. Guppy casts up his eyes at the portrait of Lady Dedlock over
the mantelshelf and repliesTony, you are asked to leave that to
the honour of your friend. Besides its being calculated to serve
that friend in those chords of the human mind which--which need not
be called into agonizing vibration on the present occasion--your
friend is no fool. What's that?

It's eleven o'clock striking by the bell of Saint Paul's. Listen
and you'll hear all the bells in the city jangling.

Both sit silentlistening to the metal voicesnear and distant
resounding from towers of various heightsin tones more various
than their situations. When these at length ceaseall seems more
mysterious and quiet than before. One disagreeable result of
whispering is that it seems to evoke an atmosphere of silence
haunted by the ghosts of sound--strange cracks and tickingsthe
rustling of garments that have no substance in themand the tread
of dreadful feet that would leave no mark on the sea-sand or the
winter snow. So sensitive the two friends happen to be that the
air is full of these phantomsand the two look over their
shoulders by one consent to see that the door is shut.

Yes, Tony?says Mr. Guppydrawing nearer to the fire and biting
his unsteady thumb-nail. "You were going to saythirdly?"

It's far from a pleasant thing to be plotting about a dead man in
the room where he died, especially when you happen to live in it.

But we are plotting nothing against him, Tony.

May be not, still I don't like it. Live here by yourself and see
how YOU like it.

As to dead men, Tony,proceeds Mr. Guppyevading this proposal
there have been dead men in most rooms.

I know there have, but in most rooms you let them alone, and--and
they let you alone,Tony answers.

The two look at each other again. Mr. Guppy makes a hurried remark
to the effect that they may be doing the deceased a servicethat
he hopes so. There is an oppressive blank until Mr. Weevleby
stirring the fire suddenlymakes Mr. Guppy start as if his heart
had been stirred instead.

Fah! Here's more of this hateful soot hanging about,says he.
Let us open the window a bit and get a mouthful of air. It's too
close.

He raises the sashand they both rest on the window-sillhalf in
and half out of the room. The neighbouring houses are too near to
admit of their seeing any sky without craning their necks and
looking upbut lights in frowsy windows here and thereand the
rolling of distant carriagesand the new expression that there is
of the stir of menthey find to be comfortable. Mr. Guppy
noiselessly tapping on the window-sillresumes his whisperirig in
quite a light-comedy tone.


By the by, Tony, don't forget old Smallweed,meaning the younger
of that name. "I have not let him into thisyou know. That
grandfather of his is too keen by half. It runs in the family."

I remember,says Tony. "I am up to all that."

And as to Krook,resumes Mr. Guppy. "Nowdo you suppose he
really has got hold of any other papers of importanceas he has
boasted to yousince you have been such allies?"

Tony shakes his head. "I don't know. Can't Imagine. If we get
through this business without rousing his suspicionsI shall be
better informedno doubt. How can I know without seeing them
when he don't know himself? He is always spelling out words from
themand chalking them over the table and the shop-walland
asking what this is and what that is; but his whole stock from
beginning to end may easily be the waste-paper he bought it asfor
anything I can say. It's a monomania with him to think he is
possessed of documents. He has been going to learn to read them
this last quarter of a centuryI should judgefrom what he tells
me."

How did he first come by that idea, though? That's the question,
Mr. Guppy suggests with one eye shutafter a little forensic
meditation. "He may have found papers in something he bought
where papers were not supposed to beand may have got it into his
shrewd head from the manner and place of their concealment that
they are worth something."

Or he may have been taken in, in some pretended bargain. Or he
may have been muddled altogether by long staring at whatever he HAS
got, and by drink, and by hanging about the Lord Chancellor's Court
and hearing of documents for ever,returns Mr. Weevle.

Mr. Guppy sitting on the window-sillnodding his head and
balancing all these possibilities in his mindcontinues
thoughtfully to tap itand clasp itand measure it with his hand
until he hastily draws his hand away.

What, in the devil's name,he saysis this! Look at my
fingers!

A thickyellow liquor defiles themwhich is offensive to the
touch and sight and more offensive to the smell. A stagnant
sickening oil with some natural repulsion in it that makes them
both shudder.

What have you been doing here? What have you been pouring out of
window?

I pouring out of window! Nothing, I swear! Never, since I have
been here!cries the lodger.

And yet look here--and look here! When he brings the candle here
from the corner of the window-sillit slowly drips and creeps away
down the brickshere lies in a little thick nauseous pool.

This is a horrible house,says Mr. Guppyshutting down the
window. "Give me some water or I shall cut my hand off."

He so washesand rubsand scrubsand smellsand washesthat he
has not long restored himself with a glass of brandy and stood
silently before the fire when Saint Paul's bell strikes twelve and


all those other bells strike twelve from their towers of various
heights in the dark airand in their many tones. When all is
quiet againthe lodger saysIt's the appointed time at last.
Shall I go?

Mr. Guppy nods and gives him a "lucky touch" on the backbut not
with the washed handthough it is his right hand.

He goes downstairsand Mr. Guppy tries to compose himself before
the fire for waiting a long time. But in no more than a minute or
two the stairs creak and Tony comes swiftly back.

Have you got them?

Got them! No. The old man's not there.

He has been so horribly frightened in the short interval that his
terror seizes the otherwho makes a rush at him and asks loudly
What's the matter?

I couldn't make him hear, and I softly opened the door and looked
in. And the burning smell is there--and the soot is there, and the
oil is there--and he is not there!Tony ends this with a groan.

Mr. Guppy takes the light. They go downmore dead than aliveand
holding one anotherpush open the door of the back shop. The cat
has retreated close to it and stands snarlingnot at themat
something on the ground before the fire. There is a very little
fire left in the gratebut there is a smoulderingsuffocating
vapour in the room and a darkgreasy coating on the walls and
ceiling. The chairs and tableand the bottle so rarely absent
from the tableall stand as usual. On one chair-back hang the old
man's hairy cap and coat.

Look!whispers the lodgerpointing his friend's attention to
these objects with a trembling finger. "I told you so. When I saw
him lasthe took his cap offtook out the little bundle of old
lettershung his cap on the back of the chair--his coat was there
alreadyfor he had pulled that off before he went to put the
shutters up--and I left him turning the letters over in his hand
standing just where that crumbled black thing is upon the floor."

Is he hanging somewhere? They look up. No.

See!whispers Tony. "At the foot of the same chair there lies a
dirty bit of thin red cord that they tie up pens with. That went
round the letters. He undid it slowlyleering and laughing at me
before he began to turn them overand threw it there. I saw it
fall."

What's the matter with the cat?says Mr. Guppy. "Look at her!"

Mad, I think. And no wonder in this evil place.

They advance slowlylooking at all these things. The cat remains
where they found herstill snarling at the something on the ground
before the fire and between the two chairs. What is it? Hold up
the light.

Here is a small burnt patch of flooring; here is the tinder from a
little bundle of burnt paperbut not so light as usualseeming to
be steeped in something; and here is--is it the cinder of a small
charred and broken log of wood sprinkled with white ashesor is it
coal? Ohhorrorhe IS here! And this from which we run away


striking out the light and overturning one another into the street
is all that represents him.

Helphelphelp! Come into this house for heaven's sake! Plenty
will come inbut none can help. The Lord Chancellor of that
courttrue to his title in his last acthas died the death of all
lord chancellors in all courts and of all authorities in all places
under all names soeverwhere false pretences are madeand where
injustice is done. Call the death by any name your Highness will
attribute it to whom you willor say it might have been prevented
how you willit is the same death eternally--inborninbred
engendered in the corrupted humours of the vicious body itselfand
that only--spontaneous combustionand none other of all the deaths
that can be died.

CHAPTER XXXIII

Interlopers

Now do those two gentlemen not very neat about the cuffs and
buttons who attended the last coroner's inquest at the Sol's Arms
reappear in the precincts with surprising swiftness (beingin
factbreathlessly fetched by the active and intelligent beadle)
and institute perquisitions through the courtand dive into the
Sol's parlourand write with ravenous little pens on tissue-paper.
Now do they note downin the watches of the nighthow the
neighbourhood of Chancery Lane was yesterdayat about midnight
thrown into a state of the most intense agitation and excitement by
the following alarming and horrible discovery. Now do they set
forth how it will doubtless be remembered that some time back a
painful sensation was created in the public mind by a case of
mysterious death from opium occurring in the first floor of the
house occupied as a ragbottleand general marine store shopby
an eccentric individual of intemperate habitsfar advanced in
lifenamed Krook; and howby a remarkable coincidenceKrook was
examined at the inquestwhich it may be recollected was held on
that occasion at the Sol's Armsa well-conducted tavern
immediately adjoining the premises in question on the west side and
licensed to a highly respectable landlordMr. James George Bogsby.
Now do they show (in as many words as possible) how during some
hours of yesterday evening a very peculiar smell was observed by
the inhabitants of the courtin which the tragical occurrence
which forms the subject of that present account transpired; and
which odour was at one time so powerful that Mr. Swillsa comic
vocalist professionally engaged by Mr. J. G. Bogsbyhas himself
stated to our reporter that he mentioned to Miss M. Melvillesona
lady of some pretensions to musical abilitylikewise engaged by
Mr. J. G. Bogsby to sing at a series of concerts called Harmonic
Assembliesor Meetingswhich it would appear are held at the
Sol's Arms under Mr. Bogsby's direction pursuant to the Act of
George the Secondthat he (Mr. Swills) found his voice seriously
affected by the impure state of the atmospherehis jocose
expression at the time being that he was like an empty post-office
for he hadn't a single note in him. How this account of Mr. Swills
is entirely corroborated by two intelligent married females
residing in the same court and known respectively by the names of
Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkinsboth of whom observed the foetid
effluvia and regarded them as being emitted from the premises in
the occupation of Krookthe unfortunate deceased. All this and a
great deal more the two gentlemen who have formed an amicable
partnership in the melancholy catastrophe write down on the spot;


and the boy population of the court (out of bed in a moment) swarm
up the shutters of the Sol's Arms parlourto behold the tops of
their heads while they are about it.

The whole courtadult as well as boyis sleepless for that night
and can do nothing but wrap up its many headsand talk of the ill-
fated houseand look at it. Miss Flite has been bravely rescued
from her chamberas if it were in flamesand accommodated with a
bed at the Sol's Arms. The Sol neither turns off its gas nor shuts
its door all nightfor any kind of public excitement makes good
for the Sol and causes the court to stand in need of comfort. The
house has not done so much in the stomachic article of cloves or in
brandy-and-water warm since the inquest. The moment the pot-boy
heard what had happenedhe rolled up his shirt-sleeves tight to
his shoulders and saidThere'll be a run upon us!In the first
outcryyoung Piper dashed off for the fire-engines and returned in
triumph at a jolting gallop perched up aloft on the Phoenix and
holding on to that fabulous creature with all his might in the
midst of helmets and torches. One helmet remains behind after
careful investigation of all chinks and crannies and slowly paces
up and down before the house in company with one of the two
policemen who have likewise been left in charge thereof. To this
trio everybody in the court possessed of sixpence has an insatiate
desire to exhibit hospitality in a liquid form.

Mr. Weevle and his friend Mr. Guppy are within the bar at the Sol
and are worth anything to the Sol that the bar contains if they
will only stay there. "This is not a timesays Mr. Bogsbyto
haggle about money,though he looks something sharply after it
over the counter; "give your ordersyou two gentlemenand you're
welcome to whatever you put a name to."

Thus entreatedthe two gentlemen (Mr. Weevle especially) put names
to so many things that in course of time they find it difficult to
put a name to anything quite distinctlythough they still relate
to all new-comers some version of the night they have had of it
and of what they saidand what they thoughtand what they saw.
Meanwhileone or other of the policemen often flits about the
doorand pushing it open a little way at the full length of his
armlooks in from outer gloom. Not that he has any suspicions
but that he may as well know what they are up to in there.

Thus night pursues its leaden coursefinding the court still out
of bed through the unwonted hoursstill treating and being
treatedstill conducting itself similarly to a court that has had
a little money left it unexpectedly. Thus night at length with
slow-retreating steps departsand the lamp-lighter going his
roundslike an executioner to a despotic kingstrikes off the
little heads of fire that have aspired to lessen the darkness.
Thus the day comethwhether or no.

And the day may discerneven with its dim London eyethat the
court has been up all night. Over and above the faces that have
fallen drowsily on tables and the heels that lie prone on hard
floors instead of bedsthe brick and mortar physiognomy of the
very court itself looks worn and jaded. And now the neighbourhood
waking up and beginning to hear of what has happenedcomes
streaming inhalf dressedto ask questions; and the two policemen
and the helmet (who are far less impressible externally than the
court) have enough to do to keep the door.

Good gracious, gentlemen!says Mr. Snagsbycoming up. "What's
this I hear!"


Why, it's true,returns one of the policemen. "That's what it
is. Now move on herecome!"

Why, good gracious, gentlemen,says Mr. Snagsbysomewhat
promptly backed awayI was at this door last night betwixt ten
and eleven o'clock in conversation with the young man who lodges
here.

Indeed?returns the policeman. "You will find the young man next
door then. Now move on heresome of you

Not hurtI hope?" says Mr. Snagsby.

Hurt? No. What's to hurt him!

Mr. Snagsbywholly unable to answer this or any question in his
troubled mindrepairs to the Sol's Arms and finds Mr. Weevle
languishing over tea and toast with a considerable expression on
him of exhausted excitement and exhausted tobacco-smoke.

And Mr. Guppy likewise!quoth Mr. Snagsby. "Deardeardear!
What a fate there seems in all this! And my lit--"

Mr. Snagsby's power of speech deserts him in the formation of the
words "my little woman." For to see that injured female walk into
the Sol's Arms at that hour of the morning and stand before the
beer-enginewith her eyes fixed upon him like an accusing spirit
strikes him dumb.

My dear,says Mr. Snagsby when his tongue is loosenedwill you
take anything? A little--not to put too fine a point upon it--drop
of shrub?

No,says Mrs. Snagsby.

My love, you know these two gentlemen?

Yes!says Mrs. Snagsbyand in a rigid manner acknowledges their
presencestill fixing Mr. Snagsby with her eye.

The devoted Mr. Snagsby cannot bear this treatment. He takes Mrs.
Snagsby by the hand and leads her aside to an adjacent cask.

My little woman, why do you look at me in that way? Pray don't do
it.

I can't help my looks,says Mrs. Snagsbyand if I could I
wouldn't.

Mr. Snagsbywith his cough of meeknessrejoinsWouldn't you
really, my dear?and meditates. Then coughs his cough of trouble
and saysThis is a dreadful mystery, my love!still fearfully
disconcerted by Mrs. Snagsby's eye.

It IS,returns Mrs. Snagsbyshaking her heada dreadful
mystery.

My little woman,urges Mr. Snagsby in a piteous mannerdon't
for goodness' sake speak to me with that bitter expression and look
at me in that searching way! I beg and entreat of you not to do
it. Good Lord, you don't suppose that I would go spontaneously
combusting any person, my dear?

I can't say,returns Mrs. Snagsby.


On a hasty review of his unfortunate positionMr. Snagsby "can't
say" either. He is not prepared positively to deny that he may
have had something to do with it. He has had something--he don't
know what--to do with so much in this connexion that is mysterious
that it is possible he may even be implicatedwithout knowing it
in the present transaction. He faintly wipes his forehead with his
handkerchief and gasps.

My life,says the unhappy stationerwould you have any
objections to mention why, being in general so delicately
circumspect in your conduct, you come into a wine-vaults before
breakfast?

Why do YOU come here?inquires Mrs. Snagsby.

My dear, merely to know the rights of the fatal accident which has
happened to the venerable party who has been--combusted.Mr.
Snagsby has made a pause to suppress a groan. "I should then have
related them to youmy loveover your French roll."

I dare say you would! You relate everything to me, Mr. Snagsby.

Every--my lit--

I should be glad,says Mrs. Snagsby after contemplating his
increased confusion with a severe and sinister smileif you would
come home with me; I think you may be safer there, Mr. Snagsby,
than anywhere else.

My love, I don't know but what I may be, I am sure. I am ready to
go.

Mr. Snagsby casts his eye forlornly round the bargives Messrs.
Weevle and Guppy good morningassures them of the satisfaction
with which he sees them uninjuredand accompanies Mrs. Snagsby
from the Sol's Arms. Before night his doubt whether he may not be
responsible for some inconceivable part in the catastrophe which is
the talk of the whole neighbourhood is almost resolved into
certainty by Mrs. Snagsby's pertinacity in that fixed gaze. His
mental sufferings are so great that he entertains wandering ideas
of delivering himself up to justice and requiring to be cleared if
innocent and punished with the utmost rigour of the law if guilty.

Mr. Weevle and Mr. Guppyhaving taken their breakfaststep into
Lincoln's Inn to take a little walk about the square and clear as
many of the dark cobwebs out of their brains as a little walk may.

There can be no more favourable time than the present, Tony,says
Mr. Guppy after they have broodingly made out the four sides of the
squarefor a word or two between us upon a point on which we
must, with very little delay, come to an understanding.

Now, I tell you what, William G.!returns the othereyeing his
companion with a bloodshot eye. "If it's a point of conspiracy
you needn't take the trouble to mention it. I have had enough of
thatand I ain't going to have any more. We shall have YOU taking
fire next or blowing up with a bang."

This supposititious phenomenon is so very disagreeable to Mr. Guppy
that his voice quakes as he says in a moral wayTony, I should
have thought that what we went through last night would have been a
lesson to you never to be personal any more as long as you lived.
To which Mr. Weevle returnsWilliam, I should have thought it


would have been a lesson to YOU never to conspire any more as long
as you lived.To which Mr. Guppy saysWho's conspiring?To
which Mr. Jobling repliesWhy, YOU are!To which Mr. Guppy
retortsNo, I am not.To which Mr. Jobling retorts againYes,
you are!To which Mr. Guppy retortsWho says so?To which Mr.
Jobling retortsI say so!To which Mr. Guppy retortsOh,
indeed?To which Mr. Jobling retortsYes, indeed!And both
being now in a heated statethey walk on silently for a while to
cool down again.

Tony,says Mr. Guppy thenif you heard your friend out instead
of flying at him, you wouldn't fall into mistakes. But your temper
is hasty and you are not considerate. Possessing in yourself,
Tony, all that is calculated to charm the eye--

Oh! Blow the eye!cries Mr. Weevlecutting him short. "Say what
you have got to say!"

Finding his friend in this morose and material conditionMr. Guppy
only expresses the finer feelings of his soul through the tone of
injury in which he recommencesTony, when I say there is a point
on which we must come to an understanding pretty soon, I say so
quite apart from any kind of conspiring, however innocent. You
know it is professionally arranged beforehand in all cases that are
tried what facts the witnesses are to prove. Is it or is it not
desirable that we should know what facts we are to prove on the
inquiry into the death of this unfortunate old mo--gentleman?
(Mr. Guppy was going to say "mogul but thinks gentleman" better
suited to the circumstances.)

What facts? THE facts.

The facts bearing on that inquiry. Those are--Mr. Guppy tells
them off on his fingers--"what we knew of his habitswhen you saw
him lastwhat his condition was thenthe discovery that we made
and how we made it."

Yes,says Mr. Weevle. "Those are about the facts."

We made the discovery in consequence of his having, in his
eccentric way, an appointment with you at twelve o'clock at night,
when you were to explain some writing to him as you had often done
before on account of his not being able to read. I, spending the
evening with you, was called down--and so forth. The inquiry being
only into the circumstances touching the death of the deceased,
it's not necessary to go beyond these facts, I suppose you'll
agree?

No!returns Mr. Weevle. "I suppose not."

And this is not a conspiracy, perhaps?says the injured Guppy.

No,returns his friend; "if it's nothing worse than thisI
withdraw the observation."

Now, Tony,says Mr. Guppytaking his arm again and walking him
slowly onI should like to know, in a friendly way, whether you
have yet thought over the many advantages of your continuing to
live at that place?

What do you mean?says Tonystopping.

Whether you have yet thought over the many advantages of your
continuing to live at that place?repeats Mr. Guppywalking him


on again.

At what place? THAT place?pointing in the direction of the rag
and bottle shop.

Mr. Guppy nods.

Why, I wouldn't pass another night there for any consideration
that you could offer me,says Mr. Weevlehaggardly staring.

Do you mean it though, Tony?

Mean it! Do I look as if I mean it? I feel as if I do; I know
that,says Mr. Weevle with a very genuine shudder.

Then the possibility or probability--for such it must be
considered--of your never being disturbed in possession of those
effects lately belonging to a lone old man who seemed to have no
relation in the world, and the certainty of your being able to find
out what he really had got stored up there, don't weigh with you at
all against last night, Tony, if I understand you?says Mr. Guppy
biting his thumb with the appetite of vexation.

Certainly not. Talk in that cool way of a fellow's living there?
cries Mr. Weevle indignantly. "Go and live there yourself."

Oh! I, Tony!says Mr. Guppysoothing him. "I have never lived
there and couldn't get a lodging there nowwhereas you have got
one."

You are welcome to it,rejoins his friendand--ugh!--you may
make yourself at home in it.

Then you really and truly at this point,says Mr. Guppygive up
the whole thing, if I understand you, Tony?

You never,returns Tony with a most convincing steadfastness
said a truer word in all your life. I do!

While they are so conversinga hackney-coach drives into the
squareon the box of which vehicle a very tall hat makes itself
manifest to the public. Inside the coachand consequently not so
manifest to the multitudethough sufficiently so to the two
friendsfor the coach stops almost at their feetare the
venerable Mr. Smallweed and Mrs. Smallweedaccompanied by their
granddaughter Judy.

An air of haste and excitement pervades the partyand as the tall
hat (surmounting Mr. Smallweed the younger) alightsMr. Smallweed
the elder pokes his head out of window and bawls to Mr. GuppyHow
de do, sir! How de do!

What do Chick and his family want here at this time of the
morning, I wonder!says Mr. Guppynodding to his familiar.

My dear sir,cries Grandfather Smallweedwould you do me a
favour? Would you and your friend be so very obleeging as to carry
me into the public-house in the court, while Bart and his sister
bring their grandmother along? Would you do an old man that good
turn, sir?

Mr. Guppy looks at his friendrepeating inquiringlyThe public-
house in the court?And they prepare to bear the venerable burden
to the Sol's Arms.


There's your fare!says the patriarch to the coachman with a
fierce grin and shaking his incapable fist at him. "Ask me for a
penny moreand I'll have my lawful revenge upon you. My dear
young menbe easy with meif you please. Allow me to catch you
round the neck. I won't squeeze you tighter than I can help. Oh
Lord! Ohdear me! Ohmy bones!"

It is well that the Sol is not far offfor Mr. Weevle presents an
apoplectic appearance before half the distance is accomplished.
With no worse aggravation of his symptomshoweverthan the
utterance of divers croaking sounds expressive of obstructed
respirationhe fulils his share of the porterage and the
benevolent old gentleman is deposited by his own desire in the
parlour of the Sol's Arms.

Oh, Lord!gasps Mr. Smallweedlooking about himbreathless
from an arm-chair. "Ohdear me! Ohmy bones and back! Ohmy
aches and pains! Sit downyou dancingprancingshambling
scrambling poll-parrot! Sit down!"

This little apostrophe to Mrs. Smallweed is occasioned by a
propensity on the part of that unlucky old lady whenever she finds
herself on her feet to amble about and "set" to inanimate objects
accompanying herself with a chattering noiseas in a witch dance.
A nervous affection has probably as much to do with these
demonstrations as any imbecile intention in the poor old womanbut
on the present occasion they are so particularly lively in
connexion with the Windsor arm-chairfellow to that in which Mr.
Smallweed is seatedthat she only quite desists when her
grandchildren have held her down in ither lord in the meanwhile
bestowing upon herwith great volubilitythe endearing epithet of
a pig-headed jackdaw,repeated a surprising number of times.

My dear sir,Grandfather Smallweed then proceedsaddressing Mr.
Guppythere has been a calamity here. Have you heard of it,
either of you?

Heard of it, sir! Why, we discovered it.

You discovered it. You two discovered it! Bart, THEY discovered
it!

The two discoverers stare at the Smallweedswho return the
compliment.

My dear friends,whines Grandfather Smallweedputting out both
his handsI owe you a thousand thanks for discharging the
melancholy office of discovering the ashes of Mrs. Smallweed's
brother.

Eh?says Mr. Guppy.

Mrs. Smallweed's brother, my dear friend--her only relation. We
were not on terms, which is to be deplored now, but he never WOULD
be on terms. He was not fond of us. He was eccentric--he was very
eccentric. Unless he has left a will (which is not at all likely)
I shall take out letters of administration. I have come down to
look after the property; it must be sealed up, it must be
protected. I have come down,repeats Grandfather Smallweed
hooking the air towards him with all his ten fingers at onceto
look after the property.

I think, Small,says the disconsolate Mr. Guppyyou might have


mentioned that the old man was your uncle.

You two were so close about him that I thought you would like me
to be the same,returns that old bird with a secretly glistening
eye. "BesidesI wasn't proud of him."

Besides which, it was nothing to you, you know, whether he was or
not,says Judy. Also with a secretly glistening eye.

He never saw me in his life to know me,observed Small; "I don't
know why I should introduce HIMI am sure!"

No, he never communicated with us, which is to be deplored,the
old gentleman strikes inbut I have come to look after the
property--to look over the papers, and to look after the property.
We shall make good our title. It is in the hands of my solicitor.
Mr. Tulkinghorn, of Lincoln's Inn Fields, over the way there, is so
good as to act as my solicitor; and grass don't grow under HIS
feet, I can tell ye. Krook was Mrs. Smallweed's only brother; she
had no relation but Krook, and Krook had no relation but Mrs.
Smallweed. I am speaking of your brother, you brimstone black-
beetle, that was seventy-six years of age.

Mrs. Smallweed instantly begins to shake her head and pipe up
Seventy-six pound seven and sevenpence! Seventysix thousand bags
of money! Seventy-six hundred thousand million of parcels of bank-
notes!

Will somebody give me a quart pot?exclaims her exasperated
husbandlooking helplessly about him and finding no missile within
his reach. "Will somebody obleege me with a spittoon? Will
somebody hand me anything hard and bruising to pelt at her? You
hagyou catyou dogyou brimstone barker!" Here Mr. Smallweed
wrought up to the highest pitch by his own eloquenceactually
throws Judy at her grandmother in default of anything elseby
butting that young virgin at the old lady with such force as he can
muster and then dropping into his chair in a heap.

Shake me up, somebody, if you'll he so good,says the voice from
within the faintly struggling bundle into which he has collapsed.
I have come to look after the property. Shake me up, and call in
the police on duty at the next house to be explained to about the
property. My solicitor will be here presently to protect the
property. Transportation or the gallows for anybody who shall
touch the property!As his dutiful grandchildren set him up
pantingand putting him through the usual restorative process of
shaking and punchinghe still repeats like an echoThe--the
property! The property! Property!

Mr. Weevle and Mr. Guppy look at each otherthe former as having
relinquished the whole affairthe latter with a discomfited
countenance as having entertained some lingering expectations yet.
But there is nothing to be done in opposition to the Smallweed
interest. Mr. Tulkinghorn's clerk comes down from his official pew
in the chambers to mention to the police that Mr. Tulkinghorn is
answerable for its being all correct about the next of kin and that
the papers and effects will be formally taken possession of in due
time and course. Mr. Smallweed is at once permitted so far to
assert his supremacy as to be carried on a visit of sentiment into
the next house and upstairs into Miss Flite's deserted roomwhere
he looks like a hideous bird of prey newly added to her aviary.

The arrival of this unexpected heir soon taking wind in the court
still makes good for the Sol and keeps the court upon its mettle.


Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins think it hard upon the young man if
there really is no willand consider that a handsome present ought
to be made him out of the estate. Young Piper and young Perkins
as members of that restless juvenile circle which is the terror of
the foot-passengers in Chancery Lanecrumble into ashes behind the
pump and under the archway all day longwhere wild yells and
hootings take place over their remains. Little Swills and Miss M.
Melvilleson enter into affable conversation with their patrons
feeling that these unusual occurrences level the barriers between
professionals and non-professionals. Mr. Bogsby puts up "The
popular song of King Deathwith chorus by the whole strength of
the company as the great Harmonic feature of the week and
announces in the bill that J. G. B. is induced to do so at a
considerable extra expense in consequence of a wish which has been
very generally expressed at the bar by a large body of respectable
individuals and in homage to a late melancholy event which has
aroused so much sensation." There is one point connected with the
deceased upon which the court is particularly anxiousnamelythat
the fiction of a full-sized coffin should be preservedthough
there is so little to put in it. Upon the undertaker's stating in
the Sol's bar in the course of the day that he has received orders
to construct "a six-footer the general solicitude is much
relieved, and it is considered that Mr. Smallweed's conduct does
him great honour.

Out of the court, and a long way out of it, there is considerable
excitement too, for men of science and philosophy come to look, and
carriages set down doctors at the corner who arrive with the same
intent, and there is more learned talk about inflammable gases and
phosphuretted hydrogen than the court has ever imagined. Some of
these authorities (of course the wisest) hold with indignation that
the deceased had no business to die in the alleged manner; and
being reminded by other authorities of a certain inquiry into the
evidence for such deaths reprinted in the sixth volume of the
Philosophical Transactions; and also of a book not quite unknown on
English medical jurisprudence; and likewise of the Italian case of
the Countess Cornelia Baudi as set forth in detail by one
Bianchini, prebendary of Verona, who wrote a scholarly work or so
and was occasionally heard of in his time as having gleams of
reason in him; and also of the testimony of Messrs. Fodere and
Mere, two pestilent Frenchmen who WOULD investigate the subject;
and further, of the corroborative testimony of Monsieur Le Cat, a
rather celebrated French surgeon once upon a time, who had the
unpoliteness to live in a house where such a case occurred and even
to write an account of it--still they regard the late Mr. Krook's
obstinacy in going out of the world by any such by-way as wholly
unjustifiable and personally offensive. The less the court
understands of all this, the more the court likes it, and the
greater enjoyment it has in the stock in trade of the Sol's Arms.
Then there comes the artist of a picture newspaper, with a
foreground and figures ready drawn for anything from a wreck on the
Cornish coast to a review in Hyde Park or a meeting in Manchester,
and in Mrs. Perkins' own room, memorable evermore, he then and
there throws in upon the block Mr. Krook's house, as large as life;
in fact, considerably larger, making a very temple of it.
Similarly, being permitted to look in at the door of the fatal
chamber, he depicts that apartment as three-quarters of a mile long
by fifty yards high, at which the court is particularly charmed.
All this time the two gentlemen before mentioned pop in and out of
every house and assist at the philosophical disputations--go
everywhere and listen to everybody--and yet are always diving into
the Sol's parlour and writing with the ravenous little pens on the
tissue-paper.


At last come the coroner and his inquiry, like as before, except
that the coroner cherishes this case as being out of the common way
and tells the gentlemen of the jury, in his private capacity, that
that would seem to be an unlucky house next doorgentlemena
destined house; but so we sometimes find itand these are
mysteries we can't account for!" After which the six-footer comes
into action and is much admired.

In all these proceedings Mr. Guppy has so slight a partexcept
when he gives his evidencethat he is moved on like a private
individual and can only haunt the secret house on the outside
where he has the mortification of seeing Mr. Smallweed padlocking
the doorand of bitterly knowing himself to be shut out. But
before these proceedings draw to a closethat is to sayon the
night next after the catastropheMr. Guppy has a thing to say that
must be said to Lady Dedlock.

For which reasonwith a sinking heart and with that hang-dog sense
of guilt upon him which dread and watching enfolded in the Sol's
Arms have producedthe young man of the name of Guppy presents
himself at the town mansion at about seven o'clock in the evening
and requests to see her ladyship. Mercury replies that she is
going out to dinner; don't he see the carriage at the door? Yes
he does see the carriage at the door; but he wants to see my Lady
too.

Mercury is disposedas he will presently declare to a fellow-
gentleman in waitingto pitch into the young man; but his
instructions are positive. Therefore he sulkily supposes that the
young man must come up into the library. There he leaves the young
man in a large roomnot over-lightwhile he makes report of him.

Mr. Guppy looks into the shade in all directionsdiscovering
everywhere a certain charred and whitened little heap of coal or
wood. Presently he hears a rustling. Is it--? Noit's no ghost
but fair flesh and bloodmost brilliantly dressed.

I have to beg your ladyship's pardon,Mr. Guppy stammersvery
downcast. "This is an inconvenient time--"

I told you, you could come at any time.She takes a chair
looking straight at him as on the last occasion.

Thank your ladyship. Your ladyship is very affable.

You can sit down.There is not much affability in her tone.

I don't know, your ladyship, that it's worth while my sitting down
and detaining you, for I--I have not got the letters that I
mentioned when I had the honour of waiting on your ladyship.

Have you come merely to say so?

Merely to say so, your ladyship.Mr. Guppy besides being
depresseddisappointedand uneasyis put at a further
disadvantage by the splendour and beauty of her appearance.

She knows its influence perfectlyhas studied it too well to miss
a grain of its effect on any one. As she looks at him so steadily
and coldlyhe not only feels conscious that he has no guide in the
least perception of what is really the complexion of her thoughts
but also that he is being every momentas it wereremoved further
and further from her.


She will not speakit is plain. So he must.

In short, your ladyship,says Mr. Guppy like a meanly penitent
thiefthe person I was to have had the letters of, has come to a
sudden end, and--He stops. Lady Dedlock calmly finishes the
sentence.

And the letters are destroyed with the person?

Mr. Guppy would say no if he could--as he is unable to hide.

I believe so, your ladyship.

If he could see the least sparkle of relief in her face now? No
he could see no such thingeven if that brave outside did not
utterly put him awayand he were not looking beyond it and about
it.

He falters an awkward excuse or two for his failure.

Is this all you have to say?inquires Lady Dedlockhaving heard
him out--or as nearly out as he can stumble.

Mr. Guppy thinks that's all.

You had better be sure that you wish to say nothing more to me,
this being the last time you will have the opportunity.

Mr. Guppy is quite sure. And indeed he has no such wish at
presentby any means.

That is enough. I will dispense with excuses. Good evening to
you!And she rings for Mercury to show the young man of the name
of Guppy out.

But in that housein that same momentthere happens to be an old
man of the name of Tulkinghorn. And that old mancoming with his
quiet footstep to the libraryhas his hand at that moment on the
handle of the door--comes in--and comes face to face with the young
man as he is leaving the room.

One glance between the old man and the ladyand for an instant the
blind that is always down flies up. Suspicioneager and sharp
looks out. Another instantclose again.

I beg your pardon, Lady Dedlock. I beg your pardon a thousand
times. It is so very unusual to find you here at this hour. I
supposed the room was empty. I beg your pardon!

Stay!She negligently calls him back. "Remain hereI beg. I
am going out to dinner. I have nothing more to say to this young
man!"

The disconcerted young man bowsas he goes outand cringingly
hopes that Mr. Tulkinghorn of the Fields is well.

Aye, aye?says the lawyerlooking at him from under his bent
browsthough he has no need to look again--not he. "From Kenge
and Carboy'ssurely?"

Kenge and Carboy's, Mr. Tulkinghorn. Name of Guppy, sir.

To be sure. Why, thank you, Mr. Guppy, I am very well!


Happy to hear it, sir. You can't be too well, sir, for the credit
of the profession.

Thank you, Mr. Guppy!

Mr. Guppy sneaks away. Mr. Tulkinghornsuch a foil in his old-
fashioned rusty black to Lady Dedlock's brightnesshands her down
the staircase to her carriage. He returns rubbing his chinand
rubs it a good deal in the course of the evening.

CHAPTER XXXIV

A Turn of the Screw

Now, what,says Mr. Georgemay this be? Is it blank cartridge
or ball? A flash in the pan or a shot?

An open letter is the subject of the trooper's speculationsand it
seems to perplex him mightily. He looks at it at arm's length
brings it close to himholds it in his right handholds it in his
left handreads it with his head on this sidewith his head on
that sidecontracts his eyebrowselevates themstill cannot
satisfy himself. He smooths it out upon the table with his heavy
palmand thoughtfully walking up and down the gallerymakes a
halt before it every now and then to come upon it with a fresh eye.
Even that won't do. "Is it Mr. George still muses, blank
cartridge or ball?"

Phil Squodwith the aid of a brush and paint-potis employed in
the distance whitening the targetssoftly whistling in quick-march
time and in drum-and-fife manner that he must and will go back
again to the girl he left behind him.

Phil!The trooper beckons as he calls him.

Phil approaches in his usual waysidling off at first as if he
were going anywhere else and then bearing down upon his commander
like a bayonet-charge. Certain splashes of white show in high
relief upon his dirty faceand he scrapes his one eyebrow with the
handle of the brush.

Attention, Phil! Listen to this.

Steady, commander, steady.

'Sir. Allow me to remind you (though there is no legal necessity
for my doing so, as you are aware) that the bill at two months'
date drawn on yourself by Mr. Matthew Bagnet, and by you accepted,
for the sum of ninety-seven pounds four shillings and ninepence,
will become due to-morrow, when you will please be prepared to take
up the same on presentation. Yours, Joshua Smallweed.' What do
you make of that, Phil?

Mischief, guv'ner.

Why?

I think,replies Phil after pensively tracing out a cross-wrinkle
in his forehead with the brush-handlethat mischeevious
consequences is always meant when money's asked for.


Lookye, Phil,says the troopersitting on the table. "First and
lastI have paidI may sayhalf as much again as this principal
in interest and one thing and another."

Phil intimates by sidling back a pace or twowith a very
unaccountable wrench of his wry facethat he does not regard the
transaction as being made more promising by this incident.

And lookye further, Phil,says the trooperstaying his premature
conclusions with a wave of his hand. "There has always been an
understanding that this bill was to be what they call renewed. And
it has been renewed no end of times. What do you say now?"

I say that I think the times is come to a end at last.

You do? Humph! I am much of the same mind myself.

Joshua Smallweed is him that was brought here in a chair?

The same.

Guv'ner,says Phil with exceeding gravityhe's a leech in his
dispositions, he's a screw and a wice in his actions, a snake in
his twistings, and a lobster in his claws.

Having thus expressively uttered his sentimentsMr. Squodafter
waiting a little to ascertain if any further remark be expected of
himgets back by his usual series of movements to the target he
has in hand and vigorously signifies through his former musical
medium that he must and he will return to that ideal young lady.
Georgehaving folded the letterwalks in that direction.

There IS a way, commander,says Phillooking cunningly at him
of settling this.

Paying the money, I suppose? I wish I could.

Phil shakes his head. "Noguv'nerno; not so bad as that. There
IS a way says Phil with a highly artistic turn of his brush;
what I'm a-doing at present."

Whitewashing.

Phil nods.

A pretty way that would be! Do you know what would become of the
Bagnets in that case? Do you know they would be ruined to pay off
my old scores? YOU'RE a moral character,says the troopereyeing
him in his large way with no small indignation; "upon my life you
arePhil!"

Philon one knee at the targetis in course of protesting
earnestlythough not without many allegorical scoops of his brush
and smoothings of the white surface round the rim with his thumb
that he had forgotten the Bagnet responsibility and would not so
much as injure a hair of the head of any member of that worthy
family when steps are audible in the long passage withoutand a
cheerful voice is heard to wonder whether George is at home. Phil
with a look at his masterhobbles upsayingHere's the guv'ner,
Mrs. Bagnet! Here he is!and the old girl herselfaccompanied by
Mr. Bagnetappears.

The old girl never appears in walking trimin any season of the
yearwithout a grey cloth cloakcoarse and much worn but very


cleanwhich isundoubtedlythe identical garment rendered so
interesting to Mr. Bagnet by having made its way home to Europe
from another quarter of the globe in company with Mrs. Bagnet and
an umbrella. The latter faithful appendage is also invariably a
part of the old girl's presence out of doors. It is of no colour
known in this life and has a corrugated wooden crook for a handle
with a metallic object let into its prowor beakresembling a
little model of a fanlight over a street door or one of the oval
glasses out of a pair of spectacleswhich ornamental object has
not that tenacious capacity of sticking to its post that might be
desired in an article long associated with the British army. The
old girl's umbrella is of a flabby habit of waist and seems to be
in need of stays--an appearance that is possibly referable to its
having served through a series of years at home as a cupboard and
on journeys as a carpet bag. She never puts it uphaving the
greatest reliance on her well-proved cloak with its capacious hood
but generally uses the instrument as a wand with which to point out
joints of meat or bunches of greens in marketing or to arrest the
attention of tradesmen by a friendly poke. Without her market-
basketwhich is a sort of wicker well with two flapping lidsshe
never stirs abroad. Attended by these her trusty companions
thereforeher honest sunburnt face looking cheerily out of a rough
straw bonnetMrs. Bagnet now arrivesfresh-coloured and bright
in George's Shooting Gallery.

Well, George, old fellow,says sheand how do YOU do, this
sunshiny morning?

Giving him a friendly shake of the handMrs. Bagnet draws a long
breath after her walk and sits down to enjoy a rest. Having a
facultymatured on the tops of baggage-waggons and in other such
positionsof resting easily anywhereshe perches on a rough
benchunties her bonnet-stringspushes back her bonnetcrosses
her armsand looks perfectly comfortable.

Mr. Bagnet in the meantime has shaken hands with his old comrade
and with Philon whom Mrs. Bagnet likewise bestows a good-humoured
nod and smile.

Now, George,said Mrs. Bagnet brisklyhere we are, Lignum and
myself--she often speaks of her husband by this appellationon
accountas it is supposedof Lignum Vitae having been his old
regimental nickname when they first became acquaintedin
compliment to the extreme hardness and toughness of his
physiognomy--"just looked inwe haveto make it all correct as
usual about that security. Give him the new bill to signGeorge
and he'll sign it like a man."

I was coming to you this morning,observes the trooper
reluctantly.

Yes, we thought you'd come to us this morning, but we turned out
early and left Woolwich, the best of boys, to mind his sisters and
came to you instead--as you see! For Lignum, he's tied so close
now, and gets so little exercise, that a walk does him good. But
what's the matter, George?asks Mrs. Bagnetstopping in her
cheerful talk. "You don't look yourself."

I am not quite myself,returns the trooper; "I have been a little
put outMrs. Bagnet."

Her bright quick eye catches the truth directly. "George!" holding
up her forefinger. "Don't tell me there's anything wrong about
that security of Lignum's! Don't do itGeorgeon account of the


children!"

The trooper looks at her with a troubled visage.

George,says Mrs. Bagnetusing both her arms for emphasis and
occasionally bringing down her open hands upon her knees. "If you
have allowed anything wrong to come to that security of Lignum's
and if you have let him in for itand if you have put us in danger
of being sold up--and I see sold up in your faceGeorgeas plain
as print--you have done a shameful action and have deceived us
cruelly. I tell youcruellyGeorge. There!"

Mr. Bagnetotherwise as immovable as a pump or a lamp-postputs
his large right hand on the top of his bald head as if to defend it
from a shower-bath and looks with great uneasiness at Mrs. Bagnet.

George,says that old girlI wonder at you! George, I am
ashamed of you! George, I couldn't have believed you would have
done it! I always knew you to be a rolling sone that gathered no
moss, but I never thought you would have taken away what little
moss there was for Bagnet and the children to lie upon. You know
what a hard-working, steady-going chap he is. You know what Quebec
and Malta and Woolwich are, and I never did think you would, or
could, have had the heart to serve us so. Oh, George!Mrs.
Bagnet gathers up her cloak to wipe her eyes on in a very genuine
mannerHow could you do it?

Mrs. Bagnet ceasingMr. Bagnet removes his hand from his head as
if the shower-bath were over and looks disconsolately at Mr.
Georgewho has turned quite white and looks distressfully at the
grey cloak and straw bonnet.

Mat,says the trooper in a subdued voiceaddressing him but
still looking at his wifeI am sorry you take it so much to
heart, because I do hope it's not so bad as that comes to. I
certainly have, this morning, received this letter--which he reads
aloud--"but I hope it may be set right yet. As to a rolling stone
whywhat you say is true. I AM a rolling stoneand I never
rolled in anybody's wayI fully believethat I rolled the least
good to. But it's impossible for an old vagabond comrade to like
your wife and family better than I like 'emMatand I trust
you'll look upon me as forgivingly as you can. Don't think I've
kept anything from you. I haven't had the letter more than a
quarter of an hour."

Old girl,murmurs Mr. Bagnet after a short silencewill you
tell him my opinion?

Oh! Why didn't he marry,Mrs. Bagnet answershalf laughing and
half cryingJoe Pouch's widder in North America? Then he
wouldn't have got himself into these troubles.

The old girl,says Mr. Baguetputs it correct--why didn't you?

Well, she has a better husband by this time, I hope,returns the
trooper. "Anyhowhere I standthis present dayNOT married to
Joe Pouch's widder. What shall I do? You see all I have got about
me. It's not mine; it's yours. Give the wordand I'll sell off
every morsel. If I could have hoped it would have brought in
nearly the sum wantedI'd have sold all long ago. Don't believe
that I'll leave you or yours in the lurchMat. I'd sell myself
first. I only wish says the trooper, giving himself a
disparaging blow in the chest, that I knew of any one who'd buy
such a second-hand piece of old stores."


Old girl,murmurs Mr. Bagnetgive him another bit of my mind.

George,says the old girlyou are not so much to be blamed, on
full consideration, except for ever taking this business without
the means.

And that was like me!observes the penitent troopershaking his
head. "Like meI know."

Silence! The old girl,says Mr. Bagnetis correct--in her way
of giving my opinions--hear me out!

That was when you never ought to have asked for the security,
George, and when you never ought to have got it, all things
considered. But what's done can't be undone. You are always an
honourable and straightforward fellow, as far as lays in your
power, though a little flighty. On the other hand, you can't admit
but what it's natural in us to be anxious with such a thing hanging
over our heads. So forget and forgive all round, George. Come!
Forget and forgive all round!

Mrs. Bagnetgiving him one of her honest hands and giving her
husband the otherMr. George gives each of them one of his and
holds them while he speaks.

I do assure you both, there's nothing I wouldn't do to discharge
this obligation. But whatever I have been able to scrape together
has gone every two months in keeping it up. We have lived plainly
enough here, Phil and I. But the gallery don't quite do what was
expected of it, and it's not--in short, it's not the mint. It was
wrong in me to take it? Well, so it was. But I was in a manner
drawn into that step, and I thought it might steady me, and set me
up, and you'll try to overlook my having such expectations, and
upon my soul, I am very much obliged to you, and very much ashamed
of myself.With these concluding wordsMr. George gives a shake
to each of the hands he holdsand relinquishing thembacks a pace
or two in a broad-chestedupright attitudeas if he had made a
final confession and were immediately going to be shot with all
military honours.

George, hear me out!says Mr. Bagnetglancing at his wife. "Old
girlgo on!"

Mr. Bagnetbeing in this singular manner heard outhas merely to
observe that the letter must be attended to without any delaythat
it is advisable that George and he should immediately wait on Mr.
Smallweed in personand that the primary object is to save and
hold harmless Mr. Bagnetwho had none of the money. Mr. George
entirely assentingputs on his hat and prepares to march with Mr.
Bagnet to the enemy's camp.

Don't you mind a woman's hasty word, George,says Mrs. Bagnet
patting him on the shoulder. "I trust my old Lignum to youand I
am sure you'll bring him through it."

The trooper returns that this is kindly said and that he WILL bring
Lignum through it somehow. Upon which Mrs. Bagnetwith her cloak
basketand umbrellagoes homebright-eyed againto the rest of
her familyand the comrades sally forth on the hopeful errand of
mollifying Mr. Smallweed.

Whether there are two people in England less likely to come
satisfactorily out of any negotiation with Mr. Smallweed than Mr.


George and Mr. Matthew Bagnet may be very reasonably questioned.
Alsonotwithstanding their martial appearancebroad square
shouldersand heavy treadwhether there are within the same
limits two more simple and unaccustomed children in all the
Smallweedy affairs of life. As they proceed with great gravity
through the streets towards the region of Mount PleasantMr.
Bagnetobserving his companion to be thoughtfulconsiders it a
friendly part to refer to Mrs. Bagnet's late sally.

George, you know the old girl--she's as sweet and as mild as milk.
But touch her on the children--or myself--and she's off like
gunpowder.

It does her credit, Mat!

George,says Mr. Bagnetlooking straight before himthe old
girl--can't do anything--that don't do her credit. More or less.
I never say so. Discipline must he maintained.

She's worth her weight in gold,says the trooper.

In gold?says Mr. Bagnet. "I'll tell you what. The old girl's
weight--is twelve stone six. Would I take that weight--in any
metal--for the old girl? No. Why not? Because the old girl's
metal is far more precious---than the preciousest metal. And she's
ALL metal!"

You are right, Mat!

When she took me--and accepted of the ring--she 'listed under me
and the children--heart and head, for life. She's that earnest,
says Mr. Bagnetand true to her colours--that, touch us with a
finger--and she turns out--and stands to her arms. If the old girl
fires wide--once in a way--at the call of duty--look over it,
George. For she's loyal!

Why, bless her, Mat,returns the trooperI think the higher of
her for it!

You are right!says Mr. Bagnet with the warmest enthusiasm
though without relaxing the rigidity of a single muscle. "Think as
high of the old girl--as the rock of Gibraltar--and still you'll be
thinking low--of such merits. But I never own to it before her.
Discipline must be maintained."

These encomiums bring them to Mount Pleasant and to Grandfather
Smallweed's house. The door is opened by the perennial Judywho
having surveyed them from top to toe with no particular favourbut
indeed with a malignant sneerleaves them standing there while she
consults the oracle as to their admission. The oracle may be
inferred to give consent from the circumstance of her returning
with the words on her honey lips that they can come in if they want
to it. Thus privilegedthey come in and find Mr. Smallweed with
his feet in the drawer of his chair as if it were a paper foot-bath
and Mrs. Smallweed obscured with the cushion like a bird that is
not to sing.

My dear friend,says Grandfather Smallweed with those two lean
affectionate arms of his stretched forth. "How de do? How de do?
Who is our friendmy dear friend?"

Why this,returns Georgenot able to be very conciliatory at
firstis Matthew Bagnet, who has obliged me in that matter of
ours, you know.


Oh! Mr. Bagnet? Surely!The old man looks at him under his
hand.

Hope you're well, Mr. Bagnet? Fine man, Mr. George! Military
air, sir!

No chairs being offeredMr. George brings one forward for Bagnet
and one for himself. They sit downMr. Bagnet as if he had no
power of bending himselfexcept at the hipsfor that purpose.

Judy,says Mr. Smallweedbring the pipe.

Why, I don't know,Mr. George interposesthat the young woman
need give herself that trouble, for to tell you the truth, I am not
inclined to smoke it to-day.

Ain't you?returns the old man. "Judybring the pipe."

The fact is, Mr. Smallweed,proceeds Georgethat I find myself
in rather an unpleasant state of mind. It appears to me, sir, that
your friend in the city has been playing tricks.

Oh, dear no!says Grandfather Smallweed. "He never does that!"

Don't he? Well, I am glad to hear it, because I thought it might
be HIS doing. This, you know, I am speaking of. This letter.

Grandfather Smallweed smiles in a very ugly way in recognition of
the letter.

What does it mean?asks Mr. George.

Judy,says the old man. "Have you got the pipe? Give it to me.
Did you say what does it meanmy good friend?"

Aye! Now, come, come, you know, Mr. Smallweed,urges the
trooperconstraining himself to speak as smoothly and
confidentially as he canholding the open letter in one hand and
resting the broad knuckles of the other on his thigha good lot
of money has passed between us, and we are face to face at the
present moment, and are both well aware of the understanding there
has always been. I am prepared to do the usual thing which I have
done regularly and to keep this matter going. I never got a letter
like this from you before, and I have been a little put about by it
this morning, because here's my friend Matthew Bagnet, who, you
know, had none of the money--

I DON'T know it, you know,says the old man quietly.

Why, con-found you--it, I mean--I tell you so, don't I?

Oh, yes, you tell me so,returns Grandfather Smallweed. "But I
don't know it."

Well!says the trooperswallowing his fire. "I know it."

Mr. Smallweed replies with excellent temperAh! That's quite
another thing!And addsBut it don't matter. Mr. Bagnet's
situation is all one, whether or no.

The unfortunate George makes a great effort to arrange the affair
comfortably and to propitiate Mr. Smallweed by taking him upon his
own terms.


That's just what I mean. As you say, Mr. Smallweed, here's
Matthew Bagnet liable to be fixed whether or no. Now, you see,
that makes his good lady very uneasy in her mind, and me too, for
whereas I'm a harurn-scarum sort of a good-for-nought that more
kicks than halfpence come natural to, why he's a steady family man,
don't you see? Now, Mr. Smallweed,says the troopergaining
confidence as he proceeds in his soldierly mode of doing business
although you and I are good friends enough in a certain sort of a
way, I am well aware that I can't ask you to let my friend Bagnet
off entirely.

Oh, dear, you are too modest. You can ASK me anything, Mr.
George.(There is an ogreish kind of jocularity in Grandfather
Smallweed to-day.)

And you can refuse, you mean, eh? Or not you so much, perhaps, as
your friend in the city? Ha ha ha!

Ha ha ha!echoes Grandfather Smallweed. In such a very hard
manner and with eyes so particularly green that Mr. Bagnet's
natural gravity is much deepened by the contemplation of that
venerable man.

Come!says the sanguine George. "I am glad to find we can be
pleasantbecause I want to arrange this pleasantly. Here's my
friend Bagnetand here am I. We'll settle the matter on the spot
if you pleaseMr. Smallweedin the usual way. And you'll ease my
friend Bagnet's mindand his family's minda good deal if you'll
just mention to him what our understanding is."

Here some shrill spectre cries out in a mocking mannerOh, good
gracious! Oh!Unlessindeedit be the sportive Judywho is
found to be silent when the startled visitors look roundbut whose
chin has received a recent tossexpressive of derision and
contempt. Mr. Bagnet's gravity becomes yet more profound.

But I think you asked me, Mr. George--old Smallweedwho all this
time has had the pipe in his handis the speaker now--"I think you
asked mewhat did the letter mean?"

Why, yes, I did,returns the trooper in his off-hand waybut I
don't care to know particularly, if it's all correct and pleasant.

Mr. Smallweedpurposely balking himself in an aim at the trooper's
headthrows the pipe on the ground and breaks it to pieces.

That's what it means, my dear friend. I'll smash you. I'll
crumble you. I'll powder you. Go to the devil!

The two friends rise and look at one another. Mr. Bagnet's gravity
has now attained its profoundest point.

Go to the devil!repeats the old man. "I'll have no more of your
pipe-smokings and swaggerings. What? You're an independent
dragoontoo! Go to my lawyer (you remember where; you have been
there before) and show your independeuce nowwill you? Comemy
dear friendthere's a chance for you. Open the street doorJudy;
put these blusterers out! Call in help if they don't go. Put 'em
out!"

He vociferates this so loudly that Mr. Bagnetlaying his hands on
the shoulders of his comrade before the latter can recover from his
amazementgets him on the outside of the street doorwhich is


instantly slammed by the triumphant Judy. Utterly confoundedMr.
George awhile stands looking at the knocker. Mr. Bagnetin a
perfect abyss of gravitywalks up and down before the little
parlour window like a sentry and looks in every time he passes
apparently revolving something in his mind.

Come, Mat,says Mr. George when he has recovered himselfwe
must try the lawyer. Now, what do you think of this rascal?

Mr. Bagnetstopping to take a farewell look into the parlour
replies with one shake of his head directed at the interiorIf my
old girl had been here--I'd have told him!Having so discharged
himself of the subject of his cogitationshe falls into step and
marches off with the troopershoulder to shoulder.

When they present themselves in Lincoln's Inn FieldsMr.
Tulkinghorn is engaged and not to be seen. He is not at all
willing to see themfor when they have waited a full hourand the
clerkon his bell being rungtakes the opportunity of mentioning
as muchhe brings forth no more encouraging message than that Mr.
Tulkinghorn has nothing to say to them and they had better not
wait. They do waithoweverwith the perseverance of military
tacticsand at last the bell rings again and the client in
possession comes out of Mr. Tulkinghorn's room.

The client is a handsome old ladyno other than Mrs. Rouncewell
housekeeper at Chesney Wold. She comes out of the sanctuary with a
fair old-fashioned curtsy and softly shuts the door. She is
treated with some distinction therefor the clerk steps out of his
pew to show her through the outer office and to let her out. The
old lady is thanking him for his attention when she observes the
comrades in waiting.

I beg your pardon, sir, but I think those gentlemen are military?

The clerk referring the question to them with his eyeand Mr.
George not turning round from the almanac over the fire-place. Mr.
Bagnet takes upon himself to replyYes, ma'am. Formerly.

I thought so. I was sure of it. My heart warms, gentlemen, at
the sight of you. It always does at the sight of such. God bless
you, gentlemen! You'll excuse an old woman, but I had a son once
who went for a soldier. A fine handsome youth he was, and good in
his bold way, though some people did disparage him to his poor
mother. I ask your pardon for troubling you, sir. God bless you,
gentlemen!

Same to you, ma'am!returns Mr. Bagnet with right good will.

There is something very touching in the earnestness of the old
lady's voice and in the tremble that goes through her quaint old
figure. But Mr. George is so occupied with the almanac over the
fireplace (calculating the coming months by it perhaps) that he
does not look round until she has gone away and the door is closed
upon her.

George,Mr. Bagnet gruffly whispers when he does turn from the
almanac at last. "Don't be cast down! 'Whysoldierswhy--should
we be melancholyboys?' Cheer upmy hearty!"

The clerk having now again gone in to say that they are still there
and Mr. Tulkinghorn being heard to return with some irascibility
Let 'em come in then!they pass into the great room with the
painted ceiling and find him standing before the fire.


Now, you men, what do you want? Sergeant, I told you the last
time I saw you that I don't desire your company here.

Sergeant replies--dashed within the last few minutes as to his
usual manner of speechand even as to his usual carriage--that he
has received this letterhas been to Mr. Smallweed about itand
has been referred there.

I have nothing to say to you,rejoins Mr. Tulkinghorn. "If you
get into debtyou must pay your debts or take the consequences.
You have no occasion to come here to learn thatI suppose?"

Sergeant is sorry to say that he is not prepared with the money.

Very well! Then the other man--this man, if this is he--must pay
it for you.

Sergeant is sorry to add that the other man is not prepared with
the money either.

Very well! Then you must pay it between you or you must both be
sued for it and both suffer. You have had the money and must
refund it. You are not to pocket other people's pounds, shillings,
and pence and escape scot-free.

The lawyer sits down in his easy-chair and stirs the fire. Mr.
George hopes he will have the goodness to-


I tell you, sergeant, I have nothing to say to you. I don't like
your associates and don't want you here. This matter is not at all
in my course of practice and is not in my office. Mr. Smallweed is
good enough to offer these affairs to me, but they are not in my
way. You must go to Melchisedech's in Clifford's Inn.

I must make an apology to you, sir,says Mr. Georgefor
pressing myself upon you with so little encouragement--which is
almost as unpleasant to me as it can be to you--but would you let
me say a private word to you?

Mr. Tulkinghorn rises with his hands in his pockets and walks into
one of the window recesses. "Now! I have no time to waste." In
the midst of his perfect assumption of indifferencehe directs a
sharp look at the troopertaking care to stand with his own back
to the light and to have the other with his face towards it.

Well, sir,says Mr. Georgethis man with me is the other party
implicated in this unfortunate affair--nominally, only nominally-and
my sole object is to prevent his getting into trouble on my
account. He is a most respectable man with a wife and family,
formerly in the Royal Artillery--

My friend, I don't care a pinch of snuff for the whole Royal
Artillery establishment--officers, men, tumbrils, waggons, horses,
guns, and ammunition.

'Tis likely, sir. But I care a good deal for Bagnet and his wife
and family being injured on my account. And if I could bring them
through this matter, I should have no help for it but to give up
without any other consideration what you wanted of me the other
day.

Have you got it here?


I have got it here, sir.

Sergeant,the lawyer proceeds in his dry passionless mannerfar
more hopeless in the dealing with than any amount of vehemence
make up your mind while I speak to you, for this is final. After
I have finished speaking I have closed the subject, and I won't reopen
it. Understand that. You can leave here, for a few days,
what you say you have brought here if you choose; you can take it
away at once if you choose. In case you choose to leave it here, I
can do this for you--I can replace this matter on its old footing,
and I can go so far besides as to give you a written undertaking
that this man Bagnet shall never be troubled in any way until you
have been proceeded against to the utmost, that your means shall be
exhausted before the creditor looks to his. This is in fact all
but freeing him. Have you decided?

The trooper puts his hand into his breast and answers with a long
breathI must do it, sir.

So Mr. Tulkinghornputting on his spectaclessits down and writes
the undertakingwhich he slowly reads and explains to Bagnetwho
has all this time been staring at the ceiling and who puts his hand
on his bald head againunder this new verbal shower-bathand
seems exceedingly in need of the old girl through whom to express
his sentiments. The trooper then takes from his breast-pocket a
folded paperwhich he lays with an unwilling hand at the lawyer's
elbow. "'Tis ouly a letter of instructionssir. The last I ever
had from him."

Look at a millstoneMr. Georgefor some change in its expression
and you will find it quite as soon as in the face of Mr.
Tulkinghorn when he opens and reads the letter! He refolds it and
lays it in his desk with a countenance as unperturbable as death.

Nor has he anything more to say or do but to nod once in the same
frigid and discourteous manner and to say brieflyYou can go.
Show these men out, there!Being shown outthey repair to Mr.
Bagnet's residence to dine.

Boiled beef and greens constitute the day's variety on the former
repast of boiled pork and greensand Mrs. Bagnet serves out the
meal in the same way and seasons it with the best of temperbeing
that rare sort of old girl that she receives Good to her arms
without a hint that it might be Better and catches light from any
little spot of darkness near her. The spot on this occasion is the
darkened brow of Mr. George; he is unusually thoughtful and
depressed. At first Mrs. Bagnet trusts to the combined endearments
of Quebec and Malta to restore himbut finding those young ladies
sensible that their existing Bluffy is not the Bluffy of their
usual frolicsome acquaintanceshe winks off the light infantry and
leaves him to deploy at leisure on the open ground of the domestic
hearth.

But he does not. He remains in close orderclouded and depressed.
During the lengthy cleaning up and pattening processwhen he and
Mr. Bagnet are supplied with their pipeshe is no better than he
was at dinner. He forgets to smokelooks at the fire and ponders
lets his pipe outfills the breast of Mr. Bagnet with perturbation
and dismay by showing that he has no enjoyment of tobacco.

Therefore when Mrs. Bagnet at last appearsrosy from the
invigorating pailand sits down to her workMr. Bagnet growls
Old girl!and winks monitions to her to find out what's the
matter.


Why, George!says Mrs. Bagnetquietly threading her needle.
How low you are!

Am I? Not good company? Well, I am afraid I am not.

He ain't at all like Blulfy, mother!cries little Malta.

Because he ain't well, I think, mother,adds Quebec.

Sure that's a bad sign not to be like Bluffy, too!returns the
trooperkissing the young damsels. "But it's true with a sigh,
trueI am afraid. These little ones are always right!"

George,says Mrs. Bagnetworking busilyif I thought you cross
enough to think of anything that a shrill old soldier's wife--who
could have bitten her tongue off afterwards and ought to have done
it almost--said this morning, I don't know what I shouldn't say to
you now.

My kind soul of a darling,returns the trooper. "Not a morsel of
it."

Because really and truly, George, what I said and meant to say was
that I trusted Lignum to you and was sure you'd bring him through
it. And you HAVE brought him through it, noble!

Thankee, my dear!says George. "I am glad of your good opinion."

In giving Mrs. Bagnet's handwith her work in ita friendly
shake--for she took her seat beside him--the trooper's attention is
attracted to her face. After looking at it for a little while as
she plies her needlehe looks to young Woolwichsitting on his
stool in the cornerand beckons that fifer to him.

See there, my boy,says Georgevery gently smoothing the
mother's hair with his handthere's a good loving forehead for
you! All bright with love of you, my boy. A little touched by the
sun and the weather through following your father about and taking
care of you, but as fresh and wholesome as a ripe apple on a tree.

Mr. Bagnet's face expressesso far as in its wooden material lies
the highest approbation and acquiescence.

The time will come, my boy,pursues the trooperwhen this hair
of your mother's will be grey, and this forehead all crossed and
re-crossed with wrinkles, and a fine old lady she'll be then. Take
care, while you are young, that you can think in those days, 'I
never whitened a hair of her dear head--I never marked a sorrowful
line in her face!' For of all the many things that you can think
of when you are a man, you had better have THAT by you, Woolwich!

Mr. George concludes by rising from his chairseating the boy
beside his mother in itand sayingwith something of a hurry
about himthat he'll smoke his pipe in the street a bit.

CHAPTER XXXV

Esther's Narrative

I lay ill through several weeksand the usual tenor of my life


became like an old remembrance. But this was not the effect of
time so much as of the change in all my habits made by the
helplessness and inaction of a sick-room. Before I had been
confined to it many dayseverything else seemed to have retired
into a remote distance where there was little or no separation
between the various stages of my life which had been really divided
by years. In falling illI seemed to have crossed a dark lake and
to have left all my experiencesmingled together by the great
distanceon the healthy shore.

My housekeeping dutiesthough at first it caused me great anxiety
to think that they were unperformedwere soon as far off as the
oldest of the old duties at Greenleaf or the summer afternoons when
I went home from school with my portfolio under my armand my
childish shadow at my sideto my godmother's house. I had never
known before how short life really was and into how small a space
the mind could put it.

While I was very illthe way in which these divisions of time
became confused with one another distressed my mind exceedingly.
At once a childan elder girland the little woman I had been so
happy asI was not only oppressed by cares and difficulties
adapted to each stationbut by the great perplexity of endlessly
trying to reconcile them. I suppose that few who have not been in
such a condition can quite understand what I mean or what painful
unrest arose from this source.

For the same reason I am almost afraid to hint at that time in my
disorder--it seemed one long nightbut I believe there were both
nights and days in it--when I laboured up colossal staircasesever
striving to reach the topand ever turnedas I have seen a worm
in a garden pathby some obstructionand labouring again. I knew
perfectly at intervalsand I think vaguely at most timesthat I
was in my bed; and I talked with Charleyand felt her touchand
knew her very well; yet I would find myself complainingOh, more
of these never-ending stairs, Charley--more and more--piled up to
the sky', I think!and labouring on again.

Dare I hint at that worse time whenstrung together somewhere in
great black spacethere was a flaming necklaceor ringor starry
circle of some kindof which I was one of the beads! And when my
only prayer was to be taken off from the rest and when it was such
inexplicable agony and misery to be a part of the dreadful thing?

Perhaps the less I say of these sick experiencesthe less tedious
and the more intelligible I shall be. I do not recall them to make
others unhappy or because I am now the least unhappy in remembering
them. It may be that if we knew more of such strange afflictions
we might be the better able to alleviate their intensity.

The repose that succeededthe long delicious sleepthe blissful
restwhen in my weakness I was too calm to have any care for
myself and could have heard (or so I think now) that I was dying
with no other emotion than with a pitying love for those I left
behind--this state can be perhaps more widely understood. I was in
this state when I first shrunk from the light as it twinkled on me
once moreand knew with a boundless joy for which no words are
rapturous enough that I should see again.

I had heard my Ada crying at the doorday and night; I had heard
her calling to me that I was cruel and did not love her; I had
heard her praying and imploring to be let in to nurse and comfort
me and to leave my bedside no more; but I had only saidwhen I
could speakNever, my sweet girl, never!and I had over and over


again reminded Charley that she was to keep my darling from the
room whether I lived or died. Charley had been true to me in that
time of needand with her little hand and her great heart had kept
the door fast.

But nowmy sight strengthening and the glorious light coming every
day more fully and brightly on meI could read the letters that my
dear wrote to me every morning and evening and could put them to my
lips and lay my cheek upon them with no fear of hurting her. I
could see my little maidso tender and so carefulgoing about the
two rooms setting everything in order and speaking cheerfully to
Ada from the open window again. I could understand the stillness
in the house and the thoughtfulness it expressed on the part of all
those who had always been so good to me. I could weep in the
exquisite felicity of my heart and be as happy in my weakness as
ever I had been in my strength.

By and by my strength began to be restored. Instead of lyingwith
so strange a calmnesswatching what was done for meas if it were
done for some one else whom I was quietly sorry forI helped it a
littleand so on to a little more and much moreuntil I became
useful to myselfand interestedand attached to life again.

How well I remember the pleasant afternoon when I was raised in bed
with pillows for the first time to enjoy a great tea-drinking with
Charley! The little creature--sent into the worldsurelyto
minister to the weak and sick--was so happyand so busyand
stopped so often in her preparations to lay her head upon my bosom
and fondle meand cry with joyful tears she was so gladshe was
so gladthat I was obliged to sayCharley, if you go on in this
way, I must lie down again, my darling, for I am weaker than I
thought I was!So Charley became as quiet as a mouse and took her
bright face here and there across and across the two roomsout of
the shade into the divine sunshineand out of the sunshine into
the shadewhile I watched her peacefully. When all her
preparations were concluded and the pretty tea-table with its
little delicacies to tempt meand its white clothand its
flowersand everything so lovingly and beautifully arranged for me
by Ada downstairswas ready at the bedsideI felt sure I was
steady enough to say something to Charley that was not new to my
thoughts.

First I complimented Charley on the roomand indeed it was so
fresh and airyso spotless and neatthat I could scarce believe I
had been lying there so long. This delighted Charleyand her face
was brighter than before.

Yet, Charley,said Ilooking roundI miss something, surely,
that I am accustomed to?

Poor little Charley looked round too and pretended to shake her
head as if there were nothing absent.

Are the pictures all as they used to be?I asked her.

Every one of them, miss,said Charley.

And the furniture, Charley?

Except where I have moved it about to make more room, miss.

And yet,said II miss some familiar object. Ah, I know what
it is, Charley! It's the looking-glass.


Charley got up from the tablemaking as if she had forgotten
somethingand went into the next room; and I heard her sob there.

I had thought of this very often. I was now certain of it. I
could thank God that it was not a shock to me now. I called
Charley backand when she came--at first pretending to smilebut
as she drew nearer to melooking grieved--I took her in my arms
and saidIt matters very little, Charley. I hope I can do
without my old face very well.

I was presently so far advanced as to be able to sit up in a great
chair and even giddily to walk into the adjoining roomleaning on
Charley. The mirror was gone from its usual place in that room
toobut what I had to bear was none the harder to bear for that.

My guardian had throughout been earnest to visit meand there was
now no good reason why I should deny myself that happiness. He
came one morningand when he first came incould only hold me in
his embrace and sayMy dear, dear girl!I had long known--who
could know better?--what a deep fountain of affection and
generosity his heart was; and was it not worth my trivial suffering
and change to fill such a place in it? "Ohyes!" I thought. "He
has seen meand he loves me better than he did; he has seen me and
is even fonder of me than he was before; and what have I to mourn
for!"

He sat down by me on the sofasupporting me with his arm. For a
little while he sat with his hand over his facebut when he
removed itfell into his usual manner. There never can have been
there never can bea pleasanter manner.

My little woman,said hewhat a sad time this has been. Such
an inflexible little woman, too, through all!

Only for the best, guardian,said I.

For the best?he repeated tenderly. "Of coursefor the best.
But here have Ada and I been perfectly forlorn and miserable; here
has your friend Caddy been coming and going late and early; here
has every one about the house been utterly lost and dejected; here
has even poor Rick been writing--to ME too--in his anxiety for
you!"

I had read of Caddy in Ada's lettersbut not of Richard. I told
him so.

Why, no, my dear,he replied. "I have thought it better not to
mention it to her."

And you speak of his writing to YOU,said Irepeating his
emphasis. "As if it were not natural for him to do soguardian;
as if he could write to a better friend!"

He thinks he could, my love,returned my guardianand to many a
better. The truth is, he wrote to me under a sort of protest while
unable to write to you with any hope of an answer--wrote coldly,
haughtily, distantly, resentfully. Well, dearest little woman, we
must look forbearingly on it. He is not to blame. Jarndyce and
Jarndyce has warped him out of himself and perverted me in his
eyes. I have known it do as bad deeds, and worse, many a time. If
two angels could be concerned in it, I believe it would change
their nature.

It has not changed yours, guardian.


Oh, yes, it has, my dear,he said laughingly. "It has made the
south wind easterlyI don't know how often. Rick mistrusts and
suspects me--goes to lawyersand is taught to mistrust and suspect
me. Hears I have conflicting interestsclaims clashing against
his and what not. Whereasheaven knows that if I could get out of
the mountains of wiglomeration on which my unfortunate name has
been so long bestowed (which I can't) or could level them by the
extinction of my own original right (which I can't eitherand no
human power ever cananyhowI believeto such a pass have we
got)I would do it this hour. I would rather restore to poor Rick
his proper nature than be endowed with all the money that dead
suitorsbrokenheart and soulupon the wheel of Chanceryhave
left unclaimed with the Accountant-General--and that's money
enoughmy dearto be cast into a pyramidin memory of Chancery's
transcendent wickedness."

IS it possible, guardian,I askedamazedthat Richard can be
suspicious of you?

Ah, my love, my love,he saidit is in the subtle poison of
such abuses to breed such diseases. His blood is infected, and
objects lose their natural aspects in his sight. It is not HIS
fault.

But it is a terrible misfortune, guardian.

It is a terrible misfortune, little woman, to be ever drawn within
the influences of Jarndyce and Jarndyce. I know none greater. By
little and little he has been induced to trust in that rotten reed,
and it communicates some portion of its rottenness to everything
around him. But again I say with all my soul, we must be patient
with poor Rick and not blame him. What a troop of fine fresh
hearts like his have I seen in my time turned by the same means!

I could not help expressing something of my wonder and regret that
his benevolentdisinterested intentions had prospered so little.

We must not say so, Dame Durden,he cheerfully rephed; "Ada is
the happierI hopeand that is much. I did think that I and both
these young creatures might be friends instead of distrustful foes
and that we might so far counter-act the suit and prove too strong
for it. But it was too much to expect. Jarndyce and Jarndyce was
the curtain of Rick's cradle."

But, guardian, may we not hope that a little experience will teach
him what a false and wretched thing it is?

We WILL hope so, my Esther,said Mr. Jarndyceand that it may
not teach him so too late. In any case we must not be hard on him.
There are not many grown and matured men living while we speak,
good men too, who if they were thrown into this same court as
suitors would not be vitally changed and depreciated within three
years--within two--within one. How can we stand amazed at poor
Rick? A young man so unfortunate,here he fell into a lower tone
as if he were thinking aloudcannot at first believe (who could?)
that Chancery is what it is. He looks to it, flushed and fitfully,
to do something with his interests and bring them to some
settlement. It procrastinates, disappoints, tries, tortures him;
wears out his sanguine hopes and patience, thread by thread; but he
still looks to it, and hankers after it, and finds his whole world
treacherous and hollow. Well, well, well! Enough of this, my
dear!


He had supported meas at firstall this timeand his tenderness
was so precious to me that I leaned my head upon his shoulder and
loved him as if he had been my father. I resolved in my own mind
in this little pauseby some meansto see Richard when I grew
strong and try to set him right.

There are better subjects than these,said my guardianfor such
a joyful time as the time of our dear girl's recovery. And I had a
commission to broach one of them as soon as I should begin to talk.
When shall Ada come to see you, my love?

I had been thinking of that too. A little in connexion with the
absent mirrorsbut not muchfor I knew my loving girl would be
changed by no change in my looks.

Dear guardian,said Ias I have shut her out so long--though
indeed, indeed, she is like the light to me--

I know it well, Dame Durden, well.

He was so goodhis touch expressed such endearing compassion and
affectionand the tone of his voice carried such comfort into my
heart that I stopped for a little whilequite unable to go on.
Yes, yes, you are tired,said heRest a little.

As I have kept Ada out so long,I began afresh after a short
whileI think I should like to have my own way a little longer,
guardian. It would be best to be away from here before I see her.
If Charley and I were to go to some country lodging as soon as I
can move, and if I had a week there in which to grow stronger and
to be revived by the sweet air and to look forward to the happiness
of having Ada with me again, I think it would be better for us.

I hope it was not a poor thing in me to wish to be a little more
used to my altered self before I met the eyes of the dear girl I
longed so ardently to seebut it is the truth. I did. He
understood meI was sure; but I was not afraid of that. If it
were a poor thingI knew he would pass it over.

Our spoilt little woman,said my guardianshall have her own
way even in her inflexibility, though at the price, I know, of
tears downstairs. And see here! Here is Boythorn, heart of
chivalry, breathing such ferocious vows as never were breathed on
paper before, that if you don't go and occupy his whole house, he
having already turned out of it expressly for that purpose, by
heaven and by earth he'll pull it down and not leave one brick
standing on another!

And my guardian put a letter in my handwithout any ordinary
beginning such as "My dear Jarndyce but rushing at once into the
words, I swear if Miss Summerson do not come down and take
possession of my housewhich I vacate for her this day at one
o'clockP.M. and then with the utmost seriousness, and in the
most emphatic terms, going on to make the extraordinary declaration
he had quoted. We did not appreciate the writer the less for
laughing heartily over it, and we settled that I should send him a
letter of thanks on the morrow and accept his offer. It was a most
agreeable one to me, for all the places I could have thought of, I
should have liked to go to none so well as Chesney Wold.

Nowlittle housewife said my guardian, looking at his watch, I
was strictly timed before I came upstairsfor you must not be
tired too soon; and my time has waned away to the last minute. I
have one other petition. Little Miss Flitehearing a rumour that


you were illmade nothing of walking down here--twenty milespoor
soulin a pair of dancing shoes--to inquire. It was heaven's
mercy we were at homeor she would have walked back again."

The old conspiracy to make me happy! Everybody seemed to be in it!

Now, pet,said my guardianif it would not be irksome to you to
admit the harmless little creature one afternoon before you save
Boythorn's otherwise devoted house from demolition, I believe you
would make her prouder and better pleased with herself than I-though
my eminent name is Jarndyce--could do in a lifetime.

I have no doubt he knew there would be something in the simple
image of the poor afflicted creature that would fall like a gentle
lesson on my mind at that time. I felt it as he spoke to me. I
could not tell him heartily enough how ready I was to receive her.
I had always pitied hernever so much as now. I had always been
glad of my little power to soothe her under her calamitybut
neverneverhalf so glad before.

We arranged a time for Miss Flite to come out by the coach and
share my early dinner. When my guardian left meI turned my face
away upon my couch and prayed to be forgiven if Isurrounded by
such blessingshad magnified to myself the little trial that I had
to undergo. The childish prayer of that old birthday when I had
aspired to be industriouscontentedand true-hearted and to do
good to some one and win some love to myself if I could came back
into my mind with a reproachful sense of all the happiness I had
since enjoyed and all the affectionate hearts that had been turned
towards me. If I were weak nowwhat had I profited by those
mercies? I repeated the old childish prayer in its old childish
words and found that its old peace had not departed from it.

My guardian now came every day. In a week or so more I could walk
about our rooms and hold long talks with Ada from behind the
window-curtain. Yet I never saw herfor I had not as yet the
courage to look at the dear facethough I could have done so
easily without her seeing me.

On the appointed day Miss Flite arrived. The poor little creature
ran into my room quite forgetful of her usual dignityand crying
from her very heart of heartsMy dear Fitz Jarndyce!fell upon
my neck and kissed me twenty times.

Dear me!said sheputting her hand into her reticuleI have
nothing here but documents, my dear Fitz Jarndyce; I must borrow a
pocket handkerchief.

Charley gave her oneand the good creature certainly made use of
itfor she held it to her eyes with both hands and sat so
shedding tears for the next ten minutes.

With pleasure, my dear Fitz Jarndyce,she was careful to explain.
Not the least pain. Pleasure to see you well again. Pleasure at
having the honour of being admitted to see you. I am so much
fonder of you, my love, than of the Chancellor. Though I DO attend
court regularly. By the by, my dear, mentioning pocket
handkerchiefs--

Miss Flite here looked at Charleywho had been to meet her at the
place where the coach stopped. Charley glanced at me and looked
unwilling to pursue the suggestion.

Ve-ry right!said Miss FliteVe-ry correct. Truly! Highly


indiscreet of me to mention it; but my dear Miss Fitz Jarndyce, I
am afraid I am at times (between ourselves, you wouldn't think it)
a little--rambling you know,said Miss Flitetouching her
forehead. "Nothing more

What were you going to tell me?" said Ismilingfor I saw she
wanted to go on. "You have roused my curiosityand now you must
gratify it."

Miss Flite looked at Charley for advice in this important crisis
who saidIf you please, ma'am, you had better tell then,and
therein gratified Miss Flite beyond measure.

So sagacious, our young friend,said she to me in her mysterious
way. "Diminutive. But ve-ry sagacious! Wellmy dearit's a
pretty anecdote. Nothing more. Still I think it charming. Who
should follow us down the road from the coachmy dearbut a poor
person in a very ungenteel bonnet--"

Jenny, if you please, miss,said Charley.

Just so!Miss Flite acquiesced with the greatest suavity.
Jenny. Ye-es! And what does she tell our young friend but that
there has been a lady with a veil inquiring at her cottage after my
dear Fitz Jarndyce's health and taking a handkerchief away with her
as a little keepsake merely because it was my amiable Fitz
Jarndyce's! Now, you know, so very prepossessing in the lady with
the veil!

If you please, miss,said Charleyto whom I looked in some
astonishmentJenny says that when her baby died, you left a
handkerchief there, and that she put it away and kept it with the
baby's little things. I think, if you please, partly because it
was yours, miss, and partly because it had covered the baby.

Diminutive,whispered Miss Flitemaking a variety of motions
about her own forehead to express intellect in Charley. "But exceedingly
sagacious! And so dear! My loveshe's clearer than any
counsel I ever heard!"

Yes, Charley,I returned. "I remember it. Well?"

Well, miss,said Charleyand that's the handkerchief the lady
took. And Jenny wants you to know that she wouldn't have made away
with it herself for a heap of money but that the lady took it and
left some money instead. Jenny don't know her at all, if you
please, miss!

Why, who can she be?said I.

My love,Miss Flite suggestedadvancing her lips to my ear with
her most mysterious lookin MY opinion--don't mention this to our
diminutive friend--she's the Lord Chancellor's wife. He's married,
you know. And I understand she leads him a terrible life. Throws
his lordship's papers into the fire, my dear, if he won't pay the
jeweller!

I did not think very much about this lady thenfor I had an
impression that it might be Caddy. Besidesmy attention was
diverted by my visitorwho was cold after her ride and looked
hungry and whoour dinner being brought inrequired some little
assistance in arraying herself with great satisfaction in a
pitiable old scarf and a much-worn and often-mended pair of gloves
which she had brought down in a paper parcel. I had to preside


tooover the entertainmentconsisting of a dish of fisha roast
fowla sweetbreadvegetablespuddingand Madeira; and it was so
pleasant to see how she enjoyed itand with what state and
ceremony she did honour to itthat I was soon thinking of nothing
else.

When we had finished and had our little dessert before us
embellished by the hands of my dearwho would yield the
superintendence of everything prepared for me to no oneMiss Flite
was so very chatty and happy that I thought I would lead her to her
own historyas she was always pleased to talk about herself. I
began by saying "You have attended on the Lord Chancellor many
yearsMiss Flite?"

Oh, many, many, many years, my dear. But I expect a judgment.
Shortly.

There was an anxiety even in her hopefulness that made me doubtful
if I had done right in approaching the subject. I thought I would
say no more about it.

My father expected a judgment,said Miss Flite. "My brother. My
sister. They all expected a judgment. The same that I expect."

They are all--

Ye-es. Dead of course, my dear,said she.

As I saw she would go onI thought it best to try to be
serviceable to her by meeting the theme rather than avoiding it.

Would it not be wiser,said Ito expect this judgment no more?

Why, my dear,she answered promptlyof course it would!

And to attend the court no more?

Equally of course,said she. "Very wearing to be always in
expectation of what never comesmy dear Fitz Jarndyce! WearingI
assure youto the bone!"

She slightly showed me her armand it was fearfully thin indeed.

But, my dear,she went on in her mysterious waythere's a
dreadful attraction in the place. Hush! Don't mention it to our
diminutive friend when she comes in. Or it may frighten her. With
good reason. There's a cruel attraction in the place. You CAN'T
leave it. And you MUST expect.

I tried to assure her that this was not so. She heard me patiently
and smilinglybut was ready with her own answer.

Aye, aye, aye! You think so because I am a little rambling. Very
absurd, to be a little rambling, is it not? Ve-ry confusing,
too. To the head. I find it so. But, my dear, I have been there
many years, and I have noticed. It's the mace and seal upon the
table.

What could they dodid she think? I mildly asked her.

Draw,returned Miss Flite. "Draw people onmy dear. Draw peace
out of them. Sense out of them. Good looks out of them. Good
qualities out of them. I have felt them even drawing my rest away
in the night. Cold and glittering devils!"


She tapped me several times upon the arm and nodded good-humouredly
as if she were anxious I should understand that I had no cause to
fear herthough she spoke so gloomilyand confided these awful
secrets to me.

Let me see,said she. "I'll tell you my own case. Before they
ever drew me--before I had ever seen them--what was it I used to
do? Tambourine playing? No. Tambour work. I and my sister
worked at tambour work. Our father and our brother had a builder's
business. We all lived together. Ve-ry respectablymy dear!
Firstour father was drawn--slowly. Home was drawn with him. In
a few years he was a fiercesourangry bankrupt without a kind
word or a kind look for any one. He had been so differentFitz
Jarndyce. He was drawn to a debtors' prison. There he died. Then
our brother was drawn--swiftly--to drunkenness. And rags. And
death. Then my sister was drawn. Hush! Never ask to what! Then
I was ill and in miseryand heardas I had often heard before
that this was all the work of Chancery. When I got betterI went
to look at the monster. And then I found out how it wasand I was
drawn to stay there."

Having got over her own short narrativein the delivery of which
she had spoken in a lowstrained voiceas if the shock were fresh
upon hershe gradually resumed her usual air of amiable
importance.

You don't quite credit me, my dear! Well, well! You will, some
day. I am a little rambling. But I have noticed. I have seen
many new faces come, unsuspicious, within the influence of the mace
and seal in these many years. As my father's came there. As my
brother's. As my sister's. As my own. I hear Conversation Kenge
and the rest of them say to the new faces, 'Here's little Miss
Flite. Oh, you are new here; and you must come and be presented to
little Miss Flite!' Ve-ry good. Proud I am sure to have the
honour! And we all laugh. But, Fitz Jarndyce, I know what will
happen. I know, far better than they do, when the attraction has
begun. I know the signs, my dear. I saw them begin in Gridley.
And I saw them end. Fitz Jarndyce, my love,speaking low again
I saw them beginning in our friend the ward in Jarndyce. Let some
one hold him back. Or he'll be drawn to ruin.

She looked at me in silence for some moments, with her face
gradually softening into a smile. Seeming to fear that she had
been too gloomy, and seeming also to lose the connexion in her
mind, she said politely as she sipped her glass of wine, Yesmy
dearas I was sayingI expect a judgment shortly. Then I shall
release my birdsyou knowand confer estates."

I was much impressed by her allusion to Richard and by the sad
meaningso sadly illustrated in her poor pinched formthat made
its way through all her incoherence. But happily for hershe was
quite complacent again now and beamed with nods and smiles.

But, my dear,she saidgailyreaching another hand to put it
upon mine. "You have not congratulated me on my physician.
Positively not onceyet!"

I was obliged to confess that I did not quite know what she meant.

My physician, Mr. Woodcourt, my dear, who was so exceedingly
attentive to me. Though his services were rendered quite
gratuitously. Until the Day of Judgment. I mean THE judgment that
will dissolve the spell upon me of the mace and seal.


Mr. Woodcourt is so far away, now,said Ithat I thought the
time for such congratulation was past, Miss Flite.

But, my child,she returnedis it possible that you don't know
what has happened?

No,said I.

Not what everybody has been talking of, my beloved Fitz Jarndyce!

No,said I. "You forget how long I have been here."

True! My dear, for the moment--true. I blame myself. But my
memory has been drawn out of me, with everything else, by what I
mentioned. Ve-ry strong influence, is it not? Well, my dear,
there has been a terrible shipwreck over in those East Indian
seas.

Mr. Woodcourt shipwrecked!

Don't be agitated, my dear. He is safe. An awful scene. Death
in all shapes. Hundreds of dead and dying. Fire, storm, and
darkness. Numbers of the drowning thrown upon a rock. There, and
through it all, my dear physician was a hero. Calm and brave
through everything. Saved many lives, never complained in hunger
and thirst, wrapped naked people in his spare clothes, took the
lead, showed them what to do, governed them, tended the sick,
buried the dead, and brought the poor survivors safely off at last!
My dear, the poor emaciated creatures all but worshipped him. They
fell down at his feet when they got to the land and blessed him.
The whole country rings with it. Stay! Where's my bag of
documents? I have got it there, and you shall read it, you shall
read it!

And I DID read all the noble historythough very slowly and
imperfectly thenfor my eyes were so dimmed that I could not see
the wordsand I cried so much that I was many times obliged to lay
down the long account she had cut out of the newspaper. I felt so
triumphant ever to have known the man who had done such generous
and gallant deedsI felt such glowing exultation in his renownI
so admired and loved what he had donethat I envied the storm-worn
people who had fallen at his feet and blessed him as their
preserver. I could myself have kneeled down thenso far awayand
blessed him in my rapture that he should be so truly good and
brave. I felt that no one--mothersisterwife--could honour him
more than I. I didindeed!

My poor little visitor made me a present of the accountand when
as the evening began to close in she rose to take her leavelest
she should miss the coach by which she was to returnshe was still
full of the shipwreckwhich I had not yet sufflciently composed
myself to understand in all its details.

My dear,said she as she carefully folded up her scarf and
glovesmy brave physician ought to have a title bestowed upon
him. And no doubt he will. You are of that opinlon?

That he well deserved oneyes. That he would ever have oneno.

Why not, Fitz Jarndyce?she asked rather sharply.

I said it was not the custom in England to confer titles on men
distinguished by peaceful serviceshowever good and greatunless


occasionally when they consisted of the accumulation of some very
large amount of money.

Why, good gracious,said Miss Flitehow can you say that?
Surely you know, my dear, that all the greatest ornaments of
England in knowledge, imagination, active humanity, and improvement
of every sort are added to its nobility! Look round you, my dear,
and consider. YOU must be rambling a little now, I think, if you
don't know that this is the great reason why titles will always
last in the land!

I am afraid she believed what she saidfor there were moments when
she was very mad indeed.

And now I must part with the little secret I have thus far tried to
keep. I had thoughtsometimesthat Mr. Woodcourt loved me and
that if he had been richer he would perhaps have told me that he
loved me before he went away. I had thoughtsometimesthat if he
had done soI should have been glad of it. But how much better it
was now that this had never happened! What should I have suffered
if I had had to write to him and tell him that the poor face he had
known as mine was quite gone from me and that I freely released him
from his bondage to one whom he had never seen!

Ohit was so much better as it was! With a great pang mercifully
spared meI could take back to my heart my childish prayer to be
all he had so brightly shown himself; and there was nothing to be
undone: no chain for me to break or for him to drag; and I could
goplease Godmy lowly way along the path of dutyand he could
go his nobler way upon its broader road; and though we were apart
upon the journeyI might aspire to meet himunselfishly
innocentlybetter far than he had thought me when I found some
favour in his eyesat the journey's end.

CHAPTER XXXVI

Chesney Wold

Charley and I did not set off alone upon our expedition into
Lincolnshire. My guardian had made up his mind not to lose sight
of me until I was safe in Mr. Boythorn's houseso he accompanied
usand we were two days upon the road. I found every breath of
airand every scentand every flower and leaf and blade of grass
and every passing cloudand everything in naturemore beautiful
and wonderful to me than I had ever found it yet. This was my
first gain from my illness. How little I had lostwhen the wide
world was so full of delight for me.

My guardian intending to go back immediatelywe appointedon our
way downa day when my dear girl should come. I wrote her a
letterof which he took chargeand he left us within half an hour
of our arrival at our destinationon a delightful evening in the
early summer-time.

If a good fairy had built the house for me with a wave of her wand
and I had been a princess and her favoured god-childI could not
have been more considered in it. So many preparations were made
for me and such an endearing remembrance was shown of all my little
tastes and likings that I could have sat downovercomea dozen
times before I had revisited half the rooms. I did better than
thathoweverby showing them all to Charley instead. Charley's


delight calmed mine; and after we had had a walk in the gardenand
Charley had exhausted her whole vocabulary of admiring expressions
I was as tranquilly happy as I ought to have been. It was a great
comfort to be able to say to myself after teaEsther, my dear, I
think you are quite sensible enough to sit down now and write a
note of thanks to your host.He had left a note of welcome for
meas sunny as his own faceand had confided his bird to my care
which I knew to be his highest mark of confidence. Accordingly I
wrote a little note to him in Londontelling him how all his
favourite plants and trees were lookingand how the most
astonishing of birds had chirped the honours of the house to me in
the most hospitable mannerand howafter singing on my shoulder
to the inconceivable rapture of my little maidhe was then at
roost in the usual corner of his cagebut whether dreaming or no I
could not report. My note finished and sent off to the postI
made myself very busy in unpacking and arranging; and I sent
Charley to bed in good time and told her I should want her no more
that night.

For I had not yet looked in the glass and had never asked to have
my own restored to me. I knew this to be a weakness which must be
overcomebut I had always said to myself that I would begin afresh
when I got to where I now was. Therefore I had wanted to be alone
and therefore I saidnow alonein my own roomEsther, if you
are to be happy, if you are to have any right to pray to be truehearted,
you must keep your word, my dear.I was quite resolved
to keep itbut I sat down for a little while first to reflect upon
all my blessings. And then I said my prayers and thought a little
more.

My hair had not been cut offthough it had been in danger more
than once. It was long and thick. I let it downand shook it
outand went up to the glass upon the dressing-table. There was a
little muslin curtain drawn across it. I drew it back and stood
for a moment looking through such a veil of my own hair that I
could see nothing else. Then I put my hair aside and looked at the
reflection in the mirrorencouraged by seeing how placidly it
looked at me. I was very much changed--ohveryvery much. At
first my face was so strange to me that I think I should have put
my hands before it and started back but for the encouragement I
have mentioned. Very soon it became more familiarand then I knew
the extent of the alteration in it better than I had done at first.
It was not like what I had expectedbut I had expected nothing
definiteand I dare say anything definite would have surprised me.

I had never been a beauty and had never thought myself onebut I
had been very different from this. It was all gone now. Heaven
was so good to me that I could let it go with a few not bitter
tears and could stand there arranging my hair for the night quite
thankfully.

One thing troubled meand I considered it for a long time before I
went to sleep. I had kept Mr. Woodcourt's flowers. When they were
withered I had dried them and put them in a book that I was fond
of. Nobody knew thisnot even Ada. I was doubtful whether I had
a right to preserve what he had sent to one so different--whether
it was generous towards him to do it. I wished to be generous to
himeven in the secret depths of my heartwhich he would never
knowbecause I could have loved him--could have been devoted to
him. At last I came to the conclusion that I might keep them if I
treasured them only as a remembrance of what was irrevocably past
and gonenever to be looked back on any morein any other light.
I hope this may not seem trivial. I was very much in earnest.


I took care to be up early in the morning and to be before the
glass when Charley came in on tiptoe.

Dear, dear, miss!cried Charleystarting. "Is that you?"

Yes, Charley,said Iquietly putting up my hair. "And I am very
well indeedand very happy."

I saw it was a weight off Charley's mindbut it was a greater
weight off mine. I knew the worst now and was composed to it. I
shall not concealas I go onthe weaknesses I could not quite
conquerbut they always passed from me soon and the happier frame
of mind stayed by me faithfully.

Wishing to be fully re-established in my strength and my good
spirits before Ada cameI now laid down a little series of plans
with Charley for being in the fresh air all day long. We were to
be out before breakfastand were to dine earlyand were to be out
again before and after dinnerand were to talk in the garden after
teaand were to go to rest betimesand were to climb every hill
and explore every roadlaneand field in the neighbourhood. As
to restoratives and strengthening delicaciesMr. Boythorn's good
housekeeper was for ever trotting about with something to eat or
drink in her hand; I could not even be heard of as resting in the
park but she would come trotting after me with a baskether
cheerful face shining with a lecture on the importance of frequent
nourishment. Then there was a pony expressly for my ridinga
chubby pony with a short neck and a mane all over his eyes who
could canter--when he would--so easily and quietly that he was a
treasure. In a very few days he would come to me in the paddock
when I called himand eat out of my handand follow me about. We
arrived at such a capital understanding that when he was jogging
with me lazilyand rather obstinatelydown some shady laneif I
patted his neck and saidStubbs, I am surprised you don't canter
when you know how much I like it; and I think you might oblige me,
for you are only getting stupid and going to sleep,he would give
his head a comical shake or two and set off directlywhile Charley
would stand still and laugh with such enjoyment that her laughter
was like music. I don't know who had given Stubbs his namebut it
seemed to belong to him as naturally as his rough coat. Once we
put him in a little chaise and drove him triumphantly through the
green lanes for five miles; but all at onceas we were extolling
him to the skieshe seemed to take it ill that he should have been
accompanied so far by the circle of tantalizing little gnats that
had been hovering round and round his ears the whole way without
appearing to advance an inchand stopped to think about it. I
suppose he came to the decision that it was not to be bornefor he
steadily refused to move until I gave the reins to Charley and got
out and walkedwhen he followed me with a sturdy sort of good
humourputting his head under my arm and rubbing his ear against
my sleeve. It was in vain for me to sayNow, Stubbs, I feel
quite sure from what I know of you that you will go on if I ride a
little while,for the moment I left himhe stood stock still
again. Consequently I was obliged to lead the wayas before; and
in this order we returned hometo the great delight of the
village.

Charley and I had reason to call it the most friendly of villages
I am surefor in a week's time the people were so glad to see us
go bythough ever so frequently in the course of a daythat there
were faces of greeting in every cottage. I had known many of the
grown people before and almost all the childrenbut now the very
steeple began to wear a familiar and affectionate look. Among my
new friends was an old old woman who lived in such a little


thatched and whitewashed dwelling that when the outside shutter was
turned up on its hingesit shut up the whole house-front. This
old lady had a grandson who was a sailorand I wrote a letter to
him for her and drew at the top of it the chimney-corner in which
she had brought him up and where his old stool yet occupied its old
place. This was considered by the whole village the most wonderful
achievement in the worldbut when an answer came back all the way
from Plymouthin which he mentioned that he was going to take the
picture all the way to Americaand from America would write again
I got all the credit that ought to have been given to the post-
office and was invested with the merit of the whole system.

Thuswhat with being so much in the airplaying with so many
childrengossiping with so many peoplesitting on invitation in
so many cottagesgoing on with Charley's educationand writing
long letters to Ada every dayI had scarcely any time to think
about that little loss of mine and was almost always cheerful. If
I did think of it at odd moments now and thenI had only to be
busy and forget it. I felt it more than I had hoped I should once
when a child saidMother, why is the lady not a pretty lady now
like she used to be?But when I found the child was not less fond
of meand drew its soft hand over my face with a kind of pitying
protection in its touchthat soon set me up again. There were
many little occurrences which suggested to mewith great
consolationhow natural it is to gentle hearts to be considerate
and delicate towards any inferiority. One of these particularly
touched me. I happened to stroll into the little church when a
marriage was just concludedand the young couple had to sign the
register.

The bridegroomto whom the pen was handed firstmade a rude cross
for his mark; the bridewho came nextdid the same. NowI had
known the bride when I was last therenot only as the prettiest
girl in the placebut as having quite distinguished herself in the
schooland I could not help looking at her with some surprise.
She came aside and whispered to mewhile tears of honest love and
admiration stood in her bright eyesHe's a dear good fellow,
miss; but he can't write yet--he's going to learn of me--and I
wouldn't shame him for the world!Whywhat had I to fearI
thoughtwhen there was this nobility in the soul of a labouring
man's daughter!

The air blew as freshly and revivingly upon me as it had ever
blownand the healthy colour came into my new face as it had come
into my old one. Charley was wonderful to seeshe was so radiant
and so rosy; and we both enjoyed the whole day and slept soundly
the whole night.

There was a favourite spot of mine in the park-woods of Chesney
Wold where a seat had been erected commanding a lovely view. The
wood had been cleared and opened to improve this point of sight
and the bright sunny landscape beyond was so beautiful that I
rested there at least once every day. A picturesque part of the
Hallcalled the Ghost's Walkwas seen to advantage from this
higher ground; and the startling nameand the old legend in the
Dedlock family which I had heard from Mr. Boythorn accounting for
itmingled with the view and gave it something of a mysterious
interest in addition to its real charms. There was a bank here
toowhich was a famous one for violets; and as it was a daily
delight of Charley's to gather wild flowersshe took as much to
the spot as I did.

It would be idle to inquire now why I never went close to the house
or never went inside it. The family were not thereI had heard on


my arrivaland were not expected. I was far from being incurious
or uninterested about the building; on the contraryI often sat in
this place wondering how the rooms ranged and whether any echo like
a footstep really did resound at timesas the story saidupon the
lonely Ghost's Walk. The indefinable feeling with which Lady
Dedlock had impressed me may have had some influence in keeping me
from the house even when she was absent. I am not sure. Her face
and figure were associated with itnaturally; but I cannot say
that they repelled me from itthough something did. For whatever
reason or no reasonI had never once gone near itdown to the day
at which my story now arrives.

I was resting at my favourite point after a long rambleand
Charley was gathering violets at a little distance from me. I had
been looking at the Ghost's Walk lying in a deep shade of masonry
afar off and picturing to myself the female shape that was said to
haunt it when I became aware of a figure approaching through the
wood. The perspective was so long and so darkened by leavesand
the shadows of the branches on the ground made it so much more
intricate to the eyethat at first I could not discern what figure
it was. By little and little it revealed itself to be a woman's--a
lady's--Lady Dedlock's. She was alone and coming to where I sat
with a much quicker stepI observed to my surprisethan was usual
with her.

I was fluttered by her being unexpectedly so near (she was almost
within speaking distance before I knew her) and would have risen to
continue my walk. But I could not. I was rendered motionless.
Not so much by her hurried gesture of entreatynot so much by her
quick advance and outstretched handsnot so much by the great
change in her manner and the absence of her haughty self-restraint
as by a something in her face that I had pined for and dreamed of
when I was a little childsomething I had never seen in any face
something I had never seen in hers before.

A dread and faintness fell upon meand I called to Charley. Lady
Dedlock stopped upon the instant and changed back almost to what I
had known her.

Miss Summerson, I am afraid I have startled you,she saidnow
advancing slowly. "You can scarcely be strong yet. You have been
very illI know. I have been much concerned to hear it."

I could no more have removed my eyes from her pale face than I
could have stirred from the bench on which I sat. She gave me her
handand its deadly coldnessso at variance with the enforced
composure of her featuresdeepened the fascination that
overpowered me. I cannot say what was in my whirling thoughts.

You are recovering again?she asked kindly.

I was quite well but a moment ago, Lady Dedlock.

Is this your young attendant?

Yes.

Will you send her on before and walk towards your house with me?

Charley,said Itake your flowers home, and I will follow you
directly.

Charleywith her best curtsyblushingly tied on her bonnet and
went her way. When she was goneLady Dedlock sat down on the seat


beside me.

I cannot tell in any words what the state of my mind was when I saw
in her hand my handkerchief with which I had covered the dead baby.

I looked at herbut I could not see herI could not hear herI
could not draw my breath. The beating of my heart was so violent
and wild that I felt as if my life were breaking from me. But when
she caught me to her breastkissed mewept over me
compassionated meand called me back to myself; when she fell down
on her knees and cried to meOh, my child, my child, I am your
wicked and unhappy mother! Oh, try to forgive me!--when I saw her
at my feet on the bare earth in her great agony of mindI felt
through all my tumult of emotiona burst of gratitude to the
providence of God that I was so changed as that I never could
disgrace her by any trace of likenessas that nobody could ever
now look at me and look at her and remotely think of any near tie
between us.

I raised my mother uppraying and beseeching her not to stoop
before me in such affliction and humiliation. I did so in broken
incoherent wordsfor besides the trouble I was init frightened
me to see her at MY feet. I told her--or I tried to tell her--that
if it were for meher childunder any circumstances to take upon
me to forgive herI did itand had done itmanymany years. I
told her that my heart overflowed with love for herthat it was
natural love which nothing in the past had changed or could change.
That it was not for methen resting for the first time on my
mother's bosomto take her to account for having given me life
but that my duty was to bless her and receive herthough the whole
world turned from herand that I only asked her leave to do it. I
held my mother in my embraceand she held me in hersand among
the still woods in the silence of the summer day there seemed to be
nothing but our two troubled minds that was not at peace.

To bless and receive me,groaned my motherit is far too late.
I must travel my dark road alone, and it will lead me where it
will. From day to day, sometimes from hour to hour, I do not see
the way before my guilty feet. This is the earthly punishment I
have brought upon myself. I bear it, and I hide it.

Even in the thinking of her enduranceshe drew her habitual air of
proud indifference about her like a veilthough she soon cast it
off again.

I must keep this secret, if by any means it can be kept, not
wholly for myself. I have a husband, wretched and dishonouring
creature that I am!

These words she uttered with a suppressed cry of despairmore
terrible in its sound than any shriek. Covering her face with her
handsshe shrank down in my embrace as if she were unwilling that
I should touch her; nor could Iby my utmost persuasions or by any
endearments I could useprevail upon her to rise. She saidno
nonoshe could only speak to me so; she must be proud and
disdainful everywhere else; she would be humbled and ashamed there
in the only natural moments of her life.

My unhappy mother told me that in my illness she had been nearly
frantic. She had but then known that her child was living. She
could not have suspected me to be that child before. She had
followed me down here to speak to me but once in all her life. We
never could associatenever could communicatenever probably from
that time forth could interchange another word on earth. She put


into my hands a letter she had written for my reading only and said
when I had read it and destroyed it--but not so much for her sake
since she asked nothingas for her husband's and my own--I must
evermore consider her as dead. If I could believe that she loved
mein this agony in which I saw herwith a mother's loveshe
asked me to do thatfor then I might think of her with a greater
pityimagining what she suffered. She had put herself beyond all
hope and beyond all help. Whether she preserved her secret until
death or it came to be discovered and she brought dishonour and
disgrace upon the name she had takenit was her solitary struggle
always; and no affection could come near herand no human creature
could render her any aid.

But is the secret safe so far?I asked. "Is it safe nowdearest
mother?"

No,replied my mother. "It has been very near discovery. It was
saved by an accident. It may be lost by another accident--tomorrow
any day."

Do you dread a particular person?

Hush! Do not tremble and cry so much for me. I am not worthy of
these tears,said my motherkissing my hands. "I dread one
person very much."

An enemy?

Not a friend. One who is too passionless to be either. He is Sir
Leicester Dedlock's lawyer, mechanically faithful without
attachment, and very jealous of the profit, privilege, and
reputation of being master of the mysteries of great houses.

Has he any suspicions?

Many.

Not of you?I said alarmed.

Yes! He is always vigilant and always near me. I may keep him at
a standstill, but I can never shake him off.

Has he so little pity or compunction?

He has none, and no anger. He is indifferent to everything but
his calling. His calling is the acquisition of secrets and the
holding possession of such power as they give him, with no sharer
or opponent in it.

Could you trust in him?

I shall never try. The dark road I have trodden for so many years
will end where it will. I follow it alone to the end, whatever the
end be. It may be near, it may be distant; while the road lasts,
nothing turns me.

Dear mother, are you so resolved?

I AM resolved. I have long outbidden folly with folly, pride with
pride, scorn with scorn, insolence with insolence, and have
outlived many vanities with many more. I will outlive this danger,
and outdie it, if I can. It has closed around me almost as awfully
as if these woods of Chesney Wold had closed around the house, but
my course through it is the same. I have but one; I can have but


one.

Mr. Jarndyce--I was beginning when my mother hurriedly
inquiredDoes HE suspect?

No,said I. "Noindeed! Be assured that he does not!" And I
told her what he had related to me as his knowledge of my story.
But he is so good and sensible,said Ithat perhaps if he knew--

My motherwho until this time had made no change in her position
raised her hand up to my lips and stopped me.

Confide fully in him,she said after a little while. "You have
my free consent--a small gift from such a mother to her injured
child!- -but do not tell me of it. Some pride is left in me even
yet."

I explainedas nearly as I could thenor can recall now--for my
agitation and distress throughout were so great that I scarcely
understood myselfthough every word that was uttered in the
mother's voiceso unfamiliar and so melancholy to mewhich in my
childhood I had never learned to love and recognizehad never been
sung to sleep withhad never heard a blessing fromhad never had
a hope inspired bymade an enduring impression on my memory--I say
I explainedor tried to do ithow I had only hoped that Mr.
Jarndycewho had been the best of fathers to memight be able to
afford some counsel and support to her. But my mother answered no
it was impossible; no one could help her. Through the desert that
lay before hershe must go alone.

My child, my child!she said. "For the last time! These kisses
for the last time! These arms upon my neck for the last time! We
shall meet no more. To hope to do what I seek to doI must be
what I have been so long. Such is my reward and doom. If you hear
of Lady Dedlockbrilliantprosperousand flatteredthink of
your wretched motherconscience-strickenunderneath that mask!
Think that the reality is in her sufferingin her useless remorse
in her murdering within her breast the only love and truth of which
it is capable! And then forgive her if you canand cry to heaven
to forgive herwhich it never can!"

We held one another for a little space yetbut she was so firm
that she took my hands awayand put them back against my breast
and with a last kiss as she held them therereleased themand
went from me into the wood. I was aloneand calm and quiet below
me in the sun and shade lay the old housewith its terraces and
turretson which there had seemed to me to be such complete repose
when I first saw itbut which now looked like the obdurate and
unpitying watcher of my mother's misery.

Stunned as I wasas weak and helpless at first as I had ever been
in my sick chamberthe necessity of guarding against the danger of
discoveryor even of the remotest suspiciondid me service. I
took such precautions as I could to hide from Charley that I had
been cryingand I constrained myself to think of every sacred
obligation that there was upon me to be careful and collected. It
was not a little while before I could succeed or could even
restrain bursts of griefbut after an hour or so I was better and
felt that I might return. I went home very slowly and told
Charleywhom I found at the gate looking for methat I had been
tempted to extend my walk after Lady Dedlock had left me and that I
was over-tired and would lie down. Safe in my own roomI read the
letter. I clearly derived from it--and that was much then--that I
had not been abandoned by my mother. Her elder and only sister


the godmother of my childhooddiscovering signs of life in me when
I had been laid aside as deadhad in her stern sense of dutywith
no desire or willingness that I should livereared me in rigid
secrecy and had never again beheld my mother's face from within a
few hours of my birth. So strangely did I hold my place in this
world that until within a short time back I had neverto my own
mother's knowledgebreathed--had been buried--had never been
endowed with life--had never borne a name. When she had first seen
me in the church she had been startled and had thought of what
would have been like me if it had ever livedand had lived onbut
that was all then.

What more the letter told me needs not to be repeated here. It has
its own times and places in my story.

My first care was to burn what my mother had written and to consume
even its ashes. I hope it may not appear very unnatural or bad in
me that I then became heavily sorrowful to think I had ever been
reared. That I felt as if I knew it would have been better and
happier for many people if indeed I had never breathed. That I had
a terror of myself as the danger and the possible disgrace of my
own mother and of a proud family name. That I was so confused and
shaken as to be possessed by a belief that it was right and had
been intended that I should die in my birthand that it was wrong
and not intended that I should be then alive.

These are the real feelings that I had. I fell asleep worn out
and when I awoke I cried afresh to think that I was back in the
world with my load of trouble for others. I was more than ever
frightened of myselfthinking anew of her against whom I was a
witnessof the owner of Chesney Woldof the new and terrible
meaning of the old words now moaning in my ear like a surge upon
the shoreYour mother, Esther, was your disgrace, and you are
hers. The time will come--and soon enough--when you will
understand this better, and will feel it too, as no one save a
woman can.With themthose other words returnedPray daily
that the sins of others be not visited upon your head.I could
not disentangle all that was about meand I felt as if the blame
and the shame were all in meand the visitation had come down.

The day waned into a gloomy eveningovercast and sadand I still
contended with the same distress. I went out aloneand after
walking a little in the parkwatching the dark shades falling on
the trees and the fitful flight of the batswhich sometimes almost
touched mewas attracted to the house for the first time. Perhaps
I might not have gone near it if I had been in a stronger frame of
mind. As it wasI took the path that led close by it.

I did not dare to linger or to look upbut I passed before the
terrace garden with its fragrant odoursand its broad walksand
its well-kept beds and smooth turf; and I saw how beautiful and
grave it wasand how the old stone balustrades and parapetsand
wide flights of shallow stepswere seamed by time and weather; and
how the trained moss and ivy grew about themand around the old
stone pedestal of the sun-dial; and I heard the fountain falling.
Then the way went by long lines of dark windows diversified by
turreted towers and porches of eccentric shapeswhere old stone
lions and grotesque monsters bristled outside dens of shadow and
snarled at the evening gloom over the escutcheons they held in
their grip. Thence the path wound underneath a gatewayand
through a court-yard where the principal entrance was (I hurried
quickly on)and by the stables where none but deep voices seemed
to bewhether in the murmuring of the wind through the strong mass
of ivy holding to a high red wallor in the low complaining of the


weathercockor in the barking of the dogsor in the slow striking
of a clock. Soencountering presently a sweet smell of limes
whose rustling I could hearI turned with the turning of the path
to the south frontand there above me were the balustrades of the
Ghost's Walk and one lighted window that might be my mother's.

The way was paved herelike the terrace overheadand my footsteps
from being noiseless made an echoing sound upon the flags.
Stopping to look at nothingbut seeing all I did see as I wentI
was passing quickly onand in a few moments should have passed the
lighted windowwhen my echoing footsteps brought it suddenly into
my mind that there was a dreadful truth in the legend of the
Ghost's Walkthat it was I who was to bring calamity upon the
stately house and that my warning feet were haunting it even then.
Seized with an augmented terror of myself which turned me coldI
ran from myself and everythingretraced the way by which I had
comeand never paused until I had gained the lodge-gateand the
park lay sullen and black behind me.

Not before I was alone in my own room for the night and had again
been dejected and unhappy there did I begin to know how wrong and
thankless this state was. But from my darling who was coming on
the morrowI found a joyful letterfull of such loving
anticipation that I must have been of marble if it had not moved
me; from my guardiantooI found another letterasking me to
tell Dame Durdenif I should see that little woman anywherethat
they had moped most pitiably without herthat the housekeeping was
going to rack and ruinthat nobody else could manage the keysand
that everybody in and about the house declared it was not the same
house and was becoming rebellious for her return. Two such letters
together made me think how far beyond my deserts I was beloved and
how happy I ought to be. That made me think of all my past life;
and that brought meas it ought to have done beforeinto a better
condition.

For I saw very well that I could not have been intended to dieor
I should never have lived; not to say should never have been
reserved for such a happy life. I saw very well how many things
had worked together for my welfareand that if the sins of the
fathers were sometimes visited upon the childrenthe phrase did
not mean what I had in the morning feared it meant. I knew I was
as innocent of my birth as a queen of hers and that before my
Heavenly Father I should not be punished for birth nor a queen
rewarded for it. I had had experiencein the shock of that very
daythat I couldeven thus soonfind comforting reconcilements
to the change that had fallen on me. I renewed my resolutions and
prayed to be strengthened in thempouring out my heart for myself
and for my unhappy mother and feeling that the darkness of the
morning was passing away. It was not upon my sleep; and when the
next day's light awoke meit was gone.

My dear girl was to arrive at five o'clock in the afternoon. How
to help myself through the intermediate time better than by taking
a long walk along the road by which she was to comeI did not
know; so Charley and I and Stubbs--Stubbs saddledfor we never
drove him after the one great occasion--made a long expedition
along that road and back. On our returnwe held a great review of
the house and garden and saw that everything was in its prettiest
conditionand had the bird out ready as an important part of the
establishment.

There were more than two full hours yet to elapse before she could
comeand in that intervalwhich seemed a long oneI must confess
I was nervously anxious about my altered looks. I loved my darling


so well that I was more concerned for their effect on her than on
any one. I was not in this slight distress because I at all
repined--I am quite certain I did notthat day--butI thought
would she be wholly prepared? When she first saw memight she not
be a little shocked and disappointed? Might it not prove a little
worse than she expected? Might she not look for her old Esther and
not find her? Might she not have to grow used to me and to begin
all over again?

I knew the various expressions of my sweet girl's face so welland
it was such an honest face in its lovelinessthat I was sure
beforehand she could not hide that first look from me. And I
considered whetherif it should signify any one of these meanings
which was so very likelycould I quite answer for myself?

WellI thought I could. After last nightI thought I could. But
to wait and waitand expect and expectand think and thinkwas
such bad preparation that I resolved to go along the road again and
meet her.

So I said to Charley'"CharleyI will go by myself and walk along
the road until she comes." Charley highly approving of anything
that pleased meI went and left her at home.

But before I got to the second milestoneI had been in so many
palpitations from seeing dust in the distance (though I knew it was
notand could notbe the coach yet) that I resolved to turn back
and go home again. And when I had turnedI was in such fear of
the coach coming up behind me (though I still knew that it neither
wouldnor coulddo any such thing) that I ran the greater part of
the way to avoid being overtaken.

ThenI consideredwhen I had got safe back againthis was a nice
thing to have done! Now I was hot and had made the worst of it
instead of the best.

At lastwhen I believed there was at least a quarter of an hour
more yetCharley all at once cried out to me as I was trembling in
the gardenHere she comes, miss! Here she is!

I did not mean to do itbut I ran upstairs into my room and hid
myself behind the door. There I stood tremblingeven when I heard
my darling calling as she came upstairsEsther, my dear, my love,
where are you? Little woman, dear Dame Durden!

She ran inand was running out again when she saw me. Ahmy
angel girl! The old dear lookall loveall fondnessall
affection. Nothing else in it--nonothingnothing!

Ohhow happy I wasdown upon the floorwith my sweet beautiful
girl down upon the floor tooholding my scarred face to her lovely
cheekbathing it with tears and kissesrocking me to and fro like
a childcalling me by every tender name that she could think of
and pressing me to her faithful heart.

CHAPTER XXXVII

Jarndyce and Jarndyce

If the secret I had to keep had been mineI must have confided it
to Ada before we had been long together. But it was not mineand


I did not feel that I had a right to tell iteven to my guardian
unless some great emergency arose. It was a weight to bear alone;
still my present duty appeared to be plainand blest in the
attachment of my dearI did not want an impulse and encouragement
to do it. Though often when she was asleep and all was quietthe
remembrance of my mother kept me waking and made the night
sorrowfulI did not yield to it at another time; and Ada found me
what I used to be--exceptof coursein that particular of which I
have said enough and which I have no intention of mentioning any
more just nowif I can help it.

The difficulty that I felt in being quite composed that first
evening when Ada asked meover our workif the family were at the
houseand when I was obliged to answer yesI believed sofor
Lady Dedlock had spoken to me in the woods the day before
yesterdaywas great. Greater still when Ada asked me what she had
saidand when I replied that she had been kind and interestedand
when Adawhile admitting her beauty and eleganceremarked upon
her proud manner and her imperious chilling air. But Charley
helped me throughunconsciouslyby telling us that Lady Dedlock
had only stayed at the house two nights on her way from London to
visit at some other great house in the next county and that she had
left early on the morning after we had seen her at our viewas we
called it. Charley verified the adage about little pitchersI am
surefor she heard of more sayings and doings in a day than would
have come to my ears in a month.

We were to stay a month at Mr. Boythorn's. My pet had scarcely
been there a bright weekas I recollect the timewhen one evening
after we had finished helping the gardener in watering his flowers
and just as the candles were lightedCharleyappearing with a
very important air behind Ada's chairbeckoned me mysteriously out
of the room.

Oh! If you please, miss,said Charley in a whisperwith her eyes
at their roundest and largest. "You're wanted at the Dedlock
Arms."

Why, Charley,said Iwho can possibly want me at the public-
house?

I don't know, miss,returned Charleyputting her head forward
and folding her hands tight upon the band of her little apron
which she always did in the enjoyment of anything mysterious or
confidentialbut it's a gentleman, miss, and his compliments, and
will you please to come without saying anything about it.

Whose compliments, Charley?

His'n, miss,returned Charleywhose grammatical education was
advancingbut not very rapidly.

And how do you come to be the messenger, Charley?

I am not the messenger, if you please, miss,returned my little
maid. "It was W. Grubblemiss."

And who is W. Grubble, Charley?

Mister Grubble, miss,returned Charley. "Don't you knowmiss?
The Dedlock Armsby W. Grubble which Charley delivered as if she
were slowly spelling out the sign.

Aye? The landlordCharley?"


Yes, miss. If you please, miss, his wife is a beautiful woman,
but she broke her ankle, and it never joined. And her brother's
the sawyer that was put in the cage, miss, and they expect he'll
drink himself to death entirely on beer,said Charley.

Not knowing what might be the matterand being easily apprehensive
nowI thought it best to go to this place by myself. I bade
Charley be quick with my bonnet and veil and my shawland having
put them onwent away down the little hilly streetwhere I was as
much at home as in Mr. Boythorn's garden.

Mr. Grubble was standing in his shirt-sleeves at the door of his
very clean little tavern waiting for me. He lifted off his hat
with both hands when he saw me comingand carrying it soas if it
were an iron vessel (it looked as heavy)preceded me along the
sanded passage to his best parloura neat carpeted room with more
plants in it than were quite convenienta coloured print of Queen
Carolineseveral shellsa good many tea-traystwo stuffed and
dried fish in glass casesand either a curious egg or a curious
pumpkin (but I don't know whichand I doubt if many people did)
hanging from his ceiling. I knew Mr. Grubble very well by sight
from his often standing at his door. A pleasant-lookingstoutish
middle-aged man who never seemed to consider himself cozily dressed
for his own fire-side without his hat and top-bootsbut who never
wore a coat except at church.

He snuffed the candleand backing away a little to see how it
lookedbacked out of the room--unexpectedly to mefor I was going
to ask him by whom he had been sent. The door of the opposite
parlour being then openedI heard some voicesfamiliar in my ears
I thoughtwhich stopped. A quick light step approached the room
in which I wasand who should stand before me but Richard!

My dear Esther!he said. "My best friend!" And he really was so
warm-hearted and earnest that in the first surprise and pleasure of
his brotherly greeting I could scarcely find breath to tell him
that Ada was well.

Answering my very thoughts--always the same dear girl!said
Richardleading me to a chair and seating himself beside me.

I put my veil upbut not quite.

Always the same dear girl!said Richard just as heartily as
before.

I put up my veil altogetherand laying my hand on Richard's sleeve
and looking in his facetold him how much I thanked him for his
kind welcome and how greatly I rejoiced to see himthe more so
because of the determination I had made in my illnesswhich I now
conveyed to him.

My love,said Richardthere is no one with whom I have a
greater wish to talk than you, for I want you to understand me.

And I want you, Richard,said Ishaking my headto understand
some one else.

Since you refer so immediately to John Jarndyce,said Richard
--I suppose you mean him?

Of course I do.


Then I may say at once that I am glad of it, because it is on that
subject that I am anxious to be understood. By you, mind--you, my
dear! I am not accountable to Mr. Jarndyce or Mr. Anybody.

I was pained to find him taking this toneand he observed it.

Well, well, my dear,said Richardwe won't go into that now. I
want to appear quietly in your country-house here, with you under
my arm, and give my charming cousin a surprise. I suppose your
loyalty to John Jarndyce will allow that?

My dear Richard,I returnedyou know you would be heartily
welcome at his house--your home, if you will but consider it so;
and you are as heartily welcome here!

Spoken like the best of little women!cried Richard gaily.

I asked him how he liked his profession.

Oh, I like it well enough!said Richard. "It's all right. It
does as well as anything elsefor a time. I don't know that I
shall care about it when I come to be settledbut I can sell out
then and--howevernever mind all that botheration at present."

So young and handsomeand in all respects so perfectly the
opposite of Miss Flite! And yetin the cloudedeagerseeking
look that passed over himso dreadfully like her!

I am in town on leave just now,said Richard.

Indeed?

Yes. I have run over to look after my--my Chancery interests
before the long vacation,said Richardforcing a careless laugh.
We are beginning to spin along with that old suit at last, I
promise you.

No wonder that I shook my head!

As you say, it's not a pleasant subject.Richard spoke with the
same shade crossing his face as before. "Let it go to the four
winds for to-night. Puff! Gone! Who do you suppose is with me?"

Was it Mr. Skimpole's voice I heard?

That's the man! He does me more good than anybody. What a
fascinating child it is!

I asked Richard if any one knew of their coming down together. He
answerednonobody. He had been to call upon the dear old
infant--so he called Mr. Skimpole--and the dear old infant had told
him where we wereand he had told the dear old infant he was bent
on coming to see usand the dear old infant had directly wanted to
come too; and so he had brought him. "And he is worth--not to say
his sordid expenses--but thrice his weight in gold said Richard.
He is such a cheery fellow. No worldliness about him. Fresh and
green-hearted!"

I certainly did not see the proof of Mr. Skimpole's worldliness in
his having his expenses paid by Richardbut I made no remark about
that. Indeedhe came in and turned our conversation. He was
charmed to see mesaid he had been shedding delicious tears of joy
and sympathy at intervals for six weeks on my accounthad never
been so happy as in hearing of my progressbegan to understand the


mixture of good and evil in the world nowfelt that he appreciated
health the more when somebody else was illdidn't know but what it
might be in the scheme of things that A should squint to make B
happier in looking straight or that C should carry a wooden leg to
make D better satisfied with his flesh and blood in a silk
stocking.

My dear Miss Summerson, here is our friend Richard,said Mr.
Skimpolefull of the brightest visions of the future, which he
evokes out of the darkness of Chancery. Now that's delightful,
that's inspiriting, that's full of poetry! In old times the woods
and solitudes were made joyous to the shepherd by the imaginary
piping and dancing of Pan and the nymphs. This present shepherd,
our pastoral Richard, brightens the dull Inns of Court by making
Fortune and her train sport through them to the melodious notes of
a judgment from the bench. That's very pleasant, you know! Some
ill-conditioned growling fellow may say to me, 'What's the use of
these legal and equitable abuses? How do you defend them?' I
reply, 'My growling friend, I DON'T defend them, but they are very
agreeable to me. There is a shepherd--youth, a friend of mine, who
transmutes them into something highly fascinating to my simplicity.
I don't say it is for this that they exist--for I am a child among
you worldly grumblers, and not called upon to account to you or
myself for anything--but it may be so.'

I began seriously to think that Richard could scarcely have found a
worse friend than this. It made me uneasy that at such a time when
he most required some right principle and purpose he should have
this captivating looseness and putting-off of everythingthis airy
dispensing with all principle and purposeat his elbow. I thought
I could understand how such a nature as my guardian'sexperienced
in the world and forced to contemplate the miserable evasions and
contentions of the family misfortunefound an immense relief in
Mr. Skimpole's avowal of his weaknesses and display of guileless
candour; but I could not satisfy myself that it was as artless as
it seemed or that it did not serve Mr. Skimpole's idle turn quite
as well as any other partand with less trouble.

They both walked back with meand Mr. Skimpole leaving us at the
gateI walked softly in with Richard and saidAda, my love, I
have brought a gentleman to visit you.It was not difficult to
read the blushingstartled face. She loved him dearlyand he
knew itand I knew it. It was a very transparent businessthat
meeting as cousins only.

I almost mistrusted myself as growing quite wicked in my
suspicionsbut I was not so sure that Richard loved her dearly.
He admired her very much--any one must have done that--and I dare
say would have renewed their youthful engagement with great pride
and ardour but that he knew how she would respect her promise to my
guardian. Still I had a tormenting idea that the influence upon
him extended even herethat he was postponing his best truth and
earnestness in this as in all things until Jarndyce and Jarndyce
should be off his mind. Ah me! What Richard would have been
without that blightI never shall know now!

He told Adain his most ingenuous waythat he had not come to
make any secret inroad on the terms she had accepted (rather too
implicitly and confidinglyhe thought) from Mr. Jarndycethat he
had come openly to see her and to see me and to justify himself for
the present terms on which he stood with Mr. Jarndyce. As the dear
old infant would be with us directlyhe begged that I would make
an appointment for the morningwhen he might set himself right
through the means of an unreserved conversation with me. I


proposed to walk with him in the park at seven o'clockand this
was arranged. Mr. Skimpole soon afterwards appeared and made us
merry for an hour. He particularly requested to see little
Coavinses (meaning Charley) and told herwith a patriarchal air
that he had given her late father all the business in his power and
that if one of her little brothers would make haste to get set up
in the same professionhe hoped he should still be able to put a
good deal of employment in his way.

For I am constantly being taken in these nets,said Mr. Skimpole
looking beamingly at us over a glass of wine-and-waterand am
constantly being bailed out--like a boat. Or paid off--like a
ship's company. Somebody always does it for me. I can't do it,
you know, for I never have any money. But somebody does it. I get
out by somebody's means; I am not like the starling; I get out. If
you were to ask me who somebody is, upon my word I couldn't tell
you. Let us drink to somebody. God bless him!

Richard was a little late in the morningbut I had not to wait for
him longand we turned into the park. The air was bright and dewy
and the sky without a cloud. The birds sang delightfully; the
sparkles in the fernthe grassand treeswere exquisite to see;
the richness of the woods seemed to have increased twenty-fold
since yesterdayas ifin the still night when they had looked so
massively hushed in sleepNaturethrough all the minute details
of every wonderful leafhad been more wakeful than usual for the
glory of that day.

This is a lovely place,said Richardlooking round. "None of
the jar and discord of law-suits here!"

But there was other trouble.

I tell you what, my dear girl,said Richardwhen I get affairs
in general settled, I shall come down here, I think, and rest.

Would it not be better to rest now?I asked.

Oh, as to resting NOW,said Richardor as to doing anything
very definite NOW, that's not easy. In short, it can't be done; I
can't do it at least.

Why not?said I.

You know why not, Esther. If you were living in an unfinished
house, liable to have the roof put on or taken off--to be from top
to bottom pulled down or built up--to-morrow, next day, next week,
next month, next year--you would find it hard to rest or settle.
So do I. Now? There's no now for us suitors.

I could almost have believed in the attraction on which my poor
little wandering friend had expatiated when I saw again the
darkened look of last night. Terrible to think it bad in it also a
shade of that unfortunate man who had died.

My dear Richard,said Ithis is a bad beginning of our
conversation.

I knew you would tell me so, Dame Durden.

And not I alone, dear Richard. It was not I who cautioned you
once never to found a hope or expectation on the family curse.

There you come back to John Jarndyce!said Richard impatiently.


Well! We must approach him sooner or later, for he is the staple
of what I have to say, and it's as well at once. My dear Esther,
how can you be so blind? Don't you see that he is an interested
party and that it may be very well for him to wish me to know
nothing of the suit, and care nothing about it, but that it may not
be quite so well for me?

Oh, Richard,I remonstratedis it possible that you can ever
have seen him and heard him, that you can ever have lived under his
roof and known him, and can yet breathe, even to me in this
solitary place where there is no one to hear us, such unworthy
suspicions?

He reddened deeplyas if his natural generosity felt a pang of
reproach. He was silent for a little while before he replied in a
subdued voiceEsther, I am sure you know that I am not a mean
fellow and that I have some sense of suspicion and distrust being
poor qualities in one of my years.

I know it very well,said I. "I am not more sure of anything."

That's a dear girl,retorted Richardand like you, because it
gives me comfort. I had need to get some scrap of comfort out of
all this business, for it's a bad one at the best, as I have no
occasion to tell you.

I know perfectly,said I. "I know as wellRichard--what shall I
say? as well as you do--that such misconstructions are foreign to
your nature. And I knowas well as you knowwhat so changes it."

Come, sister, come,said Richard a little more gailyyou will
be fair with me at all events. If I have the misfortune to be
under that influence, so has he. If it has a little twisted me, it
may have a little twisted him too. I don't say that he is not an
honourable man, out of all this complication and uncertainty; I am
sure he is. But it taints everybody. You know it taints
everybody. You have heard him say so fifty times. Then why should
HE escape?

Because,said Ihis is an uncommon character, and he has
resolutely kept himself outside the circle, Richard.

Oh, because and because!replied Richard in his vivacious way.
I am not sure, my dear girl, but that it may be wise and specious
to preserve that outward indifference. It may cause other parties
interested to become lax about their interests; and people may die
off, and points may drag themselves out of memory, and many things
may smoothly happen that are convenient enough.

I was so touched with pity for Richard that I could not reproach
him any moreeven by a look. I remembered my guardian's
gentleness towards his errors and with what perfect freedom from
resentment he had spoken of them.

Esther,Richard resumedyou are not to suppose that I have come
here to make underhanded charges against John Jarndyce. I have
only come to justify myself. What I say is, it was all very well
and we got on very well while I was a boy, utterly regardless of
this same suit; but as soon as I began to take an interest in it
and to look into it, then it was quite another thing. Then John
Jarndyce discovers that Ada and I must break off and that if I
don't amend that very objectionable course, I am not fit for her.
Now, Esther, I don't mean to amend that very objectionable course:
I will not hold John Jarndyce's favour on those unfair terms of


compromise, which he has no right to dictate. Whether it pleases
him or displeases him, I must maintain my rights and Ada's. I have
been thinking about it a good deal, and this is the conclusion I
have come to.

Poor dear Richard! He had indeed been thinking about it a good
deal. His facehis voicehis mannerall showed that too
plainly.

So I tell him honourably (you are to know I have written to him
about all this) that we are at issue and that we had better be at
issue openly than covertly. I thank him for his goodwill and his
protection, and he goes his road, and I go mine. The fact is, our
roads are not the same. Under one of the wills in dispute, I
should take much more than he. I don't mean to say that it is the
one to be established, but there it is, and it has its chance.

I have not to learn from you, my dear Richard,said Iof your
letter. I had heard of it already without an offended or angry
word.

Indeed?replied Richardsoftening. "I am glad I said he was an
honourable manout of all this wretched affair. But I always say
that and have never doubted it. Nowmy dear EstherI know these
views of mine appear extremely harsh to youand will to Ada when
you tell her what has passed between us. But if you had gone into
the case as I haveif you had only applied yourself to the papers
as I did when I was at Kenge'sif you only knew what an
accumulation of charges and counter-chargesand suspicions and
cross-suspicionsthey involveyou would think me moderate in
comparison."

Perhaps so,said I. "But do you think thatamong those many
papersthere is much truth and justiceRichard?"

There is truth and justice somewhere in the case, Esther--

Or was once, long ago,said I.

Is--is--must be somewhere,pursued Richard impetuouslyand must
be brought out. To allow Ada to be made a bribe and hush-money of
is not the way to bring it out. You say the suit is changing me;
John Jarndyce says it changes, has changed, and will change
everybody who has any share in it. Then the greater right I have
on my side when I resolve to do all I can to bring it to an end.

All you can, Richard! Do you think that in these many years no
others have done all they could? Has the difficulty grown easier
because of so many failures?

It can't last for ever,returned Richard with a fierceness
kindling in him which again presented to me that last sad reminder.
I am young and earnest, and energy and determination have done
wonders many a time. Others have only half thrown themselves into
it. I devote myself to it. I make it the object of my life.

Oh, Richard, my dear, so much the worse, so much the worse!

No, no, no, don't you be afraid for me,he returned
affectionately. "You're a deargoodwisequietblessed girl;
but you have your prepossessions. So I come round to John
Jarndyce. I tell youmy good Estherwhen he and I were on those
terms which he found so convenientwe were not on natural terms."


Are division and animosity your natural terms, Richard?

No, I don't say that. I mean that all this business puts us on
unnatural terms, with which natural relations are incompatible.
See another reason for urging it on! I may find out when it's over
that I have been mistaken in John Jarndyce. My head may be clearer
when I am free of it, and I may then agree with what you say today.
Very well. Then I shall acknowledge it and make him
reparation.

Everything postponed to that imaginary time! Everything held in
confusion and indecision until then!

Now, my best of confidantes,said RichardI want my cousin Ada
to understand that I am not captious, fickle, and wilful about John
Jarndyce, but that I have this purpose and reason at my back. I
wish to represent myself to her through you, because she has a
great esteem and respect for her cousin John; and I know you will
soften the course I take, even though you disapprove of it; and-and
in short,said Richardwho had been hesitating through these
wordsI--I don't like to represent myself in this litigious,
contentious, doubting character to a confiding girl like Ada,

I told him that he was more like himself in those latter words than
in anything he had said yet.

Why,acknowledged Richardthat may be true enough, my love. I
rather feel it to be so. But I shall be able to give myself fair-
play by and by. I shall come all right again, then, don't you be
afraid.

I asked him if this were all he wished me to tell Ada.

Not quite,said Richard. "I am bound not to withhold from her
that John Jarndyce answered my letter in his usual manner
addressing me as 'My dear Rick' trying to argue me out of my
opinionsand telling me that they should make no difference in
him. (All very well of coursebut not altering the case.) I also
want Ada to know that if I see her seldom just nowI am looking
after her interests as well as my own--we two being in the same
boat exactly--and that I hope she will not suppose from any flying
rumours she may hear that I am at all light-headed or imprudent; on
the contraryI am always looking forward to the termination of the
suitand always planning in that direction. Being of age now and
having taken the step I have takenI consider myself free from any
accountability to John Jarndyce; but Ada being still a ward of the
courtI don't yet ask her to renew our engagement. When she is
free to act for herselfI shall be myself once more and we shall
both be in very different worldly circumstancesI believe. If you
tell her all this with the advantage of your considerate wayyou
will do me a very great and a very kind servicemy dear Esther;
and I shall knock Jarndyce and Jarndyce on the head with greater
vigour. Of course I ask for no secrecy at Bleak House."

Richard,said Iyou place great confidence in me, but I fear
you will not take advice from me?

It's impossible that I can on this subject, my dear girl. On any
other, readily.

As if there were any other in his life! As if his whole career and
character were not being dyed one colour!

But I may ask you a question, Richard?


I think so,said helaughing. "I don't know who may notif you
may not."

You say, yourself, you are not leading a very settled life.

How can I, my dear Esther, with nothing settled!

Are you in debt again?

Why, of course I am,said Richardastonished at my simplicity.

Is it of course?

My dear child, certainly. I can't throw myself into an object so
completely without expense. You forget, or perhaps you don't know,
that under either of the wills Ada and I take something. It's only
a question between the larger sum and the smaller. I shall be
within the mark any way. Bless your heart, my excellent girl,
said Richardquite amused with meI shall be all right! I shall
pull through, my dear!

I felt so deeply sensible of the danger in which he stood that I
triedin Ada's namein my guardian'sin my ownby every fervent
means that I could think ofto warn him of it and to show him some
of his mistakes. He received everything I said with patience and
gentlenessbut it all rebounded from him without taking the least
effect. I could not wonder at this after the reception his
preoccupied mind had given to my guardian's letterbut I
determined to try Ada's influence yet.

So when our walk brought us round to the village againand I went
home to breakfastI prepared Ada for the account I was going to
give her and told her exactly what reason we had to dread that
Richard was losing himself and scattering his whole life to the
winds. It made her very unhappyof coursethough she had a far
far greater reliance on his correcting his errors than I could
have--which was so natural and loving in my dear!--and she
presently wrote him this little letter:

My dearest cousin

Esther has told me all you said to her this morning. I write this
to repeat most earnestly for myself all that she said to you and to
let you know how sure I am that you will sooner or later find our
cousin John a pattern of truthsincerityand goodnesswhen you
will deeplydeeply grieve to have done him (without intending it)
so much wrong.

I do not quite know how to write what I wish to say nextbut I
trust you will understand it as I mean it. I have some fearsmy
dearest cousinthat it may be partly for my sake you are now
laying up so much unhappiness for yourself--and if for yourself
for me. In case this should be soor in case you should entertain
much thought of me in what you are doingI most earnestly entreat
and beg you to desist. You can do nothing for my sake that will
make me half so happy as for ever turning your back upon the shadow
in which we both were born. Do not be angry with me for saying
this. Praypraydear Richardfor my sakeand for your ownand
in a natural repugnance for that source of trouble which had its
share in making us both orphans when we were very youngpray
praylet it go for ever. We have reason to know by this time that
there is no good in it and no hopethat there is nothing to be got


from it but sorrow.

My dearest cousinit is needless for me to say that you are quite
free and that it is very likely you may find some one whom you will
love much better than your first fancy. I am quite sureif you
will let me say sothat the object of your choice would greatly
prefer to follow your fortunes far and widehowever moderate or
poorand see you happydoing your duty and pursuing your chosen
waythan to have the hope of beingor even to bevery rich with
you (if such a thing were possible) at the cost of dragging years
of procrastination and anxiety and of your indifference to other
aims. You may wonder at my saying this so confidently with so
little knowledge or experiencebut I know it for a certainty from
my own heart.

Evermy dearest cousinyour most affectionate

Ada

This note brought Richard to us very soonbut it made little
change in him if any. We would fairly tryhe saidwho was right
and who was wrong--he would show us--we should see! He was
animated and glowingas if Ada's tenderness had gratified him; but
I could only hopewith a sighthat the letter might have some
stronger effect upon his mind on re-perusal than it assuredly had
then.

As they were to remain with us that day and had taken their places
to return by the coach next morningI sought an opportunity of
speaking to Mr. Skimpole. Our out-of-door life easily threw one in
my wayand I delicately said that there was a responsibility in
encouraging Richard.

Responsibility, my dear Miss Summerson?he repeatedcatching at
the word with the pleasantest smile. "I am the last man in the
world for such a thing. I never was responsible in my life--I
can't be."

I am afraid everybody is obliged to be,said I timidly enoughhe
being so much older and more clever than I.

No, really?said Mr. Skimpolereceiving this new light with a
most agreeable jocularity of surprise. "But every man's not
obliged to be solvent? I am not. I never was. Seemy dear Miss
Summerson he took a handful of loose silver and halfpence from
his pocket, there's so much money. I have not an idea how much.
I have not the power of counting. Call it four and ninepence--call
it four pound nine. They tell me I owe more than that. I dare say
I do. I dare say I owe as much as good-natured people will let me
owe. If they don't stopwhy should I? There you have Harold
Skimpole in little. If that's responsibilityI am responsible."

The perfect ease of manner with which he put the money up again and
looked at me with a smile on his refined faceas if he had been
mentioning a curious little fact about somebody elsealmost made
me feel as if he really had nothing to do with it.

Now, when you mention responsibility,he resumedI am disposed
to say that I never had the happiness of knowing any one whom I
should consider so refreshingly responsible as yourself. You
appear to me to be the very touchstone of responsibility. When I
see you, my dear Miss Summerson, intent upon the perfect working of
the whole little orderly system of which you are the centre, I feel


inclined to say to myself--in fact I do say to myself very often-THAT'S
responsibility!

It was difficultafter thisto explain what I meant; but I
persisted so far as to say that we all hoped he would check and not
confirm Richard in the sanguine views he entertained just then.

Most willingly,he retortedif I could. But, my dear Miss
Summerson, I have no art, no disguise. If he takes me by the hand
and leads me through Westminster Hall in an airy procession after
fortune, I must go. If he says, 'Skimpole, join the dance!' I
must join it. Common sense wouldn't, I know, but I have NO common
sense.

It was very unfortunate for RichardI said.

Do you think so!returned Mr. Skimpole. "Don't say thatdon't
say that. Let us suppose him keeping company with Common Sense--an
excellent man--a good deal wrinkled--dreadfully practical--change
for a ten-pound note in every pocket--ruled account-book in his
hand--sayupon the wholeresembling a tax-gatherer. Our dear
Richardsanguineardentoverleaping obstaclesbursting with
poetry like a young budsays to this highly respectable companion
'I see a golden prospect before me; it's very brightit's very
beautifulit's very joyous; here I gobounding over the landscape
to come at it!' The respectable companion instantly knocks him
down with the ruled account-book; tells him in a literalprosaic
way that he sees no such thing; shows him it's nothing but fees
fraudhorsehair wigsand black gowns. Now you know that's a
painful change--sensible in the last degreeI have no doubtbut
disagreeable. I can't do it. I haven't got the ruled account-
bookI have none of the tax-gatherlng elements in my composition
I am not at all respectableand I don't want to be. Odd perhaps
but so it is!"

It was idle to say moreso I proposed that we should join Ada and
Richardwho were a little in advanceand I gave up Mr. Skimpole
in despair. He had been over the Hall in the course of the morning
and whimsically described the family pictures as we walked. There
were such portentous shepherdesses among the Ladies Dedlock dead
and gonehe told usthat peaceful crooks became weapons of
assault in their hands. They tended their flocks severely in
buckram and powder and put their sticking-plaster patches on to
terrify commoners as the chiefs of some other tribes put on their
war-paint. There was a Sir Somebody Dedlockwith a battlea
sprung-minevolumes of smokeflashes of lightninga town on
fireand a stormed fortall in full action between his horse's
two hind legsshowinghe supposedhow little a Dedlock made of
such trifles. The whole race he represented as having evidently
beenin lifewhat he called "stuffed people"--a large collection
glassy eyedset up in the most approved manner on their various
twigs and perchesvery correctperfectly free from animationand
always in glass cases.

I was not so easy now during any reference to the name but that I
felt it a relief when Richardwith an exclamation of surprise
hurried away to meet a stranger whom he first descried coming
slowly towards us.

Dear me!said Mr. Skimpole. "Vholes!"

We asked if that were a friend of Richard's.

Friend and legal adviser,said Mr. Skimpole. "Nowmy dear Miss


Summersonif you want common senseresponsibilityand
respectabilityall united--if you want an exemplary man--Vholes is
THE man."

We had not knownwe saidthat Richard was assisted by any
gentleman of that name.

When he emerged from legal infancy,returned Mr. Skimpolehe
parted from our conversational friend Kenge and took up, I believe,
with Vholes. Indeed, I know he did, because I introduced him to
Vholes.

Had you known him long?asked Ada.

Vholes? My dear Miss Clare, I had had that kind of acquaintance
with him which I have had with several gentlemen of his profession.
He had done something or other in a very agreeable, civil manner-taken
proceedings, I think, is the expression--which ended in the
proceeding of his taking ME. Somebody was so good as to step in
and pay the money--something and fourpence was the amount; I forget
the pounds and shillings, but I know it ended with fourpence,
because it struck me at the time as being so odd that I could owe
anybody fourpence--and after that I brought them together. Vholes
asked me for the introduction, and I gave it. Now I come to think
of it,he looked inquiringly at us with his frankest smile as he
made the discoveryVholes bribed me, perhaps? He gave me
something and called it commission. Was it a five-pound note? Do
you know, I think it MUST have been a five-pound note!

His further consideration of the point was prevented by Richard's
coming back to us in an excited state and hastily representing Mr.
Vholes--a sallow man with pinched lips that looked as if they were
colda red eruption here and there upon his facetall and thin
about fifty years of agehigh-shoulderedand stooping. Dressed
in blackblack-glovedand buttoned to the chinthere was nothing
so remarkable in him as a lifeless manner and a slowfixed way he
had of looking at Richard.

I hope I don't disturb you, ladies,said Mr. Vholesand now I
observed that he was further remarkable for an inward manner of
speaking. "I arranged with Mr. Carstone that he should always know
when his cause was in the Chancelor's paperand being informed by
one of my clerks last night after post time that it stoodrather
unexpectedlyin the paper for to-morrowI put myself into the
coach early this morning and came down to confer with him."

Yes,said Richardflushedand looking triumphantly at Ada and
mewe don't do these things in the old slow way now. We spin
along now! Mr. Vholes, we must hire something to get over to the
post town in, and catch the mail to-night, and go up by it!

Anything you please, sir,returned Mr. Vholes. "I am quite at
your service."

Let me see,said Richardlooking at his watch. "If I run down
to the Dedlockand get my portmanteau fastened upand order a
gigor a chaiseor whatever's to be gotwe shall have an hour
then before starting. I'll come back to tea. Cousin Adawill you
and Esther take care of Mr. Vholes when I am gone?"

He was away directlyin his heat and hurryand was soon lost in
the dusk of evening. We who were left walked on towards the house.

Is Mr. Carstone's presence necessary to-morrow, Sir?said I.


Can it do any good?

No, miss,Mr. Vholes replied. "I am not aware that it can."

Both Ada and I expressed our regret that he should gothenonly
to be disappointed.

Mr. Carstone has laid down the principle of watching his own
interests,said Mr. Vholesand when a client lays down his own
principle, and it is not immoral, it devolves upon me to carry it
out. I wish in business to be exact and open. I am a widower with
three daughters--Emma, Jane, and Caroline--and my desire is so to
discharge the duties of life as to leave them a good name. This
appears to be a pleasant spot, miss.

The remark being made to me in consequence of my being next him as
we walkedI assented and enumerated its chief attractions.

Indeed?said Mr. Vholes. "I have the privilege of supporting an
aged father in the Vale of Taunton--his native place--and I admire
that country very much. I had no idea there was anything so
attractive here."

To keep up the conversationI asked Mr. Vholes if he would like to
live altogether in the country.

There, miss,said heyou touch me on a tender string. My
health is not good (my digestion being much impaired), and if I had
only myself to consider, I should take refuge in rural habits,
especially as the cares of business have prevented me from ever
coming much into contact with general society, and particularly
with ladies' society, which I have most wished to mix in. But with
my three daughters, Emma, Jane, and Caroline--and my aged father--I
cannot afford to be selfish. It is true I have no longer to
maintain a dear grandmother who died in her hundred and second
year, but enough remains to render it indispensable that the mill
should be always going.

It required some attention to hear him on account of his inward
speaking and his lifeless manner.

You will excuse my having mentioned my daughters,he said. "They
are my weak point. I wish to leave the poor girls some little
independenceas well as a good name."

We now arrived at Mr. Boythorn's housewhere the tea-tableall
preparedwas awaiting us. Richard came in restless and hurried
shortly afterwardsand leaning over Mr. Vholes's chairwhispered
something in his ear. Mr. Vholes replied aloud--or as nearly aloud
I suppose as he had ever replied to anything--"You will drive me
will yousir? It is all the same to mesir. Anything you
please. I am quite at your service."

We understood from what followed that Mr. Skimpole was to be left
until the morning to occupy the two places which had been already
paid for. As Ada and I were both in low spirits concerning Richard
and very sorry so to part with himwe made it as plain as we
politely could that we should leave Mr. Skimpole to the Dedlock
Arms and retire when the night-travellers were gone.

Richard's high spirits carrying everything before themwe all went
out together to the top of the hill above the villagewhere he had
ordered a gig to wait and where we found a man with a lantern
standing at the head of the gaunt pale horse that had been


harnessed to it.

I never shall forget those two seated side by side in the lantern's
lightRichard all flush and fire and laughterwith the reins in
his hand; Mr. Vholes quite stillblack-glovedand buttoned up
looking at him as if he were looking at his prey and charming it.
I have before me the whole picture of the warm dark nightthe
summer lightningthe dusty track of road closed in by hedgerows
and high treesthe gaunt pale horse with his ears pricked upand
the driving away at speed to Jarndyce and Jarndyce.

My dear girl told me that night how Richard's being thereafter
prosperous or ruinedbefriended or desertedcould only make this
difference to herthat the more he needed love from one unchanging
heartthe more love that unchanging heart would have to give him;
how he thought of her through his present errorsand she would
think of him at all times--never of herself if she could devote
herself to himnever of her own delights if she could minister to
his.

And she kept her word?

I look along the road before mewhere the distance already
shortens and the journey's end is growing visible; and true and
good above the dead sea of the Chancery suit and all the ashy fruit
it cast ashoreI think I see my darling.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

A Struggle

When our time came for returning to Bleak House againwe were
punctual to the day and were received with an overpowering welcome.
I was perfectly restored to health and strengthand finding my
housekeeping keys laid ready for me in my roomrang myself in as
if I had been a new yearwith a merry little peal. "Once more
dutydutyEsther said I; and if you are not overjoyed to do
itmore than cheerfully and contentedlythrough anything and
everythingyou ought to be. That's all I have to say to youmy
dear!"

The first few mornings were mornings of so much bustle and
businessdevoted to such settlements of accountssuch repeated
journeys to and fro between the growlery and all other parts of the
houseso many rearrangements of drawers and pressesand such a
general new beginning altogetherthat I had not a moment's
leisure. But when these arrangements were completed and everything
was in orderI paid a visit of a few hours to Londonwhich
something in the letter I had destroyed at Chesney Wold had induced
me to decide upon in my own mind.

I made Caddy Jellyby--her maiden name was so natural to me that I
always called her by it--the pretext for this visit and wrote her a
note previously asking the favour of her company on a little
business expedition. Leaving home very early in the morningI got
to London by stage-coach in such good time that I got to Newman
Street with the day before me.

Caddywho had not seen me since her wedding-daywas so glad and
so affectionate that I was half inclined to fear I should make her
husband jealous. But he wasin his wayjust as bad--I mean as


good; and in short it was the old storyand nobody would leave me
any possibility of doing anything meritorious.

The elder Mr. Turveydrop was in bedI foundand Caddy was milling
his chocolatewhich a melancholy little boy who was an apprentice
--it seemed such a curious thing to be apprenticed to the trade of
dancing--was waiting to carry upstairs. Her father-in-law was
extremely kind and considerateCaddy told meand they lived most
happily together. (When she spoke of their living togethershe
meant that the old gentleman had all the good things and all the
good lodgingwhile she and her husband had what they could get
and were poked into two corner rooms over the Mews.)

And how is your mama, Caddy?said I.

Why, I hear of her, Esther,replied Caddythrough Pa, but I see
very little of her. We are good friends, I am glad to say, but Ma
thinks there is something absurd in my having married a dancing-
master, and she is rather afraid of its extending to her.

It struck me that if Mrs. Jellyby had discharged her own natural
duties and obligations before she swept the horizon with a
telescope in search of othersshe would have taken the best
precautions against becoming absurdbut I need scarcely observe
that I kept this to myself.

And your papa, Caddy?

He comes here every evening,returned Caddyand is so fond of
sitting in the corner there that it's a treat to see him.

Looking at the cornerI plainly perceived the mark of Mr.
Jellyby's head against the wall. It was consolatory to know that
he had found such a resting-place for it.

And you, Caddy,said Iyou are always busy, I'll be bound?

Well, my dear,returned CaddyI am indeed, for to tell you a
grand secret, I am qualifying myself to give lessons. Prince's
health is not strong, and I want to be able to assist him. What
with schools, and classes here, and private pupils, AND the
apprentices, he really has too much to do, poor fellow!

The notion of the apprentices was still so odd to me that I asked
Caddy if there were many of them.

Four,said Caddy. "One in-doorand three out. They are very
good children; only when they get together they WILL play-children-
like--instead of attending to their work. So the little
boy you saw just now waltzes by himself in the empty kitchenand
we distribute the others over the house as well as we can."

That is only for their steps, of course?said I.

Only for their steps,said Caddy. "In that way they practiseso
many hours at a timewhatever steps they happen to be upon. They
dance in the academyand at this time of year we do figures at
five every morning."

Why, what a laborious life!I exclaimed.

I assure you, my dear,returned Caddysmilingwhen the outdoor
apprentices ring us up in the morning (the bell rings into our
room, not to disturb old Mr. Turveydrop), and when I put up the


window and see them standing on the door-step with their little
pumps under their arms, I am actually reminded of the Sweeps.

All this presented the art to me in a singular lightto be sure.
Caddy enjoyed the effect of her communication and cheerfully
recounted the particulars of her own studies.

You see, my dear, to save expense I ought to know something of the
piano, and I ought to know something of the kit too, and
consequently I have to practise those two instruments as well as
the details of our profession. If Ma had been like anybody else, I
might have had some little musical knowledge to begin upon.
However, I hadn't any; and that part of the work is, at first, a
little discouraging, I must allow. But I have a very good ear, and
I am used to drudgery--I have to thank Ma for that, at all events-and
where there's a will there's a way, you know, Esther, the world
over.Saying these wordsCaddy laughingly sat down at a little
jingling square piano and really rattled off a quadrille with great
spirit. Then she good-humouredly and blushingly got up againand
while she still laughed herselfsaidDon't laugh at me, please;
that's a dear girl!

I would sooner have criedbut I did neither. I encouraged her and
praised her with all my heart. For I conscientiously believed
dancing-master's wife though she wasand dancing-mistress though
in her limited ambition she aspired to beshe had struck out a
naturalwholesomeloving course of industry and perseverance that
was quite as good as a mission.

My dear,said Caddydelightedyou can't think how you cheer
me. I shall owe you, you don't know how much. What changes,
Esther, even in my small world! You recollect that first night,
when I was so unpolite and inky? Who would have thought, then, of
my ever teaching people to dance, of all other possibilities and
impossibilities!

Her husbandwho had left us while we had this chatnow coming
backpreparatory to exercising the apprentices in the ball-room
Caddy informed me she was quite at my disposal. But it was not my
time yetI was glad to tell herfor I should have been vexed to
take her away then. Therefore we three adjourned to the
apprentices togetherand I made one in the dance.

The apprentices were the queerest little people. Besides the
melancholy boywhoI hopedhad not been made so by waltzing
alone in the empty kitchenthere were two other boys and one dirty
little limp girl in a gauzy dress. Such a precocious little girl
with such a dowdy bonnet on (thattooof a gauzy texture)who
brought her sandalled shoes in an old threadbare velvet reticule.
Such mean little boyswhen they were not dancingwith stringand
marblesand cramp-bones in their pocketsand the most untidy legs
and feet--and heels particularly.

I asked Caddy what had made their parents choose this profession
for them. Caddy said she didn't know; perhaps they were designed
for teachersperhaps for the stage. They were all people in
humble circumstancesand the melancholy boy's mother kept a
ginger-beer shop.

We danced for an hour with great gravitythe melancholy child
doing wonders with his lower extremitiesin which there appeared
to be some sense of enjoyment though it never rose above his waist.
Caddywhile she was observant of her husband and was evidently
founded upon himhad acquired a grace and self-possession of her


ownwhichunited to her pretty face and figurewas uncommonly
agreeable. She already relieved him of much of the instruction of
these young peopleand he seldom interfered except to walk his
part in the figure if he had anything to do in it. He always
played the tune. The affectation of the gauzy childand her
condescension to the boyswas a sight. And thus we danced an hour
by the clock.

When the practice was concludedCaddy's husband made himself ready
to go out of town to a schooland Caddy ran away to get ready to
go out with me. I sat in the ball-room in the interval
contemplating the apprentices. The two out-door boys went upon the
staircase to put on their half-boots and pull the in-door boy's
hairas I judged from the nature of his objections. Returning
with their jackets buttoned and their pumps stuck in themthey
then produced packets of cold bread and meat and bivouacked under a
painted lyre on the wall. The little gauzy childhaving whisked
her sandals into the reticule and put on a trodden-down pair of
shoesshook her head into the dowdy bonnet at one shakeand
answering my inquiry whether she liked dancing by replyingNot
with boys,tied it across her chinand went home contemptuous.

Old Mr. Turveydrop is so sorry,said Caddythat he has not
finished dressing yet and cannot have the pleasure of seeing you
before you go. You are such a favourite of his, Esther.

I expressed myself much obliged to himbut did not think it
necessary to add that I readily dispensed with this attention.

It takes him a long time to dress,said Caddybecause he is
very much looked up to in such things, you know, and has a
reputation to support. You can't think how kind he is to Pa. He
talks to Pa of an evening about the Prince Regent, and I never saw
Pa so interested.

There was something in the picture of Mr. Turveydrop bestowing his
deportment on Mr. Jellyby that quite took my fancy. I asked Caddy
if he brought her papa out much.

No,said CaddyI don't know that he does that, but he talks to
Pa, and Pa greatly admires him, and listens, and likes it. Of
course I am aware that Pa has hardly any claims to deportment, but
they get on together delightfully. You can't think what good
companions they make. I never saw Pa take snuff before in my life,
but he takes one pinch out of Mr. Turveydrop's box regularly and
keeps putting it to his nose and taking it away again all the
evening.

That old Mr. Turveydrop should everin the chances and changes of
lifehave come to the rescue of Mr. Jellyby from Borrioboola-Gha
appeared to me to be one of the pleasantest of oddities.

As to Peepy,said Caddy with a little hesitationwhom I was
most afraid of--next to having any family of my own, Esther--as an
inconvenience to Mr. Turveydrop, the kindness of the old gentleman
to that child is beyond everything. He asks to see him, my dear!
He lets him take the newspaper up to him in bed; he gives him the
crusts of his toast to eat; he sends him on little errands about
the house; he tells him to come to me for sixpences. In short,
said Caddy cheerilyand not to prose, I am a very fortunate girl
and ought to be very grateful. Where are we going, Esther?

To the Old Street Road,said Iwhere I have a few words to say
to the solicitor's clerk who was sent to meet me at the coach



office on the very day when I came to London and first saw you, my
dear. Now I think of it, the gentleman who brought us to your
house.

Then, indeed, I seem to be naturally the person to go with you,
returned Caddy.

To the Old Street Road we went and there inquired at Mrs. Guppy's
residence for Mrs. Guppy. Mrs. Guppyoccupying the parlours and
having indeed been visibly in danger of cracking herself like a nut
in the front-parlour door by peeping out before she was asked for
immediately presented herself and requested us to walk in. She was
an old lady in a large capwith rather a red nose and rather an
unsteady eyebut smiling all over. Her close little sitting-room
was prepared for a visitand there was a portrait of her son in it
whichI had almost written herewas more like than life: it
insisted upon him with such obstinacyand was so determined not to
let him off.

Not only was the portrait therebut we found the original there
too. He was dressed in a great many colours and was discovered at
a table reading law-papers with his forefinger to his forehead.

Miss Summerson,said Mr. Guppyrisingthis is indeed an oasis.
Mother, will you be so good as to put a chair for the other lady
and get out of the gangway.

Mrs. Guppywhose incessant smiling gave her quite a waggish
appearancedid as her son requested and then sat down in a corner
holding her pocket handkerchief to her chestlike a fomentation
with both hands.

I presented Caddyand Mr. Guppy said that any friend of mine was
more than welcome. I then proceeded to the object of my visit.

I took the liberty of sending you a note, sir,said I.

Mr. Guppy acknowledged the receipt by taking it out of his breast-
pocketputting it to his lipsand returning it to his pocket with
a bow. Mr. Guppy's mother was so diverted that she rolled her head
as she smiled and made a silent appeal to Caddy with her elbow.

Could I speak to you alone for a moment?said I.

Anything like the jocoseness of Mr. Guppy's mother just nowI
think I never saw. She made no sound of laughterbut she rolled
her headand shook itand put her handkerchief to her mouthand
appealed to Caddy with her elbowand her handand her shoulder
and was so unspeakably entertained altogether that it was with some
difficulty she could marshal Caddy through the little folding-door
into her bedroom adjoining.

Miss Summerson,said Mr. Guppyyou will excuse the waywardness
of a parent ever mindful of a son's appiness. My mother, though
highly exasperating to the feelings, is actuated by maternal
dictates.

I could hardly have believed that anybody could in a moment have
turned so red or changed so much as Mr. Guppy did when I now put up
my veil.

I asked the favour of seeing you for a few moments here,said I
in preference to calling at Mr. Kenge's because, remembering what
you said on an occasion when you spoke to me in confidence, I


feared I might otherwise cause you some embarrassment, Mr. Guppy.

I caused him embarrassment enough as it wasI am sure. I never
saw such falteringsuch confusionsuch amazement and
apprehension.

Miss Summerson,stammered Mr. GuppyI--I--beg your pardon, but
in our profession--we--we--find it necessary to be explicit. You
have referred to an occasion, miss, when I--when I did myself the
honour of making a declaration which--

Something seemed to rise in his throat that he could not possibly
swallow. He put his hand therecoughedmade facestried again
to swallow itcoughed againmade faces againlooked all round
the roomand fluttered his papers.

A kind of giddy sensation has come upon me, miss,he explained
which rather knocks me over. I--er--a little subject to this sort
of thing--er--by George!

I gave him a little time to recover. He consumed it in putting his
hand to his forehead and taking it away againand in backing his
chair into the corner behind him.

My intention was to remark, miss,said Mr. Guppydear me-something
bronchial, I think--hem!--to remark that you was so good
on that occasion as to repel and repudiate that declaration. You-you
wouldn't perhaps object to admit that? Though no witnesses are
present, it might be a satisfaction to--to your mind--if you was to
put in that admission.

There can be no doubt,said Ithat I declined your proposal
without any reservation or qualification whatever, Mr. Guppy.

Thank you, miss,he returnedmeasuring the table with his
troubled hands. "So far that's satisfactoryand it does you
credit. Er--this is certainly bronchial!--must be in the tubes-er--
you wouldn't perhaps be offended if I was to mention--not that
it's necessaryfor your own good sense or any person's sense must
show 'em that--if I was to mention that such declaration on my part
was finaland there terminated?"

I quite understand that,said I.

Perhaps--er--it may not be worth the form, but it might be a
satisfaction to your mind--perhaps you wouldn't object to admit
that, miss?said Mr. Guppy.

I admit it most fully and freely,said I.

Thank you,returned Mr. Guppy. "Very honourableI am sure. I
regret that my arrangements in lifecombined with circumstances
over which I have no controlwill put it out of my power ever to
fall back upon that offer or to renew it in any shape or form
whateverbut it will ever be a retrospect entwined--er--with
friendship's bowers." Mr. Guppy's bronchitis came to his relief
and stopped his measurement of the table.

I may now perhaps mention what I wished to say to you?I began.

I shall be honoured, I am sure,said Mr. Guppy. "I am so
persuaded that your own good sense and right feelingmisswill-will
keep you as square as possible--that I can have nothing but
pleasureI am surein hearing any observations you may wish to


offer."

You were so good as to imply, on that occasion--

Excuse me, miss,said Mr. Guppybut we had better not travel
out of the record into implication. I cannot admit that I implied
anything.

You said on that occasion,I recommencedthat you might
possibly have the means of advancing my interests and promoting my
fortunes by making discoveries of which I should be the subject. I
presume that you founded that belief upon your general knowledge of
my being an orphan girl, indebted for everything to the benevolence
of Mr. Jarndyce. Now, the beginning and the end of what I have
come to beg of you is, Mr. Guppy, that you will have the kindness
to relinquish all idea of so serving me. I have thought of this
sometimes, and I have thought of it most lately--since I have been
ill. At length I have decided, in case you should at any time
recall that purpose and act upon it in any way, to come to you and
assure you that you are altogether mistaken. You could make no
discovery in reference to me that would do me the least service or
give me the least pleasure. I am acquainted with my personal
history, and I have it in my power to assure you that you never can
advance my welfare by such means. You may, perhaps, have abandoned
this project a long time. If so, excuse my giving you unnecessary
trouble. If not, I entreat you, on the assurance I have given you,
henceforth to lay it aside. I beg you to do this, for my peace.

I am bound to confess,said Mr. Guppythat you express
yourself, miss, with that good sense and right feeling for which I
gave you credit. Nothing can be more satisfactory than such right
feeling, and if I mistook any intentions on your part just now, I
am prepared to tender a full apology. I should wish to be
understood, miss, as hereby offering that apology--limiting it, as
your own good sense and right feeling will point out the necessity
of, to the present proceedings.

I must say for Mr. Guppy that the snuffling manner he had had upon
him improved very much. He seemed truly glad to be able to do
something I askedand he looked ashamed.

If you will allow me to finish what I have to say at once so that
I may have no occasion to resume,I went onseeing him about to
speakyou will do me a kindness, sir. I come to you as privately
as possible because you announced this impression of yours to me in
a confidence which I have really wished to respect--and which I
always have respected, as you remember. I have mentioned my
illness. There really is no reason why I should hesitate to say
that I know very well that any little delicacy I might have had in
making a request to you is quite removed. Therefore I make the
entreaty I have now preferred, and I hope you will have sufficient
consideration for me to accede to it.

I must do Mr. Guppy the further justice of saying that he had
looked more and more ashamed and that he looked most ashamed and
very earnest when he now replied with a burning faceUpon my word
and honour, upon my life, upon my soul, Miss Summerson, as I am a
living man, I'll act according to your wish! I'll never go another
step in opposition to it. I'll take my oath to it if it will be
any satisfaction to you. In what I promise at this present time
touching the matters now in question,continued Mr. Guppy rapidly
as if he were repeating a familiar form of wordsI speak the
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so--


I am quite satisfied,said Irising at this pointand I thank
you very much. Caddy, my dear, I am ready!

Mr. Guppy's mother returned with Caddy (now making me the recipient
of her silent laughter and her nudges)and we took our leave. Mr.
Guppy saw us to the door with the air of one who was either
imperfectly awake or walking in his sleep; and we left him there
staring.

But in a minute he came after us down the street without any hat
and with his long hair all blown aboutand stopped ussaying
ferventlyMiss Summerson, upon my honour and soul, you may depend
upon me!

I do,said Iquite confidently.

I beg your pardon, miss,said Mr. Guppygoing with one leg and
staying with the otherbut this lady being present--your own
witness--it might be a satisfaction to your mind (which I should
wish to set at rest) if you was to repeat those admissions.

Well, Caddy,said Iturning to herperhaps you will not be
surprised when I tell you, my dear, that there never has been any
engagement--

No proposal or promise of marriage whatsoever,suggested Mr.
Guppy.

No proposal or promise of marriage whatsoever,said Ibetween
this gentleman--

William Guppy, of Penton Place, Pentonville, in the county of
Middlesex,he murmured.

Between this gentleman, Mr. William Guppy, of Penton Place,
Pentonville, in the county of Middlesex, and myself.

Thank you, miss,said Mr. Guppy. "Very full--er--excuse me-lady's
nameChristian and surname both?"

I gave them.

Married woman, I believe?said Mr. Guppy. "Married woman. Thank
you. Formerly Caroline Jellybyspinsterthen of Thavies Inn
within the city of Londonbut extra-parochial; now of Newman
StreetOxford Street. Much obliged."

He ran home and came running back again.

Touching that matter, you know, I really and truly am very sorry
that my arrangements in life, combined with circumstances over
which I have no control, should prevent a renewal of what was
wholly terminated some time back,said Mr. Guppy to me forlornly
and despondentlybut it couldn't be. Now COULD it, you know!
only put it to you.

I replied it certainly could not. The subject did not admit of a
doubt. He thanked me and ran to his mother's again--and back
again.

It's very honourable of you, miss, I am sure,said Mr. Guppy.
If an altar could be erected in the bowers of friendship--but,
upon my soul, you may rely upon me in every respect save and except
the tender passion only!


The struggle in Mr. Guppy's breast and the numerous oscillations it
occasioned him between his mother's door and us were sufficiently
conspicuous in the windy street (particularly as his hair wanted
cutting) to make us hurry away. I did so with a lightened heart;
but when we last looked backMr. Guppy was still oscillating in
the same troubled state of mind.

CHAPTER XXXIX

Attorney and Client

The name of Mr. Vholespreceded by the legend Ground-Flooris
inscribed upon a door-post in Symond's InnChancery Lane--a
littlepalewall-eyedwoebegone inn like a large dust-binn of
two compartments and a sifter. It looks as if Symond were a
sparing man in his way and constructed his inn of old building
materials which took kindly to the dry rot and to dirt and all
things decaying and dismaland perpetuated Symond's memory with
congenial shabbiness. Quartered in this dingy hatchment
commemorative of Symond are the legal bearings of Mr. Vholes.

Mr. Vholes's officein disposition retiring and in situation
retiredis squeezed up in a corner and blinks at a dead wall.
Three feet of knotty-floored dark passage bring the client to Mr.
Vholes's jet-black doorin an angle profoundly dark on the
brightest midsummer morning and encumbered by a black bulk-head of
cellarage staircase against which belated civilians generally
strike their brows. Mr. Vholes's chambers are on so small a scale
that one clerk can open the door without getting off his stool
while the other who elbows him at the same desk has equal
facilities for poking the fire. A smell as of unwholesome sheep
blending with the smell of must and dust is referable to the
nightly (and often daily) consumption of mutton fat in candles and
to the fretting of parchment forms and skins in greasy drawers.
The atmosphere is otherwise stale and close. The place was last
painted or whitewashed beyond the memory of manand the two
chimneys smokeand there is a loose outer surface of soot
evervwhereand the dull cracked windows in their heavy frames have
but one piece of character in themwhich is a determination to be
always dirty and always shut unless coerced. This accounts for the
phenomenon of the weaker of the two usually having a bundle of
firewood thrust between its jaws in hot weather.

Mr. Vholes is a very respectable man. He has not a large business
but he is a very respectable man. He is allowed by the greater
attorneys who have made good fortunes or are making them to be a
most respectable man. He never misses a chance in his practice
which is a mark of respectability. He never takes any pleasure
which is another mark of respectability. He is reserved and
seriouswhich is another mark of respectability. His digestion is
impairedwhich is highly respectable. And he is making hay of the
grass which is fleshfor his three daughters. And his father is
dependent on him in the Vale of Taunton.

The one great principle of the English law is to make business for
itself. There is no other principle distinctlycertainlyand
consistently maintained through all its narrow turnings. Viewed by
this light it becomes a coherent scheme and not the monstrous maze
the laity are apt to think it. Let them but once clearly perceive
that its grand principle is to make business for itself at their


expenseand surely they will cease to grumble.

But not perceiving this quite plainly--only seeing it by halves in
a confused way--the laity sometimes suffer in peace and pocket
with a bad graceand DO grumble very much. Then this
respectability of Mr. Vholes is brought into powerful play against
them. "Repeal this statutemy good sir?" says Mr. Kenge to a
smarting client. "Repeal itmy dear sir? Neverwith my consent.
Alter this lawsirand what will be the effect of your rash
proceeding on a class of practitioners very worthily represented
allow me to say to youby the opposite attorney in the caseMr.
Vholes? Sirthat class of practitioners would be swept from the
face of the earth. Now you cannot afford--I will saythe social
system cannot afford--to lose an order of men like Mr. Vholes.
Diligentperseveringsteadyacute in business. My dear sirI
understand your present feelings against the existing state of
thingswhich I grant to be a little hard in your case; but I can
never raise my voice for the demolition of a class of men like Mr.
Vholes." The respectability of Mr. Vholes has even been cited with
crushing effect before Parliamentary committeesas in the
following blue minutes of a distinguished attorney's evidence.
Question (number five hundred and seventeen thousand eight hundred
and sixty-nine): If I understand you, these forms of practice
indisputably occasion delay? Answer: Yes, some delay. Question:
And great expense? Answer: Most assuredly they cannot be gone
through for nothing. Question: And unspeakable vexation? Answer:
I am not prepared to say that. They have never given ME any
vexation; quite the contrary. Question: But you think that their
abolition would damage a class of practitioners? Answer: I have no
doubt of it. Question: Can you instance any type of that class?
Answer: Yes. I would unhesitatingly mention Mr. Vholes. He would
be ruined. Question: Mr. Vholes is considered, in the profession,
a respectable man? Answer: --which proved fatal to the inquiry
for ten years--"Mr. Vholes is consideredin the professiona MOST
respectable man."

So in familiar conversationprivate authorities no less
disinterested will remark that they don't know what this age is
coming tothat we are plunging down precipicesthat now here is
something else gonethat these changes are death to people like
Vholes--a man of undoubted respectabilitywith a father in the
Vale of Tauntonand three daughters at home. Take a few steps
more in this directionsay theyand what is to become of Vholes's
father? Is he to perish? And of Vholes's daughters? Are they to
be shirt-makersor governesses? As thoughMr. Vholes and his
relations being minor cannibal chiefs and it being proposed to
abolish cannibalismindignant champions were to put the case thus:
Make man-eating unlawfuland you starve the Vholeses!

In a wordMr. Vholeswith his three daughters and his father in
the Vale of Tauntonis continually doing dutylike a piece of
timberto shore up some decayed foundation that has become a
pitfall and a nuisance. And with a great many people in a great
many instancesthe question is never one of a change from wrong to
right (which is quite an extraneous consideration)but is always
one of injury or advantage to that eminently respectable legion
Vholes.

The Chancellor iswithin these ten minutesupfor the long
vacation. Mr. Vholesand his young clientand several blue bags
hastily stuffed out of all regularity of formas the larger sort
of serpents are in their first gorged statehave returned to the
official den. Mr. Vholesquiet and unmovedas a man of so much
respectability ought to betakes off his close black gloves as if


he were skinning his handslifts off his tight hat as if he were
scalping himselfand sits down at his desk. The client throws his
hat and gloves upon the ground--tosses them anywherewithout
looking after them or caring where they go; flings himself into a
chairhalf sighing and half groaning; rests his aching head upon
his hand and looks the portrait of young despair.

Again nothing done!says Richard. "Nothingnothing done!"

Don't say nothing done, sir,returns the placid Vholes. "That is
scarcely fairsirscarcely fair!"

Why, what IS done?says Richardturning gloomily upon him.

That may not be the whole question,returns VholesThe question
may branch off into what is doing, what is doing?

And what is doing?asks the moody client.

Vholessitting with his arms on the deskquietly bringing the
tips of his five right fingers to meet the tips of his five left
fingersand quietly separating them againand fixedly and slowly
looking at his clientrepliesA good deal is doing, sir. We
have put our shoulders to the wheel, Mr. Carstone, and the wheel is
going round.

Yes, with Ixion on it. How am I to get through the next four or
five accursed months?exclaims the young manrising from his
chair and walking about the room.

Mr. C.,returns Vholesfollowing him close with his eyes
wherever he goesyour spirits are hasty, and I am sorry for it on
your account. Excuse me if I recommend you not to chafe so much,
not to be so impetuous, not to wear yourself out so. You should
have more patience. You should sustain yourself better.

I ought to imitate you, in fact, Mr. Vholes?says Richard
sitting down again with an impatient laugh and beating the devil's
tattoo with his boot on the patternless carpet.

Sir,returns Vholesalways looking at the client as if he were
making a lingering meal of him with his eyes as well as with his
professional appetite. "Sir returns Vholes with his inward
manner of speech and his bloodless quietude, I should not have had
the presumption to propose myself as a model for your imitation or
any man's. Let me but leave the good name to my three daughters
and that is enough for me; I am not a self-seeker. But since you
mention me so pointedlyI will acknowledge that I should like to
impart to you a little of my--comesiryou are disposed to call
it insensibilityand I am sure I have no objection--say
insensibility--a little of my insensibility."

Mr. Vholes,explains the clientsomewhat abashedI had no
intention to accuse you of insensibility.

I think you had, sir, without knowing it,returns the equable
Vholes. "Very naturally. It is my duty to attend to your
interests with a cool headand I can quite understand that to your
excited feelings I may appearat such times as the present
insensible. My daughters may know me better; my aged father may
know me better. But they have known me much longer than you have
and the confiding eye of affection is not the distrustful eye of
business. Not that I complainsirof the eye of business being
distrustful; quite the contrary. In attending to your interestsI


wish to have all possible checks upon me; it is right that I should
have them; I court inquiry. But your interests demand that I
should be cool and methodicalMr. Carstone; and I cannot be
otherwise--nosirnot even to please you."

Mr. Vholesafter glancing at the official cat who is patiently
watching a mouse's holefixes his charmed gaze again on his young
client and proceeds in his buttoned-uphalf-audible voice as if
there were an unclean spirit in him that will neither come out nor
speak outWhat are you to do, sir, you inquire, during the
vacation. I should hope you gentlemen of the army may find many
means of amusing yourselves if you give your minds to it. If you
had asked me what I was to do during the vacation, I could have
answered you more readily. I am to attend to your interests. I am
to be found here, day by day, attending to your interests. That is
my duty, Mr. C., and term-time or vacation makes no difference to
me. If you wish to consult me as to your interests, you will find
me here at all times alike. Other professional men go out of town.
I don't. Not that I blame them for going; I merely say I don't go.
This desk is your rock, sir!

Mr. Vholes gives it a rapand it sounds as hollow as a coffin.
Not to Richardthough. There is encouragement in the sound to
him. Perhaps Mr. Vholes knows there is.

I am perfectly aware, Mr. Vholes,says Richardmore familiarly
and good-humouredlythat you are the most reliable fellow in the
world and that to have to do with you is to have to do with a man
of business who is not to be hoodwinked. But put yourself in my
case, dragging on this dislocated life, sinking deeper and deeper
into difficulty every day, continually hoping and continually
disappointed, conscious of change upon change for the worse in
myself, and of no change for the better in anything else, and you
will find it a dark-looking case sometimes, as I do.

You know,says Mr. Vholesthat I never give hopes, sir. I told
you from the first, Mr. C., that I never give hopes. Particularly
in a case like this, where the greater part of the costs comes out
of the estate, I should not be considerate of my good name if I
gave hopes. It might seem as if costs were my object. Still, when
you say there is no change for the better, I must, as a bare matter
of fact, deny that.

Aye?returns Richardbrightening. "But how do you make it out?"

Mr. Carstone, you are represented by--

You said just now--a rock.

Yes, sir,says Mr. Vholesgently shaking his head and rapping
the hollow deskwith a sound as if ashes were falling on ashes
and dust on dusta rock. That's something. You are separately
represented, and no longer hidden and lost in the interests of
others. THAT'S something. The suit does not sleep; we wake it up,
we air it, we walk it about. THAT'S something. It's not all
Jarndyce, in fact as well as in name. THAT'S something. Nobody
has it all his own way now, sir. And THAT'S something, surely.

Richardhis face flushing suddenlystrikes the desk with his
clenched hand.

Mr. Vholes! If any man had told me when I first went to John
Jarndyce's house that he was anything but the disinterested friend
he seemed--that he was what he has gradually turned out to be--I


could have found no words strong enough to repel the slander; I
could not have defended him too ardently. So little did I know of
the world! Whereas now I do declare to you that he becomes to me
the embodiment of the suit; that in place of its being an
abstraction, it is John Jarndyce; that the more I suffer, the more
indignant I am with him; that every new delay and every new
disappointment is only a new injury from John Jarndyce's hand.

No, no,says vholes. "Don't say so. We ought to have patience
all of us. BesidesI never disparagesir. I never disparage."

Mr. Vholes,returns the angry client. "You know as well as I
that he would have strangled the suit if he could."

He was not active in it,Mr. Vholes admits with an appearance of
reluctance. "He certainly was not active in it. But howeverbut
howeverhe might have had amiable intentions. Who can read the
heartMr. C.!"

You can,returns Richard.

I, Mr. C.?

Well enough to know what his intentions were. Are or are not our
interests conflicting? Tell--me--that!says Richardaccompanying
his last three words with three raps on his rock of trust.

Mr. C.,returns Vholesimmovable in attitude and never winking
his hungry eyesI should be wanting in my duty as your
professional adviser, I should be departing from my fidelity to
your interests, if I represented those interests as identical with
the interests of Mr. Jarndyce. They are no such thing, sir. I
never impute motives; I both have and am a father, and I never
impute motives. But I must not shrink from a professional duty,
even if it sows dissensions in families. I understand you to be
now consulting me professionally as to your interests? You are so?
I reply, then, they are not identical with those of Mr. Jarndyce.

Of course they are not!cries Richard. "You found that out long
ago."

Mr. C.,returns VholesI wish to say no more of any third party
than is necessary. I wish to leave my good name unsullied,
together with any little property of which I may become possessed
through industry and perseverance, to my daughters Emma, Jane, and
Caroline. I also desire to live in amity with my professional
brethren. When Mr. Skimpole did me the honour, sir--I will not say
the very high honour, for I never stoop to flattery--of bringing us
together in this room, I mentioned to you that I could offer no
opinion or advice as to your interests while those interests were
entrusted to another member of the profession. And I spoke in such
terms as I was bound to speak of Kenge and Carboy's office, which
stands high. You, sir, thought fit to withdraw your interests from
that keeping nevertheless and to offer them to me. You brought
them with clean hands, sir, and I accepted them with clean hands.
Those interests are now paramount in this office. My digestive
functions, as you may have heard me mention, are not in a good
state, and rest might improve them; but I shall not rest, sir,
while I am your representative. Whenever you want me, you will
find me here. Summon me anywhere, and I will come. During the
long vacation, sir, I shall devote my leisure to studying your
interests more and more closely and to making arrangements for
moving heaven and earth (including, of course, the Chancellor)
after Michaelmas term; and when I ultimately congratulate you,


sir,says Mr. Vholes with the severity of a determined manwhen
I ultimately congratulate you, sir, with all my heart, on your
accession to fortune--which, but that I never give hopes, I might
say something further about--you will owe me nothing beyond
whatever little balance may be then outstanding of the costs as
between solicitor and client not included in the taxed costs
allowed out of the estate. I pretend to no claim upon you, Mr. C.,
but for the zealous and active discharge--not the languid and
routine discharge, sir: that much credit I stipulate for--of my
professional duty. My duty prosperously ended, all between us is
ended.

Vholes finally addsby way of rider to this declaration of his
principlesthat as Mr. Carstone is about to rejoin his regiment
perhaps Mr. C. will favour him with an order on his agent for
twenty pounds on account.

For there have been many little consultations and attendances of
late, sir,observes Vholesturning over the leaves of his diary
and these things mount up, and I don't profess to be a man of
capital. When we first entered on our present relations I stated
to you openly--it is a principle of mine that there never can be
too much openness between solicitor and client--that I was not a
man of capital and that if capital was your object you had better
leave your papers in Kenge's office. No, Mr. C., you will find
none of the advantages or disadvantages of capital here, sir.
This,Vholes gives the desk one hollow blow againis your rock;
it pretends to be nothing more.

The clientwith his dejection insensibly relieved and his vague
hopes rekindledtakes pen and ink and writes the draftnot
without perplexed consideration and calculation of the date it may
bearimplying scant effects in the agent's hands. All the while
Vholesbuttoned up in body and mindlooks at him attentively.
All the whileVholes's official cat watches the mouse's hole.

Lastlythe clientshaking handsbeseeches Mr. Vholesfor
heaven's sake and earth's saketo do his utmost to "pull him
through" the Court of Chancery. Mr. Vholeswho never gives hopes
lays his palm upon the client's shoulder and answers with a smile
Always here, sir. Personally, or by letter, you will always find
me here, sir, with my shoulder to the wheel.Thus they partand
Vholesleft aloneemploys himself in carrying sundry little
matters out of his diary into his draft bill book for the ultimate
behoof of his three daughters. So might an industrious fox or bear
make up his account of chickens or stray travellers with an eye to
his cubsnot to disparage by that word the three raw-visaged
lankand buttoned-up maidens who dwell with the parent Vholes in
an earthy cottage situated in a damp garden at Kennington.

Richardemerging from the heavy shade of Symond's Inn into the
sunshine of Chancery Lane--for there happens to be sunshine there
to-day--walks thoughtfully onand turns into Lincoln's Innand
passes under the shadow of the Lincoln's Inn trees. On many such
loungers have the speckled shadows of those trees often fallen; on
the like bent headthe bitten nailthe lowering eyethe
lingering stepthe purposeless and dreamy airthe good consuming
and consumedthe life turned sour. This lounger is not shabby
yetbut that may come. Chancerywhich knows no wisdom but in
precedentis very rich in such precedents; and why should one be
different from ten thousand?

Yet the time is so short since his depreciation began that as he
saunters awayreluctant to leave the spot for some long months


togetherthough he hates itRichard himself may feel his own case
as if it were a startling one. While his heart is heavy with
corroding caresuspensedistrustand doubtit may have room for
some sorrowful wonder when he recalls how different his first visit
therehow different hehow different all the colours of his mind.
But injustice breeds injustice; the fighting with shadows and being
defeated by them necessitates the setting up of substances to
combat; from the impalpable suit which no man alive can understand
the time for that being long gone byit has become a gloomy relief
to turn to the palpable figure of the friend who would have saved
him from this ruin and make HIM his enemy. Richard has told Vholes
the truth. Is he in a hardened or a softened moodhe still lays
his injuries equally at that door; he was thwartedin that
quarterof a set purposeand that purpose could only originate in
the one subject that is resolving his existence into itself;
besidesit is a justification to him in his own eyes to have an
embodied antagonist and oppressor.

Is Richard a monster in all thisor would Chancery be found rich
in such precedents too if they could be got for citation from the
Recording Angel?

Two pairs of eyes not unused to such people look after himas
biting his nails and broodinghe crosses the square and is
swallowed up by the shadow of the southern gateway. Mr. Guppy and
Mr. Weevle are the possessors of those eyesand they have been
leaning in conversation against the low stone parapet under the
trees. He passes close by themseeing nothing but the ground.

William,says Mr. Weevleadjusting his whiskersthere's
combustion going on there! It's not a case of spontaneous, but
it's smouldering combustion it is.

Ah!says Mr. Guppy. "He wouldn't keep out of Jarndyceand I
suppose he's over head and ears in debt. I never knew much of him.
He was as high as the monument when he was on trial at our place.
A good riddance to mewhether as clerk or client! WellTony
that as I was mentioning is what they're up to."

Mr. Guppyrefolding his armsresettles himself against the
parapetas resuming a conversation of interest.

They are still up to it, sir,says Mr. Guppystill taking
stock, still examining papers, still going over the heaps and heaps
of rubbish. At this rate they'll be at it these seven years.

And Small is helping?

Small left us at a week's notice. Told Kenge his grandfather's
business was too much for the old gentleman and he could better
himself by undertaking it. There had been a coolness between
myself and Small on account of his being so close. But he said you
and I began it, and as he had me there--for we did--I put our
acquaintance on the old footing. That's how I come to know what
they're up to.

You haven't looked in at all?

Tony,says Mr. Guppya little disconcertedto be unreserved
with you, I don't greatly relish the house, except in your company,
and therefore I have not; and therefore I proposed this little
appointment for our fetching away your things. There goes the hour
by the clock! Tony--Mr. Guppy becomes mysteriously and tenderly
eloquent--"it is necessary that I should impress upon your mind


once more that circumstances over which I have no control have made
a melancholy alteration in my most cherished plans and in that
unrequited image which I formerly mentioned to you as a friend.
That image is shatteredand that idol is laid low. My only wish
now in connexion with the objects which I had an idea of carrying
out in the court with your aid as a friend is to let 'em alone and
bury 'em in oblivion. Do you think it possibledo you think it at
all likely (I put it to youTonyas a friend)from your
knowledge of that capricious and deep old character who fell a prey
to the--spontaneous elementdo youTonythink it at all likely
that on second thoughts he put those letters away anywhereafter
you saw him aliveand that they were not destroyed that night?"

Mr. Weevle reflects for some time. Shakes his head. Decidedly
thinks not.

Tony,says Mr. Guppy as they walk towards the courtonce again
understand me, as a friend. Without entering into further
explanations, I may repeat that the idol is down. I have no
purpose to serve now but burial in oblivion. To that I have
pledged myself. I owe it to myself, and I owe it to the shattered
image, as also to the circumstances over which I have no control.
If you was to express to me by a gesture, by a wink, that you saw
lying anywhere in your late lodgings any papers that so much as
looked like the papers in question, I would pitch them into the
fire, sir, on my own responsibility.

Mr. Weevle nods. Mr. Guppymuch elevated in his own opinion by
having delivered these observationswith an air in part forensic
and in part romantic--this gentleman having a passion for
conducting anything in the form of an examinationor delivering
anything in the form of a summing up or a speech--accompanies his
friend with dignity to the court.

Never since it has been a court has it had such a Fortunatus' purse
of gossip as in the proceedings at the rag and bottle shop.
Regularlyevery morning at eightis the elder Mr. Smallweed
brought down to the corner and carried inaccompanied by Mrs.
SmallweedJudyand Bart; and regularlyall daydo they all
remain there until nine at nightsolaced by gipsy dinnersnot
abundant in quantityfrom the cook's shoprummaging and
searchingdiggingdelvingand diving among the treasures of the
late lamented. What those treasures are they keep so secret that
the court is maddened. In its delirium it imagines guineas pouring
out of tea-potscrown-pieces overflowing punch-bowlsold chairs
and mattresses stuffed with Bank of England notes. It possesses
itself of the sixpenny history (with highly coloured folding
frontispiece) of Mr. Daniel Dancer and his sisterand also of Mr.
Elwesof Suffolkand transfers all the facts from those authentic
narratives to Mr. Krook. Twice when the dustman is called in to
carry off a cartload of old paperashesand broken bottlesthe
whole court assembles and pries into the baskets as they come
forth. Many times the two gentlemen who write with the ravenous
little pens on the tissue-paper are seen prowling in the
neighbourhood--shy of each othertheir late partnership being
dissolved. The Sol skilfully carries a vein of the prevailing
interest through the Harmonic nights. Little Swillsin what are
professionally known as "patter" allusions to the subjectis
received with loud applause; and the same vocalist "gags" in the
regular business like a man inspired. Even Miss M. Melvillesonin
the revived Caledonian melody of "We're a-Nodding points the
sentiment that the dogs love broo" (whatever the nature of that
refreshment may be) with such archness and such a turn of the head
towards next door that she is immediately understood to mean Mr.


Smallweed loves to find moneyand is nightly honoured with a
double encore. For all thisthe court discovers nothing; and as
Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins now communicate to the late lodger whose
appearance is the signal for a general rallyit is in one
continual ferment to discover everythingand more.

Mr. Weevle and Mr. Guppywith every eye in the court's head upon
themknock at the closed door of the late lamented's housein a
high state of popularity. But being contrary to the court's
expectation admittedthey immediately become unpopular and are
considered to mean no good.

The shutters are more or less closed all over the houseand the
ground-floor is sufficiently dark to require candles. Introduced
into the back shop by Mr. Smallweed the youngertheyfresh from
the sunlightcan at first see nothing save darkness and shadows;
but they gradually discern the elder Mr. Smallweed seated in his
chair upon the brink of a well or grave of waste-paperthe
virtuous Judy groping therein like a female sextonand Mrs.
Smallweed on the level ground in the vicinity snowed up in a heap
of paper fragmentsprintand manuscript which would appear to be
the accumulated compliments that have been sent flying at her in
the course of the day. The whole partySmall includedare
blackened with dust and dirt and present a fiendish appearance not
relieved by the general aspect of the room. There is more litter
and lumber in it than of oldand it is dirtier if possible;
likewiseit is ghostly with traces of its dead inhabitant and even
with his chalked writing on the wall.

On the entrance of visitorsMr. Smallweed and Judy simultaneously
fold their arms and stop in their researches.

Aha!croaks the old gentleman. "How de dogentlemenhow de do!
Come to fetch your propertyMr. Weevle? That's wellthat's well.
Ha! Ha! We should have been forced to sell you upsirto pay
your warehouse room if you had left it here much longer. You feel
quite at home here againI dare say? Glad to see youglad to see
you!"

Mr. Weevlethanking himcasts an eye about. Mr. Guppy's eye
follows Mr. Weevle's eye. Mr. Weevle's eye comes back without any
new intelligence in it. Mr. Guppy's eye comes back and meets Mr.
Smallweed's eye. That engaging old gentleman is still murmuring
like some wound-up instrument running downHow de do, sir--how
de--how--And then having run downhe lapses into grinning
silenceas Mr. Guppy starts at seeing Mr. Tulkinghorn standing in
the darkness opposite with his hands behind him.

Gentleman so kind as to act as my solicitor,says Grandfather
Smallweed. "I am not the sort of client for a gentleman of such
notebut he is so good!"

Mr. Guppyslightly nudging his friend to take another lookmakes
a shuffling bow to Mr. Tulkinghornwho returns it with an easy
nod. Mr. Tulkinghorn is looking on as if he had nothing else to do
and were rather amused by the novelty.

A good deal of property here, sir, I should say,Mr. Guppy
observes to Mr. Smallweed.

Principally rags and rubbish, my dear friend! Rags and rubbish!
Me and Bart and my granddaughter Judy are endeavouring to make out
an inventory of what's worth anything to sell. But we haven't come
to much as yet; we--haven't--come--to--hah!


Mr. Smallweed has run down againwhile Mr. Weevle's eyeattended
by Mr. Guppy's eyehas again gone round the room and come back.

Well, sir,says Mr. Weevle. "We won't intrude any longer if
you'll allow us to go upstairs."

Anywhere, my dear sir, anywhere! You're at home. Make yourself
so, pray!

As they go upstairsMr. Guppy lifts his eyebrows inquiringly and
looks at Tony. Tony shakes his head. They find the old room very
dull and dismalwith the ashes of the fire that was burning on
that memorable night yet in the discoloured grate. They have a
great disinclination to touch any objectand carefully blow the
dust from it first. Nor are they desirous to prolong their visit
packing the few movables with all possible speed and never speaking
above a whisper.

Look here,says Tonyrecoiling. "Here's that horrible cat
coming in!"

Mr. Guppy retreats behind a chair. "Small told me of her. She
went leaping and bounding and tearing about that night like a
dragonand got out on the house-topand roamed about up there for
a fortnightand then came tumbling down the chimney very thin.
Did you ever see such a brute? Looks as if she knew all about it
don't she? Almost looks as if she was Krook. Shoohoo! Get out
you goblin!"

Lady Janein the doorwaywith her tiger snarl from ear to ear and
her club of a tailshows no intention of obeying; but Mr.
Tulkinghorn stumbling over hershe spits at his rusty legsand
swearing wrathfullytakes her arched back upstairs. Possibly to
roam the house-tops again and return by the chimney.

Mr. Guppy,says Mr. Tulkinghorncould I have a word with you?

Mr. Guppy is engaged in collecting the Galaxy Gallery of British
Beauty from the wall and depositing those works of art in their old
ignoble band-box. "Sir he returns, reddening, I wish to act
with courtesy towards every member of the professionand
especiallyI am suretowards a member of it so well known as
yourself--I will truly addsirso distinguished as yourself.
StillMr. TulkinghornsirI must stipulate that if you have any
word with methat word is spoken in the presence of my friend."

Oh, indeed?says Mr. Tulkinghorn.

Yes, sir. My reasons are not of a personal nature at all, but
they are amply sufficient for myself.

No doubt, no doubt.Mr. Tulkinghorn is as imperturbable as the
hearthstone to which he has quietly walked. "The matter is not of
that consequence that I need put you to the trouble of making any
conditionsMr. Guppy." He pauses here to smileand his smile is
as dull and rusty as his pantaloons. "You are to be congratulated
Mr. Guppy; you are a fortunate young mansir."

Pretty well so, Mr. Tulkinghorn; I don't complain.

Complain? High friends, free admission to great houses, and
access to elegant ladies! Why, Mr. Guppy, there are people in
London who would give their ears to be you.


Mr. Guppylooking as if he would give his own reddening and still
reddening ears to be one of those people at present instead of
himselfrepliesSir, if I attend to my profession and do what is
right by Kenge and Carboy, my friends and acquaintances are of no
consequence to them nor to any member of the profession, not
excepting Mr. Tulkinghorn of the Fields. I am not under any
obligation to explain myself further; and with all respect for you,
sir, and without offence--I repeat, without offence--

Oh, certainly!

--I don't intend to do it.

Quite so,says Mr. Tulkinghorn with a calm nod. "Very good; I
see by these portraits that you take a strong interest in the
fashionable greatsir?"

He addresses this to the astounded Tonywho admits the soft
impeachment.

A virtue in which few Englishmen are deficient,observes Mr.
Tulkinghorn. He has been standing on the hearthstone with his back
to the smoked chimney-pieceand now turns round with his glasses
to his eyes. "Who is this? 'Lady Dedlock.' Ha! A very good
likeness in its waybut it wants force of character. Good day to
yougentlemen; good day!"

When he has walked outMr. Guppyin a great perspirationnerves
himself to the hasty completion of the taking down of the Galaxy
Galleryconcluding with Lady Dedlock.

Tony,he says hurriedly to his astonished companionlet us be
quick in putting the things together and in getting out of this
place. It were in vain longer to conceal from you, Tony, that
between myself and one of the members of a swan-like aristocracy
whom I now hold in my hand, there has been undivulged communication
and association. The time might have been when I might have
revealed it to you. It never will be more. It is due alike to the
oath I have taken, alike to the shattered idol, and alike to
circumstances over which I have no control, that the whole should
be buried in oblivion. I charge you as a friend, by the interest
you have ever testified in the fashionable intelligence, and by any
little advances with which I may have been able to accommodate you,
so to bury it without a word of inquiry!

This charge Mr. Guppy delivers in a state little short of forensic
lunacywhile his friend shows a dazed mind in his whole head of
hair and even in his cultivated whiskers.

CHAPTER XL

National and Domestic

England has been in a dreadful state for some weeks. Lord Coodle
would go outSir Thomas Doodle wouldn't come inand there being
nobody in Great Britain (to speak of) except Coodle and Doodle
there has been no government. It is a mercy that the hostile
meeting between those two great menwhich at one time seemed
inevitabledid not come offbecause if both pistols had taken
effectand Coodle and Doodle had killed each otherit is to be


presumed that England must have waited to be governed until young
Coodle and young Doodlenow in frocks and long stockingswere
grown up. This stupendous national calamityhoweverwas averted
by Lord Coodle's making the timely discovery that if in the heat of
debate he had said that he scorned and despised the whole ignoble
career of Sir Thomas Doodlehe had merely meant to say that party
differences should never induce him to withhold from it the tribute
of his warmest admiration; while it as opportunely turned outon
the other handthat Sir Thomas Doodle had in his own bosom
expressly booked Lord Coodle to go down to posterity as the mirror
of virtue and honour. Still England has been some weeks in the
dismal strait of having no pilot (as was well observed by Sir
Leicester Dedlock) to weather the storm; and the marvellous part of
the matter is that England has not appeared to care very much about
itbut has gone on eating and drinking and marrying and giving in
marriage as the old world did in the days before the flood. But
Coodle knew the dangerand Doodle knew the dangerand all their
followers and hangers-on had the clearest possible perception of
the danger. At last Sir Thomas Doodle has not only condescended to
come inbut has done it handsomelybringing in with him all his
nephewsall his male cousinsand all his brothers-in-law. So
there is hope for the old ship yet.

Doodle has found that he must throw himself upon the country
chiefly in the form of sovereigns and beer. In this metamorphosed
state he is available in a good many places simultaneously and can
throw himself upon a considerable portion of the country at one
time. Britannia being much occupied in pocketing Doodle in the
form of sovereignsand swallowing Doodle in the form of beerand
in swearing herself black in the face that she does neither-plainly
to the advancement of her glory and morality--the London
season comes to a sudden endthrough all the Doodleites and
Coodleites dispersing to assist Britannia in those religious
exercises.

Hence Mrs. Rouncewellhousekeeper at Chesney Woldforesees
though no instructions have yet come downthat the family may
shortly be expectedtogether with a pretty large accession of
cousins and others who can in any way assist the great
Constitutional work. And hence the stately old dametaking Time
by the forelockleads him up and down the staircasesand along
the galleries and passagesand through the roomsto witness
before he grows any older that everything is readythat floors are
rubbed brightcarpets spreadcurtains shaken outbeds puffed and
pattedstill-room and kitchen cleared for action--all things
prepared as beseems the Dedlock dignity.

This present summer eveningas the sun goes downthe preparations
are complete. Dreary and solemn the old house lookswith so many
appliances of habitation and with no inhabitants except the
pictured forms upon the walls. So did these come and goa Dedlock
in possession might have ruminated passing along; so did they see
this gallery hushed and quietas I see it now; so thinkas I
thinkof the gap that they would make in this domain when they
were gone; so find itas I find itdifficult to believe that it
could be without them; so pass from my worldas I pass from
theirsnow closing the reverberating door; so leave no blank to
miss themand so die.

Through some of the fiery windows beautiful from withoutand set
at this sunset hournot in dull-grey stone but in a glorious house
of goldthe light excluded at other windows pours in richlavish
overflowing like the summer plenty in the land. Then do the frozen
Dedlocks thaw. Strange movements come upon their features as the


shadows of leaves play there. A dense justice in a corner is
beguiled into a wink. A staring baronetwith a truncheongets a
dimple in his chin. Down into the bosom of a stony shepherdess
there steals a fleck of light and warmth that would have done it
good a hundred years ago. One ancestress of Volumniain high-
heeled shoesvery like her--casting the shadow of that virgin
event before her full two centuries--shoots out into a halo and
becomes a saint. A maid of honour of the court of Charles the
Secondwith large round eyes (and other charms to correspond)
seems to bathe in glowing waterand it ripples as it glows.

But the fire of the sun is dying. Even now the floor is duskyand
shadow slowly mounts the wallsbringing the Dedlocks down like age
and death. And nowupon my Lady's picture over the great chimney-
piecea weird shade falls from some old treethat turns it pale
and flutters itand looks as if a great arm held a veil or hood
watching an opportunity to draw it over her. Higher and darker
rises shadow on the wall--now a red gloom on the ceiling--now the
fire is out.

All that prospectwhich from the terrace looked so nearhas moved
solemnly away and changed--not the first nor the last of beautiful
things that look so near and will so change--into a distant
phantom. Light mists ariseand the dew fallsand all the sweet
scents in the garden are heavv in the air. Now the woods settle
into great masses as if they were each one profound tree. And now
the moon rises to separate themand to glimmer here and there in
horizontal lines behind their stemsand to make the avenue a
pavement of light among high cathedral arches fantastically broken.

Now the moon is high; and the great houseneeding habitation more
than everis like a body without life. Now it is even awful
stealing through itto think of the live people who have slept in
the solitary bedroomsto say nothing of the dead. Now is the time
for shadowwhen every corner is a cavern and every downward step a
pitwhen the stained glass is reflected in pale and faded hues
upon the floorswhen anything and everything can be made of the
heavy staircase beams excepting their own proper shapeswhen the
armour has dull lights upon it not easily to be distinguished from
stealthy movementand when barred helmets are frightfully
suggestive of heads inside. But of all the shadows in Chesney
Woldthe shadow in the long drawing-room upon my Lady's picture is
the first to comethe last to be disturbed. At this hour and by
this light it changes into threatening hands raised up and menacing
the handsome face with every breath that stirs.

She is not well, ma'am,says a groom in Mrs. Rouncewell's
audience-chamber.

My Lady not well! What's the matter?

Why, my Lady has been but poorly, ma'am, since she was last here-I
don't mean with the family, ma'am, but when she was here as a
bird of passage like. My Lady has not been out much for her and
has kept her room a good deal.

Chesney Wold, Thomas,rejoins the housekeeper with proud
complacencywill set my Lady up! There is no finer air and no
healthier soil in the world!

Thomas may have his own personal opinions on this subjectprobably
hints them in his manner of smoothing his sleek head from the nape
of his neck to his templesbut he forbears to express them further
and retires to the servants' hall to regale on cold meat-pie and


ale.

This groom is the pilot-fish before the nobler shark. Next
eveningdown come Sir Leicester and my Lady with their largest
retinueand down come the cousins and others from all the points
of the compass. Thenceforth for some weeks backward and forward
rush mysterious men with no nameswho fly about all those
particular parts of the country on which Doodle is at present
throwing himself in an auriferous and malty showerbut who are
merely persons of a restless disposition and never do anything
anywhere.

On these national occasions Sir Leicester finds the cousins useful.
A better man than the Honourable Bob Stables to meet the Hunt at
dinnerthere could not possibly be. Better got up gentlemen than
the other cousins to ride over to polling-booths and hustings here
and thereand show themselves on the side of Englandit would be
hard to find. Volumnia is a little dimbut she is of the true
descent; and there are many who appreciate her sprightly
conversationher French conundrums so old as to have become in the
cycles of time almost new againthe honour of taking the fair
Dedlock in to dinneror even the privilege of her hand in the
dance. On these national occasions dancing may be a patriotic
serviceand Volumnia is constantly seen hopping about for the good
of an ungrateful and unpensioning country.

My Lady takes no great pains to entertain the numerous guestsand
being still unwellrarely appears until late in the day. But at
all the dismal dinnersleaden lunchesbasilisk ballsand other
melancholy pageantsher mere appearance is a relief. As to Sir
Leicesterhe conceives it utterly impossible that anything can be
wantingin any directionby any one who has the good fortune to
be received under that roof; and in a state of sublime
satisfactionhe moves among the companya magnificent
refrigerator.

Daily the cousins trot through dust and canter over roadside turf
away to hustings and polling-booths (with leather gloves and
hunting-whips for the counties and kid gloves and riding-canes for
the boroughs)and daily bring back reports on which Sir Leicester
holds forth after dinner. Daily the restless men who have no
occupation in life present the appearance of being rather busy.
Daily Volumnia has a little cousinly talk with Sir Leicester on the
state of the nationfrom which Sir Leicester is disposed to
conclude that Volumnia is a more reflecting woman than he had
thought her.

How are we getting on?says Miss Volumniaclasping her hands.
ARE we safe?

The mighty business is nearly over by this timeand Doodle will
throw himself off the country in a few days more. Sir Leicester
has just appeared in the long drawing-room after dinnera bright
particular star surrounded by clouds of cousins.

Volumnia,replies Sir Leicesterwho has a list in his handwe
are doing tolerably.

Only tolerably!

Although it is summer weatherSir Leicester always has his own
particular fire in the evening. He takes his usual screened seat
near it and repeats with much firmness and a little displeasureas
who should sayI am not a common manand when I say tolerablyit


must not be understood as a common expressionVolumnia, we are
doing tolerably.

At least there is no opposition to YOU,Volumnia asserts with
confidence.

No, Volumnia. This distracted country has lost its senses in many
respects, I grieve to say, but--

It is not so mad as that. I am glad to hear it!

Volumnia's finishing the sentence restores her to favour. Sir
Leicesterwith a gracious inclination of his headseems to say to
himselfA sensible woman this, on the whole, though occasionally
precipitate.

In factas to this question of oppositionthe fair Dedlock's
observation was superfluousSir Leicester on these occasions
always delivering in his own candidateshipas a kind of handsome
wholesale order to be promptly executed. Two other little seats
that belong to him he treats as retail orders of less importance
merely sending down the men and signifying to the tradespeople
You will have the goodness to make these materials into two
members of Parliament and to send them home when done.

I regret to say, Volumnia, that in many places the people have
shown a bad spirit, and that this opposition to the government has
been of a most determined and most implacable description.

W-r-retches!says Volumnia.

Even,proceeds Sir Leicesterglancing at the circumjacent
cousins on sofas and ottomanseven in many--in fact, in most--of
those places in which the government has carried it against a
faction--

(Noteby the waythat the Coodleites are always a faction with
the Doodleitesand that the Doodleites occupy exactly the same
position towards the Coodleites.)

--Even in them I am shocked, for the credit of Englishmen, to be
constrained to inform you that the party has not triumphed without
being put to an enormous expense. Hundreds,says Sir Leicester
eyeing the cousins with increasing dignity and swelling
indignationhundreds of thousands of pounds!

If Volumnia have a faultit is the fault of being a trifle too
innocentseeing that the innocence which would go extremely well
with a sash and tucker is a little out of keeping with the rouge
and pearl necklace. Howbeitimpelled by innocenceshe asks
What for?

Volumnia,remonstrates Sir Leicester with his utmost severity.
Volumnia!

No, no, I don't mean what for,cries Volumnia with her favourite
little scream. "How stupid I am! I mean what a pity!"

I am glad,returns Sir Leicesterthat you do mean what a pity.

Volumnia hastens to express her opinion that the shocking people
ought to be tried as traitors and made to support the party.

I am glad, Volumnia,repeats Sir Leicesterunmindful of these


mollifying sentimentsthat you do mean what a pity. It is
disgraceful to the electors. But as you, though inadvertently and
without intending so unreasonable a question, asked me 'what for?'
let me reply to you. For necessary expenses. And I trust to your
good sense, Volumnia, not to pursue the subject, here or
elsewhere.

Sir Leicester feels it incumbent on him to observe a crushing
aspect towards Volumnia because it is whispered abroad that these
necessary expenses willin some two hundred election petitionsbe
unpleasantly connected with the word briberyand because some
graceless jokers have consequently suggested the omission from the
Church service of the ordinary supplication in behalf of the High
Court of Parliament and have recommended instead that the prayers
of the congregation be requested for six hundred and fifty-eight
gentlemen in a very unhealthy state.

I suppose,observes Volumniahaving taken a little time to
recover her spirits after her late castigationI suppose Mr.
Tulkinghorn has been worked to death.

I don't know,says Sir Leicesteropening his eyeswhy Mr.
Tulkinghorn should be worked to death. I don't know what Mr.
Tulkinghorn's engagements may be. He is not a candidate.

Volumnia had thought he might have been employed. Sir Leicester
could desire to know by whomand what for. Volumniaabashed
againsuggestsby somebody--to advise and make arrangements. Sir
Leicester is not aware that any client of Mr. Tulkinghorn has been
in need of his assistance.

Lady Dedlockseated at an open window with her arm upon its
cushioned ledge and looking out at the evening shadows falling on
the parkhas seemed to attend since the lawyer's name was
mentioned.

A languid cousin with a moustache in a state of extreme debility
now observes from his couch that man told him ya'as'dy that
Tulkinghorn had gone down t' that iron place t' give legal 'pinion
'bout somethingand that contest being over t' day'twould be
highly jawlly thing if Tulkinghorn should 'pear with news that
Coodle man was floored.

Mercury in attendance with coffee informs Sir Leicesterhereupon
that Mr. Tulkinghorn has arrived and is taking dinner. My Lady
turns her head inward for the momentthen looks out again as
before.

Volumnia is charmed to hear that her delight is come. He is so
originalsuch a stolid creaturesuch an immense being for knowing
all sorts of things and never telling them! Volumnia is persuaded
that he must be a Freemason. Is sure he is at the head of a lodge
and wears short apronsand is made a perfect idol of with
candlesticks and trowels. These lively remarks the fair Dedlock
delivers in her youthful mannerwhile making a purse.

He has not been here once,she addssince I came. I really had
some thoughts of breaking my heart for the inconstant creature.
had almost made up my mind that he was dead.

It may be the gathering gloom of eveningor it may be the darker
gloom within herselfbut a shade is on my Lady's faceas if she
thoughtI would he were!


Mr. Tulkinghorn,says Sir Leicesteris always welcome here and
always discreet wheresoever he is. A very valuable person, and
deservedly respected.

The debilitated cousin supposes he is "'normously rich fler."

He has a stake in the country,says Sir LeicesterI have no
doubt. He is, of course, handsomely paid, and he associates almost
on a footing of equality with the highest society.

Everybody starts. For a gun is fired close by.

Good gracious, what's that?cries Volumnia with her little
withered scream.

A rat,says my Lady. "And they have shot him."

Enter Mr. Tulkinghornfollowed by Mercuries with lamps and
candles.

No, no,says Sir LeicesterI think not. My Lady, do you object
to the twilight?

On the contrarymy Lady prefers it.

Volumnia?

Oh! Nothing is so delicious to Volumnia as to sit and talk in the
dark.

Then take them away,says Sir Leicester. "TulkinghornI beg
your pardon. How do you do?"

Mr. Tulkinghorn with his usual leisurely ease advancesrenders his
passing homage to my Ladyshakes Sir Leicester's handand
subsides into the chair proper to him when he has anything to
communicateon the opposite side of the Baronet's little
newspaper-table. Sir Leicester is apprehensive that my Ladynot
being very wellwill take cold at that open window. My Lady is
obliged to himbut would rather sit there for the air. Sir
Leicester risesadjusts her scarf about herand returns to his
seat. Mr. Tulkinghorn in the meanwhile takes a pinch of snuff.

Now,says Sir Leicester. "How has that contest gone?"

Oh, hollow from the beginning. Not a chance. They have brought
in both their people. You are beaten out of all reason. Three to
one.

It is a part of Mr. Tulkinghorn's policy and mastery to have no
political opinions; indeedNO opinions. Therefore he says "you"
are beatenand not "we."

Sir Leicester is majestically wroth. Volumnia never heard of such
a thing. 'The debilitated cousin holds that it's sort of thing
that's sure tapn slongs votes--giv'n--Mob.

It's the place, you know,Mr. Tulkinghorn goes on to say in the
fast-increasing darkness when there is silence againwhere they
wanted to put up Mrs. Rouncewell's son.

A proposal which, as you correctly informed me at the time, he had
the becoming taste and perception,observes Sir Leicesterto
decline. I cannot say that I by any means approve of the


sentiments expressed by Mr. Rouncewell when he was here for some
half-hour in this room, but there was a sense of propriety in his
decision which I am glad to acknowledge.

Ha!says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "It did not prevent him from being
very active in this electionthough."

Sir Leicester is distinctly heard to gasp before speaking. "Did I
understand you? Did you say that Mr. Rouncewell had been very
active in this election?"

Uncommonly active.

Against--

Oh, dear yes, against you. He is a very good speaker. Plain and
emphatic. He made a damaging effect, and has great influence. In
the business part of the proceedings he carried all before him.

It is evident to the whole companythough nobody can see himthat
Sir Leicester is staring majestically.

And he was much assisted,says Mr. Tulkinghorn as a wind-upby
his son.

By his son, sir?repeats Sir Leicester with awful politeness.

By his son.

The son who wished to marry the young woman in my Lady's service?

That son. He has but one.

Then upon my honour,says Sir Leicester after a terrific pause
during which he has been heard to snort and felt to starethen
upon my honour, upon my life, upon my reputation and principles,
the floodgates of society are burst open, and the waters have--a-obliterated
the landmarks of the framework of the cohesion by which
things are held together!

General burst of cousinly indignation. Volumnia thinks it is
really high timeyou knowfor somebody in power to step in and do
something strong. Debilitated cousin thinks--country's going-Dayvle--
steeple-chase pace.

I beg,says Sir Leicester in a breathless conditionthat we may
not comment further on this circumstance. Comment is superfluous.
My Lady, let me suggest in reference to that young woman--

I have no intention,observes my Lady from her window in a low
but decided toneof parting with her.

That was not my meaning,returns Sir Leicester. "I am glad to
hear you say so. I would suggest that as you think her worthy of
your patronageyou should exert your influence to keep her from
these dangerous hands. You might show her what violence would be
done in such association to her duties and principlesand you
might preserve her for a better fate. You might point out to her
that she probably wouldin good timefind a husband at Chesney
Wold by whom she would not be--" Sir Leicester addsafter a
moment's considerationdragged from the altars of her
forefathers.

These remarks he offers with his unvarying politeness and deference


when he addresses himself to his wife. She merely moves her head
in reply. The moon is risingand where she sits there is a little
stream of cold pale lightin which her head is seen.

It is worthy of remark,says Mr. Tulkinghornhowever, that
these people are, in their way, very proud.

Proud?Sir Leicester doubts his hearing.

I should not be surprised if they all voluntarily abandoned the
girl--yes, lover and all--instead of her abandoning them, supposing
she remained at Chesney Wold under such circumstances.

Well!says Sir Leicester tremulously. "Well! You should know
Mr. Tulkinghorn. You have been among them."

Really, Sir Leicester,returns the lawyerI state the fact.
Why, I could tell you a story--with Lady Dedlock's permission.

Her head concedes itand Volumnia is enchanted. A story! Ohhe
is going to tell something at last! A ghost in itVolumnia hopes?

No. Real flesh and blood.Mr. Tulkinghorn stops for an instant
and repeats with some little emphasis grafted upon his usual
monotonyReal flesh and blood, Miss Dedlock. Sir Leicester,
these particulars have only lately become known to me. They are
very brief. They exemplify what I have said. I suppress names for
the present. Lady Dedlock will not think me ill-bred, I hope?

By the light of the firewhich is lowhe can be seen looking
towards the moonlight. By the light of the moon Lady Dedlock can
be seenperfecfly still.

A townsman of this Mrs. Rouncewell, a man in exactly parallel
circumstances as I am told, had the good fortune to have a daughter
who attracted the notice of a great lady. I speak of really a
great lady, not merely great to him, but married to a gentleman of
your condition, Sir Leicester.

Sir Leicester condescendingly saysYes, Mr. Tulkinghorn,
implying that then she must have appeared of very considerable
moral dimensions indeed in the eyes of an iron-master.

The lady was wealthy and beautiful, and had a liking for the girl,
and treated her with great kindness, and kept her always near her.
Now this lady preserved a secret under all her greatness, which she
had preserved for many years. In fact, she had in early life been
engaged to marry a young rake--he was a captain in the army-nothing
connected with whom came to any good. She never did marry
him, but she gave birth to a child of which he was the father.

By the light of the fire he can be seen looking towards the
moonlight. By the moonlightLady Dedlock can be seen in profile
perfectly still.

The captain in the army being dead, she believed herself safe; but
a train of circumstances with which I need not trouble you led to
discovery. As I received the story, they began in an imprudence on
her own part one day when she was taken by surprise, which shows
how difficult it is for the firmest of us (she was very firm) to be
always guarded. There was great domestic trouble and amazement,
you may suppose; I leave you to imagine, Sir Leicester, the
husband's grief. But that is not the present point. When Mr.
Rouncewell's townsman heard of the disclosure, he no more allowed


the girl to be patronized and honoured than he would have suffered
her to be trodden underfoot before his eyes. Such was his pride,
that he indignantly took her away, as if from reproach and
disgrace. He had no sense of the honour done him and his daughter
by the lady's condescension; not the least. He resented the girl's
position, as if the lady had been the commonest of commoners. That
is the story. I hope Lady Dedlock will excuse its painful nature.

There are various opinions on the meritsmore or less conflicting
with Volumnia's. That fair young creature cannot believe there
ever was any such lady and rejects the whole history on the
threshold. The majority incline to the debilitated cousin's
sentimentwhich is in few words--"no business--Rouncewell's fernal
townsman." Sir Leicester generally refers back in his mind to Wat
Tyler and arranges a sequence of events on a plan of his own.

There is not much conversation in allfor late hours have been
kept at Chesney Wold since the necessary expenses elsewhere began
and this is the first night in many on which the family have been
alone. It is past ten when Sir Leicester begs Mr. Tulkinghorn to
ring for candles. Then the stream of moonlight has swelled into a
lakeand then Lady Dedlock for the first time movesand rises
and comes forward to a table for a glass of water. Winking
cousinsbat-like in the candle glarecrowd round to give it;
Volumnia (always ready for something better if procurable) takes
anothera very mild sip of which contents her; Lady Dedlock
gracefulself-possessedlooked after by admiring eyespasses
away slowly down the long perspective by the side of that nymph
not at all improving her as a question of contrast.

CHAPTER XLI

In Mr. Tulkinghorn's Room

Mr. Tulkinghorn arrives in his turret-room a little breathed by the
journey upthough leisurely performed. There is an expression on
his face as if he had discharged his mind of some grave matter and
werein his close waysatisfied. To say of a man so severely and
strictly self-repressed that he is triumphant would be to do him as
great an injustice as to suppose him troubled with love or
sentiment or any romantic weakness. He is sedately satisfied.
Perhaps there is a rather increased sense of power upon him as he
loosely grasps one of his veinous wrists with his other hand and
holding it behind his back walks noiselessly up and down.

There is a capacious writing-table in the room on which is a pretty
large accumulation of papers. The green lamp is lightedhis
reading-glasses lie upon the deskthe easy-chair is wheeled up to
itand it would seem as though he had intended to bestow an hour
or so upon these claims on his attention before going to bed. But
he happens not to be in a business mind. After a glance at the
documents awaiting his notice--with his head bent low over the
tablethe old man's sight for print or writing being defective at
night--he opens the French window and steps out upon the leads.
There he again walks slowly up and down in the same attitude
subsidingif a man so cool may have any need to subsidefrom the
story he has related downstairs.

The time was once when men as knowing as Mr. Tulkinghorn would walk
on turret-tops in the starlight and look up into the sky to read
their fortunes there. Hosts of stars are visible to-nightthough


their brilliancy is eclipsed by the splendour of the moon. If he
be seeking his own star as he methodically turns and turns upon the
leadsit should be but a pale one to be so rustily represented
below. If he be tracing out his destinythat may be written in
other characters nearer to his hand.

As he paces the leads with his eyes most probably as high above his
thoughts as they are high above the earthhe is suddenly stopped
in passing the window by two eyes that meet his own. The ceiling
of his room is rather low; and the upper part of the doorwhich is
opposite the windowis of glass. There is an inner baize door
toobut the night being warm he did not close it when he came
upstairs. These eyes that meet his own are looking in through the
glass from the corridor outside. He knows them well. The blood
has not flushed into his face so suddenly and redly for many a long
year as when he recognizes Lady Dedlock.

He steps into the roomand she comes in tooclosing both the
doors behind her. There is a wild disturbance--is it fear or
anger?--in her eyes. In her carriage and all else she looks as she
looked downstairs two hours ago.

Is it fear or is it anger now? He cannot be sure. Both might be
as paleboth as intent.

Lady Dedlock?

She does not speak at firstnor even when she has slowly dropped
into the easy-chair by the table. They look at each otherlike
two pictures.

Why have you told my story to so many persons?

Lady Dedlock, it was necessary for me to inform you that I knew
it.

How long have you known it?

I have suspected it a long while--fully known it a little while.

Months?

Days.

He stands before her with one hand on a chair-back and the other in
his old-fashioned waistcoat and shirt-frillexactly as he has
stood before her at any time since her marriage. The same formal
politenessthe same composed deference that might as well be
defiance; the whole man the same darkcold objectat the same
distancewhich nothing has ever diminished.

Is this true concerning the poor girl?

He slightly inclines and advances his head as not quite
understanding the question.

You know what you related. Is it true? Do her friends know my
story also? Is it the town-talk yet? Is it chalked upon the walls
and cried in the streets?

So! Angerand fearand shame. All three contending. What power
this woman has to keep these raging passions down! Mr.
Tulkinghorn's thoughts take such form as he looks at herwith his
ragged grey eyebrows a hair's breadth more contracted than usual


under her gaze.

No, Lady Dedlock. That was a hypothetical case, arising out of
Sir Leicester's unconsciously carrying the matter with so high a
hand. But it would be a real case if they knew--what we know.

Then they do not know it yet?

No.

Can I save the poor girl from injury before they know it?

Really, Lady Dedlock,Mr. Tulkinghorn repliesI cannot give a
satisfactory opinion on that point.

And he thinkswith the interest of attentive curiosityas he
watches the struggle in her breastThe power and force of this
woman are astonishing!

Sir,she saysfor the moment obliged to set her lips with all
the energy she hasthat she may speak distinctlyI will make it
plainer. I do not dispute your hypothetical case. I anticipated
it, and felt its truth as strongly as you can do, when I saw Mr.
Rouncewell here. I knew very well that if he could have had the
power of seeing me as I was, he would consider the poor girl
tarnished by having for a moment been, although most innocently,
the subject of my great and distinguished patronage. But I have an
interest in her, or I should rather say--no longer belonging to
this place--I had, and if you can find so much consideration for
the woman under your foot as to remember that, she will be very
sensible of your mercy.

Mr. Tulkinghornprofoundly attentivethrows this off with a shrug
of self-depreciation and contracts his eyebrows a little more.

You have prepared me for my exposure, and I thank you for that
too. Is there anything that you require of me? Is there any claim
that I can release or any charge or trouble that I can spare my
husband in obtaining HIS release by certifying to the exactness of
your discovery? I will write anything, here and now, that you will
dictate. I am ready to do it.

And she would do itthinks the lawverwatchful of the firm hand
with which she takes the pen!

I will not trouble you, Lady Dedlock. Pray spare yourself.

I have long expected this, as you know. I neither wish to spare
myself nor to be spared. You can do nothing worse to me than you
have done. Do what remains now.

Lady Dedlock, there is nothing to be done. I will take leave to
say a few words when you have finished.

Their need for watching one another should be over nowbut they do
it all this timeand the stars watch them both through the opened
window. Away in the moonlight lie the woodland fields at restand
the wide house is as quiet as the narrow one. The narrow one!
Where are the digger and the spadethis peaceful nightdestined
to add the last great secret to the many secrets of the Tulkinghorn
existence? Is the man born yetis the spade wrought yet? Curious
questions to considermore curious perhaps not to considerunder
the watching stars upon a summer night.


Of repentance or remorse or any feeling of mine,Lady Dedlock
presently proceedsI say not a word. If I were not dumb, you
would be deaf. Let that go by. It is not for your ears.

He makes a feint of offering a protestbut she sweeps it away with
her disdainful hand.

Of other and very different things I come to speak to you. My
jewels are all in their proper places of keeping. They will be
found there. So, my dresses. So, all the valuables I have. Some
ready money I had with me, please to say, but no large amount. I
did not wear my own dress, in order that I might avoid observation.
I went to be henceforward lost. Make this known. I leave no other
charge with you.

Excuse me, Lady Dedlock,says Mr. Tulkinghornquite unmoved. "I
am not sure that I understand you. You want--"

To be lost to all here. I leave Chesney Wold to-night. I go this
hour.

Mr. Tulkinghorn shakes his head. She risesbut hewithout moving
hand from chair-back or from old-fashioned waistcoat and shirt-
frillshakes his head.

What? Not go as I have said?

No, Lady Dedlock,he very calmly replies.

Do you know the relief that my disappearance will be? Have you
forgotten the stain and blot upon this place, and where it is, and
who it is?

No, Lady Dedlock, not by any means.

Without deigning to rejoinshe moves to the inner door and has it
in her hand when he says to herwithout himself stirring hand or
foot or raising his voiceLady Dedlock, have the goodness to stop
and hear me, or before you reach the staircase I shall ring the
alarm-bell and rouse the house. And then I must speak out before
every guest and servant, every man and woman, in it.

He has conquered her. She falterstremblesand puts her hand
confusedly to her head. Slight tokens these in any one elsebut
when so practised an eye as Mr. Tulkinghorn's sees indecision for a
moment in such a subjecthe thoroughly knows its value.

He promptly says againHave the goodness to hear me, Lady
Dedlock,and motions to the chair from which she has risen. She
hesitatesbut he motions againand she sits down.

The relations between us are of an unfortunate description, Lady
Dedlock; but as they are not of my making, I will not apologize for
them. The position I hold in reference to Sir Leicester is so well
known to you that I can hardly imagine but that I must long have
appeared in your eyes the natural person to make this discovery.

Sir,she returns without looking up from the ground on which her
eyes are now fixedI had better have gone. It would have been
far better not to have detained me. I have no more to say.

Excuse me, Lady Dedlock, if I add a little more to hear.

I wish to hear it at the window, then. I can't breathe where I


am.

His jealous glance as she walks that way betrays an instant's
misgiving that she may have it in her thoughts to leap overand
dashing against ledge and cornicestrike her life out upon the
terrace below. But a moment's observation of her figure as she
stands in the window without any supportlooking out at the stars
--not up-gloomily out at those stars which are low in the heavens
reassures him. By facing round as she has movedhe stands a
little behind her.

Lady Dedlock, I have not yet been able to come to a decision
satisfactory to myself on the course before me. I am not clear
what to do or how to act next. I must request you, in the
meantime, to keep your secret as you have kept it so long and not
to wonder that I keep it too.

He pausesbut she makes no reply.

Pardon me, Lady Dedlock. This is an important subject. You are
honouring me with your attention?

I am.

'Thank you. I might have known it from what I have seen of your
strength of character. I ought not to have asked the question, but
I have the habit of making sure of my ground, step by step, as I go
on. The sole consideration in this unhappy case is Sir Leicester.

'Then why,she asks in a low voice and without removing her
gloomy look from those distant starsdo you detain me in his
house?

Because he IS the consideration. Lady Dedlock, I have no occasion
to tell you that Sir Leicester is a very proud man, that his
reliance upon you is implicit, that the fall of that moon out of
the sky would not amaze him more than your fall from your high
position as his wife.

She breathes quickly and heavilybut she stands as unflinchingly
as ever he has seen her in the midst of her grandest company.

I declare to you, Lady Dedlock, that with anything short of this
case that I have, I would as soon have hoped to root up by means of
my own strength and my own hands the oldest tree on this estate as
to shake your hold upon Sir Leicester and Sir Leicester's trust and
confidence in you. And even now, with this case, I hesitate. Not
that he could doubt (that, even with him, is impossible), but that
nothing can prepare him for the blow.

Not my flight?she returned. "Think of it again."

Your flight, Lady Dedlock, would spread the whole truth, and a
hundred times the whole truth, far and wide. It would be
impossible to save the family credit for a day. It is not to be
thought of.

There is a quiet decision in his reply which admits of no
remonstrance.

When I speak of Sir Leicester being the sole consideration, he and
the family credit are one. Sir Leicester and the baronetcy, Sir
Leicester and Chesney Wold, Sir Leicester and his ancestors and his
patrimony--Mr. Tulkinghorn very dry here--"areI need not say to


youLady Dedlockinseparable."

Go on!

Therefore,says Mr. Tulkinghornpursuing his case in his jog-
trot styleI have much to consider. This is to be hushed up if
it can be. How can it be, if Sir Leicester is driven out of his
wits or laid upon a death-bed? If I inflicted this shock upon him
to-morrow morning, how could the immediate change in him be
accounted for? What could have caused it? What could have divided
you? Lady Dedlock, the wall-chalking and the street-crying would
come on directly, and you are to remember that it would not affect
you merely (whom I cannot at all consider in this business) but
your husband, Lady Dedlock, your husband.

He gets plainer as he gets onbut not an atom more emphatic or
animated.

There is another point of view,he continuesin which the case
presents itself. Sir Leicester is devoted to you almost to
infatuation. He might not be able to overcome that infatuation,
even knowing what we know. I am putting an extreme case, but it
might be so. If so, it were better that he knew nothing. Better
for common sense, better for him, better for me. I must take all
this into account, and it combines to render a decision very
difficult.

She stands looking out at the same stars without a word. They are
beginning to paleand she looks as if their coldness froze her.

My experience teaches me,says Mr. Tulkinghornwho has by this
time got his hands in his pockets and is going on in his business
consideration of the matter like a machine. "My experience teaches
meLady Dedlockthat most of the people I know would do far
better to leave marriage alone. It is at the bottom of three
fourths of their troubles. So I thought when Sir Leicester
marriedand so I always have thought since. No more about that.
I must now be guided by circumstances. In the meanwhile I must beg
you to keep your own counseland I will keep mine."

I am to drag my present life on, holding its pains at your
pleasure, day by day?she asksstill looking at the distant sky.

Yes, I am afraid so, Lady Dedlock.

It is necessary, you think, that I should be so tied to the
stake?

I am sure that what I recommend is necessary.

I am to remain on this gaudy platforna on which my miserable
deception has been so long acted, and it is to fall beneath me when
you give the signal?she said slowly.

Not without notice, Lady Dedlock. I shall take no step without
forewarning you.

She asks all her questions as if she were repeating them from
memory or calling them over in her sleep.

We are to meet as usual?

Precisely as usual, if you please.


And I am to hide my guilt, as I have done so many years?

As you have done so many years. I should not have made that
reference myself, Lady Dedlock, but I may now remind you that your
secret can be no heavier to you than it was, and is no worse and no
better than it was. I know it certainly, but I believe we have
never wholly trusted each other.

She stands absorbed in the same frozen way for some little time
before askingIs there anything more to be sald to-night?

Why,Mr. Tulkinghorn returns methodically as he softly rubs his
handsI should like to be assured of your acquiescence in my
arrangements, Lady Dedlock.

You may be assured of it.

Good. And I would wish in conclusion to remind you, as a business
precaution, in case it should be necessary to recall the fact in
any communication with Sir Leicester, that throughout our interview
I have expressly stated my sole consideration to be Sir Leicester's
feelings and honour and the family reputation. I should have been
happy to have made Lady Dedlock a prominent consideration, too, if
the case had admitted of it; but unfortunately it does not.

I can attest your fidelity, sir.

Both before and after saving it she remains absorbedbut at length
movesand turnsunshaken in her natural and acquired presence
towards the door. Mr. Tulkinghorn opens both the doors exactly as
he would have done yesterdayor as he would have done ten years
agoand makes his old-fashioned bow as she passes out. It is not
an ordinary look that he receives from the handsome face as it goes
into the darknessand it is not an ordinary movementthough a
very slight onethat acknowledges his courtesy. But as he
reflects when he is left alonethe woman has been putting no
common constraint upon herself.

He would know it all the better if he saw the woman pacing her own
rooms with her hair wildly thrown from her flung-back faceher
hands clasped behind her headher figure twisted as if by pain.
He would think so all the more if he saw the woman thus hurrying up
and down for hourswithout fatiguewithout intermissionfollowed
by the faithful step upon the Ghost's Walk. But he shuts out the
now chilled airdraws the window-curtaingoes to bedand falls
asleep. And truly when the stars go out and the wan day peeps into
the turret-chamberfinding him at his oldesthe looks as if the
digger and the spade were both commissioned and would soon be
digging.

The same wan day peeps in at Sir Leicester pardoning the repentant
country in a majestically condescending dream; and at the cousins
entering on various public employmentsprincipally receipt of
salary; and at the chaste Volumniabestowing a dower of fifty
thousand pounds upon a hideous old general with a mouth of false
teeth like a pianoforte too full of keyslong the admiration of
Bath and the terror of every other commuuity. Also into rooms high
in the roofand into offices in court-yardsand over stables
where humbler ambition dreams of blissin keepers' lodgesand in
holy matrimony with Will or Sally. Up comes the bright sun
drawing everything up with it--the Wills and Sallysthe latent
vapour in the earththe drooping leaves and flowersthe birds and
beasts and creeping thingsthe gardeners to sweep the dewy turf
and unfold emerald velvet where the roller passesthe smoke of the


great kitchen fire wreathing itself straight and high into the
lightsome air. Lastlyup comes the flag over Mr. Tulkinghorn's
unconscious head cheerfully proclaiming that Sir Leicester and Lady
Dedlock are in their happy home and that there is hospitality at
the place in Lincolnshire.

CHAPTER XLII

In Mr. Tulkinghorn's Chambers

From the verdant undulations and the spreading oaks of the Dedlock
propertyMr. Tulkinghorn transfers himself to the stale heat and
dust of London. His manner of coming and going between the two
places is one of his impenetrabilities. He walks into Chesney Wold
as if it were next door to his chambers and returns to his chambers
as if he had never been out of Lincoln's Inn Fields. He neither
changes his dress before the journey nor talks of it afterwards.
He melted out of his turret-room this morningjust as nowin the
late twilighthe melts into his own square.

Like a dingy London bird among the birds at roost in these pleasant
fieldswhere the sheep are all made into parchmentthe goats into
wigsand the pasture into chaffthe lawyersmoke-dried and
fadeddwelling among mankind but not consorting with themaged
without experience of genial youthand so long used to make his
cramped nest in holes and corners of human nature that he has
forgotten its broader and better rangecomes sauntering home. In
the oven made by the hot pavements and hot buildingshe has baked
himself dryer than usual; and he has in his thirsty mind his
mellowed port-wine half a century old.

The lamplighter is skipping up and down his ladder on Mr.
Tulkinghorn's side of the Fields when that high-priest of noble
mysteries arrives at his own dull court-yard. He ascends the doorsteps
and is gliding into the dusky hall when he encounterson the
top stepa bowing and propitiatory little man.

Is that Snagsby?

Yes, sir. I hope you are well, sir. I was just giving you up,
sir, and going home.

Aye? What is it? What do you want with me?

Well, sir,says Mr. Snagsbyholding his hat at the side of his
head in his deference towards his best customerI was wishful to
say a word to you, sir.

Can you say it here?

Perfectly, sir.

Say it then.The lawyer turnsleans his arms on the iron
railing at the top of the stepsand looks at the lamplighter
lighting the court-yard.

It is relating,says Mr. Snagsby in a mysterious low voiceit
is relating--not to put too fine a point upon it--to the foreigner,
sir!

Mr. Tulkinghorn eyes him with some surprise. "What foreigner?"


The foreign female, sir. French, if I don't mistake? I am not
acquainted with that language myself, but I should judge from her
manners and appearance that she was French; anyways, certainly
foreign. Her that was upstairs, sir, when Mr. Bucket and me had
the honour of waiting upon you with the sweeping-boy that night.

Oh! Yes, yes. Mademoiselle Hortense.

Indeed, sir?Mr. Snagsby coughs his cough of submission behind
his hat. "I am not acquainted myself with the names of foreigners
in generalbut I have no doubt it WOULD be that." Mr. Snagsby
appears to have set out in this reply with some desperate design of
repeating the namebut on reflection coughs again to excuse
himself.

And what can you have to say, Snagsby,demands Mr. Tulkinghorn
about her?

Well, sir,returns the stationershading his communication with
his hatit falls a little hard upon me. My domestic happiness is
very great--at least, it's as great as can be expected, I'm sure-but
my little woman is rather given to jealousy. Not to put too
fine a point upon it, she is very much given to jealousy. And you
see, a foreign female of that genteel appearance coming into the
shop, and hovering--I should be the last to make use of a strong
expression if I could avoid it, but hovering, sir--in the court-you
know it is--now ain't it? I only put it to yourself, sir.

Mr. Snagsby, having said this in a very plaintive manner, throws in
a cough of general application to fill up all the blanks.

Whywhat do you mean?" asks Mr. Tulkinghorn.

Just so, sir,returns Mr. Snagsby; "I was sure you would feel it
yourself and would excuse the reasonableness of MY feelings when
coupled with the known excitableness of my little woman. You see
the foreign female--which you mentioned her name just nowwith
quite a native sound I am sure--caught up the word Snagsby that
nightbeing uncommon quickand made inquiryand got the
direction and come at dinner-time. Now Gusterour young womanis
timid and has fitsand shetaking fright at the foreigner's
looks--which are fierce--and at a grinding manner that she has of
speaking--which is calculated to alarm a weak mind--gave way to it
instead of bearing up against itand tumbled down the kitchen
stairs out of one into anothersuch fits as I do sometimes think
are never gone intoor come out ofin any house but ours.
Consequently there was by good fortune ample occupation for my
little womanand only me to answer the shop. When she DID say
that Mr. Tulkinghornbeing always denied to her by his employer
(which I had no doubt at the time was a foreign mode of viewing a
clerk)she would do herself the pleasure of continually calling at
my place until she was let in here. Since then she has beenas I
began by sayinghoveringhoveringsir"--Mr. Snagsby repeats the
word with pathetic emphasis--"in the court. The effects of which
movement it is impossible to calculate. I shouldn't wonder if it
might have already given rise to the painfullest mistakes even in
the neighbours' mindsnot mentioning (if such a thing was
possible) my little woman. Whereasgoodness knows says Mr.
Snagsby, shaking his head, I never had an idea of a foreign
femaleexcept as being formerly connected with a bunch of brooms
and a babyor at the present time with a tambourine and earrings.
I never hadI do assure yousir!"


Mr. Tulkinghorn had listened gravely to this complaint and inquires
when the stationer has finishedAnd that's all, is it, Snagsby?

Why yes, sir, that's all,says Mr. Snagsbyending with a cough
that plainly addsand it's enough too--for me.

I don't know what Mademoiselle Hortense may want or mean, unless
she is mad,says the lawyer.

Even if she was, you know, sir,Mr. Snagsby pleadsit wouldn't
be a consolation to have some weapon or another in the form of a
foreign dagger planted in the family.

No,says the other. "Wellwell! This shall be stopped. I am
sorry you have been inconvenienced. If she comes againsend her
here."

Mr. Snagsbywith much bowing and short apologetic coughingtakes
his leavelightened in heart. Mr. Tulkinghorn goes upstairs
saying to himselfThese women were created to give trouble the
whole earth over. The mistress not being enough to deal with,
here's the maid now! But I will be short with THIS jade at least!

So sayinghe unlocks his doorgropes his way into his murky
roomslights his candlesand looks about him. It is too dark to
see much of the Allegory over-head therebut that importunate
Romanwho is for ever toppling out of the clouds and pointingis
at his old work pretty distinctly. Not honouring him with much
attentionMr. Tulkinghorn takes a small key from his pocket
unlocks a drawer in which there is another keywhich unlocks a
chest in which there is anotherand so comes to the cellar-key
with which he prepares to descend to the regions of old wine. He
is going towards the door with a candle in his hand when a knock
comes.

Who's this? Aye, aye, mistress, it's you, is it? You appear at a
good time. I have just been hearing of you. Now! What do you
want?

He stands the candle on the chimney-piece in the clerk's hall and
taps his dry cheek with the key as he addresses these words of
welcome to Mademoiselle Hortense. That feline personagewith her
lips tightly shut and her eyes looking out at him sidewayssoftly
closes the door before replying.

I have had great deal of trouble to find you, sir.

HAVE you!

I have been here very often, sir. It has always been said to me,
he is not at home, he is engage, he is this and that, he is not for
you.

Quite right, and quite true.

Not true. Lies!

At times there is a suddenness in the manner of Mademoiselle
Hortense so like a bodily spring upon the subject of it that such
subject involuntarily starts and fails back. It is Mr.
Tulkinghorn's case at presentthough Mademoiselle Hortensewith
her eyes almost shut up (but still looking out sideways)is only
smiling contemptuously and shaking her head.


Now, mistress,says the lawyertapping the key hastily upon the
chimney-piece. "If you have anything to saysay itsay it."

Sir, you have not use me well. You have been mean and shabby.

Mean and shabby, eh?returns the lawyerrubbing his nose with
the key.

Yes. What is it that I tell you? You know you have. You have
attrapped me--catched me--to give you information; you have asked
me to show you the dress of mine my Lady must have wore that night,
you have prayed me to come in it here to meet that boy. Say! Is it
not?Mademoiselle Hortense makes another spring.

You are a vixen, a vixen!Mr. Tulkinghorn seems to meditate as
he looks distrustfully at herthen he repliesWell, wench, well.
I paid you.

You paid me!she repeats with fierce disdain. "Two sovereign! I
have not change themI re-fuse themI des-pise themI throw them
from me!" Which she literally doestaking them out of her bosom
as she speaks and flinging them with such violence on the floor
that they jerk up again into the light before they roll away into
corners and slowly settle down there after spinning vehemently.

Now!says Mademoiselle Hortensedarkening her large eyes again.
You have paid me? Eh, my God, oh yes!

Mr. Tulkinghorn rubs his head with the key while she entertains
herself with a sarcastic laugh.

You must be rich, my fair friend,he composedly observesto
throw money about in that way!

I AM rich,she returns. "I am very rich in hate. I hate my
Ladyof all my heart. You know that."

Know it? How should I know it?

Because you have known it perfectly before you prayed me to give
you that information. Because you have known perfectly that I was
en-r-r-r-raged!It appears impossible for mademoiselle to roll
the letter "r" sufficiently in this wordnotwithstanding that she
assists her energetic delivery by clenching both her hands and
setting all her teeth.

Oh! I knew that, did I?says Mr. Tulkinghornexamining the wards
of the key.

Yes, without doubt. I am not blind. You have made sure of me
because you knew that. You had reason! I det-est her.
Mademoiselle folds her arms and throws this last remark at him over
one of her shoulders.

Having said this, have you anything else to say, mademoiselle?

I am not yet placed. Place me well. Find me a good condition!
If you cannot, or do not choose to do that, employ me to pursue
her, to chase her, to disgrace and to dishonour her. I will help
you well, and with a good will. It is what YOU do. Do I not know
that?

You appear to know a good deal,Mr. Tulkinghorn retorts.


Do I not? Is it that I am so weak as to believe, like a child,
that I come here in that dress to rec-cive that boy only to decide
a little bet, a wager? Eh, my God, oh yes!In this replydown
to the word "wager" inclusivemademoiselle has been ironically
polite and tenderthen as suddenly dashed into the bitterest and
most defiant scornwith her black eyes in one and the same moment
very nearly shut and staringly wide open.

Now, let us see,says Mr. Tulkinghorntapping his chin with the
key and looking imperturbably at herhow this matter stands.

Ah! Let us see,mademoiselle assentswith many angry and tight
nods of her head.

You come here to make a remarkably modest demand, which you have
just stated, and it not being conceded, you will come again.

And again,says mademoiselle with more tight and angry nods.
And yet again. And yet again. And many times again. In effect,
for ever!

And not only here, but you will go to Mr, Snagsby's too, perhaps?
That visit not succeeding either, you will go again perhaps?

And again,repeats mademoisellecataleptic with determination.
And yet again. And yet again. And many times again. In effect,
for ever!

Very well. Now, Mademoiselle Hortense, let me recommend you to
take the candle and pick up that money of yours. I think you will
find it behind the clerk's partition in the corner yonder.

She merely throws a laugh over her shoulder and stands her ground
with folded arms.

You will not, eh?

No, I will not!

So much the poorer you; so much the richer I! Look, mistress,
this is the key of my wine-cellar. It is a large key, but the keys
of prisons are larger. In this city there are houses of correction
(where the treadmills are, for women), the gates of which are very
strong and heavy, and no doubt the keys too. I am afraid a lady of
your spirit and activity would find it an inconvenience to have one
of those keys turned upon her for any length of time. What do you
think?

I think,mademoiselle replies without any action and in a clear
obliging voicethat you are a miserable wretch.

Probably,returns Mr. Tulkinghornquietly blowing his nose.
But I don't ask what you think of myself; I ask what you think of
the prison.

Nothing. What does it matter to me?

Why, it matters this much, mistress,says the lawyer
deliberately putting away his handkerchief and adjusting his frill;
the law is so despotic here that it interferes to prevent any of
our good English citizens from being troubled, even by a lady's
visits against his desire. And on his complaining that he is so
troubled, it takes hold of the troublesome lady and shuts her up in
prison under hard discipline. Turns the key upon her, mistress.


Illustrating with the cellar-key.

Truly?returns mademoiselle in the same pleasant voice. "That is
droll! But--my faith! --still what does it matter to me?"

My fair friend,says Mr. Tulkinghornmake another visit here,
or at Mr. Snagsby's, and you shall learn.

In that case you will send me to the prison, perhaps?

Perhaps.

It would be contradictory for one in mademoiselle's state of
agreeable jocularity to foam at the mouthotherwise a tigerish
expansion thereabouts might look as if a very little more would
make her do it.

In a word, mistress,says Mr. TulkinghornI am sorry to be
unpolite, but if you ever present yourself uninvited here--or
there--again, I will give you over to the police. Their gallantry
is great, but they carry troublesome people through the streets in
an ignominious manner, strapped down on a board, my good wench.

I will prove you,whispers mademoisellestretching out her hand
I will try if you dare to do it!

And if,pursues the lawyer without minding herI place you in
that good condition of being locked up in jail, it will be some
time before you find yourself at liberty again.

I will prove you,repeats mademoiselle in her former whisper.

And now,proceeds the lawyerstill without minding heryou had
better go. Think twice before you come here again.

Think you,she answerstwice two hundred times!

You were dismissed by your lady, you know,Mr. Tulkinghorn
observesfollowing her out upon the staircaseas the most
implacable and unmanageable of women. Now turn over a new leaf and
take warning by what I say to you. For what I say, I mean; and
what I threaten, I will do, mistress.

She goes down without answering or looking behind her. When she is
gonehe goes down tooand returning with his cobweb-covered
bottledevotes himself to a leisurely enjoyment of its contents
now and thenas he throws his head back in his chaircatching
sight of the pertinacious Roman pointing from the ceiling.

CHAPTER XLIII

Esther's Narrative

It matters little now how much I thought of my living mother who
had told me evermore to consider her dead. I could not venture to
approach her or to communicate with her in writingfor my sense of
the peril in which her life was passed was only to be equalled by
my fears of increasing it. Knowing that my mere existence as a
living creature was an unforeseen danger in her wayI could not
always conquer that terror of myself which had seized me when I
first knew the secret. At no time did I dare to utter her name. I


felt as if I did not even dare to hear it. If the conversation
anywherewhen I was presenttook that directionas it sometimes
naturally didI tried not to hear: I mentally countedrepeated
something that I knewor went out of the room. I am conscious now
that I often did these things when there can have been no danger of
her being spoken ofbut I did them in the dread I had of hearing
anything that might lead to her betrayaland to her betrayal
through me.

It matters little now how often I recalled the tones of my mother's
voicewondered whether I should ever hear it again as I so longed
to doand thought how strange and desolate it was that it should
be so new to me. It matters little that I watched for every public
mention of my mother's name; that I passed and repassed the door of
her house in townloving itbut afraid to look at it; that I once
sat in the theatre when my mother was there and saw meand when we
were so wide asunder before the great company of all degrees that
any link or confidence between us seemed a dream. It is allall
over. My lot has been so blest that I can relate little of myself
which is not a story of goodness and generosity in others. I may
well pass that little and go on.

When we were settled at home againAda and I had many
conversations with my guardian of which Richard was the theme. My
dear girl was deeply grieved that he should do their kind cousin so
much wrongbut she was so faithful to Richard that she could not
bear to blame him even for that. My guardian was assured of it
and never coupled his name with a word of reproof. "Rick is
mistakenmy dear he would say to her. Wellwell! We have all
been mistaken over and over again. We must trust to you and time
to set him right."

We knew afterwards what we suspected thenthat he did not trust to
time until he had often tried to open Richard's eyes. That he had
written to himgone to himtalked with himtried every gentle
and persuasive art his kindness could devise. Our poor devoted
Richard was deaf and blind to all. If he were wronghe would make
amends when the Chancery suit was over. If he were groping in the
darkhe could not do better than do his utmost to clear away those
clouds in which so much was confused and obscured. Suspicion and
misunderstanding were the fault of the suit? Then let him work the
suit out and come through it to his right mind. This was his
unvarying reply. Jarndyce and Jarndyce had obtained such
possession of his whole nature that it was impossible to place any
consideration before him which he did notwith a distorted kind of
reasonmake a new argument in favour of his doing what he did.
So that it is even more mischievous,said my guardian once to me
to remonstrate with the poor dear fellow than to leave him alone.

I took one of these opportunities of mentioning my doubts of Mr.
Skimpole as a good adviser for Richard.

Adviser!returned my guardianlaughingMy dear, who would
advise with Skimpole?

Encourager would perhaps have been a better word,said I.

Encourager!returned my guardian again. "Who could be encouraged
by Skimpole?"

Not Richard?I asked.

No,he replied. "Such an unworldlyuncalculatinggossamer
creature is a relief to him and an amusement. But as to advising


or encouraging or occupying a serious station towards anybody or
anythingit is simply not to be thought of in such a child as
Skimpole."

Pray, cousin John,said Adawho had just joined us and now
looked over my shoulderwhat made him such a child?

What made him such a child?inquired my guardianrubbing his
heada little at a loss.

Yes, cousin John.

Why,he slowly repliedroughening his head more and morehe is
all sentiment, and--and susceptibility, and--and sensibility, and-and
imagination. And these qualities are not regulated in him,
somehow. I suppose the people who admired him for them in his
youth attached too much importance to them and too little to any
training that would have balanced and adjusted them, and so he
became what he is. Hey?said my guardianstopping short and
looking at us hopefully. "What do you thinkyou two?"

Adaglancing at mesaid she thought it was a pity he should be an
expense to Richard.

So it is, so it is,returned my guardian hurriedly. "That must
not be. We must arrange that. I must prevent it. That will never
do."

And I said I thought it was to be regretted that he had ever
introduced Richard to Mr. Vholes for a present of five pounds.

Did he?said my guardian with a passing shade of vexation on his
face. "But there you have the man. There you have the man! There
is nothing mercenary in that with him. He has no idea of the value
of money. He introduces Rickand then he is good friends with Mr.
Vholes and borrows five pounds of him. He means nothing by it and
thinks nothing of it. He told you himselfI'll be boundmy
dear?"

Oh, yes!said I.

Exactly!cried my guardianquite triumphant. "There you have
the man! If he had meant any harm by it or was conscious of any
harm in ithe wouldn't tell it. He tells it as he does it in mere
simplicity. But you shall see him in his own homeand then you'll
understand him better. We must pay a visit to Harold Skimpole and
caution him on these points. Lord bless youmy dearsan infant
an infant!"

In pursuance of this planwe went into London on an early day and
presented ourselves at Mr. Skimpole's door.

He lived in a place called the Polygonin Somers Townwhere there
were at that time a number of poor Spanish refugees walking about
in cloakssmoking little paper cigars. Whether he was a better
tenant than one might have supposedin consequence of his friend
Somebody always paying his rent at lastor whether his inaptitude
for business rendered it particularly difficult to turn him outI
don't know; but he had occupied the same house some years. It was
in a state of dilapidation quite equal to our expectation. Two or
three of the area railings were gonethe water-butt was broken
the knocker was loosethe bell-handle had been pulled off a long
time to judge from the rusty state of the wireand dirty
footprints on the steps were the only signs of its being inhabited.


A slatternly full-blown girl who seemed to be bursting out at the
rents in her gown and the cracks in her shoes like an over-ripe
berry answered our knock by opening the door a very little way and
stopping up the gap with her figure. As she knew Mr. Jarndyce
(indeed Ada and I both thought that she evidently associated him
with the receipt of her wages)she immediately relented and
allowed us to pass in. The lock of the door being in a disabled
conditionshe then applied herself to securing it with the chain
which was not in good action eitherand said would we go upstairs?

We went upstairs to the first floorstill seeing no other
furniture than the dirty footprints. Mr. Jarndyce without further
ceremony entered a room thereand we followed. It was dingy
enough and not at all cleanbut furnished with an odd kind of
shabby luxurywith a large footstoola sofaand plenty of
cushionsan easy-chairand plenty of pillowsa pianobooks
drawing materialsmusicnewspapersand a few sketches and
pictures. A broken pane of glass in one of the dirty windows was
papered and wafered overbut there was a little plate of hothouse
nectarines on the tableand there was another of grapesand
another of sponge-cakesand there was a bottle of light wine. Mr.
Skimpole himself reclined upon the sofa in a dressing-gown
drinking some fragrant coffee from an old china cup--it was then
about mid-day--and looking at a collection of wallflowers in the
balcony.

He was not in the least disconcerted by our appearancebut rose
and received us in his usual airy manner.

Here I am, you see!he said when we were seatednot without some
little difficultythe greater part of the chairs being broken.
Here I am! This is my frugal breakfast. Some men want legs of
beef and mutton for breakfast; I don't. Give me my peach, my cup
of coffee, and my claret; I am content. I don't want them for
themselves, but they remind me of the sun. There's nothing solar
about legs of beef and mutton. Mere animal satisfaction!

This is our friend's consulting-room (or would be, if he ever
prescribed), his sanctum, his studio,said my guardian to us.

Yes,said Mr. Skimpoleturning his bright face aboutthis is
the bird's cage. This is where the bird lives and sings. They
pluck his feathers now and then and clip his wings, but he sings,
he sings!

He handed us the grapesrepeating in his radiant wayHe sings!
Not an ambitious note, but still he sings.

These are very fine,said my guardian. "A present?"

No,he answered. "No! Some amiable gardener sells them. His man
wanted to knowwhen he brought them last eveningwhether he
should wait for the money. 'Reallymy friend' I said'I think
not--if your time is of any value to you.' I suppose it wasfor
he went away."

My guardian looked at us with a smileas though he asked usIs
it possible to be worldly with this baby?

This is a day,said Mr. Skimpolegaily taking a little claret in
a tumblerthat will ever be remembered here. We shall call it
Saint Clare and Saint Summerson day. You must see my daughters. I
have a blue-eyed daughter who is my Beauty daughter, I have a


Sentiment daughter, and I have a Comedy daughter. You must see
them all. They'll be enchanted.

He was going to summon them when my guardian interposed and asked
him to pause a momentas he wished to say a word to him first.
My dear Jarndyce,he cheerfully repliedgoing back to his sofa
as many moments as you please. Time is no object here. We never
know what o'clock it is, and we never care. Not the way to get on
in life, you'll tell me? Certainly. But we DON'T get on in life.
We don't pretend to do it.

My guardian looked at us againplainly sayingYou hear him?

Now, Harold,he beganthe word I have to say relates to Rick.

The dearest friend I have!returned Mr. Skimpole cordially. "I
suppose he ought not to be my dearest friendas he is not on terms
with you. But he isI can't help it; he is full of youthful
poetryand I love him. If you don't like itI can't help it.
love him."

The engaging frankness with which he made this declaration really
had a disinterested appearance and captivated my guardianif not
for the momentAda too.

You are welcome to love him as much as you like,returned Mr.
Jarndycebut we must save his pocket, Harold.

Oh!said Mr. Skimpole. "His pocket? Now you are coming to what
I don't understand." Taking a little more claret and dipping one
of the cakes in ithe shook his head and smiled at Ada and me with
an ingenuous foreboding that he never could be made to understand.

If you go with him here or there,said my guardian plainlyyou
must not let him pay for both.

My dear Jarndyce,returned Mr. Skimpolehis genial face
irradiated by the comicality of this ideawhat am I to do? If he
takes me anywhere, I must go. And how can I pay? I never have any
money. If I had any money, I don't know anything about it.
Suppose I say to a man, how much? Suppose the man says to me seven
and sixpence? I know nothing about seven and sixpence. It is
impossible for me to pursue the subject with any consideration for
the man. I don't go about asking busy people what seven and
sixpence is in Moorish--which I don't understand. Why should I go
about asking them what seven and sixpence is in Money--which I
don't understand?

Well,said my guardianby no means displeased with this artless
replyif you come to any kind of journeying with Rick, you must
borrow the money of me (never breathing the least allusion to that
circumstance), and leave the calculation to him.

My dear Jarndyce,returned Mr. SkimpoleI will do anything to
give you pleasure, but it seems an idle form--a superstition.
Besides, I give you my word, Miss Clare and my dear Miss Summerson,
I thought Mr. Carstone was immensely rich. I thought he had only
to make over something, or to sign a bond, or a draft, or a cheque,
or a bill, or to put something on a file somewhere, to bring down a
shower of money.

Indeed it is not so, sir,said Ada. "He is poor."

No, really?returned Mr. Skimpole with his bright smile. "You


surprise me.

And not being the richer for trusting in a rotten reed,said my
guardianlaying his hand emphatically on the sleeve of Mr.
Skimpole's dressing-gownbe you very careful not to encourage him
in that reliance, Harold.

My dear good friend,returned Mr. Skimpoleand my dear Miss
Siunmerson, and my dear Miss Clare, how can I do that? It's
business, and I don't know business. It is he who encourages me.
He emerges from great feats of business, presents the brightest
prospects before me as their result, and calls upon me to admire
them. I do admire them--as bright prospects. But I know no more
about them, and I tell him so.

The helpless kind of candour with which he presented this before
usthe light-hearted manner in which he was amused by his
innocencethe fantastic way in which he took himself under his own
protection and argued about that curious personcombined with the
delightful ease of everything he said exactly to make out my
guardian's case. The more I saw of himthe more unlikely it
seemed to mewhen he was presentthat he could designconceal
or influence anything; and yet the less likely that appeared when
he was not presentand the less agreeable it was to think of his
having anything to do with any one for whom I cared.

Hearing that his examination (as he called it) was now overMr.
Skimpole left the room with a radiant face to fetch his daughters
(his sons had run away at various times)leaving my guardian quite
delighted by the manner in which he had vindicated his childish
character. He soon came backbringing with him the three young
ladies and Mrs. Skimpolewho had once been a beauty but was now a
delicate high-nosed invalid suffering under a complication of
disorders.

This,said Mr. Skimpoleis my Beauty daughter, Arethusa--plays
and sings odds and ends like her father. This is my Sentiment
daughter, Laura--plays a little but don't sing. This is my Comedy
daughter, Kitty--sings a little but don't play. We all draw a
little and compose a little, and none of us have any idea of time
or money.

Mrs. Skimpole sighedI thoughtas if she would have been glad to
strike out this item in the family attainments. I also thought
that she rather impressed her sigh upon my guardian and that she
took every opportunity of throwing in another.

It is pleasant,said Mr. Skimpoleturning his sprightly eyes
from one to the other of usand it is whimsically interesting to
trace peculiarities in families. In this family we are all
children, and I am the youngest.

The daughterswho appeared to be very fond of himwere amused by
this droll factparticularly the Comedy daughter.

My dears, it is true,said Mr. Skimpoleis it not? So it is,
and so it must be, because like the dogs in the hymn, 'it is our
nature to.' Now, here is Miss Summerson with a fine administrative
capacity and a knowledge of details perfectly surprising. It will
sound very strange in Miss Summerson's ears, I dare say, that we
know nothing about chops in this house. But we don't, not the
least. We can't cook anything whatever. A needle and thread we
don't know how to use. We admire the people who possess the
practical wisdom we want, but we don't quarrel with them. Then why


should they quarrel with us? Live and let live, we say to them.
Live upon your practical wisdom, and let us live upon you!

He laughedbut as usual seemed quite candid and really to mean
what he said.

We have sympathy, my roses,said Mr. Skimpolesympathy for
everything. Have we not?

Oh, yes, papa!cried the three daughters.

In fact, that is our family department,said Mr. Skimpolein
this hurly-burly of life. We are capable of looking on and of
being interested, and we DO look on, and we ARE interested. What
more can we do? Here is my Beauty daughter, married these three
years. Now I dare say her marrying another child, and having two
more, was all wrong in point of political economy, but it was very
agreeable. We had our little festivities on those occasions and
exchanged social ideas. She brought her young husband home one
day, and they and their young fledglings have their nest upstairs.
I dare say at some time or other Sentiment and Comedy will bring
THEIR husbands home and have THEIR nests upstairs too. So we get
on, we don't know how, but somehow.

She looked very young indeed to be the mother of two childrenand
I could not help pitying both her and them. It was evident that
the three daughters had grown up as they could and had had just as
little haphazard instruction as qualified them to be their father's
playthings in his idlest hours. His pictorial tastes were
consultedI observedin their respective styles of wearing their
hairthe Beauty daughter being in the classic mannerthe
Sentiment daughter luxuriant and flowingand the Comedy daughter
in the arch stylewith a good deal of sprightly foreheadand
vivacious little curls dotted about the corners of her eyes. They
were dressed to correspondthough in a most untidy and negligent
way.

Ada and I conversed with these young ladies and found them
wonderfully like their father. In the meanwhile Mr. Jarndyce (who
had been rubbing his head to a great extentand hinted at a change
in the wind) talked with Mrs. Skimpole in a cornerwhere we could
not help hearing the chink of money. Mr. Skimpole had previously
volunteered to go home with us and had withdrawn to dress himself
for the purpose.

My roses,he said when he came backtake care of mama. She is
poorly to-day. By going home with Mr. Jarndyce for a day or two, I
shall hear the larks sing and preserve my amiability. It has been
tried, you know, and would be tried again if I remained at home.

That bad man!said the Comedy daughter.

At the very time when he knew papa was lying ill by his
wallflowers, looking at the blue sky,Laura complained.

And when the smell of hay was in the air!said Arethusa.

It showed a want of poetry in the man,Mr. Skimpole assentedbut
with perfect good humour. "It was coarse. There was an absence of
the finer touches of humanity in it! My daughters have taken great
offence he explained to us, at an honest man--"

Not honest, papa. Impossible!they all three protested.


At a rough kind of fellow--a sort of human hedgehog rolled up,
said Mr. Skimpolewho is a baker in this neighbourhood and from
whom we borrowed a couple of armchairs. We wanted a couple of armchairs,
and we hadn't got them, and therefore of course we looked
to a man who HAD got them, to lend them. Well! This morose person
lent them, and we wore them out. When they were worn out, he
wanted them back. He had them back. He was contented, you will
say. Not at all. He objected to their being worn. I reasoned
with him, and pointed out his mistake. I said, 'Can you, at your
time of life, be so headstrong, my friend, as to persist that an
arm-chair is a thing to put upon a shelf and look at? That it is
an object to contemplate, to survey from a distance, to consider
from a point of sight? Don't you KNOW that these arm-chairs were
borrowed to be sat upon?' He was unreasonable and unpersuadable
and used intemperate language. Being as patient as I am at this
minute, I addressed another appeal to him. I said, 'Now, my good
man, however our business capacities may vary, we are all children
of one great mother, Nature. On this blooming summer morning here
you see me' (I was on the sofa) 'with flowers before me, fruit upon
the table, the cloudless sky above me, the air full of fragrance,
contemplating Nature. I entreat you, by our common brotherhood,
not to interpose between me and a subject so sublime, the absurd
figure of an angry baker!' But he did,said Mr. Skimpoleraising
his laughing eyes in playful astonishinent; "he did interpose that
ridiculous figureand he doesand he will again. And therefore I
am very glad to get out of his way and to go home with my friend
Jarndyce."

It seemed to escape his consideration that Mrs. Skimpole and the
daughters remained behind to encounter the bakerbut this was so
old a story to all of them that it had become a matter of course.
He took leave of his family with a tenderness as airy and graceful
as any other aspect in which he showed himself and rode away with
us in perfect harmony of mind. We had an opportunity of seeing
through some open doorsas we went downstairsthat his own
apartment was a palace to the rest of the house.

I could have no anticipationand I had nonethat something very
startling to me at the momentand ever memorable to me in what
ensued from itwas to happen before this day was out. Our guest
was in such spirits on the way home that I could do nothing but
listen to him and wonder at him; nor was I alone in thisfor Ada
yielded to the same fascination. As to my guardianthe wind
which had threatened to become fixed in the east when we left
Somers Townveered completely round before we were a couple of
miles from it.

Whether of questionable childishness or not in any other matters
Mr. Skimpole had a child's enjoyment of change and bright weather.
In no way wearied by his sallies on the roadhe was in the
drawing-room before any of us; and I heard him at the piano while I
was yet looking after my housekeepingsinging refrains of
barcaroles and drinking songsItalian and Germanby the score.

We were all assembled shortly before dinnerand he was still at
the piano idly picking out in his luxurious way little strains of
musicand talking between whiles of finishing some sketches of the
ruined old Verulam wall to-morrowwhich he had begun a year or two
ago and had got tired ofwhen a card was brought in and my
guardian read aloud in a surprised voiceSir Leicester Dedlock!

The visitor was in the room while it was yet turning round with me
and before I had the power to stir. If I had had itI should have
hurried away. I had not even the presence of mindin my


giddinessto retire to Ada in the windowor to see the windowor
to know where it was. I heard my name and found that my guardian
was presenting me before I could move to a chair.

Pray be seated, Sir Leicester.

Mr. Jarndyce,said Sir Leicester in reply as he bowed and seated
himselfI do myself the honour of calling here--

You do ME the honour, Sir Leicester.

Thank you--of calling here on my road from Lincolnshire to express
my regret that any cause of complaint, however strong, that I may
have against a gentleman who--who is known to you and has been your
host, and to whom therefore I will make no farther reference,
should have prevented you, still more ladies under your escort and
charge, from seeing whatever little there may be to gratify a
polite and refined taste at my house, Chesney Wold.

You are exceedingly obliging, Sir Leicester, and on behalf of
those ladies (who are present) and for myself, I thank you very
much.

It is possible, Mr. Jarndyce, that the gentleman to whom, for the
reasons I have mentioned, I refrain from making further allusion-it
is possible, Mr. Jarndyce, that that gentleman may have done me
the honour so far to misapprehend my character as to induce you to
believe that you would not have been received by my local
establishment in Lincolnshire with that urbanity, that courtesy,
which its members are instructed to show to all ladies and
gentlemen who present themselves at that house. I merely beg to
observe, sir, that the fact is the reverse.

My guardian delicately dismissed this remark without making any
verbal answer.

It has given me pain, Mr. Jarndyce,Sir Leicester weightily
proceeded. "I assure yousirit has given--me--pain--to learn
from the housekeeper at Chesney Wold that a gentleman who was in
your company in that part of the countyand who would appear to
possess a cultivated taste for the fine artswas likewise deterred
by some such cause from examining the family pictures with that
leisurethat attentionthat carewhich he might have desired to
bestow upon them and which some of them might possibly have
repaid." Here he produced a card and readwith much gravity and a
little troublethrough his eye-glassMr. Hirrold--Herald-Harold--
Skampling--Skumpling--I beg your pardon--Skimpole.

This is Mr. Harold Skimpole,said my guardianevidently
surprised.

Oh!exclaimed Sir LeicesterI am happy to meet Mr. Skimpole and
to have the opportunity of tendering my personal regrets. I hope,
sir, that when you again find yourself in my part of the county,
you will be under no similar sense of restraint.

You are very obliging, Sir Leicester Dedlock. So encouraged, I
shall certainly give myself the pleasure and advantage of another
visit to your beautiful house. The owners of such places as
Chesney Wold,said Mr. Skimpole with his usual happy and easy air
are public benefactors. They are good enough to maintain a number
of delightful objects for the admiration and pleasure of us poor
men; and not to reap all the admiration and pleasure that they
yield is to be ungrateful to our benefactors.


Sir Leicester seemed to approve of this sentiment highly. "An
artistsir?"

No,returned Mr. Skimpole. "A perfectly idle man. A mere
amateur."

Sir Leicester seemed to approve of this even more. He hoped he
might have the good fortune to be at Chesney Wold when Mr. Skimpole
next came down into Lincolnshire. Mr. Skimpole professed himself
much flattered and honoured.

Mr. Skimpole mentioned,pursued Sir Leicesteraddressing himself
again to my guardianmentioned to the house-keeper, who, as he
may have observed, is an old and attached retainer of the family--

("That iswhen I walked through the house the other dayon the
occasion of my going down to visit Miss Summerson and Miss Clare
Mr. Skimpole airily explained to us.)

--That the friend with whom he had formerly been staying there was
Mr. Jarndyce." Sir Leicester bowed to the bearer of that name.
And hence I became aware of the circumstance for which I have
professed my regret. That this should have occurred to any
gentleman, Mr. Jarndyce, but especially a gentleman formerly known
to Lady Dedlock, and indeed claiming some distant connexion with
her, and for whom (as I learn from my Lady herself) she entertains
a high respect, does, I assure you, give--me--pain.

Pray say no more about it, Sir Leicester,returned my guardian.
I am very sensible, as I am sure we all are, of your
consideration. Indeed the mistake was mine, and I ought to
apologize for it.

I had not once looked up. I had not seen the visitor and had not
even appeared to myself to hear the conversation. It surprises me
to find that I can recall itfor it seemed to make no impression
on me as it passed. I heard them speakingbut my mind was so
confused and my instinctive avoidance of this gentleman made his
presence so distressing to me that I thought I understood nothing
through the rushing in my head and the beating of my heart.

I mentioned the subject to Lady Dedlock,said Sir Leicester
risingand my Lady informed me that she had had the pleasure of
exchanging a few words with Mr. Jarndyce and his wards on the
occasion of an accidental meeting during their sojourn in the
vicinity. Permit me, Mr. Jarndyce, to repeat to yourself, and to
these ladies, the assurance I have already tendered to Mr.
Skimpole. Circumstances undoubtedly prevent my saying that it
would afford me any gratification to hear that Mr. Boythorn had
favoured my house with his presence, but those circumstances are
confined to that gentleman himself and do not extend beyond him.

You know my old opinion of him,said Mr. Skimpolelightly
appealing to us. "An amiable bull who is detenined to make every
colour scarlet!"

Sir Leicester Dedlock coughed as if he could not possibly hear
another word in reference to such an individual and took his leave
with great ceremony and politeness. I got to my own room with all
possible speed and remained there until I had recovered my self-
command. It had been very much disturbedbut I was thankful to
find when I went downstairs again that they only rallied me for
having been shy and mute before the great Lincolnshire baronet.


By that time I had made up my mind that the period was come when I
must tell my guardian what I knew. The possibility of my being
brought into contact with my motherof my being taken to her
houseeven of Mr. Skimpole'showever distantly associated with
mereceiving kindnesses and obligations from her husbandwas so
painful that I felt I could no longer guide myself without his
assistance.

When we had retired for the nightand Ada and I had had our usual
talk in our pretty roomI went out at my door again and sought my
guardian among his books. I knew he always read at that hourand
as I drew near I saw the light shining out into the passage from
his reading-lamp.

May I come in, guardian?

Surely, little woman. What's the matter?

Nothing is the matter. I thought I would like to take this quiet
time of saying a word to you about myself.

He put a chair for meshut his bookand put it byand turned his
kind attentive face towards me. I could not help observing that it
wore that curious expression I had observed in it once before--on
that night when he had said that he was in no trouble which I could
readily understand.

What concerns you, my dear Esther,said heconcerns us all.
You cannot be more ready to speak than I am to hear.

I know that, guardian. But I have such need of your advice and
support. Oh! You don't know how much need I have to-night.

He looked unprepared for my being so earnestand even a little
alarmed.

Or how anxious I have been to speak to you,said Iever since
the visitor was here to-day.

The visitor, my dear! Sir Leicester Dedlock?

Yes.

He folded his arms and sat looking at me with an air of the
profoundest astonishmentawaiting what I should say next. I did
not know how to prepare him.

Why, Esther,said hebreaking into a smileour visitor and you
are the two last persons on earth I should have thought of
connecting together!

Oh, yes, guardian, I know it. And I too, but a little while ago.

The smile passed from his faceand he became graver than before.
He crossed to the door to see that it was shut (but I had seen to
that) and resumed his seat before me.

Guardian,said Ido you remensher, when we were overtaken by
the thunder-storm, Lady Dedlock's speaking to you of her sister?

Of course. Of course I do.

And reminding you that she and her sister had differed, had gone


their several ways?

Of course.

Why did they separate, guardian?

His face quite altered as he looked at me. "My childwhat
questions are these! I never knew. No one but themselves ever did
knowI believe. Who could tell what the secrets of those two
handsome and proud women were! You have seen Lady Dedlock. If you
had ever seen her sisteryou would know her to have been as
resolute and haughty as she."

Oh, guardian, I have seen her many and many a time!

Seen her?

He paused a littlebiting his lip. "ThenEstherwhen you spoke
to me long ago of Boythornand when I told you that he was all but
married onceand that the lady did not diebut died to himand
that that time had had its influence on his later life--did you
know it alland know who the lady was?"

No, guardian,I returnedfearful of the light that dimly broke
upon me. "Nor do I know yet."

Lady Dedlock's sister.

And why,I could scarcely ask himwhy, guardian, pray tell me
why were THEY parted?

It was her act, and she kept its motives in her inflexible heart.
He afterwards did conjecture (but it was mere conjecture) that some
injury which her haughty spirit had received in her cause of
quarrel with her sister had wounded her beyond all reason, but she
wrote him that from the date of that letter she died to him--as in
literal truth she did--and that the resolution was exacted from her
by her knowledge of his proud temper and his strained sense of
honour, which were both her nature too. In consideration for those
master points in him, and even in consideration for them in
herself, she made the sacrifice, she said, and would live in it and
die in it. She did both, I fear; certainly he never saw her, never
heard of her from that hour. Nor did any one.

Oh, guardian, what have I done!I criedgiving way to my grief;
what sorrow have I innocently caused!

You caused, Esther?

Yes, guardian. Innocently, but most surely. That secluded sister
is my first remembrance.

No, no!he criedstarting.

Yes, guardian, yes! And HER sister is my mother!

I would have told him all my mother's letterbut he would not hear
it then. He spoke so tenderly and wisely to meand he put so
plainly before me all I had myself imperfectly thought and hoped in
my better state of mindthatpenetrated as I had been with
fervent gratitude towards him through so many yearsI believed I
had never loved him so dearlynever thanked him in my heart so
fullyas I did that night. And when he had taken me to my room
and kissed me at the doorand when at last I lay down to sleepmy


thought was how could I ever be busy enoughhow could I ever be
good enoughhow in my little way could I ever hope to be forgetful
enough of myselfdevoted enough to himand useful enough to
othersto show him how I blessed and honoured him.

CHAPTER XLIV

The Letter and the Answer

My guardian called me into his room next morningand then I told
him what had been left untold on the previous night. There was
nothing to be donehe saidbut to keep the secret and to avoid
another such encounter as that of yesterday. He understood my
feeling and entirely shared it. He charged himself even with
restraining Mr. Skimpole from improving his opportunity. One
person whom he need not name to meit was not now possible for him
to advise or help. He wished it werebut no such thing could be.
If her mistrust of the lawyer whom she had mentioned were well-
foundedwhich he scarcely doubtedhe dreaded discovery. He knew
something of himboth by sight and by reputationand it was
certain that he was a dangerous man. Whatever happenedhe
repeatedly impressed upon me with anxious affection and kindnessI
was as innocent of as himself and as unable to influence.

Nor do I understand,said hethat any doubts tend towards you,
my dear. Much suspicion may exist without that connexion.

With the lawyer,I returned. "But two other persons have come
into my mind since I have been anxious. Then I told him all about
Mr. Guppywho I feared might have had his vague surmises when I
little understood his meaningbut in whose silence after our last
interview I expressed perfect confidence.

Well,said my guardian. "Then we may dismiss him for the
present. Who is the other?"

I called to his recollection the French maid and the eager offer of
herself she had made to me.

Ha!he returned thoughtfully. "That is a more alarming person
than the clerk. But after allmy dearit was but seeking for a
new service. She had seen you and Ada a little while beforeand
it was natural that you should come into her head. She merely
proposed herself for your maidyou know. She did nothing more."

Her manner was strange,said I.

Yes, and her manner was strange when she took her shoes off and
showed that cool relish for a walk that might have ended in her
death-bed,said my guardian. "It would be useless self-distress
and torment to reckon up such chances and possibilities. There are
very few harmless circumstances that would not seem full of
perilous meaningso considered. Be hopefullittle woman. You
can be nothing better than yourself; be thatthrough this
knowledgeas you were before you had it. It is the best you can
do for everybody's sake. Isharing the secret with you--"

And lightening it, guardian, so much,said I.

--will be attentive to what passes in that family, so far as I can
observe it from my distance. And if the time should come when I


can stretch out a hand to render the least service to one whom it
is better not to name even here, I will not fail to do it for her
dear daughter's sake.

I thanked him with my whole heart. What could I ever do but thank
him! I was going out at the door when he asked me to stay a
moment. Quickly turning roundI saw that same expression on his
face again; and all at onceI don't know howit flashed upon me
as a new and far-off possibility that I understood it.

My dear Esther,said my guardianI have long had something in
my thoughts that I have wished to say to you.

Indeed?

I have had some difficulty in approaching it, and I still have. I
should wish it to be so deliberately said, and so deliberately
considered. Would you object to my writing it?

Dear guardian, how could I object to your writing anything for ME
to read?

Then see, my love,said he with his cheery smileam I at this
moment quite as plain and easy--do I seem as open, as honest and
old-fashioned--as I am at any time?

I answered in all earnestnessQuite.With the strictest truth
for his momentary hesitation was gone (it had not lasted a minute)
and his finesensiblecordialsterling manner was restored.

Do I look as if I suppressed anything, meant anything but what I
said, had any reservation at all, no matter what?said he with his
bright clear eyes on mine.

I answeredmost assuredly he did not.

Can you fully trust me, and thoroughly rely on what I profess,
Esther?

Most thoroughly,said I with my whole heart.

My dear girl,returned my guardiangive me your hand.

He took it in hisholding me lightly with his armand looking
down into my face with the same genuine freshness and faithfulness
of manner--the old protecting manner which had made that house my
home in a moment--saidYou have wrought changes in me, little
woman, since the winter day in the stage-coach. First and last you
have done me a world of good since that time.

Ah, guardian, what have you done for me since that time!

But,said hethat is not to be remembered now.

It never can be forgotten.

Yes, Esther,said he with a gentle seriousnessit is to be
forgotten now, to be forgotten for a while. You are only to
remember now that nothing can change me as you know me. Can you
feel quite assured of that, my dear?

I can, and I do,I said.

That's much,he answered. "That's everything. But I must not


take that at a word. I will not write this something in my
thoughts until you have quite resolved within yourself that nothing
can change me as you know me. If you doubt that in the least
degreeI will never write it. If you are sure of thaton good
considerationsend Charley to me this night week--'for the
letter.' But if you are not quite certainnever send. MindI
trust to your truthin this thing as in everything. If you are
not quite certain on that one pointnever send!"

Guardian,said II am already certain, I can no more be changed
in that conviction than you can be changed towards me. I shall
send Charley for the letter.

He shook my hand and said no more. Nor was any more said in
reference to this conversationeither by him or methrough the
whole week. When the appointed night cameI said to Charley as
soon as I was aloneGo and knock at Mr. Jarndyce's door, Charley,
and say you have come from me--'for the letter.'Charley went up
the stairsand down the stairsand along the passages--the zigzag
way about the old-fashioned house seemed very long in my
listening ears that night--and so came backalong the passages
and down the stairsand up the stairsand brought the letter.
Lay it on the table, Charley,said I. So Charley laid it on the
table and went to bedand I sat looking at it without taking it
upthinking of many things.

I began with my overshadowed childhoodand passed through those
timid days to the heavy time when my aunt lay deadwith her
resolute face so cold and setand when I was more solitary with
Mrs. Rachael than if I had had no one in the world to speak to or
to look at. I passed to the altered days when I was so blest as to
find friends in all around meand to be beloved. I came to the
time when I first saw my dear girl and was received into that
sisterly affection which was the grace and beauty of my life. I
recalled the first bright gleam of welcome which had shone out of
those very windows upon our expectant faces on that cold bright
nightand which had never paled. I lived my happy life there over
againI went through my illness and recoveryI thought of myself
so altered and of those around me so unchanged; and all this
happiness shone like a light from one central figurerepresented
before me by the letter on the table.

I opened it and read it. It was so impressive in its love for me
and in the unselfish caution it gave meand the consideration it
showed for me in every wordthat my eyes were too often blinded to
read much at a time. But I read it through three times before I
laid it down. I had thought beforehand that I knew its purport
and I did. It asked mewould I be the mistress of Bleak House.

It was not a love letterthough it expressed so much lovebut was
written just as he would at any time have spoken to me. I saw his
faceand heard his voiceand felt the influence of his kind
protecting manner in every line. It addressed me as if our places
were reversedas if all the good deeds had been mine and all the
feelings they had awakened his. It dwelt on my being youngand he
past the prime of life; on his having attained a ripe agewhile I
was a child; on his writing to me with a silvered headand knowing
all this so well as to set it in full before me for mature
deliberation. It told me that I would gain nothing by such a
marriage and lose nothing by rejecting itfor no new relation
could enhance the tenderness in which he held meand whatever my
decision washe was certain it would be right. But he had
considered this step anew since our late confidence and had decided
on taking itif it only served to show me through one poor


instance that the whole world would readily unite to falsify the
stern prediction of my childhood. I was the last to know what
happiness I could bestow upon himbut of that he said no morefor
I was always to remember that I owed him nothing and that he was my
debtorand for very much. He had often thought of our futureand
foreseeing that the time must comeand fearing that it might come
soonwhen Ada (now very nearly of age) would leave usand when
our present mode of life must be broken uphad become accustomed
to reflect on this proposal. Thus he made it. If I felt that I
could ever give him the best right he could have to be my
protectorand if I felt that I could happily and justly become the
dear companion of his remaining lifesuperior to all lighter
chances and changes than deatheven then he could not have me bind
myself irrevocably while this letter was yet so new to mebut even
then I must have ample time for reconsideration. In that caseor
in the opposite caselet him be unchanged in his old relationin
his old mannerin the old name by which I called him. And as to
his bright Dame Durden and little housekeepershe would ever be
the samehe knew.

This was the substance of the letterwritten throughout with a
justice and a dignity as if he were indeed my responsible guardian
impartially representing the proposal of a friend against whom in
his integrity he stated the full case.

But he did not hint to me that when I had been better looking he
had had this same proceeding in his thoughts and had refrained from
it. That when my old face was gone from meand I had no
attractionshe could love me just as well as in my fairer days.
That the discovery of my birth gave him no shock. That his
generosity rose above my disfigurement and my inheritance of shame.
That the more I stood in need of such fidelitythe more firmly I
might trust in him to the last.

But I knew itI knew it well now. It came upon me as the close of
the benignant history I had been pursuingand I felt that I had
but one thing to do. To devote my life to his happiness was to
thank him poorlyand what had I wished for the other night but
some new means of thanking him?

Still I cried very muchnot only in the fullness of my heart after
reading the letternot only in the strangeness of the prospect-for
it was strange though I had expected the contents--but as if
something for which there was no name or distinct idea were
indefinitely lost to me. I was very happyvery thankfulvery
hopeful; but I cried very much.

By and by I went to my old glass. My eyes were red and swollen
and I saidOh, Esther, Esther, can that be you!I am afraid the
face in the glass was going to cry again at this reproachbut I
held up my finger at itand it stopped.

That is more like the composed look you comforted me with, my
dear, when you showed me such a change!said Ibeginning to let
down my hair. "When you are mistress of Bleak Houseyou are to be
as cheerful as a bird. In factyou are always to be cheerful; so
let us begin for once and for all."

I went on with my hair nowquite comfortably. I sobbed a little
stillbut that was because I had been cryingnot because I was
crying then.

And so Esther, my dear, you are happy for life. Happy with your
best friends, happy in your old home, happy in the power of doing a


great deal of good, and happy in the undeserved love of the best of
men.

I thoughtall at onceif my guardian had married some one else
how should I have feltand what should I have done! That would
have been a change indeed. It presented my life in such a new and
blank form that I rang my housekeeping keys and gave them a kiss
before I laid them down in their basket again.

Then I went on to thinkas I dressed my hair before the glasshow
often had I considered within myself that the deep traces of my
illness and the circumstances of my birth were only new reasons why
I should be busybusybusy--usefulamiableserviceablein all
honestunpretending ways. This was a good timeto be sureto
sit down morbidly and cry! As to its seeming at all strange to me
at first (if that were any excuse for cryingwhich it was not)
that I was one day to be the mistress of Bleak Housewhy should it
seem strange? Other people had thought of such thingsif I had
not. "Don't you remembermy plain dear I asked myself, looking
at the glass, what Mrs. Woodcourt said before those scars were
there about your marrying--"

Perhaps the name brought them to my remembrance. The dried remains
of the flowers. It would be better not to keep them now. They had
only been preserved in memory of something wholly past and gone
but it would be better not to keep them now.

They were in a bookand it happened to be in the next room--our
sitting-roomdividing Ada's chamber from mine. I took a candle
and went softly in to fetch it from its shelf. After I had it in
my handI saw my beautiful darlingthrough the open doorlying
asleepand I stole in to kiss her.

It was weak in meI knowand I could have no reason for crying;
but I dropped a tear upon her dear faceand anotherand another.
Weaker than thatI took the withered flowers out and put them for
a moment to her lips. I thought about her love for Richard
thoughindeedthe flowers had nothing to do with that. Then I
took them into my own room and burned them at the candleand they
were dust in an instant.

On entering the breakfast-room next morningI found my guardian
just as usualquite as frankas openand free. There being not
the least constraint in his mannerthere was none (or I think
there was none) in mine. I was with him several times in the
course of the morningin and outwhen there was no one thereand
I thought it not unlikely that he might speak to me about the
letterbut he did not say a word.

Soon the next morningand the nextand for at least a week
over which time Mr. Skimpole prolonged his stay. I expectedevery
daythat my guardian might speak to me about the letterbut he
never did.

I thought thengrowing uneasythat I ought to write an answer. I
tried over and over again in my own room at nightbut I could not
write an answer that at all began like a good answerso I thought
each night I would wait one more day. And I waited seven more
daysand he never said a word.

At lastMr. Skimpole having departedwe three were one afternoon
going out for a ride; and Ibeing dressed before Ada and going
downcame upon my guardianwith his back towards mestanding at
the drawing-room window looking out.


He turned on my coming in and saidsmilingAye, it's you, little
woman, is it?and looked out again.

I had made up my mind to speak to him now. In shortI had come
down on purpose. "Guardian I said, rather hesitating and
trembling, when would you like to have the answer to the letter
Charley came for?"

When it's ready, my dear,he replied.

I think it is ready,said I.

Is Charley to bring it?he asked pleasantly.

No. I have brought it myself, guardian,I returned.

I put my two arms round his neck and kissed himand he said was
this the mistress of Bleak Houseand I said yes; and it made no
difference presentlyand we all went out togetherand I said
nothing to my precious pet about it.

CHAPTER XLV

In Trust

One morning when I had done jingling about with my baskets of keys
as my beauty and I were walking round and round the garden I
happened to turn my eyes towards the house and saw a long thin
shadow going in which looked like Mr. Vholes. Ada had been telling
me only that morning of her hopes that Richard might exhaust his
ardour in the Chancery suit by being so very earnest in it; and
thereforenot to damp my dear girl's spiritsI said nothing about
Mr. Vholes's shadow.

Presently came Charleylightly winding among the bushes and
tripping along the pathsas rosy and pretty as one of Flora's
attendants instead of my maidsayingOh, if you please, miss,
would you step and speak to Mr. Jarndyce!

It was one of Charley's peculiarities that whenever she was charged
with a message she always began to deliver it as soon as she
beheldat any distancethe person for whom it was intended.
Therefore I saw Charley asking me in her usual form of words to
step and speakto Mr. Jarndyce long before I heard her. And when
I did hear hershe had said it so often that she was out of
breath.

I told Ada I would make haste back and inquired of Charley as we
went in whether there was not a gentleman with Mr. Jarndyce. To
which Charleywhose grammarI confess to my shamenever did any
credit to my educational powersrepliedYes, miss. Him as come
down in the country with Mr. Richard.

A more complete contrast than my guardian and Mr. Vholes I suppose
there could not be. I found them looking at one another across a
tablethe one so open and the other so closethe one so broad and
upright and the other so narrow and stoopingthe one giving out
what he had to say in such a rich ringing voice and the other
keeping it in in such a cold-bloodedgaspingfish-like manner
that I thought I never had seen two people so unmatched.


You know Mr. Vholes, my dear,said my guardian. Not with the
greatest urbanityI must say.

Mr. Vholes rosegloved and buttoned up as usualand seated
himself againjust as he had seated himself beside Richard in the
gig. Not having Richard to look athe looked straight before him.

Mr. Vholes,said my guardianeyeing his black figure as if he
were a bird of ill omenhas brought an ugly report of our most
unfortunate Rick.Laying a marked emphasis on "most unfortunate"
as if the words were rather descriptive of his connexion with Mr.
Vholes.

I sat down between them; Mr. Vholes remained immovableexcept that
he secretly picked at one of the red pimples on his yellow face
with his black glove.

And as Rick and you are happily good friends, I should like to
know,said my guardianwhat you think, my dear. Would you be so
good as to--as to speak up, Mr. Vholes?

Doing anything but thatMr. Vholes observedI have been saying
that I have reason to know, Miss Summerson, as Mr. C.'s
professional adviser, that Mr. C.'s circumstances are at the
present moment in an embarrassed state. Not so much in point of
amount as owing to the peculiar and pressing nature of liabilities
Mr. C. has incurred and the means he has of liquidating or meeting
the same. I have staved off many little matters for Mr. C., but
there is a limit to staving off, and we have reached it. I have
made some advances out of pocket to accommodate these
unpleasantnesses, but I necessarily look to being repaid, for I do
not pretend to be a man of capital, and I have a father to support
in the Vale of Taunton, besides striving to realize some little
independence for three dear girls at home. My apprehension is, Mr.
C.'s circumstances being such, lest it should end in his obtaining
leave to part with his commission, which at all events is desirable
to be made known to his connexions.

Mr. Vholeswho had looked at me while speakinghere emerged into
the silence he could hardly be said to have brokenso stifled was
his toneand looked before him again.

Imagine the poor fellow without even his present resource,said
my guardian to me. "Yet what can I do? You know himEsther. He
would never accept of help from me now. To offer it or hint at it
would be to drive him to an extremityif nothing else did."

Mr. Vholes hereupon addressed me again.

What Mr. Jarndyce remarks, miss, is no doubt the case, and is the
difficulty. I do not see that anything is to be done, I do not say
that anything is to be done. Far from it. I merely come down here
under the seal of confidence and mention it in order that
everything may be openly carried on and that it may not be said
afterwards that everything was not openly carried on. My wish is
that everything should be openly carried on. I desire to leave a
good name behind me. If I consulted merely my own interests with
Mr. C., I should not be here. So insurmountable, as you must well
know, would be his objections. This is not a professional
attendance. This can he charged to nobody. I have no interest in
it except as a member of society and a father--AND a son,said Mr.
Vholeswho had nearly forgotten that point.


It appeared to us that Mr. Vholes said neither more nor less than
the truth in intimating that he sought to divide the
responsibilitysuch as it wasof knowing Richard's situation.
could only suggest that I should go down to Dealwhere Richard was
then stationedand see himand try if it were possible to avert
the worst. Without consulting Mr. Vholes on this pointI took my
guardian aside to propose itwhile Mr. Vholes gauntly stalked to
the fire and warmed his funeral gloves.

The fatigue of the journey formed an immediate objection on my
guardian's partbut as I saw he had no otherand as I was only
too happy to goI got his consent. We had then merely to dispose
of Mr. Vholes.

Well, sir,said Mr. JarndyceMiss Summerson will communicate
with Mr. Carstone, and you can only hope that his position may be
yet retrievable. You will allow me to order you lunch after your
journey, sir.

I thank you, Mr. Jarndyce,said Mr. Vholesputting out his long
black sleeve to check the ringing of the bellnot any. I thank
you, no, not a morsel. My digestion is much impaired, and I am but
a poor knife and fork at any time. If I was to partake of solid
food at this period of the day, I don't know what the consequences
might be. Everything having been openly carried on, sir, I will
now with your permission take my leave.

And I would that you could take your leave, and we could all take
our leave, Mr. Vholes,returned my guardian bitterlyof a cause
you know of.

Mr. Vholeswhose black dye was so deep from head to foot that it
had quite steamed before the firediffusing a very unpleasant
perfumemade a short one-sided inclination of his head from the
neck and slowly shook it.

We whose ambition it is to be looked upon in the light of
respectable practitioners, sir, can but put our shoulders to the
wheel. We do it, sir. At least, I do it myself; and I wish to
think well of my professional brethren, one and all. You are
sensible of an obligation not to refer to me, miss, in
communicating with Mr. C.?

I said I would be careful not to do it.

Just so, miss. Good morning. Mr. Jarndyce, good morning, sir.
Mr. Vholes put his dead glovewhich scarcely seemed to have any
hand in iton my fingersand then on my guardian's fingersand
took his long thin shadow away. I thought of it on the outside of
the coachpassing over all the sunny landscape between us and
Londonchilling the seed in the ground as it glided along.

Of course it became necessary to tell Ada where I was going and why
I was goingand of course she was anxious and distressed. But she
was too true to Richard to say anything but words of pity and words
of excuseand in a more loving spirit still--my dear devoted
girl!--she wrote him a long letterof which I took charge.

Charley was to be my travelling companionthough I am sure I
wanted none and would willingly have left her at home. We all went
to London that afternoonand finding two places in the mail
secured them. At our usual bed-timeCharley and I were rolling
away seaward with the Kentish letters.


It was a night's journey in those coach timesbut we had the mail
to ourselves and did not find the night very tedious. It passed
with me as I suppose it would with most people under such
circumstances. At one while my journey looked hopefuland at
another hopeless. Now I thought I should do some goodand now I
wondered how I could ever have supposed so. Now it seemed one of
the most reasonable things in the world that I should have come
and now one of the most unreasonable. In what state I should find
Richardwhat I should say to himand what he would say to me
occupied my mind by turns with these two states of feeling; and the
wheels seemed to play one tune (to which the burden of my
guardian's letter set itself) over and over again all night.

At last we came into the narrow streets of Dealand very gloomy
they were upon a raw misty morning. The long flat beachwith its
little irregular houseswooden and brickand its litter of
capstansand great boatsand shedsand bare upright poles with
tackle and blocksand loose gravelly waste places overgrown with
grass and weedswore as dull an appearance as any place I ever
saw. The sea was heaving under a thick white fog; and nothing else
was moving but a few early ropemakerswhowith the yarn twisted
round their bodieslooked as iftired of their present state of
existencethey were spinning themselves into cordage.

But when we got into a warm room in an excellent hotel and sat
downcomfortably washed and dressedto an early breakfast (for it
was too late to think of going to bed)Deal began to look more
cheerful. Our little room was like a ship's cabinand that
delighted Charley very much. Then the fog began to rise like a
curtainand numbers of ships that we had had no idea were near
appeared. I don't know how many sail the waiter told us were then
lying in the downs. Some of these vessels were of grand size--one
was a large Indiaman just come home; and when the sun shone through
the cloudsmaktng silvery pools in the dark seathe way in which
these ships brightenedand shadowedand changedamid a bustle of
boats pulling off from the shore to them and from them to the
shoreand a general life and motion in themselves and everything
around themwas most beautiful.

The large Indiaman was our great attraction because she had come
into the downs in the night. She was surrounded by boatsand we
said how glad the people on board of her must be to come ashore.
Charley was curioustooabout the voyageand about the heat in
Indiaand the serpents and the tigers; and as she picked up such
information much faster than grammarI told her what I knew on
those points. I told hertoohow people in such voyages were
sometimes wrecked and cast on rockswhere they were saved by the
intrepidity and humanity of one man. And Charley asking how that
could beI told her how we knew at home of such a case.

I had thought of sending Richard a note saying I was therebut it
seemed so much better to go to him without preparation. As he
lived in barracks I was a little doubtful whether this was
feasiblebut we went out to reconnoitre. Peeping in at the gate
of the barrack-yardwe found everything very quiet at that time in
the morningand I asked a sergeant standing on the guardhouse-
steps where he lived. He sent a man before to show mewho went up
some bare stairsand knocked with his knuckles at a doorand left
us.

Now then!cried Richard from within. So I left Charley in the
little passageand going on to the half-open doorsaidCan I
come in, Richard? It's only Dame Durden.


He was writing at a tablewith a great confusion of clothestin
casesbooksbootsbrushesand portmanteaus strewn all about the
floor. He was only half dressed--in plain clothesI observednot
in uniform--and his hair was unbrushedand he looked as wild as
his room. All this I saw after he had heartily welcomed me and I
was seated near himfor he started upon hearing my voice and
caught me in his arms in a moment. Dear Richard! He was ever the
same to me. Down to--ahpoor poor fellow!--to the endhe never
received me but with something of his old merry boyish manner.

Good heaven, my dear little woman,said hehow do you come
here? Who could have thought of seeing you! Nothing the matter?
Ada is well?

Quite well. Lovelier than ever, Richard!

Ah!he saidlenning back in his chair. "My poor cousin! I was
writing to youEsther."

So worn and haggard as he lookedeven in the fullness of his
handsome youthleaning back in his chair and crushing the closely
written sheet of paper in his hand!

Have you been at the trouble of writing all that, and am I not to
read it after all?I asked.

Oh, my dear,he returned with a hopeless gesture. "You may read
it in the whole room. It is all over here."

I mildly entreated him not to be despondent. I told him that I had
heard by chance of his being in difficulty and had come to consult
with him what could best be done.

Like you, Esther, but useless, and so NOT like you!said he with
a melancholy smile. "I am away on leave this day--should have been
gone in another hour--and that is to smooth it overfor my selling
out. Well! Let bygones be bygones. So this calling follows the
rest. I only want to have been in the church to have made the
round of all the professions."

Richard,I urgedit is not so hopeless as that?

Esther,he returnedit is indeed. I am just so near disgrace
as that those who are put in authority over me (as the catechism
goes) would far rather be without me than with me. And they are
right. Apart from debts and duns and all such drawbacks, I am not
fit even for this employment. I have no care, no mind, no heart,
no soul, but for one thing. Why, if this bubble hadn't broken
now,he saidtearing the letter he had written into fragments and
moodily casting them awayby dribletshow could I have gone
abroad? I must have been ordered abroad, but how could I have
gone? How could I, with my experience of that thing, trust even
Vholes unless I was at his back!

I suppose he knew by my face what I was about to saybut he caught
the hand I had laid upon his arm and touched my own lips with it to
prevent me from going on.

No, Dame Durden! Two subjects I forbid--must forbid. The first
is John Jarndyce. The second, you know what. Call it madness, and
I tell you I can't help it now, and can't be sane. But it is no
such thing; it is the one object I have to pursue. It is a pity I
ever was prevailed upon to turn out of my road for any other. It
would be wisdom to abandon it now, after all the time, anxiety, and


pains I have bestowed upon it! Oh, yes, true wisdom. It would be
very agreeable, too, to some people; but I never will.

He was in that mood in which I thought it best not to increase his
determination (if anything could increase it) by opposing him. I
took out Ada's letter and put it in his hand.

Am I to read it now?he asked.

As I told him yeshe laid it on the tableand resting his head
upon his handbegan. He had not read far when he rested his head
upon his two hands--to hide his face from me. In a little while he
rose as if the light were bad and went to the window. He finished
reading it therewith his back towards meand after he had
finished and had folded it upstood there for some minutes with
the letter in his hand. When he came back to his chairI saw
tears in his eyes.

Of course, Esther, you know what she says here?He spoke in a
softened voice and kissed the letter as he asked me.

Yes, Richard.

Offers me,he went ontapping his foot upon the floorthe
little inheritance she is certain of so soon--just as little and as
much as I have wasted--and begs and prays me to take it, set myself
right with it, and remain in the service.

I know your welfare to be the dearest wish of her heart,said I.
And, oh, my dear Richard, Ada's is a noble heart.

I am sure it is. I--I wish I was dead!

He went back to the windowand laying his arm across itleaned
his head down on his arm. It greatly affected me to see him so
but I hoped he might become more yieldingand I remained silent.
My experience was very limited; I was not at all prepared for his
rousing himself out of this emotion to a new sense of injury.

And this is the heart that the same John Jarndyce, who is not
otherwise to be mentioned between us, stepped in to estrange from
me,said he indignantly. "And the dear girl makes me this
generous offer from under the same John Jarndyce's roofand with
the same John Jarndyce's gracious consent and connivanceI dare
sayas a new means of buying me off."

Richard!I cried outrising hastily. "I will not hear you say
such shameful words!" I was very angry with him indeedfor the
first time in my lifebut it only lasted a moment. When I saw his
worn young face looking at me as if he were sorryI put my hand on
his shoulder and saidIf you please, my dear Richard, do not
speak in such a tone to me. Consider!

He blamed himself exceedingly and told me in the most generous
manner that he had been very wrong and that he begged my pardon a
thousand times. At that I laughedbut trembled a little toofor
I was rather fluttered after being so fiery.

To accept this offer, my dear Esther,said hesitting down
beside me and resuming our conversation--once more, pray, pray
forgive me; I am deeply grieved--to accept my dearest cousin's
offer is, I need not say, impossible. Besides, I have letters and
papers that I could show you which would convince you it is all
over here. I have done with the red coat, believe me. But it is


some satisfaction, in the midst of my troubles and perplexities, to
know that I am pressing Ada's interests in pressing my own. Vholes
has his shoulder to the wheel, and he cannot help urging it on as
much for her as for me, thank God!

His sanguine hopes were rising within him and lighting up his
featuresbut they made his face more sad to me than it had been
before.

No, no!cried Richard exultingly. "If every farthing of Ada's
little fortune were mineno part of it should be spent in
retaining me in what I am not fit forcan take no interest inand
am weary of. It should be devoted to what promises a better
returnand should be used where she has a larger stake. Don't be
uneasy for me! I shall now have only one thing on my mindand
Vholes and I will work it. I shall not be without means. Free of
my commissionI shall be able to compound with some small usurers
who will hear of nothing but their bond now--Vholes says so. I
should have a balance in my favour anywaybut that would swell it.
Comecome! You shall carry a letter to Ada from meEstherand
you must both of you be more hopeful of me and not believe that I
am quite cast away just yetmy dear."

I will not repeat what I said to Richard. I know it was tiresome
and nobody is to suppose for a moment that it was at all wise. It
only came from my heart. He heard it patiently and feelinglybut
I saw that on the two subjects he had reserved it was at present
hopeless to make any representation to him. I saw tooand had
experienced in this very interviewthe sense of my guardian's
remark that it was even more mischievous to use persuasion with him
than to leave him as he was.

Therefore I was driven at last to asking Richard if he would mind
convincing me that it really was all over thereas he had said
and that it was not his mere impression. He showed me without
hesitation a correspondence making it quite plain that his
retirement was arranged. I foundfrom what he told methat Mr.
Vholes had copies of these papers and had been in consultation with
him throughout. Beyond ascertaining thisand having been the
bearer of Ada's letterand being (as I was going to be) Richard's
companion back to LondonI had done no good by coming down.
Admitting this to myself with a reluctant heartI said I would
return to the hotel and wait until he joined me thereso he threw
a cloak over his shoulders and saw me to the gateand Charley and
I went back along the beach.

There was a concourse of people in one spotsurrounding some naval
officers who were landing from a boatand pressing about them with
unusual interest. I said to Charley this would be one of the great
Indiaman's boats nowand we stopped to look.

The gentlemen came slowly up from the watersidespeaking goodhumouredly
to each other and to the people around and glancing
about them as if they were glad to be in England again. "Charley
Charley said I, come away!" And I hurried on so swiftly that my
little maid was surprised.

It was not until we were shut up in our cabin-room and I had had
time to take breath that I began to think why I had made such
haste. In one of the sunburnt faces I had recognized Mr. Allan
Woodcourtand I had been afraid of his recognizing me. I had been
unwilling that he should see my altered looks. I had been taken by
surpriseand my courage had quite failed me.


But I knew this would not doand I now said to myselfMy dear,
there is no reason--there is and there can be no reason at all--why
it should be worse for you now than it ever has been. What you
were last month, you are to-day; you are no worse, you are no
better. This is not your resolution; call it up, Esther, call it
up!I was in a great tremble--with running--and at first was
quite unable to calm myself; but I got betterand I was very glad
to know it.

The party came to the hotel. I heard them speaking on the
staircase. I was sure it was the same gentlemen because I knew
their voices again--I mean I knew Mr. Woodcourt's. It would still
have been a great relief to me to have gone away without making
myself knownbut I was determined not to do so. "Nomy dearno.
Nonono!"

I untied my bonnet and put my veil half up--I think I mean half
downbut it matters very little--and wrote on one of my cards that
I happened to be there with Mr. Richard Carstoneand I sent it in
to Mr. Woodcourt. He came immediately. I told him I was rejoiced
to be by chance among the first to welcome him home to England.
And I saw that he was very sorry for me.

You have been in shipwreck and peril since you left us, Mr.
Woodcourt,said Ibut we can hardly call that a misfortune which
enabled you to be so useful and so brave. We read of it with the
truest interest. It first came to my knowledge through your old
patient, poor Miss Flite, when I was recovering from my severe
illness.

Ah! Little Miss Flite!he said. "She lives the same life yet?"

Just the same.

I was so comfortable with myself now as not to mind the veil and to
be able to put it aside.

Her gratitude to you, Mr. Woodcourt, is delightful. She is a most
affectionate creature, as I have reason to say.

You--you have found her so?he returned. "I--I am glad of that."
He was so very sorry for me that he could scarcely speak.

I assure you,said Ithat I was deeply touched by her sympathy
and pleasure at the time I have referred to.

I was grieved to hear that you had been very ill.

I was very ill.

But you have quite recovered?

I have quite recovered my health and my cheerfulness,said I.
You know how good my guardian is and what a happy life we lead,
and I have everything to be thankful for and nothing in the world
to desire.

I felt as if he had greater commiseration for me than I had ever
had for myself. It inspired me with new fortitude and new calmness
to find that it was I who was under the necessity of reassuring
him. I spoke to him of his voyage out and homeand of his future
plansand of his probable return to India. He said that was very
doubtful. He had not found himself more favoured by fortune there
than here. He had gone out a poor ship's surgeon and had come home


nothing better. While we were talkingand when I was glad to
believe that I had alleviated (if I may use such a term) the shock
he had had in seeing meRichard came in. He had heard downstairs
who was with meand they met with cordial pleasure.

I saw that after their first greetings were overand when they
spoke of Richard's careerMr. Woodcourt had a perception that all
was not going well with him. He frequently glanced at his face as
if there were something in it that gave him painand more than
once he looked towards me as though he sought to ascertain whether
I knew what the truth was. Yet Richard was in one of his sanguine
states and in good spirits and was thoroughly pleased to see Mr.
Woodcourt againwhom he had always liked.

Richard proposed that we all should go to London together; but Mr.
Woodcourthaving to remain by his ship a little longercould not
join us. He dined with ushoweverat an early hourand became
so much more like what he used to be that I was still more at peace
to think I had been able to soften his regrets. Yet his mind was
not relieved of Richard. When the coach was almost ready and
Richard ran down to look after his luggagehe spoke to me about
him.

I was not sure that I had a right to lay his whole story openbut
I referred in a few words to his estrangement from Mr Jarndyce and
to his being entangled in the ill-fated Chancery suit. Mr.
Woodcourt listened with interest and expressed his regret.

I saw you observe him rather closely,said IDo you think him
so changed?

He is changed,he returnedshaking his head.

I felt the blood rush into my face for the first timebut it was
only an instantaneous emotion. I turned my head asideand it was
gone.

It is not,said Mr. Woodcourthis being so much younger or
older, or thinner or fatter, or paler or ruddier, as there being
upon his face such a singular expression. I never saw so
remarkable a look in a young person. One cannot say that it is all
anxiety or all weariness; yet it is both, and like ungrown
despair.

You do not think he is ill?said I.

No. He looked robust in body.

That he cannot be at peace in mind, we have too much reason to
know,I proceeded. "Mr. Woodcourtyou are going to London?"

To-morrow or the next day.

There is nothing Richard wants so much as a friend. He always
liked you. Pray see him when you get there. Pray help him
sometimes with your companionship if you can. You do not know of
what service it might be. You cannot think how Ada, and Mr.
Jarndyce, and even I--how we should all thank you, Mr. Woodcourt!

Miss Summerson,he saidmore moved than he had been from the
firstbefore heaven, I will be a true friend to him! I will
accept him as a trust, and it shall be a sacred one!

God bless you!said Iwith my eyes filling fast; but I thought


they mightwhen it was not for myself. "Ada loves him--we all
love himbut Ada loves him as we cannot. I will tell her what you
say. Thank youand God bless youin her name!"

Richard came back as we finished exchanging these hurried words and
gave me his arm to take me to the coach.

Woodcourt,he saidunconscious with what applicationpray let
us meet in London!

Meet?returned the other. "I have scarcely a friend there now
but you. Where shall I find you?"

Why, I must get a lodging of some sort,said Richardpondering.
Say at Vholes's, Symond's Inn.

Good! Without loss of time.

They shook hands heartily. When I was seated in the coach and
Richard was yet standing in the streetMr. Woodcourt laid his
friendly hand on Richard's shoulder and looked at me. I understood
him and waved mine in thanks.

And in his last look as we drove awayI saw that he was very sorry
for me. I was glad to see it. I felt for my old self as the dead
may feel if they ever revisit these scenes. I was glad to be
tenderly rememberedto be gently pitiednot to be quite
forgotten.

CHAPTER XLVI

Stop Him!

Darkness rests upon Tom-All-Alone's. Dilating and dilating since
the sun went down last nightit has gradually swelled until it
fills every void in the place. For a time there were some dungeon
lights burningas the lamp of life hums in Tom-all-Alone's
heavilyheavilyin the nauseous airand winking--as that lamp
toowinks in Tom-all-Alone's--at many horrible things. But they
are blotted out. The moon has eyed Tom with a dull cold stareas
admitting some puny emulation of herself in his desert region unfit
for life and blasted by volcanic fires; but she has passed on and
is gone. The blackest nightmare in the infernal stables grazes on
Tom-all-Alone'sand Tom is fast asleep.

Much mighty speech-making there has beenboth in and out of
Parliamentconcerning Tomand much wrathful disputation how Tom
shall be got right. Whether he shall be put into the main road by
constablesor by beadlesor by bell-ringingor by force of
figuresor by correct principles of tasteor by high churchor
by low churchor by no church; whether he shall be set to
splitting trusses of polemical straws with the crooked knife of his
mind or whether he shall be put to stone-breaking instead. In the
midst of which dust and noise there is but one thing perfectly
clearto witthat Tom only may and canor shall and willbe
reclaimed according to somebody's theory but nobody's practice.
And in the hopeful meantimeTom goes to perdition head foremost in
his old determined spirit.

But he has his revenge. Even the winds are his messengersand
they serve him in these hours of darkness. There is not a drop of


Tom's corrupted blood but propagates infection and contagion
somewhere. It shall pollutethis very nightthe choice stream
(in which chemists on analysis would find the genuine nobility) of
a Norman houseand his Grace shall not be able to say nay to the
infamous alliance. There is not an atom of Tom's slimenot a
cubic inch of any pestilential gas in which he livesnot one
obscenity or degradation about himnot an ignorancenot a
wickednessnot a brutality of his committingbut shall work its
retribution through every order of society up to the proudest of
the proud and to the highest of the high. Verilywhat with
taintingplunderingand spoilingTom has his revenge.

It is a moot point whether Tom-all-Alone's be uglier by day or by
nightbut on the argument that the more that is seen of it the
more shocking it must beand that no part of it left to the
imagination is at all likely to be made so bad as the realityday
carries it. The day begins to break now; and in truth it might be
better for the national glory even that the sun should sometimes
set upon the British dominions than that it should ever rise upon
so vile a wonder as Tom.

A brown sunburnt gentlemanwho appears in some inaptitude for
sleep to be wandering abroad rather than counting the hours on a
restless pillowstrolls hitherward at this quiet time. Attracted
by curiosityhe often pauses and looks about himup and down the
miserable by-ways. Nor is he merely curiousfor in his bright
dark eye there is compassionate interest; and as he looks here and
therehe seems to understand such wretchedness and to have studied
it before.

On the banks of the stagnant channel of mud which is the main
street of Tom-all-Alone'snothing is to be seen but the crazy
housesshut up and silent. No waking creature save himself
appears except in one directionwhere he sees the solitary figure
of a woman sitting on a door-step. He walks that way.
Approachinghe observes that she has journeyed a long distance and
is footsore and travel-stained. She sits on the door-step in the
manner of one who is waitingwith her elbow on her knee and her
head upon her hand. Beside her is a canvas bagor bundleshe has
carried. She is dozing probablyfor she gives no heed to his
steps as he comes toward her.

The broken footway is so narrow that when Allan Woodcourt comes to
where the woman sitshe has to turn into the road to pass her.
Looking down at her facehis eye meets hersand he stops.

What is the matter?

Nothing, sir.

Can't you make them hear? Do you want to be let in?

I'm walting till they get up at another house--a lodging-house-not
here,the woman patiently returns. "I'm waiting here because
there will be sun here presently to warm me."

I am afraid you are tired. I am sorry to see you sitting in the
street.

Thank you, sir. It don't matter.

A habit in him of speaking to the poor and of avoiding patronage or
condescension or childishness (which is the favourite devicemany
people deeming it quite a subtlety to talk to them like little


spelling books) has put him on good terms with the woman easily.

Let me look at your forehead,he saysbending down. "I am a
doctor. Don't be afraid. I wouldn't hurt you for the world."

He knows that by touching her with his skilful and accustomed hand
he can soothe her yet more readily. She makes a slight objection
sayingIt's nothing; but he has scarcely laid his fingers on the
wounded place when she lifts it up to the light.

Aye! A bad bruise, and the skin sadly broken. This must be very
sore.

It do ache a little, sir,returns the woman with a started tear
upon her cheek.

Let me try to make it more comfortable. My handkerchief won't
hurt you.

Oh, dear no, sir, I'm sure of that!

He cleanses the injured place and dries itand having carefully
examined it and gently pressed it with the palm of his handtakes
a small case from his pocketdresses itand binds it up. While
he is thus employedhe saysafter laughing at his establishing a
surgery in the streetAnd so your husband is a brickmaker?

How do you know that, sir?asks the womanastonished.

Why, I suppose so from the colour of the clay upon your bag and on
your dress. And I know brickmakers go about working at piecework
in different places. And I am sorry to say I have known them cruel
to their wives too.

The woman hastily lifts up her eyes as if she would deny that her
injury is referable to such a cause. But feeling the hand upon her
foreheadand seeing his busy and composed faceshe quietly drops
them again.

Where is he now?asks the surgeon.

He got into trouble last night, sir; but he'll look for me at the
lodging-house.

He will get into worse trouble if he often misuses his large and
heavy hand as he has misused it here. But you forgive him, brutal
as he is, and I say no more of him, except that I wish he deserved
it. You have no young child?

The woman shakes her head. "One as I calls minesirbut it's
Liz's."

Your own is dead. I see! Poor little thing!

By this time he has finished and is putting up his case. "I
suppose you have some settled home. Is it far from here?" he asks
good-humouredly making light of what he has done as she gets up and
curtsys.

It's a good two or three and twenty mile from here, sir. At Saint
Albans. You know Saint Albans, sir? I thought you gave a start
like, as if you did.

Yes, I know something of it. And now I will ask you a question in


return. Have you money for your lodging?

Yes, sir,she saysreally and truly.And she shows it. He
tells herin acknowledgment of her many subdued thanksthat she
is very welcomegives her good dayand walks away. Tom-allAlone's
is still asleepand nothing is astir.

Yessomething is! As he retraces his way to the point from which
he descried the woman at a distance sitting on the stephe sees a
ragged figure coming very cautiously alongcrouching close to the
soiled walls--which the wretchedest figure might as well avoid--and
furtively thrusting a hand before it. It is the figure of a youth
whose face is hollow and whose eyes have an emaciated glare. He is
so intent on getting along unseen that even the apparition of a
stranger in whole garments does not tempt him to look back. He
shades his face with his ragged elbow as he passes on the other
side of the wayand goes shrinking and creeping on with his
anxious hand before him and his shapeless clothes hanging in
shreds. Clothes made for what purposeor of what materialit
would be impossible to say. They lookin colour and in substance
like a bundle of rank leaves of swampy growth that rotted long ago.

Allan Woodcourt pauses to look after him and note all thiswith a
shadowy belief that he has seen the boy before. He cannot recall
how or wherebut there is some association in his mind with such a
form. He imagines that he must have seen it in some hospital or
refugestillcannot make out why it comes with any special force
on his remembrance.

He is gradually emerging from Tom-all-Alone's in the morning light
thinking about itwhen he hears running feet behind himand
looking roundsees the boy scouring towards him at great speed
followed by the woman.

Stop him, stop him!cries the womanalmost breath less. "Stop
himsir!"

He darts across the road into the boy's pathbut the boy is
quicker than hemakes a curveducksdives under his handscomes
up half-a-dozen yards beyond himand scours away again. Still the
woman followscryingStop him, sir, pray stop him!Allannot
knowing but that he has just robbed her of her moneyfollows in
chase and runs so hard that he runs the boy down a dozen timesbut
each time he repeats the curvethe duckthe diveand scours away
again. To strike at him on any of these occasions would be to fell
and disable himbut the pursuer cannot resolve to do thatand so
the grimly ridiculous pursuit continues. At last the fugitive
hard-pressedtakes to a narrow passage and a court which has no
thoroughfare. Hereagainst a hoarding of decaying timberhe is
brought to bay and tumbles downlying gasping at his pursuerwho
stands and gasps at him until the woman comes up.

Oh, you, Jo!cries the woman. "What? I have found you at last!"

Jo,repeats Allanlooking at him with attentionJo! Stay. To
be sure! I recollect this lad some time ago being brought before
the coroner.

Yes, I see you once afore at the inkwhich,whimpers Jo. "What of
that? Can't you never let such an unfortnet as me alone? An't I
unfortnet enough for you yet? How unfortnet do you want me fur to
be? I've been a-chivied and a-chiviedfust by one on you and nixt
by another on youtill I'm worritted to skins and bones. The
inkwhich warn't MY fault. I done nothink. He wos wery good to me


he wos; he wos the only one I knowed to speak toas ever come
across my crossing. It ain't wery likely I should want him to be
inkwhiched. I only wish I wosmyself. I don't know why I don't
go and make a hole in the waterI'm sure I don't."

He says it with such a pitiable airand his grimy tears appear so
realand he lies in the corner up against the hoarding so like a
growth of fungus or any unwholesome excrescence produced there in
neglect and impuritythat Allan Woodcourt is softened towards him.
He says to the womanMiserable creature, what has he done?

To which she only repliesshaking her head at the prostrate figure
more amazedly than angrilyOh, you Jo, you Jo. I have found you
at last!

What has he done?says Allan. "Has he robbed you?"

No, sir, no. Robbed me? He did nothing but what was kind-hearted
by me, and that's the wonder of it.

Allan looks from Jo to the womanand from the woman to Jowaiting
for one of them to unravel the riddle.

But he was along with me, sir,says the woman. "Ohyou Jo! He
was along with mesirdown at Saint Albansilland a young
ladyLord bless her for a good friend to metook pity on him when
I durstn'tand took him home--"

Allan shrinks back from him with a sudden horror.

Yes, sir, yes. Took him home, and made him comfortable, and like
a thankless monster he ran away in the night and never has been
seen or heard of since till I set eyes on him just now. And that
young lady that was such a pretty dear caught his illness, lost her
beautiful looks, and wouldn't hardly be known for the same young
lady now if it wasn't for her angel temper, and her pretty shape,
and her sweet voice. Do you know it? You ungrateful wretch, do
you know that this is all along of you and of her goodness to you?
demands the womanbeginning to rage at him as she recalls it and
breaking into passionate tears.

The boyin rough sort stunned by what he hearsfalls to smearing
his dirty forehead with his dirty palmand to staring at the
groundand to shaking from head to foot until the crazy hoarding
against which he leans rattles.

Allan restrains the womanmerely by a quiet gesturebut
effectually.

Richard told me--He falters. "I meanI have heard of this-don't
mind me for a momentI will speak presently."

He turns away and stands for a while looking out at the covered
passage. When he comes backhe has recovered his composure
except that he contends against an avoidance of the boywhich is
so very remarkable that it absorbs the woman's attention.

You hear what she says. But get up, get up!

Joshaking and chatteringslowly rises and standsafter the
manner of his tribe in a difficultysideways against the hoarding
resting one of his high shoulders against it and covertly rubbing
his right hand over his left and his left foot over his right.


You hear what she says, and I know it's true. Have you been here
ever since?

Wishermaydie if I seen Tom-all-Alone's till this blessed morning,
replies Jo hoarsely.

Why have you come here now?

Jo looks all round the confined courtlooks at his questioner no
higher than the kneesand finally answersI don't know how to do
nothink, and I can't get nothink to do. I'm wery poor and ill, and
I thought I'd come back here when there warn't nobody about, and
lay down and hide somewheres as I knows on till arter dark, and
then go and beg a trifle of Mr. Snagsby. He wos allus willin fur
to give me somethink he wos, though Mrs. Snagsby she was allus a-
chivying on me--like everybody everywheres.

Where have you come from?

Jo looks all round the court againlooks at his questioner's knees
againand concludes by laying his profile against the hoarding in
a sort of resignation.

Did you hear me ask you where you have come from?

Tramp then,says Jo.

Now tell me,proceeds Allanmaking a strong effort to overcome
his repugnancegoing very near to himand leaning over him with
an expression of confidencetell me how it came about that you
left that house when the good young lady had been so unfortunate as
to pity you and take you home.

Jo suddenly comes out of his resignation and excitedly declares
addressing the womanthat he never known about the young lady
that he never heern about itthat he never went fur to hurt her
that he would sooner have hurt his own selfthat he'd sooner have
had his unfortnet ed chopped off than ever gone a-nigh herand
that she wos wery good to himshe wos. Conducting himself
throughout as if in his poor fashion he really meant itand
winding up with some very miserable sobs.

Allan Woodcourt sees that this is not a sham. He constrains
himself to touch him. "ComeJo. Tell me."

No. I dustn't,says Jorelapsing into the profile state. "I
dustn'tor I would."

But I must know,returns the otherall the same. Come, Jo.

After two or three such adjurationsJo lifts up his head again
looks round the court againand says in a low voiceWell, I'll
tell you something. I was took away. There!

Took away? In the night?

Ah!Very apprehensive of being overheardJo looks about him and
even glances up some ten feet at the top of the hoarding and
through the cracks in it lest the object of his distrust should be
looking over or hidden on the other side.

Who took you away?

I dustn't name him,says Jo. "I dustn't do itsir.


But I want, in the young lady's name, to know. You may trust me.
No one else shall hear.

Ah, but I don't know,replies Joshaking his head fearfultyas
he DON'T hear.

Why, he is not in this place.

Oh, ain't he though?says Jo. "He's in all manner of placesall
at wanst."

Allan looks at him in perplexitybut discovers some real meaning
and good faith at the bottom of this bewildering reply. He
patiently awaits an explicit answer; and Jomore baffled by his
patience than by anything elseat last desperately whispers a name
in his ear.

Aye!says Allan. "Whywhat had you been doing?"

Nothink, sir. Never done nothink to get myself into no trouble,
'sept in not moving on and the inkwhich. But I'm a-moving on now.
I'm a-moving on to the berryin ground--that's the move as I'm up
to.

No, no, we will try to prevent that. But what did he do with
you?

Put me in a horsepittle,replied Jowhisperingtill I was
discharged, then giv me a little money--four half-bulls, wot you
may call half-crowns--and ses 'Hook it! Nobody wants you here,' he
ses. 'You hook it. You go and tramp,' he ses. 'You move on,' he
ses. 'Don't let me ever see you nowheres within forty mile of
London, or you'll repent it.' So I shall, if ever he doos see me,
and he'll see me if I'm above ground,concludes Jonervously
repeating all his former precautions and investigations.

Allan considers a littlethen remarksturning to the woman but
keeping an encouraging eye on JoHe is not so ungrateful as you
supposed. He had a reason for going away, though it was an
insufficient one.

Thankee, sir, thankee!exclaims Jo. "There now! See how hard
you wos upon me. But ony you tell the young lady wot the genlmn
sesand it's all right. For YOU wos wery good to me tooand I
knows it."

Now, Jo,says Allankeeping his eye upon himcome with me and
I will find you a better place than this to lie down and hide in.
If I take one side of the way and you the other to avoid
observation, you will not run away, I know very well, if you make
me a promise.

I won't, not unless I wos to see HIM a-coming, sir.

Very well. I take your word. Half the town is getting up by this
time, and the whole town will be broad awake in another hour. Come
along. Good day again, my good woman.

Good day again, sir, and I thank you kindly many times again.

She has been sitting on her bagdeeply attentiveand now rises
and takes it up. JorepeatingOny you tell the young lady as I
never went fur to hurt her and wot the genlmn ses!nods and


shambles and shiversand smears and blinksand half laughs and
half criesa farewell to herand takes his creeping way along
after Allan Woodcourtclose to the houses on the opposite side of
the street. In this orderthe two come up out of Tom-all-Alone's
into the broad rays of the sunlight and the purer air.

CHAPTER XLVII

Jo's Will

As Allan Woodcourt and Jo proceed along the streets where the high
church spires and the distances are so near and clear in the
morning light that the city itself seems renewed by restAllan
revolves in his mind how and where he shall bestow his companion.
It surely is a strange fact,he considersthat in the heart of
a civilized world this creature in human form should be more
difficult to dispose of than an unowned dog.But it is none the
less a fact because of its strangenessand the difficulty remains.

At first he looks behind him often to assure himself that Jo is
still really following. But look where he willhe still beholds
him close to the opposite housesmaking his way with his wary hand
from brick to brick and from door to doorand oftenas he creeps
alongglancing over at him watchfully. Soon satisfied that the
last thing in his thoughts is to give him the slipAllan goes on
considering with a less divided attention what he shall do.

A breakfast-stall at a street-corner suggests the first thing to be
done. He stops therelooks roundand beckons Jo. Jo crosses and
comes halting and shuffling upslowly scooping the knuckles of his
right hand round and round in the hollowed palm of his left
kneading dirt with a natural pestle and mortar. What is a dainty
repast to Jo is then set before himand he begins to gulp the
coffee and to gnaw the bread and butterlooking anxiously about
him in all directions as he eats and drinkslike a scared animal.

But he is so sick and miserable that even hunger has abandoned him.
I thought I was amost a-starvin, sir,says Josoon putting down
his foodbut I don't know nothink--not even that. I don't care
for eating wittles nor yet for drinking on 'em.And Jo stands
shivering and looking at the breakfast wonderingly.

Allan Woodcourt lays his hand upon his pulse and on his chest.
Draw breath, Jo!It draws,says Joas heavy as a cart.He
might addAnd rattles like it,but he only muttersI'm amoving
on, sir.

Allan looks about for an apothecary's shop. There is none at hand
but a tavern does as well or better. He obtains a little measure
of wine and gives the lad a portion of it very carefully. He
begins to revive almost as soon as it passes his lips. "We may
repeat that doseJo observes Allan after watching him with his
attentive face. So! Now we will take five minutes' restand
then go on again."

Leaving the boy sitting on the bench of the breakfast-stallwith
his back against an iron railingAllan Woodcourt paces up and down
in the early sunshinecasting an occasional look towards him
without appearing to watch him. It requires no discernment to
perceive that he is warmed and refreshed. If a face so shaded can
brightenhis face brightens somewhat; and by little and little he


eats the slice of bread he had so hopelessly laid down. Observant
of these signs of improvementAllan engages him in conversation
and elicits to his no small wonder the adventure of the lady in the
veilwith all its consequences. Jo slowly munches as he slowly
tells it. When he has finished his story and his breadthey go on
again.

Intending to refer his difficulty in finding a temporary place of
refuge for the boy to his old patientzealous little Miss Flite
Allan leads the way to the court where he and Jo first
foregathered. But all is changed at the rag and bottle shop; Miss
Flite no longer lodges there; it is shut up; and a hard-featured
femalemuch obscured by dustwhose age is a problembut who is
indeed no other than the interesting Judyis tart and spare in her
replies. These sufficinghoweverto inform the visitor that Miss
Flite and her birds are domiciled with a Mrs. Blinderin Bell
Yardhe repairs to that neighbouring placewhere Miss Flite (who
rises early that she may be punctual at the divan of justice held
by her excellent friend the Chancellor) comes running downstairs
with tears of welcome and with open arms.

My dear physician!cries Miss Flite. "My meritorious
distinguishedhonourable officer!" She uses some odd expressions
but is as cordial and full of heart as sanity itself can be--more
so than it often is. Allanvery patient with herwaits until she
has no more raptures to expressthen points out Jotrembling in a
doorwayand tells her how he comes there.

Where can I lodge him hereabouts for the present? Now, you have a
fund of knowledge and good sense and can advise me.

Miss Flite, mighty proud of the compliment, sets herself to
consider; but it is long before a bright thought occurs to her.
Mrs. Blinder is entirely let, and she herself occupies poor
Gridley's room. Gridley!" exclaims Miss Fliteclapping her hands
after a twentieth repetition of this remark. "Gridley! To be
sure! Of course! My dear physician! General George will help us
out."

It is hopeless to ask for any information about General Georgeand
would bethough Miss Flite had not akeady run upstairs to put on
her pinched bonnet and her poor little shawl and to arm herself
with her reticule of documents. But as she informs her physician
in her disjointed manner on coming down in full array that General
Georgewhom she often calls uponknows her dear Fitz Jarndyce and
takes a great interest in all connected with herAllan is induced
to think that they may be in the right way. So he tells Jofor
his encouragementthat this walking about will soon be over now;
and they repair to the general's. Fortunately it is not far.

From the exterior of George's Shooting Galleryand the long entry
and the bare perspective beyond itAllan Woodcourt augurs well.
He also descries promise in the figure of Mr. George himself
striding towards them in his mornmg exercise with his pipe in his
mouthno stock onand his muscular armsdeveloped by broadsword
and dumbbellweightily asserting themselves through his light
shirt-sleeves.

Your servant, sir,says Mr. George with a military salute. Goodhumouredly
smiling all over his broad forehead up into his crisp
hairhe then defers to Miss Fliteaswith great statelinessand
at some lengthshe performs the courtly ceremony of presentation.
He winds it up with another "Your servantsir!" and another
salute.


Excuse me, sir. A sailor, I believe?says Mr. George.

I am proud to find I have the air of one,returns Allan; "but I
am only a sea-going doctor."

Indeed, sir! I should have thought you was a regular blue-jacket
myself.

Allan hopes Mr. George will forgive his intrusion the more readily
on that accountand particularly that he will not lay aside his
pipewhichin his politenesshe has testifled some intention of
doing. "You are very goodsir returns the trooper. As I know
by experience that it's not disagreeable to Miss Fliteand since
it's equally agreeable to yourself--" and finishes the sentence by
putting it between his lips again. Allan proceeds to tell him all
he knows about Jounto which the trooper listens with a grave
face.

And that's the lad, sir, is it?he inquireslooking along the
entry to where Jo stands staring up at the great letters on the
whitewashed frontwhich have no meaning in his eyes.

That's he,says Allan. "AndMr. GeorgeI am in this difficulty
about him. I am unwilling to place him in a hospitaleven if I
could procure him immediate admissionbecause I foresee that he
would not stay there many hours if he could be so much as got
there. The same objection applies to a workhousesupposing I had
the patience to be evaded and shirkedand handed about from post
to pillar in trying to get him into onewhich is a system that I
don't take kindly to."

No man does, sir,returns Mr. George.

I am convinced that he would not remain in either place, because
he is possessed by an extraordinary terror of this person who
ordered him to keep out of the way; in his ignorance, he believes
this person to be everywhere, and cognizant of everything.

I ask your pardon, sir,says Mr. George. "But you have not
mentioned that party's name. Is it a secretsir?"

The boy makes it one. But his name is Bucket.

Bucket the detective, sir?

The same man.

The man is known to me, sir,returns the trooper after blowing
out a cloud of smoke and squaring his chestand the boy is so far
correct that he undoubtedly is a--rum customer.Mr. George smokes
with a profound meaning after this and surveys Miss Flite in
silence.

Now, I wish Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson at least to know that
this Jo, who tells so strange a story, has reappeared, and to have
it in their power to speak with him if they should desire to do so.
Therefore I want to get him, for the present moment, into any poor
lodging kept by decent people where he would be admitted. Decent
people and Jo, Mr. George,says Allanfollowing the direction of
the trooper's eyes along the entryhave not been much acquainted,
as you see. Hence the difficulty. Do you happen to know any one
in this neighbourhood who would receive him for a while on my
paying for him beforehand?


As he puts the questionhe becomes aware of a dirty-faced little
man standing at the trooper's elbow and looking upwith an oddly
twisted figure and countenanceinto the trooper's face. After a
few more puffs at his pipethe trooper looks down askant at the
little manand the little man winks up at the trooper.

Well, sir,says Mr. GeorgeI can assure you that I would
willingiy be knocked on the head at any time if it would be at all
agreeable to Miss Summerson, and consequently I esteem it a
privilege to do that young lady any service, however small. We are
naturally in the vagabond way here, sir, both myself and Phil. You
see what the place is. You are welcome to a quiet corner of it for
the boy if the same would meet your views. No charge made, except
for rations. We are not in a flourishing state of circumstances
here, sir. We are liable to be tumbled out neck and crop at a
moment's notice. However, sir, such as the place is, and so long
as it lasts, here it is at your service.

With a comprehensive wave of his pipeMr. George places the whole
building at his visitor's disposal.

I take it for granted, sir,he addsyou being one of the
medical staff, that there is no present infection about this
unfortunate subject?

Allan is quite sure of it.

Because, sir,says Mr. Georgeshaking his head sorrowfullywe
have had enough of that.

His tone is no less sorrowfully echoed by his new acquaintance.
'Still I am bound to tell you observes Allan after repeating his
former assurance, that the boy is deplorably low and reduced and
that he may be--I do not say that he is--too far gone to recover."

Do you consider him in present danger, sir?inquires the trooper.

Yes, I fear so.

Then, sir,returns the trooper in a decisive mannerit appears
to me--being naturally in the vagabond way myself--that the sooner
he comes out of the street, the better. You, Phil! Bring him in!

Mr. Squod tacks outall on one sideto execute the word of
command; and the trooperhaving smoked his pipelays it by. Jo
is brought in. He is not one of Mrs. Pardiggle's Tockahoopo
Indians; he is not one of Mrs. Jellyby's lambsbeing wholly
unconnected with Borrioboola-Gha; he is not softened by distance
and unfamiliarity; he is not a genuine foreign-grown savage; he is
the ordinary home-made article. Dirtyuglydisagreeable to all
the sensesin body a common creature of the common streetsonly
in soul a heathen. Homely filth begrimes himhomely parasites
devour himhomely sores are in himhomely rags are on him; native
ignorancethe growth of English soil and climatesinks his
immortal nature lower than the beasts that perish. Stand forth
Join uncompromising colours! From the sole of thy foot to the
crown of thy headthere is nothing interesting about thee.

He shuffles slowly into Mr. George's gallery and stands huddled
together in a bundlelooking all about the floor. He seems to
know that they have an inclination to shrink from himpartly for
what he is and partly for what he has caused. Hetooshrinks
from them. He is not of the same order of thingsnot of the same


place in creation. He is of no order and no placeneither of the
beasts nor of humanity.

Look here, Jo!says Allan. "This is Mr. George."

Jo searches the floor for some time longerthen looks up for a
momentand then down again.

He is a kind friend to you, for he is going to give you lodging
room here.

Jo makes a scoop with one handwhich is supposed to be a bow.
After a little more consideration and some backing and changing of
the foot on which he restshe mutters that he is "wery thankful."

You are quite safe here. All you have to do at present is to be
obedient and to get strong. And mind you tell us the truth here,
whatever you do, Jo.

Wishermaydie if I don't, sir,says Joreverting to his favourite
declaration. "I never done nothink yitbut wot you knows onto
get myself into no trouble. I never was in no other trouble at
allsir'sept not knowin' nothink and starwation."

I believe it, now attend to Mr. George. I see he is going to
speak to you.

My intention merely was, sir,observes Mr. Georgeamazingly
broad and uprightto point out to him where he can lie down and
get a thorough good dose of sleep. Now, look here.As the
trooper speakshe conducts them to the other end of the gallery
and opens one of the little cabins. "There you areyou see! Here
is a mattressand here you may reston good behaviouras long as
Mr.I ask your pardonsir"--he refers apologetically to the card
Allan has given him--"Mr. Woodcourt pleases. Don't you be alarmed
if you hear shots; they'll be aimed at the targetand not you.
Nowthere's another thing I would recommendsir says the
trooper, turning to his visitor. Philcome here!"

Phil bears down upon them according to his usual tactics. "Here is
a mansirwho was foundwhen a babyin the gutter.
Consequentlyit is to be expected that he takes a natural interest
in this poor creature. You dodon't youPhil?"

Certainly and surely I do, guv'ner,is Phil's reply.

Now I was thinking, sir,says Mr. George in a martial sort of
confidenceas if he were giving his opinion in a council of war at
a drum-headthat if this man was to take him to a bath and was to
lay out a few shillings in getting him one or two coarse articles--

Mr. George, my considerate friend,returns Allantaking out his
purseit is the very favour I would have asked.

Phil Squod and Jo are sent out immediately on this work of
improvement. Miss Flitequite enraptured by her successmakes
the best of her way to courthaving great fears that otherwise her
friend the Chancellor may be uneasy about her or may give the
judgment she has so long expected in her absenceand observing
which you know, my dear physician, and general, after so many
years, would be too absurdly unfortunate!Allan takes the
opportunity of going out to procure some restorative medicinesand
obtaining them near at handsoon returns to find the trooper
walking up and down the galleryand to fall into step and walk


with him.

I take it, sir,says Mr. Georgethat you know Miss Summerson
pretty well?

Yesit appears.

Not related to her, sir?

Noit appears.

Excuse the apparent curiosity,says Mr. George. "It seemed to me
probable that you might take more than a common interest in this
poor creature because Miss Summerson had taken that unfortunate
interest in him. 'Tis MY casesirI assure you."

And mine, Mr. George.

The trooper looks sideways at Allan's sunburnt cheek and bright
dark eyerapidly measures his height and buildand seems to
approve of him.

Since you have been out, sir, I have been thinking that I
unquestionably know the rooms in Lincoln's Inn Fields, where Bucket
took the lad, according to his account. Though he is not
acquainted with the name, I can help you to it. It's Tulkinghorn.
That's what it is.

Allan looks at him inquiringlyrepeating the name.

Tulkinghorn. That's the name, sir. I know the man, and know him
to have been in communication with Bucket before, respecting a
deceased person who had given him offence. I know the man, sir.
To my sorrow.

Allan naturally asks what kind of man he is.

What kind of man! Do you mean to look at?

I think I know that much of him. I mean to deal with. Generally,
what kind of man?

Why, then I'll tell you, sir,returns the trooperstopping short
and folding his arms on his square chest so angrily that his face
fires and flushes all over; "he is a confoundedly bad kind of man.
He is a slow-torturing kind of man. He is no more like flesh and
blood than a rusty old carbine is. He is a kind of man--by
George!--that has caused me more restlessnessand more uneasiness
and more dissatisfaction with myself than all other men put
together. That's the kind of man Mr. Tulkinghorn is!"

I am sorry,says Allanto have touched so sore a place.

Sore?The trooper plants his legs wider apartwets the palm of
his broad right handand lays it on the imaginary moustache.
It's no fault of yours, sir; but you shall judge. He has got a
power over me. He is the man I spoke of just now as being able to
tumble me out of this place neck and crop. He keeps me on a
constant see-saw. He won't hold off, and he won't come on. If I
have a payment to make him, or time to ask him for, or anything to
go to him about, he don't see me, don't hear me--passes me on to
Melchisedech's in Clifford's Inn, Melchisedech's in Clifford's Inn
passes me back again to him--he keeps me prowling and dangling
about him as if I was made of the same stone as himself. Why, I


spend half my life now, pretty well, loitering and dodging about
his door. What does he care? Nothing. Just as much as the rusty
old carbine I have compared him to. He chafes and goads me till--
Bah! Nonsense! I am forgetting myself. Mr. Woodcourt,the
trooper resumes his marchall I say is, he is an old man; but I
am glad I shall never have the chance of setting spurs to my horse
and riding at him in a fair field. For if I had that chance, in
one of the humours he drives me into--he'd go down, sir!

Mr. George has been so excited that he finds it necessary to wipe
his forehead on his shirt-sleeve. Even while he whistles his
impetuosity away with the national anthemsome involuntary
shakings of his head and heavings of his chest still linger behind
not to mention an occasional hasty adjustment with both hands of
his open shirt-collaras if it were scarcely open enough to
prevent his being troubled by a choking sensation. In shortAllan
Woodcourt has not much doubt about the going down of Mr.
Tulkinghorn on the field referred to.

Jo and his conductor presently returnand Jo is assisted to his
mattress by the careful Philto whomafter due administration of
medicine by his own handsAllan confides all needful means and
instructions. The morning is by this time getting on apace. He
repairs to his lodgings to dress and breakfastand thenwithout
seeking restgoes away to Mr. Jarndyce to communicate his
discovery.

With him Mr. Jarndyce returns aloneconfidentially telling him
that there are reasons for keeping this matter very quiet indeed
and showing a serious interest in it. To Mr. JarndyceJo repeats
in substance what he said in the morningwithout any material
variation. Only that cart of his is heavier to drawand draws
with a hollower sound.

Let me lay here quiet and not be chivied no more,falters Jo
and be so kind any person as is a-passin nigh where I used fur to
sleep, as jist to say to Mr. Sangsby that Jo, wot he known once, is
a-moving on right forards with his duty, and I'll be wery thankful.
I'd be more thankful than I am aready if it wos any ways possible
for an unfortnet to be it.

He makes so many of these references to the law-stationer in the
course of a day or two that Allanafter conferring with Mr.
Jarndycegood-naturedly resolves to call in Cook's Courtthe
ratheras the cart seems to be breaking down.

To Cook's Courtthereforehe repairs. Mr. Snagsby is behind his
counter in his grey coat and sleevesinspecting an indenture of
several skins which has just come in from the engrosser'san
immense desert of law-hand and parchmentwith here and there a
resting-place of a few large letters to break the awful monotony
and save the traveller from despair. Mr Snagsby puts up at one of
these inky wells and greets the stranger with his cough of general
preparation for business.

You don't remember me, Mr. Snagsby?

The stationer's heart begins to thump heavilyfor his old
apprehensions have never abated. It is as much as he can do to
answerNo, sir, I can't say I do. I should have considered--not
to put too fine a point upon it--that I never saw you before, sir.

Twice before,says Allan Woodcourt. "Once at a poor bedsideand
once--"


It's come at last!thinks the afflicted stationeras
recollection breaks upon him. "It's got to a head now and is going
to burst!" But he has sufficient presence of mind to conduct his
visitor into the little counting-house and to shut the door.

Are you a married man, sir?

No, I am not.

Would you make the attempt, though single,says Mr. Snagsby in a
melancholy whisperto speak as low as you can? For my little
woman is a-listening somewheres, or I'll forfeit the business and
five hundred pound!

In deep dejection Mr. Snagsby sits down on his stoolwith his back
against his deskprotestingI never had a secret of my own, sir.
I can't charge my memory with ever having once attempted to deceive
my little woman on my own account since she named the day. I
wouldn't have done it, sir. Not to put too fine a point upon it, I
couldn't have done it, I dursn't have done it. Whereas, and
nevertheless, I find myself wrapped round with secrecy and mystery,
till my life is a burden to me.

His visitor professes his regret to bear it and asks him does he
remember Jo. Mr. Snagsby answers with a suppressed groanoh
don't he!

You couldn't name an individual human being--except myself--that
my little woman is more set and determined against than Jo,says
Mr. Snagsby.

Allan asks why.

Why?repeats Mr. Snagsbyin his desperation clutching at the
clump of hair at the back of his bald head. "How should 1 know
why? But you are a single personsirand may you long be spared
to ask a married person such a question!"

With this beneficent wishMr. Snagsby coughs a cough of dismal
resignation and submits himself to hear what the visitor has to
communicate.

There again!says Mr. Snagsbywhobetween the earnestness of
his feelings and the suppressed tones of his voice is discoloured
in the face. "At it againin a new direction! A certain person
charges mein the solemnest waynot to talk of Jo to any one
even my little woman. Then comes another certain personin the
person of yourselfand charges mein an equally solemn waynot
to mention Jo to that other certain person above all other persons.
Whythis is a private asylum! Whynot to put too fine a point
upon itthis is Bedlamsir!" says Mr. Snagsby.

But it is better than he expected after allbeing no explosion of
the mine below him or deepening of the pit into which he has
fallen. And being tender-hearted and affected by the account he
hears of Jo's conditionhe readily engages to "look round" as
early in the evening as he can manage it quietly. He looks round
very quietly when the evening comesbut it may turn out that Mrs.
Snagsby is as quiet a manager as he.

Jo is very glad to see his old friend and sayswhen they are left
alonethat he takes it uncommon kind as Mr. Sangsby should come so
far out of his way on accounts of sich as him. Mr. Snagsby


touched by the spectacle before himimmediately lays upon the
table half a crownthat magic balsam of his for all kinds of
wounds.

And how do you find yourself, my poor lad?inquires the stationer
with his cough of sympathy.

I am in luck, Mr. Sangsby, I am,returns Joand don't want for
nothink. I'm more cumfbler nor you can't think. Mr. Sangsby! I'm
wery sorry that I done it, but I didn't go fur to do it, sir.

The stationer softly lays down another half-crown and asks him what
it is that he is sorry for having done.

Mr. Sangsby,says JoI went and giv a illness to the lady as
wos and yit as warn't the t'other lady, and none of 'em never says
nothink to me for having done it, on accounts of their being ser
good and my having been s'unfortnet. The lady come herself and see
me yesday, and she ses, 'Ah, Jo!' she ses. 'We thought we'd lost
you, Jo!' she ses. And she sits down a-smilin so quiet, and don't
pass a word nor yit a look upon me for having done it, she don't,
and I turns agin the wall, I doos, Mr. Sangsby. And Mr. Jarnders,
I see him a-forced to turn away his own self. And Mr. Woodcot, he
come fur to giv me somethink fur to ease me, wot he's allus a-doin'
on day and night, and wen he come a-bending over me and a-speakin
up so bold, I see his tears a-fallin, Mr. Sangsby.

The softened stationer deposits another half-crown on the table.
Nothing less than a repetition of that infallible remedy will
relieve his feelings.

Wot I was a-thinkin on, Mr. Sangsby,proceeds Jowos, as you
wos able to write wery large, p'raps?

Yes, Jo, please God,returns the stationer.

Uncommon precious large, p'raps?says Jo with eagerness.

Yes, my poor boy.

Jo laughs with pleasure. "Wot I wos a-thinking on thenMr.
Sangsbywosthat when I wos moved on as fur as ever I could go
and couldn't he moved no furderwhether you might be so good
p'raps as to write outwery large so that any one could see it
anywheresas that I wos wery truly hearty sorry that I done it and
that I never went fur to do itand that though I didn't know
nothink at allI knowd as Mr. Woodcot once cried over it and wos
allus grieved over itand that I hoped as he'd be able to forgive
me in his mind. If the writin could be made to say it wery large
he might."

It shall say it, Jo. Very large.

Jo laughs again. "ThankeeMr. Sangsby. It's wery kind of you
sirand it makes me more cumfbler nor I was afore."

The meek little stationerwith a broken and unfinished cough
slips down his fourth half-crown--he has never been so close to a
case requiring so many--and is fain to depart. And Jo and heupon
this little earthshall meet no more. No more.

For the cart so hard to draw is near its journey's end and drags
over stony ground. All round the clock it labours up the broken
stepsshattered and worn. Not many times can the sun rise and


behold it still upon its weary road.

Phil Squodwith his smoky gunpowder visageat once acts as nurse
and works as armourer at his little table in a corneroften
looking round and saying with a nod of his green-baize cap and an
encouraging elevation of his one eyebrowHold up, my boy! Hold
up!Theretoois Mr. Jarndyce many a timeand Allan Woodcourt
almost alwaysboth thinkingmuchhow strangely fate has
entangled this rough outcast in the web of very different lives.
Theretoothe trooper is a frequent visitorfilling the doorway
with his athletic figure andfrom his superfluity of life and
strengthseeming to shed down temporary vigour upon Jowho never
fails to speak more robustly in answer to his cheerful words.

Jo is in a sleep or in a stupor to-dayand Allan Woodcourtnewly
arrivedstands by himlooking down upon his wasted form. After a
while he softly seats himself upon the bedside with his face
towards him--just as he sat in the law-writer's room--and touches
his chest and heart. The cart had very nearly given upbut
labours on a little more.

The trooper stands in the doorwaystill and silent. Phil has
stopped in a low clinking noisewith his little hammer in his
hand. Mr. Woodcourt looks round with that grave professional
interest and attention on his faceand glancing significantly at
the troopersigns to Phil to carry his table out. When the little
hammer is next usedthere will be a speck of rust upon it.

Well, Jo! What is the matter? Don't be frightened.

I thought,says Jowho has started and is looking roundI
thought I was in Tom-all-Alone's agin. Ain't there nobody here but
you, Mr. Woodcot?

Nobody.

And I ain't took back to Tom-all-Alone's. Am I, sir?

No.Jo closes his eyesmutteringI'm wery thankful.

After watching him closely a little whileAllan puts his mouth
very near his ear and says to him in a lowdistinct voiceJo!
Did you ever know a prayer?

Never knowd nothink, sir.

Not so much as one short prayer?

No, sir. Nothink at all. Mr. Chadbands he wos a-prayin wunst at
Mr. Sangsby's and I heerd him, but he sounded as if he wos aspeakin
to hisself, and not to me. He prayed a lot, but I couldn't
make out nothink on it. Different times there was other genlmen
come down Tom-all-Alone's a-prayin, but they all mostly sed as the
t'other 'wuns prayed wrong, and all mostly sounded to be a-talking
to theirselves, or a-passing blame on the t'others, and not atalkin
to us. WE never knowd nothink. I never knowd what it wos
all about.

It takes him a long time to say thisand few but an experienced
and attentive listener could hearorhearingunderstand him.
After a short relapse into sleep or stuporhe makesof a sudden
a strong effort to get out of bed.

Stay, Jo! What now?


It's time for me to go to that there berryin ground, sir,he
returns with a wild look.

Lie down, and tell me. What burying ground, Jo?

Where they laid him as wos wery good to me, wery good to me
indeed, he wos. It's time fur me to go down to that there berryin
ground, sir, and ask to be put along with him. I wants to go there
and be berried. He used fur to say to me, 'I am as poor as you today,
Jo,' he ses. I wants to tell him that I am as poor as him now
and have come there to be laid along with him.

By and by, Jo. By and by.

Ah! P'raps they wouldn't do it if I wos to go myself. But will
you promise to have me took there, sir, and laid along with him?

I will, indeed.

Thankee, sir. Thankee, sir. They'll have to get the key of the
gate afore they can take me in, for it's allus locked. And there's
a step there, as I used for to clean with my broom. It's turned
wery dark, sir. Is there any light a-comin?

It is coming fast, Jo.

Fast. The cart is shaken all to piecesand the rugged road is
very near its end.

Jo, my poor fellow!

I hear you, sir, in the dark, but I'm a-gropin--a-gropin--let me
catch hold of your hand.

Jo, can you say what I say?

I'll say anythink as you say, sir, for I knows it's good.

Our Father.

Our Father! Yes, that's wery good, sir.

Which art in heaven.

Art in heaven--is the light a-comin, sir?

It is close at hand. Hallowed by thy name!

Hallowed be--thy--

The light is come upon the dark benighted way. Dead!

Deadyour Majesty. Deadmy lords and gentlemen. Deadright
reverends and wrong reverends of every order. Deadmen and women
born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying thus
around us every day.

CHAPTER XLVIII

Closing in


The place in Lincolnshire has shut its many eyes againand the
house in town is awake. In Lincolnshire the Dedlocks of the past
doze in their picture-framesand the low wind murmurs through the
long drawing-room as if they were breathing pretty regularly. In
town the Dedlocks of the present rattle in their fire-eyed
carriages through the darkness of the nightand the Dedlock
Mercurieswith ashes (or hair-powder) on their headssymptomatic
of their great humilityloll away the drowsy mornings in the
little windows of the hall. The fashionable world--tremendous orb
nearly five miles round--is in full swingand the solar system
works respectfully at its appointed distances.

Where the throng is thickestwhere the lights are brightestwhere
all the senses are ministered to with the greatest delicacy and
refinementLady Dedlock is. From the shining heights she has
scaled and takenshe is never absent. Though the belief she of
old reposed in herself as one able to reserve whatsoever she would
under her mantle of pride is beaten downthough she has no
assurance that what she is to those around her she will remain
another dayit is not in her nature when envious eyes are looking
on to yield or to droop. They say of her that she has lately grown
more handsome and more haughty. The debilitated cousin says of
her that she's beauty nough--tsetup shopofwomen--but rather
larming kind--remindingmanfact--inconvenient woman--who WILL
getoutofbedandbawthstahlishment--Shakespeare.

Mr. Tulkinghorn says nothinglooks nothing. Nowas heretofore
he is to be found in doorways of roomswith his limp white cravat
loosely twisted into its old-fashioned tiereceiving patronage
from the peerage and making no sign. Of all men he is still the
last who might be supposed to have any influence upon my Lady. Of
all woman she is still the last who might be supposed to have any
dread of him.

One thing has been much on her mind since their late interview in
his turret-room at Chesney Wold. She is now decidedand prepared
to throw it off.

It is morning in the great worldafternoon according to the little
sun. The Mercuriesexhausted by looking out of windoware
reposing in the hall and hang their heavy headsthe gorgeous
creatureslike overblown sunflowers. Like themtoothey seem to
run to a deal of seed in their tags and trimmings. Sir Leicester
in the libraryhas fallen asleep for the good of the country over
the report of a Parliamentary committee. My Lady sits in the room
in which she gave audience to the young man of the name of Guppy.
Rosa is with her and has been writing for her and reading to her.
Rosa is now at work upon embroidery or some such pretty thingand
as she bends her head over itmy Lady watches her in silence. Not
for the first time to-day.

Rosa.

The pretty village face looks brightly up. Thenseeing how
serious my Lady islooks puzzled and surprised.

See to the door. Is it shut?

Yes. She goes to it and returnsand looks yet more surprised.

I am about to place confidence in you, child, for I know I may
trust your attachment, if not your judgment. In what I am going to
do, I will not disguise myself to you at least. But I confide in


you. Say nothing to any one of what passes between us.

The timid little beauty promises in all earnestness to be
trustworthy.

Do you know,Lady Dedlock asks hersigning to her to bring her
chair nearerdo you know, Rosa, that I am different to you from
what I am to any one?

Yes, my Lady. Much kinder. But then I often think I know you as
you really are.

You often think you know me as I really am? Poor child, poor
child!

She says it with a kind of scorn--though not of Rosa--and sits
broodinglooking dreamily at her.

Do you think, Rosa, you are any relief or comfort to me? Do you
suppose your being young and natural, and fond of me and grateful
to me, makes it any pleasure to me to have you near me?

I don't know, my Lady; I can scarcely hope so. But with all my
heart, I wish it was so.

It is so, little one.

The pretty face is checked in its flush of pleasure by the dark
expression on the handsome face before it. It looks timidly for an
explanation.

And if I were to say to-day, 'Go! Leave me!' I should say what
would give me great pain and disquiet, child, and what would leave
me very solitary.

My Lady! Have I offended you?

In nothing. Come here.

Rosa bends down on the footstool at my Lady's feet. My Ladywith
that motherly touch of the famous ironmaster nightlays her hand
upon her dark hair and gently keeps it there.

I told you, Rosa, that I wished you to be happy and that I would
make you so if I could make anybody happy on this earth. I cannot.
There are reasons now known to me, reasons in which you have no
part, rendering it far better for you that you should not remain
here. You must not remain here. I have determined that you shall
not. I have written to the father of your lover, and he will be
here to-day. All this I have done for your sake.

The weeping girl covers her hand with kisses and says what shall
she dowhat shall she dowhen they are separated! Her mistress
kisses her on the cheek and makes no other answer.

Now, be happy, child, under better circumstances. Be beloved and
happy!

Ah, my Lady, I have sometimes thought--forgive my being so free-that
YOU are not happy.

I!

Will you be more so when you have sent me away? Pray, pray, think


again. Let me stay a little while!

I have said, my child, that what I do, I do for your sake, not my
own. It is done. What I am towards you, Rosa, is what I am now-not
what I shall be a little while hence. Remember this, and keep
my confidence. Do so much for my sake, and thus all ends between
us!

She detaches herself from her simple-hearted companion and leaves
the room. Late in the afternoonwhen she next appears upon the
staircaseshe is in her haughtiest and coldest state. As
indifferent as if all passionfeelingand interest had been worn
out in the earlier ages of the world and had perished from its
surface with its other departed monsters.

Mercury has announced Mr. Rouncewellwhich is the cause of her
appearance. Mr. Rouncewell is not in the librarybut she repairs
to the library. Sir Leicester is thereand she wishes to speak to
him first.

Sir Leicester, I am desirous--but you are engaged.

Ohdear no! Not at all. Only Mr. Tulkinghorn.

Always at hand. Haunting every place. No relief or security from
him for a moment.

I beg your pardon, Lady Dedlock. Will you allow me to retire?

With a look that plainly saysYou know you have the power to
remain if you will,she tells him it is not necessary and moves
towards a chair. Mr. Tulkinghorn brings it a little forward for
her with his clumsy bow and retires into a window opposite.
Interposed between her and the fading light of day in the now quiet
streethis shadow falls upon herand he darkens all before her.
Even so does he darken her life.

It is a dull street under the best conditionswhere the two long
rows of houses stare at each other with that severity that half-adozen
of its greatest mansions seem to have been slowly stared into
stone rather than originally built in that material. It is a
street of such dismal grandeurso determined not to condescend to
livelinessthat the doors and windows hold a gloomy state of their
own in black paint and dustand the echoing mews behind have a dry
and massive appearanceas if they were reserved to stable the
stone chargers of noble statues. Complicated garnish of iron-work
entwines itself over the flights of steps in this awful streetand
from these petrified bowersextinguishers for obsolete flambeaux
gasp at the upstart gas. Here and there a weak little iron hoop
through which bold boys aspire to throw their friends' caps (its
only present use)retains its place among the rusty foliage
sacred to the memory of departed oil. Nayeven oil itselfyet
lingering at long intervals in a little absurd glass potwith a
knob in the bottom like an oysterblinks and sulks at newer lights
every nightlike its high and dry master in the House of Lords.

Therefore there is not much that Lady Dedlockseated in her chair
could wish to see through the window in which Mr. Tulkinghorn
stands. And yet--and yet--she sends a look in that direction as if
it were her heart's desire to have that figure moved out of the
way.

Sir Leicester begs his Lady's pardon. She was about to say?


Only that Mr. Rouncewell is here (he has called by my appointment)
and that we had better make an end of the question of that girl. I
am tired to death of the matter.

What can I do--to--assist?demands Sir Leicester in some
considerable doubt.

Let us see him here and have done with it. Will you tell them to
send him up?

Mr. Tulkinghorn, be so good as to ring. Thank you. Request,
says Sir Leicester to Mercurynot immediately remembering the
business termrequest the iron gentleman to walk this way.

Mercury departs in search of the iron gentlemanfindsand
produces him. Sir Leicester receives that ferruginous person
graciously.

I hope you are well, Mr. Rouncewell. Be seated. (My solicitor,
Mr. Tulkinghorn.) My Lady was desirous, Mr. Rouncewell,Sir
Leicester skilfully transfers him with a solemn wave of his hand
was desirous to speak with you. Hem!

I shall be very happy,returns the iron gentlemanto give my
best attention to anything Lady Dedlock does me the honour to say.

As he turns towards herhe finds that the impression she makes
upon him is less agreeable than on the former occasion. A distant
supercilious air makes a cold atmosphere about herand there is
nothing in her bearingas there was beforeto encourage openness.

Pray, sir,says Lady Dedlock listlesslymay I be allowed to
inquire whether anything has passed between you and your son
respecting your son's fancy?

It is almost too troublesome to her languid eyes to bestow a look
upon him as she asks this question.

If my memory serves me, Lady Dedlock, I said, when I had the
pleasure of seeing you before, that I should seriously advise my
son to conquer that--fancy.The ironmaster repeats her expression
with a little emphasis.

And did you?

Oh! Of course I did.

Sir Leicester gives a nodapproving and confirmatory. Very
proper. The iron gentlemanhaving said that he would do itwas
bound to do it. No difference in this respect between the base
metals and the precious. Highly proper.

And pray has he done so?

Really, Lady Dedlock, I cannot make you a definite reply. I fear
not. Probably not yet. In our condition of life, we sometimes
couple an intention with our--our fancies which renders them not
altogether easy to throw off. I think it is rather our way to be
in earnest.

Sir Leicester has a misgiving that there may be a hidden Wat
Tylerish meaning in this expressionand fumes a little. Mr.
Rouncewell is perfectly good-humoured and politebut within such
limitsevidently adapts his tone to his reception.


Because,proceeds my LadyI have been thinking of the subject,
which is tiresome to me.

I am very sorry, I am sure.

And also of what Sir Leicester said upon it, in which I quite
concur--Sir Leicester flattered--"and if you cannot give us the
assurance that this fancy is at an endI have come to the
conclusion that the girl had better leave me."

I can give no such assurance, Lady Dedlock. Nothing of the kind.

Then she had better go.

Excuse me, my Lady,Sir Leicester considerately interposesbut
perhaps this may be doing an injury to the young woman which she
has not merited. Here is a young woman,says Sir Leicester
magnificently laying out the matter with his right hand like a
service of platewhose good fortune it is to have attracted the
notice and favour of an eminent lady and to live, under the
protection of that eminent lady, surrounded by the various
advantages which such a position confers, and which are
unquestionably very great--I believe unquestionably very great,
sir--for a young woman in that station of life. The question then
arises, should that young woman be deprived of these many
advantages and that good fortune simply because she has--Sir
Leicesterwith an apologetic but dignified inclination of his head
towards the ironmasterwinds up his sentence--"has attracted the
notice of Mr Rouncewell's son? Nowhas she deserved this
punishment? Is this just towards her? Is this our previous
understanding?"

I beg your pardon,interposes Mr. Rouncewell's son's father.
Sir Leicester, will you allow me? I think I may shorten the
subject. Pray dismiss that from your consideration. If you
remember anything so unimportant--which is not to be expected--you
would recollect that my first thought in the affair was directly
opposed to her remaining here.

Dismiss the Dedlock patronage from consideration? Oh! Sir
Leicester is bound to believe a pair of ears that have been handed
down to him through such a familyor he really might have
mistrusted their report of the iron gentleman's observations.

It is not necessary,observes my Lady in her coldest manner
before he can do anything but breathe amazedlyto enter into
these matters on either side. The girl is a very good girl; I have
nothing whatever to say against her, but she is so far insensible
to her many advantages and her good fortune that she is in love--or
supposes she is, poor little fool--and unable to appreciate them.

Sir Leicester begs to observe that wholly alters the case. He
might have been sure that my Lady had the best grounds and reasons
in support of her view. He entirely agrees with my Lady. The
young woman had better go.

As Sir Leicester observed, Mr. Rouncewell, on the last occasion
when we were fatigued by this business,Lady Dedlock languidly
proceedswe cannot make conditions with you. Without conditions,
and under present circumstances, the girl is quite misplaced here
and had better go. I have told her so. Would you wish to have her
sent back to the village, or would you like to take her with you,
or what would you prefer?


Lady Dedlock, if I may speak plainly--

By all means.

--I should prefer the course which will the soonest relieve you of
the incumbrance and remove her from her present position.

And to speak as plainly,she returns with the same studied
carelessnessso should I. Do I understand that you will take her
with you?

The iron gentleman makes an iron bow.

Sir Leicester, will you ring?Mr. Tulkinghorn steps forward from
his window and pulls the bell. "I had forgotten you. Thank you."
He makes his usual bow and goes quietly back again. Mercury
swift-responsiveappearsreceives instructions whom to produce
skims awayproduces the aforesaidand departs.

Rosa has been crying and is yet in distress. On her coming inthe
ironmaster leaves his chairtakes her arm in hisand remains with
her near the door ready to depart.

You are taken charge of, you see,says my Lady in her weary
mannerand are going away well protected. I have mentioned that
you are a very good girl, and you have nothing to cry for.

She seems after all,observes Mr. Tulkinghornloitering a little
forward with his hands behind himas if she were crying at going
away.

Why, she is not well-bred, you see,returns Mr. Rouncewell with
some quickness in his manneras if he were glad to have the lawyer
to retort uponand she is an inexperienced little thing and knows
no better. If she had remained here, sir, she would have improved,
no doubt.

No doubt,is Mr. Tulkinghorn's composed reply.

Rosa sobs out that she is very sorry to leave my Ladyand that she
was happy at Chesney Woldand has been happy with my Ladyand
that she thanks my Lady over and over again. "Outyou silly
little puss!" says the ironmasterchecking her in a low voice
though not angrily. "Have a spiritif you're fond of Watt!" My
Lady merely waves her off with indifferencesayingThere, there,
child! You are a good girl. Go away!Sir Leicester has
magnificently disengaged himself from the subject and retired into
the sanctuary of his blue coat. Mr. Tulkinghornan indistinct
form against the dark street now dotted with lampslooms in my
Lady's viewbigger and blacker than before.

Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock,says Mr. Rouncewell after a pause
of a few momentsI beg to take my leave, with an apology for
having again troubled you, though not of my own act, on this
tiresome subject. I can very well understand, I assure you, how
tiresome so small a matter must have become to Lady Dedlock. If I
am doubtful of my dealing with it, it is only because I did not at
first quietly exert my influence to take my young friend here away
without troubling you at all. But it appeared to me--I dare say
magnifying the importance of the thing--that it was respectful to
explain to you how the matter stood and candid to consult your
wishes and convenience. I hope you will excuse my want of
acquaintance with the polite world.


Sir Leicester considers himself evoked out of the sanctuary by
these remarks. "Mr. Rouncewell he returns, do not menfion it.
Justifications are unnecessaryI hopeon either side."

I am glad to hear it, Sir Leicester; and if I may, by way of a
last word, revert to what I said before of my mother's long
connexion with the family and the worth it bespeaks on both sides,
I would point out this little instance here on my arm who shows
herself so affectionate and faithful in parting and in whom my
mother, I dare say, has done something to awaken such feelings-though
of course Lady Dedlock, by her heartfelt interest and her
genial condescension, has done much more.

If he mean this ironically, it may be truer than he thinks. He
points it, however, by no deviation from his straightforward manner
of speech, though in saying it he turns towards that part of the
dim room where my Lady sits. Sir Leicester stands to return his
parting salutation, Mr. Tulkinghorn again rings, Mercury takes
another flight, and Mr. Rouncewell and Rosa leave the house.

Then lights are brought in, discovering Mr. Tulkinghorn still
standing in his window with his hands behind him and my Lady still
sitting with his figure before her, closing up her view of the
night as well as of the day. She is very pale. Mr. Tulkinghorn,
observing it as she rises to retire, thinks, Well she may be! The
power of this woman is astonishing. She has been acting a part the
whole time." But he can act a part too--his one unchanging
character--and as he holds the door open for this womanfifty
pairs of eyeseach fifty times sharper than Sir Leicester's pair
should find no flaw in him.

Lady Dedlock dines alone in her own room to-day. Sir Leicester is
whipped in to the rescue of the Doodle Party and the discomfiture
of the Coodle Faction. Lady Dedlock asks on sitting down to
dinnerstill deadly pale (and quite an illustration of the
debilitated cousin's text)whether he is gone out? Yes. Whether
Mr. Tulkinghorn is gone yet? No. Presently she asks againis he
gone YET? No. What is he doing? Mercury thinks he is writing
letters in the library. Would my Lady wish to see him? Anything
but that.

But he wishes to see my Lady. Within a few more minutes he is
reported as sending his respectsand could my Lady please to
receive him for a word or two after her dinner? My Lady will
receive him now. He comes nowapologizing for intrudingeven by
her permissionwhile she is at table. When they are alonemy
Lady waves her hand to dispense with such mockeries.

What do you want, sir?

Why, Lady Dedlock,says the lawyertaking a chair at a little
distance from her and slowly rubbing his rusty legs up and downup
and downup and downI am rather surprised by the course you
have taken.

Indeed?

Yes, decidedly. I was not prepared for it. I consider it a
departure from our agreement and your promise. It puts us in a new
position, Lady Dedlock. I feel myself under the necessity of
saying that I don't approve of it.

He stops in his rubbing and looks at herwith his hands on his


knees. Imperturbable and unchangeable as he isthere is still an
indefinable freedom in his manner which is new and which does not
escape this woman's observation.

I do not quite understand you.

Oh, yes you do, I think. I think you do. Come, come, Lady
Dedlock, we must not fence and parry now. You know you like this
girl.

Well, sir?

And you know--and I know--that you have not sent her away for the
reasons you have assigned, but for the purpose of separating her as
much as possible from--excuse my mentioning it as a matter of
business--any reproach and exposure that impend over yourself.

Well, sir?

Well, Lady Dedlock,returns the lawyercrossing his legs and
nursing the uppermost knee. "I object to that. I consider that a
dangerous proceeding. I know it to be unnecessary and calculated
to awaken speculationdoubtrumourI don't know whatin the
house. Besidesit is a violation of our agreement. You were to
be exactly what you were before. Whereasit must be evident to
yourselfas it is to methat you have been this evening very
different from what you were before. Whybless my soulLady
Dedlocktransparenfly so!"

If, sir,she beginsin my knowledge of my secret--But he
interrupts her.

Now, Lady Dedlock, this is a matter of business, and in a matter
of business the ground cannot be kept too clear. It is no longer
your secret. Excuse me. That is just the mistake. It is my
secret, in trust for Sir Leicester and the family. If it were your
secret, Lady Dedlock, we should not be here holding this
conversation.

That is very true. If in my knowledge of THE secret I do what I
can to spare an innocent girl (especially, remembering your own
reference to her when you told my story to the assembled guests at
Chesney Wold) from the taint of my impending shame, I act upon a
resolution I have taken. Nothing in the world, and no one in the
world, could shake it or could move me.This she says with great
deliberation and distinctness and with no more outward passion than
himself. As for himhe methodically discusses his matter of
business as if she were any insensible instrument used in business.

Really? Then you see, Lady Dedlock,he returnsyou are not to
be trusted. You have put the case in a perfecfly plain way, and
according to the literal fact; and that being the case, you are not
to be trusted.

Perhaps you may remember that I expressed some anxiety on this
same point when we spoke at night at Chesney Wold?

Yes,says Mr. Tulkinghorncoolly getting up and standing on the
hearth. "Yes. I recollectLady Dedlockthat you certainly
referred to the girlbut that was before we came to our
arrangementand both the letter and the spirit of our arrangement
altogether precluded any action on your part founded upon my
discovery. There can be no doubt about that. As to sparing the
girlof what importance or value is she? Spare! Lady Dedlock


here is a family name compromised. One might have supposed that
the course was straight on--over everythingneither to the right
nor to the leftregardless of all considerations in the way
sparing nothingtreading everything under foot."

She has been looking at the table. She lifts up her eyes and looks
at him. There is a stern expression on her face and a part of her
lower lip is compressed under her teeth. "This woman understands
me Mr. Tulkinghorn thinks as she lets her glance fall again.
SHE cannot be spared. Why should she spare others?"

For a little while they are silent. Lady Dedlock has eaten no
dinnerbut has twice or thrice poured out water with a steady hand
and drunk it. She rises from tabletakes a lounging-chairand
reclines in itshading her face. There is nothing in her manner
to express weakness or excite compassion. It is thoughtful
gloomyconcentrated. "This woman thinks Mr. Tulkinghorn,
standing on the hearth, again a dark object closing up her view,
is a study."

He studies her at his leisurenot speaking for a time. She too
studies something at her leisure. She is not the first to speak
appearing indeed so unlikely to be sothough he stood there until
midnightthat even he is driven upon breaking silence.

Lady Dedlock, the most disagreeable part of this business
interview remains, but it is business. Our agreement is broken. A
lady of your sense and strength of character will be prepared for
my now declaring it void and taking my own course.

I am quite prepared.

Mr. Tulkinghorn inclines his head. "That is all I have to trouble
you withLady Dedlock."

She stops him as he is moving out of the room by askingThis is
the notice I was to receive? I wish not to misapprehend you.

Not exactly the notice you were to receive, Lady Dedlock, because
the contemplated notice supposed the agreement to have been
observed. But virtually the same, virtually the same. The
difference is merely in a lawyer's mind.

You intend to give me no other notice?

You are right. No.

Do you contemplate undeceiving Sir Leicester to-night?

A home question!says Mr. Tulkinghorn with a slight smile and
cautiously shaking his head at the shaded face. "Nonot tonight."


To-morrow?

All things considered, I had better decline answering that
question, Lady Dedlock. If I were to say I don't know when,
exactly, you would not believe me, and it would answer no purpose.
It may be to-morrow. I would rather say no more. You are
prepared, and I hold out no expectations which circumstances might
fail to justify. I wish you good evening.

She removes her handturns her pale face towards him as he walks
silently to the doorand stops him once again as he is about to


open it.

Do you intend to remain in the house any time? I heard you were
writing in the library. Are you going to return there?

Only for my hat. I am going home.

She bows her eyes rather than her headthe movement is so slight
and curiousand he withdraws. Clear of the room he looks at his
watch but is inclined to doubt it by a minute or thereabouts.
There is a splendid clock upon the staircasefamousas splendid
clocks not often arefor its accuracy. "And what do YOU say Mr.
Tulkinghorn inquires, referring to it. What do you say?"

If it said nowDon't go home!What a famous clockhereafter
if it said to-night of all the nights that it has counted offto
this old man of all the young and old men who have ever stood
before itDon't go home!With its sharp clear bell it strikes
three quarters after seven and ticks on again. "Whyyou are worse
than I thought you says Mr. Tulkinghorn, muttering reproof to his
watch. Two minutes wrong? At this rate you won't last my time."
What a watch to return good for evil if it ticked in answerDon't
go home!

He passes out into the streets and walks onwith his hands behind
himunder the shadow of the lofty housesmany of whose mysteries
difficultiesmortgagesdelicate affairs of all kindsare
treasured up within his old black satin waistcoat. He is in the
confidence of the very bricks and mortar. The high chimney-stacks
telegraph family secrets to him. Yet there is not a voice in a
mile of them to whisperDon't go home!

Through the stir and motion of the commoner streets; through the
roar and jar of many vehiclesmany feetmany voices; with the
blazing shop-lights lighting him onthe west wind blowing him on
and the crowd pressing him onhe is pitilessly urged upon his way
and nothing meets him murmuringDon't go home!Arrived at last
in his dull room to light his candlesand look round and upand
see the Roman pointing from the ceilingthere is no new
significance in the Roman's hand to-night or in the flutter of the
attendant groups to give him the late warningDon't come here!

It is a moonlight nightbut the moonbeing past the fullis only
now rising over the great wilderness of London. The stars are
shining as they shone above the turret-leads at Chesney Wold. This
womanas he has of late been so accustomed to call herlooks out
upon them. Her soul is turbulent within her; she is sick at heart
and restless. The large rooms are too cramped and close. She
cannot endure their restraint and will walk alone in a neighbouring
garden.

Too capricious and imperious in all she does to be the cause of
much surprise in those about her as to anything she doesthis
womanloosely muffledgoes out into the moonlight. Mercury
attends with the key. Having opened the garden-gatehe delivers
the key into his Lady's hands at her request and is bidden to go
back. She will walk there some time to ease her aching head. She
may be an hourshe may be more. She needs no further escort. The
gate shuts upon its spring with a clashand he leaves her passing
on into the dark shade of some trees.

A fine nightand a bright large moonand multitudes of stars.
Mr. Tulkinghornin repairing to his cellar and in opening and
shutting those resounding doorshas to cross a little prison-like


yard. He looks up casuallythinking what a fine nightwhat a
bright large moonwhat multitudes of stars! A quiet nighttoo.

A very quiet night. When the moon shines very brilliantlya
solitude and stillness seem to proceed from her that influence even
crowded places full of life. Not only is it a still night on dusty
high roads and on hill-summitswhence a wide expanse of country
may be seen in reposequieter and quieter as it spreads away into
a fringe of trees against the sky with the grey ghost of a bloom
upon them; not only is it a still night in gardens and in woods
and on the river where the water-meadows are fresh and greenand
the stream sparkles on among pleasant islandsmurmuring weirsand
whispering rushes; not only does the stillness attend it as it
flows where houses cluster thickwhere many bridges are reflected
in itwhere wharves and shipping make it black and awfulwhere it
winds from these disfigurements through marshes whose grim beacons
stand like skeletons washed ashorewhere it expands through the
bolder region of rising groundsrich in cornfield wind-mill and
steepleand where it mingles with the ever-heaving sea; not only
is it a still night on the deepand on the shore where the watcher
stands to see the ship with her spread wings cross the path of
light that appears to be presented to only him; but even on this
stranger's wilderness of London there is some rest. Its steeples
and towers and its one great dome grow more ethereal; its smoky
house-tops lose their grossness in the pale effulgence; the noises
that arise from the streets are fewer and are softenedand the
footsteps on the pavements pass more tranquilly away. In these
fields of Mr. Tulkinghorn's inhabitingwhere the shepherds play on
Chancery pipes that have no stopand keep their sheep in the fold
by hook and by crook until they have shorn them exceeding close
every noise is mergedthis moonlight nightinto a distant ringing

humas if the city were a vast glassvibrating.
What's that? Who fired a gun or pistol? Where was it?
The few foot-passengers startstopand stare about them.
windows and doors are openedand people come out to look.
Some
It was

a loud report and echoed and rattled heavily. It shook one house
or so a man says who was passing. It has aroused all the dogs in
the neighbourhoodwho bark vehemently. Terrified cats scamper
across the road. While the dogs are yet barking and howling--there
is one dog howling like a demon--the church-clocksas if they were
startled toobegin to strike. The hum from the streetslikewise
seems to swell into a shout. But it is soon over. Before the last
clock begins to strike tenthere is a lull. When it has ceased
the fine nightthe bright large moonand multitudes of starsare
left at peace again.

Has Mr. Tulkinghorn been disturbed? His windows are dark and
quietand his door is shut. It must be something unusual indeed
to bring him out of his shell. Nothing is heard of himnothing is
seen of him. What power of cannon might it take to shake that
rusty old man out of his immovable composure?

For many years the persistent Roman has been pointingwith no
particular meaningfrom that ceiling. It is not likely that he
has any new meaning in him to-night. Once pointingalways
pointing--like any Romanor even Britonwith a single idea.
There he isno doubtin his impossible attitudepointing
unavailinglyall night long. Moonlightdarknessdawnsunrise
day. There he is stilleagerly pointingand no one minds him.

But a little after the coming of the day come people to clean the
rooms. And either the Roman has some new meaning in himnot


expressed beforeor the foremost of them goes wildfor looking up
at his outstretched hand and looking down at what is below itthat
person shrieks and flies. The otherslooking in as the first one
lookedshriek and fly tooand there is an alarm in the street.

What does it mean? No light is admitted into the darkened chamber
and people unaccustomed to it enterand treading softly but
heavilycarry a weight into the bedroom and lay it down. There is
whispering and wondering all daystrict search of every corner
careful tracing of stepsand careful noting of the disposition of
every article of furniture. All eyes look up at the Romanand all
voices murmurIf he could only tell what he saw!

He is pointing at a table with a bottle (nearly full of wine) and a
glass upon it and two candles that were blown out suddenly soon
after being lighted. He is pointing at an empty chair and at a
stain upon the ground before it that might be almost covered with a
hand. These objects lie directly within his range. An excited
imagination might suppose that there was something in them so
terrific as to drive the rest of the compositionnot only the
attendant big-legged boysbut the clouds and flowers and pillars
too--in shortthe very body and soul of Allegoryand all the
brains it has--stark mad. It happens surely that every one who
comes into the darkened room and looks at these things looks up at
the Roman and that he is invested in all eyes with mystery and awe
as if he were a paralysed dumb witness.

So it shall happen surelythrough many years to comethat ghostly
stories shall be told of the stain upon the floorso easy to be
coveredso hard to be got outand that the Romanpointing from
the ceiling shall pointso long as dust and damp and spiders spare
himwith far greater significance than he ever had in Mr.
Tulkinghorn's timeand with a deadly meaning. For Mr.
Tulkinghorn's time is over for evermoreand the Roman pointed at
the murderous hand uplifted against his lifeand pointed
helplessly at himfrom night to morninglying face downward on
the floorshot through the heart.

CHAPTER XLIX

Dutiful Friendship

A great annual occasion has come round in the establishment of Mr.
Matthew Bagnetotherwise Lignum Vitaeex-artilleryman and present
bassoon-player. An occasion of feasting and festival. The
celebration of a birthday in the family.

It is not Mr. Bagnet's birthday. Mr. Bagnet merely distinguishes
that epoch in the musical instrument business by kissing the
children with an extra smack before breakfastsmoking an
additional pipe after dinnerand wondering towards evening what
his poor old mother is thinking about it--a subject of infinite
speculationand rendered so by his mother having departed this
life twenty years. Some men rarely revert to their fatherbut
seemin the bank-books of their remembranceto have transferred
all the stock of filial affection into their mother's name. Mr.
Bagnet is one of like his trade the better for that. If I had kept
clear of his old girl causes him usually to make the noun-
substantive "goodness" of the feminine gender.

It is not the birthday of one of the three children. Those


occasions are kept with some marks of distinctionbut they rarely
overleap the bounds of happy returns and a pudding. On young
Woolwich's last birthdayMr. Bagnet certainly didafter observing
on his growth and general advancementproceedin a moment of
profound reflection on the changes wrought by timeto examine him
in the catechismaccomplishing with extreme accuracy the questions
number one and twoWhat is your name?and "Who gave you that
name?" but there failing in the exact precision of his memory and
substituting for number three the question "And how do you like
that name?" which he propounded with a sense of its importancein
itself so edifying and improving as to give it quite an orthodox
air. Thishoweverwas a speciality on that particular birthday
and not a general solemnity.

It is the old girl's birthdayand that is the greatest holiday and
reddest-letter day in Mr. Bagnet's calendar. The auspicious event
is always commemorated according to certain forms settled and
prescribed by Mr. Bagnet some years since. Mr. Bagnetbeing
deeply convinced that to have a pair of fowls for dinner is to
attain the highest pitch of imperial luxuryinvariably goes forth
himself very early in the morning of this day to buy a pair; he is
as invariablytaken in by the vendor and installed in the
possession of the oldest inhabitants of any coop in Europe.
Returning with these triumphs of toughness tied up in a clean blue
and white cotton handkerchief (essential to the arrangements)he
in a casual manner invites Mrs. Bagnet to declare at breakfast what
she would like for dinner. Mrs. Bagnetby a coincidence never
known to failreplying fowlsMr. Bagnet instantly produces his
bundle from a place of concealment amidst general amazement and
rejoicing. He further requires that the old girl shall do nothing
all day long but sit in her very best gown and be served by himself
and the young people. As he is not illustrious for his cookery
this may be supposed to be a matter of state rather than enjoyment
on the old girl's partbut she keeps her state with all imaginable
cheerfulness.

On this present birthdayMr. Bagnet has accomplished the usual
preliminaries. He has bought two specimens of poultrywhichif
there be any truth in adageswere certainly not caught with chaff
to be prepared for the spit; he has amazed and rejoiced the family
by their unlooked-for production; he is himself directing the
roasting of the poultry; and Mrs. Bagnetwith her wholesome brown
fingers itching to prevent what she sees going wrongsits in her
gown of ceremonyan honoured guest.

Quebec and Malta lay the cloth for dinnerwhile Woolwichserving
as beseems himunder his fatherkeeps the fowls revolving. To
these young scullions Mrs. Bagnet occasionally imparts a winkor a
shake of the heador a crooked faceas they made mistakes.

At half after one.Says Mr. Bagnet. "To the minute. They'll be
done."

Mrs. Bagnetwith anguishbeholds one of them at a standstill
before the fire and beginning to burn.

You shall have a dinner, old girl,says Mr. Bagnet. "Fit for a
queen."

Mrs. Bagnet shows her white teeth cheerfullybut to the perception
of her sonbetrays so much uneasiness of spirit that he is
impelled by the dictates of affection to ask herwith his eyes
what is the matterthus standingwith his eyes wide openmore
oblivious of the fowls than beforeand not affording the least


hope of a return to consciousness. Fortunately his elder sister
perceives the cause of the agitation in Mrs. Bagnet's breast and
with an admonitory poke recalls him. The stopped fowls going round
againMrs. Bagnet closes her eyes in the intensity of her relief.

George will look us up,says Mr. Bagnet. "At half after four.
To the moment. How many yearsold girl. Has George looked us up.
This afternoon?"

Ah, Lignum, Lignum, as many as make an old woman of a young one, I
begin to think. Just about that, and no less,returns Mrs.
Bagnetlaughing and shaking her head.

Old girl,says Mr. Bagnetnever mind. You'd be as young as
ever you was. If you wasn't younger. Which you are. As everybody
knows.

Quebec and Malta here exclaimwith clapping of handsthat Bluffy
is sure to bring mother somethingand begin to speculate on what
it will be.

Do you know, Lignum,says Mrs. Bagnetcasting a glance on the
table-clothand winking "salt!" at Malta with her right eyeand
shaking the pepper away from Quebec with her headI begin to
think George is in the roving way again.

George returns Mr. Bagnet, will never desert. And leave his
old comrade. In the lurch. Don't be afraid of it."

No, Lignum. No. I don't say he will. I don't think he will.
But if he could get over this money trouble of his, I believe he
would be off.

Mr. Bagnet asks why.

Well,returns his wifeconsideringGeorge seems to me to be
getting not a little impatient and restless. I don't say but what
he's as free as ever. Of course he must be free or he wouldn't be
George, but he smarts and seems put out.

He's extra-drilled,says Mr. Bagnet. "By a lawyer. Who would
put the devil out."

There's something in that,his wife assents; "but so it is
Lignum."

Further conversation is preventedfor the timeby the necessity
under which Mr. Bagnet finds himself of directing the whole force
of his mind to the dinnerwhich is a little endangered by the dry
humour of the fowls in not yielding any gravyand also by the made
gravy acquiring no flavour and turning out of a flaxen complexion.
With a similar perversenessthe potatoes crumble off forks in the
process of peelingupheaving from their centres in every
directionas if they were subject to earthquakes. The legs of the
fowlstooare longer than could be desiredand extremely scaly.
Overcoming these disadvantages to the best of his abilityMr.
Bagnet at last dishes and they sit down at tableMrs. Bagnet
occupying the guest's place at his right hand.

It is well for the old girl that she has but one birthday in a
yearfor two such indulgences in poultry might be injurious.
Every kind of finer tendon and ligament that is in the nature of
poultry to possess is developed in these specimens in the singular
form of guitar-strings. Their limbs appear to have struck roots


into their breasts and bodiesas aged trees strike roots into the
earth. Their legs are so hard as to encourage the idea that they
must have devoted the greater part of their long and arduous lives
to pedestrian exercises and the walking of matches. But Mr.
Bagnetunconscious of these little defectssets his heart on Mrs.
Bagnet eating a most severe quantity of the delicacies before her;
and as that good old girl would not cause him a moment's
disappointment on any dayleast of all on such a dayfor any
considerationshe imperils her digestion fearfully. How young
Woolwich cleans the drum-sticks without being of ostrich descent
his anxious mother is at a loss to understand.

The old girl has another trial to undergo after the conclusion of
the repast in sitting in state to see the room clearedthe hearth
sweptand the dinner-service washed up and polished in the
backyard. The great delight and energy with which the two young
ladies apply themselves to these dutiesturning up their skirts in
imitation of their mother and skating in and out on little
scaffolds of pattensinspire the highest hopes for the futurebut
some anxiety for the present. The same causes lead to confusion of
tonguesa clattering of crockerya rattling of tin mugsa
whisking of broomsand an expenditure of waterall in excess
while the saturation of the young ladies themselves is almost too
moving a spectacle for Mrs. Bagnet to look upon with the calmness
proper to her position. At last the various cleansing processes
are triumphantly completed; Quebec and Malta appear in fresh
attiresmiling and dry; pipestobaccoand something to drink are
placed upon the table; and the old girl enjoys the first peace of
mind she ever knows on the day of this delightful entertainment.

When Mr. Bagnet takes his usual seatthe hands of the clock are
very near to half-past four; as they mark it accuratelyMr. Bagnet
announcesGeorge! Military time.

It is Georgeand he has hearty congratulations for the old girl
(whom he kisses on the great occasion)and for the childrenand
for Mr. Bagnet. "Happy returns to all!" says Mr. George.

But, George, old man!cries Mrs. Bagnetlooking at him
curiously. "What's come to you?"

Come to me?

Ah! You are so white, George--for you--and look so shocked. Now
don't he, Lignum?

George,says Mr. Bagnettell the old girl. What's the matter.

I didn't know I looked white,says the trooperpassing his hand
over his browand I didn't know I looked shocked, and I'm sorry I
do. But the truth is, that boy who was taken in at my place died
yesterday afternoon, and it has rather knocked me over.

Poor creetur!says Mrs. Bagnet with a mother's pity. "Is he
gone? Deardear!"

I didn't mean to say anything about it, for it's not birthday
talk, but you have got it out of me, you see, before I sit down. I
should have roused up in a minute,says the troopermaking
himself speak more gailybut you're so quick, Mrs. Bagnet.

You're right. The old girl,says Mr. Bagnet. "Is as quick. As
powder."


And what's more, she's the subject of the day, and we'll stick to
her,cries Mr. George. "See hereI have brought a little brooch
along with me. It's a poor thingyou knowbut it's a keepsake.
That's all the good it isMrs. Bagnet."

Mr. George produces his presentwhich is greeted with admiring
leapings and clappings by the young familyand with a species of
reverential admiration by Mr. Bagnet. "Old girl says Mr. Bagnet.
Tell him my opinion of it."

Why, it's a wonder, George!Mrs. Bagnet exclaims. "It's the
beautifullest thing that ever was seen!"

Good!says Mr. Bagnet. "My opinion."

It's so pretty, George,cries Mrs. Bagnetturning it on all
sides and holding it out at arm's lengththat it seems too choice
for me.

Bad!says Mr. Bagnet. "Not my opinlon."

But whatever it is, a hundred thousand thanks, old fellow,says
Mrs. Bagnether eyes sparkling with pleasure and her hand
stretched out to him; "and though I have been a crossgrained
soldier's wife to you sometimesGeorgewe are as strong friends
I am surein realityas ever can be. Now you shall fasten it on
yourselffor good luckif you willGeorge."

The children close up to see it doneand Mr. Bagnet looks over
young Woolwich's head to see it done with an interest so maturely
woodenyet pleasantly childishthat Mrs. Bagnet cannot help
laughing in her airy way and sayingOh, Lignum, Lignum, what a
precious old chap you are!But the trooper fails to fasten the
brooch. His hand shakeshe is nervousand it falls off. "Would
any one believe this?" says hecatching it as it drops and looking
round. "I am so out of sorts that I bungle at an easy job like
this!"

Mrs. Bagnet concludes that for such a case there is no remedy like
a pipeand fastening the brooch herself in a twinklingcauses the
trooper to be inducted into his usual snug place and the pipes to
be got into action. "If that don't bring you roundGeorge says
she, just throw your eye across here at your present now and then
and the two together MUST do it."

You ought to do it of yourself,George answers; "I know that very
wellMrs. Bagnet. I'll tell you howone way and anotherthe
blues have got to be too many for me. Here was this poor lad.
'Twas dull work to see him dying as he didand not be able to help
him."

What do you mean, George? You did help him. You took him under
your roof.

I helped him so far, but that's little. I mean, Mrs. Bagnet,
there he was, dying without ever having been taught much more than
to know his right hand from his left. And he was too far gone to
be helped out of that.

Ah, poor creetur!says Mrs. Bagnet.

Then,says the troopernot yet lighting his pipeand passing
his heavy hand over his hairthat brought up Gridley in a man's
mind. His was a bad case too, in a different way. Then the two


got mixed up in a man's mind with a flinty old rascal who had to do
with both. And to think of that rusty carbine, stock and barrel,
standing up on end in his corner, hard, indifferent, taking
everything so evenly--it made flesh and blood tingle, I do assure
you.

My advice to you,returns Mrs. Bagnetis to light your pipe and
tingle that way. It's wholesomer and comfortabler, and better for
the health altogether.

You're right,says the trooperand I'll do it.

So he does itthough still with an indignant gravity that
impresses the young Bagnetsand even causes Mr. Bagnet to defer
the ceremony of drinking Mrs. Bagnet's healthalways given by
himself on these occasions in a speech of exemplary terseness. But
the young ladies having composed what Mr. Bagnet is in the habit of
calling "the mixtur and George's pipe being now in a glow, Mr.
Bagnet considers it his duty to proceed to the toast of the
evening. He addresses the assembled company in the following
terms.

George. Woolwich. Quebec. Malta. This is her birthday. Take a
day's march. And you won't find such another. Here's towards
her!"

The toast having been drunk with enthusiasmMrs. Bagnet returns
thanks in a neat address of corresponding brevity. This model
composition is limited to the three words "And wishing yours!"
which the old girl follows up with a nod at everybody in succession
and a well-regulated swig of the mixture. This she again follows
upon the present occasionby the wholly unexpected exclamation
Here's a man!

Here IS a manmuch to the astonishment of the little company
looking in at the parlour-door. He is a sharp-eyed man--a quick
keen man--and he takes in everybody's look at himall at once
individually and collectivelyin a manner that stamps him a
remarkable man.

George,says the mannoddinghow do you find yourself?

Why, it's Bucket!cries Mr. George.

Yes,says the mancoming in and closing the door. "I was going
down the street here when I happened to stop and look in at the
musical instruments in the shop-window--a friend of mine is in want
of a second-hand wiolinceller of a good tone--and I saw a party
enjoying themselvesand I thought it was you in the corner; I
thought I couldn't be mistaken. How goes the world with you
Georgeat the present moment? Pretty smooth? And with you
ma'am? And with yougovernor? And Lord says Mr. Bucket,
opening his arms, here's children too! You may do anything with
me if you only show me children. Give us a kissmy pets. No
occasion to inquire who YOUR father and mother is. Never saw such
a likeness in my life!"

Mr. Bucketnot unwelcomehas sat himself down next to Mr. George
and taken Quebec and Malta on his knees. "You pretty dears says
Mr. Bucket, give us another kiss; it's the only thing I'm greedy
in. Lord bless youhow healthy you look! And what may be the
ages of these twoma'am? I should put 'em down at the figures of
about eight and ten."


You're very near, sir,says Mrs. Bagnet.

I generally am near,returns Mr. Bucketbeing so fond of
children. A friend of mine has had nineteen of 'em, ma'am, all by
one mother, and she's still as fresh and rosy as the morning. Not
so much so as yourself, but, upon my soul, she comes near you! And
what do you call these, my darling?pursues Mr. Bucketpinching
Malta's cheeks. "These are peachesthese are. Bless your heart!
And what do you think about father? Do you think father could
recommend a second-hand wiolinceller of a good tone for Mr.
Bucket's friendmy dear? My name's Bucket. Ain't that a funny
name?"

These blandishments have entirely won the family heart. Mrs.
Bagnet forgets the day to the extent of filling a pipe and a glass
for Mr. Bucket and waiting upon him hospitably. She would be glad
to receive so pleasant a character under any circumstancesbut she
tells him that as a friend of George's she is particularly glad to
see him this eveningfor George has not been in his usual spirits.

Not in his usual spirits?exclaims Mr. Bucket. "WhyI never
heard of such a thing! What's the matterGeorge? You don't
intend to tell me you've been out of spirits. What should you be
out of spirits for? You haven't got anything on your mindyou
know."

Nothing particular,returns the trooper.

I should think not,rejoins Mr. Bucket. "What could you have on
your mindyou know! And have these pets got anything on THEIR
mindseh? Not theybut they'll be upon the minds of some of the
young fellowssome of these daysand make 'em precious low-
spirited. I ain't much of a prophetbut I can tell you that
ma'am."

Mrs. Bagnetquite charmedhopes Mr. Bucket has a family of his
own.

There, ma'am!says Mr. Bucket. "Would you believe it? NoI
haven't. My wife and a lodger constitute my family. Mrs. Bucket
is as fond of children as myself and as wishful to have 'embut
no. So it is. Worldly goods are divided unequallyand man must
not repine. What a very nice backyardma'am! Any way out of that
yardnow?"

There is no way out of that yard.

Ain't there really?says Mr. Bucket. "I should have thought
there might have been. WellI don't know as I ever saw a backyard
that took my fancy more. Would you allow me to look at it? Thank
you. NoI see there's no way out. But what a very good-
proportioned yard it is!"

Having cast his sharp eye all about itMr. Bucket returns to his
chair next his friend Mr. George and pats Mr. George affectionately
on the shoulder.

How are your spirits now, George?

All right now,returns the trooper.

That's your sort!says Mr. Bucket. "Why should you ever have
been otherwise? A man of your fine figure and constitution has no
right to be out of spirits. That ain't a chest to be out of


spiritsis itma'am? And you haven't got anything on your mind
you knowGeorge; what could you have on your mind!"

Somewhat harping on this phraseconsidering the extent and variety
of his conversational powersMr. Bucket twice or thrice repeats it
to the pipe he lightsand with a listening face that is
particularly his own. But the sun of his sociality soon recovers
from this brief eclipse and shines again.

And this is brother, is it, my dears?says Mr. Bucketreferring
to Quebec and Malta for information on the subject of young
Woolwich. "And a nice brother he is--half-brother I mean to say.
For he's too old to be your boyma'am."

I can certify at all events that he is not anybody else's,
returns Mrs. Bagnetlaughing.

Well, you do surprise me! Yet he's like you, there's no denying.
Lord, he's wonderfully like you! But about what you may call the
brow, you know, THERE his father comes out!Mr. Bucket compares
the faces with one eye shut upwhile Mr. Bagnet smokes in stolid
satisfaction.

This is an opportunity for Mrs. Bagnet to inform him that the boy
is George's godson.

George's godson, is he?rejoins Mr. Bucket with extreme
cordiality. "I must shake hands over again with George's godson.
Godfather and godson do credit to one another. And what do you
intend to make of himma'am? Does he show any turn for any
musical instrument?"

Mr. Bagnet suddenly interposesPlays the fife. Beautiful.

Would you believe it, governor,says Mr. Bucketstruck by the
coincidencethat when I was a boy I played the fife myself? Not
in a scientific way, as I expect he does, but by ear. Lord bless
you! 'British Grenadiers'--there's a tune to warm an Englishman
up! COULD you give us 'British Grenadiers,' my fine fellow?

Nothing could be more acceptable to the little circle than this
call upon young Woolwichwho immediately fetches his fife and
performs the stirring melodyduring which performance Mr. Bucket
much enlivenedbeats time and never falls to come in sharp with
the burdenBritish Gra-a-anadeers!In shorthe shows so much
musical taste that Mr. Bagnet actually takes his pipe from his lips
to express his conviction that he is a singer. Mr. Bucket receives
the harmonious impeachment so modestlyconfessing how that he did
once chaunt a littlefor the expression of the feelings of his own
bosomand with no presumptuous idea of entertaining his friends
that he is asked to sing. Not to be behindhand in the sociality of
the eveninghe complies and gives them "Believe Meif All Those
Endearing Young Charms." This balladhe informs Mrs. Bagnethe
considers to have been his most powerful ally in moving the heart
of Mrs. Bucket when a maidenand inducing her to approach the
altar--Mr. Bucket's own words are "to come up to the scratch."

This sparkling stranger is such a new and agreeable feature in the
evening that Mr. Georgewho testified no great emotions of
pleasure on his entrancebeginsin spite of himselfto be rather
proud of him. He is so friendlyis a man of so many resources
and so easy to get on withthat it is something to have made him
known there. Mr. Bagnet becomesafter another pipeso sensible
of the value of his acquaintance that he solicits the honour of his


company on the old girl's next birthday. If anything can more
closely cement and consolidate the esteem which Mr. Bucket has
formed for the familyit is the discovery of the nature of the
occasion. He drinks to Mrs. Bagnet with a warmth approaching to
raptureengages himself for that day twelvemonth more than
thankfullymakes a memorandum of the day in a large black pocketbook
with a girdle to itand breathes a hope that Mrs. Bucket and
Mrs. Bagnet may before then becomein a mannersisters. As he
says himselfwhat is public life without private ties? He is in
his humble way a public manbut it is not in that sphere that he
finds happiness. Noit must be sought within the confines of
domestic bliss.

It is naturalunder these circumstancesthat hein his turn
should remember the friend to whom he is indebted for so promising
an acquaintance. And he does. He keeps very close to him.
Whatever the subject of the conversationhe keeps a tender eye
upon him. He waits to walk home with him. He is interested in his
very boots and observes even them attentively as Mr. George sits
smoking cross-legged in the chimney-corner.

At length Mr. George rises to depart. At the same moment Mr.
Bucketwith the secret sympathy of friendshipalso rises. He
dotes upon the children to the last and remembers the commission he
has undertaken for an absent friend.

Respecting that second-hand wiolinceller, governor--could you
recommend me such a thing?

Scores,says Mr. Bagnet.

I am obliged to you,returns Mr. Bucketsqueezing his hand.
You're a friend in need. A good tone, mind you! My friend is a
regular dab at it. Ecod, he saws away at Mozart and Handel and the
rest of the big-wigs like a thorough workman. And you needn't,
says Mr. Bucket in a considerate and private voiceyou needn't
commit yourself to too low a figure, governor. I don't want to pay
too large a price for my friend, but I want you to have your proper
percentage and be remunerated for your loss of time. That is but
fair. Every man must live, and ought to it.

Mr. Bagnet shakes his head at the old girl to the effect that they
have found a jewel of price.

Suppose I was to give you a look in, say, at half arter ten tomorrow
morning. Perhaps you could name the figures of a few
wiolincellers of a good tone?says Mr. Bucket.

Nothing easier. Mr. and Mrs. Bagnet both engage to have the
requisite information ready and even hint to each other at the
practicability of having a small stock collected there for
approval.

Thank you,says Mr. Bucketthank you. Good night, ma'am. Good
night, governor. Good night, darlings. I am much obliged to you
for one of the pleasantest evenings I ever spent in my life.

Theyon the contraryare much obliged to him for the pleasure he
has given them in his company; and so they part with many
expressions of goodwill on both sides. "Now Georgeold boy says
Mr. Bucket, taking his arm at the shop-door, come along!" As they
go down the little street and the Bagnets pause for a minute
looking after themMrs. Bagnet remarks to the worthy Lignum that
Mr. Bucket "almost clings to George likeand seems to be really


fond of him."

The neighbouring streets being narrow and ill-pavedit is a little
inconvenient to walk there two abreast and arm in arm. Mr. George
therefore soon proposes to walk singly. But Mr. Bucketwho cannot
make up his mind to relinquish his friendly holdrepliesWait
half a minute, George. I should wish to speak to you first.
Immediately afterwardshe twists him into a public-house and into
a parlourwhere he confronts him and claps his own back against
the door.

Now, George,says Mr. Bucketduty is duty, and friendship is
friendship. I never want the two to clash if I can help it. I
have endeavoured to make things pleasant to-night, and I put it to
you whether I have done it or not. You must consider yourself in
custody, George.

Custody? What for?returns the trooperthunderstruck.

Now, George,says Mr. Bucketurging a sensible view of the case
upon him with his fat forefingerduty, as you know very well, is
one thing, and conversation is another. It's my duty to inform you
that any observations you may make will be liable to be used
against you. Therefore, George, be careful what you say. You
don't happen to have heard of a murder?

Murder!

Now, George,says Mr. Bucketkeeping his forefinger in an
impressive state of actionbear in mind what I've said to you. I
ask you nothing. You've been in low spirits this afternoon. I
say, you don't happen to have heard of a murder?

No. Where has there been a murder?

Now, George,says Mr. Bucketdon't you go and commit yourself.
I'm a-going to tell you what I want you for. There has been a
murder in Lincoln's Inn Fields--gentleman of the name of
Tulkinghorn. He was shot last night. I want you for that.

The trooper sinks upon a seat behind himand great drops start out
upon his foreheadand a deadly pallor overspreads his face.

Bucket! It's not possible that Mr. Tulkinghorn has been killed
and that you suspect ME?

George,returns Mr. Bucketkeeping his forefinger goingit is
certainly possible, because it's the case. This deed was done last
night at ten o'clock. Now, you know where you were last night at
ten o'clock, and you'll be able to prove it, no doubt.

Last night! Last night?repeats the trooper thoughtfully. Then
it flashes upon him. "Whygreat heavenI was there last night!"

So I have understood, George,returns Mr. Bucket with great
deliberation. "So I have understood. Likewise you've been very
often there. You've been seen hanging about the placeand you've
been heard more than once in a wrangle with himand it's possible
--I don't say it's certainly somind youbut it's possible--that
he may have been heard to call you a threateningmurdering
dangerous fellow."

The trooper gasps as if he would admit it all if he could speak.


Now, George,continues Mr. Bucketputting his hat upon the table
with an air of business rather in the upholstery way than
otherwisemy wish is, as it has been all the evening, to make
things pleasant. I tell you plainly there's a reward out, of a
hundred guineas, offered by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. You
and me have always been pleasant together; but I have got a duty to
discharge; and if that hundred guineas is to be made, it may as
well be made by me as any other man. On all of which accounts, I
should hope it was clear to you that I must have you, and that I'm
damned if I don't have you. Am I to call in any assistance, or is
the trick done?

Mr. George has recovered himself and stands up like a soldier.
Come,he says; "I am ready."

George,continues Mr. Bucketwait a bit!With his upholsterer
manneras if the trooper were a window to be fitted uphe takes
from his pocket a pair of handcuffs. "This is a serious charge
Georgeand such is my duty."

The trooper flushes angrily and hesitates a momentbut holds out
his two handsclasped togetherand saysThere! Put them on!

Mr. Bucket adjusts them in a moment. "How do you find them? Are
they comfortable? If notsay sofor I wish to make things as
pleasant as is consistent with my dutyand I've got another pair
in my pocket." This remark he offers like a most respectable
tradesman anxious to execute an order neatly and to the perfect
satisfaction of his customer. "They'll do as they are? Very well!
Nowyou seeGeorge"--he takes a cloak from a corner and begins
adjusting it about the trooper's neck--"I was mindful of your
feelings when I come outand brought this on purpose. There!
Who's the wiser?"

Only I,returns the trooperbut as I know it, do me one more
good turn and pull my hat over my eyes.

Really, though! Do you mean it? Ain't it a pity? It looks so.

I can't look chance men in the face with these things on,Mr.
George hurriedly replies. "Dofor God's sakepull my hat
forward."

So strongly entreatedMr. Bucket compliesputs his own hat on
and conducts his prize into the streetsthe trooper marching on as
steadily as usualthough with his head less erectand Mr. Bucket
steering him with his elbow over the crossings and up the turnings.

CHAPTER L

Esther's Narrative

It happened that when I came home from Deal I found a note from
Caddy Jellyby (as we always continued to call her)informing me
that her healthwhich had been for some time very delicatewas
worse and that she would be more glad than she could tell me if I
would go to see her. It was a note of a few lineswritten from
the couch on which she lay and enclosed to me in another from her
husbandin which he seconded her entreaty with much solicitude.
Caddy was now the motherand I the godmotherof such a poor
little baby--such a tiny old-faced mitewith a countenance that


seemed to be scarcely anything but cap-borderand a little lean
long-fingered handalways clenched under its chin. It would lie
in this attitude all daywith its bright specks of eyes open
wondering (as I used to imagine) how it came to be so small and
weak. Whenever it was moved it criedbut at all other times it
was so patient that the sole desire of its life appeared to be to
lie quiet and think. It had curious little dark veins in its face
and curious little dark marks under its eyes like faint
remembrances of poor Caddy's inky daysand altogetherto those
who were not used to itit was quite a piteous little sight.

But it was enough for Caddy that SHE was used to it. The projects
with which she beguiled her illnessfor little Esther's education
and little Esther's marriageand even for her own old age as the
grandmother of little Esther's little Estherswas so prettily
expressive of devotion to this pride of her life that I should be
tempted to recall some of them but for the timely remembrance that
I am getting on irregularly as it is.

To return to the letter. Caddy had a superstition about me which
had been strengthening in her mind ever since that night long ago
when she had lain asleep with her head in my lap. She almost--I
think I must say quite--believed that I did her good whenever I was
near her. Now although this was such a fancy of the affectionate
girl's that I am almost ashamed to mention itstill it might have
all the force of a fact when she was really ill. Therefore I set
off to Caddywith my guardian's consentpost-haste; and she and
Prince made so much of me that there never was anything like it.

Next day I went again to sit with herand next day I went again.
It was a very easy journeyfor I had only to rise a little earlier
in the morningand keep my accountsand attend to housekeeping
matters before leaving home.

But when I had made these three visitsmy guardian said to meon
my return at nightNow, little woman, little woman, this will
never do. Constant dropping will wear away a stone, and constant
coaching will wear out a Dame Durden. We will go to London for a
while and take possession of our old lodgings.

Not for me, dear guardian,said Ifor I never feel tired,
which was strictly true. I was only too happy to be in such
request.

For me then,returned my guardianor for Ada, or for both of
us. It is somebody's birthday to-morrow, I think.

Truly I think it is,said Ikissing my darlingwho would be
twenty-one to-morrow.

Well,observed my guardianhalf pleasantlyhalf seriously
that's a great occasion and will give my fair cousin some
necessary business to transact in assertion of her independence,
and will make London a more convenient place for all of us. So to
London we will go. That being settled, there is another thing--how
have you left Caddy?

Very unwell, guardian. I fear it will be some time before she
regains her health and strength.

What do you call some time, now?asked my guardian thoughtfully.

Some weeks, I am afraid.


Ah!He began to walk about the room with his hands in his
pocketsshowing that he had been thinking as much. "Nowwhat do
you say about her doctor? Is he a good doctormy love?"

I felt obliged to confess that I knew nothing to the contrary but
that Prince and I had agreed only that evening that we would like
his opinion to be confirmed by some one.

Well, you know,returned my guardian quicklythere's
Woodcourt.

I had not meant thatand was rather taken by surprise. For a
moment all that I had had in my mind in connexion with Mr.
Woodcourt seemed to come back and confuse me.

You don't object to him, little woman?

Object to him, guardian? Oh no!

And you don't think the patient would object to him?

So far from thatI had no doubt of her being prepared to have a
great reliance on him and to like him very much. I said that he
was no stranger to her personallyfor she had seen him often in
his kind attendance on Miss Flite.

Very good,said my guardian. "He has been here to-daymy dear
and I will see him about it to-morrow."

I felt in this short conversation--though I did not know howfor
she was quietand we interchanged no look--that my dear girl well
remembered how merrily she had clasped me round the waist when no
other hands than Caddy's had brought me the little parting token.
This caused me to feel that I ought to tell herand Caddy too
that I was going to be the mistress of Bleak House and that if I
avoided that disclosure any longer I might become less worthy in my
own eyes of its master's love. Thereforewhen we went upstairs
and had waited listening until the clock struck twelve in order
that only I might be the first to wish my darling all good wishes
on her birthday and to take her to my heartI set before herjust
as I had set before myselfthe goodness and honour of her cousin
John and the happy life that was in store for for me. If ever my
darling were fonder of me at one time than another in all our
intercourseshe was surely fondest of me that night. And I was so
rejoiced to know it and so comforted by the sense of having done
right in casting this last idle reservation away that I was ten
times happier than I had been before. I had scarcely thought it a
reservation a few hours agobut now that it was gone I felt as if
I understood its nature better.

Next day we went to London. We found our old lodging vacantand
in half an hour were quietly established thereas if we had never
gone away. Mr. Woodcourt dined with us to celebrate my darling's
birthdayand we were as pleasant as we could be with the great
blank among us that Richard's absence naturally made on such an
occasion. After that day I was for some weeks--eight or nine as I
remember--very much with Caddyand thus it fell out that I saw
less of Ada at this time than any other since we had first come
togetherexcept the time of my own illness. She often came to
Caddy'sbut our function there was to amuse and cheer herand we
did not talk in our usual confidential manner. Whenever I went
home at night we were togetherbut Caddy's rest was broken by
painand I often remained to nurse her.


With her husband and her poor little mite of a baby to love and
their home to strive forwhat a good creature Caddy was! So self-
denyingso uncomplainingso anxious to get well on their account
so afraid of giving troubleand so thoughtful of the unassisted
labours of her husband and the comforts of old Mr. Turveydrop; I
had never known the best of her until now. And it seemed so
curious that her pale face and helpless figure should be lying
there day after day where dancing was the business of lifewhere
the kit and the apprentices began early every morning in the ballroom
and where the untidy little boy waltzed by himself in the
kitchen all the afternoon.

At Caddy's request I took the supreme direction of her apartment
trimmed it upand pushed hercouch and allinto a lighter and
more airy and more cheerful corner than she had yet occupied; then
every daywhen we were in our neatest arrayI used to lay my
small small namesake in her arms and sit down to chat or work or
read to her. It was at one of the first of these quiet times that
I told Caddy about Bleak House.

We had other visitors besides Ada. First of all we had Princewho
in his hurried intervals of teaching used to come softly in and sit
softly downwith a face of loving anxiety for Caddy and the very
little child. Whatever Caddy's condition really wasshe never
failed to declare to Prince that she was all but well--which I
heaven forgive menever failed to confirm. This would put Prince
in such good spirits that he would sometimes take the kit from his
pocket and play a chord or two to astonish the babywhich I never
knew it to do in the least degreefor my tiny namesake never
noticed it at all.

Then there was Mrs. Jellyby. She would come occasionallywith her
usual distraught mannerand sit calmly looking miles beyond her
grandchild as if her attention were absorbed by a young
Borrioboolan on its native shores. As bright-eyed as everas
sereneand as untidyshe would sayWell, Caddy, child, and how
do you do to-day?And then would sit amiably smiling and taking
no notice of the reply or would sweetly glide off into a
calculation of the number of letters she had lately received and
answered or of the coffee-bearing power of Borrioboola-Gha. This
she would always do with a serene contempt for our limited sphere
of actionnot to be disguised.

Then there was old Mr. Turveydropwho was from morning to night
and from night to morning the subject of innumerable precautions.
If the baby criedit was nearly stifled lest the noise should make
him uncomfortable. If the fire wanted stirring in the nightit
was surreptitiously done lest his rest should be broken. If Caddy
required any little comfort that the house containedshe first
carefully discussed whether he was likely to require it too. In
return for this consideration he would come into the room once a
dayall but blessing it--showing a condescensionand a patronage
and a grace of manner in dispensing the light of his high-
shouldered presence from which I might have supposed him (if I had
not known better) to have been the benefactor of Caddy's life.

My Caroline,he would saymaking the nearest approach that he
could to bending over her. "Tell me that you are better to-day."

Oh, much better, thank you, Mr. Turveydrop,Caddy would reply.

Delighted! Enchanted! And our dear Miss Summerson. She is not
qulte prostrated by fatigue?Here he would crease up his eyelids
and kiss his fingers to methough I am happy to say he had ceased


to be particular in his attentions since I had been so altered.

Not at all,I would assure him.

Charming! We must take care of our dear Caroline, Miss Summerson.
We must spare nothing that will restore her. We must nourish her.
My dear Caroline--he would turn to his daughter-in-law with
infinite generosity and protection--"want for nothingmy love.
Frame a wish and gratify itmy daughter. Everything this house
containseverything my room containsis at your servicemy dear.
Do not he would sometimes add in a burst of deportment, even
allow my simple requirements to be considered if they should at any
time interfere with your ownmy Caroline. Your necessities are
greater than mine."

He had established such a long prescriptive right to this
deportment (his son's inheritance from his mother) that I several
times knew both Caddy and her husband to be melted to tears by
these affectionate self-sacrifices.

Nay, my dears,he would remonstrate; and when I saw Caddy's thin
arm about his fat neck as he said itI would be melted toothough
not by the same process. "Naynay! I have promised never to
leave ye. Be dutiful and affectionate towards meand I ask no
other return. Nowbless ye! I am going to the Park."

He would take the air there presently and get an appetite for his
hotel dinner. I hope I do old Mr. Turveydrop no wrongbut I never
saw any better traits in him than these I faithfully recordexcept
that he certainly conceived a liking for Peepy and would take the
child out walking with great pompalways on those occasions
sending him home before he went to dinner himselfand occasionally
with a halfpenny in his pocket. But even this disinterestedness
was attended with no inconsiderable costto my knowledgefor
before Peepy was sufficiently decorated to walk hand in hand with
the professor of deportmenthe had to be newly dressedat the
expense of Caddy and her husbandfrom top to toe.

Last of our visitorsthere was Mr. Jellyby. Really when he used
to come in of an eveningand ask Caddy in his meek voice how she
wasand then sit down with his head against the walland make no
attempt to say anything moreI liked him very much. If he found
me bustling about doing any little thinghe sometimes half took
his coat offas if with an intention of helping by a great
exertion; but he never got any further. His sole occupation was to
sit with his head against the walllooking hard at the thoughtful
baby; and I could not quite divest my mind of a fancy that they
understood one another.

I have not counted Mr. Woodcourt among our visitors because he was
now Caddy's regular attendant. She soon began to improve under his
carebut he was so gentleso skilfulso unwearying in the pains
he took that it is not to be wondered atI am sure. I saw a good
deal of Mr. Woodcourt during this timethough not so much as might
be supposedfor knowing Caddy to be safe in his handsI often
slipped home at about the hours when he was expected. We
frequently metnotwithstanding. I was quite reconciled to myself
nowbut I still felt glad to think that he was sorry for meand
he still WAS sorry for me I believed. He helped Mr. Badger in his
professional engagementswhich were numerousand had as yet no
settled projects for the future.

It was when Caddy began to recover that I began to notice a change
in my dear girl. I cannot say how it first presented itself to me


because I observed it in many slight particulars which were nothing
in themselves and only became something when they were pieced
together. But I made it outby putting them togetherthat Ada
was not so frankly cheerful with me as she used to be. Her
tenderness for me was as loving and true as ever; I did not for a
moment doubt that; but there was a quiet sorrow about her which she
did not confide to meand in which I traced some hidden regret.

NowI could not understand thisand I was so anxious for the
happiness of my own pet that it caused me some uneasiness and set
me thinking often. At lengthfeeling sure that Ada suppressed
this something from me lest it should make me unhappy tooit came
into my head that she was a little grieved--for me--by what I had
told her about Bleak House.

How I persuaded myself that this was likelyI don't know. I had
no idea that there was any selfish reference in my doing so. I was
not grieved for myself: I was quite contented and quite happy.
Stillthat Ada might be thinking--for methough I had abandoned
all such thoughts--of what once wasbut was now all changed
seemed so easy to believe that I believed it.

What could I do to reassure my darling (I considered then) and show
her that I had no such feelings? Well! I could only be as brisk
and busy as possibleand that I had tried to be all along.
Howeveras Caddy's illness had certainly interferedmore or less
with my home duties--though I had always been there in the morning
to make my guardian's breakfastand he had a hundred times laughed
and said there must be two little womenfor his little woman was
never missing--I resolved to be doubly diligent and gay. So I went
about the house humming all the tunes I knewand I sat working and
working in a desperate mannerand I talked and talkedmorning
noonand night.

And still there was the same shade between me and my darling.

So, Dame Trot,observed my guardianshutting up his book one
night when we were all three togetherso Woodcourt has restored
Caddy Jellyby to the full enjoyment of life again?

Yes,I said; "and to be repaid by such gratitude as hers is to be
made richguardian."

I wish it was,he returnedwith all my heart.

So did I toofor that matter. I said so.

Aye! We would make him as rich as a Jew if we knew how. Would we
not, little woman?

I laughed as I worked and replied that I was not sure about that
for it might spoil himand he might not be so usefuland there
might be many who could ill spare him. As Miss Fliteand Caddy
herselfand many others.

True,said my guardian. "I had forgotten that. But we would
agree to make him rich enough to liveI suppose? Rich enough to
work with tolerable peace of mind? Rich enough to have his own
happy home and his own household gods--and household goddesstoo
perhaps?"

That was quite another thingI said. We must all agree in that.

To be sure,said my guardian. "All of us. I have a great regard


for Woodcourta high esteem for him; and I have been sounding him
delicately about his plans. It is difficult to offer aid to an
independent man with that just kind of pride which he possesses.
And yet I would be glad to do it if I might or if I knew how. He
seems half inclined for another voyage. But that appears like
casting such a man away."

It might open a new world to him,said I.

''So it mightlittle woman my guardian assented. ''I doubt if
he expects much of the old world. Do you know I have fancied that
he sometimes feels some particular disappointment or misfortune
encountered in it. You never heard of anything of that sort?

I shook my head.

Humph,said my guardian. "I am mistakenI dare say." As there
was a little pause herewhich I thoughtfor my dear girl's
satisfactionhad better be filled upI hummed an air as I worked
which was a favourite with my guardian.

And do you think Mr. Woodcourt will make another voyage?I asked
him when I had hummed it quietly all through.

I don't quite know what to think, my dear, but I should say it was
likely at present that he will give a long trip to another
country.

I am sure he will take the best wishes of all our hearts with him
wherever he goes,said I; "and though they are not richeshe will
never be the poorer for themguardianat least."

Never, little woman,he replied.

I was sitting in my usual placewhich was now beside my guardian's
chair. That had not been my usual place before the letterbut it
was now. I looked up to Adawho was sitting oppositeand I saw
as she looked at methat her eyes were filled with tears and that
tears were falling down her face. I felt that I had only to be
placid and merry once for all to undeceive my dear and set her
loving heart at rest. I really was soand I had nothing to do but
to be myself.

So I made my sweet girl lean upon my shoulder--how little thinking
what was heavy on her mind!--and I said she was not quite welland
put my arm about herand took her upstairs. When we were in our
own roomand when she might perhaps have told me what I was so
unprepared to hearI gave her no encouragement to confide in me; I
never thought she stood in need of it.

Oh, my dear good Esther,said Adaif I could only make up my
mind to speak to you and my cousin John when you are together!

Why, my love!I remonstrated. "Adawhy should you not speak to
us!"

Ada only dropped her head and pressed me closer to her heart.

You surely don't forget, my beauty,said Ismilingwhat quiet,
old-fashioned people we are and how I have settled down to be the
discreetest of dames? You don't forget how happily and peacefully
my life is all marked out for me, and by whom? I am certain that
you don't forget by what a noble character, Ada. That can never
be.


No, never, Esther.

Why then, my dear,said Ithere can be nothing amiss--and why
should you not speak to us?

Nothing amiss, Esther?returned Ada. "Ohwhen I think of all
these yearsand of his fatherly care and kindnessand of the old
relations among usand of youwhat shall I dowhat shall I do!"

I looked at my child in some wonderbut I thought it better not to
answer otherwise than by cheering herand so I turned off into
many little recollections of our life together and prevented her
from saying more. When she lay down to sleepand not beforeI
returned to my guardian to say good nightand then I came back to
Ada and sat near her for a little while.

She was asleepand I thought as I looked at her that she was a
little changed. I had thought so more than once lately. I could
not decideeven looking at her while she was unconscioushow she
was changedbut something in the familiar beauty of her face
looked different to me. My guardian's old hopes of her and Richard
arose sorrowfully in my mindand I said to myselfShe has been
anxious about him,and I wondered how that love would end.

When I had come home from Caddy's while she was illI had often
found Ada at workand she had always put her work awayand I had
never known what it was. Some of it now lay in a drawer near her
which was not quite closed. I did not open the drawerbut I still
rather wondered what the work could hefor it was evidently
nothing for herself.

And I noticed as I kissed my dear that she lay with one hand under
her pillow so that it was hidden.

How much less amiable I must have been than they thought mehow
much less amiable than I thought myselfto be so preoccupied with
my own cheerfulness and contentment as to think that it only rested
with me to put my dear girl right and set her mind at peace!

But I lay downself-deceivedin that belief. And I awoke in it
next day to find that there was still the same shade between me and
my darling.

CHAPTER LI

Enlightened

When Mr. Woodcourt arrived in Londonhe wentthat very same day
to Mr. Vholes's in Symond's Inn. For he never oncefrom the
moment when I entreated him to be a friend to Richardneglected or
forgot his promise. He had told me that he accepted the charge as
a sacred trustand he was ever true to it in that spirit.

He found Mr. Vholes in his office and informed Mr. Vholes of his
agreement with Richard that he should call there to learn his
address.

Just so, sir,said Mr. Vholes. "Mr. C.'s address is not a
hundred miles from heresirMr. C.'s address is not a hundred
miles from here. Would you take a seatsir?"


Mr. Woodcourt thanked Mr. Vholesbut he had no business with him
beyond what he had mentioned.

Just so, sir. I believe, sir,said Mr. Vholesstill quietly
insisting on the seat by not giving the addressthat you have
influence with Mr. C. Indeed I am aware that you have.

I was not aware of it myself,returned Mr. Woodcourt; "but I
suppose you know best."

Sir,rejoined Mr. Vholesself-contained as usualvoice and all
it is a part of my professional duty to know best. It is a part
of my professional duty to study and to understand a gentleman who
confides his interests to me. In my professional duty I shall not
be wanting, sir, if I know it. I may, with the best intentions, be
wanting in it without knowing it; but not if I know it, sir.

Mr. Woodcourt again mentioned the address.

Give me leave, sir,said Mr. Vholes. "Bear with me for a moment.
SirMr. C. is playing for a considerable stakeand cannot play
without--need I say what?"

Money, I presume?

Sir,said Mr. Vholesto be honest with you (honesty being my
golden rule, whether I gain by it or lose, and I find that I
generally lose), money is the word. Now, sir, upon the chances of
Mr. C.'s game I express to you no opinion, NO opinion. It might be
highly impolitic in Mr. C., after playing so long and so high, to
leave off; it might be the reverse; I say nothing. No, sir,said
Mr. Vholesbringing his hand flat down upon his desk in a positive
mannernothing.

You seem to forget,returned MrWoodcourtthat I ask you to
say nothing and have no interest in anything you say.

Pardon me, sir!retorted Mr. Vholes. "You do yourself an
injustice. Nosir! Pardon me! You shall not--shall not in my
officeif I know it--do yourself an injustice. You are interested
in anythingand in everythingthat relates to your friend. I
know human nature much bettersirthan to admit for an instant
that a gentleman of your appearance is not interested in whatever
concerns his friend."

Well,replied Mr. Woodcourtthat may be. I am particularly
interested in his address.

The number, sir,said Mr. Vholes parentheticallyI believe I
have already mentioned. If Mr. C. is to continue to play for this
considerable stake, sir, he must have funds. Understand me! There
are funds in hand at present. I ask for nothing; there are funds
in hand. But for the onward play, more funds must be provided,
unless Mr. C. is to throw away what he has already ventured, which
is wholly and solely a point for his consideration. This, sir, I
take the opportunity of stating openly to you as the friend of Mr.

C. Without funds I shall always be happy to appear and act for Mr.
C. to the extent of all such costs as are safe to be allowed out of
the estate, not beyond that. I could not go beyond that, sir,
without wronging some one. I must either wrong my three dear girls
or my venerable father, who is entirely dependent on me, in the
Vale of Taunton; or some one. Whereas, sir, my resolution is (call
it weakness or folly if you please) to wrong no one.

Mr. Woodcourt rather sternly rejoined that he was glad to hear it.

I wish, sir,said Mr. Vholesto leave a good name behind me.
Therefore I take every opportunity of openly stating to a friend of
Mr. C. how Mr. C. is situated. As to myself, sir, the labourer is
worthy of his hire. If I undertake to put my shoulder to the
wheel, I do it, and I earn what I get. I am here for that purpose.
My name is painted on the door outside, with that object.

And Mr. Carstone's address, Mr. Vholes?

Sir,returned Mr. Vholesas I believe I have already mentioned,
it is next door. On the second story you will find Mr. C.'s
apartments. Mr. C. desires to be near his professional adviser,
and I am far from objecting, for I court inquiry.

Upon this Mr. Woodcourt wished Mr. Vholes good day and went in
search of Richardthe change in whose appearance he began to
understand now but too well.

He found him in a dull roomfadedly furnishedmuch as I had found
him in his barrack-room but a little while beforeexcept that he
was not writing but was sitting with a book before himfrom which
his eyes and thoughts were far astray. As the door chanced to be
standing openMr. Woodcourt was in his presence for some moments
without being perceivedand he told me that he never could forget
the haggardness of his face and the dejection of his manner before
he was aroused from his dream.

Woodcourt, my dear fellow,cried Richardstarting up with
extended handsyou come upon my vision like a ghost.

A friendly one,he repliedand only waiting, as they say ghosts
do, to be addressed. How does the mortal world go?They were
seated nownear together.

Badly enough, and slowly enough,said Richardspeaking at least
for my part of it.

What part is that?

The Chancery part.

I never heard,returned Mr. Woodcourtshaking his headof its
going well yet.

Nor I,said Richard moodily. "Who ever did?" He brightened
again in a moment and said with his natural opennessWoodcourt, I
should be sorry to be misunderstood by you, even if I gained by it
in your estimation. You must know that I have done no good this
long time. I have not intended to do much harm, but I seem to have
been capable of nothing else. It may be that I should have done
better by keeping out of the net into which my destiny has worked
me, but I think not, though I dare say you will soon hear, if you
have not already heard, a very different opinion. To make short of
a long story, I am afraid I have wanted an object; but I have an
object now--or it has me--and it is too late to discuss it. Take
me as I am, and make the best of me.

A bargain,said Mr. Woodcourt. "Do as much by me in return."

Oh! You,returned Richardyou can pursue your art for its own
sake, and can put your hand upon the plough and never turn, and can


strike a purpose out of anything. You and I are very different
creatures.

He spoke regretfully and lapsed for a moment into his weary
condition.

Well, well!he criedshaking it off. "Everything has an end.
We shall see! So you will take me as I amand make the best of
me?"

Aye! Indeed I will.They shook hands upon it laughinglybut in
deep earnestness. I can answer for one of them with my heart of
hearts.

You come as a godsend,said Richardfor I have seen nobody here
yet but Vholes. Woodcourt, there is one subject I should like to
mention, for once and for all, in the beginning of our treaty. You
can hardly make the best of me if I don't. You know, I dare say,
that I have an attachment to my cousin Ada?

Mr. Woodcourt replied that I had hinted as much to him. "Now
pray returned Richard, don't think me a heap of selfishness.
Don't suppose that I am splitting my head and half breaking my
heart over this miserable Chancery suit for my own rights and
interests alone. Ada's are bound up with mine; they can't be
separated; Vholes works for both of us. Do think of that!"

He was so very solicitous on this head that Mr. Woodcourt gave him
the strongest assurances that he did him no injustice.

You see,said Richardwith something pathetic in his manner of
lingering on the pointthough it was off-hand and unstudiedto
an upright fellow like you, bringing a friendly face like yours
here, I cannot bear the thought of appearing selfish and mean. I
want to see Ada righted, Woodcourt, as well as myself; I want to do
my utmost to right her, as well as myself; I venture what I can
scrape together to extricate her, as well as myself. Do, I beseech
you, think of that!

Afterwardswhen Mr. Woodcourt came to reflect on what had passed
he was so very much impressed by the strength of Richard's anxiety
on this point that in telling me generally of his first visit to
Symond's Inn he particularly dwelt upon it. It revived a fear I
had had before that my dear girl's little property would be
absorbed by Mr. Vholes and that Richard's justification to himself
would be sincerely this. It was just as I began to take care of
Caddy that the interview took placeand I now return to the time
when Caddy had recovered and the shade was still between me and my
darling.

I proposed to Ada that morning that we should go and see Richard.
It a little surprised me to find that she hesitated and was not so
radiantly willing as I had expected.

My dear,said Iyou have not had any difference with Richard
since I have been so much away?

No, Esther.

Not heard of him, perhaps?said I.

Yes, I have heard of him,said Ada.

Such tears in her eyesand such love in her face. I could not


make my darling out. Should I go to Richard's by myself? I said.
NoAda thought I had better not go by myself. Would she go with
me? YesAda thought she had better go with me. Should we go now?
Yeslet us go now. WellI could not understand my darlingwith
the tears in her eyes and the love in her face!

We were soon equipped and went out. It was a sombre dayand drops
of chill rain fell at intervals. It was one of those colourless
days when everything looks heavy and harsh. The houses frowned at
usthe dust rose at usthe smoke swooped at usnothing made any
compromise about itself or wore a softened aspect. I fancied my
beautiful girl quite out of place in the rugged streetsand I
thought there were more funerals passing along the dismal pavements
than I had ever seen before.

We had first to find out Symond's Inn. We were going to inquire in
a shop when Ada said she thought it was near Chancery Lane. "We
are not likely to be far outmy loveif we go in that direction
said I. So to Chancery Lane we went, and there, sure enough, we
saw it written up. Symond's Inn.

We had next to find out the number. Or Mr. Vholes's office will
do I recollected, for Mr. Vholes's office is next door." Upon
which Ada saidperhaps that was Mr. Vholes's office in the corner
there. And it really was.

Then came the questionwhich of the two next doors? I was going
for the oneand my darling was going for the other; and my darling
was right again. So up we went to the second storywhen we came
to Richard's name in great white letters on a hearse-like panel.

I should have knockedbut Ada said perhaps we had better turn the
handle and go in. Thus we came to Richardporing over a table
covered with dusty bundles of papers which seemed to me like dusty
mirrors reflecting his own mind. Wherever I looked I saw the
ominous words that ran in it repeated. Jarndyce and Jarndyce.

He received us very affectionatelyand we sat down. "If you had
come a little earlier he said, you would have found Woodcourt
here. There never was such a good fellow as Woodcourt is. He
finds time to look in between-whileswhen anybody else with half
his work to do would be thinking about not being able to come. And
he is so cheeryso freshso sensibleso earnestso--everything
that I am notthat the place brightens whenever he comesand
darkens whenever he goes again."

God bless him,I thoughtfor his truth to me!

He is not so sanguine, Ada,continued Richardcasting his
dejected look over the bundles of papersas Vholes and I are
usually, but he is only an outsider and is not in the mysteries.
We have gone into them, and he has not. He can't be expected to
know much of such a labyrinth.

As his look wandered over the papers again and he passed his two
hands over his headI noticed how sunken and how large his eyes
appearedhow dry his lips wereand how his finger-nails were all
bitten away.

Is this a healthy place to live in, Richard, do you think?said I.

Why, my dear Minerva,answered Richard with his old gay laugh
it is neither a rural nor a cheerful place; and when the sun
shines here, you may lay a pretty heavy wager that it is shining


brightly in an open spot. But it's well enough for the time. It's
near the offices and near Vholes.

Perhaps,I hinteda change from both--

Might do me good?said Richardforcing a laugh as he finished
the sentence. "I shouldn't wonder! But it can only come in one
way now--in one of two waysI should rather say. Either the suit
must be endedEstheror the suitor. But it shall be the suitmy
dear girlthe suitmy dear girl!"

These latter words were addressed to Adawho was sitting nearest
to him. Her face being turned away from me and towards himI
could not see it.

We are doing very well,pursued Richard. "Vholes will tell you
so. We are really spinning along. Ask Vholes. We are giving them
no rest. Vholes knows all their windings and turningsand we are
upon them everywhere. We have astonished them already. We shall
rouse up that nest of sleepersmark my words!"

His hopefulness had long been more painful to me than his
despondency; it was so unlike hopefulnesshad something so fierce
in its determination to be itwas so hungry and eagerand yet so
conscious of being forced and unsustainable that it had long
touched me to the heart. But the commentary upon it now indelibly
written in his handsome face made it far more distressing than it
used to be. I say indeliblyfor I felt persuaded that if the
fatal cause could have been for ever terminatedaccording to his
brightest visionsin that same hourthe traces of the premature
anxietyself-reproachand disappointment it had occasioned him
would have remained upon his features to the hour of his death.

The sight of our dear little woman,said RichardAda still
remaining silent and quietis so natural to me, and her
compassionate face is so like the face of old days--

Ah! Nono. I smiled and shook my head.

--So exactly like the face of old days,said Richard in his
cordial voiceand taking my hand with the brotherly regard which
nothing ever changedthat I can't make pretences with her. I
fluctuate a little; that's the truth. Sometimes I hope, my dear,
and sometimes I--don't quite despair, but nearly. I get,said
Richardrelinquishing my hand gently and walking across the room
so tired!

He took a few turns up and down and sunk upon the sofa. "I get
he repeated gloomily, so tired. It is such wearyweary work!"

He was leaning on his arm saying these words in a meditative voice
and looking at the ground when my darling roseput off her bonnet
kneeled down beside him with her golden hair falling like sunlight
on his headclasped her two arms round his neckand turned her
face to me. Ohwhat a loving and devoted face I saw!

Esther, dear,she said very quietlyI am not going home again.

A light shone in upon me all at once.

Never any more. I am going to stay with my dear husband. We have
been married above two months. Go home without me, my own Esther;
I shall never go home any more!With those words my darling drew
his head down on her breast and held it there. And if ever in my


life I saw a love that nothing but death could changeI saw it
then before me.

Speak to Esther, my dearest,said Richardbreaking the silence
presently. "Tell her how it was."

I met her before she could come to me and folded her in my arms.
We neither of us spokebut with her cheek against my own I wanted
to hear nothing. "My pet said I. My love. My poorpoor
girl!" I pitied her so much. I was very fond of Richardbut the
impulse that I had upon me was to pity her so much.

Esther, will you forgive me? Will my cousin John forgive me?

My dear,said Ito doubt it for a moment is to do him a great
wrong. And as to me!Whyas to mewhat had I to forgive!

I dried my sobbing darling's eyes and sat beside her on the sofa
and Richard sat on my other side; and while I was reminded of that
so different night when they had first taken me into their
confidence and had gone on in their own wild happy waythey told
me between them how it was.

All I had was Richard's,Ada said; "and Richard would not take
itEstherand what could I do but be his wife when I loved him
dearly!"

And you were so fully and so kindly occupied, excellent Dame
Durden,said Richardthat how could we speak to you at such a
time! And besides, it was not a long-considered step. We went out
one morning and were married.

And when it was done, Esther,said my darlingI was always
thinking how to tell you and what to do for the best. And
sometimes I thought you ought to know it directly, and sometimes I
thought you ought not to know it and keep it from my cousin John;
and I could not tell what to do, and I fretted very much.

How selfish I must have been not to have thought of this before! I
don't know what I said now. I was so sorryand yet I was so fond
of them and so glad that they were fond of me; I pitied them so
muchand yet I felt a kind of pride in their loving one another.
I never had experienced such painful and pleasurable emotion at one
timeand in my own heart I did not know which predominated. But I
was not there to darken their way; I did not do that.

When I was less foolish and more composedmy darling took her
wedding-ring from her bosomand kissed itand put it on. Then I
remembered last night and told Richard that ever since her marriage
she had worn it at night when there was no one to see. Then Ada
blushingly asked me how did I know thatmy dear. Then I told Ada
how I had seen her hand concealed under her pillow and had little
thought whymy dear. Then they began telling me how it was all
over againand I began to be sorry and glad againand foolish
againand to hide my plain old face as much as I could lest I
should put them out of heart.

Thus the time went on until it became necessary for me to think of
returning. When that time arrived it was the worst of allfor
then my darling completely broke down. She clung round my neck
calling me by every dear name she could think of and saying what
should she do without me! Nor was Richard much better; and as for
meI should have been the worst of the three if I had not severely
said to myselfNow Esther, if you do, I'll never speak to you


again!

Why, I declare,said II never saw such a wife. I don't think
she loves her husband at all. Here, Richard, take my child, for
goodness' sake.But I held her tight all the whileand could
have wept over her I don't know how long.

I give this dear young couple notice,said Ithat I am only
going away to come back to-morrow and that I shall be always coming
backwards and forwards until Symond's Inn is tired of the sight of
me. So I shall not say good-bye, Richard. For what would be the
use of that, you know, when I am coming back so soon!

I had given my darling to him nowand I meant to go; but I
lingered for one more look of the precious face which it seemed to
rive my heart to turn from.

So I said (in a merrybustling manner) that unless they gave me
some encouragement to come backI was not sure that I could take
that libertyupon which my dear girl looked upfaintly smiling
through her tearsand I folded her lovely face between my hands
and gave it one last kissand laughedand ran away.

And when I got downstairsohhow I cried! It almost seemed to me
that I had lost my Ada for ever. I was so lonely and so blank
without herand it was so desolate to be going home with no hope
of seeing her therethat I could get no comfort for a little while
as I walked up and down in a dim corner sobbing and crying.

I came to myself by and byafter a little scoldingand took a
coach home. The poor boy whom I had found at St. Albans had
reappeared a short time before and was lying at the point of death;
indeedwas then deadthough I did not know it. My guardian had
gone out to inquire about him and did not return to dinner. Being
quite aloneI cried a little againthough on the whole I don't
think I behaved so veryvery ill.

It was only natural that I should not be quite accustomed to the
loss of my darling yet. Three or four hours were not a long time
after years. But my mind dwelt so much upon the uncongenial scene
in which I had left herand I pictured it as such an overshadowed
stony-hearted oneand I so longed to be near her and taking some
sort of care of herthat I determined to go back in the evening
only to look up at her windows.

It was foolishI dare saybut it did not then seem at all so to
meand it does not seem quite so even now. I took Charley into my
confidenceand we went out at dusk. It was dark when we came to
the new strange home of my dear girland there was a light behind
the yellow blinds. We walked past cautiously three or four times
looking upand narrowly missed encountering Mr. Vholeswho came
out of his office while we were there and turned his head to look
up too before going home. The sight of his lank black figure and
the lonesome air of that nook in the dark were favourable to the
state of my mind. I thought of the youth and love and beauty of my
dear girlshut up in such an ill-assorted refugealmost as if it
were a cruel place.

It was very solitary and very dulland I did not doubt that I
might safely steal upstairs. I left Charley below and went up with
a light footnot distressed by any glare from the feeble oil
lanterns on the way. I listened for a few momentsand in the
musty rotting silence of the house believed that I could hear the
murmur of their young voices. I put my lips to the hearse-like


panel of the door as a kiss for my dear and came quietly down
againthinking that one of these days I would confess to the
visit.

And it really did me goodfor though nobody but Charley and I knew
anything about itI somehow felt as if it had diminished the
separation between Ada and me and had brought us together again for
those moments. I went backnot quite accustomed yet to the
changebut all the better for that hovering about my darling.

My guardian had come home and was standing thoughtfully by the dark
window. When I went inhis face cleared and he came to his seat
but he caught the light upon my face as I took mine.

Little woman,said heYou have been crying.

Why, yes, guardian,said II am afraid I have been, a little.
Ada has been in such distress, and is so very sorry, guardian.

I put my arm on the back of his chairand I saw in his glance that
my words and my look at her empty place had prepared him.

Is she married, my dear?

I told him all about it and how her first entreaties had referred
to his forgiveness.

She has no need of it,said he. "Heaven bless her and her
husband!" But just as my first impulse had been to pity herso
was his. "Poor girlpoor girl! Poor Rick! Poor Ada!"

Neither of us spoke after thatuntil he said with a sighWell,
well, my dear! Bleak House is thinning fast.

But its mistress remains, guardian.Though I was timid about
saying itI ventured because of the sorrowful tone in which he had
spoken. "She will do all she can to make it happy said I.

She will succeedmy love!"

The letter had made no difference between us except that the seat
by his side had come to be mine; it made none now. He turned his
old bright fatherly look upon melaid his hand on my hand in his
old wayand said againShe will succeed, my dear. Nevertheless,
Bleak House is thinning fast, O little woman!

I was sorry presently that this was all we said about that. I was
rather disappointed. I feared I might not quite have been all I
had meant to be since the letter and the answer.

CHAPTER LII

Obstinacy

But one other day had intervened whenearly in the morning as we
were going to breakfastMr. Woodcourt came in haste with the
astounding news that a terrible murder had been committed for which
Mr. George had been apprehended and was in custody. When he told
us that a large reward was offered by Sir Leicester Dedlock for the
murderer's apprehensionI did not in my first consternation
understand why; but a few more words explained to me that the


murdered person was Sir Leicester's lawyerand immediately my
mother's dread of him rushed into my remembrance.

This unforeseen and violent removal of one whom she had long
watched and distrusted and who had long watched and distrusted her
one for whom she could have had few intervals of kindnessalways
dreading in him a dangerous and secret enemyappeared so awful
that my first thoughts were of her. How appalling to hear of such
a death and be able to feel no pity! How dreadful to remember
perhapsthat she had sometimes even wished the old man away who
was so swiftly hurried out of life!

Such crowding reflectionsincreasing the distress and fear I
always felt when the name was mentionedmade me so agitated that I
could scarcely hold my place at the table. I was quite unable to
follow the conversation until I had had a little time to recover.
But when I came to myself and saw how shocked my guardian was and
found that they were earnestly speaking of the suspected man and
recalling every favourable impression we had formed of him out of
the good we had known of himmy interest and my fears were so
strongly aroused in his behalf that I was quite set up again.

Guardian, you don't think it possible that he is justly accused?

My dear, I CAN'T think so. This man whom we have seen so openhearted
and compassionate, who with the might of a giant has the
gentleness of a child, who looks as brave a fellow as ever lived
and is so simple and quiet with it, this man justly accused of such
a crime? I can't believe it. It's not that I don't or I won't. I
can't!

And I can't,said Mr. Woodcourt. "Stillwhatever we believe or
know of himwe had better not forget that some appearances are
against him. He bore an animosity towards the deceased gentleman.
He has openly mentioned it in many places. He is said to have
expressed himself violently towards himand he certainly did about
himto my knowledge. He admits that he was alone on the scene of
the murder within a few minutes of its commission. I sincerely
believe him to be as innocent of any participation in it as I am
but these are all reasons for suspicion falling upon him."

True,said my guardian. And he addedturning to meIt would
be doing him a very bad service, my dear, to shut our eyes to the
truth in any of these respects.

I feltof coursethat we must admitnot only to ourselves but to
othersthe full force of the circumstances against him. Yet I
knew withal (I could not help saying) that their weight would not
induce us to desert him in his need.

Heaven forbid!returned my guardian. "We will stand by himas
he himself stood by the two poor creatures who are gone." He meant
Mr. Gridley and the boyto both of whom Mr. George had given
shelter.

Mr. Woodcourt then told us that the trooper's man had been with him
before dayafter wandering about the streets all night like a
distracted creature. That one of the trooper's first anxieties was
that we should not suppose him guilty. That he had charged his
messenger to represent his perfect innocence with every solemn
assurance be could send us. That Mr. Woodcourt had only quieted
the man by undertaking to come to our house very early in the
morning with these representations. He added that he was now upon
his way to see the prisoner himself.


My guardian said directly he would go too. Nowbesides that I
liked the retired soldier very much and that he liked meI had
that secret interest in what had happened which was only known to
my guardian. I felt as if it came close and near to me. It seemed
to become personally important to myself that the truth should be
discovered and that no innocent people should be suspectedfor
suspiciononce run wildmight run wilder.

In a wordI felt as if it were my duty and obligation to go with
them. My guardian did not seek to dissuade meand I went.

It was a large prison with many courts and passages so like one
another and so uniformly paved that I seemed to gain a new
comprehensionas I passed alongof the fondness that solitary
prisonersshut up among the same staring walls from year to year
have had--as I have read--for a weed or a stray blade of grass. In
an arched room by himselflike a cellar upstairswith walls so
glaringly white that they made the massive iron window-bars and
iron-bound door even more profoundly black than they werewe found
the trooper standing in a corner. He had been sitting on a bench
there and had risen when he heard the locks and bolts turn.

When he saw ushe came forward a step with his usual heavy tread
and there stopped and made a slight bow. But as I still advanced
putting out my hand to himhe understood us in a moment.

This is a load off my mind, I do assure you, miss and gentlemen,
said hesaluting us with great heartiness and drawing a long
breath. "And now I don't so much care how it ends."

He scarcely seemed to be the prisoner. What with his coolness and
his soldierly bearinghe looked far more like the prison guard.

This is even a rougher place than my gallery to receive a lady
in,said Mr. Georgebut I know Miss Summerson will make the best
of it.As he handed me to the bench on which he had been sitting
I sat downwhich seemed to give him great satisfaction.

I thank you, miss,said he.

Now, George,observed my guardianas we require no new
assurances on your part, so I believe we need give you none on
ours.

Not at all, sir. I thank you with all my heart. If I was not
innocent of this crime, I couldn't look at you and keep my secret
to myself under the condescension of the present visit. I feel the
present visit very much. I am not one of the eloquent sort, but I
feel it, Miss Summerson and gentlemen, deeply.

He laid his hand for a moment on his broad chest and bent his bead
to us. Although he squared himself again directlyhe expressed a
great amount of natural emotion by these simple means.

First,said my guardiancan we do anything for your personal
comfort, George?

For which, sir?he inquiredclearing his throat.

For your personal comfort. Is there anything you want that would
lessen the hardship of this confinement?

Well, sir,replied Georgeafter a little cogitationI am


equally obliged to you, but tobacco being against the rules, I
can't say that there is.

You will think of many little things perhaps, by and by.
'Whenever you do, George, let us know.

Thank you, sir. Howsoever,observed Mr. George with one of his
sunburnt smilesa man who has been knocking about the world in a
vagabond kind of a way as long as I have gets on well enough in a
place like the present, so far as that goes.

Next, as to your case,observed my guardian.

Exactly so, sir,returned Mr. Georgefolding his arms upon his
breast with perfect self-possession and a little curiosity.

How does it stand now?

Why, sir, it is under remand at present. Bucket gives me to
understand that he will probably apply for a series of remands from
time to time until the case is more complete. How it is to be made
more complete I don't myself see, but I dare say Bucket will manage
it somehow.

Why, heaven save us, man,exclaimed my guardiansurprised into
his old oddity and vehemenceyou talk of yourself as if you were
somebody else!

No offence, sir,said Mr. George. "I am very sensible of your
kindness. But I don't see how an innocent man is to make up his
mind to this kind of thing without knocking his head against the
walls unless he takes it in that point of view.

That is true enough to a certain extent,returned my guardian
softened. "But my good felloweven an innocent man must take
ordinary precautions to defend himself."

Certainly, sir. And I have done so. I have stated to the
magistrates, 'Gentlemen, I am as innocent of this charge as
yourselves; what has been stated against me in the way of facts is
perfectly true; I know no more about it.' I intend to continue
stating that, sir. What more can I do? It's the truth.

But the mere truth won't do,rejoined my guardian.

Won't it indeed., sir? Rather a bad look-out for me!Mr. George
good-humouredly observed.

You must have a lawyer,pursued my guardian. "We must engage a
good one for you."

I ask your pardon, sir,said Mr. George with a step backward. "I
am equally obliged. But I must decidedly beg to be excused from
anything of that sort."

You won't have a lawyer?

No, sir.Mr. George shook his head in the most emphatic manner.
I thank you all the same, sir, but--no lawyer!

Why not?

I don't take kindly to the breed,said Mr. George. "Gridley
didn't. And--if you'll excuse my saying so much--I should hardly


have thought you did yourselfsir."

That's equity,my guardian explaineda little at a loss; "that's
equityGeorge."

Is it, indeed, sir?returned the trooper in his off-hand manner.
I am not acquainted with those shades of names myself, but in a
general way I object to the breed.

Unfolding his arms and changing his positionhe stood with one
massive hand upon the table and the other on his hipas complete a
picture of a man who was not to be moved from a fixed purpose as
ever I saw. It was in vain that we all three talked to him and
endeavoured to persuade him; he listened with that gentleness which
went so well with his bluff bearingbut was evidently no more
shaken by our representations that his place of confinement was.

Pray think, once more, Mr. George,said I. "Have you no wish in
reference to your case?"

I certainly could wish it to be tried, miss,he returnedby
court-martial; but that is out of the question, as I am well aware.
If you will be so good as to favour me with your attention for a
couple of minutes, miss, not more, I'll endeavour to explain myself
as clearly as I can.

He looked at us all three in turnshook his head a little as if he
were adjusting it in the stock and collar of a tight uniformand
after a moment's reflection went on.

You see, miss, I have been handcuffed and taken into custody and
brought here. I am a marked and disgraced man, and here I am. My
shooting gallery is rummaged, high and low, by Bucket; such
property as I have--'tis small--is turned this way and that till it
don't know itself; and (as aforesaid) here I am! I don't
particular complain of that. Though I am in these present quarters
through no immediately preceding fault of mine, I can very well
understand that if I hadn't gone into the vagabond way in my youth,
this wouldn't have happened. It HAS happened. Then comes the
question how to meet it

He rubbed his swarthy forehead for a moment with a good-humoured
look and said apologeticallyI am such a short-winded talker that
I must think a bit.Having thought a bithe looked up again and
resumed.

How to meet it. Now, the unfortunate deceased was himself a
lawyer and had a pretty tight hold of me. I don't wish to rake up
his ashes, but he had, what I should call if he was living, a devil
of a tight hold of me. I don't like his trade the better for that.
If I had kept clear of his trade, I should have kept outside this
place. But that's not what I mean. Now, suppose I had killed him.
Suppose I really had discharged into his body any one of those
pistols recently fired off that Bucket has found at my place, and
dear me, might have found there any day since it has been my place.
What should I have done as soon as I was hard and fast here? Got a
lawyer.

He stopped on hearing some one at the locks and bolts and did not
resume until the door had been opened and was shut again. For what
purpose openedI will mention presently.

I should have got a lawyer, and he would have said (as I have
often read in the newspapers), 'My client says nothing, my client


reserves his defence': my client this, that, and t'other. Well,
'tis not the custom of that breed to go straight, according to my
opinion, or to think that other men do. Say I am innocent and I
get a lawyer. He would be as likely to believe me guilty as not;
perhaps more. What would he do, whether or not? Act as if I was-shut
my mouth up, tell me not to commit myself, keep circumstances
back, chop the evidence small, quibble, and get me off perhaps!
But, Miss Summerson, do I care for getting off in that way; or
would I rather be hanged in my own way--if you'll excuse my
mentioning anything so disagreeable to a lady?

He had warmed into his subject nowand was under no further
necessity to wait a bit.

I would rather be hanged in my own way. And I mean to be! I
don't intend to say,looking round upon us with his powerful arms
akimbo and his dark eyebrows raisedthat I am more partial to
being hanged than another man. What I say is, I must come off
clear and full or not at all. Therefore, when I hear stated
against me what is true, I say it's true; and when they tell me,
'whatever you say will be used,' I tell them I don't mind that; I
mean it to be used. If they can't make me innocent out of the
whole truth, they are not likely to do it out of anything less, or
anything else. And if they are, it's worth nothing to me.

Taking a pace or two over the stone floorhe came back to the
table and finished what he had to say.

I thank you, miss and gentlemen both, many times for your
attention, and many times more for your interest. That's the plain
state of the matter as it points itself out to a mere trooper with
a blunt broadsword kind of a mind. I have never done well in life
beyond my duty as a soldier, and if the worst comes after all, I
shall reap pretty much as I have sown. When I got over the first
crash of being seized as a murderer--it don't take a rover who has
knocked about so much as myself so very long to recover from a
crash--I worked my way round to what you find me now. As such I
shall remain. No relations will be disgraced by me or made unhappy
for me, and--and that's all I've got to say.

The door had been opened to admit another soldier-looking man of
less prepossessing appearance at first sight and a weather-tanned
bright-eyed wholesome woman with a basketwhofrom her entrance
had been exceedingly attentive to all Mr. George had said. Mr.
George had received them with a familiar nod and a friendly look
but without any more particular greeting in the midst of his
address. He now shook them cordially by the hand and saidMiss
Summerson and gentlemen, this is an old comrade of mine, Matthew
Bagnet. And this is his wife, Mrs. Bagnet.

Mr. Bagnet made us a stiff military bowand Mrs. Bagnet dropped us
a curtsy.

Real good friends of mine, they are,sald Mr. George. "It was at
their house I was taken."

With a second-hand wiolinceller,Mr. Bagnet put intwitching his
head angrily. "Of a good tone. For a friend. That money was no
object to."

Mat,said Mr. Georgeyou have heard pretty well all I have been
saying to this lady and these two gentlemen. I know it meets your
approval?


Mr. Bagnetafter consideringreferred the point to his wife.
Old girl,said he. "Tell him. Whether or not. It meets my
approval."

Why, George,exclaimed Mrs. Bagnetwho had been unpacking her
basketin which there was a piece of cold pickled porka little
tea and sugarand a brown loafyou ought to know it don't. You
ought to know it's enough to drive a person wild to hear you. You
won't be got off this way, and you won't be got off that way--what
do you mean by such picking and choosing? It's stuff and nonsense,
George.

Don't be severe upon me in my misfortunes, Mrs. Bagnet,said the
trooper lightly.

Oh! Bother your misfortunes,cried Mrs. Bagnetif they don't
make you more reasonable than that comes to. I never was so
ashamed in my life to hear a man talk folly as I have been to hear
you talk this day to the present company. Lawyers? Why, what but
too many cooks should hinder you from having a dozen lawyers if the
gentleman recommended them to you

This is a very sensible woman,said my guardian. "I hope you
will persuade himMrs. Bagnet."

Persuade him, sir?she returned. "Lord bless youno. You don't
know George. Nowthere!" Mrs. Bagnet left her basket to point
him out with both her bare brown hands. "There he stands! As
self-willed and as determined a manin the wrong wayas ever put
a human creature under heaven out of patience! You could as soon
take up and shoulder an eight and forty pounder by your own
strength as turn that man when he has got a thing into his head and
fixed it there. Whydon't I know him!" cried Mrs. Bagnet. "Don't
I know youGeorge! You don't mean to set up for a new character
with ME after all these yearsI hope?"

Her friendly indignation had an exemplary effect upon her husband
who shook his head at the trooper several times as a silent
recommendation to him to yield. Between whilesMrs. Bagnet looked
at me; and I understood from the play of her eyes that she wished
me to do somethingthough I did not comprehend what.

But I have given up talking to you, old fellow, years and years,
said Mrs. Bagnet as she blew a little dust off the pickled pork
looking at me again; "and when ladies and gentlemen know you as
well as I dothey'll give up talking to you too. If you are not
too headstrong to accept of a bit of dinnerhere it is."

I accept it with many thanks,returned the trooper.

Do you though, indeed?said Mrs. Bagnetcontinuing to grumble on
good-humouredly. "I'm sure I'm surprised at that I wonder you
don't starve in your own way also. It would only be like you.
Perhaps you'll set your mind upon THAT next." Here she again
looked at meand I now perceived from her glances at the door and
at meby turnsthat she wished us to retire and to await her
following us outside the prison. Communicating this by similar
means to my guardian and Mr. WoodcourtI rose.

We hope you will think better of it, Mr. George,said Iand we
shall come to see you again, trusting to find you more reasonable.

More grateful, Miss Summerson, you can't find me,he returned.


But more persuadable we can, I hope,said I. "And let me entreat
you to consider that the clearing up of this mystery and the
discovery of the real perpetrator of this deed may be of the last
importance to others besides yourself."

He heard me respectfully but without much heeding these words
which I spoke a little turned from himalready on my way to the
door; he was observing (this they afterwards told me) my height and
figurewhich seemed to catch his attention all at once.

'Tis curious,said he. "And yet I thought so at the time!"

My guardian asked him what he meant.

Why, sir,he answeredwhen my ill fortune took me to the dead
man's staircase on the night of his murder, I saw a shape so like
Miss Summerson's go by me in the dark that I had half a mind to
speak to it.

For an instant I felt such a shudder as I never felt before or
since and hope I shall never feel again.

It came downstairs as I went up,said the trooperand crossed
the moonlighted window with a loose black mantle on; I noticed a
deep fringe to it. However, it has nothing to do with the present
subject, excepting that Miss Summerson looked so like it at the
moment that it came into my head.

I cannot separate and define the feelings that arose in me after
this; it is enough that the vague duty and obligation I had felt
upon me from the first of following the investigation waswithout
my distinctly daring to ask myself any questionincreasedand
that I was indignantly sure of there being no possibility of a
reason for my being afraid.

We three went out of the prison and walked up and down at some short
distance from the gatewhich was in a retired place. We had not
waited long when Mr. and Mrs. Bagnet came out too and quickly
joined us.

There was a tear in each of Mrs. Bagnet's eyesand her face was
flushed and hurried. "I didn't let George see what I thought about
ityou knowmiss was her first remark when she came up, but
he's in a bad waypoor old fellow!"

Not with care and prudence and good help,said my guardian.

A gentleman like you ought to know best, sir,returned Mrs.
Bagnethurriedly drying her eyes on the hem of her grey cloak
but I am uneasy for him. He has been so careless and said so much
that he never meant. The gentlemen of the juries might not
understand him as Lignum and me do. And then such a number of
circumstances have happened bad for him, and such a number of
people will be brought forward to speak against him, and Bucket is
so deep.

With a second-hand wiolinceller. And said he played the fife.
When a boy,Mr. Bagnet added with great solemnity.

Now, I tell you, miss,said Mrs. Bagnet; "and when I say missI
mean all! Just come into the corner of the wall and I'll tell
you!"

Mrs. Bagnet hurried us into a more secluded place and was at first


too breathless to proceedoccasioning Mr. Bagnet to sayOld
girl! Tell 'em!

Why, then, miss,the old girl proceededuntying the strings of
her bonnet for more airyou could as soon move Dover Castle as
move George on this point unless you had got a new power to move
him with. And I have got it!

You are a jewel of a woman,said my guardian. "Go on!"

Now, I tell you, miss,she proceededclapping her hands in her
hurry and agitation a dozen times in every sentencethat what he
says concerning no relations is all bosh. They don't know of him,
but he does know of them. He has said more to me at odd times than
to anybody else, and it warn't for nothing that he once spoke to my
Woolwich about whitening and wrinkling mothers' heads. For fifty
pounds he had seen his mother that day. She's alive and must be
brought here straight!

Instantly Mrs. Bagnet put some pins into her mouth and began
pinning up her skirts all round a little higher than the level of
her grey cloakwhich she accomplished with surpassing dispatch and
dexterity.

Lignum,said Mrs. Bagnetyou take care of the children, old
man, and give me the umbrella! I'm away to Lincolnshire to bring
that old lady here.

But, bless the woman,cried my guardian with his hand in his
pockethow is she going? What money has she got?

Mrs. Bagnet made another application to her skirts and brought
forth a leathern purse in which she hastily counted over a few
shillings and which she then shut up with perfect satisfaction.

Never you mind for me, miss. I'm a soldier's wife and accustomed
to travel my own way. Lignum, old boy,kissing himone for
yourself, three for the children. Now I'm away into Lincolnshire
after George's mother!

And she actually set off while we three stood looking at one
another lost in amazement. She actually trudged away in her grey
cloak at a sturdy paceand turned the cornerand was gone.

Mr. Bagnet,said my guardian. "Do you mean to let her go in that
way?"

Can't help it,he returned. "Made her way home once from another
quarter of the world. With the same grey cloak. And same
umbrella. Whatever the old girl saysdo. Do it! Whenever the
old girl saysI'LL do it. She does it."

Then she is as honest and genuine as she looks,rejoined my
guardianand it is impossible to say more for her.

She's Colour-Sergeant of the Nonpareil battalion,said Mr.
Bagnetlooking at us over his shoulder as he went his way also.
And there's not such another. But I never own to it before her.
Discipline must be maintained.

CHAPTER LIII


The Track

Mr. Bucket and his fat forefinger are much in consultation together
under existing circumstances. When Mr. Bucket has a matter of this
pressing interest under his considerationthe fat forefinger seems
to riseto the dignity of a familiar demon. He puts it to his
earsand it whispers information; he puts it to his lipsand it
enjoins him to secrecy; he rubs it over his noseand it sharpens
his scent; he shakes it before a guilty manand it charms him to
his destruction. The Augurs of the Detective Temple invariably
predict that when Mr. Bucket and that finger are in much
conferencea terrible avenger will be heard of before long.

Otherwise mildly studious in his observation of human natureon
the whole a benignant philosopher not disposed to be severe upon
the follies of mankindMr. Bucket pervades a vast number of houses
and strolls about an infinity of streetsto outward appearance
rather languishing for want of an object. He is in the friendliest
condition towards his species and will drink with most of them. He
is free with his moneyaffable in his mannersinnocent in his
conversation--but through the placid stream of his life there
glides an under-current of forefinger.

Time and place cannot bind Mr. Bucket. Like man in the abstract
he is here to-day and gone to-morrow--butvery unlike man indeed
he is here again the next day. This evening he will be casually
looking into the iron extinguishers at the door of Sir Leicester
Dedlock's house in town; and to-morrow morning he will be walking
on the leads at Chesney Woldwhere erst the old man walked whose
ghost is propitiated with a hundred guineas. Drawersdesks
pocketsall things belonging to himMr. Bucket examines. A few
hours afterwardshe and the Roman will be alone together comparing
forefingers.

It is likely that these occupations are irreconcilable with home
enjoymentbut it is certain that Mr. Bucket at present does not go
home. Though in general he highly appreciates the society of Mrs.
Bucket--a lady of a natural detective geniuswhich if it had been
improved by professional exercisemight have done great things
but which has paused at the level of a clever amateur--he holds
himself aloof from that dear solace. Mrs. Bucket is dependent on
their lodger (fortunately an amiable lady in whom she takes an
interest) for companionship and conversation.

A great crowd assembles in Lincoln's Inn Fields on the day of the
funeral. Sir Leicester Dedlock attends the ceremony in person;
strictly speakingthere are only three other human followersthat
is to sayLord DoodleWilliam Buffyand the debilitated cousin
(thrown in as a make-weight)but the amount of inconsolable
carriages is immense. The peerage contributes more four-wheeled
affliction than has ever been seen in that neighbourhood. Such is
the assemblage of armorial bearings on coach panels that the
Herald's College might be supposed to have lost its father and
mother at a blow. The Duke of Foodle sends a splendid pile of dust
and asheswith silver wheel-boxespatent axlesall the last
improvementsand three bereaved wormssix feet highholding on
behindin a bunch of woe. All the state coachmen in London seem
plunged into mourning; and if that dead old man of the rusty garb
be not beyond a taste in horseflesh (which appears impossible)it
must be highly gratified this day.

Quiet among the undertakers and the equipages and the calves of so
many legs all steeped in griefMr. Bucket sits concealed in one of


the inconsolable carriages and at his ease surveys the crowd
through the lattice blinds. He has a keen eye for a crowd--as for
what not?--and looking here and therenow from this side of the
carriagenow from the othernow up at the house windowsnow
along the people's headsnothing escapes him.

And there you are, my partner, eh?says Mr. Bucket to himself
apostrophizing Mrs. Bucketstationedby his favouron the steps
of the deceased's house. "And so you are. And so you are! And
very well indeed you are lookingMrs. Bucket!"

The procession has not started yetbut is waiting for the cause of
its assemblage to be brought out. Mr. Bucketin the foremost
emblazoned carriageuses his two fat forefingers to hold the
lattice a hair's breadth open while he looks.

And it says a great deal for his attachmentas a husbandthat he
is still occupied with Mrs. B. "There you aremy partnereh?" he
murmuringly repeats. "And our lodger with you. I'm taking notice
of youMrs. Bucket; I hope you're all right in your healthmy
dear!"

Not another word does Mr. Bucket saybut sits with most attentive
eyes until the sacked depository of noble secrets is brought down-Where
are all those secrets now? Does he keep them yet? Did they
fly with him on that sudden journey?--and until the procession
movesand Mr. Bucket's view is changed. After which he composes
himself for an easy ride and takes note of the fittings of the
carriage in case he should ever find such knowledge useful.

Contrast enough between Mr. Tulkinghorn shut up in his dark
carriage and Mr. Bucket shut up in HIS. Between the immeasurable
track of space beyond the little wound that has thrown the one into
the fixed sleep which jolts so heavily over the stones of the
streetsand the narrow track of blood which keeps the other in the
watchful state expressed in every hair of his head! But it is all
one to both; neither is troubled about that.

Mr. Bucket sits out the procession in his own easy manner and
glides from the carriage when the opportunity he has settled with
himself arrives. He makes for Sir Leicester Dedlock'swhich is at
present a sort of home to himwhere he comes and goes as he likes
at all hours'where he is always welcome and made much ofwhere
he knows the whole establishmentand walks in an atmosphere of
mysterious greatness.

No knocking or ringing for Mr. Bucket. He has caused himself to be
provided with a key and can pass in at his pleasure. As he is
crossing the hallMercury informs himHere's another letter for
you, Mr. Bucket, come by post,and gives it him.

Another one, eh?says Mr. Bucket.

If Mercury should chance to be possessed by any lingering curiosity
as to Mr. Bucket's lettersthat wary person is not the man to
gratify it. Mr. Bucket looks at him as if his face were a vista of
some miles in length and he were leisurely contemplating the same.

Do you happen to carry a box?says Mr. Bucket.

Unfortunately Mercury is no snuff-taker.

Could you fetch me a pinch from anywheres?says Mr. Bucket.
Thankee. It don't matter what it is; I'm not particular as to the


kind. Thankee!

Having leisurely helped himself from a canister borrowed from
somebody downstairs for the purposeand having made a considerable
show of tasting itfirst with one side of his nose and then with
the otherMr. Bucketwith much deliberationpronounces it of the
right sort and goes onletter in hand.

Now although Mr. Bucket walks upstairs to the little library within
the larger one with the face of a man who receives some scores of
letters every dayit happens that much correspondence is not
incidental to his life. He is no great scriberather handling his
pen like the pocket-staff he carries about with him always
convenient to his graspand discourages correspondence with
himself in others as being too artless and direct a way of doing
delicate business. Furtherhe often sees damaging letters
produced in evidence and has occasion to reflect that it was a
green thing to write them. For these reasons he has very little to
do with letterseither as sender or receiver. And yet he has
received a round half-dozen within the last twenty-four hours.

And this,says Mr. Bucketspreading it out on the tableis in
the same hand, and consists of the same two words.

What two words?

He turns the key in the doorungirdles his black pocket-book (book
of fate to many)lays another letter by itand readsboldly
written in eachLady Dedlock.

Yes, yes,says Mr. Bucket. "But I could have made the money
without this anonymous information."

Having put the letters in his book of fate and girdled it up again
he unlocks the door just in time to admit his dinnerwhich is
brought upon a goodly tray with a decanter of sherry. Mr. Bucket
frequently observesin friendly circles where there is no
restraintthat he likes a toothful of your fine old brown East
Inder sherry better than anything you can offer him. Consequently
he fills and empties his glass with a smack of his lips and is
proceeding with his refreshment when an idea enters his mind.

Mr. Bucket softly opens the door of communication between that room
and the next and looks in. The library is desertedand the fire
is sinking low. Mr. Bucket's eyeafter taking a pigeon-flight
round the roomalights upon a table where letters are usually put
as they arrive. Several letters for Sir Leicester are upon it.
Mr. Bucket draws near and examines the directions. "No he says,
there's none in that hand. It's only me as is written to. I can
break it to Sir Leicester DedlockBaronetto-morrow."

With that he returns to finish his dinner with a good appetiteand
after a light napis summoned into the drawing-room. Sir
Leicester has received him there these several evenings past to
know whether he has anything to report. The debilitated cousin
(much exhausted by the funeral) and Volumnia are in attendance.

Mr. Bucket makes three distinctly different bows to these three
people. A bow of homage to Sir Leicestera bow of gallantry to
Volumniaand a bow of recognition to the debilitated Cousinto
whom it airily saysYou are a swell about town, and you know me,
and I know you.Having distributed these little specimens of his
tactMr. Bucket rubs his hands.


Have you anything new to communicate, officer?inquires Sir
Leicester. "Do you wish to hold any conversation with me in
private?"

Why--not tonight, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet.

Because my time,pursues Sir Leicesteris wholly at your
disposal with a view to the vindication of the outraged majesty of
the law.

Mr. Bucket coughs and glances at Volumniarouged and necklacedas
though he would respectfully observeI do assure you, you're a
pretty creetur. I've seen hundreds worse looking at your time of
life, I have indeed.

The fair Volumnianot quite unconscious perhaps of the humanizing
influence of her charmspauses in the writing of cocked-hat notes
and meditatively adjusts the pearl necklace. Mr. Bucket prices
that decoration in his mind and thinks it as likely as not that
Volumnia is writing poetry.

If I have not,pursues Sir Leicesterin the most emphatic
manner, adjured you, officer, to exercise your utmost skill in this
atrocious case, I particularly desire to take the present
opportunity of rectifying any omission I may have made. Let no
expense be a consideration. I am prepared to defray all charges.
You can incur none in pursuit of the object you have undertaken
that I shall hesitate for a moment to bear.

Mr. Bucket made Sir Leicester's bow again as a response to this
liberality.

My mind,Sir Leicester adds with a generous warmthhas not, as
may be easily supposed, recovered its tone since the late
diabolical occurrence. It is not likely ever to recover its tone.
But it is full of indignation to-night after undergoing the ordeal
of consigning to the tomb the remains of a faithful, a zealous, a
devoted adherent.

Sir Leicester's voice trembles and his grey hair stirs upon his
head. Tears are in his eyes; the best part of his nature is
aroused.

I declare,he saysI solemnly declare that until this crime is
discovered and, in the course of justice, punished, I almost feel
as if there were a stain upon my name. A gentleman who has devoted
a large portion of his life to me, a gentleman who has devoted the
last day of his life to me, a gentleman who has constantly sat at
my table and slept under my roof, goes from my house to his own,
and is struck down within an hour of his leaving my house. I
cannot say but that he may have been followed from my house,
watched at my house, even first marked because of his association
with my house--which may have suggested his possessing greater
wealth and being altogether of greater importance than his own
retiring demeanour would have indicated. If I cannot with my means
and influence and my position bring all the perpetrators of such a
crime to light, I fail in the assertion of my respect for that
gentleman's memory and of my fidelity towards one who was ever
faithful to me.

While he makes this protestation with great emotion and
earnestnesslooking round the room as if he were addressing an
assemblyMr. Bucket glances at him with an observant gravity in
which there might bebut for the audacity of the thoughta touch


of compassion.

The ceremony of to-day,continues Sir Leicesterstrikingly
illustrative of the respect in which my deceased friend--he lays a
stress upon the wordfor death levels all distinctions--"was held
by the flower of the landhasI sayaggravated the shock I have
received from this most horrible and audacious crime. If it were
my brother who had committed itI would not spare him."

Mr. Bucket looks very grave. Volumnia remarks of the deceased that
he was the trustiest and dearest person!

You must feel it as a deprivation to you, miss, replies Mr. Bucket
soothingly, no doubt. He was calculated to BE a deprivationI'm
sure he was."

Volumnia gives Mr. Bucket to understandin replythat her
sensitive mind is fully made up never to get the better of it as
long as she livesthat her nerves are unstrung for everand that
she has not the least expectation of ever smiling again. Meanwhile
she folds up a cocked hat for that redoubtable old general at Bath
descriptive of her melancholy condition.

It gives a start to a delicate female,says Mr. Bucket
sympatheticallybut it'll wear off.

Volumnia wishes of all things to know what is doing? Whether they
are going to convictor whatever it isthat dreadful soldier?
Whether he had any accomplicesor whatever the thing is called in
the law? And a great deal more to the like artless purpose.

Why you see, miss,returns Mr. Bucketbringing the finger into
persuasive action--and such is his natural gallantry that he had
almost said "my dear"--"it ain't easy to answer those questions at
the present moment. Not at the present moment. I've kept myself
on this caseSir Leicester DedlockBaronet whom Mr. Bucket
takes into the conversation in right of his importance, morning
noonand night. But for a glass or two of sherryI don't think I
could have had my mind so much upon the stretch as it has been. I
COULD answer your questionsmissbut duty forbids it. Sir
Leicester DedlockBaronetwill very soon be made acquainted with
all that has been traced. And I hope that he may find it"--Mr.
Bucket again looks grave--"to his satisfaction."

The debilitated cousin only hopes some fler'll be executed--zample.
Thinks more interest's wanted--get man hanged presentime--than get
man place ten thousand a year. Hasn't a doubt--zample--far better
hang wrong fler than no fler.

YOU know life, you know, sir,says Mr. Bucket with a
complimentary twinkle of his eye and crook of his fingerand you
can confirm what I've mentioned to this lady. YOU don't want to be
told that from information I have received I have gone to work.
You're up to what a lady can't be expected to be up to. Lord!
Especially in your elevated station of society, miss,says Mr.
Bucketquite reddening at another narrow escape from "my dear."

The officer, Volumnia,observes Sir Leicesteris faithful to
his duty, and perfectly right.

Mr. Bucket murmursGlad to have the honour of your approbation,
Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet.

In fact, Volumnia,proceeds Sir Leicesterit is not holding up


a good model for imitation to ask the officer any such questions as
you have put to him. He is the best judge of his own
responsibility; he acts upon his responsibility. And it does not
become us, who assist in making the laws, to impede or interfere
with those who carry them into execution. Or,says Sir Leicester
somewhat sternlyfor Volumnia was going to cut in before he had
rounded his sentenceor who vindicate their outraged majesty.

Volumnia with all humility explains that she had not merely the
plea of curiosity to urge (in common with the giddy youth of her
sex in general) but that she is perfectly dying with regret and
interest for the darling man whose loss they all deplore.

Very well, Volumnia,returns Sir Leicester. "Then you cannot be
too discreet."

Mr. Bucket takes the opportunity of a pause to be heard again.

Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I have no objections to telling
this lady, with your leave and among ourselves, that I look upon
the case as pretty well complete. It is a beautiful case--a
beautiful case--and what little is wanting to complete it, I expect
to be able to supply in a few hours.

I am very glad indeed to hear it,says Sir Leicester. "Highly
creditable to you."

Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,returns Mr. Bucket very
seriouslyI hope it may at one and the same time do me credit and
prove satisfactory to all. When I depict it as a beautiful case,
you see, miss,Mr. Bucket goes onglancing gravely at Sir
LeicesterI mean from my point of view. As considered from other
points of view, such cases will always involve more or less
unpleasantness. Very strange things comes to our knowledge in
families, miss; bless your heart, what you would think to be
phenomenons, quite.

Volumniawith her innocent little screamsupposes so.

Aye, and even in gen-teel families, in high families, in great
families,says Mr. Bucketagain gravely eyeing Sir Leicester
aside. "I have had the honour of being employed in high families
beforeand you have no idea--comeI'll go so far as to say not
even YOU have any ideasir this to the debilitated cousin, what
games goes on!"

The cousinwho has been casting sofa-pillows on his headin a
prostration of boredom yawnsVayli,being the used-up for "very
likely."

Sir Leicesterdeeming it time to dismiss the officerhere
majestically interposes with the wordsVery good. Thank you!
and also with a wave of his handimplying not only that there is
an end of the discoursebut that if high families fall into low
habits they must take the consequences. "You will not forget
officer he adds with condescension, that I am at your disposal
when you please."

Mr. Bucket (still grave) inquires if to-morrow morningnowwould
suitin case he should be as for'ard as he expects to be. Sir
Leicester repliesAll times are alike to me.Mr. Bucket makes
his three bows and is withdrawing when a forgotten point occurs to
him.


Might I ask, by the by,he says in a low voicecautiously
returningwho posted the reward-bill on the staircase.

I ordered it to be put up there,replies Sir Leicester.

Would it be considered a liberty, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,
if I was to ask you why?

Not at all. I chose it as a conspicuous part of the house. I
think it cannot be too prominently kept before the whole
establishment. I wish my people to be impressed with the enormity
of the crime, the determination to punish it, and the hopelessness
of escape. At the same time, officer, if you in your better
knowledge of the subject see any objection--

Mr. Bucket sees none now; the bill having been put uphad better
not be taken down. Repeating his three bows he withdrawsclosing
the door on Volumnia's little screamwhich is a preliminary to her
remarking that that charmingly horrible person is a perfect Blue
Chamber.

In his fondness for society and his adaptability to all gradesMr.
Bucket is presently standing before the hall-fire--bright and warm
on the early winter night--admiring Mercury.

Why, you're six foot two, I suppose?says Mr. Bucket.

Three,says Mercury.

Are you so much? But then, you see, you're broad in proportion
and don't look it. You're not one of the weak-legged ones, you
ain't. Was you ever modelled now?Mr. Bucket asksconveying the
expression of an artist into the turn of his eye and head.

Mercury never was modelled.

Then you ought to be, you know,says Mr. Bucket; "and a friend of
mine that you'll hear of one day as a Royal Academy sculptor would
stand something handsome to make a drawing of your proportions for
the marble. My Lady's outain't she?"

Out to dinner.

Goes out pretty well every day, don't she?

Yes.

Not to be wondered at!says Mr. Bucket. "Such a fine woman as
herso handsome and so graceful and so elegantis like a fresh
lemon on a dinner-tableornamental wherever she goes. Was your
father in the same way of life as yourself?"

Answer in the negative.

Mine was,says Mr. Bucket. "My father was first a pagethen a
footmanthen a butlerthen a stewardthen an inn-keeper. Lived
universally respectedand died lamented. Said with his last
breath that he considered service the most honourable part of his
careerand so it was. I've a brother in serviceAND a brotherin-
law. My Lady a good temper?"

Mercury repliesAs good as you can expect.

Ah!says Mr. Bucket. "A little spoilt? A little capricious?


Lord! What can you anticipate when they're so handsome as that?
And we like 'em all the better for itdon't we?"

Mercurywith his hands in the pockets of his bright peach-blossom
small-clothesstretches his symmetrical silk legs with the air of
a man of gallantry and can't deny it. Come the roll of wheels and
a violent ringing at the bell. "Talk of the angels says Mr.
Bucket. Here she is!"

The doors are thrown openand she passes through the hall. Still
very paleshe is dressed in slight mourning and wears two
beautiful bracelets. Either their beauty or the beauty of her arms
is particularly attractive to Mr. Bucket. He looks at them with an
eager eye and rattles something in his pocket--halfpence perhaps.

Noticing him at his distanceshe turns an inquiring look on the
other Mercury who has brought her home.

Mr. Bucket, my Lady.

Mr. Bucket makes a leg and comes forwardpassing his familiar
demon over the region of his mouth.

Are you waiting to see Sir Leicester?

No, my Lady, I've seen him!

Have you anything to say to me?

Not just at present, my Lady.

Have you made any new discoveries?

A few, my Lady.

This is merely in passing. She scarcely makes a stopand sweeps
upstairs alone. Mr. Bucketmoving towards the staircase-foot
watches her as she goes up the steps the old man came down to his
gravepast murderous groups of statuary repeated with their
shadowy weapons on the wallpast the printed billwhich she looks
at going byout of view.

She's a lovely woman, too, she really is,says Mr. Bucketcoming
back to Mercury. "Don't look quite healthy though."

Is not quite healthyMercury informs him. Suffers much from
headaches.

Really? That's a pity! WalkingMr. Bucket would recommend for
that. Wellshe tries walkingMercury rejoins. Walks sometimes
for two hours when she has them bad. By nighttoo.

Are you sure you're quite so much as six foot three?asks Mr.
Bucket. "Begging your pardon for interrupting you a moment?"

Not a doubt about it.

You're so well put together that I shouldn't have thought it. But
the household troops, though considered fine men, are built so
straggling. Walks by night, does she? When it's moonlight,
though?

Ohyes. When it's moonlight! Of course. Ohof course!
Conversational and acquiescent on both sides.


I suppose you ain't in the habit of walking yourself?says Mr.
Bucket. "Not much time for itI should say?"

Besides whichMercury don't like it. Prefers carriage exercise.

To be sure,says Mr. Bucket. "That makes a difference. Now I
think of it says Mr. Bucket, warming his hands and looking
pleasantly at the blaze, she went out walking the very night of
this business."

To be sure she did! I let her into the garden over the way.

And left her there. Certainly you did. I saw you doing it."

I didn't see YOU,says Mercury.

I was rather in a hurry,returns Mr. Bucketfor I was going to
visit a aunt of mine that lives at Chelsea--next door but two to
the old original Bun House--ninety year old the old lady is, a
single woman, and got a little property. Yes, I chanced to be
passing at the time. Let's see. What time might it be? It wasn't
ten.

Half-past nine.

You're right. So it was. And if I don't deceive myself, my Lady
was muffled in a loose black mantle, with a deep fringe to it?

Of course she was.

Of course she was. Mr. Bucket must return to a little work he has
to get on with upstairsbut he must shake hands with Mercury in
acknowledgment of his agreeable conversationand will he--this is
all he asks--will hewhen he has a leisure half-hourthink of
bestowing it on that Royal Academy sculptorfor the advantage of
both parties?

CHAPTER LIV

Springing a Mine

Refreshed by sleepMr. Bucket rises betimes in the morning and
prepares for a field-day. Smartened up by the aid of a clean shirt
and a wet hairbrushwith which instrumenton occasions of
ceremonyhe lubricates such thin locks as remain to him after his
life of severe studyMr. Bucket lays in a breakfast of two mutton
chops as a foundation to work upontogether with teaeggstoast
and marmalade on a corresponding scale. Having much enjoyed these
strengthening matters and having held subtle conference with his
familiar demonhe confidently instructs Mercury "just to mention
quietly to Sir Leicester DedlockBaronetthat whenever he's ready
for meI'm ready for him." A gracious message being returned that
Sir Leicester will expedite his dressing and join Mr. Bucket in the
library within ten minutesMr. Bucket repairs to that apartment
and stands before the fire with his finger on his chinlooking at
the blazing coals.

Thoughtful Mr. Bucket isas a man may be with weighty work to do
but composedsureconfident. From the expression of his face he
might be a famous whist-player for a large stake--say a hundred


guineas certain--with the game in his handbut with a high
reputation involved in his playing his hand out to the last card in
a masterly way. Not in the least anxious or disturbed is Mr.
Bucket when Sir Leicester appearsbut he eyes the baronet aside as
he comes slowly to his easy-chair with that observant gravity of
yesterday in which there might have been yesterdaybut for the
audacity of the ideaa touch of compassion.

I am sorry to have kept you waiting, officer, but I am rather
later than my usual hour this morning. I am not well. The
agitation and the indignation from which I have recently suffered
have been too much for me. I am subject to--gout--Sir Leicester
was going to say indisposition and would have said it to anybody
elsebut Mr. Bucket palpably knows all about it--"and recent
circumstances have brought it on."

As he takes his seat with some difficulty and with an air of pain
Mr. Bucket draws a little nearerstanding with one of his large
hands on the library-table.

I am not aware, officer,Sir Leicester observes; raising his eyes
to his facewhether you wish us to be alone, but that is entirely
as you please. If you do, well and good. If not, Miss Dedlock
would be interested--

Why, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,returns Mr. Bucket with his
head persuasively on one side and his forefinger pendant at one ear
like an earringwe can't be too private just at present. You
will presently see that we can't be too private. A lady, under the
circumstances, and especially in Miss Dedlock's elevated station of
society, can't but be agreeable to me, but speaking without a view
to myself, I will take the liberty of assuring you that I know we
can't be too private.

That is enough.

So much so, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,Mr. Bucket resumes
that I was on the point of asking your permission to turn the key
in the door.

By all means.Mr. Bucket skilfully and softly takes that
precautionstooping on his knee for a moment from mere force of
habit so to adjust the key in the lock as that no one shall peep in
from the outerside.

Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I mentioned yesterday evening that
I wanted but a very little to complete this case. I have now
completed it and collected proof against the person who did this
crime.

Against the soldier?

No, Sir Leicester Dedlock; not the soldier.

Sir Leicester looks astounded and inquiresIs the man in
custody?

Mr. Bucket tells himafter a pauseIt was a woman.

Sir Leicester leans back in his chairand breathlessly ejaculates
Good heaven!

Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,Mr. Bucket beginsstanding
over him with one hand spread out on the library-table and the


forefinger of the other in impressive useit's my duty to prepare
you for a train of circumstances that may, and I go so far as to
say that will, give you a shock. But Sir Leicester Dedlock,
Baronet, you are a gentleman, and I know what a gentleman is and
what a gentleman is capable of. A gentleman can bear a shock when
it must come, boldly and steadily. A gentleman can make up his
mind to stand up against almost any blow. Why, take yourself, Sir
Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. If there's a blow to be inflicted on
you, you naturally think of your family. You ask yourself, how
would all them ancestors of yours, away to Julius Caesar--not to go
beyond him at present--have borne that blow; you remember scores of
them that would have borne it well; and you bear it well on their
accounts, and to maintain the family credit. That's the way you
argue, and that's the way you act, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet.

Sir Leicesterleaning back in his chair and grasping the elbows
sits looking at him with a stony face.

Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock,proceeds Mr. Bucketthus preparing
you, let me beg of you not to trouble your mind for a moment as to
anything having come to MY knowledge. I know so much about so many
characters, high and low, that a piece of information more or less
don't signify a straw. I don't suppose there's a move on the board
that would surprise ME, and as to this or that move having taken
place, why my knowing it is no odds at all, any possible move
whatever (provided it's in a wrong direction) being a probable move
according to my experience. Therefore, what I say to you, Sir
Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, is, don't you go and let yourself be
put out of the way because of my knowing anything of your family
affairs.

I thank you for your preparation,returns Sir Leicester after a
silencewithout moving handfootor featurewhich I hope is
not necessary; though I give it credit for being well intended. Be
so good as to go on. Also--Sir Leicester seems to shrink in the
shadow of his figure--"alsoto take a seatif you have no
objection."

None at all. Mr. Bucket brings a chair and diminishes his shadow.
Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, with this short preface I
come to the point. Lady Dedlock--

Sir Leicester raises himself in his seat and stares at him
fiercely. Mr. Bucket brings the finger into play as an emollient.

Lady Dedlock, you see she's universally admired. That's what her
ladyship is; she's universally admired,says Mr. Bucket.

I would greatly prefer, officer,Sir Leicester returns stiffly
my Lady's name being entirely omitted from this discussion.

So would I, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, but--it's impossible.

Impossible?

Mr. Bucket shakes his relentless head.

Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, it's altogether impossible. What
I have got to say is about her ladyship. She is the pivot it all
turns on.

Officer,retorts Sir Leicester with a fiery eye and a quivering
lipyou know your duty. Do your duty, but be careful not to
overstep it. I would not suffer it. I would not endure it. You


bring my Lady's name into this communication upon your
responsibility--upon your responsibility. My Lady's name is not a
name for common persons to trifle with!

Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I say what I must say, and no
more.

I hope it may prove so. Very well. Go on. Go on, sir!
Glancing at the angry eyes which now avoid him and at the angry
figure trembling from head to footyet striving to be stillMr.
Bucket feels his way with his forefinger and in a low voice
proceeds.

Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, it becomes my duty to tell you
that the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn long entertained mistrusts and
suspicions of Lady Dedlock.

If he had dared to breathe them to me, sir--which he never did--I
would have killed him myself!exclaims Sir Leicesterstriking his
hand upon the table. But in the very heat and fury of the act he
stopsfixed by the knowing eyes of Mr. Bucketwhose forefinger is
slowly going and whowith mingled confidence and patienceshakes
his head.

Sir Leicester Dedlock, the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn was deep and
close, and what he fully had in his mind in the very beginning I
can't quite take upon myself to say. But I know from his lips that
he long ago suspected Lady Dedlock of having discovered, through
the sight of some handwriting--in this very house, and when you
yourself, Sir Leicester Dedlock, were present--the existence, in
great poverty, of a certain person who had been her lover before
you courted her and who ought to have been her husband.Mr.
Bucket stops and deliberately repeatsOught to have been her
husband, not a doubt about it. I know from his lips that when that
person soon afterwards died, he suspected Lady Dedlock of visiting
his wretched lodging and his wretched grave, alone and in secret.
I know from my own inquiries and through my eyes and ears that Lady
Dedlock did make such visit in the dress of her own maid, for the
deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn employed me to reckon up her ladyship--if
you'll excuse my making use of the term we commonly employ--and I
reckoned her up, so far, completely. I confronted the maid in the
chambers in Lincoln's Inn Fields with a witness who had been Lady
Dedlock's guide, and there couldn't be the shadow of a doubt that
she had worn the young woman's dress, unknown to her. Sir
Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I did endeavour to pave the way a
little towards these unpleasant disclosures yesterday by saying
that very strange things happened even in high families sometimes.
All this, and more, has happened in your own family, and to and
through your own Lady. It's my belief that the deceased Mr.
Tulkinghorn followed up these inquiries to the hour of his death
and that he and Lady Dedlock even had bad blood between them upon
the matter that very night. Now, only you put that to Lady
Dedlock, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, and ask her ladyship
whether, even after he had left here, she didn't go down to his
chambers with the intention of saying something further to him,
dressed in a loose black mantle with a deep fringe to it.

Sir Leicester sits like a statuegazing at the cruel finger that
is probing the life-blood of his heart.

You put that to her ladyship, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, from
me, Inspector Bucket of the Detective. And if her ladyship makes
any difficulty about admitting of it, you tell her that it's no
use, that Inspector Bucket knows it and knows that she passed the


soldier as you called him (though he's not in the army now) and
knows that she knows she passed him on the staircase. Now, Sir
Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, why do I relate all this?

Sir Leicesterwho has covered his face with his handsuttering a
single groanrequests him to pause for a moment. By and by he
takes his hands awayand so preserves his dignity and outward
calmnessthough there is no more colour in his face than in his
white hairthat Mr. Bucket is a little awed by him. Something
frozen and fixed is upon his mannerover and above its usual shell
of haughtinessand Mr. Bucket soon detects an unusual slowness in
his speechwith now and then a curious trouble in beginningwhich
occasions him to utter inarticulate sounds. With such sounds he
now breaks silencesoonhowevercontrolling himself to say that
he does not comprehend why a gentleman so faithful and zealous as
the late Mr. Tulkinghorn should have communicated to him nothing of
this painfulthis distressingthis unlooked-forthis
overwhelmingthis incredible intelligence.

Again, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,returns Mr. Bucketput
it to her ladyship to clear that up. Put it to her ladyship, if
you think it right, from Inspector Bucket of the Detective. You'll
find, or I'm much mistaken, that the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn had
the intention of communicating the whole to you as soon as he
considered it ripe, and further, that he had given her ladyship so
to understand. Why, he might have been going to reveal it the very
morning when I examined the body! You don't know what I'm going to
say and do five minutes from this present time, Sir Leicester
Dedlock, Baronet; and supposing I was to be picked off now, you
might wonder why I hadn't done it, don't you see?

True. Sir Leicesteravoidingwith some trouble those obtrusive
soundssaysTrue.At this juncture a considerable noise of
voices is heard in the hall. Mr. Bucketafter listeninggoes to
the library-doorsoftly unlocks and opens itand listens again.
Then he draws in his head and whispers hurriedly but composedly
Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, this unfortunate family affair has
taken air, as I expected it might, the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn
being cut down so sudden. The chance to hush it is to let in these
people now in a wrangle with your footmen. Would you mind sitting
quiet--on the family account--while I reckon 'em up? And would you
just throw in a nod when I seem to ask you for it?

Sir Leicester indistinctly answersOfficer. The best you can,
the best you can!and Mr. Bucketwith a nod and a sagacious crook
of the forefingerslips down into the hallwhere the voices
quickly die away. He is not long in returning; a few paces ahead
of Mercury and a brother deity also powdered and in peach-blossomed
smallswho bear between them a chair in which is an incapable old
man. Another man and two women come behind. Directing the
pitching of the chair in an affable and easy mannerMr. Bucket
dismisses the Mercuries and locks the door again. Sir Leicester
looks on at this invasion of the sacred precincts with an icy
stare.

Now, perhaps you may know me, ladies and gentlemen,says Mr.
Bucket in a confidential voice. "I am Inspector Bucket of the
DetectiveI am; and this producing the tip of his convenient
little staff from his breast-pocket, is my authority. Nowyou
wanted to see Sir Leicester DedlockBaronet. Well! You do see
himand mind youit ain't every one as is admitted to that
honour. Your nameold gentlemanis Smallweed; that's what your
name is; I know it well."


Well, and you never heard any harm of it!cries Mr. Smallweed in
a shrill loud voice.

You don't happen to know why they killed the pig, do you?retorts
Mr. Bucket with a steadfast lookbut without loss of temper.

No!

Why, they killed him,says Mr. Bucketon account of his having
so much cheek. Don't YOU get into the same position, because it
isn't worthy of you. You ain't in the habit of conversing with a
deaf person, are you?

Yes,snarls Mr. Smallweedmy wife's deaf.

That accounts for your pitching your voice so high. But as she
ain't here; just pitch it an octave or two lower, will you, and
I'll not only be obliged to you, but it'll do you more credit,
says Mr. Bucket. "This other gentleman is in the preaching lineI
think?"

Name of Chadband,Mr. Smallweed puts inspeaking henceforth in a
much lower key.

Once had a friend and brother serjeant of the same name,says Mr.
Bucketoffering his handand consequently feel a liking for it.
Mrs. Chadband, no doubt?

And Mrs. Snagsby,Mr. Smallweed introduces.

Husband a law-stationer and a friend of my own,says Mr. Bucket.
Love him like a brother! Now, what's up?

Do you mean what business have we come upon?Mr. Smallweed asks
a little dashed by the suddenness of this turn.

Ah! You know what I mean. Let us hear what it's all about in
presence of Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. Come.

Mr. Smallweedbeckoning Mr. Chadbandtakes a moment's counsel
with him in a whisper. Mr. Chadbandexpressing a considerable
amount of oil from the pores of his forehead and the palms of his
handssays aloudYes. You first!and retires to his former
place.

I was the client and friend of Mr. Tulkinghorn,pipes Grandfather
Smallweed then; "I did business with him. I was useful to himand
he was useful to me. Krookdead and gonewas my brother-in-law.
He was own brother to a brimstone magpie--leastways Mrs. Smallweed.
I come into Krook's property. I examined all his papers and all
his effects. They was all dug out under my eyes. There was a
bundle of letters belonging to a dead and gone lodger as was hid
away at the back of a shelf in the side of Lady Jane's bed--his
cat's bed. He hid all manner of things awayeverywheres. Mr.
Tulkinghorn wanted 'em and got 'embut I looked 'em over first.
I'm a man of businessand I took a squint at 'em. They was
letters from the lodger's sweetheartand she signed Honoria. Dear
methat's not a common nameHonoriais it? There's no lady in
this house that signs Honoria is there? OhnoI don't think so!
OhnoI don't think so! And not in the same handperhaps? Oh
noI don't think so!"

Here Mr. Smallweedseized with a fit of coughing in the midst of
his triumphbreaks off to ejaculateOh, dear me! Oh, Lord! I'm


shaken all to pieces!

Now, when you're ready,says Mr. Bucket after awaiting his
recoveryto come to anything that concerns Sir Leicester Dedlock,
Baronet, here the gentleman sits, you know.

Haven't I come to it, Mr. Bucket?cries Grandfather Smallweed.
Isn't the gentleman concerned yet? Not with Captain Hawdon, and
his ever affectionate Honoria, and their child into the bargain?
Come, then, I want to know where those letters are. That concerns
me, if it don't concern Sir Leicester Dedlock. I will know where
they are. I won't have 'em disappear so quietly. I handed 'em
over to my friend and solicitor, Mr. Tulkinghorn, not to anybody
else.

Why, he paid you for them, you know, and handsome too,says Mr.
Bucket.

I don't care for that. I want to know who's got 'em. And I tell
you what we want--what we all here want, Mr. Bucket. We want more
painstaking and search-making into this murder. We know where the
interest and the motive was, and you have not done enough. If
George the vagabond dragoon had any hand in it, he was only an
accomplice, and was set on. You know what I mean as well as any
man.

Now I tell you what,says Mr. Bucketinstantaneously altering
his mannercoming close to himand communicating an extraordinary
fascination to the forefingerI am damned if I am a-going to have
my case spoilt, or interfered with, or anticipated by so much as
half a second of time by any human being in creation. YOU want
more painstaking and search-making! YOU do? Do you see this hand,
and do you think that I don't know the right time to stretch it out
and put it on the arm that fired that shot?

Such is the dread power of the manand so terribly evident it is
that he makes no idle boastthat Mr. Smallweed begins to
apologize. Mr. Bucketdismissing his sudden angerchecks him.

The advice I give you is, don't you trouble your head about the
murder. That's my affair. You keep half an eye on the newspapers,
and I shouldn't wonder if you was to read something about it before
long, if you look sharp. I know my business, and that's all I've
got to say to you on that subject. Now about those letters. You
want to know who's got 'em. I don't mind telling you. I have got
'em. Is that the packet?

Mr. Smallweed lookswith greedy eyesat the little bundle Mr.
Bucket produces from a mysterious part of his coatand identifles
it as the same.

What have you got to say next?asks Mr. Bucket. "Nowdon't open
your mouth too widebecause you don't look handsome when you do
it."

I want five hundred pound.

No, you don't; you mean fifty,says Mr. Bucket humorously.

It appearshoweverthat Mr. Smallweed means five hundred.

That is, I am deputed by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, to
consider (without admitting or promising anything) this bit of
business,says Mr. Bucket--Sir Leicester mechanically bows his


head--"and you ask me to consider a proposal of five hundred
pounds. Whyit's an unreasonable proposal! Two fifty would be
bad enoughbut better than that. Hadn't you better say two
fifty?"

Mr. Smallweed is quite clear that he had better not.

Then,says Mr. Bucketlet's hear Mr. Chadband. Lord! Many a
time I've heard my old fellow-serjeant of that name; and a moderate
man he was in all respects, as ever I come across!

Thus invitedMr. Chadband steps forthand after a little sleek
smiling and a little oil-grinding with the palms of his hands
delivers himself as followsMy friends, we are now--Rachael, my
wife, and I--in the mansions of the rich and great. Why are we now
in the mansions of the rich and great, my friends? Is it because
we are invited? Because we are bidden to feast with them, because
we are bidden to rejoice with them, because we are bidden to play
the lute with them, because we are bidden to dance with them? No.
Then why are we here, my friends? Air we in possession of a sinful
secret, and do we require corn, and wine, and oil, or what is much
the same thing, money, for the keeping thereof? Probably so, my
friends.

You're a man of business, you are,returns Mr. Bucketvery
attentiveand consequently you're going on to mention what the
nature of your secret is. You are right. You couldn't do better.

Let us then, my brother, in a spirit of love,says Mr. Chadband
with a cunning eyeproceed unto it. Rachael, my wife, advance!

Mrs. Chadbandmore than readyso advances as to jostle her
husband into the background and confronts Mr. Bucket with a hard
frowning smile.

Since you want to know what we know,says sheI'll tell you. I
helped to bring up Miss Hawdon, her ladyship's daughter. I was in
the service of her ladyship's sister, who was very sensitive to the
disgrace her ladyship brought upon her, and gave out, even to her
ladyship, that the child was dead--she WAS very nearly so--when she
was born. But she's alive, and I know her.With these wordsand
a laughand laying a bitter stress on the word "ladyship Mrs.
Chadband folds her arms and looks implacably at Mr. Bucket.

I suppose now returns that officer, YOU will he expecting a
twenty-pound note or a present of about that figure?"

Mrs. Chadband merely laughs and contemptuously tells him he can
offertwenty pence.

My friend the law-stationer's good lady, over there,says Mr.
Bucketluring Mrs. Snagsby forward with the finger. "What may
YOUR game bema'am?"

Mrs. Snagsby is at first preventedby tears and lamentationsfrom
stating the nature of her gamebut by degrees it confusedly comes
to light that she is a woman overwhelmed with injuries and wrongs
whom Mr. Snagsby has habitually deceivedabandonedand sought to
keep in darknessand whose chief comfortunder her afflictions
has been the sympathy of the late Mr. Tulkinghornwho showed so
much commiseration for her on one occasion of his calling in Cook's
Court in the absence of her perjured husband that she has of late
habitually carried to him all her woes. Everybody it appearsthe
present company exceptedhas plotted against Mrs. Snagsby's peace.


There is Mr. Guppyclerk to Kenge and Carboywho was at first as
open as the sun at noonbut who suddenly shut up as close as
midnightunder the influence--no doubt--of Mr. Snagsby's suborning
and tampering. There is Mr. Weevlefriend of Mr. Guppywho lived
mysteriously up a courtowing to the like coherent causes. There
was Krookdeceased; there was Nimroddeceased; and there was Jo
deceased; and they were "all in it." In whatMrs. Snagsby does
not with particularity expressbut she knows that Jo was Mr.
Snagsby's sonas well as if a trumpet had spoken it,and she
followed Mr. Snagsby when he went on his last visit to the boyand
if he was not his son why did he go? The one occupation of her
life has beenfor some time backto follow Mr. Snagsby to and
froand up and downand to piece suspicious circumstances
together--and every circumstance that has happened has been most
suspicious; and in this way she has pursued her object of detecting
and confounding her false husbandnight and day. Thus did it come
to pass that she brought the Chadbands and Mr. Tulkinghorn
togetherand conferred with Mr. Tulkinghorn on the change in Mr.
Guppyand helped to turn up the circumstances in which the present
company are interestedcasuallyby the waysidebeing still and
ever on the great high road that is to terminate in Mr. Snagsby's
full exposure and a matrimonial separation. All thisMrs.
Snagsbyas an injured womanand the friend of Mrs. Chadbandand
the follower of Mr. Chadbandand the mourner of the late Mr.
Tulkinghornis here to certify under the seal of confidencewith
every possible confusion and involvement possible and impossible
having no pecuniary motive whateverno scheme or project but the
one mentionedand bringing hereand taking everywhereher own
dense atmosphere of dustarising from the ceaseless working of her
mill of jealousy.

While this exordium is in hand--and it takes some time--Mr. Bucket
who has seen through the transparency of Mrs. Snagsby's vinegar at
a glanceconfers with his familiar demon and bestows his shrewd
attention on the Chadbands and Mr. Smallweed. Sir Leicester
Dedlock remains immovablewith the same icy surface upon him
except that he once or twice looks towards Mr. Bucketas relying
on that officer alone of all mankind.

Very good,says Mr. Bucket. "Now I understand youyou knowand
being deputed by Sir Leicester DedlockBaronetto look into this
little matter again Sir Leicester mechanically bows in
confirmation of the statement, can give it my fair and full
attention. Now I won't allude to conspiring to extort money or
anything of that sortbecause we are men and women of the world
hereand our object is to make things pleasant. But I tell you
what I DO wonder at; I am surprised that you should think of making
a noise below in the hall. It was so opposed to your interests.
That's what I look at."

We wanted to get in,pleads Mr. Smallweed.

Why, of course you wanted to get in,Mr. Bucket asserts with
cheerfulness; "but for a old gentleman at your time of life--what I
call truly venerablemind you!--with his wits sharpenedas I have
no doubt they areby the loss of the use of his limbswhich
occasions all his animation to mount up into his headnot to
consider that if he don't keep such a business as the present as
close as possible it can't be worth a mag to himis so curious!
You see your temper got the better of you; that's where you lost
ground says Mr. Bucket in an argumentative and friendly way.

I only said I wouldn't go without one of the servants came up to
Sir Leicester Dedlock returns Mr. Smallweed.


That's it! That's where your temper got the better of you. Now
you keep it under another time and you'll make money by it. Shall
I ring for them to carry you down?"

When are we to hear more of this?Mrs. Chadband sternly demands.

Bless your heart for a true woman! Always curious, your
delightful sex is!replies Mr. Bucket with gallantry. "I shall
have the pleasure of giving you a call to-morrow or next day--not
forgetting Mr. Smallweed and his proposal of two fifty."

Five hundred!exclaims Mr. Smallweed.

All right! Nominally five hundred.Mr. Bucket has his hand on
the bell-rope. "SHALL I wish you good day for the present on the
part of myself and the gentleman of the house?" he asks in an
insinuating tone.

Nobody having the hardihood to object to his doing sohe does it
and the party retire as they came up. Mr. Bucket follows them to
the doorand returningsays with an air of serious businessSir
Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, it's for you to consider whether or not
to buy this up. I should recommend, on the whole, it's being
bought up myself; and I think it may be bought pretty cheap. You
see, that little pickled cowcumber of a Mrs. Snagsby has been used
by all sides of the speculation and has done a deal more harm in
bringing odds and ends together than if she had meant it. Mr.
Tulkinghorn, deceased, he held all these horses in his hand and
could have drove 'em his own way, I haven't a doubt; but he was
fetched off the box head-foremost, and now they have got their legs
over the traces, and are all dragging and pulling their own ways.
So it is, and such is life. The cat's away, and the mice they
play; the frost breaks up, and the water runs. Now, with regard to
the party to be apprehended.

Sir Leicester seems to wakethough his eyes have been wide open
and he looks intently at Mr. Bucket as Mr. Bucket refers to his
watch.

The party to be apprehended is now in this house,proceeds Mr.
Bucketputting up his watch with a steady hand and with rising
spiritsand I'm about to take her into custody in your presence.
Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, don't you say a word nor yet stir.
There'll be no noise and no disturbance at all. I'll come back in
the course of the evening, if agreeable to you, and endeavour to
meet your wishes respecting this unfortunate family matter and the
nobbiest way of keeping it quiet. Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock,
Baronet, don't you be nervous on account of the apprehension at
present coming off. You shall see the whole case clear, from first
to last.

Mr. Bucket ringsgoes to the doorbriefly whispers Mercuryshuts
the doorand stands behind it with his arms folded. After a
suspense of a minute or two the door slowly opens and a Frenchwoman
enters. Mademoiselle Hortense.

The moment she is in the room Mr. Bucket claps the door to and puts
his back against it. The suddenness of the noise occasions her to
turnand then for the first time she sees Sir Leicester Dedlock in
his chair.

I ask you pardon,she mutters hurriedly. "They tell me there was
no one here."


Her step towards the door brings her front to front with Mr.
Bucket. Suddenly a spasm shoots across her face and she turns
deadly pale.

This is my lodger, Sir Leicester Dedlock,says Mr. Bucket
nodding at her. "This foreign young woman has been my lodger for
some weeks back."

What do Sir Leicester care for that, you think, my angel?returns
mademoiselle in a jocular strain.

Why, my angel,returns Mr. Bucketwe shall see.

Mademoiselle Hortense eyes him with a scowl upon her tight face
which gradually changes into a smile of scornYou are very
mysterieuse. Are you drunk?

Tolerable sober, my angel,returns Mr. Bucket.

I come from arriving at this so detestable house with your wife.
Your wife have left me since some minutes. They tell me downstairs
that your wife is here. I come here, and your wife is not here.
What is the intention of this fool's play, say then?mademoiselle
demandswith her arms composedly crossedbut with something in
her dark cheek beating like a clock.

Mr. Bucket merely shakes the finger at her.

Ah, my God, you are an unhappy idiot!cries mademoiselle with a
toss of her head and a laugh. "Leave me to pass downstairsgreat
pig." With a stamp of her foot and a menace.

Now, mademoiselle,says Mr. Bucket in a cool determined wayyou
go and sit down upon that sofy.

I will not sit down upon nothing,she replies with a shower of
nods.

Now, mademoiselle,repeats Mr. Bucketmaking no demonstration
except with the fingeryou sit down upon that sofy.

Why?

Because I take you into custody on a charge of murder, and you
don't need to be told it. Now, I want to be polite to one of your
sex and a foreigner if I can. If I can't, I must be rough, and
there's rougher ones outside. What I am to be depends on you. So
I recommend you, as a friend, afore another half a blessed moment
has passed over your head, to go and sit down upon that sofy.

Mademoiselle compliessaying in a concentrated voice while that
something in her cheek beats fast and hardYou are a devil.

Now, you see,Mr. Bucket proceeds approvinglyyou're
comfortable and conducting yourself as I should expect a foreign
young woman of your sense to do. So I'll give you a piece of
advice, and it's this, don't you talk too much. You're not
expected to say anything here, and you can't keep too quiet a
tongue in your head. In short, the less you PARLAY, the better,
you know.Mr. Bucket is very complacent over this French
explanation.

Mademoisellewith that tigerish expansion of the mouth and her


black eyes darting fire upon himsits upright on the sofa in a
rigid statewith her hands clenched--and her feet tooone might
suppose--mutteringOh, you Bucket, you are a devil!

Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,says Mr. Bucketand from
this time forth the finger never reststhis young woman, my
lodger, was her ladyship's maid at the time I have mentioned to
you; and this young woman, besides being extraordinary vehement and
passionate against her ladyship after being discharged--

Lie!cries mademoiselle. "I discharge myself."

Now, why don't you take my advice?returns Mr. Bucket in an
impressivealmost in an imploringtone. "I'm surprised at the
indiscreetness you commit. You'll say something that'll be used
against youyou know. You're sure to come to it. Never you mind
what I say till it's given in evidence. It is not addressed to
you."

Discharge, too,cries mademoiselle furiouslyby her ladyship!
Eh, my faith, a pretty ladyship! Why, I r-r-r-ruin my character hy
remaining with a ladyship so infame!

Upon my soul I wonder at you!Mr. Bucket remonstrates. "I
thought the French were a polite nationI didreally. Yet to
hear a female going on like that before Sir Leicester Dedlock
Baronet!"

He is a poor abused!cries mademoiselle. "I spit upon his house
upon his nameupon his imbecility all of which she makes the
carpet represent. Ohthat he is a great man! Ohyessuperb!
Ohheaven! Bah!"

Well, Sir Leicester Dedlock,proceeds Mr. Bucketthis
intemperate foreigner also angrily took it into her head that she
had established a claim upon Mr. Tulkinghorn, deceased, by
attending on the occasion I told you of at his chambers, though she
was liberally paid for her time and trouble.

Lie!cries mademoiselle. "I ref-use his money all togezzer."

If you WILL PARLAY, you know,says Mr. Bucket parenthetically
you must take the consequences. Now, whether she became my
lodger, Sir Leicester Dedlock, with any deliberate intention then
of doing this deed and blinding me, I give no opinion on; but she
lived in my house in that capacity at the time that she was
hovering about the chambers of the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn with a
view to a wrangle, and likewise persecuting and half frightening
the life out of an unfortunate stationer.

Lie!cries mademoiselle. "All lie!"

The murder was commttted, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, and you
know under what circumstances. Now, I beg of you to follow me
close with your attention for a minute or two. I was sent for, and
the case was entrusted to me. I examined the place, and the body,
and the papers, and everything. From information I received (from
a clerk in the same house) I took George into custody as having
been seen hanging about there on the night, and at very nigh the
time of the murder, also as having been overheard in high words
with the deceased on former occasions--even threatening him, as the
witness made out. If you ask me, Sir Leicester Dedlock, whether
from the first I believed George to be the murderer, I tell you
candidly no, but he might be, notwithstanding, and there was enough


against him to make it my duty to take him and get him kept under
remand. Now, observe!

As Mr. Bucket bends forward in some excitement--for him--and
inaugurates what he is going to say with one ghostly beat of his
forefinger in the airMademoiselle Hortense fixes her black eyes
upon him with a dark frown and sets her dry lips closely and firmly
together.

I went home, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, at night and found
this young woman having supper with my wife, Mrs. Bucket. She had
made a mighty show of being fond of Mrs. Bucket from her first
offering herself as our lodger, but that night she made more than
ever--in fact, overdid it. Likewise she overdid her respect, and
all that, for the lamented memory of the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn.
By the living Lord it flashed upon me, as I sat opposite to her at
the table and saw her with a knife in her hand, that she had done
it!

Mademoiselle is hardly audible in straining through her teeth and
lips the wordsYou are a devil.

Now where,pursues Mr. Buckethad she been on the night of the
murder? She had been to the theayter. (She really was there, I
have since found, both before the deed and after it.) I knew I had
an artful customer to deal with and that proof would be very
difficult; and I laid a trap for her--such a trap as I never laid
yet, and such a venture as I never made yet. I worked it out in my
mind while I was talking to her at supper. When I went upstairs to
bed, our house being small and this young woman's ears sharp, I
stuffed the sheet into Mrs. Bucket's mouth that she shouldn't say a
word of surprise and told her all about it. My dear, don't you
give your mind to that again, or I shall link your feet together at
the ankles.Mr. Bucketbreaking offhas made a noiseless
descent upon mademoiselle and laid his heavy hand upon her
shoulder.

What is the matter with you now?she asks him.

Don't you think any more,returns Mr. Bucket with admonitory
fingerof throwing yourself out of window. That's what's the
matter with me. Come! Just take my arm. You needn't get up; I'll
sit down by you. Now take my arm, will you? I'm a married man,
you know; you're acquainted with my wife. Just take my arm.

Vaiuly endeavouring to moisten those dry lipswith a painful sound
she struggles with herself and complies.

Now we're all right again. Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, this
case could never have been the case it is but for Mrs. Bucket, who
is a woman in fifty thousand--in a hundred and fifty thousand! To
throw this young woman off her guard, I have never set foot in our
house since, though I've communicated with Mrs. Bucket in the
baker's loaves and in the milk as often as required. My whispered
words to Mrs. Bucket when she had the sheet in her mouth were, 'My
dear, can you throw her off continually with natural accounts of my
suspicions against George, and this, and that, and t'other? Can
you do without rest and keep watch upon her night and day? Can you
undertake to say, She shall do nothing without my knowledgeshe
shall be my prisoner without suspecting itshe shall no more
escape from me than from deathand her life shall be my lifeand
her soul my soultill I have got herif she did this murder?"'
Mrs. Bucket says to meas well as she could speak on account of
the sheet'BucketI can!' And she has acted up to it glorious!"


Lies!mademoiselle interposes. "All liesmy friend!"

Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, how did my calculations come out
under these circumstances? When I calculated that this impetuous
young woman would overdo it in new directions, was I wrong or
right? I was right. What does she try to do? Don't let it give
you a turn? To throw the murder on her ladyship.

Sir Leicester rises from his chair and staggers down again.

And she got encouragement in it from hearing that I was always
here, which was done a-purpose. Now, open that pocket-book of
mine, Sir Leicester Dedlock, if I may take the liberty of throwing
it towards you, and look at the letters sent to me, each with the
two words 'Lady Dedlock' in it. Open the one directed to yourself,
which I stopped this very morning, and read the three words 'Lady
Dedlock, Murderess' in it. These letters have been falling about
like a shower of lady-birds. What do you say now to Mrs. Bucket,
from her spy-place having seen them all 'written by this young
woman? What do you say to Mrs. Bucket having, within this half-
hour, secured the corresponding ink and paper, fellow half-sheets
and what not? What do you say to Mrs. Bucket having watched the
posting of 'em every one by this young woman, Sir Leicester
Dedlock, Baronet?Mr. Bucket askstriumphant in his admiration
of his lady's genius.

Two things are especially observable as Mr. Bucket proceeds to a
conclusion. Firstthat he seems imperceptibly to establish a
dreadful right of property in mademoiselle. Secondlythat the
very atmosphere she breathes seems to narrow and contract about her
as if a close net or a pall were being drawn nearer and yet nearer
around her breathless figure.

There is no doubt that her ladyship was on the spot at the
eventful period,says Mr. Bucketand my foreign friend here saw
her, I believe, from the upper part of the staircase. Her ladyship
and George and my foreign friend were all pretty close on one
another's heels. But that don't signify any more, so I'll not go
into it. I found the wadding of the pistol with which the deceased
Mr. Tulkinghorn was shot. It was a bit of the printed description
of your house at Chesney Wold. Not much in that, you'll say, Sir
Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. No. But when my foreign friend here
is so thoroughly off her guard as to think it a safe time to tear
up the rest of that leaf, and when Mrs. Bucket puts the pieces
together and finds the wadding wanting, it begins to look like
Queer Street.

These are very long lies,mademoiselle interposes. "You prose
great deal. Is it that you have almost all finishedor are you
speaking always?"

Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,proceeds Mr. Bucketwho delights
in a full title and does violence to himself when he dispenses with
any fragment of itthe last point in the case which I am now
going to mention shows the necessity of patience in our business,
and never doing a thing in a hurry. I watched this young woman
yesterday without her knowledge when she was looking at the
funeral, in company with my wife, who planned to take her there;
and I had so much to convict her, and I saw such an expression in
her face, and my mind so rose against her malice towards her
ladyship, and the time was altogether such a time for bringing down
what you may call retribution upon her, that if I had been a
younger hand with less experience, I should have taken her,


certain. Equally, last night, when her ladyship, as is so
universally admired I am sure, come home looking--why, Lord, a man
might almost say like Venus rising from the ocean--it was so
unpleasant and inconsistent to think of her being charged with a
murder of which she was innocent that I felt quite to want to put
an end to the job. What should I have lost? Sir Leicester
Dedlock, Baronet, I should have lost the weapon. My prisoner here
proposed to Mrs. Bucket, after the departure of the funeral, that
they should go per bus a little ways into the country and take tea
at a very decent house of entertainment. Now, near that house of
entertainment there's a piece of water. At tea, my prisoner got up
to fetch her pocket handkercher from the bedroom where the bonnets
was; she was rather a long time gone and came back a little out of
wind. As soon as they came home this was reported to me by Mrs.
Bucket, along with her observations and suspicions. I had the
piece of water dragged by moonlight, in presence of a couple of our
men, and the pocket pistol was brought up before it had been there
half-a-dozen hours. Now, my dear, put your arm a little further
through mine, and hold it steady, and I shan't hurt you!

In a trice Mr. Bucket snaps a handcuff on her wrist. "That's one
says Mr. Bucket. Now the otherdarling. Twoand all told!"

He rises; she rises too. "Where she asks him, darkening her
large eyes until their drooping lids almost conceal them--and yet
they stare, where is your falseyour treacherousand cursed
wife?"

She's gone forrard to the Police Office,returns Mr. Bucket.
You'll see her there, my dear.

I would like to kiss her!exclaims Mademoiselle Hortensepanting
tigress-like.

You'd bite her, I suspect,says Mr. Bucket.

I would!making her eyes very large. "I would love to tear her
limb from limb."

Bless you, darling,says Mr. Bucket with the greatest composure
I'm fully prepared to hear that. Your sex have such a surprising
animosity against one another when you do differ. You don't mind
me half so much, do you?

No. Though you are a devil still.

Angel and devil by turns, eh?cries Mr. Bucket. "But I am in my
regular employmentyou must consider. Let me put your shawl tidy.
I've been lady's maid to a good many before now. Anything wanting
to the bonnet? There's a cab at the door."

Mademoiselle Hortensecasting an indignant eye at the glass
shakes herself perfectly neat in one shake and looksto do her
justiceuncommonly genteel.

Listen then, my angel,says she after several sarcastic nods.
You are very spiritual. But can you restore him back to life?

Mr. Bucket answersNot exactly.

That is droll. Listen yet one time. You are very spiritual. Can
you make a honourahle lady of her?

Don't be so malicious,says Mr. Bucket.


Or a haughty gentleman of HIM?cries mademoisellereferring to
Sir Leicester with ineffable disdain. "Eh! Ohthen regard him!
The poor infant! Ha! Ha! Ha!"

Come, come, why this is worse PARLAYING than the other,says Mr.
Bucket. "Come along!"

You cannot do these things? Then you can do as you please with
me. It is but the death, it is all the same. Let us go, my angel.
Adieu, you old man, grey. I pity you, and I despise you!

With these last words she snaps her teeth together as if her mouth
closed with a spring. It is impossible to describe how Mr. Bucket
gets her outbut he accomplishes that feat in a manner so peculiar
to himselfenfolding and pervading her like a cloudand hovering
away with her as if he were a homely Jupiter and she the object of
his affections.

Sir Leicesterleft aloneremains in the same attitudeas though
he were still listening and his attention were still occupied. At
length he gazes round the empty roomand finding it deserted
rises unsteadily to his feetpushes back his chairand walks a
few stepssupporting himself by the table. Then he stopsand
with more of those inarticulate soundslifts up his eyes and seems
to stare at something.

Heaven knows what he sees. The greengreen woods of Chesney Wold
the noble housethe pictures of his forefathersstrangers
defacing themofficers of police coarsely handling his most
precious heirloomsthousands of fingers pointing at himthousands
of faces sneering at him. But if such shadows flit before him to
his bewildermentthere is one other shadow which he can name with
something like distinctness even yet and to which alone he
addresses his tearing of his white hair and his extended arms.

It is she in association with whomsaving that she has been for
years a main fibre of the root of his dignity and pridehe has
never had a selfish thought. It is she whom he has lovedadmired
honouredand set up for the world to respect. It is she whoat
the core of all the constrained formalities and conventionalities
of his lifehas been a stock of living tenderness and love
susceptible as nothing else is of being struck with the agony he
feels. He sees heralmost to the exclusion of himselfand cannot
bear to look upon her cast down from the high place she has graced
so well.

And even to the point of his sinking on the groundoblivious of
his sufferinghe can yet pronounce her name with something like
distinctness in the midst of those intrusive soundsand in a tone
of mourning and compassion rather than reproach.

CHAPTER LV

Flight

Inspector Bucket of the Detective has not yet struck his great
blowas just now chronicledbut is yet refreshing himself with
sleep preparatory to his field-daywhen through the night and
along the freezing wintry roads a chaise and pair comes out of
Lincolnshiremaking its way towards London.


Railroads shall soon traverse all this countryand with a rattle
and a glare the engine and train shall shoot like a meteor over the
wide night-landscapeturning the moon paler; but as yet such
things are non-existent in these partsthough not wholly
unexpected. Preparations are afootmeasurements are madeground
is staked out. Bridges are begunand their not yet united piers
desolately look at one another over roads and streams like brick
and mortar couples with an obstacle to their union; fragments of
embankments are thrown up and left as precipices with torrents of
rusty carts and barrows tumbling over them; tripods of tall poles
appear on hilltopswhere there are rumours of tunnels; everything
looks chaotic and abandoned in full hopelessness. Along the
freezing roadsand through the nightthe post-chaise makes its
way without a railroad on its mind.

Mrs. Rouncewellso many years housekeeper at Chesney Woldsits
within the chaise; and by her side sits Mrs. Bagnet with her grey
cloak and umbrella. The old girl would prefer the bar in frontas
being exposed to the weather and a primitive sort of perch more in
accordance with her usual course of travellingbut Mrs. Rouncewell
is too thoughtful of her comfort to admit of her proposing it. The
old lady cannot make enough of the old girl. She sitsin her
stately mannerholding her handand regardless of its roughness
puts it often to her lips. "You are a mothermy dear soul says
she many times, and you found out my George's mother!"

Why, George,returns Mrs. Bagnetwas always free with me,
ma'am, and when he said at our house to my Woolwich that of all the
things my Woolwich could have to think of when he grew to be a man,
the comfortablest would be that he had never brought a sorrowful
line into his mother's face or turned a hair of her head grey, then
I felt sure, from his way, that something fresh had brought his own
mother into his mind. I had often known him say to me, in past
times, that he had behaved bad to her.

Never, my dear!returns Mrs. Rouncewellbursting into tears.
My blessing on him, never! He was always fond of me, and loving
to me, was my George! But he had a bold spirit, and he ran a
little wild and went for a soldier. And I know he waited at first,
in letting us know about himself, till he should rise to be an
officer; and when he didn't rise, I know he considered himself
beneath us, and wouldn't be a disgrace to us. For he had a lion
heart, had my George, always from a baby!

The old lady's hands stray about her as of yorewhile she recalls
all in a tremblewhat a likely ladwhat a fine ladwhat a gay
good-humoured clever lad he was; how they all took to him down at
Chesney Wold; how Sir Leicester took to him when he was a young
gentleman; how the dogs took to him; how even the people who had
been angry with him forgave him the moment he was gonepoor boy.
And now to see him after alland in a prison too! And the broad
stomacher heavesand the quaint upright old-fashioned figure bends
under its load of affectionate distress.

Mrs. Bagnetwith the instinctive skill of a good warm heart
leaves the old housekeeper to her emotions for a little while--not
without passing the back of her hand across her own motherly eyes-and
presently chirps up in her cheery mannerSo I says to George
when I goes to call him in to tea (he pretended to be smoking his
pipe outside), 'What ails you this afternoon, George, for gracious
sake? I have seen all sorts, and I have seen you pretty often in
season and out of season, abroad and at home, and I never see you
so melancholy penitent.' 'Why, Mrs. Bagnet,' says George, 'it's


because I AM melancholy and penitent both, this afternoon, that you
see me so.' 'What have you done, old fellow?' I says. 'Why, Mrs.
Bagnet,' says George, shaking his head, 'what I have done has been
done this many a long year, and is best not tried to be undone now.
If I ever get to heaven it won't be for being a good son to a
widowed mother; I say no more.' Now, ma'am, when George says to me
that it's best not tried to be undone now, I have my thoughts as I
have often had before, and I draw it out of George how he comes to
have such things on him that afternoon. Then George tells me that
he has seen by chance, at the lawyer's office, a fine old lady that
has brought his mother plain before him, and he runs on about that
old lady till he quite forgets himself and paints her picture to me
as she used to be, years upon years back. So I says to George when
he has done, who is this old lady he has seen? And George tells me
it's Mrs. Rouncewell, housekeeper for more than half a century to
the Dedlock family down at Chesney Wold in Lincolnshire. George
has frequently told me before that he's a Lincolnshire man, and I
says to my old Lignum that night, 'Lignum, that's his mother for
five and for-ty pound!'

All this Mrs. Bagnet now relates for the twentieth time at least
within the last four hours. Trilling it out like a kind of bird
with a pretty high notethat it may be audible to the old lady
above the hum of the wheels.

Bless you, and thank you,says Mrs. Rouncewell. "Bless youand
thank youmy worthy soul!"

Dear heart!cries Mrs. Bagnet in the most natural manner. "No
thanks to meI am sure. Thanks to yourselfma'amfor being so
ready to pay 'em! And mind once morema'amwhat you had best do
on finding George to be your own son is to make him--for your sake
--have every sort of help to put himself in the right and clear
himself of a charge of which he is as innocent as you or me. It
won't do to 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 worldmy dear. I will spend all I haveand
thankfullyto procure it. Sir Leicester will do his bestthe
whole family will do their best. I--I know somethingmy dear; and
will make my own appealas his mother parted from him all these
yearsand finding him in a jail at last."

The extreme disquietude of the old housekeeper's manner in saying
thisher broken wordsand 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
distractedlyMy Lady, my Lady, my Lady!over and over again.

The frosty night wears awayand the dawn breaksand 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 hedgesslowly vanishing and giving place to the
realities of day. London reachedthe travellers alightthe old
housekeeper in great tribulation and confusionMrs. Bagnet quite
fresh and collected--as she would be if her next pointwith no new
equipage and outfitwere the Cape of Good Hopethe Island of
AscensionHong Kongor 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 herwith her lavendercoloured
dressmuch of the staid calmness which is its usual
accompaniment. A wonderfully gravepreciseand handsome piece of
old china she looksthough 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 cellthey 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 nodhe suffers
them to enter as he shuts the door.

So Georgewho is writing at his tablesupposing himself to be
alonedoes not raise his eyesbut remains absorbed. The old
housekeeper looks at himand those wandering hands of hers are
quite enough for Mrs. Bagnet's confirmationeven if she could see
the mother and the son togetherknowing what she knowsand doubt
their relationship.

Not a rustle of the housekeeper's dressnot a gesturenot a word
betrays her. She stands looking at him as he writes onall
unconsciousand only her fluttering hands give utterance to her
emotions. But they are very eloquentveryvery eloquent. Mrs.
Bagnet understands them. They speak of gratitudeof joyof
griefof hope; of inextinguishable affectioncherished with no
return since this stalwart man was a stripling; of a better son
loved lessand this son loved so fondly and so proudly; and they
speak in such touching language that Mrs. Bagnet's eyes brim up
with tears and they run glistening down her sun-brown face.

George Rouncewell! Oh, my dear child, turn and look at me!

The trooper starts upclasps his mother round the neckand falls
down on his knees before her. Whether in a late repentance
whether in the first association that comes back upon himhe puts
his hands together as a child does when it says its prayersand
raising them towards her breastbows down his headand cries.

My George, my dearest son! Always my favourite, and my favourite
still, where have you been these cruel years and years? Grown such
a man too, grown such a fine strong man. Grown so like what I knew
he must be, if it pleased God he was alive!

She can askand he can answernothing connected for a time. All
that time the old girlturned awayleans one arm against the
whitened wallleans her honest forehead upon itwipes her eyes
with her serviceable grey cloakand quite enjoys herself like the
best of old girls as she is.

Mother,says the trooper when they are more composedforgive me
first of all, for I know my need of it.

Forgive him! She does it with all her heart and soul. She always
has done it. She tells him how she has had it written in her will
these many yearsthat he was her beloved son George. She has
never believed any ill of himnever. If she had died without this
happiness--and she is an old woman now and can't look to live very
long--she would have blessed him with her last breathif she had
had her sensesas her beloved son George.

Mother, I have been an undutiful trouble to you, and I have my
reward; but of late years I have had a kind of glimmering of a
purpose in me too. When I left home I didn't care much, mother--I
am afraid not a great deal--for leaving; and went away and 'listed,


harum-scarum, making believe to think that I cared for nobody, no
not I, and that nobody cared for me.

The trooper has dried his eyes and put away his handkerchiefbut
there is an extraordinary contrast between his habitual manner of
expressing himself and carrying himself and the softened tone in
which he speaksinterrupted occasionally by a half-stifled sob.

So I wrote a line home, mother, as you too well know, to say I had
'listed under another name, and I went abroad. Abroad, at one time
I thought I would write home next year, when I might be better off;
and when that year was out, I thought I would write home next year,
when I might be better off; and when that year was out again,
perhaps I didn't think much about it. So on, from year to year,
through a service of ten years, till I began to get older, and to
ask myself why should I ever write.

I don't find any fault, child--but not to ease my mind, George?
Not a word to your loving mother, who was growing older too?

This almost overturns the trooper afreshbut he sets himself up
with a greatroughsounding clearance of his throat.

Heaven forgive me, mother, but I thought there would be small
consolation then in hearing anything about me. There were you,
respected and esteemed. There was my brother, as I read in chance
North Country papers now and then, rising to be prosperous and
famous. There was I a dragoon, roving, unsettled, not self-made
like him, but self-unmade--all my earlier advantages thrown away,
all my little learning unlearnt, nothing picked up but what
unfitted me for most things that I could think of. What business
had I to make myself known? After letting all that time go by me,
what good could come of it? The worst was past with you, mother.
I knew by that time (being a man) how you had mourned for me, and
wept for me, and prayed for me; and the pain was over, or was
softened down, and I was better in your mind as it was.

The old lady sorrowfully shakes her headand taking one of his
powerful handslays it lovingly upon her shoulder.

No, I don't say that it was so, mother, but that I made it out to
be so. I said just now, what good could come of it? Well, my dear
mother, some good might have come of it to myself--and there was
the meanness of it. You would have sought me out; you would have
purchased my discharge; you would have taken me down to Chesney
Wold; you would have brought me and my brother and my brother's
family together; you would all have considered anxiously how to do
something for me and set me up as a respectable civilian. But how
could any of you feel sure of me when I couldn't so much as feel
sure of myself? How could you help regarding as an incumbrance and
a discredit to you an idle dragooning chap who was an incumbrance
and a discredit to himself, excepting under discipline? How could
I look my brother's children in the face and pretend to set them an
example--I, the vagabond boy who had run away from home and been
the grief and unhappiness of my mother's life? 'No, George.' Such
were my words, mother, when I passed this in review before me: 'You
have made your bed. Now, lie upon it.'

Mrs. Rouncewelldrawing up her stately formshakes her head at
the old girl with a swelling pride upon heras much as to sayI
told you so!The old girl relieves her feelings and testifies her
interest in the conversation by giving the trooper a great poke
between the shoulders with her umbrella; this action she afterwards
repeatsat intervalsin a species of affectionate lunacynever


failingafter the administration of each of these remonstrances
to resort to the whitened wall and the grey cloak again.

This was the way I brought myself to think, mother, that my best
amends was to lie upon that bed I had made, and die upon it. And I
should have done it (though I have been to see you more than once
down at Chesney Wold, when you little thought of me) but for my old
comrade's wife here, who I find has been too many for me. But I
thank her for it. I thank you for it, Mrs. Bagnet, with all my
heart and might.

To which Mrs. Bagnet responds with two pokes.

And now the old lady impresses upon her son Georgeher own dear
recovered boyher joy and pridethe light of her eyesthe happy
close of her lifeand every fond name she can think ofthat he
must be governed by the best advice obtainable by money and
influencethat he must yield up his case to the greatest lawyers
that can be gotthat he must act in this serious plight as he
shall be advised to act and must not be self-willedhowever right
but must promise to think only of his poor old mother's anxiety and
suffering until he is releasedor he will break her heart.

Mother, 'tis little enough to consent to,returns the trooper
stopping her with a kiss; "tell me what I shall doand I'll make a
late beginning and do it. Mrs. Bagnetyou'll take care of my
motherI know?"

A very hard poke from the old girl's umbrella.

If you'll bring her acquainted with Mr. Jarndyce and Miss
Summerson, she will find them of her way of thinking, and they will
give her the best advice and assistance.

And, George,says the old ladywe must send with all haste for
your brother. He is a sensible sound man as they tell me--out in
the world beyond Chesney Wold, my dear, though I don't know much of
it myself--and will be of great service.

Mother,returns the trooperis it too soon to ask a favour?

Surely not, my dear.

Then grant me this one great favour. Don't let my brother know.

Not know what, my dear?

Not know of me. In fact, mother, I can't bear it; I can't make up
my mmd to it. He has proved himself so different from me and has
done so much to raise himself while I've been soldiering that I
haven't brass enough in my composition to see him in this place and
under this charge. How could a man like him be expected to have
any pleasure in such a discovery? It's impossible. No, keep my
secret from him, mother; do me a greater kindness than I deserve
and keep my secret from my brother, of all men.

But not always, dear George?

Why, mother, perhaps not for good and all--though I may come to
ask that too--but keep it now, I do entreat you. If it's ever
broke to him that his rip of a brother has turned up, I could
wish,says the troopershaking his head very doubtfullyto
break it myself and be governed as to advancing or retreating by
the way in which he seems to take it.


As he evidently has a rooted feeling on this pointand as the
depth of it is recognized in Mrs. Bagnet's facehis mother yields
her implicit assent to what he asks. For this he thanks her
kindly.

In all other respects, my dear mother, I'll be as tractable and
obedient as you can wish; on this one alone, I stand out. So now I
am ready even for the lawyers. I have been drawing up,he glances
at his writing on the tablean exact account of what I knew of
the deceased and how I came to be involved in this unfortunate
affair. It's entered, plain and regular, like an orderly-book; not
a word in it but what's wanted for the facts. I did intend to read
it, straight on end, whensoever I was called upon to say anything
in my defence. I hope I may be let to do it still; but I have no
longer a will of my own in this case, and whatever is said or done,
I give my promise not to have any.

Matters being brought to this so far satisfactory passand time
being on the waneMrs. Bagnet proposes a departure. Again and
again the old lady hangs upon her son's neckand again and again
the trooper holds her to his broad chest.

Where are you going to take my mother, Mrs. Bagnet?

I am going to the town house, my dear, the family house. I have
some business there that must be looked to directly,Mrs.
Rouncewell answers.

Will you see my mother safe there in a coach, Mrs. Bagnet? But of
course I know you will. Why should I ask it!

Why indeedMrs. Bagnet expresses with the umbrella.

Take her, my old friend, and take my gratitude along with you.
Kisses to Quebec and Malta, love to my godson, a hearty shake of
the hand to Lignum, and this for yourself, and I wish it was ten
thousand pound in gold, my dear!So sayingthe trooper puts his
lips to the old girl's tanned foreheadand the door shuts upon him
in his cell.

No entreaties on the part of the good old housekeeper will induce
Mrs. Bagnet to retain the coach for her own conveyance home.
Jumping out cheerfully at the door of the Dedlock mansion and
handing Mrs. Rouncewell up the stepsthe old girl shakes hands and
trudges offarriving soon afterwards in the bosom of the Bagnet
family and falling to washing the greens as if nothing had
happened.

My Lady is in that room in which she held her last conference with
the murdered manand is sitting where she sat that nightand is
looking at the spot where he stood upon the hearth studying her so
leisurelywhen a tap comes at the door. Who is it? Mrs.
Rouncewell. What has brought Mrs. Rouncewell to town so
unexpectedly?

Trouble, my Lady. Sad trouble. Oh, my Lady, may I beg a word
with you?

What new occurrence is it that makes this tranquil old woman
tremble so? Far happier than her Ladyas her Lady has often
thoughtwhy does she falter in this manner and look at her with
such strange mistrust?


What is the matter? Sit down and take your breath.

Oh, my Lady, my Lady. I have found my son--my youngest, who went
away for a soldier so long ago. And he is in prison.

For debt?

Oh, no, my Lady; I would have paid any debt, and joyful.

For what is he in prison then?

Charged with a murder, my Lady, of which he is as innocent as--as
I am. Accused of the murder of Mr. Tulkinghorn.

What does she mean by this look and this imploring gesture? Why
does she come so close? What is the letter that she holds?

Lady Dedlock, my dear Lady, my good Lady, my kind Lady! You must
have a heart to feel for me, you must have a heart to forgive me.
I was in this family before you were born. I am devoted to it.
But think of my dear son wrongfully accused.

I do not accuse him.

No, my Lady, no. But others do, and he is in prison and in
danger. Oh, Lady Dedlock, if you can say but a word to help to
clear him, say it!

What delusion can this be? What power does she suppose is in the
person she petitions to avert this unjust suspicionif it be
unjust? Her Lady's handsome eyes regard her with astonishment
almost with fear.

My Lady, I came away last night from Chesney Wold to find my son
in my old age, and the step upon the Ghost's Walk was so constant
and so solemn that I never heard the like in all these years.
Night after night, as it has fallen dark, the sound has echoed
through your rooms, but last night it was awfullest. And as it
fell dark last night, my Lady, I got this letter.

What letter is it?

Hush! Hush!The housekeeper looks round and answers in a
frightened whisperMy Lady, I have not breathed a word of it, I
don't believe what's written in it, I know it can't be true, I am
sure and certain that it is not true. But my son is in danger, and
you must have a heart to pity me. If you know of anything that is
not known to others, if you have any suspicion, if you have any
clue at all, and any reason for keeping it in your own breast, oh,
my dear Lady, think of me, and conquer that reason, and let it be
known! This is the most I consider possible. I know you are not a
hard lady, but you go your own way always without help, and you are
not familiar with your friends; and all who admire you--and all do
--as a beautiful and elegant lady, know you to be one far away from
themselves who can't be approached close. My Lady, you may have
some proud or angry reasons for disdaining to utter something that
you know; if so, pray, oh, pray, think of a faithful servant whose
whole life has been passed in this family which she dearly loves,
and relent, and help to clear my son! My Lady, my good Lady,the
old housekeeper pleads with genuine simplicityI am so humble in
my place and you are by nature so high and distant that you may not
think what I feel for my child, but I feel so much that I have come
here to make so bold as to beg and pray you not to be scornful of
us if you can do us any right or justice at this fearful time!


Lady Dedlock raises her without one worduntil she takes the
letter from her hand.

Am I to read this?

When I am gone, my Lady, if you please, and then remembering the
most that I consider possible.

I know of nothing I can do. I know of nothing I reserve that can
affect your son. I have never accused him.

My Lady, you may pity him the more under a false accusation after
reading the letter.

The old housekeeper leaves her with the letter in her hand. In
truth she is not a hard lady naturallyand the time has been when
the sight of the venerable figure suing to her with such strong
earnestness would have moved her to great compassion. But so long
accustomed to suppress emotion and keep down realityso long
schooled for her own purposes in that destructive school which
shuts up the natural feelings of the heart like flies in amber and
spreads one uniform and dreary gloss over the good and badthe
feeling and the unfeelingthe sensible and the senselessshe had
subdued even her wonder until now.

She opens the letter. Spread out upon the paper is a printed
account of the discovery of the body as it lay face downward on the
floorshot through the heart; and underneath is written her own
namewith the word "murderess" attached.

It falls out of her hand. How long it may have lain upon the
ground she knows notbut it lies where it fell when a servant
stands before her announcing the young man of the name of Guppy.
The words have probably been repeated several timesfor they are
ringing in her head before she begins to understand them.

Let him come in!

He comes in. Holding the letter in her handwhich she has taken
from the floorshe tries to collect her thoughts. In the eyes of
Mr. Guppy she is the same Lady Dedlockholding the same prepared
proudchilling state.

Your ladyship may not be at first disposed to excuse this visit
from one who has never been welcome to your ladyship--which he
don't complain offor he is bound to confess that there never has
been any particular reason on the face of things why he should be-"
but I hope when I mention my motives to your ladyship you will not
find fault with me says Mr. Guppy.

Do so."

Thank your ladyship. I ought first to explain to your ladyship,
Mr. Guppy sits on the edge of a chair and puts his hat on the
carpet at his feetthat Miss Summerson, whose image, as I
formerly mentioned to your ladyship, was at one period of my life
imprinted on my 'eart until erased by circumstances over which I
had no control, communicated to me, after I had the pleasure of
waiting on your ladyship last, that she particularly wished me to
take no steps whatever in any manner at all relating to her. And
Miss Summerson's wishes being to me a law (except as connected with
circumstances over which I have no control), I consequently never
expected to have the distinguished honour of waiting on your


ladyship again.

And yet he is here nowLady Dedlock moodily reminds him.

And yet I am here now,Mr. Guppy admits. "My object being to
communicate to your ladyshipunder the seal of confidencewhy I
am here."

He cannot do soshe tells himtoo plainly or too briefly. "Nor
can I Mr. Guppy returns with a sense of injury upon him, too
particularly request your ladyship to take particular notice that
it's no personal affair of mine that brings me here. I have no
interested views of my own to serve in coming here. If it was not
for my promise to Miss Summerson and my keeping of it sacred--Iin
point of factshouldn't have darkened these doors againbut
should have seen 'em further first."

Mr. Guppy considers this a favourable moment for sticking up his
hair with both hands.

Your ladyship will remember when I mention it that the last time I
was here I run against a party very eminent in our profession and
whose loss we all deplore. That party certainly did from that time
apply himself to cutting in against me in a way that I will call
sharp practice, and did make it, at every turn and point, extremely
difficult for me to be sure that I hadn't inadvertently led up to
something contrary to Miss Summerson's wishes. Self-praise is no
recommendation, but I may say for myself that I am not so bad a man
of business neither.

Lady Dedlock looks at him in stern inquiry. Mr. Guppy immediately
withdraws his eyes from her face and looks anywhere else.

Indeed, it has been made so hard,he goes onto have any idea
what that party was up to in combination with others that until the
loss which we all deplore I was gravelled--an expression which your
ladyship, moving in the higher circles, will be so good as to
consider tantamount to knocked over. Small likewise--a name by
which I refer to another party, a friend of mine that your ladyship
is not acquainted with--got to be so close and double-faced that at
times it wasn't easy to keep one's hands off his 'ead. However,
what with the exertion of my humble abilities, and what with the
help of a mutual friend by the name of Mr. Tony Weevle (who is of a
high aristocratic turn and has your ladyship's portrait always
hanging up in his room), I have now reasons for an apprehension as
to which I come to put your ladyship upon your guard. First, will
your ladyship allow me to ask you whether you have had any strange
visitors this morning? I don't mean fashionable visitors, but such
visitors, for instance, as Miss Barbary's old servant, or as a
person without the use of his lower extremities, carried upstairs
similarly to a guy?

No!

Then I assure your ladyship that such visitors have been here and
have been received here. Because I saw them at the door, and
waited at the corner of the square till they came out, and took
half an hour's turn afterwards to avoid them.

What have I to do with that, or what have you? I do not
understand you. What do you mean?

Your ladyship, I come to put you on your guard. There may be no
occasion for it. Very well. Then I have only done my best to keep


my promise to Miss Summerson. I strongly suspect (from what Small
has dropped, and from what we have corkscrewed out of him) that
those letters I was to have brought to your ladyship were not
destroyed when I supposed they were. That if there was anything to
be blown upon, it IS blown upon. That the visitors I have alluded
to have been here this morning to make money of it. And that the
money is made, or making.

Mr. Guppy picks up his hat and rises.

Your ladyship, you know best whether there's anything in what I
say or whether there's nothing. Something or nothing, I have acted
up to Miss Summerson's wishes in letting things alone and in
undoing what I had begun to do, as far as possible; that's
sufficient for me. In case I should be taking a liberty in putting
your ladyship on your guard when there's no necessity for it, you
will endeavour, I should hope, to outlive my presumption, and I
shall endeavour to outlive your disapprobation. I now take my
farewell of your ladyship, and assure you that there's no danger of
your ever being waited on by me again.

She scarcely acknowledges these parting words by any lookbut when
he has been gone a little whileshe rings her bell.

Where is Sir Leicester?

Mercury reports that he is at present shut up in the library alone.

Has Sir Leicester had any visitors this morning?

Severalon business. Mercury proceeds to a description of them
which has been anticipated by Mr. Guppy. Enough; he may go.

So! All is broken down. Her name is in these many mouthsher
husband knows his wrongsher shame will be published--may be
spreading while she thinks about it--and in addition to the
thunderbolt so long foreseen by herso unforeseen by himshe is
denounced by an invisible accuser as the murderess of her enemy.

Her enemy he wasand she has oftenoftenoften wished him dead.
Her enemy he iseven in his grave. This dreadful accusation comes
upon her like a new torment at his lifeless hand. And when she
recalls how she was secretly at his door that nightand how she
may be represented to have sent her favourite girl away so soon
before merely to release herself from observationshe shudders as
if the hangman's hands were at her neck.

She has thrown herself upon the floor and lies with her hair all
wildly scattered and her face buried in the cushions of a couch.
She rises uphurries to and froflings herself down againand
rocks and moans. The horror that is upon her is unutterable. If
she really were the murderessit could hardly befor the moment
more intense.

For as her murderous perspectivebefore the doing of the deed
however subtle the precautions for its commissionwould have been
closed up by a gigantic dilatation of the hateful figure
preventing her from seeing any consequences beyond it; and as those
consequences would have rushed inin an unimagined floodthe
moment the figure was laid low--which always happens when a murder
is done; sonow she sees that when he used to be on the watch
before herand she used to thinkif some mortal stroke would but
fall on this old man and take him from my way!it was but wishing
that all he held against her in his hand might be flung to the


winds and chance-sown in many places. Sotoowith the wicked
relief she has felt in his death. What was his death but the keystone
of a gloomy arch removedand now the arch begins to fall in
a thousand fragmentseach crushing and mangling piecemeal!

Thusa terrible impression steals upon and overshadows her that
from this pursuerliving or dead--obdurate and imperturbable
before her in his well-remembered shapeor not more obdurate and
imperturbable in his coffin-bed--there is no escape but in death.
Huntedshe flies. The complication of her shameher dread
remorseand miseryoverwhelms her at its height; and even her
strength of self-reliance is overturned and whirled away like a
leaf before a mighty wind.

She hurriedly addresses these lines to her husbandsealsand
leaves them on her table:

If I am sought foror accused ofhis murderbelieve that I am
wholly innocent. Believe no other good of mefor I am innocent of
nothing else that you have heardor will hearlaid to my charge.
He prepared meon that fatal nightfor his disclosure of my guilt
to you. After he had left meI went out on pretence of walking in
the garden where I sometimes walkbut really to follow him and
make one last petition that he would not protract the dreadful
suspense on which I have been racked by himyou do not know how
longbut would mercifully strike next morning.

I found his house dark and silent. I rang twice at his doorbut
there was no replyand I came home.

I have no home left. I will encumber you no more. May youin
your just resentmentbe able to forget the unworthy woman on whom
you have wasted a most generous devotion--who avoids you only with
a deeper shame than that with which she hurries from herself--and
who writes this last adieu.

She veils and dresses quicklyleaves all her jewels and her money
listensgoes downstairs at a moment when the hall is emptyopens
and shuts the great doorflutters away in the shrill frosty wind.

CHAPTER LVI

Pursuit

Impassiveas behoves its high breedingthe Dedlock town house
stares at the other houses in the street of dismal grandeur and
gives no outward sign of anything going wrong within. Carriages
rattledoors are battered atthe world exchanges calls; ancient
charmers with skeleton throats and peachy cheeks that have a rather
ghastly bloom upon them seen by daylightwhen indeed these
fascinating creatures look like Death and the Lady fused together
dazzle the eyes of men. Forth from the frigid mews come easily
swinging carriages guided by short-legged coachmen in flaxen wigs
deep sunk into downy hammerclothsand up behind mount luscious
Mercuries bearing sticks of state and wearing cocked hats
broadwisea spectacle for the angels.

The Dedlock town house changes not externallyand hours pass
before its exalted dullness is disturbed within. But Volumnia the
fairbeing subject to the prevalent complaint of boredom and


finding that disorder attacking her spirits with some virulence
ventures at length to repair to the library for change of scene.
Her gentle tapping at the door producing no responseshe opens it
and peeps in; seeing no one theretakes possession.

The sprightly Dedlock is reputedin that grass-grown city of the
ancientsBathto be stimulated by an urgent curiosity which
impels her on all convenient and inconvenient occasions to sidle
about with a golden glass at her eyepeering into objects of every
description. Certain it is that she avails herself of the present
opportunity of hovering over her kinsman's letters and papers like
a birdtaking a short peck at this document and a blink with her
head on one side at that documentand hopping about from table to
table with her glass at her eye in an inquisitive and restless
manner. In the course of these researches she stumbles over
somethingand turning her glass in that directionsees her
kinsman lying on the ground like a felled tree.

Volumnia's pet little scream acquires a considerable augmentation
of reality from this surpriseand the house is quickly in
commotion. Servants tear up and down stairsbells are violently
rungdoctors are sent forand Lady Dedlock is sought in all
directionsbut not found. Nobody has seen or heard her since she
last rang her bell. Her letter to Sir Leicester is discovered on
her tablebut it is doubtful yet whether he has not received
another missive from another world requiring to be personally
answeredand all the living languagesand all the deadare as
one to him.

They lay him down upon his bedand chafeand ruband fanand
put ice to his headand try every means of restoration. Howbeit
the day has ebbed awayand it is night in his room before his
stertorous breathing lulls or his fixed eyes show any consciousness
of the candle that is occasionally passed before them. But when
this change beginsit goes on; and by and by he nods or moves his
eyes or even his hand in token that he hears and comprehends.

He fell downthis morninga handsome stately gentlemansomewhat
infirmbut of a fine presenceand with a well-filled face. He
lies upon his bedan aged man with sunken cheeksthe decrepit
shadow of himself. His voice was rich and mellow and he had so
long been thoroughly persuaded of the weight and import to mankind
of any word he said that his words really had come to sound as if
there were something in them. But now he can only whisperand
what he whispers sounds like what it is--mere jumble and jargon.

His favourite and faithful housekeeper stands at his bedside. It
is the first act he noticesand he clearly derives pleasure from
it. After vainly trying to make himself understood in speechhe
makes signs for a pencil. So inexpressively that they cannot at
first understand him; it is his old housekeeper who makes out what
he wants and brings in a slate.

After pausing for some timehe slowly scrawls upon it in a hand
that is not hisChesney Wold?

Noshe tells him; he is in London. He was taken ill in the
library this morning. Right thankful she is that she happened to
come to London and is able to attend upon him.

It is not an illness of any serious consequence, Sir Leicester.
You will be much better to-morrow, Sir Leicester. All the
gentlemen say so.Thiswith the tears coursing down her fair old
face.


After making a survey of the room and looking with particular
attention all round the bed where the doctors standhe writesMy
Lady.

My Lady went out, Sir Leicester, before you were taken ill, and
don't know of your illness yet.

He points againin great agitationat the two words. They all
try to quiet himbut he points again with increased agitation. On
their looking at one anothernot knowing what to sayhe takes the
slate once more and writes "My Lady. For God's sakewhere?" And
makes an imploring moan.

It is thought better that his old housekeeper should give him Lady
Dedlock's letterthe contents of which no one knows or can
surmise. She opens it for him and puts it out for his perusal.
Having read it twice by a great efforthe turns it down so that it
shall not be seen and lies moaning. He passes into a kind of
relapse or into a swoonand it is an hour before he opens his
eyesreclining on his faithful and attached old servant's arm.
The doctors know that he is best with herand when not actively
engaged about himstand aloof.

The slate comes into requisition againbut the word he wants to
write he cannot remember. His anxietyhis eagernessand
affliction at this pass are pitiable to behold. It seems as if he
must go mad in the necessity he feels for haste and the inability
under which he labours of expressing to do what or to fetch whom.
He has written the letter Band there stopped. Of a suddenin
the height of his miseryhe puts Mr. before it. The old
housekeeper suggests Bucket. Thank heaven! That's his meaning.

Mr. Bucket is found to be downstairsby appointment. Shall he
come up?

There is no possibility of misconstruing Sir Leicester's burning
wish to see him or the desire he signifies to have the room cleared
of every one but the housekeeper. It is speedily doneand Mr.
Bucket appears. Of all men upon earthSir Leicester seems fallen
from his high estate to place his sole trust and reliance upon this
man.

Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I'm sorry to see you like this. I
hope you'll cheer up. I'm sure you will, on account of the family
credit.

Leicester puts her letter in his hands and looks intently in his
face while he reads it. A new intelligence comes into Mr. Bucket's
eye as he reads on; with one hook of his fingerwhile that eye is
still glancing over the wordshe indicatesSir Leicester
Dedlock, Baronet, I understand you.

Sir Leicester writes upon the slate. "Full forgiveness. Find--"
Mr. Bucket stops his hand.

Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I'll find her. But my search
after her must be begun out of hand. Not a minute must be lost.

With the quickness of thoughthe follows Sir Leicester Dedlock's
look towards a little box upon a table.

Bring it here, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet? Certainly. Open
it with one of these here keys? Certainly. The littlest key? TO


be sure. Take the notes out? So I will. Count 'em? That's soon
done. Twenty and thirty's fifty, and twenty's seventy, and fifty's
one twenty, and forty's one sixty. Take 'em for expenses? That
I'll do, and render an account of course. Don't spare money? No I
won't.

The velocity and certainty of Mr. Bucket's interpretation on all
these heads is little short of miraculous. Mrs. Rouncewellwho
holds the lightis giddy with the swiftness of his eyes and hands
as he starts upfurnished for his journey.

You're George's mother, old lady; that's about what you are, I
believe?says Mr. Bucket asidewith his hat already on and
buttoning his coat.

Yes, sir, I am his distressed mother.

So I thought, according to what he mentioned to me just now.
Well, then, I'll tell you something. You needn't be distressed no
more. Your son's all right. Now, don't you begin a-crying,
because what you've got to do is to take care of Sir Leicester
Dedlock, Baronet, and you won't do that by crying. As to your son,
he's all right, I tell you; and he sends his loving duty, and
hoping you're the same. He's discharged honourable; that's about
what HE is; with no more imputation on his character than there is
on yours, and yours is a tidy one, I'LL bet a pound. You may trust
me, for I took your son. He conducted himself in a game way, too,
on that occasion; and he's a fine-made man, and you're a fine-made
old lady, and you're a mother and son, the pair of you, as might be
showed for models in a caravan. Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,
what you've trusted to me I'll go through with. Don't you be
afraid of my turing out of my way, right or left, or taking a
sleep, or a wash, or a shave till I have found what I go in search
of. Say everything as is kind and forgiving on your part? Sir
Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I will. And I wish you better, and
these family affairs smoothed over--as, Lord, many other family
affairs equally has been, and equally wlll be, to the end of time.

With this perorationMr. Bucketbuttoned upgoes quietly out
looking steadily before him as if he were already piercing the
night in quest of the fugitive.

His first step is to take himself to Lady Dedlock's rooms and look
all over them for any trifling indication that may help him. The
rooms are in darkness now; and to see Mr. Bucket with a wax-light
in his handholding it above his head and taking a sharp mental
inventory of the many delicate objects so curiously at variance
with himselfwould be to see a sight--which nobody DOES seeas he
is particular to lock himself in.

A spicy boudoir, this,says Mr. Bucketwho feels in a manner
furbished up in his French by the blow of the morning. "Must have
cost a sight of money. Rum articles to cut away fromthese; she
must have been hard put to it!"

Opening and shutting table-drawers and looking into caskets and
jewel-caseshe sees the reflection of himself in various mirrors
and moralizes thereon.

One might suppose I was a-moving in the fashionable circles and
getting myself up for almac's,says Mr. Bucket. "I begin to think
I must be a swell in the Guards without knowing it."

Ever looking abouthe has opened a dainty little chest in an inner


drawer. His great handturning over some gloves which it can
scarcely feelthey are so light and soft within itcomes upon a
white handkerchief.

Hum! Let's have a look at YOU,says Mr. Bucketputting down the
light. "What should YOU be kept by yourself for? What's YOUR
motive? Are you her ladyship's propertyor somebody else's?
You've got a mark upon you somewheres or anotherI suppose?"

He finds it as he speaksEsther Summerson.

Oh!says Mr. Bucketpausingwith his finger at his ear. "Come
I'll take YOU."

He completes his observations as quietly and carefully as he has
carried them onleaves everything else precisely as he found it
glides away after some five minutes in alland passes into the
street. With a glance upward at the dimly lighted windows of Sir
Leicester's roomhe sets offfull-swingto the nearest coach-
standpicks out the horse for his moneyand directs to be driven
to the shooting gallery. Mr. Bucket does not claim to be a
scientific judge of horsesbut he lays out a little money on the
principal events in that lineand generally sums up his knowledge
of the subject in the remark that when he sees a horse as can go
he knows him.

His knowledge is not at fault in the present instance. Clattering
over the stones at a dangerous paceyet thoughtfully bringing his
keen eyes to bear on every slinking creature whom he passes in the
midnight streetsand even on the lights in upper windows where
people are going or gone to bedand on all the turnings that he
rattles byand alike on the heavy skyand on the earth where the
snow lies thin--for something may present itself to assist him
anywhere--he dashes to his destination at such a speed that when he
stops the horse half smothers him in a cloud of steam.

Unbear him half a moment to freshen him up, and I'll be back.

He runs up the long wooden entry and finds the trooper smoking his
pipe.

I thought I should, George, after what you have gone through, my
lad. I haven't a word to spare. Now, honour! All to save a
woman. Miss Summerson that was here when Gridley died--that was
the name, I know--all right--where does she live?

The trooper has just come from there and gives him the address
near Oxford Street.

You won't repent it, George. Good night!

He is off againwith an impression of having seen Phil sitting by
the frosty fire staring at him open-mouthedand gallops away
againand gets out in a cloud of steam again.

Mr. Jarndycethe only person up in the houseis just going to
bedrises from his book on hearing the rapid ringing at the bell
and comes down to the door in his dressing-gown.

Don't be alarmed, sir.In a moment his visitor is confidential
with him in the hallhas shut the doorand stands with his hand
upon the lock. "I've had the pleasure of seeing you before.
Inspector Bucket. Look at that handkerchiefsirMiss Esther
Summerson's. Found it myself put away in a drawer of Lady


Dedlock'squarter of an hour ago. Not a moment to lose. Matter
of life or death. You know Lady Dedlock?"

Yes.

There has been a discovery there to-day. Family affairs have come
out. Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, has had a fit--apoplexy or
paralysis--and couldn't be brought to, and precious time has been
lost. Lady Dedlock disappeared this afternoon and left a letter
for him that looks bad. Run your eye over it. Here it is!

Mr. Jarndycehaving read itasks him what he thinks.

I don't know. It looks like suicide. Anyways, there's more and
more danger, every minute, of its drawing to that. I'd give a
hundred pound an hour to have got the start of the present time.
Now, Mr. Jarndyce, I am employed by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,
to follow her and find her, to save her and take her his
forgiveness. I have money and full power, but I want something
else. I want Miss Summerson.

Mr. Jarndyce in a troubled voice repeatsMiss Summerson?

Now, Mr. Jarndyce--Mr. Bucket has read his face with the greatest
attention all along--"I speak to you as a gentleman of a humane
heartand under such pressing circumstances as don't often happen.
If ever delay was dangerousit's dangerous now; and if ever you
couldn't afterwards forgive yourself for causing itthis is the
time. Eight or ten hoursworthas I tell youa hundred pound
apiece at leasthave been lost since Lady Dedlock disappeared. I
am charged to find her. I am Inspector Bucket. Besides all the
rest that's heavy on hershe has upon heras she believes
suspicion of murder. If I follow her aloneshebeing in
ignorance of what Sir Leicester DedlockBaronethas communicated
to memay be driven to desperation. But if I follow her in
company with a young ladyanswering to the description of a young
lady that she has a tenderness for--I ask no questionand I say no
more than that--she will give me credit for being friendly. Let me
come up with her and be able to have the hold upon her of putting
that young lady for'ardand I'll save her and prevail with her if
she is alive. Let me come up with her alone--a hard matter--and
I'll do my bestbut I don't answer for what the best may be. Time
flies; it's getting on for one o'clock. When one strikesthere's
another hour goneand it's worth a thousand pound now instead of a
hundred."

This is all trueand the pressing nature of the case cannot be
questioned. Mr. Jarndyce begs him to remain there while he speaks
to Miss Summerson. Mr. Bucket says he willbut acting on his
usual principledoes no such thingfollowing upstairs instead and
keeping his man in sight. So he remainsdodging and lurking about
in the gloom of the staircase while they confer. In a very little
time Mr. Jarndyce comes down and tells him that Miss Summerson will
join him directly and place herself under his protection to
accompany him where he pleases. Mr. Bucketsatisfiedexpresses
high approval and awaits her coming at the door.

There he mounts a high tower in his mind and looks out far and
wide. Many solitary figures he perceives creeping through the
streets; many solitary figures out on heathsand roadsand lying
under haystacks. But the figure that he seeks is not among them.
Other solitaries he perceivesin nooks of bridgeslooking over;
and in shadowed places down by the river's level; and a darkdark
shapeless object drifting with the tidemore solitary than all


clings with a drowning hold on his attention.

Where is she? Living or deadwhere is she? Ifas he folds the
handkerchief and carefully puts it upit were able with an
enchanted power to bring before him the place where she found it
and the night-landscape near the cottage where it covered the
little childwould he descry her there? On the waste where the
brick-kilns are burning with a pale blue flarewhere the straw-
roofs of the wretched huts in which the bricks are made are being
scattered by the windwhere the clay and water are hard frozen and
the mill in which the gaunt blind horse goes round all day looks
like an instrument of human torture--traversing this deserted
blighted spot there is a lonely figure with the sad world to
itselfpelted by the snow and driven by the windand cast outit
would seemfrom all companionship. It is the figure of a woman
too; but it is miserably dressedand no such clothes ever came
through the hall and out at the great door of the Dedlock mansion.

CHAPTER LVII

Esther's Narrative

I had gone to bed and fallen asleep when my guardian knocked at the
door of my room and begged me to get up directly. On my hurrying
to speak to him and learn what had happenedhe told meafter a
word or two of preparationthat there had been a discovery at Sir
Leicester Dedlock's. That my mother had fledthat a person was
now at our door who was empowered to convey to her the fullest
assurances of affectionate protection and forgiveness if he could
possibly find herand that I was sought for to accompany him in
the hope that my entreaties might prevail upon her if his failed.
Something to this general purpose I made outbut I was thrown into
such a tumult of alarmand hurry and distressthat in spite of
every effort I could make to subdue my agitationI did not seem
to myselffully to recover my right mind until hours had passed.

But I dressed and wrapped up expeditiously without waking Charley
or any one and went down to Mr. Bucketwho was the person
entrusted with the secret. In taking me to him my guardian told me
thisand also explained how it was that he had come to think of
me. Mr. Bucketin a low voiceby the light of my guardian's
candleread to me in the hall a letter that my mother had left
upon her table; and I suppose within ten minutes of my having been
aroused I was sitting beside himrolling swiftly through the
streets.

His manner was very keenand yet considerate when he explained to
me that a great deal might depend on my being able to answer
without confusiona few questions that he wished to ask me. These
werechieflywhether I had had much communication with my mother
(to whom he only referred as Lady Dedlock)when and where I had
spoken with her lastand how she had become possessed of my
handkerchief. When I had satisfied him on these pointshe asked
me particularly to consider--taking time to think--whether within
my knowledge there was any oneno matter wherein whom she might
be at all likely to confide under circumstances of the last
necessity. I could think of no one but my guardian. But by and by
I mentioned Mr. Boythorn. He came into my mind as connected with
his old chivalrous manner of mentioning my mother's name and with
what my guardian had informed me of his engagement to her sister
and his unconscious connexion with her unhappy story.


My companion had stopped the driver while we held this
conversationthat we might the better hear each other. He now
told him to go on again and said to meafter considering within
himself for a few momentsthat he had made up his mind how to
proceed. He was quite willing to tell me what his plan wasbut I
did not feel clear enough to understand it.

We had not driven very far from our lodgings when we stopped in a
by-street at a public-looking place lighted up with gas. Mr.
Bucket took me in and sat me in an armchair by a bright fire. It
was now past oneas I saw by the clock against the wall. Two
police officerslooking in their perfectly neat uniform not at all
like people who were up all nightwere quietly writing at a desk;
and the place seemed very quiet altogetherexcept for some beating
and calling out at distant doors undergroundto which nobody paid
any attention.

A third man in uniformwhom Mr. Bucket called and to whom he
whispered his instructionswent out; and then the two others
advised together while one wrote from Mr. Bucket's subdued
dictation. It was a description of my mother that they were busy
withfor Mr. Bucket brought it to me when it was done and read it
in a whisper. It was very accurate indeed.

The second officerwho had attended to it closelythen copied it
out and called in another man in uniform (there were several in an
outer room)who took it up and went away with it. All this was
done with the greatest dispatch and without the waste of a moment;
yet nobody was at all hurried. As soon as the paper was sent out
upon its travelsthe two officers resumed their former quiet work
of writing with neatness and care. Mr. Bucket thoughtfully came
and warmed the soles of his bootsfirst one and then the otherat
the fire.

Are you well wrapped up, Miss Summerson?he asked me as his eyes
met mine. "It's a desperate sharp night for a young lady to be out
in."

I told him I cared for no weather and was warmly clothed.

It may be a long job,he observed; "but so that it ends well
never mindmiss."

I pray to heaven it may end well!said I.

He nodded comfortingly. "You seewhatever you dodon't you go
and fret yourself. You keep yourself cool and equal for anything
that may happenand it'll be the better for youthe better for
methe better for Lady Dedlockand the better for Sir Leicester
DedlockBaronet."

He was really very kind and gentleand as he stood before the fire
warming his boots and rubbing his face with his forefingerI felt
a confidence in his sagacity which reassured me. It was not yet a
quarter to two when I heard horses' feet and wheels outside. "Now
Miss Summerson said he, we are offif you please!"

He gave me his armand the two officers courteously bowed me out
and we found at the door a phaeton or barouche with a postilion and
post horses. Mr. Bucket handed me in and took his own seat on the
box. The man in uniform whom he had sent to fetch this equipage
then handed him up a dark lantern at his requestand when he had
given a few directions to the driverwe rattled away.


I was far from sure that I was not in a dream. We rattled with
great rapidity through such a labyrinth of streets that I soon lost
all idea where we wereexcept that we had crossed and re-crossed
the riverand still seemed to be traversing a low-lying
watersidedense neighbourhood of narrow thoroughfares chequered by
docks and basinshigh piles of warehousesswing-bridgesand
masts of ships. At length we stopped at the corner of a little
slimy turningwhich the wind from the riverrushing up itdid
not purify; and I saw my companionby the light of his lanternin
conference with several men who looked like a mixture of police and
sailors. Against the mouldering wall by which they stoodthere
was a billon which I could discern the wordsFound Drowned;
and this and an inscription about drags possessed me with the awful
suspicion shadowed forth in our visit to that place.

I had no need to remind myself that I was not there by the
indulgence of any feeling of mine to increase the difficulties of
the searchor to lessen its hopesor enhance its delays. I
remained quietbut what I suffered in that dreadful spot I never
can forget. And still it was like the horror of a dream. A man
yet dark and muddyin long swollen sodden boots and a hat like
themwas called out of a boat and whispered with Mr. Bucketwho
went away with him down some slippery steps--as if to look at
something secret that he had to show. They came backwiping their
hands upon their coatsafter turning over something wet; but thank
God it was not what I feared!

After some further conferenceMr. Bucket (whom everybody seemed to
know and defer to) went in with the others at a door and left me in
the carriagewhile the driver walked up and down by his horses to
warm himself. The tide was coming inas I judged from the sound
it madeand I could hear it break at the end of the alley with a
little rush towards me. It never did so--and I thought it did so
hundreds of timesin what can have been at the most a quarter of
an hourand probably was less--but the thought shuddered through
me that it would cast my mother at the horses' feet.

Mr. Bucket came out againexhorting the others to be vigilant
darkened his lanternand once more took his seat. "Don't you be
alarmedMiss Summersonon account of our coming down here he
said, turning to me. I only want to have everything in train and
to know that it is in train by looking after it myself. Get onmy
lad!"

We appeared to retrace the way we had come. Not that I had taken
note of any particular objects in my perturbed state of mindbut
judging from the general character of the streets. We called at
another office or station for a minute and crossed the river again.
During the whole of this timeand during the whole searchmy
companionwrapped up on the boxnever relaxed in his vigilance a
single moment; but when we crossed the bridge he seemedif
possibleto be more on the alert than before. He stood up to look
over the parapethe alighted and went back after a shadowy female
figure that flitted past usand he gazed into the profound black
pit of water with a face that made my heart die within me. The
river had a fearful lookso overcast and secretcreeping away so
fast between the low flat lines of shore--so heavy with indistinct
and awful shapesboth of substance and shadow; so death-like and
mysterious. I have seen it many times since thenby sunlight and
by moonlightbut never free from the impressions of that journey.
In my memory the lights upon the bridge are always burning dimthe
cutting wind is eddying round the homeless woman whom we passthe
monotonous wheels are whirling onand the light of the carriage



lamps reflected back looks palely in upon me--a face rising out of
the dreaded water.

Clattering and clattering through the empty streetswe came at
length from the pavement on to dark smooth roads and began to leave
the houses behind us. After a while I recognized the familiar way
to Saint Albans. At Barnet fresh horses were ready for usand we
changed and went on. It was very cold indeedand the open country
was white with snowthough none was falling then.

An old acquaintance of yours, this road, Miss Summerson,said Mr.
Bucket cheerfully.

Yes,I returned. "Have you gathered any intelligence?"

None that can be quite depended on as yet,he answeredbut it's
early times as yet.

He had gone into every late or early public-house where there was a
light (they were not a few at that timethe road being then much
frequented by drovers) and had got down to talk to the turnpike-
keepers. I had heard him ordering drinkand chinking moneyand
making himself agreeable and merry everywhere; but whenever he took
his seat upon the box againhis face resumed its watchful steady
lookand he always said to the driver in the same business tone
Get on, my lad!

With all these stoppagesit was between five and six o'clock and
we were yet a few miles short of Saint Albans when he came out of
one of these houses and handed me in a cup of tea.

Drink it, Miss Summerson, it'll do you good. You're beginning to
get more yourself now, ain't you?

I thanked him and said I hoped so.

You was what you may call stunned at first,he returned; "and
Lordno wonder! Don't speak loudmy dear. It's all right.
She's on ahead."

I don't know what joyful exclamation I made or was going to make
but he put up his finger and I stopped myself.

Passed through here on foot this evening about eight or nine. I
heard of her first at the archway toll, over at Highgate, but
couldn't make quite sure. Traced her all along, on and off.
Picked her up at one place, and dropped her at another; but she's
before us now, safe. Take hold of this cup and saucer, ostler.
Now, if you wasn't brought up to the butter trade, look out and see
if you can catch half a crown in your t'other hand. One, two,
three, and there you are! Now, my lad, try a gallop!

We were soon in Saint Albans and alighted a little before daywhen
I was just beginning to arrange and comprehend the occurrences of
the night and really to believe that they were not a dream.
Leaving the carriage at the posting-house and ordering fresh horses
to be readymy companion gave me his armand we went towards
home.

As this is your regular abode, Miss Summerson, you see,he
observedI should like to know whether you've been asked for by
any stranger answering the description, or whether Mr. Jarndyce
has. I don't much expect it, but it might be.


As we ascended the hillhe looked about him with a sharp eye--the
day was now breaking--and reminded me that I had come down it one
nightas I had reason for rememberingwith my little servant and
poor Jowhom he called Toughey.

I wondered how he knew that.

When you passed a man upon the road, just yonder, you know,said
Mr. Bucket.

YesI remembered that toovery well.

That was me,said Mr. Bucket.

Seeing my surprisehe went onI drove down in a gig that
afternoon to look after that boy. You might have heard my wheels
when you came out to look after him yourself, for I was aware of
you and your little maid going up when I was walking the horse
down. Making an inquiry or two about him in the town, I soon heard
what company he was in and was coming among the brick-fields to
look for him when I observed you bringing him home here.

Had he committed any crime?I asked.

None was charged against him,said Mr. Bucketcoolly lifting off
his hatbut I suppose he wasn't over-particular. No. What I
wanted him for was in connexion with keeping this very matter of
Lady Dedlock quiet. He had been making his tongue more free than
welcome as to a small accidental service he had been paid for by
the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn; and it wouldn't do, at any sort of
price, to have him playing those games. So having warned him out
of London, I made an afternoon of it to warn him to keep out of it
now he WAS away, and go farther from it, and maintain a bright
look-out that I didn't catch him coming back again.

Poor creature!said I.

Poor enough,assented Mr. Bucketand trouble enough, and well
enough away from London, or anywhere else. I was regularly turned
on my back when I found him taken up by your establishment, I do
assure you.

I asked him why. Whymy dear?" said Mr. Bucket. "Naturally
there was no end to his tongue then. He might as well have been
born with a yard and a half of itand a remnant over."

Although I remember this conversation nowmy head was in confusion
at the timeand my power of attention hardly did more than enable
me to understand that he entered into these particulars to divert
me. With the same kind intentionmanifestlyhe often spoke to me
of indifferent thingswhile his face was busy with the one object
that we had in view. He still pursued this subject as we turned in
at the garden-gate.

Ah!said Mr. Bucket. "Here we areand a nice retired place it
is. Puts a man in mind of the country house in the Woodpecker-
tappingthat was known by the smoke which so gracefully curled.
They're early with the kitchen fireand that denotes good
servants. But what you've always got to be careful of with
servants is who comes to see 'em; you never know what they're up to
if you don't know that. And another thingmy dear. Whenever you
find a young man behind the kitchen-dooryou give that young man
in charge on suspicion of being secreted in a dwelling-house with
an unlawful purpose."


We were now in front of the house; he looked attentively and
closely at the gravel for footprints before he raised his eyes to
the windows.

Do you generally put that elderly young gentleman in the same room
when he's on a visit here, Miss Summerson?he inquiredglancing
at Mr. Skimpole's usual chamber.

You know Mr. Skimpole!said I.

What do you call him again?returned Mr. Bucketbending down his
ear. "Skimpoleis it? I've often wondered what his name might
be. Skimpole. Not JohnI should saynor yet Jacob?"

Harold,I told him.

Harold. Yes. He's a queer bird is Harold,said Mr. Bucket
eyeing me with great expression.

He is a singular character,said I.

No idea of money,observed Mr. Bucket. "He takes itthough!"

I involuntarily returned for answer that I perceived Mr. Bucket
knew him.

Why, now I'll tell you, Miss Summerson,he replied. "Your mind
will be all the better for not running on one point too
continuallyand I'll tell you for a change. It was him as pointed
out to me where Toughey was. I made up my mind that night to come
to the door and ask for Tougheyif that was all; but willing to
try a move or so firstif any such was on the boardI just
pitched up a morsel of gravel at that window where I saw a shadow.
As soon as Harold opens it and I have had a look at himthinks I
you're the man for me. So I smoothed him down a bit about not
wanting to disturb the family after they was gone to bed and about
its being a thing to be regretted that charitable young ladies
should harbour vagrants; and thenwhen I pretty well understood
his waysI said I should consider a fypunnote well bestowed if I
could relieve the premises of Toughey without causing any noise or
trouble. Then says helifting up his eyebrows in the gayest way
'It's no use menfioning a fypunnote to memy friendbecause I'm a
mere child in such matters and have no idea of money.' Of course I
understood what his taking it so easy meant; and being now quite
sure he was the man for meI wrapped the note round a little stone
and threw it up to him. Well! He laughs and beamsand looks as
innocent as you likeand says'But I don't know the value of
these things. What am I to DO with this?' 'Spend itsir' says

I. 'But I shall be taken in' he says'they won't give me the
right changeI shall lose itit's no use to me.' Lordyou never
saw such a face as he carried it with! Of course he told me where
to find Tougheyand I found him."
I regarded this as very treacherous on the part of Mr. Skimpole
towards my guardian and as passing the usual bounds of his childish
innocence.

Bounds, my dear?returned Mr. Bucket. "Bounds? NowMiss
SummersonI'll give you a piece of advice that your husband will
find useful when you are happily married and have got a family
about you. Whenever a person says to you that they are as innocent
as can be in all concerning moneylook well after your own money
for they are dead certain to collar it if they can. Whenever a


person proclaims to you 'In worldly matters I'm a child' you
consider that that person is only a-crying off from being held
accountable and that you have got that person's numberand it's
Number One. NowI am not a poetical man myselfexcept in a vocal
way when it goes round a companybut I'm a practical oneand
that's my experience. So's this rule. Fast and loose in one
thingfast and loose in everything. I never knew it fail. No
more will you. Nor no one. With which caution to the unwarymy
dearI take the liberty of pulling this here belland so go back
to our business."

I believe it had not been for a moment out of his mindany more
than it had been out of my mindor out of his face. The whole
household were amazed to see mewithout any noticeat that time
in the morningand so accompanied; and their surprise was not
diminished by my inquiries. No onehoweverhad been there. It
could not be doubted that this was the truth.

Then, Miss Summerson,said my companionwe can't be too soon at
the cottage where those brickmakers are to be found. Most
inquiries there I leave to you, if you'll be so good as to make
'em. The naturalest way is the best way, and the naturalest way is
your own way.

We set off again immediately. On arriving at the cottagewe found
it shut up and apparently desertedbut one of the neighbours who
knew me and who came out when I was trying to make some one hear
informed me that the two women and their husbands now lived
together in another housemade of loose rough brickswhich stood
on the margin of the piece of ground where the kilns were and where
the long rows of bricks were drying. We lost no time in repairing
to this placewhich was within a few hundred yards; and as the
door stood ajarI pushed it open.

There were only three of them sitting at breakfastthe child lying
asleep on a bed in the corner. It was Jennythe mother of the
dead childwho was absent. The other woman rose on seeing me; and
the menthough they wereas usualsulky and silenteach gave me
a morose nod of recognition. A look passed between them when Mr.
Bucket followed me inand I was surprised to see that the woman
evidently knew him.

I had asked leave to enter of course. Liz (the only name by which
I knew her) rose to give me her own chairbut I sat down on a
stool near the fireand Mr. Bucket took a corner of the bedstead.
Now that I had to speak and was among people with whom I was not
familiarI became conscious of being hurried and giddy. It was
very difficult to beginand I could not help bursting into tears.

Liz,said II have come a long way in the night and through the
snow to inquire after a lady--

Who has been here, you know,Mr. Bucket struck inaddressing the
whole group with a composed propitiatory face; "that's the lady the
young lady means. The lady that was here last nightyou know."

And who told YOU as there was anybody here?inquired Jenny's
husbandwho had made a surly stop in his eating to listen and now
measured him with his eye.

A person of the name of Michael Jackson, with a blue welveteen
waistcoat with a double row of mother of pearl buttons,Mr. Bucket
immediately answered.


He had as good mind his own business, whoever he is,growled the
man.

He's out of employment, I believe,said Mr. Bucket apologetically
for Michael Jacksonand so gets talking.

The woman had not resumed her chairbut stood faltering with her
hand upon its broken backlooking at me. I thought she would have
spoken to me privately if she had dared. She was still in this
attitude of uncertainty when her husbandwho was eating with a
lump of bread and fat in one hand and his clasp-knife in the other
struck the handle of his knife violently on the table and told her
with an oath to mind HER own business at any rate and sit down.

I should like to have seen Jenny very much,said Ifor I am
sure she would have told me all she could about this lady, whom I
am very anxious indeed--you cannot think how anxious--to overtake.
Will Jenny be here soon? Where is she?

The woman had a great desire to answerbut the manwith another
oathopenly kicked at her foot with his heavy boot. He left it to
Jenny's husband to say what he choseand after a dogged silence
the latter turned his shaggy head towards me.

I'm not partial to gentlefolks coming into my place, as you've
heerd me say afore now, I think, miss. I let their places be, and
it's curious they can't let my place be. There'd be a pretty shine
made if I was to go a-wisitin THEM, I think. Howsoever, I don't so
much complain of you as of some others, and I'm agreeable to make
you a civil answer, though I give notice that I'm not a-going to be
drawed like a badger. Will Jenny be here soon? No she won't.
Where is she? She's gone up to Lunnun.

Did she go last night?I asked.

Did she go last night? Ah! She went last night,he answered with
a sulky jerk of his head.

But was she here when the lady came? And what did the lady say to
her? And where is the lady gone? I beg and pray you to be so kind
as to tell me,said Ifor I am in great distress to know.

If my master would let me speak, and not say a word of harm--the
woman timidly began.

Your master,said her husbandmuttering an imprecation with slow
emphasiswill break your neck if you meddle with wot don't
concern you.

After another silencethe husband of the absent womanturning to
me againanswered me with his usual grumbling unwillingness.

Wos Jenny here when the lady come? Yes, she wos here when the
lady come. Wot did the lady say to her? Well, I'll tell you wot
the lady said to her. She said, 'You remember me as come one time
to talk to you about the young lady as had been a-wisiting of you?
You remember me as give you somethink handsome for a handkercher
wot she had left?' Ah, she remembered. So we all did. Well,
then, wos that young lady up at the house now? No, she warn't up
at the house now. Well, then, lookee here. The lady was upon a
journey all alone, strange as we might think it, and could she rest
herself where you're a setten for a hour or so. Yes she could, and
so she did. Then she went--it might be at twenty minutes past
eleven, and it might be at twenty minutes past twelve; we ain't got


no watches here to know the time by, nor yet clocks. Where did she
go? I don't know where she go'd. She went one way, and Jenny went
another; one went right to Lunnun, and t'other went right from it.
That's all about it. Ask this man. He heerd it all, and see it
all. He knows.

The other man repeatedThat's all about it.

Was the lady crying?I inquired.

Devil a bit,returned the first man. "Her shoes was the worse
and her clothes was the worsebut she warn't--not as I see."

The woman sat with her arms crossed and her eyes upon the ground.
Her husband had turned his seat a little so as to face her and kept
his hammer-like hand upon the table as if it were in readiness to
execute his threat if she disobeyed him.

I hope you will not object to my asking your wife,said Ihow
the lady looked.

Come, then!he gruffly cried to her. "You hear what she says.
Cut it short and tell her."

Bad,replied the woman. "Pale and exhausted. Very bad."

Did she speak much?

Not much, but her voice was hoarse.

She answeredlooking all the while at her husband for leave.

Was she faint?said I. "Did she eat or drink here?"

Go on!said the husband in answer to her look. "Tell her and cut
it short."

She had a little water, miss, and Jenny fetched her some bread and
tea. But she hardly touched it.

And when she went from here,I was proceedingwhen Jenny's
husband impatiently took me up.

When she went from here, she went right away nor'ard by the high
road. Ask on the road if you doubt me, and see if it warn't so.
Now, there's the end. That's all about it.

I glanced at my companionand finding that he had already risen
and was ready to departthanked them for what they had told me
and took my leave. The woman looked full at Mr. Bucket as he went
outand he looked full at her.

Now, Miss Summerson,he said to me as we walked quickly away.
They've got her ladyship's watch among 'em. That's a positive
fact.

You saw it?I exclaimed.

Just as good as saw it,he returned. "Else why should he talk
about his 'twenty minutes past' and about his having no watch to
tell the time by? Twenty minutes! He don't usually cut his time
so fine as that. If he comes to half-hoursit's as much as HE
does. Nowyou seeeither her ladyship gave him that watch or he
took it. I think she gave it him. Nowwhat should she give it


him for? What should she give it him for?"

He repeated this question to himself several times as we hurried
onappearing to balance between a variety of answers that arose in
his mind.

If time could be spared,said Mr. Bucketwhich is the only
thing that can't be spared in this case, I might get it out of that
woman; but it's too doubtful a chance to trust to under present
circumstances. They are up to keeping a close eye upon her, and
any fool knows that a poor creetur like her, beaten and kicked and
scarred and bruised from head to foot, will stand by the husband
that ill uses her through thick and thin. There's something kept
back. It's a pity but what we had seen the other woman.

I regretted it exceedinglyfor she was very gratefuland I felt
sure would have resisted no entreaty of mine.

It's possible, Miss Summerson,said Mr. Bucketpondering on it
that her ladyship sent her up to London with some word for you,
and it's possible that her husband got the watch to let her go. It
don't come out altogether so plain as to please me, but it's on the
cards. Now, I don't take kindly to laying out the money of Sir
Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, on these roughs, and I don't see my way
to the usefulness of it at present. No! So far our road, Miss
Summerson, is for'ard--straight ahead--and keeping everything
quiet!

We called at home once more that I might send a hasty note to my
guardianand then we hurried back to where we had left the
carriage. The horses were brought out as soon as we were seen
comingand we were on the road again in a few minutes.

It had set in snowing at daybreakand it now snowed hard. The air
was so thick with the darkness of the day and the density of the
fall that we could see but a very little way in any direction.
Although it was extremely coldthe snow was but partially frozen
and it churned--with a sound as if it were a beach of small shells
--under the hoofs of the horses into mire and water. They sometimes
slipped and floundered for a mile togetherand we were obliged to
come to a standstill to rest them. One horse fell three times in
this first stageand trembled so and was so shaken that the driver
had to dismount from his saddle and lead him at last.

I could eat nothing and could not sleepand I grew so nervous
under those delays and the slow pace at which we travelled that I
had an unreasonable desire upon me to get out and walk. Yielding
to my companion's better sensehoweverI remained where I was.
All this timekept fresh by a certain enjoyment of the work in
which he was engagedhe was up and down at every house we came to
addressing people whom he had never beheld before as old
acquaintancesrunning in to warm himself at every fire he saw
talking and drinking and shaking hands at every bar and tap
friendly with every waggonerwheelwrightblacksmithand toll-
takeryet never seeming to lose timeand always mounting to the
box again with his watchfulsteady face and his business-like "Get
onmy lad!"

When we were changing horses the next timehe came from the
stable-yardwith the wet snow encrusted upon him and dropping off
him--plashing and crashing through it to his wet knees as he had
been doing frequently since we left Saint Albans--and spoke to me
at the carriage side.


Keep up your spirits. It's certainly true that she came on here,
Miss Summerson. There's not a doubt of the dress by this time, and
the dress has been seen here.

Still on foot?said I.

Still on foot. I think the gentleman you mentioned must be the
point she's aiming at, and yet I don't like his living down in her
own part of the country neither.

I know so little,said I. "There may be some one else nearer
hereof whom I never heard."

That's true. But whatever you do, don't you fall a-crying, my
dear; and don't you worry yourself no more than you can help. Get
on, my lad!

The sleet fell all that day unceasinglya thick mist came on
earlyand it never rose or lightened for a moment. Such roads I
had never seen. I sometimes feared we had missed the way and got
into the ploughed grounds or the marshes. If I ever thought of the
time I had been outit presented itself as an indefinite period of
great durationand I seemedin a strange waynever to have been
free from the anxiety under which I then laboured.

As we advancedI began to feel misgivings that my companion lost
confidence. He was the same as before with all the roadside
peoplebut he looked graver when he sat by himself on the box. I
saw his finger uneasily going across and across his mouth during
the whole of one long weary stage. I overheard that he began to
ask the drivers of coaches and other vehicles coming towards us
what passengers they had seen in other coaches and vehicles that
were in advance. Their replies did not encourage him. He always
gave me a reassuring beck of his finger and lift of his eyelid as
he got upon the box againbut he seemed perplexed now when he
saidGet on, my lad!

At lastwhen we were changinghe told me that he had lost the
track of the dress so long that he began to be surprised. It was
nothinghe saidto lose such a track for one whileand to take
it up for another whileand so on; but it had disappeared here in
an unaccountable mannerand we had not come upon it since. This
corroborated the apprehensions I had formedwhen he began to look
at direction-postsand to leave the carriage at cross roads for a
quarter of an hour at a time while he explored them. But I was not
to be down-heartedhe told mefor it was as likely as not that
the next stage might set us right again.

The next stagehoweverended as that one ended; we had no new
clue. There was a spacious inn heresolitarybut a comfortable
substantial buildingand as we drove in under a large gateway
before I knew itwhere a landlady and her pretty daughters came to
the carriage-doorentreating me to alight and refresh myself while
the horses were making readyI thought it would be uncharitable to
refuse. They took me upstairs to a warm room and left me there.

It was at the corner of the houseI rememberlooking two ways.
On one side to a stable-yard open to a by-roadwhere the ostlers
were unharnessing the splashed and tired horses from the muddy
carriageand beyond that to the by-road itselfacross which the
sign was heavily swinging; on the other side to a wood of dark
pine-trees. Their branches were encumbered with snowand it
silently dropped off in wet heaps while I stood at the window.
Night was setting inand its bleakness was enhanced by the


contrast of the pictured fire glowing and gleaming in the windowpane.
As I looked among the stems of the trees and followed the
discoloured marks in the snow where the thaw was sinking into it
and undermining itI thought of the motherly face brightly set off
by daughters that had just now welcomed me and of MY mother lying
down in such a wood to die.

I was frightened when I found them all about mebut I remembered
that before I fainted I tried very hard not to do it; and that was
some little comfort. They cushioned me up on a large sofa by the
fireand then the comely landlady told me that I must travel no
further to-nightbut must go to bed. But this put me into such a
tremble lest they should detain me there that she soon recalled her
words and compromised for a rest of half an hour.

A good endearing creature she was. She and her three fair girls
all so busy about me. I was to take hot soup and broiled fowl
while Mr. Bucket dried himself and dined elsewhere; but I could not
do it when a snug round table was presently spread by the fireside
though I was very unwilling to disappoint them. HoweverI could
take some toast and some hot negusand as I really enjoyed that
refreshmentit made some recompense.

Punctual to the timeat the half-hour's end the carriage came
rumbling under the gatewayand they took me downwarmed
refreshedcomforted by kindnessand safe (I assured them) not to
faint any more. After I had got in and had taken a grateful leave
of them allthe youngest daughter--a blooming girl of nineteen
who was to be the first marriedthey had told me--got upon the
carriage stepreached inand kissed me. I have never seen her
from that hourbut I think of her to this hour as my friend.

The transparent windows with the fire and lightlooking so bright
and warm from the cold darkness out of doorswere soon goneand
again we were crushing and churning the loose snow. We went on
with toil enoughbut the dismal roads were not much worse than
they had beenand the stage was only nine miles. My companion
smoking on the box--I had thought at the last inn of begging him to
do so when I saw him standing at a great fire in a comfortable
cloud of tobacco--was as vigilant as ever and as quickly down and
up again when we came to any human abode or any human creature. He
had lighted his little dark lanternwhich seemed to be a favourite
with himfor we had lamps to the carriage; and every now and then
he turned it upon me to see that I was doing well. There was a
folding-window to the carriage-headbut I never closed itfor it
seemed like shutting out hope.

We came to the end of the stageand still the lost trace was not
recovered. I looked at him anxiously when we stopped to change
but I knew by his yet graver face as he stood watching the ostlers
that he had heard nothing. Almost in an instant afterwardsas I
leaned back in my seathe looked inwith his lighted lantern in
his handan excited and quite different man.

What is it?said Istarting. "Is she here?"

No, no. Don't deceive yourself, my dear. Nobody's here. But
I've got it!

The crystallized snow was in his eyelashesin his hairlying in
ridges on his dress. He had to shake it from his face and get his
breath before he spoke to me.

Now, Miss Summerson,said hebeating his finger on the apron


don't you be disappointed at what I'm a-going to do. You know me.
I'm Inspector Bucket, and you can trust me. We've come a long way;
never mind. Four horses out there for the next stage up! Quick!

There was a commotion in the yardand a man came running out of
the stables to know if he meant up or down.

Up, I tell you! Up! Ain't it English? Up!

Up?said Iastonished. "To London! Are we going back?"

Miss Summerson,he answeredback. Straight back as a die. You
know me. Don't be afraid. I'll follow the other, by G--

The other?I repeated. "Who?"

You called her Jenny, didn't you? I'll follow her. Bring those
two pair out here for a crown a man. Wake up, some of you!

You will not desert this lady we are in search of; you will not
abandon her on such a night and in such a state of mind as I know
her to be in!said Iin an agonyand grasping his hand.

You are right, my dear, I won't. But I'll follow the other. Look
alive here with them horses. Send a man for'ard in the saddle to
the next stage, and let him send another for'ard again, and order
four on, up, right through. My darling, don't you be afraid!

These orders and the way in which he ran about the yard urging them
caused a general excitement that was scarcely less bewildering to
me than the sudden change. But in the height of the confusiona
mounted man galloped away to order the relaysand our horses were
put to with great speed.

My dear,said Mr. Bucketjumping to his seat and looking in
again--you'll excuse me if I'm too familiar--don't you fret and
worry yourself no more than you can help. I say nothing else at
present; but you know me, my dear; now, don't you?

I endeavoured to say that I knew he was far more capable than I of
deciding what we ought to dobut was he sure that this was right?
Could I not go forward by myself in search of--I grasped his hand
again in my distress and whispered it to him--of my own mother.

My dear,he answeredI know, I know, and would I put you wrong,
do you think? Inspector Bucket. Now you know me, don't you?

What could I say but yes!

Then you keep up as good a heart as you can, and you rely upon me
for standing by you, no less than by Sir Leicester Dedlock,
Baronet. Now, are you right there?

All right, sir!

Off she goes, then. And get on, my lads!

We were again upon the melancholy road by which we had come
tearing up the miry sleet and thawing snow as if they were torn up
by a waterwheel.

CHAPTER LVIII


A Wintry Day and Night

Still impassiveas behoves its breedingthe Dedlock town house
carries itself as usual towards the street of dismal grandeur.
There are powdered heads from time to time in the little windows of
the halllooking out at the untaxed powder falling all day from
the sky; and in the same conservatory there is peach blossom
turning itself exotically to the great hall fire from the nipping
weather out of doors. It is given out that my Lady has gone down
into Lincolnshirebut is expected to return presently.

Rumourbusy overmuchhoweverwill not go down into Lincolnshire.
It persists in flitting and chattering about town. It knows that
that poor unfortunate manSir Leicesterhas been sadly used. It
hearsmy dear childall sorts of shocking things. It makes the
world of five miles round quite merry. Not to know that there is
something wrong at the Dedlocks' is to augur yourself unknown. One
of the peachy-cheeked charmers with the skeleton throats is already
apprised of all the principal circumstances that will come out
before the Lords on Sir Leicester's application for a bill of
divorce.

At Blaze and Sparkle's the jewellers and at Sheen and Gloss's the
mercersit is and will be for several hours the topic of the age
the feature of the century. The patronesses of those
establishmentsalbeit so loftily inscrutablebeing as nicely
weighed and measured there as any other article of the stock-intrade
are perfectly understood in this new fashion by the rawest
hand behind the counter. "Our peopleMr. Jones said Blaze and
Sparkle to the hand in question on engaging him, our peoplesir
are sheep--mere sheep. Where two or three marked ones goall the
rest follow. Keep those two or three in your eyeMr. Jonesand
you have the flock." SolikewiseSheen and Gloss to THEIR Jones
in reference to knowing where to have the fashionable people and
how to bring what they (Sheen and Gloss) choose into fashion. On
similar unerring principlesMr. Sladdery the librarianand indeed
the great farmer of gorgeous sheepadmits this very dayWhy yes,
sir, there certainly ARE reports concerning Lady Dedlock, very
current indeed among my high connexion, sir. You see, my high
connexion must talk about something, sir; and it's only to get a
subject into vogue with one or two ladies I could name to make it
go down with the whole. Just what I should have done with those
ladies, sir, in the case of any novelty you had left to me to bring
in, they have done of themselves in this case through knowing Lady
Dedlock and being perhaps a little innocently jealous of her too,
sir. You'll find, sir, that this topic will be very popular among
my high connexion. If it had been a speculation, sir, it would
have brought money. And when I say so, you may trust to my being
right, sir, for I have made it my business to study my high
connexion and to be able to wind it up like a clock, sir.

Thus rumour thrives in the capitaland will not go down into
Lincolnshire. By half-past fivepost meridianHorse Guards'
timeit has even elicited a new remark from the Honourable Mr.
Stableswhich bids fair to outshine the old oneon which he has
so long rested his colloquial reputation. This sparkling sally is
to the effect that although he always knew she was the best-groomed
woman in the studhe had no idea she was a bolter. It is
immensely received in turf-circles.

At feasts and festivals alsoin firmaments she has often graced
and among constellations she outshone but yesterdayshe is still


the prevalent subject. What is it? Who is it? When was it?
Where was it? How was it? She is discussed by her dear friends
with all the genteelest slang in voguewith the last new wordthe
last new mannerthe last new drawland the perfection of polite
indifference. A remarkable feature of the theme is that it is
found to be so inspiring that several people come out upon it who
never came out before--positively say things! William Buffy
carries one of these smartnesses from the place where he dines down
to the Housewhere the Whip for his party hands it about with his
snuff-box to keep men together who want to be offwith such effect
that the Speaker (who has had it privately insinuated into his own
ear under the corner of his wig) criesOrder at the bar!three
times without making an impression.

And not the least amazing circumstance connected with her being
vaguely the town talk is that people hovering on the confines of
Mr. Sladdery's high connexionpeople who know nothing and ever did
know nothing about herthink it essential to their reputation to
pretend that she is their topic tooand to retail her at secondhand
with the last new word and the last new mannerand the last
new drawland the last new polite indifferenceand all the rest
of itall at second-hand but considered equal to new in inferior
systems and to fainter stars. If there be any man of lettersart
or science among these little dealershow noble in him to support
the feeble sisters on such majestic crutches!

So goes the wintry day outside the Dedlock mansion. How within it?

Sir Leicesterlying in his bedcan speak a littlethough with
difficulty and indistinctness. He is enjoined to silence and to
restand they have given him some opiate to lull his painfor his
old enemy is very hard with him. He is never asleepthough
sometimes he seems to fall into a dull waking doze. He caused his
bedstead to be moved out nearer to the window when he heard it was
such inclement weatherand his head to be so adjusted that he
could see the driving snow and sleet. He watches it as it falls
throughout the whole wintry day.

Upon the least noise in the housewhich is kept hushedhis hand
is at the pencil. The old housekeepersitting by himknows what
he would write and whispersNo, he has not come back yet, Sir
Leicester. It was late last night when he went. He has been but a
little time gone yet.

He withdraws his hand and falls to looking at the sleet and snow
again until they seemby being long looked atto fall so thick
and fast that he is obliged to close his eyes for a minute on the
giddy whirl of white flakes and icy blots.

He began to look at them as soon as it was light. The day is not
yet far spent when he conceives it to be necessary that her rooms
should be prepared for her. It is very cold and wet. Let there be
good fires. Let them know that she is expected. Please see to it
yourself. He writes to this purpose on his slateand Mrs.
Rouncewell with a heavy heart obeys.

For I dread, George,the old lady says to her sonwho waits
below to keep her company when she has a little leisureI dread,
my dear, that my Lady will never more set foot within these walls.

That's a bad presentiment, mother.

Nor yet within the walls of Chesney Wold, my dear.


That's worse. But why, mother?

When I saw my Lady yesterday, George, she looked to me--and I may
say at me too--as if the step on the Ghost's Walk had almost walked
her down.

Come, come! You alarm yourself with old-story fears, mother.

No I don't, my dear. No I don't. It's going on for sixty year
that I have been in this family, and I never had any fears for it
before. But it's breaking up, my dear; the great old Dedlock
family is breaking up.

I hope not, mother.

I am thankful I have lived long enough to be with Sir Leicester in
this illness and trouble, for I know I am not too old nor too
useless to be a welcomer sight to him than anybody else in my place
would be. But the step on the Ghost's Walk will walk my Lady down,
George; it has been many a day behind her, and now it will pass her
and go on.

Well, mother dear, I say again, I hope not.

Ah, so do I, George,the old lady returnsshaking her head and
parting her folded hands. "But if my fears come trueand he has
to know itwho will tell him!"

Are these her rooms?

These are my Lady's rooms, just as she left them.

Why, now,says the trooperglancing round him and speaking in a
lower voiceI begin to understand how you come to think as you do
think, mother. Rooms get an awful look about them when they are
fitted up, like these, for one person you are used to see in them,
and that person is away under any shadow, let alone being God knows
where.

He is not far out. As all partings foreshadow the great final one
soempty roomsbereft of a familiar presencemournfully whisper
what your room and what mine must one day be. My Lady's state has
a hollow lookthus gloomy and abandoned; and in the inner
apartmentwhere Mr. Bucket last night made his secret
perquisitionthe traces of her dresses and her ornamentseven the
mirrors accustomed to reflect them when they were a portion of
herselfhave a desolate and vacant air. Dark and cold as the
wintry day isit is darker and colder in these deserted chambers
than in many a hut that will barely exclude the weather; and though
the servants heap fires in the grates and set the couches and the
chairs within the warm glass screens that let their ruddy light
shoot through to the furthest cornersthere is a heavy cloud upon
the rooms which no light will dispel.

The old housekeeper and her son remain until the preparations are
completeand then she returns upstairs. Volumnia has taken Mrs.
Rouncewell's place in the meantimethough pearl necklaces and
rouge potshowever calculated to embellish Bathare but
indifferent comforts to the invalid under present circumstances.
Volumnianot being supposed to know (and indeed not knowing) what
is the matterhas found it a ticklish task to offer appropriate
observations and consequently has supplied their place with
distracting smoothings of the bed-linenelaborate locomotion on
tiptoevigilant peeping at her kinsman's eyesand one


exasperating whisper to herself ofHe is asleep.In disproof of
which superfluous remark Sir Leicester has indignantly written on
the slateI am not.

Yieldingthereforethe chair at the bedside to the quaint old
housekeeperVolumnia sits at a table a little removed
sympathetically sighing. Sir Leicester watches the sleet and snow
and listens for the returning steps that he expects. In the ears
of his old servantlooking as if she had stepped out of an old
picture-frame to attend a summoned Dedlock to another worldthe
silence is fraught with echoes of her own wordswho will tell
him!

He has been under his valet's hands this morning to be made
presentable and is as well got up as the circumstances will allow.
He is propped with pillowshis grey hair is brushed in its usual
mannerhis linen is arranged to a nicetyand he is wrapped in a
responsible dressing-gown. His eye-glass and his watch are ready
to his hand. It is necessary--less to his own dignity now perhaps
than for her sake--that he should be seen as little disturbed and
as much himself as may be. Women will talkand Volumniathough a
Dedlockis no exceptional case. He keeps her herethere is
little doubtto prevent her talking somewhere else. He is very
illbut he makes his present stand against distress of mind and
body most courageously.

The fair Volumniabeing one of those sprightly girls who cannot
long continue silent without imminent peril of seizure by the
dragon Boredomsoon indicates the approach of that monster with a
series of undisguisable yawns. Finding it impossible to suppress
those yawns by any other process than conversationshe compliments
Mrs. Rouncewell on her sondeclaring that he positively is one of
the finest figures she ever saw and as soldierly a looking person
she should thinkas what's his nameher favourite Life Guardsman
--the man she dotes onthe dearest of creatures--who was killed at
Waterloo.

Sir Leicester hears this tribute with so much surprise and stares
about him in such a confused way that Mrs. Rouncewell feels it
necesary to explain.

Miss Dedlock don't speak of my eldest son, Sir Leicester, but my
youngest. I have found him. He has come home.

Sir Leicester breaks silence with a harsh cry. "George? Your son
George come homeMrs. Rouncewell?"

The old housekeeper wipes her eyes. "Thank God. YesSir
Leicester."

Does this discovery of some one lostthis return of some one so
long gonecome upon him as a strong confirmation of his hopes?
Does he thinkShall I not, with the aid I have, recall her safely
after this, there being fewer hours in her case than there are
years in his?

It is of no use entreating him; he is determined to speak nowand
he does. In a thick crowd of soundsbut still intelligibly enough
to be understood.

Why did you not tell me, Mrs. Rouncewell?

It happened only yesterday, Sir Leicester, and I doubted your
being well enough to be talked to of such things.


Besidesthe giddy Volumnia now remembers with her little scream
that nobody was to have known of his being Mrs. Rouncewell's son
and that she was not to have told. But Mrs. Rouncewell protests
with warmth enough to swell the stomacherthat of course she would
have told Sir Leicester as soon as he got better.

Where is your son George, Mrs. Rouncewell?asks Sir Leicester

Mrs. Rouncewellnot a little alarmed by his disregard of the
doctor's injunctionsrepliesin London.

Where in London?

Mrs. Rouncewell is constrained to admit that he is in the house.

Bring him here to my room. Bring him directly.

The old lady can do nothing but go in search of him. Sir
Leicesterwith such power of movement as he hasarranges himself
a little to receive him. When he has done sohe looks out again
at the falling sleet and snow and listens again for the returning
steps. A quantity of straw has been tumbled down in the street to
deaden the noises thereand she might be driven to the door
perhaps without his hearing wheels.

He is lying thusapparently forgetful of his newer and minor
surprisewhen the housekeeper returnsaccompanied by her trooper
son. Mr. George approaches softly to the bedsidemakes his bow
squares his chestand standswith his face flushedvery heartily
ashamed of himself.

Good heaven, and it is really George Rouncewell!exclaims Sir
Leicester. "Do you remember meGeorge?"

The trooper needs to look at him and to separate this sound from
that sound before he knows what he has saidbut doing this and
being a little helped by his motherhe repliesI must have a
very bad memory, indeed, Sir Leicester, if I failed to remember
you.

When I look at you, George Rouncewell,Sir Leicester observes
with difficultyI see something of a boy at Chesney Wold--I
remember well--very well.

He looks at the trooper until tears come into his eyesand then he
looks at the sleet and snow again.

I ask your pardon, Sir Leicester,says the trooperbut would
you accept of my arms to raise you up? You would lie easier, Sir
Leicester, if you would allow me to move you.

If you please, George Rouncewell; if you will be so good.

The trooper takes him in his arms like a childlightly raises him
and turns him with his face more towards the window. "Thank you.
You have your mother's gentleness returns Sir Leicester, and
your own strength. Thank you."

He signs to him with his hand not to go away. George quietly
remains at the bedsidewaiting to be spoken to.

Why did you wish for secrecy?It takes Sir Leicester some time
to ask this.


Truly I am not much to boast of, Sir Leicester, and I--I should
still, Sir Leicester, if you was not so indisposed--which I hope
you will not be long--I should still hope for the favour of being
allowed to remain unknown in general. That involves explanations
not very hard to be guessed at, not very well timed here, and not
very creditable to myself. However opinions may differ on a
variety of subjects, I should think it would be universally agreed,
Sir Leicester, that I am not much to boast of.

You have been a soldier,observes Sir Leicesterand a faithful
one.

George makes his military how. "As far as that goesSir
LeicesterI have done my duty under disciplineand it was the
least I could do."

You find me,says Sir Leicesterwhose eyes are much attracted
towards himfar from well, George Rouncewell.

I am very sorry both to hear it and to see it, Sir Leicester.

I am sure you are. No. In addition to my older malady, I have
had a sudden and bad attack. Something that deadens,making an
endeavour to pass one hand down one sideand confuses,touching
his lips.

Georgewith a look of assent and sympathymakes another bow. The
different times when they were both young men (the trooper much the
younger of the two) and looked at one another down at Chesney Wold
arise before them both and soften both.

Sir Leicesterevidently with a great determination to sayin his
own mannersomething that is on his mind before relapsing into
silencetries to raise himself among his pillows a little more.
Georgeobservant of the actiontakes him in his arms again and
places him as he desires to be. "Thank youGeorge. You are
another self to me. You have often carried my spare gun at Chesney
WoldGeorge. You are familiar to me in these strange
circumstancesvery familiar." He has put Sir Leicester's sounder
arm over his shoulder in lifting him upand Sir Leicester is slow
in drawing it away again as he says these words.

I was about to add,he presently goes onI was about to add,
respecting this attack, that it was unfortunately simultaneous with
a slight misunderstanding between my Lady and myself. I do not
mean that there was any difference between us (for there has been
none), but that there was a misunderstanding of certain
circumstances important only to ourselves, which deprives me, for a
little while, of my Lady's society. She has found it necessary to
make a journey--I trust will shortly return. Volumnia, do I make
myself intelligible? The words are not quite under my command in
the manner of pronouncing them.

Volumnia understands him perfectlyand in truth be delivers
himself with far greater plainness than could have been supposed
possible a minute ago. The effort by which he does so is written
in the anxious and labouring expression of his face. Nothing but
the strength of his purpose enables him to make it.

Therefore, Volumnia, I desire to say in your presence--and in the
presence of my old retainer and friend, Mrs. Rouncewell, whose
truth and fidelity no one can question, and in the presence of her
son George, who comes back like a familiar recollection of my youth


in the home of my ancestors at Chesney Wold--in case I should
relapse, in case I should not recover, in case I should lose both
my speech and the power of writing, though I hope for better
things--

The old housekeeper weeping silently; Volumnia in the greatest
agitationwith the freshest bloom on her cheeks; the trooper with
his arms folded and his head a little bentrespectfully attentive.

Therefore I desire to say, and to call you all to witness-beginning,
Volumnia, with yourself, most solemnly--that I am on
unaltered terms with Lady Dedlock. That I assert no cause whatever
of complaint against her. That I have ever had the strongest
affection for her, and that I retain it undiminished. Say this to
herself, and to every one. If you ever say less than this, you
will be guilty of deliberate falsehood to me.

Volumnia tremblingly protests that she will observe his injunctions
to the letter.

My Lady is too high in position, too handsome, too accomplished,
too superior in most respects to the best of those by whom she is
surrounded, not to have her enemies and traducers, I dare say. Let
it be known to them, as I make it known to you, that being of sound
mind, memory, and understanding, I revoke no disposition I have
made in her favour. I abridge nothing I have ever bestowed upon
her. I am on unaltered terms with her, and I recall--having the
full power to do it if I were so disposed, as you see--no act I
have done for her advantage and happiness.

His formal array of words might have at any other timeas it has
often hadsomething ludicrous in itbut at this time it is
serious and affecting. His noble earnestnesshis fidelityhis
gallant shielding of herhis generous conquest of his own wrong
and his own pride for her sakeare simply honourablemanlyand
true. Nothing less worthy can be seen through the lustre of such
qualities in the commonest mechanicnothing less worthy can be
seen in the best-born gentleman. In such a light both aspire
alikeboth rise alikeboth children of the dust shine equally.

Overpowered by his exertionshe lays his head back on his pillows
and closes his eyes for not more than a minutewhen he again
resumes his watching of the weather and his attention to the
muffled sounds. In the rendering of those little servicesand in
the manner of their acceptancethe trooper has become installed as
necessary to him. Nothing has been saidbut it is quite
understood. He falls a step or two backward to be out of sight and
mounts guard a little behind his mother's chair.

The day is now beginning to decline. The mist and the sleet into
which the snow has all resolved itself are darkerand the blaze
begins to tell more vividly upon the room walls and furniture. The
gloom augments; the bright gas springs up in the streets; and the
pertinacious oil lamps which yet hold their ground therewith
their source of life half frozen and half thawedtwinkle gaspingly
like fiery fish out of water--as they are. The worldwhich has
been rumbling over the straw and pulling at the bellto inquire,
begins to go homebegins to dressto dineto discuss its dear
friend with all the last new modesas already mentioned.

Now does Sir Leicester become worserestlessuneasyand in great
pain. Volumnialighting a candle (with a predestined aptitude for
doing something objectionable)is bidden to put it out againfor
it is not yet dark enough. Yet it is very dark tooas dark as it


will be all night. By and by she tries again. No! Put it out.
It is not dark enough yet.

His old housekeeper is the first to understand that he is striving
to uphold the fiction with himself that it is not growing late.

Dear Sir Leicester, my honoured master,she softly whispersI
must, for your own good, and my duty, take the freedom of begging
and praying that you will not lie here in the lone darkness
watching and waiting and dragging through the time. Let me draw
the curtains, and light the candles, and make things more
comfortable about you. The church-clocks will strike the hours
just the same, Sir Leicester, and the night will pass away just the
same. My Lady will come back, just the same.

I know it, Mrs. Rouncewell, but I am weak--and he has been so long
gone.

Not so very long, Sir Leicester. Not twenty-four hours yet.

But that is a long time. Oh, it is a long time!

He says it with a groan that wrings her heart.

She knows that this is not a period for bringing the rough light
upon him; she thinks his tears too sacred to be seeneven by her.
Therefore she sits in the darkness for a while without a wordthen
gently begins to move aboutnow stirring the firenow standing at
the dark window looking out. Finally he tells herwith recovered
self-commandAs you say, Mrs. Rouncewell, it is no worse for
being confessed. It is getting late, and they are not come. Light
the room!When it is lighted and the weather shut outit is only
left to him to listen.

But they find that however dejected and ill he ishe brightens
when a quiet pretence is made of looking at the fires in her rooms
and being sure that everything is ready to receive her. Poor
pretence as it isthese allusions to her being expected keep up
hope within him.

Midnight comesand with it the same blank. The carriages in the
streets are fewand other late sounds in that neighbourhood there
are noneunless a man so very nomadically drunk as to stray into
the frigid zone goes brawling and bellowing along the pavement.
Upon this wintry night it is so still that listening to the intense
silence is like looking at intense darkness. If any distant sound
be audible in this caseit departs through the gloom like a feeble
light in thatand all is heavier than before.

The corporation of servants are dismissed to bed (not unwilling to
gofor they were up all last night)and only Mrs. Rouncewell and
George keep watch in Sir Leicester's room. As the night lags
tardily on--or rather when it seems to stop altogetherat between
two and three o'clock--they find a restless craving on him to know
more about the weathernow he cannot see it. Hence George
patrolling regularly every half-hour to the rooms so carefully
looked afterextends his march to the hall-doorlooks about him
and brings back the best report he can make of the worst of nights
the sleet still falling and even the stone footways lying ankle-
deep in icy sludge.

Volumniain her room up a retired landing on the stair-case--the
second turning past the end of the carving and gildinga cousinly
room containing a fearful abortion of a portrait of Sir Leicester


banished for its crimesand commanding in the day a solemn yard
planted with dried-up shrubs like antediluvian specimens of black
tea--is a prey to horrors of many kinds. Not last nor least among
thempossiblyis a horror of what may befall her little income in
the eventas she expresses itof anything happeningto Sir
Leicester. Anythingin this sensemeaning one thing only; and
that the last thing that can happen to the consciousness of any
baronet in the known world.

An effect of these horrors is that Volumnia finds she cannot go to
bed in her own room or sit by the fire in her own roombut must
come forth with her fair head tied up in a profusion of shawland
her fair form enrobed in draperyand parade the mansion like a
ghostparticularly haunting the roomswarm and luxurious
prepared for one who still does not return. Solitude under such
circumstances being not to be thought ofVolumnia is attended by
her maidwhoimpressed from her own bed for that purpose
extremely coldvery sleepyand generally an injured maid as
condemned by circumstances to take office with a cousinwhen she
had resolved to be maid to nothing less than ten thousand a year
has not a sweet expression of countenance.

The periodical visits of the trooper to these roomshoweverin
the course of his patrolling is an assurance of protection and
company both to mistress and maidwhich renders them very
acceptable in the small hours of the night. Whenever he is heard
advancingthey both make some little decorative preparation to
receive him; at other times they divide their watches into short
scraps of oblivion and dialogues not wholly free from acerbityas
to whether Miss Dedlocksitting with her feet upon the fenderwas
or was not falling into the fire when rescued (to her great
displeasure) by her guardian genius the maid.

How is Sir Leicester now, Mr. George?inquires Volumnia
adjusting her cowl over her head.

Why, Sir Leicester is much the same, miss. He is very low and
ill, and he even wanders a little sometimes.

Has he asked for me?inquires Volumnia tenderly.

Why, no, I can't say he has, miss. Not within my hearing, that is
to say.

This is a truly sad time, Mr. George.

It is indeed, miss. Hadn't you better go to bed?

You had a deal better go to bed, Miss Dedlock,quoth the maid
sharply.

But Volumnia answers No! No! She may be asked forshe may be
wanted at a moment's notice. She never should forgive herself "if
anything was to happen" and she was not on the spot. She declines
to enter on the questionmooted by the maidhow the spot comes to
be thereand not in her room (which is nearer to Sir Leicester's)
but staunchly declares that on the spot she will remain. Volumnia
further makes a merit of not having "closed an eye"--as if she had
twenty or thirty--though it is hard to reconcile this statement
with her having most indisputably opened two within five minutes.

But when it comes to four o'clockand still the same blank
Volumnia's constancy begins to fail heror rather it begins to
strengthenfor she now considers that it is her duty to be ready


for the morrowwhen much may be expected of herthatin fact
howsoever anxious to remain upon the spotit may be required of
heras an act of self-devotionto desert the spot. So when the
trooper reappears with hisHadn't you better go to bed, miss?
and when the maid protestsmore sharply than beforeYou had a
deal better go to bed, Miss Dedlock!she meekly rises and says
Do with me what you think best!

Mr. George undoubtedly thinks it best to escort her on his arm to
the door of her cousinly chamberand the maid as undoubtedly
thinks it best to hustle her into bed with mighty little ceremony.
Accordinglythese steps are taken; and now the trooperin his
roundshas the house to himself.

There is no improvement in the weather. From the porticofrom the
eavesfrom the parapetfrom every ledge and post and pillar
drips the thawed snow. It has creptas if for shelterinto the
lintels of the great door--under itinto the corners of the
windowsinto every chink and crevice of retreatand there wastes
and dies. It is falling still; upon the roofupon the skylight
even through the skylightand dripdripdripwith the
regularity of the Ghost's Walkon the stone floor below.

The trooperhis old recollections awakened by the solitary
grandeur of a great house--no novelty to him once at Chesney Wold-goes
up the stairs and through the chief roomsholding up his
light at arm's length. Thinking of his varied fortunes within the
last few weeksand of his rustic boyhoodand of the two periods
of his life so strangely brought together across the wide
intermediate space; thinking of the murdered man whose image is
fresh in his mind; thinking of the lady who has disappeared from
these very rooms and the tokens of whose recent presence are all
here; thinking of the master of the house upstairs and of the
forebodingWho will tell him!he looks here and looks thereand
reflects how he MIGHT see something nowwhich it would tax his
boldness to walk up tolay his hand uponand prove to be a fancy.
But it is all blankblank as the darkness above and belowwhile
he goes up the great staircase againblank as the oppressive
silence.

All is still in readiness, George Rouncewell?

Quite orderly and right, Sir Leicester.

No word of any kind?

The trooper shakes his head.

No letter that can possibly have been overlooked?

But he knows there is no such hope as that and lays his head down
without looking for an answer.

Very familiar to himas he said himself some hours agoGeorge
Rouncewell lifts him into easier positions through the long
remainder of the blank wintry nightand equally familiar with his
unexpressed wishextinguishes the light and undraws the curtains
at the first late break of day. The day comes like a phantom.
Coldcolourlessand vagueit sends a warning streak before it of
a deathlike hueas if it cried outLook what I am bringing you
who watch there! Who will tell him!


CHAPTER LIX

Esther's Narrative

It was three o'clock in the morning when the houses outside London
did at last begin to exclude the country and to close us in with
streets. We had made our way along roads in a far worse condition
than when we had traversed them by daylightboth the fall and the
thaw having lasted ever since; but the energy of my companion never
slackened. It had only beenas I thoughtof less assistance than
the horses in getting us onand it had often aided them. They had
stopped exhausted halfway up hillsthey had been driven through
streams of turbulent waterthey had slipped down and become
entangled with the harness; but he and his little lantern had been
always readyand when the mishap was set rightI had never heard
any variation in his coolGet on, my lads!

The steadiness and confidence with which he had directed our
journey back I could not account for. Never waveringhe never
even stopped to make an inquiry until we were within a few miles of
London. A very few wordshere and therewere then enough for
him; and thus we cameat between three and four o'clock in the
morninginto Islington.

I will not dwell on the suspense and anxiety with which I reflected
all this time that we were leaving my mother farther and farther
behind every minute. I think I had some strong hope that he must
be right and could not fail to have a satisfactory object in
following this womanbut I tormented myself with questioning it
and discussing it during the whole journey. What was to ensue when
we found her and what could compensate us for this loss of time
were questions also that I could not possibly dismiss; my mind was
quite tortured by long dwelling on such reflections when we
stopped.

We stopped in a high-street where there was a coach-stand. My
companion paid our two driverswho were as completely covered with
splashes as if they had been dragged along the roads like the
carriage itselfand giving them some brief direction where to take
itlifted me out of it and into a hackney-coach he had chosen from
the rest.

Why, my dear!he said as he did this. "How wet you are!"

I had not been conscious of it. But the melted snow had found its
way into the carriageand I had got out two or three times when a
fallen horse was plunging and had to be got upand the wet had
penetrated my dress. I assured him it was no matterbut the
driverwho knew himwould not be dissuaded by me from running
down the street to his stablewhence he brought an armful of clean
dry straw. They shook it out and strewed it well about meand I
found it warm and comfortable.

Now, my dear,said Mr. Bucketwith his head in at the window
after I was shut up. "We're a-going to mark this person down. It
may take a little timebut you don't mind that. You're pretty
sure that I've got a motive. Ain't you?"

I little thought what it waslittle thought in how short a time I
should understand it betterbut I assured him that I had
confidence in him.

So you may have, my dear,he returned. "And I tell you what! If


you only repose half as much confidence in me as I repose in you
after what I've experienced of youthat'll do. Lord! You're no
trouble at all. I never see a young woman in any station of
society--and I've seen many elevated ones too--conduct herself like
you have conducted yourself since you was called out of your bed.
You're a patternyou knowthat's what you are said Mr. Bucket
warmly; you're a pattern."

I told him I was very gladas indeed I wasto have been no
hindrance to himand that I hoped I should be none now.

My dear,he returnedwhen a young lady is as mild as she's
game, and as game as she's mild, that's all I ask, and more than I
expect. She then becomes a queen, and that's about what you are
yourself.

With these encouraging words--they really were encouraging to me
under those lonely and anxious circumstances--he got upon the box
and we once more drove away. Where we drove I neither knew then
nor have ever known sincebut we appeared to seek out the
narrowest and worst streets in London. Whenever I saw him
directing the driverI was prepared for our descending into a
deeper complication of such streetsand we never failed to do so.

Sometimes we emerged upon a wider thoroughfare or came to a larger
building than the generalitywell lighted. Then we stopped at
offices like those we had visited when we began our journeyand I
saw him in consultation with others. Sometimes he would get down
by an archway or at a street corner and mysteriously show the light
of his little lantern. This would attract similar lights from
various dark quarterslike so many insectsand a fresh
consultation would be held. By degrees we appeared to contract our
search within narrower and easier limits. Single police-officers
on duty could now tell Mr. Bucket what he wanted to know and point
to him where to go. At last we stopped for a rather long
conversation between him and one of these menwhich I supposed to
be satisfactory from his manner of nodding from time to time. When
it was finished he came to me looking very busy and very attentive.

Now, Miss Summerson, he said to me, you won't be alarmed whatever
comes offI know. It's not necessary for me to give you any
further caution than to tell you that we have marked this person
down and that you may be of use to me before I know it myself. I
don't like to ask such a thingmy dearbut would you walk a
little way?"

Of course I got out directly and took his arm.

It ain't so easy to keep your feet,said Mr. Bucketbut take
time.

Although I looked about me confusedly and hurriedly as we crossed
the streetI thought I knew the place. "Are we in Holborn?" I
asked him.

Yes,said Mr. Bucket. "Do you know this turning?"

It looks like Chancery Lane.

And was christened so, my dear,said Mr. Bucket.

We turned down itand as we went shuffling through the sleetI
heard the clocks strike half-past five. We passed on in silence
and as quickly as we could with such a footholdwhen some one


coming towards us on the narrow pavementwrapped in a cloak
stopped and stood aside to give me room. In the same moment I
heard an exclamation of wonder and my own name from Mr. Woodcourt.
I knew his voice very well.

It was so unexpected and so--I don't know what to call itwhether
pleasant or painful--to come upon it after my feverish wandering
journeyand in the midst of the nightthat I could not keep back
the tears from my eyes. It was like hearing his voice in a strange
country.

My dear Miss Summerson, that you should be out at this hour, and
in such weather!

He had heard from my guardian of my having been called away on some
uncommon business and said so to dispense with any explanation. I
told him that we had but just left a coach and were going--but then
I was obliged to look at my companion.

Why, you see, Mr. Woodcourt--he had caught the name from me--"we
are a-going at present into the next street. Inspector Bucket."

Mr. Woodcourtdisregarding my remonstranceshad hurriedly taken
off his cloak and was putting it about me. "That's a good move
too said Mr. Bucket, assisting, a very good move."

May I go with you?said Mr. Woodcourt. I don't know whether to
me or to my companion.

Why, Lord!exclaimed Mr. Buckettaking the answer on himself.
Of course you may.

It was all said in a momentand they took me between themwrapped
in the cloak.

I have just left Richard,said Mr. Woodcourt. "I have been
sitting with him since ten o'clock last night."

Oh, dear me, he is ill!

No, no, believe me; not ill, but not quite well. He was depressed
and faint--you know he gets so worried and so worn sometimes--and
Ada sent to me of course; and when I came home I found her note and
came straight here. Well! Richard revived so much after a little
while, and Ada was so happy and so convinced of its being my doing,
though God knows I had little enough to do with it, that I remained
with him until he had been fast asleep some hours. As fast asleep
as she is now, I hope!

His friendly and familiar way of speaking of themhis unaffected
devotion to themthe grateful confidence with which I knew he had
inspired my darlingand the comfort he was to her; could I
separate all this from his promise to me? How thankless I must
have been if it had not recalled the words he said to me when he
was so moved by the change in my appearance: "I will accept him as
a trustand it shall be a sacred one!"

We now turned into another narrow street. "Mr. Woodcourt said
Mr. Bucket, who had eyed him closely as we came along, our
business takes us to a law-stationer's herea certain Mr.
Snagsby's. Whatyou know himdo you?" He was so quick that he
saw it in an instant.

Yes, I know a little of him and have called upon him at this


place.

Indeed, sir?said Mr. Bucket. "Then you will be so good as to
let me leave Miss Summerson with you for a moment while I go and
have half a word with him?"

The last police-officer with whom he had conferred was standing
silently behind us. I was not aware of it until he struck in on my
saying I heard some one crying.

Don't be alarmed, miss,he returned. "It's Snagsby's servant."

Why, you see,said Mr. Bucketthe girl's subject to fits, and
has 'em bad upon her to-night. A most contrary circumstance it is,
for I want certain information out of that girl, and she must be
brought to reason somehow.

At all events, they wouldn't be up yet if it wasn't for her, Mr.
Bucket,said the other man. "She's been at it pretty well all
nightsir."

Well, that's true,he returned. "My light's burnt out. Show
yours a moment."

All this passed in a whisper a door or two from the house in which
I could faintly hear crying and moaning. In the little round of
light produced for the purposeMr. Bucket went up to the door and
knocked. The door was opened after he had knocked twiceand he
went inleaving us standing in the street.

Miss Summerson,said Mr. Woodcourtif without obtruding myself
on your confidence I may remain near you, pray let me do so.

You are truly kind,I answered. "I need wish to keep no secret
of my own from you; if I keep anyit is another's."

I quite understand. Trust me, I will remain near you only so long
as I can fully respect it.

I trust implicitly to you,I said. "I know and deeply feel how
sacredly you keep your promise.

After a short time the little round of light shone out againand
Mr. Bucket advanced towards us in it with his earnest face.
Please to come in, Miss Summerson,he saidand sit down by the
fire. Mr. Woodcourt, from information I have received I understand
you are a medical man. Would you look to this girl and see if
anything can be done to bring her round. She has a letter
somewhere that I particularly want. It's not in her box, and I
think it must be about her; but she is so twisted and clenched up
that she is difficult to handle without hurting.

We all three went into the house together; although it was cold and
rawit smelt close too from being up all night. In the passage
behind the door stood a scaredsorrowful-looking little man in a
grey coat who seemed to have a naturally polite manner and spoke
meekly.

Downstairs, if you please, Mr. Bucket,said he. "The lady will
excuse the front kitchen; we use it as our workaday sitting-room.
The back is Guster's bedroomand in it she's a-carrying onpoor
thingto a frightful extent!"

We went downstairsfollowed by Mr. Snagsbyas I soon found the


little man to be. In the front kitchensitting by the firewas
Mrs. Snagsbywith very red eyes and a very severe expression of
face.

My little woman,said Mr. Snagsbyentering behind usto wave-not
to put too fine a point upon it, my dear--hostilities for one
single moment in the course of this prolonged night, here is
Inspector Bucket, Mr. Woodcourt, and a lady.

She looked very much astonishedas she had reason for doingand
looked particularly hard at me.

My little woman,said Mr. Snagsbysitting down in the remotest
corner by the dooras if he were taking a libertyit is not
unlikely that you may inquire of me why Inspector Bucket, Mr.
Woodcourt, and a lady call upon us in Cook's Court, Cursitor
Street, at the present hour. I don't know. I have not the least
idea. If I was to be informed, I should despair of understanding,
and I'd rather not be told.

He appeared so miserablesitting with his head upon his handand
I appeared so unwelcomethat I was going to offer an apology when
Mr. Bucket took the matter on himself.

Now, Mr. Snagsby,said hethe best thing you can do is to go
along with Mr. Woodcourt to look after your Guster--

My Guster, Mr. Bucket!cried Mr. Snagsby. "Go onsirgo on. I
shall be charged with that next."

And to hold the candle,pursued Mr. Bucket without correcting
himselfor hold her, or make yourself useful in any way you're
asked. Which there's not a man alive more ready to do, for you're
a man of urbanity and suavity, you know, and you've got the sort of
heart that can feel for another. Mr. Woodcourt, would you be so
good as see to her, and if you can get that letter from her, to let
me have it as soon as ever you can?

As they went outMr. Bucket made me sit down in a corner by the
fire and take off my wet shoeswhich he turned up to dry upon the
fendertalking all the time.

Don't you be at all put out, miss, by the want of a hospitable
look from Mrs. Snagsby there, because she's under a mistake
altogether. She'll find that out sooner than will be agreeable to
a lady of her generally correct manner of forming her thoughts,
because I'm a-going to explain it to her.Herestanding on the
hearth with his wet hat and shawls in his handhimself a pile of
wethe turned to Mrs. Snagsby. "Nowthe first thing that I say
to youas a married woman possessing what you may call charmsyou
know--'Believe Meif All Those Endearing' and cetrer--you're well
acquainted with the songbecause it's in vain for you to tell me
that you and good society are strangers--charms--attractionsmind
youthat ought to give you confidence in yourself--isthat you've
done it."

Mrs. Snagsby looked rather alarmedrelented a little and faltered
what did Mr. Bucket mean.

What does Mr. Bucket mean?he repeatedand I saw by his face
that all the time he talked he was listening for the discovery of
the letterto my own great agitationfor I knew then how
important it must be; "I'll tell you what he meansma'am. Go and
see Othello acted. That's the tragedy for you."


Mrs. Snagsby consciously asked why.

Why?said Mr. Bucket. "Because you'll come to that if you don't
look out. Whyat the very moment while I speakI know what your
mind's not wholly free from respecting this young lady. But shall
I tell you who this young lady is? Nowcomeyou're what I call
an intellectual woman--with your soul too large for your bodyif
you come to thatand chafing it--and you know meand you
recollect where you saw me lastand what was talked of in that
circle. Don't you? Yes! Very well. This young lady is that
young lady."

Mrs. Snagsby appeared to understand the reference better than I did
at the time.

And Toughey--him as you call Jo--was mixed up in the same
business, and no other; and the law-writer that you know of was
mixed up in the same business, and no other; and your husband, with
no more knowledge of it than your great grandfather, was mixed up
(by Mr. Tulkinghorn, deceased, his best customer) in the same
business, and no other; and the whole bileing of people was mixed
up in the same business, and no other. And yet a married woman,
possessing your attractions, shuts her eyes (and sparklers too),
and goes and runs her delicate-formed head against a wall. Why, I
am ashamed of you! (I expected Mr. Woodcourt might have got it by
this time.)

Mrs. Snagsby shook her head and put her handkerchief to her eyes.

Is that all?said Mr. Bucket excitedly. "No. See what happens.
Another person mixed up in that business and no othera person in
a wretched statecomes here to-night and is seen a-speaking to
your maid-servant; and between her and your maid-servant there
passes a paper that I would give a hundred pound fordown. What
do you do? You hide and you watch 'emand you pounce upon that
maid-servant--knowing what she's subject to and what a little thing
will bring 'em on--in that surprising manner and with that severity
thatby the Lordshe goes off and keeps offwhen a life may be
hanging upon that girl's words!"

He so thoroughly meant what he said now that I involuntarily
clasped my hands and felt the room turning away from me. But it
stopped. Mr. Woodcourt came input a paper into his handand
went away again.

Now, Mrs, Snagsby, the only amends you can make,said Mr. Bucket
rapidly glancing at itis to let me speak a word to this young
lady in private here. And if you know of any help that you can
give to that gentleman in the next kitchen there or can think of
any one thing that's likelier than another to bring the girl round,
do your swiftest and best!In an instant she was goneand he had
shut the door. "Now my dearyou're steady and quite sure of
yourself?"

Quite,said I.

Whose writing is that?

It was my mother's. A pencil-writingon a crushed and torn piece
of paperblotted with wet. Folded roughly like a letterand
directed to me at my guardian's.

You know the hand,he saidand if you are firm enough to read


it to me, do! But be particular to a word.

It had been written in portionsat different times. I read what
follows:

I came to the cottage with two objects. First, to see the dear
one, if I could, once more--but only to see her--not to speak to
her or let her know that I was near. The other object, to elude
pursuit and to be lost. Do not blame the mother for her share.
The assistance that she rendered me, she rendered on my strongest
assurance that it was for the dear one's good. You remember her
dead child. The men's consent I bought, but her help was freely
given.

'I came.' That was written,said my companionwhen she rested
there. It bears out what I made of it. I was right.

The next was written at another time:

I have wandered a long distance, and for many hours, and I know
that I must soon die. These streets! I have no purpose but to
die. When I left, I had a worse, but I am saved from adding that
guilt to the rest. Cold, wet, and fatigue are sufficient causes
for my being found dead, but I shall die of others, though I suffer
from these. It was right that all that had sustained me should
give way at once and that I should die of terror and my conscience.

Take courage said Mr. Bucket. There's only a few words more."

Thosetoowere written at another time. To all appearance
almost in the dark:

I have done all I could do to be lost. I shall be soon forgotten
so, and shall disgrace him least. I have nothing about me by which
I can be recognized. This paper I part with now. The place where
I shall lie down, if I can get so far, has been often in my mind.
Farewell. Forgive.

Mr. Bucketsupporting me with his armlowered me gently into my
chair. "Cheer up! Don't think me hard with youmy dearbut as
soon as ever you feel equal to itget your shoes on and be ready."

I did as he requiredbut I was left there a long timepraying for
my unhappy mother. They were all occupied with the poor girland
I heard Mr. Woodcourt directing them and speaking to her often. At
length he came in with Mr. Bucket and said that as it was important
to address her gentlyhe thought it best that I should ask her for
whatever information we desired to obtain. There was no doubt that
she could now reply to questions if she were soothed and not
alarmed. The questionsMr. Bucket saidwere how she came by the
letterwhat passed between her and the person who gave her the
letterand where the person went. Holding my mind as steadily as
I could to these pointsI went into the next room with them. Mr.
Woodcourt would have remained outsidebut at my solicitation went
in with us.

The poor girl was sitting on the floor where they had laid her
down. They stood around herthough at a little distancethat she


might have air. She was not pretty and looked weak and poorbut
she had a plaintive and a good facethough it was still a little
wild. I kneeled on the ground beside her and put her poor head
upon my shoulderwhereupon she drew her arm round my neck and
burst into tears.

My poor girl,said Ilaying my face against her foreheadfor
indeed I was crying tooand tremblingit seems cruel to trouble
you now, but more depends on our knowing something about this
letter than I could tell you in an hour.

She began piteously declaring that she didn't mean any harmshe
didn't mean any harmMrs. Snagsby!

We are all sure of that,said I. "But pray tell me how you got
it."

Yes, dear lady, I will, and tell you true. I'll tell true,
indeed, Mrs. Snagsby.

I am sure of that,said I. "And how was it?"

I had been out on an errand, dear lady--long after it was dark-quite
late; and when I came home, I found a common-looking person,
all wet and muddy, looking up at our house. When she saw me coming
in at the door, she called me back and said did I live here. And I
said yes, and she said she knew only one or two places about here,
but had lost her way and couldn't find them. Oh, what shall I do,
what shall I do! They won't believe me! She didn't say any harm
to me, and I didn't say any harm to her, indeed, Mrs. Snagsby!

It was necessary for her mistress to comfort her--which she didI
must saywith a good deal of contrition--before she could be got
beyond this.

She could not find those places,said I.

No!cried the girlshaking her head. "No! Couldn't find them.
And she was so faintand lameand miserableOh so wretchedthat
if you had seen herMr. Snagsbyyou'd have given her half a
crownI know!"

Well, Guster, my girl,said heat first not knowing what to say.
I hope I should.

And yet she was so well spoken,said the girllooking at me with
wide open eyesthat it made a person's heart bleed. And so she
said to me, did I know the way to the burying ground? And I asked
her which burying ground. And she said, the poor burying ground.
And so I told her I had been a poor child myself, and it was
according to parishes. But she said she meant a poor burying
ground not very far from here, where there was an archway, and a
step, and an iron gate.

As I watched her face and soothed her to go onI saw that Mr.
Bucket received this with a look which I could not separate from
one of alarm.

Oh, dear, dear!cried the girlpressing her hair back with her
hands. "What shall I dowhat shall I do! She meant the burying
ground where the man was buried that took the sleeping-stuff--that
you came home and told us ofMr. Snagsby--that frightened me so
Mrs. Snagsby. OhI am frightened again. Hold me!"


You are so much better now,sald I. "Praypray tell me more."

Yes I will, yes I will! But don't be angry with me, that's a dear
lady, because I have been so ill.

Angry with herpoor soul!

There! Now I will, now I will. So she said, could I tell her how
to find it, and I said yes, and I told her; and she looked at me
with eyes like almost as if she was blind, and herself all waving
back. And so she took out the letter, and showed it me, and said
if she was to put that in the post-office, it would be rubbed out
and not minded and never sent; and would I take it from her, and
send it, and the messenger would be paid at the house. And so I
said yes, if it was no harm, and she said no--no harm. And so I
took it from her, and she said she had nothing to give me, and I
said I was poor myself and consequently wanted nothing. And so she
said God bless you, and went.

And did she go--

Yes,cried the girlanticipating the inquiry. "Yes! She went
the way I had shown her. Then I came inand Mrs. Snagsby came
behind me from somewhere and laid hold of meand I was
frightened."

Mr. Woodcourt took her kindly from me. Mr. Bucket wrapped me up
and immediately we were in the street. Mr. Woodcourt hesitated
but I saidDon't leave me now!and Mr. Bucket addedYou'll be
better with us, we may want you; don't lose time!

I have the most confused impressions of that walk. I recollect
that it was neither night nor daythat morning was dawning but the
street-lamps were not yet put outthat the sleet was still falling
and that all the ways were deep with it. I recollect a few chilled
people passing in the streets. I recollect the wet house-topsthe
clogged and bursting gutters and water-spoutsthe mounds of
blackened ice and snow over which we passedthe narrowness of the
courts by which we went. At the same time I remember that the poor
girl seemed to be yet telling her story audibly and plainly in my
hearingthat I could feel her resting on my armthat the stained
house-fronts put on human shapes and looked at methat great
water-gates seemed to be opening and closing in my head or in the
airand that the unreal things were more substantial than the
real.

At last we stood under a dark and miserable covered waywhere one
lamp was burning over an iron gate and where the morning faintly
struggled in. The gate was closed. Beyond it was a burial ground
--a dreadful spot in which the night was very slowly stirringbut
where I could dimly see heaps of dishonoured graves and stones
hemmed in by filthy houses with a few dull lights in their windows
and on whose walls a thick humidity broke out like a disease. On
the step at the gatedrenched in the fearful wet of such a place
which oozed and splashed down everywhereI sawwith a cry of pity
and horrora woman lying--Jennythe mother of the dead child.

I ran forwardbut they stopped meand Mr. Woodcourt entreated me
with the greatest earnestnesseven with tearsbefore I went up to
the figure to listen for an instant to what Mr. Bucket said. I did
soas I thought. I did soas I am sure.

Miss Summerson, you'll understand me, if you think a moment. They
changed clothes at the cottage.


They changed clothes at the cottage. I could repeat the words in
my mindand I knew what they meant of themselvesbut I attached
no meaning to them in any other connexion.

And one returned,said Mr. Bucketand one went on. And the one
that went on only went on a certain way agreed upon to deceive and
then turned across country and went home. Think a moment!

I could repeat this in my mind toobut I had not the least idea
what it meant. I saw before melying on the stepthe mother of
the dead child. She lay there with one arm creeping round a bar of
the iron gate and seeming to embrace it. She lay therewho had so
lately spoken to my mother. She lay therea distressed
unshelteredsenseless creature. She who had brought my mother's
letterwho could give me the only clue to where my mother was;
shewho was to guide us to rescue and save her whom we had sought
so farwho had come to this condition by some means connected with
my mother that I could not followand might be passing beyond our
reach and help at that moment; she lay thereand they stopped me!
I saw but did not comprehend the solemn and compassionate look in
Mr. Woodcourt's face. I saw but did not comprehend his touching
the other on the breast to keep him back. I saw him stand
uncovered in the bitter airwith a reverence for something. But
my understanding for all this was gone.

I even heard it said between themShall she go?

She had better go. Her hands should be the first to touch her.
They have a higher right than ours.

I passed on to the gate and stooped down. I lifted the heavy head
put the long dank hair asideand turned the face. And it was my
mothercold and dead.

CHAPTER LX

Perspective

I proceed to other passages of my narrative. From the goodness of
all about me I derived such consolation as I can never think of
unmoved. I have already said so much of myselfand so much still
remainsthat I will not dwell upon my sorrow. I had an illness
but it was not a long one; and I would avoid even this mention of
it if I could quite keep down the recollection of their sympathy.

I proceed to other passages of my narrative.

During the time of my illnesswe were still in Londonwhere Mrs.
Woodcourt had comeon my guardian's invitationto stay with us.
When my guardian thought me well and cheerful enough to talk with
him in our old way--though I could have done that sooner if he
would have believed me--I resumed my work and my chair beside his.
He had appointed the time himselfand we were alone.

Dame Trot,said hereceiving me with a kisswelcome to the
growlery again, my dear. I have a scheme to develop, little woman.
I propose to remain here, perhaps for six months, perhaps for a
longer time--as it may be. Quite to settle here for a while, in
short.


And in the meanwhile leave Bleak House?said I.

Aye, my dear? Bleak House,he returnedmust learn to take care
of itself.

I thought his tone sounded sorrowfulbut looking at himI saw his
kind face lighted up by its pleasantest smile.

Bleak House,he repeated--and his tone did NOT sound sorrowfulI
found--"must learn to take care of itself. It is a long way from
Adamy dearand Ada stands much in need of you."

It's like you, guardian,said Ito have been taking that into
consideration for a happy surprise to both of us.

Not so disinterested either, my dear, if you mean to extol me for
that virtue, since if you were generally on the road, you could be
seldom with me. And besides, I wish to hear as much and as often
of Ada as I can in this condition of estrangement from poor Rick.
Not of her alone, but of him too, poor fellow.

Have you seen Mr. Woodcourt, this morning, guardian?

I see Mr. Woodcourt every morning, Dame Durden.

Does he still say the same of Richard?

Just the same. He knows of no direct bodily illness that he has;
on the contrary, he believes that he has none. Yet he is not easy
about him; who CAN be?

My dear girl had been to see us lately every daysome times twice
in a day. But we had foreseenall alongthat this would only
last until I was quite myself. We knew full well that her fervent
heart was as full of affection and gratitude towards her cousin
John as it had ever beenand we acquitted Richard of laying any
injunctions upon her to stay away; but we knew on the other hand
that she felt it a part of her duty to him to be sparing of her
visits at our house. My guardian's delicacy had soon perceived
this and had tried to convey to her that he thought she was right.

Dear, unfortunate, mistaken Richard,said I. "When will he awake
from his delusion!"

He is not in the way to do so now, my dear,replied my guardian.
The more he suffers, the more averse he will be to me, having made
me the principal representative of the great occasion of his
suffering.

I could not help addingSo unreasonably!

Ah, Dame Trot, Dame Trot,returned my guardianwhat shall we
find reasonable in Jarndyce and Jarndyce! Unreason and injustice
at the top, unreason and injustice at the heart and at the bottom,
unreason and injustice from beginning to end--if it ever has an
end--how should poor Rick, always hovering near it, pluck reason
out of it? He no more gathers grapes from thorns or figs from
thistles than older men did in old times.

His gentleness and consideration for Richard whenever we spoke of
him touched me so that I was always silent on this subject very
soon.

I suppose the Lord Chancellor, and the Vice Chancellors, and the


whole Chancery battery of great guns would be infinitely astonished
by such unreason and injustice in one of their suitors,pursued my
guardian. "When those learned gentlemen begin to raise moss-roses
from the powder they sow in their wigsI shall begin to be
astonished too!"

He checked himself in glancing towards the window to look where the
wind was and leaned on the back of my chair instead.

Well, well, little woman! To go on, my dear. This rock we must
leave to time, chance, and hopeful circumstance. We must not
shipwreck Ada upon it. She cannot afford, and he cannot afford,
the remotest chance of another separation from a friend. Therefore
I have particularly begged of Woodcourt, and I now particularly beg
of you, my dear, not to move this subject with Rick. Let it rest.
Next week, next month, next year, sooner or later, he will see me
with clearer eyes. I can wait.

But I had already discussed it with himI confessed; and soI
thoughthad Mr. Woodcourt.

So he tells me,returned my guardian. "Very good. He has made
his protestand Dame Durden has made hersand there is nothing
more to be said about it. Now I come to Mrs. Woodcourt. How do
you like hermy dear?"

In answer to this questionwhich was oddly abruptI said I liked
her very much and thought she was more agreeable than she used to
be.

I think so too,said my guardian. "Less pedigree? Not so much
of Morgan ap--what's his name?"

That was what I meantI acknowledgedthough he was a very
harmless personeven when we had had more of him.

Still, upon the whole, he is as well in his native mountains,
said my guardian. "I agree with you. Thenlittle womancan I do
better for a time than retain Mrs. Woodcourt here?"

No. And yet-


My guardian looked at mewaiting for what I had to say.

I had nothing to say. At least I had nothing in my mind that I
could say. I had an undefined impression that it might have been
better if we had had some other inmatebut I could hardly have
explained why even to myself. Orif to myselfcertainly not to
anybody else.

You see,said my guardianour neighbourhood is in Woodcourt's
way, and he can come here to see her as often as he likes, which is
agreeable to them both; and she is familiar to us and fond of you.

Yes. That was undeniable. I had nothing to say against it. I
could not have suggested a better arrangementbut I was not quite
easy in my mind. EstherEstherwhy not? Estherthink!

It is a very good plan indeed, dear guardian, and we could not do
better.

Sure, little woman?

Quite sure. I had had a moment's time to thinksince I had urged


that duty on myselfand I was quite sure.

Good,said my guardian. "It shall be done. Carried
unanimously."

Carried unanimously,I repeatedgoing on with my work.

It was a cover for his book-table that I happened to be
ornamenting. It had been laid by on the night preceding my sad
journey and never resumed. I showed it to him nowand he admired
it highly. After I had explained the pattern to him and all the
great effects that were to come out by and byI thought I would go
back to our last theme.

You said, dear guardian, when we spoke of Mr. Woodcourt before Ada
left us, that you thought he would give a long trial to another
country. Have you been advising him since?

Yes, little woman, pretty often.

Has he decided to do so?

I rather think not.

Some other prospect has opened to him, perhaps?said I.

Why--yes--perhaps,returned my guardianbeginning his answer in
a very deliberate manner. "About half a year hence or sothere is
a medical attendant for the poor to be appointed at a certain place
in Yorkshire. It is a thriving placepleasantly situated--streams
and streetstown and countrymill and moor--and seems to present
an opening for such a man. I mean a man whose hopes and aims may
sometimes lie (as most men's sometimes doI dare say) above the
ordinary levelbut to whom the ordinary level will be high enough
after all if it should prove to be a way of usefulness and good
service leading to no other. All generous spirits are ambitiousI
supposebut the ambition that calmly trusts itself to such a road
instead of spasmodically trying to fly over itis of the kind I
care for. It is Woodcourt's kind."

And will he get this appointment?I asked.

Why, little woman,returned my guardiansmilingnot being an
oracle, I cannot confidently say, but I think so. His reputation
stands very high; there were people from that part of the country
in the shipwreck; and strange to say, I believe the best man has
the best chance. You must not suppose it to be a fine endowment.
It is a very, very commonplace affair, my dear, an appointment to a
great amount of work and a small amount of pay; but better things
will gather about it, it may be fairly hoped.

The poor of that place will have reason to bless the choice if it
falls on Mr. Woodcourt, guardian.

You are right, little woman; that I am sure they will.

We said no more about itnor did he say a word about the future of
Bleak House. But it was the first time I had taken my seat at his
side in my mourning dressand that accounted for itI considered.

I now began to visit my dear girl every day in the dull dark corner
where she lived. The morning was my usual timebut whenever I
found I had an hour or so to spareI put on my bonnet and bustled
off to Chancery Lane. They were both so glad to see me at all


hoursand used to brighten up so when they heard me opening the
door and coming in (being quite at homeI never knocked)that I
had no fear of becoming troublesome just yet.

On these occasions I frequently found Richard absent. At other
times he would be writing or reading papers in the cause at that
table of hisso covered with paperswhich was never disturbed.
Sometimes I would come upon him lingering at the door of Mr.
Vholes's office. Sometimes I would meet him in the neighbourhood
lounging about and biting his nails. I often met him wandering in
Lincoln's Innnear the place where I had first seen himoh how
differenthow different!

That the money Ada brought him was melting away with the candles I
used to see burning after dark in Mr. Vholes's office I knew very
well. It was not a large amount in the beginninghe had married
in debtand I could not fail to understandby this timewhat was
meant by Mr. Vholes's shoulder being at the wheel--as I still heard
it was. My dear made the best of housekeepers and tried hard to
savebut I knew that they were getting poorer and poorer every
day.

She shone in the miserable corner like a beautiful star. She
adorned and graced it so that it became another place. Paler than
she had been at homeand a little quieter than I had thought
natural when she was yet so cheerful and hopefulher face was so
unshadowed that I half believed she was blinded by her love for
Richard to his ruinous career.

I went one day to dine with them while I was under this impression.
As I turned into Symond's InnI met little Miss Flite coming out.
She had been to make a stately call upon the wards in Jarndyceas
she still called themand had derived the highest gratification
from that ceremony. Ada had already told me that she called every
Monday at five o'clockwith one little extra white bow in her
bonnetwhich never appeared there at any other timeand with her
largest reticule of documents on her arm.

My dear!she began. "So delighted! How do you do! So glad to
see you. And you are going to visit our interesting Jarndyce
wards? TO be sure! Our beauty is at homemy dearand will be
charmed to see you."

Then Richard is not come in yet?said I. "I am glad of thatfor
I was afraid of being a little late."

No, he is not come in,returned Miss Flite. "He has had a long
day in court. I left him there with Vholes. You don't like
VholesI hope? DON'T like Vholes. Dan-gerous man!"

I am afraid you see Richard oftener than ever now,said I.

My dearest,returned Miss Flitedaily and hourly. You know
what I told you of the attraction on the Chancellor's table? My
dear, next to myself he is the most constant suitor in court. He
begins quite to amuse our little party. Ve-ry friendly little
party, are we not?

It was miserable to hear this from her poor mad lipsthough it was
no surprise.

In short, my valued friend,pursued Miss Fliteadvancing her
lips to my ear with an air of equal patronage and mysteryI must
tell you a secret. I have made him my executor. Nominated,


constituted, and appointed him. In my will. Ye-es.

Indeed?said I.

Ye-es,repeated Miss Flite in her most genteel accentsmy
executor, administrator, and assign. (Our Chancery phrases, my
love.) I have reflected that if I should wear out, he will be able
to watch that judgment. Being so very regular in his attendance.

It made me sigh to think of him.

I did at one time mean,said Miss Fliteechoing the sighto
nominate, constitute, and appoint poor Gridley. Also very regular,
my charming girl. I assure you, most exemplary! But he wore out,
poor man, so I have appointed his successor. Don't mention it.
This is in confidence.

She carefully opened her reticule a little way and showed me a
folded piece of paper inside as the appointment of which she spoke.

Another secret, my dear. I have added to my collection of birds.

Really, Miss Flite?said Iknowing how it pleased her to have
her confidence received with an appearance of interest.

She nodded several timesand her face became overcast and gloomy.
Two more. I call them the Wards in Jarndyce. They are caged up
with all the others. With Hope, Joy, Youth, Peace, Rest, Life,
Dust, Ashes, Waste, Want, Ruin, Despair, Madness, Death, Cunning,
Folly, Words, Wigs, Rags, Sheepskin, Plunder, Precedent, Jargon,
Gammon, and Spinach!

The poor soul kissed me with the most troubled look I had ever seen
in her and went her way. Her manner of running over the names of
her birdsas if she were afraid of hearing them even from her own
lipsquite chilled me.

This was not a cheering preparation for my visitand I could have
dispensed with the company of Mr. Vholeswhen Richard (who arrived
within a minute or two after me) brought him to share our dinner.
Although it was a very plain oneAda and Richard were for some
minutes both out of the room together helping to get ready what we
were to eat and drink. Mr. Vholes took that opportunity of holding
a little conversation in a low voice with me. He came to the
window where I was sitting and began upon Symond's Inn.

A dull place, Miss Summerson, for a life that is not an official
one,said Mr. Vholessmearing the glass with his black glove to
make it clearer for me.

There is not much to see here,said I.

Nor to hear, miss,returned Mr. Vholes. "A little music does
occasionally stray inbut we are not musical in the law and soon
eject it. I hope Mr. Jarndyce is as well as his friends could wish
him?"

I thanked Mr. Vholes and said he was quite well.

I have not the pleasure to be admitted among the number of his
friends myself,said Mr. Vholesand I am aware that the
gentlemen of our profession are sometimes regarded in such quarters
with an unfavourable eye. Our plain course, however, under good
report and evil report, and all kinds of prejudice (we are the


victims of prejudice), is to have everything openly carried on.
How do you find Mr. C. looking, Miss Summerson?

He looks very ill. Dreadfully anxious.

Just so,said Mr. Vholes.

He stood behind me with his long black figure reaching nearly to
the ceiling of those low roomsfeeling the pimples on his face as
if they were ornaments and speaking inwardly and evenly as though
there were not a human passion or emotion in his nature.

Mr. Woodcourt is in attendance upon Mr. C., I believe?he
resumed.

Mr. Woodcourt is his disinterested friend,I answered.

But I mean in professional attendance, medical attendance.

That can do little for an unhappy mind,said I.

Just so,said Mr. Vholes.

So slowso eagerso bloodless and gauntI felt as if Richard
were wasting away beneath the eyes of this adviser and there were
something of the vampire in him.

Miss Summerson,said Mr. Vholesvery slowly rubbing his gloved
handsas ifto his cold sense of touchthey were much the same
in black kid or out of itthis was an ill-advised marriage of Mr.
C.'s.

I begged he would excuse me from discussing it. They had been
engaged when they were both very youngI told him (a little
indignantly) and when the prospect before them was much fairer and
brighter. When Richard had not yielded himself to the unhappy
influence which now darkened his life.

Just so,assented Mr. Vholes again. "Stillwith a view to
everything being openly carried onI willwith your permission
Miss Summersonobserve to you that I consider this a very ill-
advised marriage indeed. I owe the opinion not only to Mr. C.'s
connexionsagainst whom I should naturally wish to protect myself
but also to my own reputation--dear to myself as a professional man
aiming to keep respectable; dear to my three girls at homefor
whom I am striving to realize some little independence; dearI
will even sayto my aged fatherwhom it is my privilege to
support."

It would become a very different marriage, a much happier and
better marriage, another marriage altogether, Mr. Vholes,said I
if Richard were persuaded to turn his back on the fatal pursuit in
which you are engaged with him.

Mr. Vholeswith a noiseless cough--or rather gasp--into one of his
black glovesinclined his head as if he did not wholly dispute
even that.

Miss Summerson,he saidit may be so; and I freely admit that
the young lady who has taken Mr. C.'s name upon herself in so ill-
advised a manner--you will I am sure not quarrel with me for
throwing out that remark again, as a duty I owe to Mr. C.'s
connexions--is a highly genteel young lady. Business has prevented
me from mixing much with general society in any but a professional


character; still I trust I am competent to perceive that she is a
highly genteel young lady. As to beauty, I am not a judge of that
myself, and I never did give much attention to it from a boy, but I
dare say the young lady is equally eligible in that point of view.
She is considered so (I have heard) among the clerks in the Inn,
and it is a point more in their way than in mine. In reference to
Mr. C.'s pursult of his interests--

Oh! His interests, Mr. Vholes!

Pardon me,returned Mr. Vholesgoing on in exactly the same
inward and dispassionate manner. "Mr. C. takes certain interests
under certain wills disputed in the suit. It is a term we use. In
reference to Mr. C's pursuit of his interestsI mentioned to you
Miss Summersonthe first time I had the pleasure of seeing youin
my desire that everything should he openly carried on--I used those
wordsfor I happened afterwards to note them in my diarywhich is
producible at any time--I mentioned to you that Mr. C. had laid
down the principle of watching his own interestsand that when a
client of mine laid down a principle which was not of an immoral
(that is to sayunlawful) natureit devolved upon me to carry it
out. I HAVE carried it out; I do carry it out. But I will not
smooth things over to any connexion of Mr. C.'s on any account. As
open as I was to Mr. JarndyceI am to you. I regard it in the
light of a professional duty to be sothough it can be charged to
no one. I openly sayunpalatable as it may bethat I consider
Mr. C.'s affairs in a very bad waythat I consider Mr. C. himself
in a very bad wayand that I regard this as an exceedingly ill-
advised marriage. Am I heresir? YesI thank you; I am here
Mr. C.and enjoying the pleasure of some agreeable conversation
with Miss Summersonfor which I have to thank you very muchsir!"

He broke off thus in answer to Richardwho addressed him as he
came into the room. By this time I too well understood Mr.
Vholes's scrupulous way of saving himself and his respectability
not to feel that our worst fears did but keep pace with his
client's progress.

We sat down to dinnerand I had an opportunity of observing
Richardanxiously. I was not disturbed by Mr. Vholes (who took
off his gloves to dine)though he sat opposite to me at the small
tablefor I doubt iflooking up at allhe once removed his eyes
from his host's face. I found Richard thin and languidslovenly
in his dressabstracted in his mannerforcing his spirits now and
thenand at other intervals relapsing into a dull thoughtfulness.
About his large bright eyes that used to be so merry there was a
wanness and a restlessness that changed them altogether. 1 cannot
use the expression that he looked old. There is a ruin of youth
which is not like ageand into such a ruin Richard's youth and
youthful beauty had all fallen away.

He ate little and seemed indifferent what it wasshowed himself to
be much more impatient than he used to beand was quick even with
Ada. I thought at first that his old light-hearted manner was all
gonebut it shone out of him sometimes as I had occasionally known
little momentary glimpses of my own old face to look out upon me
from the glass. His laugh had not quite left him eitherbut it
was like the echo of a joyful soundand that is always sorrowful.

Yet he was as glad as everin his old affectionate wayto have me
thereand we talked of the old times pleasantly. These did not
appear to be interesting to Mr. Vholesthough he occasionally made
a gasp which I believe was his smile. He rose shortly after dinner
and said that with the permission of the ladies he would retire to


his office.

Always devoted to business, Vholes!cried Richard.

Yes, Mr. C.,he returnedthe interests of clients are never to
be neglected, sir. They are paramount in the thoughts of a
professional man like myself, who wishes to preserve a good name
among his fellow-practitioners and society at large. My denying
myself the pleasure of the present agreeable conversation may not
be wholly irrespective of your own interests, Mr. C.

Richard expressed himself quite sure of that and lighted Mr. Vholes
out. On his return he told usmore than oncethat Vholes was a
good fellowa safe fellowa man who did what he pretended to do
a very good fellow indeed! He was so defiant about it that it
struck me he had begun to doubt Mr. Vholes.

Then he threw himself on the sofatired out; and Ada and I put
things to rightsfor they had no other servant than the woman who
attended to the chambers. My dear girl had a cottage piano there
and quietly sat down to sing some of Richard's favouritesthe lamp
being first removed into the next roomas he complained of its
hurting his eyes.

I sat between themat my dear girl's sideand felt very
melancholy listening to her sweet voice. I think Richard did too;
I think he darkened the room for that reason. She had been singing
some timerising between whiles to bend over him and speak to him
when Mr. Woodcourt came in. Then he sat down by Richard and half
playfullyhalf earnestlyquite naturally and easilyfound out
how he felt and where he had been all day. Presently he proposed
to accompany him in a short walk on one of the bridgesas it was a
moonlight airy night; and Richard readily consentingthey went out
together.

They left my dear girl still sitting at the piano and me still
sitting beside her. When they were gone outI drew my arm round
her waist. She put her left hand in mine (I was sitting on that
side)but kept her right upon the keysgoing over and over them
without striking any note.

Esther, my dearest,she saidbreaking silenceRichard is never
so well and I am never so easy about him as when he is with Allan
Woodcourt. We have to thank you for that.

I pointed out to my darling how this could scarcely bebecause Mr.
Woodcourt had come to her cousin John's house and had known us all
thereand because he had always liked Richardand Richard had
always liked himand--and so forth.

All true,said Adabut that he is such a devoted friend to us
we owe to you.

I thought it best to let my dear girl have her way and to say no
more about it. So I said as much. I said it lightlybecause I
felt her trembling.

Esther, my dearest, I want to be a good wife, a very, very good
wife indeed. You shall teach me.

I teach! I said no morefor I noticed the hand that was
fluttering over the keysand I knew that it was not I who ought to
speakthat it was she who had something to say to me.


When I married Richard I was not insensible to what was before
him. I had been perfectly happy for a long time with you, and I
had never known any trouble or anxiety, so loved and cared for, but
I understood the danger he was in, dear Esther.

I know, I know, my darling.

When we were married I had some little hope that I might be able
to convince him of his mistake, that he might come to regard it in
a new way as my husband and not pursue it all the more desperately
for my sake--as he does. But if I had not had that hope, I would
have married him just the same, Esther. Just the same!

In the momentary firmness of the hand that was never still--a
firmness inspired by the utterance of these last wordsand dying
away with them--I saw the confirmation of her earnest tones.

You are not to think, my dearest Esther, that I fail to see what
you see and fear what you fear. No one can understand him better
than I do. The greatest wisdom that ever lived in the world could
scarcely know Richard better than my love does.

She spoke so modestly and softly and her trembling hand expressed
such agitation as it moved to and fro upon the silent notes! My
deardear girl!

I see him at his worst every day. I watch him in his sleep. I
know every change of his face. But when I married Richard I was
quite determined, Esther, if heaven would help me, never to show
him that I grieved for what he did and so to make him more unhappy.
I want him, when he comes home, to find no trouble in my face. I
want him, when he looks at me, to see what he loved in me. I
married him to do this, and this supports me.

I felt her trembling more. I waited for what was yet to comeand
I now thought I began to know what it was.

And something else supports me, Esther.

She stopped a minute. Stopped speaking only; her hand was still in
motion.

I look forward a little while, and I don't know what great aid may
come to me. When Richard turns his eyes upon me then, there may be
something lying on my breast more eloquent than I have been, with
greater power than mine to show him his true course and win him
back.

Her hand stopped now. She clasped me in her armsand I clasped
her in mine.

If that little creature should fail too, Esther, I still look
forward. I look forward a long while, through years and years, and
think that then, when I am growing old, or when I am dead perhaps,
a beautiful woman, his daughter, happily married, may be proud of
him and a blessing to him. Or that a generous brave man, as
handsome as he used to be, as hopeful, and far more happy, may walk
in the sunshine with him, honouring his grey head and saying to
himself, 'I thank God this is my father! Ruined by a fatal
inheritance, and restored through me!'

Ohmy sweet girlwhat a heart was that which beat so fast against
me!


These hopes uphold me, my dear Esther, and I know they will.
Though sometimes even they depart from me before a dread that
arises when I look at Richard.

I tried to cheer my darlingand asked her what it was. Sobbing
and weepingshe repliedThat he may not live to see his child.

CHAPTER LXI

A Discovery

The days when I frequented that miserable corner which my dear girl
brightened can never fade in my remembrance. I never see itand I
never wish to see it now; I have been there only once sincebut in
my memory there is a mournful glory shining on the place which will
shine for ever.

Not a day passed without my going thereof course. At first I
found Mr. Skimpole thereon two or three occasionsidly playing
the piano and talking in his usual vivacious strain. Nowbesides
my very much mistrusting the probability of his being there without
making Richard poorerI felt as if there were something in his
careless gaiety too inconsistent with what I knew of the depths of
Ada's life. I clearly perceivedtoothat Ada shared my feelings.
I therefore resolvedafter much thinking of itto make a private
visit to Mr. Skimpole and try delicately to explain myself. My
dear girl was the great consideration that made me bold.

I set off one morningaccompanied by Charleyfor Somers Town. As
I approached the houseI was strongly inclined to turn backfor I
felt what a desperate attempt it was to make an impression on Mr.
Skimpole and how extremely likely it was that he would signally
defeat me. HoweverI thought that being thereI would go through
with it. I knocked with a trembling hand at Mr. Skimpole's door-literally
with a handfor the knocker was gone--and after a long
parley gained admission from an Irishwomanwho was in the area
when I knockedbreaking up the lid of a water-butt with a poker to
light the fire with.

Mr. Skimpolelying on the sofa in his roomplaying the flute a
littlewas enchanted to see me. Nowwho should receive mehe
asked. Who would I prefer for mistress of the ceremonies? Would I
have his Comedy daughterhis Beauty daughteror his Sentiment
daughter? Or would I have all the daughters at once in a perfect
nosegay?

I repliedhalf defeated alreadythat I wished to speak to himself
only if he would give me leave.

'My dear Miss Summersonmost joyfully! Of course he said,
bringing his chair nearer mine and breaking into his fascinating
smile, of course it's not business. Then it's pleasure!

I said it certainly was not business that I came uponbut it was
not quite a pleasant matter.

Then, my dear Miss Summerson,said he with the frankest gaiety
don't allude to it. Why should you allude to anything that is NOT
a pleasant matter? I never do. And you are a much pleasanter
creature, in every point of view, than I. You are perfectly
pleasant; I am imperfectly pleasant; then, if I never allude to an


unpleasant matter, how much less should you! So that's disposed
of, and we will talk of something else.

Although I was embarrassedI took courage to intimate that I still
wished to pursue the subject.

I should think it a mistake,said Mr. Skimpole with his airy
laughif I thought Miss Summerson capable of making one. But I
don't!

Mr. Skimpole,said Iraising my eyes to hisI have so often
heard you say that you are unacquainted with the common affairs of
life--

Meaning our three banking-house friends, L, S, and who's the
junior partner? D?said Mr. Skimpolebrightly. "Not an idea of
them!"

--That perhaps,I went onyou will excuse my boldness on that
account. I think you ought most seriously to know that Richard is
poorer than he was.

Dear me!said Mr. Skimpole. "So am Ithey tell me."

And in very embarrassed circumstances.

Parallel case, exactly!said Mr. Skimpole with a delighted
countenance.

This at present naturally causes Ada much secret anxiety, and as I
think she is less anxious when no claims are made upon her by
visitors, and as Richard has one uneasiness always heavy on his
mind, it has occurred to me to take the liberty of saying that--if
you would--not--

I was coming to the point with great difficulty when he took me by
both hands and with a radiant face and in the liveliest way
anticipated it.

Not go there? Certainly not, my dear Miss Summerson, most
assuredly not. Why SHOULD I go there? When I go anywhere, I go
for pleasure. I don't go anywhere for pain, because I was made for
pleasure. Pain comes to ME when it wants me. Now, I have had very
little pleasure at our dear Richard's lately, and your practical
sagacity demonstrates why. Our young friends, losing the youthful
poetry which was once so captivating in them, begin to think, 'This
is a man who wants pounds.' So I am; I always want pounds; not for
myself, but because tradespeople always want them of me. Next, our
young friends begin to think, becoming mercenary, 'This is the man
who HAD pounds, who borrowed them,' which I did. I always borrow
pounds. So our young friends, reduced to prose (which is much to
be regretted), degenerate in their power of imparting pleasure to
me. Why should I go to see them, therefore? Absurd!

Through the beaming smile with which he regarded me as he reasoned
thusthere now broke forth a look of disinterested benevolence
quite astonishing.

Besides,he saidpursuing his argument in his tone of lighthearted
convictionif I don't go anywhere for pain--which would
be a perversion of the intention of my being, and a monstrous thing
to do--why should I go anywhere to be the cause of pain? If I went
to see our young friends in their present ill-regulated state of
mind, I should give them pain. The associations with me would be


disagreeable. They might say, 'This is the man who had pounds and
who can't pay pounds,' which I can't, of course; nothing could be
more out of the question! Then kindness requires that I shouldn't
go near them--and I won't.

He finished by genially kissing my hand and thanking me. Nothing
but Miss Summerson's fine tacthe saidwould have found this out
for him.

I was much disconcertedbut I reflected that if the main point
were gainedit mattered little how strangely he perverted
everything leading to it. I had determined to mention something
elsehoweverand I thought I was not to be put off in that.

Mr. Skimpole,said II must take the liberty of saying before I
conclude my visit that I was much surprised to learn, on the best
authority, some little time ago, that you knew with whom that poor
boy left Bleak House and that you accepted a present on that
occasion. I have not mentioned it to my guardian, for I fear it
would hurt him unnecessarily; but I may say to you that I was much
surprised.

No? Really surprised, my dear Miss Summerson?he returned
inquiringlyraising his pleasant eyebrows.

Greatly surprised.

He thought about it for a little while with a highly agreeable and
whimsical expression of facethen quite gave it up and said in his
most engaging mannerYou know what a child I am. Why surprised?

I was reluctant to enter minutely into that questionbut as he
begged I wouldfor he was really curious to knowI gave him to
understand in the gentlest words I could use that his conduct
seemed to involve a disregard of several moral obligations. He was
much amused and interested when he heard this and saidNo,
really?with ingenuous simplicity.

You know I don't intend to be responsible. I never could do it.
Responsibility is a thing that has always been above me--or below
me,said Mr. Skimpole. "I don't even know which; but as I
understand the way in which my dear Miss Summerson (always
remarkable for her practical good sense and clearness) puts this
caseI should imagine it was chiefly a question of moneydo you
know?"

I incautiously gave a qualified assent to this.

Ah! Then you see,said Mr. Skimpoleshaking his headI am
hopeless of understanding it.

I suggestedas I rose to gothat it was not right to betray my
guardian's confidence for a bribe.

My dear Miss Summerson,he returned with a candid hilarity that
was all his ownI can't be bribed.

Not by Mr. Bucket?said I.

No,said he. "Not by anybody. I don't attach any value to
money. I don't care about itI don't know about itI don't want
itI don't keep it--it goes away from me directly. How can I be
bribed?"


I showed that I was of a different opinionthough I had not the
capacity for arguing the question.

On the contrary,said Mr. SkimpoleI am exactly the man to be
placed in a superior position in such a case as that. I am above
the rest of mankind in such a case as that. I can act with
philosophy in such a case as that. I am not warped by prejudices,
as an Italian baby is by bandages. I am as free as the air. I
feel myself as far above suspicion as Caesar's wife.

Anything to equal the lightness of his manner and the playful
impartiality with which he seemed to convince himselfas he tossed
the matter about like a ball of featherswas surely never seen in
anybody else!

Observe the case, my dear Miss Summerson. Here is a boy received
into the house and put to bed in a state that I strongly object to.
The boy being in bed, a man arrives--like the house that Jack
built. Here is the man who demands the boy who is received into
the house and put to bed in a state that I strongly object to.
Here is a bank-note produced by the man who demands the boy who is
received into the house and put to bed in a state that I strongly
object to. Here is the Skimpole who accepts the bank-note produced
by the man who demands the boy who is received into the house and
put to bed in a state that I strongly object to. Those are the
facts. Very well. Should the Skimpole have refused the note? WHY
should the Skimpole have refused the note? Skimpole protests to
Bucket, 'What's this for? I don't understand it, it is of no use
to me, take it away.' Bucket still entreats Skimpole to accept it.
Are there reasons why Skimpole, not being warped by prejudices,
should accept it? Yes. Skimpole perceives them. What are they?
Skimpole reasons with himself, this is a tamed lynx, an active
police-officer, an intelligent man, a person of a peculiarly
directed energy and great subtlety both of conception and
execution, who discovers our friends and enemies for us when they
run away, recovers our property for us when we are robbed, avenges
us comfortably when we are murdered. This active police-officer
and intelligent man has acquired, in the exercise of his art, a
strong faith in money; he finds it very useful to him, and he makes
it very useful to society. Shall I shake that faith in Bucket
because I want it myself; shall I deliberately blunt one of
Bucket's weapons; shall I positively paralyse Bucket in his next
detective operation? And again. If it is blameable in Skimpole to
take the note, it is blameable in Bucket to offer the note--much
more blameable in Bucket, because he is the knowing man. Now,
Skimpole wishes to think well of Bucket; Skimpole deems it
essential, in its little place, to the general cohesion of things,
that he SHOULD think well of Bucket. The state expressly asks him
to trust to Bucket. And he does. And that's all he does!

I had nothing to offer in reply to this exposition and therefore
took my leave. Mr. Skimpolehoweverwho was in excellent
spiritswould not hear of my returning home attended only by
Little Coavinses,and accompanied me himself. He entertained me
on the way with a variety of delightful conversation and assured
meat partingthat he should never forget the fine tact with
which I had found that out for him about our young friends.

As it so happened that I never saw Mr. Skimpole againI may at
once finish what I know of his history. A coolness arose between
him and my guardianbased principally on the foregoing grounds and
on his having heartlessly disregarded my guardian's entreaties (as
we afterwards learned from Ada) in reference to Richard. His being
heavily in my guardian's debt had nothing to do with their


separation. He died some five years afterwards and left a diary
behind himwith letters and other materials towards his life
which was published and which showed him to have been the victim of
a combination on the part of mankind against an amiable child. It
was considered very pleasant readingbut I never read more of it
myself than the sentence on which I chanced to light on opening the
book. It was this: "Jarndycein common with most other men I have
knownis the incarnation of selfishness."

And now I come to a part of my story touching myself very nearly
indeedand for which I was quite unprepared when the circumstance
occurred. Whatever little lingerings may have now and then revived
in my mind associated with my poor old face had only revived as
belonging to a part of my life that was gone--gone like my infancy
or my childhood. I have suppressed none of my many weaknesses on
that subjectbut have written them as faithfully as my memory has
recalled them. And I hope to doand mean to dothe same down to
the last words of these pageswhich I see now not so very far
before me.

The months were gliding awayand my dear girlsustained by the
hopes she had confided in mewas the same beautiful star in the
miserable corner. Richardmore worn and haggardhaunted the
court day after daylistlessly sat there the whole day long when
he knew there was no remote chance of the suit being mentionedand
became one of the stock sights of the place. I wonder whether any
of the gentlemen remembered him as he was when he first went there.

So completely was he absorbed in his fixed idea that he used to
avow in his cheerful moments that he should never have breathed the
fresh air now "but for Woodcourt." It was only Mr. Woodcourt who
could occasionally divert his attention for a few hours at a time
and rouse himeven when he sunk into a lethargy of mind and body
that alarmed us greatlyand the returns of which became more
frequent as the months went on. My dear girl was right in saying
that he only pursued his errors the more desperately for her sake.
I have no doubt that his desire to retrieve what he had lost was
rendered the more intense by his grief for his young wifeand
became like the madness of a gamester.

I was thereas I have mentionedat all hours. When I was there
at nightI generally went home with Charley in a coach; sometimes
my guardian would meet me in the neighbourhoodand we would walk
home together. One evening he had arranged to meet me at eight
o'clock. I could not leaveas I usually didquite punctually at
the timefor I was working for my dear girl and had a few stitches
more to do to finish what I was about; but it was within a few
minutes of the hour when I bundled up my little work-basketgave
my darling my last kiss for the nightand hurried downstairs. Mr.
Woodcourt went with meas it was dusk.

When we came to the usual place of meeting--it was close byand
Mr. Woodcourt had often accompanied me before--my guardian was not
there. We waited half an hourwalking up and downbut there were
no signs of him. We agreed that he was either prevented from
coming or that he had come and gone awayand Mr. Woodcourt
proposed to walk home with me.

It was the first walk we had ever taken togetherexcept that very
short one to the usual place of meeting. We spoke of Richard and
Ada the whole way. I did not thank him in words for what he had
done--my appreciation of it had risen above all words then--but I
hoped he might not be without some understanding of what I felt so
strongly.


Arriving at home and going upstairswe found that my guardian was
out and that Mrs. Woodcourt was out too. We were in the very same
room into which I had brought my blushing girl when her youthful
lovernow her so altered husbandwas the choice of her young
heartthe very same room from which my guardian and I had watched
them going away through the sunlight in the fresh bloom of their
hope and promise.

We were standing by the opened window looking down into the street
when Mr. Woodcourt spoke to me. I learned in a moment that he
loved me. I learned in a moment that my scarred face was all
unchanged to him. I learned in a moment that what I had thought
was pity and compassion was devotedgenerousfaithful love. Oh
too late to know it nowtoo latetoo late. That was the first
ungrateful thought I had. Too late.

When I returned,he told mewhen I came back, no richer than
when I went away, and found you newly risen from a sick bed, yet so
inspired by sweet consideration for others and so free from a
selfish thought--

Oh, Mr. Woodcourt, forbear, forbear!I entreated him. "I do not
deserve your high praise. I had many selfish thoughts at that
timemany!"

Heaven knows, beloved of my life,said hethat my praise is not
a lover's praise, but the truth. You do not know what all around
you see in Esther Summerson, how many hearts she touches and
awakens, what sacred admiration and what love she wins.

Oh, Mr. Woodcourt,cried Iit is a great thing to win love, it
is a great thing to win love! I am proud of it, and honoured by
it; and the hearing of it causes me to shed these tears of mingled
joy and sorrow--joy that I have won it, sorrow that I have not
deserved it better; but I am not free to think of yours.

I said it with a stronger heartfor when he praised me thus and
when I heard his voice thrill with his belief that what he said was
trueI aspired to be more worthy of it. It was not too late for
that. Although I closed this unforeseen page in my life to-night
I could be worthier of it all through my life. And it was a
comfort to meand an impulse to meand I felt a dignity rise up
within me that was derived from him when I thought so.

He broke the silence.

I should poorly show the trust that I have in the dear one who
will evermore be as dear to me as now--and the deep earnestness
with which he said it at once strengthened me and made me weep-"
ifafter her assurance that she is not free to think of my love
I urged it. Dear Estherlet me only tell you that the fond idea
of you which I took abroad was exalted to the heavens when I came
home. I have always hopedin the first hour when I seemed to
stand in any ray of good fortuneto tell you this. I have always
feared that I should tell it you in vain. My hopes and fears are
both fulfilled to-night. I distress you. I have said enough."

Something seemed to pass into my place that was like the angel he
thought meand I felt so sorrowful for the loss he had sustained!
I wished to help him in his troubleas I had wished to do when he
showed that first commiseration for me.

Dear Mr. Woodcourt,said Ibefore we part to-night, something


is left for me to say. I never could say it as I wish--I never
shall--but--

I had to think again of being more deserving of his love and his
affliction before I could go on.

--I am deeply sensible of your generosity, and I shall treasure
its remembrance to my dying hour. I know full well how changed I
am, I know you are not unacquainted with my history, and I know
what a noble love that is which is so faithful. What you have said
to me could have affected me so much from no other lips, for there
are none that could give it such a value to me. It shall not be
lost. It shall make me better.

He covered his eyes with his hand and turned away his head. How
could I ever be worthy of those tears?

If, in the unchanged intercourse we shall have together--in
tending Richard and Ada, and I hope in many happier scenes of life
--you ever find anything in me which you can honestly think is
better than it used to be, believe that it will have sprung up from
to-night and that I shall owe it to you. And never believe, dear
dear Mr. Woodcourt, never believe that I forget this night or that
while my heart beats it can be insensible to the pride and joy of
having been beloved by you.

He took my hand and kissed it. He was like himself againand I
felt still more encouraged.

I am induced by what you said just now,said Ito hope that you
have succeeded in your endeavour.

I have,he answered. "With such help from Mr. Jarndyce as you
who know him so well can imagine him to have rendered meI have
succeeded."

Heaven bless him for it,said Igiving him my hand; "and heaven
bless you in all you do!"

I shall do it better for the wish,he answered; "it will make me
enter on these new duties as on another sacred trust from you."

Ah! Richard!I exclaimed involuntarilyWhat will he do when
you are gone!

I am not required to go yet; I would not desert him, dear Miss
Summerson, even if I were.

One other thing I felt it needful to touch upon before he left me.
I knew that I should not be worthier of the love I could not take
if I reserved it.

Mr. Woodcourt,said Iyou will be glad to know from my lips
before I say good night that in the future, which is clear and
bright before me, I am most happy, most fortunate, have nothing to
regret or desire.

It was indeed a glad hearing to himhe replied.

From my childhood I have been,said Ithe object of the
untiring goodness of the best of human beings, to whom I am so
bound by every tie of attachment, gratitude, and love, that nothing
I could do in the compass of a life could express the feelings of a
single day.


I share those feelings,he returned. "You speak of Mr.
Jarndyce."

You know his virtues well,said Ibut few can know the
greatness of his character as I know it. All its highest and best
qualities have been revealed to me in nothing more brightly than in
the shaping out of that future in which I am so happy. And if your
highest homage and respect had not been his already--which I know
they are--they would have been his, I think, on this assurance and
in the feeling it would have awakened in you towards him for my
sake.

He fervently replied that indeed indeed they would have been. I
gave him my hand again.

Good night,I saidGood-bye.

The first until we meet to-morrow, the second as a farewell to
this theme between us for ever.

Yes.

Good night; good-bye.

He left meand I stood at the dark window watching the street.
His lovein all its constancy and generosityhad come so suddenly
upon me that he had not left me a minute when my fortitude gave way
again and the street was blotted out by my rushing tears.

But they were not tears of regret and sorrow. No. He had called
me the beloved of his life and had said I would be evermore as dear
to him as I was thenand I felt as if my heart would not hold the
triumph of having heard those words. My first wild thought had
died away. It was not too late to hear themfor it was not too
late to be animated by them to be goodtruegratefuland
contented. How easy my pathhow much easier than his!

CHAPTER LXII

Another Discovery

I had not the courage to see any one that night. I had not even
the courage to see myselffor I was afraid that my tears might a
little reproach me. I went up to my room in the darkand prayed
in the darkand lay down in the dark to sleep. I had no need of
any light to read my guardian's letter byfor I knew it by heart.
I took it from the place where I kept itand repeated its contents
by its own clear light of integrity and loveand went to sleep
with it on my pillow.

I was up very early in the morning and called Charley to come for a
walk. We bought flowers for the breakfast-tableand came back and
arranged themand were as busy as possible. We were so early that
I had a good time still for Charley's lesson before breakfast;
Charley (who was not in the least improved in the old defective
article of grammar) came through it with great applause; and we
were altogether very notable. When my guardian appeared he said
Why, little woman, you look fresher than your flowers!And Mrs.
Woodcourt repeated and translated a passage from the
Mewlinnwillinwodd expressive of my being like a mountain with the


sun upon it.

This was all so pleasant that I hope it made me still more like the
mountain than I had been before. After breakfast I waited my
opportunity and peeped about a little until I saw my guardian in
his own room--the room of last night--by himself. Then I made an
excuse to go in with my housekeeping keysshutting the door after
me.

Well, Dame Durden?said my guardian; the post had brought him
several lettersand he was writing. "You want money?"

No, indeed, I have plenty in hand.

There never was such a Dame Durden,said my guardianfor making
money last.

He had laid down his pen and leaned back in his chair looking at
me. I have often spoken of his bright facebut I thought I had
never seen it look so bright and good. There was a high happiness
upon it which made me thinkHe has been doing some great kindness
this morning.

There never was,said my guardianmusing as he smiled upon me
such a Dame Durden for making money last.

He had never yet altered his old manner. I loved it and him so
much that when I now went up to him and took my usual chairwhich
was always put at his side--for sometimes I read to himand
sometimes I talked to himand sometimes I silently worked by him-I
hardly liked to disturb it by laying my hand on his breast. But
I found I did not disturb it at all.

Dear guardian,said II want to speak to you. Have I been
remiss in anything?

Remiss in anything, my dear!

Have I not been what I have meant to be since--I brought the
answer to your letter, guardian?

You have been everything I could desire, my love.

I am very glad indeed to hear that,I returned. "You knowyou
said to mewas this the mistress of Bleak House. And I said
yes."

Yes,said my guardiannodding his head. He had put his arm
about me as if there were something to protect me from and looked
in my facesmiling.

Since then,said Iwe have never spoken on the subject except
once.

And then I said Bleak House was thinning fast; and so it was, my
dear.

And I said,I timidly reminded himbut its mistress remained.

He still held me in the same protecting manner and with the same
bright goodness in his face.

Dear guardian,said II know how you have felt all that has
happened, and how considerate you have been. As so much time has


passed, and as you spoke only this morning of my being so well
again, perhaps you expect me to renew the subject. Perhaps I ought
to do so. I will be the mistress of Bleak House when you please.

See,he returned gailywhat a sympathy there must be between
us! I have had nothing else, poor Rick excepted--it's a large
exception--in my mind. When you came in, I was full of it. When
shall we give Bleak House its mistress, little woman?

When you please.

Next month?

Next month, dear guardian.

The day on which I take the happiest and best step of my life--the
day on which I shall be a man more exulting and more enviable than
any other man in the world--the day on which I give Bleak House its
little mistress--shall be next month then,said my guardian.

I put my arms round his neck and kissed him just as I had done on
the day when I brought my answer.

A servant came to the door to announce Mr. Bucketwhich was quite
unnecessaryfor Mr. Bucket was already looking in over the
servant's shoulder. "Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson said he,
rather out of breath, with all apologies for intrudingWILL you
allow me to order up a person that's on the stairs and that objects
to being left there in case of becoming the subject of observations
in his absence? Thank you. Be so good as chair that there member
in this directionwill you?" said Mr. Bucketbeckoning over the
banisters.

This singular request produced an old man in a black skull-cap
unable to walkwho was carried up by a couple of bearers and
deposited in the room near the door. Mr. Bucket immediately got
rid of the bearersmysteriously shut the doorand bolted it.

Now you see, Mr. Jarndyce,he then beganputting down his hat
and opening his subject with a flourish of his well-remembered
fingeryou know me, and Miss Summerson knows me. This gentleman
likewise knows me, and his name is Smallweed. The discounting line
is his line principally, and he's what you may call a dealer in
bills. That's about what YOU are, you know, ain't you?said Mr.
Bucketstopping a little to address the gentleman in questionwho
was exceedingly suspicious of him.

He seemed about to dispute this designation of himself when he was
seized with a violent fit of coughing.

Now, moral, you know!said Mr. Bucketimproving the accident.
Don't you contradict when there ain't no occasion, and you won't
be took in that way. Now, Mr. Jarndyce, I address myself to you.
I've been negotiating with this gentleman on behalf of Sir
Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, and one way and another I've been in
and out and about his premises a deal. His premises are the
premises formerly occupied by Krook, marine store dealer--a
relation of this gentleman's that you saw in his life-time if I
don't mistake?

My guardian repliedYes.

Well! You are to understand,said Mr. Bucketthat this
gentleman he come into Krook's property, and a good deal of magpie


property there was. Vast lots of waste-paper among the rest. Lord
bless you, of no use to nobody!

The cunning of Mr. Bucket's eye and the masterly manner in which he
contrivedwithout a look or a word against which his watchful
auditor could protestto let us know that he stated the case
according to previous agreement and could say much more of Mr.
Smallweed if he thought it advisabledeprived us of any merit in
quite understanding him. His difficulty was increased by Mr.
Smallweed's being deaf as well as suspicious and watching his face
with the closest attention.

Among them odd heaps of old papers, this gentleman, when he comes
into the property, naturally begins to rummage, don't you see?
said Mr. Bucket.

To which? Say that again,cried Mr. Smallweed in a shrillsharp
voice.

To rummage,repeated Mr. Bucket. "Being a prudent man and
accustomed to take care of your own affairsyou begin to rummage
among the papers as you have come into; don't you?"

Of course I do,cried Mr. Smallweed.

Of course you do,said Mr. Bucket conversationallyand much to
blame you would be if you didn't. And so you chance to find, you
know,Mr. Bucket went onstooping over him with an air of
cheerful raillery which Mr. Smallweed by no means reciprocated
and so you chance to find, you know, a paper with the signature of
Jarndyce to it. Don't you?

Mr. Smallweed glanced with a troubled eye at us and grudgingly
nodded assent.

And coming to look at that paper at your full leisure and
convenience--all in good time, for you're not curious to read it,
and why should you be?--what do you find it to be but a will, you
see. That's the drollery of it,said Mr. Bucket with the same
lively air of recalling a joke for the enjoyment of Mr. Smallweed
who still had the same crest-fallen appearance of not enjoying it
at all; "what do you find it to be but a will?"

I don't know that it's good as a will or as anything else,
snarled Mr. Smallweed.

Mr. Bucket eyed the old man for a moment--he had slipped and shrunk
down in his chair into a mere bundle--as if he were much disposed
to pounce upon him; neverthelesshe continued to bend over him
with the same agreeable airkeeping the corner of one of his eyes
upon us.

Notwithstanding which,said Mr. Bucketyou get a little
doubtful and uncomfortable in your mind about it, having a very
tender mind of your own.

Eh? What do you say I have got of my own?asked Mr. Smallweed
with his hand to his ear.

A very tender mind.

Ho! Well, go on,said Mr. Smallweed.

And as you've heard a good deal mentioned regarding a celebrated


Chancery will case of the same name, and as you know what a card
Krook was for buying all manner of old pieces of furniter, and
books, and papers, and what not, and never liking to part with 'em,
and always a-going to teach himself to read, you begin to think-and
you never was more correct in your born days--'Ecod, if I don't
look about me, I may get into trouble regarding this will.'

Now, mind how you put it, Bucket,cried the old man anxiously
with his hand at his ear. "Speak up; none of your brimstone
tricks. Pick me up; I want to hear better. OhLordI am shaken
to bits!"

Mr. Bucket had certainly picked him up at a dart. Howeveras soon
as he could be heard through Mr. Smallweed's coughing and his
vicious ejaculations of "Ohmy bones! Ohdear! I've no breath
in my body! I'm worse than the chatteringclatteringbrimstone
pig at home!" Mr. Bucket proceeded in the same convivial manner as
before.

So, as I happen to be in the habit of coming about your premises,
you take me into your confidence, don't you?

I think it would be impossible to make an admission with more ill
will and a worse grace than Mr. Smallweed displayed when he
admitted thisrendering it perfectly evident that Mr. Bucket was
the very last person he would have thought of taking into his
confidence if he could by any possibility have kept him out of it.

And I go into the business with you--very pleasant we are over it;
and I confirm you in your well-founded fears that you will get
yourself into a most precious line if you don't come out with that
there will,said Mr. Bucket emphatically; "and accordingly you
arrange with me that it shall be delivered up to this present Mr.
Jarndyceon no conditions. If it should prove to be valuableyou
trusting yourself to him for your reward; that's about where it is
ain't it?"

That's what was agreed,Mr. Smallweed assented with the same bad
grace.

In consequence of which,said Mr. Bucketdismissing his
agreeable manner all at once and becoming strictly businesslike
you've got that will upon your person at the present time, and the
only thing that remains for you to do is just to out with it!

Having given us one glance out of the watching corner of his eye
and having given his nose one triumphant rub with his forefinger
Mr. Bucket stood with his eyes fastened on his confidential friend
and his hand stretched forth ready to take the paper and present it
to my guardian. It was not produced without much reluctance and
many declarations on the part of Mr. Smallweed that he was a poor
industrious man and that he left it to Mr. Jarndyce's honour not to
let him lose by his honesty. Little by little he very slowly took
from a breast-pocket a staineddiscoloured paper which was much
singed upon the outside and a little burnt at the edgesas if it
had long ago been thrown upon a fire and hastily snatched off
again. Mr. Bucket lost no time in transferring this paperwith
the dexterity of a conjurorfrom Mr. Smallweed to Mr. Jarndyce.
As he gave it to my guardianhe whispered behind his fingers
Hadn't settled how to make their market of it. Quarrelled and
hinted about it. I laid out twenty pound upon it. First the
avaricious grandchildren split upon him on account of their
objections to his living so unreasonably long, and then they split
on one another. Lord! There ain't one of the family that wouldn't


sell the other for a pound or two, except the old lady--and she's
only out of it because she's too weak in her mind to drive a
bargain.

Mr Bucket,said my guardian aloudwhatever the worth of this
paper may be to any one, my obligations are great to you; and if it
be of any worth, I hold myself bound to see Mr. Smallweed
remunerated accordingly.

Not according to your merits, you know,said Mr. Bucket in
friendly explanation to Mr. Smallweed. "Don't you be afraid of
that. According to its value."

That is what I mean,said my guardian. "You may observeMr.
Bucketthat I abstain from examining this paper myself. The plain
truth isI have forsworn and abjured the whole business these many
yearsand my soul is sick of it. But Miss Summerson and I will
immediately place the paper in the hands of my solicitor in the
causeand its existence shall be made known without delay to all
other parties interested."

Mr. Jarndyce can't say fairer than that, you understand,observed
Mr. Bucket to his fellow-visitor. "And it being now made clear to
you that nobody's a-going to be wronged--which must be a great
relief to YOUR mind--we may proceed with the ceremony of chairing
you home again."

He unbolted the doorcalled in the bearerswished us good
morningand with a look full of meaning and a crook of his finger
at parting went his way.

We went our way toowhich was to Lincoln's Innas quickly as
possible. Mr. Kenge was disengagedand we found him at his table
in his dusty room with the inexpressive-looking books and the piles
of papers. Chairs having been placed for us by Mr. GuppyMr.
Kenge expressed the surprise and gratification he felt at the
unusual sight of Mr. Jarndyce in his office. He turned over his
double eye-glass as he spoke and was more Conversation Kenge than
ever.

I hope,said Mr. Kengethat the genial influence of Miss
Summerson,he bowed to memay have induced Mr. Jarndyce,he
bowed to himto forego some little of his animosity towards a
cause and towards a court which are--shall I say, which take their
place in the stately vista of the pillars of our profession?

I am inclined to think,returned my guardianthat Miss
Summerson has seen too much of the effects of the court and the
cause to exert any influence in their favour. Nevertheless, they
are a part of the occasion of my being here. Mr. Kenge, before I
lay this paper on your desk and have done with it, let me tell you
how it has come into my hands.

He did so shortly and distinctly.

It could not, sir,said Mr. Kengehave been stated more plainly
and to the purpose if it had been a case at law.

Did you ever know English law, or equity either, plain and to the
purpose?said my guardian.

Oh, fie!said Mr. Kenge.

At first he had not seemed to attach much importance to the paper


but when he saw it he appeared more interestedand when he had
opened and read a little of it through his eye-glasshe became
amazed. "Mr. Jarndyce he said, looking off it, you have perused
this?"

Not I!returned my guardian.

But, my dear sir,said Mr. Kengeit is a will of later date
than any in the suit. It appears to be all in the testator's
handwriting. It is duly executed and attested. And even if
intended to be cancelled, as might possibly be supposed to be
denoted by these marks of fire, it is NOT cancelled. Here it is, a
perfect instrument!

Well!said my guardian. "What is that to me?"

Mr. Guppy!cried Mr. Kengeraising his voice. "I beg your
pardonMr. Jarndyce."

Sir.

Mr. Vholes of Symond's Inn. My compliments. Jarndyce and
Jarndyce. Glad to speak with him.

Mr. Guppy disappeared.

You ask me what is this to you, Mr. Jarndyce. If you had perused
this document, you would have seen that it reduces your interest
considerably, though still leaving it a very handsome one, still
leaving it a very handsome one,said Mr. Kengewaving his hand
persuasively and blandly. "You would further have seen that the
interests of Mr. Richard Carstone and of Miss Ada Clarenow Mrs.
Richard Carstoneare very materially advanced by it."

Kenge,said my guardianif all the flourishing wealth that the
suit brought into this vile court of Chancery could fall to my two
young cousins, I should be well contented. But do you ask ME to
believe that any good is to come of Jarndyce and Jarndyce?

Oh, really, Mr. Jarndyce! Prejudice, prejudice. My dear sir,
this is a very great country, a very great country. Its system of
equity is a very great system, a very great system. Really,
really!

My guardian said no moreand Mr. Vholes arrived. He was modestly
impressed by Mr. Kenge's professional eminence.

How do you do, Mr. Vholes? Willl you be so good as to take a
chair here by me and look over this paper?

Mr. Vholes did as he was asked and seemed to read it every word.
He was not excited by itbut he was not excited by anything. When
he had well examined ithe retired with Mr. Kenge into a window
and shading his mouth with his black glovespoke to him at some
length. I was not surprised to observe Mr. Kenge inclined to
dispute what he said before he had said muchfor I knew that no
two people ever did agree about anything in Jarndyce and Jarndyce.
But he seemed to get the better of Mr. Kenge too in a conversation
that sounded as if it were almost composed of the words "Receiver-
General Accountant-General report estate and costs."
When they had finishedthey came back to Mr. Kenge's table and
spoke aloud.

Well! But this is a very remarkable document, Mr. Vholes,said


Mr. Kenge.

Mr. Vholes saidVery much so.

And a very important document, Mr. Vholes,said Mr. Kenge.

Again Mr. Vholes saidVery much so.

And as you say, Mr. Vholes, when the cause is in the paper next
term, this document will be an unexpected and interesting feature
in it,said Mr. Kengelooking loftily at my guardian.

Mr. Vholes was gratifiedas a smaller practitioner striving to
keep respectableto be confirmed in any opinion of his own by such
an authority.

And when,asked my guardianrising after a pauseduring which
Mr. Kenge had rattled his money and Mr. Vholes had picked his
pimpleswhen is next term?

Next term, Mr. Jarndyce, will be next month,said Mr. Kenge. "Of
course we shall at once proceed to do what is necessary with this
document and to collect the necessary evidence concerning it; and
of course you will receive our usual notification of the cause
being in the paper."

To which I shall pay, of course, my usual attention.

Still bent, my dear sir,said Mr. Kengeshowing us through the
outer office to the doorstill bent, even with your enlarged
mind, on echoing a popular prejudice? We are a prosperous
community, Mr. Jarndyce, a very prosperous community. We are a
great country, Mr. Jarndyce, we are a very great country. This is
a great system, Mr. Jarndyce, and would you wish a great country to
have a little system? Now, really, really!

He said this at the stair-headgently moving his right hand as if
it were a silver trowel with which to spread the cement of his
words on the structure of the system and consolidate it for a
thousand ages.

CHAPTER LXIII

Steel and Iron

George's Shooting Gallery is to letand the stock is sold offand
George himself is at Chesney Wold attending on Sir Leicester in his
rides and riding very near his bridle-rein because of the uncertain
hand with which he guides his horse. But not to-day is George so
occupied. He is journeying to-day into the iron country farther
north to look about him.

As he comes into the iron country farther northsuch fresh green
woods as those of Chesney Wold are left behind; and coal pits and
asheshigh chimneys and red bricksblighted verdurescorching
firesand a heavy never-lightening cloud of smoke become the
features of the scenery. Among such objects rides the trooper
looking about him and always looking for something he has come to
find.

At laston the black canal bridge of a busy townwith a clang of


iron in itand more fires and more smoke than he has seen yetthe
trooperswart with the dust of the coal roadschecks his horse
and asks a workman does he know the name of Rouncewell thereabouts.

Why, master,quoth the workmando I know my own name?

'Tis so well known here, is it, comrade?asks the trooper.

Rouncewell's? Ah! You're right.

And where might it be now?asks the trooper with a glance before
him.

The bank, the factory, or the house?the workman wants to know.

Hum! Rouncewell's is so great apparently,mutters the trooper
stroking his chinthat I have as good as half a mind to go back
again. Why, I don't know which I want. Should I find Mr.
Rouncewell at the factory, do you think?

Tain't easy to say where you'd find him--at this time of the day
you might find either him or his son there, if he's in town; but
his contracts take him away.

And which is the factory? Whyhe sees those chimneys--the tallest
ones! Yeshe sees THEM. Well! Let him keep his eye on those
chimneysgoing on as straight as ever he canand presently he'll
see 'em down a turning on the leftshut in by a great brick wall
which forms one side of the street. That's Rouncewell's.

The trooper thanks his informant and rides slowly onlooking about
him. He does not turn backbut puts up his horse (and is much
disposed to groom him too) at a public-house where some of
Rouncewell's hands are diningas the ostler tells him. Some of
Rouncewell's hands have just knocked off for dinner-time and seem
to be invading the whole town. They are very sinewy and strong
are Rouncewell's hands--a little sooty too.

He comes to a gateway in the brick walllooks inand sees a great
perplexity of iron lying about in every stage and in a vast variety
of shapes--in barsin wedgesin sheets; in tanksin boilersin
axlesin wheelsin cogsin cranksin rails; twisted and
wrenched into eccentric and perverse forms as separate parts of
machinery; mountains of it broken upand rusty in its age; distant
furnaces of it glowing and bubbling in its youth; bright fireworks
of it showering about under the blows of the steam-hammer; red-hot
ironwhite-hot ironcold-black iron; an iron tastean iron
smelland a Babel of iron sounds.

This is a place to make a man's head ache too!says the trooper
looking about him for a counting-house. "Who comes here? This is
very like me before I was set up. This ought to be my nephewif
likenesses run in families. Your servantsir."

Yours, sir. Are you looking for any one?

Excuse me. Young Mr. Rouncewell, I believe?

Yes.

I was looking for your father, sir. I wish to have a word with
him.

The young mantelling him he is fortunate in his choice of a time


for his father is thereleads the way to the office where he is to
be found. "Very like me before I was set up--devilish like me!"
thinks the trooper as he follows. They come to a building in the
yard with an office on an upper floor. At sight of the gentleman
in the officeMr. George turns very red.

What name shall I say to my father?asks the young man.

Georgefull of the idea of ironin desperation answers "Steel
and is so presented. He is left alone with the gentleman in the
office, who sits at a table with account-books before him and some
sheets of paper blotted with hosts of figures and drawings of
cunning shapes. It is a bare office, with bare windows, looking on
the iron view below. Tumbled together on the table are some pieces
of iron, purposely broken to be tested at various periods of their
service, in various capacities. There is iron-dust on everything;
and the smoke is seen through the windows rolling heavily out of
the tall chimneys to mingle with the smoke from a vaporous Babylon
of other chimneys.

I am at your serviceMr. Steel says the gentleman when his
visitor has taken a rusty chair.

WellMr. Rouncewell George replies, leaning forward with his
left arm on his knee and his hat in his hand, and very chary of
meeting his brother's eye, I am not without my expectations that
in the present visit I may prove to be more free than welcome. I
have served as a dragoon in my dayand a comrade of mine that I
was once rather partial to wasif I don't deceive myselfa
brother of yours. I believe you had a brother who gave his family
some troubleand ran awayand never did any good but in keeping
away?"

Are you quite sure,returns the ironmaster in an altered voice
that your name is Steel?

The trooper falters and looks at him. His brother starts upcalls
him by his nameand grasps him by both hands.

You are too quick for me!cries the trooper with the tears
springing out of his eyes. "How do you domy dear old fellow? I
never could have thought you would have been half so glad to see me
as all this. How do you domy dear old fellowhow do you do!"

They shake hands and embrace each other over and over againthe
trooper still coupling his "How do you domy dear old fellow!"
with his protestation that he never thought his brother would have
been half so glad to see him as all this!

So far from it,he declares at the end of a full account of what
has preceded his arrival thereI had very little idea of making
myself known. I thought if you took by any means forgivingly to my
name I might gradually get myself up to the point of writing a
letter. But I should not have been surprised, brother, if you had
considered it anything but welcome news to hear of me.

We will show you at home what kind of news we think it, George,
returns his brother. "This is a great day at homeand you could
not have arrivedyou bronzed old soldieron a better. I make an
agreement with my son Watt to-day that on this day twelvemonth he
shall marry as pretty and as good a girl as you have seen in all
your travels. She goes to Germany to-morrow with one of your
nieces for a little polishing up in her education. We make a feast
of the eventand you will be made the hero of it."


Mr. George is so entirely overcome at first by this prospect that
he resists the proposed honour with great earnestness. Being
overbornehoweverby his brother and his nephew--concerning whom
he renews his protestations that he never could have thought they
would have been half so glad to see him--he is taken home to an
elegant house in all the arrangements of which there is to be
observed a pleasant mixture of the originally simple habits of the
father and mother with such as are suited to their altered station
and the higher fortunes of their children. Here Mr. George is much
dismayed by the graces and accomplishments of his nieces that are
and by the beauty of Rosahis niece that is to beand by the
affectionate salutations of these young ladieswhich he receives
in a sort of dream. He is sorely taken abacktooby the dutiful
behaviour of his nephew and has a woeful consciousness upon him of
being a scapegrace. Howeverthere is great rejoicing and a very
hearty company and infinite enjoymentand Mr. George comes bluff
and martial through it alland his pledge to be present at the
marriage and give away the bride is received with universal favour.
A whirling head has Mr. George that night when he lies down in the
state-bed of his brother's house to think of all these things and
to see the images of his nieces (awful all the evening in their
floating muslins) waltzingafter the German mannerover his
counterpane.

The brothers are closeted next morning in the ironmaster's room
where the elder is proceedingin his clear sensible wayto show
how he thinks he may best dispose of George in his businesswhen
George squeezes his hand and stops him.

Brother, I thank you a million times for your more than brotherly
welcome, and a million times more to that for your more than
brotherly intentions. But my plans are made. Before I say a word
as to them, I wish to consult you upon one family point. How,
says the trooperfolding his arms and looking with indomitable
firmness at his brotherhow is my mother to be got to scratch
me?

I am not sure that I understand you, George,replies the
ironmaster.

I say, brother, how is my mother to be got to scratch me? She
must be got to do it somehow.

Scratch you out of her will, I think you mean?

Of course I do. In short,says the trooperfolding his arms
more resolutely yetI mean--TO--scratch me!

My dear George,returns his brotheris it so indispensable that
you should undergo that process?

Quite! Absolutely! I couldn't be guilty of the meanness of
coming back without it. I should never be safe not to be off
again. I have not sneaked home to rob your children, if not
yourself, brother, of your rights. I, who forfeited mine long ago!
If I am to remain and hold up my head, I must be scratched. Come.
You are a man of celebrated penetration and intelligence, and you
can tell me how it's to be brought about.

I can tell you, George,replies the ironmaster deliberatelyhow
it is not to be brought about, which I hope may answer the purpose
as well. Look at our mother, think of her, recall her emotion when
she recovered you. Do you believe there is a consideration in the


world that would induce her to take such a step against her
favourite son? Do you believe there is any chance of her consent,
to balance against the outrage it would be to her (loving dear old
lady!) to propose it? If you do, you are wrong. No, George! You
must make up your mind to remain UNscratched, I think.There is
an amused smile on the ironmaster's face as he watches his brother
who is ponderingdeeply disappointed. "I think you may manage
almost as well as if the thing were donethough."

How, brother?

Being bent upon it, you can dispose by will of anything you have
the misfortune to inherit in any way you like, you know.

That's true!says the trooperpondering again. Then he
wistfully askswith his hand on his brother'sWould you mind
mentioning that, brother, to your wife and family?

Not at all.

Thank you. You wouldn't object to say, perhaps, that although an
undoubted vagabond, I am a vagabond of the harum-scarum order, and
not of the mean sort?

The ironmasterrepressing his amused smileassents.

Thank you. Thank you. It's a weight off my mind,says the
trooper with a heave of his chest as he unfolds his arms and puts a
hand on each legthough I had set my heart on being scratched,
too!

The brothers are very like each othersitting face to face; but a
certain massive simplicity and absence of usage in the ways of the
world is all on the trooper's side.

Well,he proceedsthrowing off his disappointmentnext and
last, those plans of mine. You have been so brotherly as to
propose to me to fall in here and take my place among the products
of your perseverance and sense. I thank you heartily. It's more
than brotherly, as I said before, and I thank you heartily for it,
shaking him a long time by the hand. "But the truth isbrotherI
am a--I am a kind of a weedand it's too late to plant me in a
regular garden."

My dear George,returns the elderconcentrating his strong
steady brow upon him and smiling confidentlyleave that to me,
and let me try.

George shakes his head. "You could do itI have not a doubtif
anybody could; but it's not to be done. Not to be donesir!
Whereas it so falls outon the other handthat I am able to be of
some trifle of use to Sir Leicester Dedlock since his illness-brought
on by family sorrows--and that he would rather have that
help from our mother's son than from anybody else."

Well, my dear George,returns the other with a very slight shade
upon his open faceif you prefer to serve in Sir Leicester
Dedlock's household brigade--

There it is, brother,cries the trooperchecking himwith his
hand upon his knee again; "there it is! You don't take kindly to
that idea; I don't mind it. You are not used to being officered; I
am. Everything about you is in perfect order and discipline;
everything about me requires to be kept so. We are not accustomed


to carry things with the same hand or to look at 'em from the same
point. I don't say much about my garrison manners because I found
myself pretty well at my ease last nightand they wouldn't be
noticed hereI dare sayonce and away. But I shall get on best
at Chesney Woldwhere there's more room for a weed than there is
here; and the dear old lady will be made happy besides. Therefore
I accept of Sir Leicester Dedlock's proposals. When I come over
next year to give away the brideor whenever I comeI shall have
the sense to keep the household brigade in ambuscade and not to
manoeuvre it on your ground. I thank you heartily again and am
proud to think of the Rouncewells as they'll be founded by you."

You know yourself, George,says the elder brotherreturning the
grip of his handand perhaps you know me better than I know
myself. Take your way. So that we don't quite lose one another
again, take your way.

No fear of that!returns the trooper. "Nowbefore I turn my
horse's head homewardsbrotherI will ask you--if you'll be so
good--to look over a letter for me. I brought it with me to send
from these partsas Chesney Wold might be a painful name just now
to the person it's written to. I am not much accustomed to
correspondence myselfand I am particular respecting this present
letter because I want it to be both straightforward and delicate."

Herewith he hands a letterclosely written in somewhat pale ink
but in a neat round handto the ironmasterwho reads as follows:

Miss Esther Summerson

A communication having been made to me by Inspector Bucket of a
letter to myself being found among the papers of a certain person
I take the liberty to make known to you that it was but a few lines
of instruction from abroadwhenwhereand how to deliver an
enclosed letter to a young and beautiful ladythen unmarriedin
England. I duly observed the same.

I further take the liberty to make known to you that it was got
from me as a proof of handwriting only and that otherwise I would
not have given it upas appearing to be the most harmless in my
possessionwithout being previously shot through the heart.

I further take the liberty to mention that if I could have supposed
a certain unfortunate gentleman to have been in existenceI never
could and never would have rested until I had discovered his
retreat and shared my last farthing with himas my duty and my
inclination would have equally been. But he was (officially)
reported drownedand assuredly went over the side of a transport-
ship at night in an Irish harbour within a few hours of her arrival
from the West Indiesas I have myself heard both from officers and
men on boardand know to have been (officially) confirmed.

I further take the liberty to state that in my humble quality as
one of the rank and fileI amand shall ever continue to beyour
thoroughly devoted and admiring servant and that I esteem the
qualities you possess above all others far beyond the limits of the
present dispatch.

I have the honour to be

GEORGE


A little formal,observes the elder brotherrefolding it with a
puzzled face.

But nothing that might not be sent to a pattern young lady?asks
the younger.

Nothing at all.

Therefore it is sealed and deposited for posting among the iron
correspondence of the day. This doneMr. George takes a hearty
farewell of the family party and prepares to saddle and mount. His
brotherhoweverunwilling to part with him so soonproposes to
ride with him in a light open carriage to the place where he will
bait for the nightand there remain with him until morninga
servant riding for so much of the journey on the thoroughbred old
grey from Chesney Wold. The offerbeing gladly acceptedis
followed by a pleasant ridea pleasant dinnerand a pleasant
breakfastall in brotherly communion. Then they once more shake
hands long and heartily and partthe ironmaster turning his face
to the smoke and firesand the trooper to the green country.
Early in the afternoon the subdued sound of his heavy military trot
is heard on the turf in the avenue as he rides on with imaginary
clank and jingle of accoutrements under the old elm-trees.

CHAPTER LXIV

Esther's Narrative

Soon after I had that convertion with my guardianhe put a sealed
paper in my hand one morning and saidThis is for next month, my
dear.I found in it two hundred pounds.

I now began very quietly to make such preparations as I thought
were necessary. Regulating my purchases by my guardian's taste
which I knew very well of courseI arranged my wardrobe to please
him and hoped I should be highly successful. I did it all so
quietly because I was not quite free from my old apprehension that
Ada would be rather sorry and because my guardian was so quiet
himself. I had no doubt that under all the circumstances we should
be married in the most private and simple manner. Perhaps I should
only have to say to AdaWould you like to come and see me married
to-morrow, my pet?Perhaps our wedding might even be as
unpretending as her ownand I might not find it necessary to say
anything about it until it was over. I thought that if I were to
chooseI would like this best.

The only exception I made was Mrs. Woodcourt. I told her that I
was going to be married to my guardian and that we had been engaged
some time. She highly approved. She could never do enough for me
and was remarkably softened now in comparison with what she had
been when we first knew her. There was no trouble she would not
have taken to have been of use to mebut I need hardly say that I
only allowed her to take as little as gratified her kindness
without tasking it.

Of course this was not a time to neglect my guardianand of course
it was not a time for neglecting my darling. So I had plenty of
occupationwhich I was glad of; and as to Charleyshe was
absolutely not to be seen for needlework. To surround herself with
great heaps of it--baskets full and tables full--and do a little
and spend a great deal of time in staring with her round eyes at


what there was to doand persuade herself that she was going to do
itwere Charley's great dignities and delights.

MeanwhileI must sayI could not agree with my guardian on the
subject of the willand I had some sanguine hopes of Jarndyce and
Jarndyce. Which of us was right will soon appearbut I certainly
did encourage expectations. In Richardthe discovery gave
occasion for a burst of business and agitation that buoyed him up
for a little timebut he had lost the elasticity even of hope now
and seemed to me to retain only its feverish anxieties. From
something my guardian said one day when we were talking about this
I understood that my marriage would not take place until after the
term-time we had been told to look forward to; and I thought the
morefor thathow rejoiced I should be if I could be married when
Richard and Ada were a little more prosperous.

The term was very near indeed when my guardian was called out of
town and went down into Yorkshire on Mr. Woodcourt's business. He
had told me beforehand that his presence there would be necessary.
I had just come in one night from my dear girl's and was sitting in
the midst of all my new clotheslooking at them all around me and
thinkingwhen a letter from my guardian was brought to me. It
asked me to join him in the country and mentioned by what stagecoach
my place was taken and at what time in the morning I should
have to leave town. It added in a postscript that I would not be
many hours from Ada.

I expected few things less than a journey at that tinaebut I was
ready for it in half an hour and set off as appointed early next
morning. I travelled all daywondering all day what I could be
wanted for at such a distance; now I thought it might be for this
purposeand now I thought it might be for that purposebut I was
nevernevernever near the truth.

It was night when I came to my journey's end and found my guardian
waiting for me. This was a great relieffor towards evening I had
begun to fear (the more so as his letter was a very short one) that
he might be ill. Howeverthere he wasas well as it was possible
to be; and when I saw his genial face again at its brightest and
bestI said to myselfhe has been doing some other great
kindness. Not that it required much penetration to say that
because I knew that his being there at all was an act of kindness.

Supper was ready at the hoteland when we were alone at table he
saidFull of curiosity, no doubt, little woman, to know why I
have brought you here?

Well, guardian,said Iwithout thinking myself a Fatima or you
a Blue Beard, I am a little curious about it.

Then to ensure your night's rest, my love,he returned gailyI
won't wait until to-morrow to tell you. I have very much wished to
express to Woodcourt, somehow, my sense of his humanity to poor
unfortunate Jo, his inestimable services to my young cousins, and
his value to us all. When it was decided that he should settle
here, it came into my head that I might ask his acceptance of some
unpretending and suitable little place to lay his own head in. I
therefore caused such a place to be looked out for, and such a
place was found on very easy terms, and I have been touching it up
for him and making it habitable. However, when I walked over it
the day before yesterday and it was reported ready, I found that I
was not housekeeper enough to know whether things were all as they
ought to be. So I sent off for the best little housekeeper that
could possibly be got to come and give me her advice and opinion.


And here she is,said my guardianlaughing and crying both
together!

Because he was so dearso goodso admirable. I tried to tell him
what I thought of himbut I could not articulate a word.

Tut, tut!said my guardian. "You make too much of itlittle
woman. Whyhow you sobDame Durdenhow you sob!"

It is with exquisite pleasure, guardian--with a heart full of
thanks.

Well, well,said he. "I am delighted that you approve. I
thought you would. I meant it as a pleasant surprise for the
little mistress of Bleak House."

I kissed him and dried my eyes. "I know now!" said I. "I have
seen this in your face a long while."

No; have you really, my dear?said he. "What a Dame Durden it is
to read a face!"

He was so quaintly cheerful that I could not long be otherwiseand
was almost ashamed of having been otherwise at all. When I went to
bedI cried. I am bound to confess that I cried; but I hope it
was with pleasurethough I am not quite sure it was with pleasure.
I repeated every word of the letter twice over.

A most beautiful summer morning succeededand after breakfast we
went out arm in arm to see the house of which I was to give my
mighty housekeeping opinion. We entered a flower-garden by a gate
in a side wallof which he had the keyand the first thing I saw
was that the beds and flowers were all laid out according to the
manner of my beds and flowers at home.

You see, my dear,observed my guardianstanding still with a
delighted face to watch my looksknowing there could be no better
plan, I borrowed yours.

We went on by a pretty little orchardwhere the cherries were
nestling among the green leaves and the shadows of the apple-trees
were sporting on the grassto the house itself--a cottagequite a
rustic cottage of doll's rooms; but such a lovely placeso
tranquil and so beautifulwith such a rich and smiling country
spread around it; with water sparkling away into the distancehere
all overhung with summer-growththere turning a humming mill; at
its nearest point glancing through a meadow by the cheerful town
where cricket-players were assembling in bright groups and a flag
was flying from a white tent that rippled in the sweet west wind.
And stillas we went through the pretty roomsout at the little
rustic verandah doorsand underneath the tiny wooden colonnades
garlanded with woodbinejasmineand honey-suckleI saw in the
papering on the wallsin the colours of the furniturein the
arrangement of all the pretty objectsMY little tastes and
fanciesMY little methods and inventions which they used to laugh
at while they praised themmy odd ways everywhere.

I could not say enough in admiration of what was all so beautiful
but one secret doubt arose in my mind when I saw thisI thought
ohwould he be the happier for it! Would it not have been better
for his peace that I should not have been so brought before him?
Because although I was not what he thought mestill he loved me
very dearlyand it might remind him mournfully of what be believed
he had lost. I did not wish him to forget me--perhaps he might not


have done sowithout these aids to his memory--but my way was
easier than hisand I could have reconciled myself even to that so
that he had been the happier for it.

And now, little woman,said my guardianwhom I had never seen so
proud and joyful as in showing me these things and watching my
appreciation of themnow, last of all, for the name of this
house.

What is it called, dear guardian?

My child,said hecome and see,

He took me to the porchwhich he had hitherto avoidedand said
pausing before we went outMy dear child, don't you guess the
name?

No!said I.

We went out of the porch and he showed me written over itBleak
House.

He led me to a seat among the leaves close byand sitting down
beside me and taking my hand in hisspoke to me thusMy darling
girl, in what there has been between us, I have, I hope, been
really solicitous for your happiness. When I wrote you the letter
to which you brought the answer,smiling as he referred to itI
had my own too much in view; but I had yours too. Whether, under
different circumstances, I might ever have renewed the old dream I
sometimes dreamed when you were very young, of making you my wife
one day, I need not ask myself. I did renew it, and I wrote my
letter, and you brought your answer. You are following what I say,
my child?

I was coldand I trembled violentlybut not a word he uttered was
lost. As I sat looking fixedly at him and the sun's rays
descendedsoftly shining through the leaves upon his bare headI
felt as if the brightness on him must be like the brightness of the
angels.

Hear me, my love, but do not speak. It is for me to speak now.
When it was that I began to doubt whether what I had done would
really make you happy is no matter. Woodcourt came home, and I
soon had no doubt at all.

I clasped him round the neck and hung my bead upon his breast and
wept. "Lie lightlyconfidently heremy child said he, pressing
me gently to him. I am your guardian and your father now. Rest
confidently here."

Soothinglylike the gentle rustling of the leaves; and genially
like the ripening weather; and radiantly and beneficentlylike the
sunshinehe went on.

Understand me, my dear girl. I had no doubt of your being
contented and happy with me, being so dutiful and so devoted; but I
saw with whom you would be happier. That I penetrated his secret
when Dame Durden was blind to it is no wonder, for I knew the good
that could never change in her better far than she did. Well! I
have long been in Allan Woodcourt's confidence, although he was
not, until yesterday, a few hours before you came here, in mine.
But I would not have my Esther's bright example lost; I would not
have a jot of my dear girl's virtues unobserved and unhonoured; I
would not have her admitted on sufferance into the line of Morgan


ap-Kerrig, no, not for the weight in gold of all the mountains in
Wales!

He stopped to kiss me on the foreheadand I sobbed and wept
afresh. For I felt as if I could not bear the painful delight of
his praise.

Hush, little woman! Don't cry; this is to be a day of joy. I
have looked forward to it,he said exultinglyfor months on
months! A few words more, Dame Trot, and I have said my say.
Determined not to throw away one atom of my Esther's worth, I took
Mrs. Woodcourt into a separate confidence. 'Now, madam,' said I,
'I clearly perceive--and indeed I know, to boot--that your son
loves my ward. I am further very sure that my ward loves your son,
but will sacrifice her love to a sense of duty and affection, and
will sacrifice it so completely, so entirely, so religiously, that
you should never suspect it though you watched her night and day.'
Then I told her all our story--ours--yours and mine. 'Now, madam,'
said I, 'come you, knowing this, and live with us. Come you, and
see my child from hour to hour; set what you see against her
pedigree, which is this, and this'--for I scorned to mince it--'and
tell me what is the true legitimacy when you shall have quite made
up your mind on that subject.' Why, honour to her old Welsh blood,
my dear,cried my guardian with enthusiasmI believe the heart
it animates beats no less warmly, no less admiringly, no less
lovingly, towards Dame Durden than my own!

He tenderly raised my headand as I clung to himkissed me in his
old fatherly way again and again. What a lightnowon the
protecting manner I had thought about!

One more last word. When Allan Woodcourt spoke to you, my dear,
he spoke with my knowledge and consent--but I gave him no
encouragement, not I, for these surprises were my great reward, and
I was too miserly to part with a scrap of it. He was to come and
tell me all that passed, and he did. I have no more to say. My
dearest, Allan Woodcourt stood beside your father when he lay dead
--stood beside your mother. This is Bleak House. This day I give
this house its little mistress; and before God, it is the brightest
day in all my life!

He rose and raised me with him. We were no longer alone. My
husband--I have called him by that name full seven happy years now
--stood at my side.

Allan,said my guardiantake from me a willing gift, the best
wife that ever man had. What more can I say for you than that I
know you deserve her! Take with her the little home she brings
you. You know what she will make it, Allan; you know what she has
made its namesake. Let me share its felicity sometimes, and what
do I sacrifice? Nothing, nothing.

He kissed me once againand now the tears were in his eyes as he
said more softlyEsther, my dearest, after so many years, there
is a kind of parting in this too. I know that my mistake has
caused you some distress. Forgive your old guardian, in restoring
him to his old place in your affections; and blot it out of your
memory. Allan, take my dear.

He moved away from under the green roof of leavesand stopping in
the sunlight outside and turning cheerfully towards ussaidI
shall be found about here somewhere. It's a west wind, little
woman, due west! Let no one thank me any more, for I am going to
revert to my bachelor habits, and if anybody disregards this


warning, I'll run away and never come back!

What happiness was ours that daywhat joywhat restwhat hope
what gratitudewhat bliss! We were to be married before the month
was outbut when we were to come and take possession of our own
house was to depend on Richard and Ada.

We all three went home together next day. As soon as we arrived in
townAllan went straight to see Richard and to carry our joyful
news to him and my darling. Late as it wasI meant to go to her
for a few minutes before lying down to sleepbut I went home with
my guardian first to make his tea for him and to occupy the old
chair by his sidefor I did not like to think of its being empty
so soon.

When we came home we found that a young man had called three times
in the course of that one day to see me and that having been told
on the occasion of his third call that I was not expected to return
before ten o'clock at nighthe had left word that he would call
about then. He had left his card three times. Mr. Guppy.

As I naturally speculated on the object of these visitsand as I
always associated something ludicrous with the visitorit fell out
that in laughing about Mr. Guppy I told my guardian of his old
proposal and his subsequent retraction. "After that said my
guardian, we will certainly receive this hero." So instructions
were given that Mr. Guppy should be shown in when he came again
and they were scarcely given when he did come again.

He was embarrassed when he found my guardian with mebut recovered
himself and saidHow de do, sir?

How do you do, sir?returned my guardian.

Thank you, sir, I am tolerable,returned Mr. Guppy. "Will you
allow me to introduce my motherMrs. Guppy of the Old Street Road
and my particular friendMr. Weevle. That is to saymy friend
has gone by the name of Weevlebut his name is really and truly
Jobling."

My guardian begged them to be seatedand they all sat down.

Tony,said Mr. Guppy to his friend after an awkward silence.
Will you open the case?

Do it yourself,returned the friend rather tartly.

Well, Mr. Jarndyce, sir,Mr. Guppyafter a moment's
considerationbeganto the great diversion of his motherwhich
she displayed by nudging Mr. Jobling with her elbow and winking at
me in a most remarkable mannerI had an idea that I should see
Miss Summerson by herself and was not quite prepared for your
esteemed presence. But Miss Summerson has mentioned to you,
perhaps, that something has passed between us on former occasions?

Miss Summerson,returned my guardiansmilinghas made a
communication to that effect to me.

That,said Mr. Guppymakes matters easier. Sir, I have come
out of my articles at Kenge and Carboy's, and I believe with
satisfaction to all parties. I am now admitted (after undergoing
an examination that's enough to badger a man blue, touching a pack
of nonsense that he don't want to know) on the roll of attorneys
and have taken out my certificate, if it would be any satisfaction


to you to see it.

Thank you, Mr. Guppy,returned my guardian. "I am quite willing
--I believe I use a legal phrase--to admit the certificate."

Mr. Guppy therefore desisted from taking something out of his
pocket and proceeded without it.

I have no capital myselfbut my mother has a little property which
takes the form of an annuity"--here Mr. Guppy's mother rolled her
head as if she never could sufficiently enjoy the observationand
put her handkerchief to her mouthand again winked at me--"and a
few pounds for expenses out of pocket in conducting business will
never be wantingfree of interestwhich is an advantageyou
know said Mr. Guppy feelingly.

Certainly an advantage returned my guardian.

I HAVE some connexion pursued Mr. Guppy, and it lays in the
direction of Walcot SquareLambeth. I have therefore taken a
'ouse in that localitywhichin the opinion of my friendsis a
hollow bargain (taxes ridiculousand use of fixtures included in
the rent)and intend setting up professionally for myself there
forthwith."

Here Mr. Guppy's mother fell into an extraordinary passion of
rolling her head and smiling waggishly at anybody who would look at
her.

It's a six-roomer, exclusive of kitchens,said Mr. Guppyand in
the opinion of my friends, a commodious tenement. When I mention
my friends, I refer principally to my friend Jobling, who I believe
has known me,Mr. Guppy looked at him with a sentimental air
from boyhood's hour.

Mr. Jobling confirmed this with a sliding movement of his legs.

My friend Jobling will render me his assistance in the capacity of
clerk and will live in the 'ouse,said Mr. Guppy. "My mother will
likewise live in the 'ouse when her present quarter in the Old
Street Road shall have ceased and expired; and consequently there
will be no want of society. My friend Jobling is naturally
aristocratic by tasteand besides being acquainted with the
movements of the upper circlesfully backs me in the intentions I
am now developing."

Mr. Jobling said "Certainly" and withdrew a little from the elbow
of Mr Guppy's mother.

Now, I have no occasion to mention to you, sir, you being in the
confidence of Miss Summerson,said Mr. Guppy(mother, I wish
you'd be so good as to keep still), that Miss Summerson's image was
formerly imprinted on my 'eart and that I made her a proposal of
marriage.

That I have heard,returned my guardian.

Circumstances,pursued Mr. Guppyover which I had no control,
but quite the contrary, weakened the impression of that image for a
time. At which time Miss Summerson's conduct was highly genteel; I
may even add, magnanimous.

My guardian patted me on the shoulder and seemed much amused.


Now, sir,said Mr. GuppyI have got into that state of mind
myself that I wish for a reciprocity of magnanimous behaviour. I
wish to prove to Miss Summerson that I can rise to a heighth of
which perhaps she hardly thought me capable. I find that the image
which I did suppose had been eradicated from my 'eart is NOT
eradicated. Its influence over me is still tremenjous, and
yielding to it, I am willing to overlook the circumstances over
which none of us have had any control and to renew those proposals
to Miss Summerson which I had the honour to make at a former
period. I beg to lay the 'ouse in Walcot Square, the business, and
myself before Miss Summerson for her acceptance.

Very magnanimous indeed, sir,observed my guardian.

Well, sir,replied Mr. Guppy with candourmy wish is to BE
magnanimous. I do not consider that in making this offer to Miss
Summerson I am by any means throwing myself away; neither is that
the opinion of my friends. Still, there are circumstances which I
submit may be taken into account as a set off against any little
drawbacks of mine, and so a fair and equitable balance arrived at.

I take upon myself, sir,said my guardianlaughing as he rang
the bellto reply to your proposals on behalf of Miss Summerson.
She is very sensible of your handsome intentions, and wishes you
good evening, and wishes you well.

Oh!said Mr. Guppy with a blank look. "Is that tantamountsir
to acceptanceor rejectionor consideration?"

To decided rejection, if you please,returned my guardian.

Mr. Guppy looked incredulously at his friendand at his mother
who suddenly turned very angryand at the floorand at the
ceiling.

Indeed?said he. "ThenJoblingif you was the friend you
represent yourselfI should think you might hand my mother out of
the gangway instead of allowing her to remain where she ain't
wanted."

But Mrs. Guppy positively refused to come out of the gangway. She
wouldn't hear of it. "Whyget along with you said she to my
guardian, what do you mean? Ain't my son good enough for you?
You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Get out with you!"

My good lady,returned my guardianit is hardly reasonable to
ask me to get out of my own room.

I don't care for that,said Mrs. Guppy. "Get out with you. If
we ain't good enough for yougo and procure somebody that is good
enough. Go along and find 'em."

I was quite unprepared for the rapid manner in which Mrs. Guppy's
power of jocularity merged into a power of taking the profoundest
offence.

Go along and find somebody that's good enough for you,repeated
Mrs. Guppy. "Get out!" Nothing seemed to astonish Mr. Guppy's
mother so much and to make her so very indignant as our not getting
out. "Why don't you get out?" said Mrs. Guppy. "What are you
stopping here for?"

Mother,interposed her sonalways getting before her and pushing
her back with one shoulder as she sidled at my guardianWILL you


hold your tongue?

No, William,she returnedI won't! Not unless he gets out, I
won't!

HoweverMr. Guppy and Mr. Jobling together closed on Mr. Guppy's
mother (who began to be quite abusive) and took hervery much
against her willdownstairsher voice rising a stair higher every
time her figure got a stair lowerand insisting that we should
immediately go and find somebody who was good enough for usand
above all things that we should get out.

CHAPTER LXV

Beginning the World

The term had commencedand my guardian found an intimation from
Mr. Kenge that the cause would come on in two days. As I had
sufficient hopes of the will to be in a flutter about itAllan and
I agreed to go down to the court that morning. Richard was
extremely agitated and was so weak and lowthough his illness was
still of the mindthat my dear girl indeed had sore occasion to be
supported. But she looked forward--a very little way now--to the
help that was to come to herand never drooped.

It was at Westminster that the cause was to come on. It had come
on thereI dare saya hundred times beforebut I could not
divest myself of an idea that it MIGHT lead to some result now. We
left home directly after breakfast to be at Westminster Hall in
good time and walked down there through the lively streets--so
happily and strangely it seemed!--together.

As we were going alongplanning what we should do for Richard and
AdaI heard somebody calling "Esther! My dear Esther! Esther!"
And there was Caddy Jellybywith her head out of the window of a
little carriage which she hired now to go about in to her pupils
(she had so many)as if she wanted to embrace me at a hundred
yards' distance. I had written her a note to tell her of all that
my guardian had donebut had not had a moment to go and see her.
Of course we turned backand the affectionate girl was in that
state of raptureand was so overjoyed to talk about the night when
she brought me the flowersand was so determined to squeeze my
face (bonnet and all) between her handsand go on in a wild manner
altogethercalling me all kinds of precious namesand telling
Allan I had done I don't know what for herthat I was just obliged
to get into the little carriage and caln her down by letting her
say and do exactly what she liked. Allanstanding at the window
was as pleased as Caddy; and I was as pleased as either of them;
and I wonder that I got away as I didrather than that I came off
laughingand redand anything but tidyand looking after Caddy
who looked after us out of the coach-window as long as she could
see us.

This made us some quarter of an hour lateand when we came to
Westminster Hall we found that the day's business was begun. Worse
than thatwe found such an unusual crowd in the Court of Chancery
that it was full to the doorand we could neither see nor hear
what was passing within. It appeared to be something drollfor
occasionally there was a laugh and a cry of "Silence!" It appeared
to be something interestingfor every one was pushing and striving
to get nearer. It appeared to be something that made the


professional gentlemen very merryfor there were several young
counsellors in wigs and whiskers on the outside of the crowdand
when one of them told the others about itthey put their hands in
their pocketsand quite doubled themselves up with laughterand
went stamping about the pavement of the Hall.

We asked a gentleman by us if he knew what cause was on. He told
us Jarndyce and Jarndyce. We asked him if he knew what was doing
in it. He said reallyno he did notnobody ever didbut as well
as he could make outit was over. Over for the day? we asked him.
Nohe saidover for good.

Over for good!

When we heard this unaccountable answerwe looked at one another
quite lost in amazement. Could it be possible that the will had
set things right at last and that Richard and Ada were going to be
rich? It seemed too good to be true. Alas it was!

Our suspense was shortfor a break-up soon took place in the
crowdand the people came streaming out looking flushed and hot
and bringing a quantity of bad air with them. Still they were all
exceedingly amused and were more like people coming out from a
farce or a juggler than from a court of justice. We stood aside
watching for any countenance we knewand presently great bundles
of paper began to be carried out--bundles in bagsbundles too
large to be got into any bagsimmense masses of papers of all
shapes and no shapeswhich the bearers staggered underand threw
down for the time beinganyhowon the Hall pavementwhile they
went back to bring out more. Even these clerks were laughing. We
glanced at the papersand seeing Jarndyce and Jarndyce everywhere
asked an official-looking person who was standing in the midst of
them whether the cause was over. Yeshe saidit was all up with
it at lastand burst out laughing too.

At this juncture we perceived Mr. Kenge coming out of court with an
affable dignity upon himlistening to Mr. Vholeswho was
deferential and carried his own bag. Mr. Vholes was the first to
see us. "Here is Miss Summersonsir he said. And Mr.
Woodcourt."

Oh, indeed! Yes. Truly!said Mr. Kengeraising his hat to me
with polished politeness. "How do you do? Glad to see you. Mr.
Jarndyce is not here?"

No. He never came thereI reminded him.

Really,returned Mr. Kengeit is as well that he is NOT here
to-day, for his--shall I say, in my good friend's absence, his
indomitable singularity of opinion?--might have been strengthened,
perhaps; not reasonably, but might have been strengthened.

Pray what has been done to-day?asked Allan.

I beg your pardon?said Mr. Kenge with excessive urbanity.

What has been done to-day?

What has been done,repeated Mr. Kenge. "Quite so. Yes. Why
not much has been done; not much. We have been checked--brought up
suddenlyI would say--upon the--shall I term it threshold?"

Is this will considered a genuine document, sir?said Allan.
Will you tell us that?


Most certainly, if I could,said Mr. Kenge; "but we have not gone
into thatwe have not gone into that."

We have not gone into that,repeated Mr. Vholes as if his low
inward voice were an echo.

You are to reflect, Mr. Woodcourt,observed Mr. Kengeusing his
silver trowel persuasively and smoothinglythat this has been a
great cause, that this has been a protracted cause, that this has
been a complex cause. Jarndyce and Jarndyce has been termed, not
inaptly, a monument of Chancery practice.

And patience has sat upon it a long time,said Allan.

Very well indeed, sir,returned Mr. Kenge with a certain
condeseending laugh he had. "Very well! You are further to
reflectMr. Woodcourt becoming dignified almost to severity,
that on the numerous difficultiescontingenciesmasterly
fictionsand forms of procedure in this great causethere has
been expended studyabilityeloquenceknowledgeintellectMr.
Woodcourthigh intellect. For many yearsthe--a--I would say the
flower of the barand the--a--I would presume to addthe matured
autumnal fruits of the woolsack--have been lavished upon Jarndyce
and Jarndyce. If the public have the benefitand if the country
have the adornmentof this great graspit must be paid for in
money or money's worthsir."

Mr. Kenge,said Allanappearing enlightened all in a moment.
Excuse me, our time presses. Do I understand that the whole
estate is found to have been absorbed in costs?

Hem! I believe so,returned Mr. Kenge. "Mr. Vholeswhat do YOU
say?"

I believe so,said Mr. Vholes.

And that thus the suit lapses and melts away?

Probably,returned Mr. Kenge. "Mr. Vholes?"

Probably,said Mr. Vholes.

My dearest life,whispered Allanthis will break Richard's
heart!

There was such a shock of apprehension in his faceand he knew
Richard so perfectlyand I too had seen so much of his gradual
decaythat what my dear girl had said to me in the fullness of her
foreboding love sounded like a knell in my ears.

In case you should be wanting Mr. C., sir,said Mr. Vholes
coming after usyou'll find him in court. I left him there
resting himself a little. Good day, sir; good day, Miss
Summerson.As he gave me that slowly devouring look of hiswhile
twisting up the strings of his bag before he hastened with it after
Mr. Kengethe benignant shadow of whose conversational presence he
seemed afraid to leavehe gave one gasp as if he had swallowed the
last morsel of his clientand his black buttoned-up unwholesome
figure glided away to the low door at the end of the Hall.

My dear love,said Allanleave to me, for a little while, the
charge you gave me. Go home with this intelligence and come to
Ada's by and by!


I would not let him take me to a coachbut entreated him to go to
Richard without a moment's delay and leave me to do as he wished.
Hurrying homeI found my guardian and told him gradually with what
news I had returned. "Little woman said he, quite unmoved for
himself, to have done with the suit on any terms is a greater
blessing than I had looked for. But my poor young cousins!"

We talked about them all the morning and discussed what it was
possible to do. In the afternoon my guardian walked with me to
Symond's Inn and left me at the door. I went upstairs. When my
darling heard my footstepsshe came out into the small passage and
threw her arms round my neckbut she composed herself direcfly and
said that Richard had asked for me several times. Allan had found
him sitting in the corner of the courtshe told melike a stone
figure. On being rousedhe had broken away and made as if he
would have spoken in a fierce voice to the judge. He was stopped
by his mouth being full of bloodand Allan had brought him home.

He was lying on a sofa with his eyes closed when I went in. There
were restoratives on the table; the room was made as airy as
possibleand was darkenedand was very orderly and quiet. Allan
stood behind him watching him gravely. His face appeared to me to
be quite destitute of colourand now that I saw him without his
seeing meI fully sawfor the first timehow worn away he was.
But he looked handsomer than I had seen him look for many a day.

I sat down by his side in silence. Opening his eyes by and byhe
said in a weak voicebut with his old smileDame Durden, kiss
me, my dear!

It was a great comfort and surprise to me to find him in his low
state cheerful and looking forward. He was happierhe saidin
our intended marriage than he could find words to tell me. My
husband had been a guardian angel to him and Adaand he blessed us
both and wished us all the joy that life could yield us. I almost
felt as if my own heart would have broken when I saw him take my
husband's hand and hold it to his breast.

We spoke of the future as much as possibleand he said several
times that he must be present at our marriage if he could stand
upon his feet. Ada would contrive to take himsomehowhe said.
Yes, surely, dearest Richard!But as my darling answered him
thus hopefullyso serene and beautifulwith the help that was to
come to her so near--I knew--I knew!

It was not good for him to talk too muchand when he was silent
we were silent too. Sitting beside himI made a pretence of
working for my dearas he had always been used to joke about my
being busy. Ada leaned upon his pillowholding his head upon her
arm. He dozed oftenand whenever he awoke without seeing him
said first of allWhere is Woodcourt?

Evening had come on when I lifted up my eyes and saw my guardian
standing in the little hall. "Who is thatDame Durden?" Richard
asked me. The door was behind himbut he had observed in my face
that some one was there.

I looked to Allan for adviceand as he nodded "Yes bent over
Richard and told him. My guardian saw what passed, came softly by
me in a moment, and laid his hand on Richard's. Ohsir said
Richard, you are a good manyou are a good man!" and burst into
tears for the first time.


My guardianthe picture of a good mansat down in my place
keeping his hand on Richard's.

My dear Rick,said hethe clouds have cleared away, and it is
bright now. We can see now. We were all bewildered, Rick, more or
less. What matters! And how are you, my dear boy?

I am very weak, sir, but I hope I shall be stronger. I have to
begin the world.

Aye, truly; well said!cried my guardian.

I will not begin it in the old way now,said Richard with a sad
smile. "I have learned a lesson nowsir. It was a hard onebut
you shall be assuredindeedthat I have learned it."

Well, well,said my guardiancomforting him; "wellwellwell
dear boy!"

I was thinking, sir,resumed Richardthat there is nothing on
earth I should so much like to see as their house--Dame Durden's
and Woodcourt's house. If I could be removed there when I begin to
recover my strength, I feel as if I should get well there sooner
than anywhere.

Why, so have I been thinking too, Rick,said my guardianand
our little woman likewise; she and I have been talking of it this
very day. I dare say her husband won't object. What do you
think?

Richard smiled and lifted up his arm to touch him as he stood
behind the head of the couch.

I say nothing of Ada,said Richardbut I think of her, and have
thought of her very much. Look at her! See her here, sir, bending
over this pillow when she has so much need to rest upon it herself,
my dear love, my poor girl!

He clasped her in his armsand none of us spoke. He gradually
released herand she looked upon usand looked up to heavenand
moved her lips.

When I get down to Bleak House,said RichardI shall have much
to tell you, sir, and you will have much to show me. You will go,
won't you?

Undoubtedly, dear Rick.

Thank you; like you, like you,said Richard. "But it's all like
you. They have been telling me how you planned it and how you
remembered all Esther's familiar tastes and ways. It will be like
coming to the old Bleak House again."

And you will come there too, I hope, Rick. I am a solitary man
now, you know, and it will be a charity to come to me. A charity
to come to me, my love!he repeated to Ada as he gently passed his
hand over her golden hair and put a lock of it to his lips. (I
think he vowed within himself to cherish her if she were left
alone.)

It was a troubled dream?said Richardclasping both my
guardian's hands eagerly.

Nothing more, Rick; nothing more.


And you, being a good man, can pass it as such, and forgive and
pity the dreamer, and be lenient and encouraging when he wakes?

Indeed I can. What am I but another dreamer, Rick?

I will begin the world!said Richard with a light in his eyes.

My husband drew a little nearer towards Adaand I saw him solemnly
lift up his hand to warn my guardian.

When shall I go from this place to that pleasant country where the
old times are, where I shall have strength to tell what Ada has
been to me, where I shall be able to recall my many faults and
blindnesses, where I shall prepare myself to be a guide to my
unborn child?said Richard. "When shall I go?"

Dear Rick, when you are strong enough,returned my guardian.

Ada, my darling!

He sought to raise himself a little. Allan raised him so that she
could hold him on her bosomwhich was what he wanted.

I have done you many wrongs, my own. I have fallen like a poor
stray shadow on your way, I have married you to poverty and
trouble, I have scattered your means to the winds. You will
forgive me all this, my Ada, before I begin the world?

A smile irradiated his face as she bent to kiss him. He slowly
laid his face down upon her bosomdrew his arms closer round her
neckand with one parting sob began the world. Not this world
ohnot this! The world that sets this right.

When all was stillat a late hourpoor crazed Miss Flite came
weeping to me and told me she had given her birds their liberty.

CHAPTER LXVI

Down in Lincolnshire

There is a hush upon Chesney Wold in these altered daysas there
is upon a portion of the family history. The story goes that Sir
Leicester paid some who could have spoken out to hold their peace;
but it is a lame storyfeebly whispering and creeping aboutand
any brighter spark of life it shows soon dies away. It is known
for certain that the handsome Lady Dedlock lies in the mausoleum in
the parkwhere the trees arch darkly overheadand the owl is
heard at night making the woods ring; but whence she was brought
home to be laid among the echoes of that solitary placeor how she
diedis all mystery. Some of her old friendsprincipally to be
found among the peachy-cheeked charmers with the skeleton throats
did once occasionally sayas they toyed in a ghastly manner with
large fans--like charmers reduced to flirting with grim death
after losing all their other beaux--did once occasionally saywhen
the world assembled togetherthat they wondered the ashes of the
Dedlocksentombed in the mausoleumnever rose against the
profanation of her company. But the dead-and-gone Dedlocks take it
very calmly and have never been known to object.

Up from among the fern in the hollowand winding by the bridle



road among the treescomes sometimes to this lonely spot the sound
of horses' hoofs. Then may be seen Sir Leicester--invalidedbent
and almost blindbut of worthy presence yet--riding with a
stalwart man beside himconstant to his bridle-rein. When they
come to a certain spot before the mausoleum-doorSir Leicester's
accustomed horse stops of his own accordand Sir Leicester
pulling off his hatis still for a few moments before they ride
away.

War rages yet with the audacious Boythornthough at uncertain
intervalsand now hotlyand now coollyflickering like an
unsteady fire. The truth is said to be that when Sir Leicester
came down to Lincolnshire for goodMr. Boythorn showed a manifest
desire to abandon his right of way and do whatever Sir Leicester
wouldwhich Sir Leicesterconceiving to be a condescension to his
illness or misfortunetook in such high dudgeonand was so
magnificently aggrieved bythat Mr. Boythorn found himself under
the necessity of committing a flagrant trespass to restore his
neighbour to himself. SimilarlyMr. Boythorn continues to post
tremendous placards on the disputed thoroughfare and (with his bird
upon his head) to hold forth vehemently against Sir Leicester in
the sanctuary of his own home; similarlyalsohe defies him as of
old in the little church by testifying a bland unconsciousness of
his existence. But it is whispered that when he is most ferocious
towards his old foehe is really most considerateand that Sir
Leicesterin the dignity of being implacablelittle supposes how
much he is humoured. As little does he think how near together he
and his antagonist have suffered in the fortunes of two sisters
and his antagonistwho knows it nowis not the man to tell him.
So the quarrel goes on to the satisfaction of both.

In one of the lodges of the park--that lodge within sight of the
house whereonce upon a timewhen the waters were out down in
Lincolnshiremy Lady used to see the keeper's child--the stalwart
manthe trooper formerlyis housed. Some relics of his old
calling hang upon the wallsand these it is the chosen recreation
of a little lame man about the stable-yard to keep gleaming bright.
A busy little man he always isin the polishing at harness-house
doorsof stirrup-ironsbitscurb-chainsharness bosses
anything in the way of a stable-yard that will take a polish
leading a life of friction. A shaggy little damaged manwithal
not unlike an old dog of some mongrel breedwho has been
considerably knocked about. He answers to the name of Phil.

A goodly sight it is to see the grand old housekeeper (harder of
hearing now) going to church on the arm of her son and to observe-which
few dofor the house is scant of company in these times--the
relations of both towards Sir Leicesterand his towards them.
They have visitors in the high summer weatherwhen a grey cloak
and umbrellaunknown to Chesney Wold at other periodsare seen
among the leaves; when two young ladies are occasionally found
gambolling in sequestered saw-pits and such nooks of the park; and
when the smoke of two pipes wreathes away into the fragrant evening
air from the trooper's door. Then is a fife heard trolling within
the lodge on the inspiring topic of the "British Grenadiers"; and
as the evening closes ina gruff inflexible voice is heard to say
while two men pace together up and downBut I never own to it
before the old girl. Discipline must be maintained.

The greater part of the house is shut upand it is a show-house no
longer; yet Sir Leicester holds his shrunken state in the long
drawing-room for all thatand reposes in his old place before my
Lady's picture. Closed in by night with broad screensand
illumined only in that partthe light of the drawing-room seems


gradually contracting and dwindling until it shall be no more. A
little morein truthand it will be all extinguished for Sir
Leicester; and the damp door in the mausoleum which shuts so tight
and looks so obduratewill have opened and received him.

Volumniagrowing with the flight of time pinker as to the red in
her faceand yellower as to the whitereads to Sir Leicester in
the long evenings and is driven to various artifices to conceal her
yawnsof which the chief and most efficacious is the insertion of
the pearl necklace between her rosy lips. Long-winded treatises on
the Buffy and Boodle questionshowing how Buffy is immaculate and
Boodle villainousand how the country is lost by being all Boodle
and no Buffyor saved by being all Buffy and no Boodle (it must be
one of the twoand cannot be anything else)are the staple of her
reading. Sir Leicester is not particular what it is and does not
appear to follow it very closelyfurther than that he always comes
broad awake the moment Volumnia ventures to leave offand
sonorously repeating her last wordsbegs with some displeasure to
know if she finds herself fatigued. HoweverVolumniain the
course of her bird-like hopping about and pecking at papershas
alighted on a memorandum concerning herself in the event of
anything happeningto her kinsmanwhich is handsome compensation
for an extensive course of reading and holds even the dragon
Boredom at bay.

The cousins generally are rather shy of Chesney Wold in its
dullnessbut take to it a little in the shooting seasonwhen guns
are heard in the plantationsand a few scattered beaters and
keepers wait at the old places of appointment for low-spirited twos
and threes of cousins. The debilitated cousinmore debilitated by
the dreariness of the placegets into a fearful state of
depressiongroaning under penitential sofa-pillows in his gunless
hours and protesting that such fernal old jail's--nough t'sew fler
up--frever.

The only great occasions for Volumnia in this changed aspect of the
place in Lincolnshire are those occasionsrare and widely
separatedwhen something is to be done for the county or the
country in the way of gracing a public ball. Thenindeeddoes
the tuckered sylph come out in fairy form and proceed with joy
under cousinly escort to the exhausted old assembly-roomfourteen
heavy miles offwhichduring three hundred and sixty-four days
and nights of every ordinary yearis a kind of antipodean lumber-
room full of old chairs and tables upside down. Thenindeeddoes
she captivate all hearts by her condescensionby her girlish
vivacityand by her skipping about as in the days when the hideous
old general with the mouth too full of teeth had not cut one of
them at two guineas each. Then does she twirl and twinea
pastoral nymph of good familythrough the mazes of the dance.
Then do the swains appear with teawith lemonadewith sandwiches
with homage. Then is she kind and cruelstately and unassuming
variousbeautifully wilful. Then is there a singular kind of
parallel between her and the little glass chandeliers of another
age embellishing that assembly-roomwhichwith their meagre
stemstheir spare little dropstheir disappointing knobs where no
drops aretheir bare little stalks from which knobs and drops have
both departedand their little feeble prismatic twinklingall
seem Volumnias.

For the restLincolnshire life to Volumnia is a vast blank of
overgrown house looking out upon treessighingwringing their
handsbowing their headsand casting their tears upon the windowpanes
in monotonous depressions. A labyrinth of grandeurless the
property of an old family of human beings and their ghostly


likenesses than of an old family of echoings and thunderings which
start out of their hundred graves at every sound and go resounding
through the building. A waste of unused passages and staircases in
which to drop a comb upon a bedroom floor at night is to send a
stealthy footfall on an errand through the house. A place where
few people care to go about alonewhere a maid screams if an ash
drops from the firetakes to crying at all times and seasons
becomes the victim of a low disorder of the spiritsand gives
warning and departs.

Thus Chesney Wold. With so much of itself abandoned to darkness
and vacancy; with so little change under the summer shining or the
wintry lowering; so sombre and motionless always--no flag flying
now by dayno rows of lights sparkling by night; with no family to
come and gono visitors to be the souls of pale cold shapes of
roomsno stir of life about it--passion and prideeven to the
stranger's eyehave died away from the place in Lincolnshire and
yielded it to dull repose.

CHAPTER LXVII

The Close of Esther's Narrative

Full seven happy years I have been the mistress of Bleak House.
The few words that I have to add to what I have written are soon
penned; then I and the unknown friend to whom I write will part for
ever. Not without much dear remembrance on my side. Not without
someI hopeon his or hers.

They gave my darling into my armsand through many weeks I never
left her. The little child who was to have done so much was born
before the turf was planted on its father's grave. It was a boy;
and Imy husbandand my guardian gave him his father's name.

The help that my dear counted on did come to herthough it came
in the eternal wisdomfor another purpose. Though to bless and
restore his mothernot his fatherwas the errand of this baby
its power was mighty to do it. When I saw the strength of the weak
little hand and how its touch could heal my darling's heart and
raised hope within herI felt a new sense of the goodness and the
tenderness of God.

They throveand by degrees I saw my dear girl pass into my country
garden and walk there with her infant in her arms. I was married
then. I was the happiest of the happy.

It was at this time that my guardian joined us and asked Ada when
she would come home.

Both houses are your home, my dear,said hebut the older Bleak
House claims priority. When you and my boy are strong enough to do
it, come and take possession of your home.

Ada called him "her dearest cousinJohn." But he saidnoit
must be guardian now. He was her guardian henceforthand the
boy's; and he had an old association with the name. So she called
him guardianand has called him guardian ever since. The children
know him by no other name. I say the children; I have two little
daughters.

It is difficult to believe that Charley (round-eyed stilland not


at all grammatical) is married to a miller in our neighbourhood;
yet so it is; and even nowlooking up from my desk as I write
early in the morning at my summer windowI see the very mill
beginning to go round. I hope the miller will not spoil Charley;
but he is very fond of herand Charley is rather vain of such a
matchfor he is well to do and was in great request. So far as my
small maid is concernedI might suppose time to have stood for
seven years as still as the mill did half an hour agosince little
EmmaCharley's sisteris exactly what Charley used to be. As to
TomCharley's brotherI am really afraid to say what he did at
school in cipheringbut I think it was decimals. He is
apprenticed to the millerwhatever it wasand is a good bashful
fellowalways falling in love with somebody and being ashamed of
it.

Caddy Jellyby passed her very last holidays with us and was a
dearer creature than everperpetually dancing in and out of the
house with the children as if she had never given a dancing-lesson
in her life. Caddy keeps her own little carriage now instead of
hiring oneand lives full two miles further westward than Newman
Street. She works very hardher husband (an excellent one) being
lame and able to do very little. Stillshe is more than contented
and does all she has to do with all her heart. Mr. Jellyby spends
his evenings at her new house with his head against the wall as he
used to do in her old one. I have heard that Mrs. Jellyby was
understood to suffer great mortification from her daughter's
ignoble marriage and pursuitsbut I hope she got over it in time.
She has been disappointed in Borrioboola-Ghawhich turned out a
failure in consequence of the king of Boorioboola wanting to sell
everybody--who survived the climate--for rumbut she has taken up
with the rights of women to sit in Parliamentand Caddy tells me
it is a mission involving more correspondence than the old one. I
had almost forgotten Caddy's poor little girl. She is not such a
mite nowbut she is deaf and dumb. I believe there never was a
better mother than Caddywho learnsin her scanty intervals of
leisureinnumerable deaf and dumb arts to soften the affliction of
her child.

As if I were never to have done with CaddyI am reminded here of
Peepy and old Mr. Turveydrop. Peepy is in the Custom Houseand
doing extremely well. Old Mr. Turveydropvery apoplecticstill
exhibits his deportment about townstill enjoys himself in the old
manneris still believed in in the old way. He is constant in his
patronage of Peepy and is understood to have bequeathed him a
favourite French clock in his dressing-room--which is not his
property.

With the first money we saved at homewe added to our pretty house
by throwing out a little growlery expressly for my guardianwhich
we inaugurated with great splendour the next time he came down to
see us. I try to write all this lightlybecause my heart is full
in drawing to an endbut when I write of himmy tears will have
their way.

I never look at him but I hear our poor dear Richard calling him a
good man. To Ada and her pretty boyhe is the fondest father; to
me he is what he has ever beenand what name can I give to that?
He is my husband's best and dearest friendhe is our children's
darlinghe is the object of our deepest love and veneration. Yet
while I feel towards him as if he were a superior beingI am so
familiar with him and so easy with him that I almost wonder at
myself. I have never lost my old namesnor has he lost his; nor
do I everwhen he is with ussit in any other place than in my
old chair at his sideDame TrotDame DurdenLittle Woman--all


just the same as ever; and I answerYes, dear guardian!just the
same.

I have never known the wind to be in the east for a single moment
since the day when he took me to the porch to read the name. I
remarked to him once that the wind seemed never in the east now
and he saidnotruly; it had finally departed from that quarter
on that very day.

I think my darling girl is more beautiful than ever. The sorrow
that has been in her face--for it is not there now--seems to have
purified even its innocent expression and to have given it a
diviner quality. Sometimes when I raise my eyes and see her in the
black dress that she still wearsteaching my RichardI feel--it
is difficult to express--as if it were so good to know that she
remembers her dear Esther in her prayers.

I call him my Richard! But he says that he has two mamasand I am
one.

We are not rich in the bankbut we have always prosperedand we
have quite enough. I never walk out with my husband but I hear the
people bless him. I never go into a house of any degree but I hear
his praises or see them in grateful eyes. I never lie down at
night but I know that in the course of that day he has alleviated
pain and soothed some fellow-creature in the time of need. I know
that from the beds of those who were past recoverythanks have
oftenoften gone upin the last hourfor his patient
ministration. Is not this to be rich?

The people even praise me as the doctor's wife. The people even
like me as I go aboutand make so much of me that I am quite
abashed. I owe it all to himmy lovemy pride! They like me for
his sakeas I do everything I do in life for his sake.

A night or two agoafter bustling about preparing for my darling
and my guardian and little Richardwho are coming to-morrowI was
sitting out in the porch of all placesthat dearly memorable
porchwhen Allan came home. So he saidMy precious little
woman, what are you doing here?And I saidThe moon is shining
so brightly, Allan, and the night is so delicious, that I have been
sitting here thinking.

What have you been thinking about, my dear?said Allan then.

How curious you are!said I. "I am almost ashamed to tell you
but I will. I have been thinking about my old looks--such as they
were."

And what have you been thinking about THEM, my busy bee?said
Allan.

I have been thinking that I thought it was impossible that you
COULD have loved me any better, even if I had retained them.

'Such as they were'?said Allanlaughing.

Such as they were, of course.

My dear Dame Durden,said Allandrawing my arm through hisdo
you ever look in the glass?

You know I do; you see me do it.


And don't you know that you are prettier than you ever were?

I did not know that; I am not certain that I know it now. But I
know that my dearest little pets are very pretty, and that my
darling is very beautiful, and that my husband is very handsome,
and that my guardian has the brightest and most benevolent face
that ever was seen, and that they can very well do without much
beauty in me--even supposing--.